New Fic: A Study in Winning (5/10) part 1 of 2
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 11K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous parts: One Two Three Four
*
A Study in Winning
Part Five
*
For a Sunday afternoon there was a surprising number of reporters hovering outside the entrance to the hotel.
“What’s all that about?” John asked as they circumvented the front and rather pulled in at the rear entrance.
“You should check your mobile more often,” Sherlock said tapping away on his own phone.
Slipping his mobile out of his pocket John looked at it in surprise. Apparently he had eight missed calls and eleven texts.
The car stopped before he had a chance to see more and Sherlock was already out of door.
“Go to your room,” Lestrade said leaning over from the front passenger seat. “If asked say nothing. We’ll get your stuff sent up later. Alright?”
John nodded decided it wasn’t worth questioning. He got out the car. Sherlock had already disappeared but that was hardly surprising. Grabbing just his main holdall he made his way in.
The hotel wasn’t particularly busy, thank goodness, and there were no reporters inside, but he did notice a few odd looks from the people he passed.
“How’s the hand?” someone asked him as he waited for the lift.
“Uh, fine,” he said.
“Good to hear,” the stranger said. “Would hate for anything to disrupt your game tomorrow. Good luck with that by the way.”
“Thanks.”
He made it to his room which was pretty much as he had left it, small, somewhat basic, but a little tidier and lacking in a lot of his personal belongings which were still in the car downstairs. The phone in his room was blinking red with messages. Curious, he pressed it.
“You have twenty-eight new messages.”
“Mr Popular,” he muttered moving to the small fridge to retrieve one of the cold beers.
“Mr Watson, Daniel Harris, Daily Mail, any comment on the punch?”
Beep.
“Emily Lovett, The Sun, congratulations on reaching the second week. Any comment on why you hit Jim Moriarty? Is this some kind of rivalry?”
Beep.
“News of the World. Are you shagging Sherlock Holmes?”
Beep.
“Harris, Daily Mail again. We’d like to offer you an exclusive. Your side of the story. The Passion of Wimbledon. Call us.”
Beep.
“News of the World. What about James Moriarty? Are you shagging him?”
Beep.
“John, it’s Clara, what the hell were you thinking and where the hell are you?”
Beep.
“Mr Watson, this is George D’Silva from The Observer. We would be most interested in an interview. Do you think you can beat Victor Trevor?”
Beep.
“Daily Express, we want your story. Money no issue.”
Beep.
“John, it’s Harry. Answer your bloody phone before I go to the press and make up some stories about you.”
Beep.
“John, are you with Sherlock Holmes? Something going on that I should know about? Look, I’m doing my best to smooth this over, but Moriarty’s people aren’t exactly happy. Call me. It’s Clara, by the way.”
Beep.
“Daily Mail again…”
He deleted the rest almost dreading to look at his mobile. Unsurprisingly most of the missed calls and messages were from Harry and Clara, although there was also one from Mike. He sighed and flopped back onto the bed. Great, just what he needed.
He toyed with which one to call first and settled on Mike. The good doctor was his usual cheery self, didn’t ask too many questions and quickly agreed to a pre-match check over in the morning.
Harry though, was not so straight forward, calling mere minutes after he finished talking to Mike. She was understandably cross; that he hadn’t returned her calls, that he had punched a player without her permission, that he was through to the fourth round and yet he still hadn’t gotten her any tickets to his matches. He managed to not mention Clara as he could definitely not have heard the end of it if he had.
For the most part he half listened, offered the right noises at the appropriate time and just let her talk. It was usually better that way anyway. Eventually it was the knock at his door that gave him the perfect excuse and having gotten in a few words quickly ended the phone call.
He had expected the knock to be about his bags being brought up. He was wrong.
“Now can we talk about it?” Clara said, a no nonsense expression on her face and her eyebrow raised.
He let her in because there was no way he was having this conversation in anywhere that could be classified as even slightly public.
“I trust you had a good weekend,” she said walking in and taking a seat on the one chair in the room.
“Yes,” he said closing the door and retreating to perch on the bed. “It was good, yeah.”
“And how is Sherlock Holmes?”
He kept his expression blank. “Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together and made it clear that she did not believe his innocence trick. “If I had known what would happen when I introduced the pair of you I would have thought twice about it.”
He said nothing.
Her eyes narrowed.
“John H Watson,” she said, “that wasn’t the first time the pair of you had met, was it?” She leant forward suddenly far too interested in his response. “Go on, tell me the truth, how long have you known him?”
He held her gaze and protested, but his words died with the realisation that he was not about to get away with this one.
“Sunday,” he finally said. “Last Sunday. I’ve known him a week. Just a week, alright.”
“A week?” she said and raised an eyebrow. “And exactly how well do you know him?”
“Clara.”
“What?” she protested. “I know all about you Three Continents Watson. He’s handsome, enigmatic, dangerous and something has gotten into you this week. You haven’t played with this much conviction, passion, belief in, well in a very long time. Is it him? Has he gotten into you? Oh god, tell me you’re not shagging him. Or if you are, tell me it’s going to continue.”
“Clara.”
“If I’d known he was your type I would have introduced you years ago.”
“Clara!”
She finally stopped talking.
“There’s nothing between me and Holmes. Alright? For the first time in a very long time my game is going well. Do you really think I would jeopardise that by getting involved with an arrogant, self-absorbed Frenchman, especially after my track record?”
“Yes.”
Her bluntness almost knocked him off guard. Dropping his head, he massaged his temple and sighed. “Look, Clara, what is it you want, because I have a crucial match tomorrow, which could well be the most important or at least the last of my professional career. I need to be prepared with my head in the right place.”
She looked at him, her expression virtually blank, at first saying nothing until her face seemed to soften slightly. “John,” she said, “what I want is to be able to put some money in both of our pockets, for you to keep playing like a demon, and for you to hold onto whatever it is that had put this fire back into you. But most of all, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, what I want is for you to be happy. Understand?”
He went to say something but found himself without words, so he just nodded instead.
“Good,” she said, “and if we can combine all of those things, then all the better.”
He breathed out in amusement, shaking his head. “Goodbye, Clara.”
“Alright, alright,” she said rising to her feet and holding up her hands. “I’m going, I’m going. But seriously, yeah, next time you want to punch someone and then run off into the night with Sherlock Holmes, give me some warning first. A few good pictures and we could have made a mint selling those to the tabloids.”
“Out!”
She went.
Twenty minutes later his bags were delivered, complete with a note on top of the DVDs which were decidedly not his. ‘Thought you might enjoy them more than me. And remember what I said about VT. I’ll see you tomorrow to celebrate reaching the quarter finals. SH’.
Shaking his head, he grinned to himself, ordered room service and settled in for an evening watching Sean Connery as Bond.
*
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Magic Monday, the biggest day of the competition. Today all the fourth round singles matches will be battled out; thirty-two players, sixteen matches and only eight men and eight women will make it through to the coveted quarter finals. Epic clashes, mighty battles, bloody massacres, we’ve had it all here over the years. Favourites have stumbled, outsiders have prevailed, championship form has been discovered. Today past performance, ability, rank don’t matter, only the tennis counts.”
*
He left the hotel early, partly to avoid as much of the press as possible and partly because there was only so long he could spend by himself in his room. He was too distracted to read and there were only so many times he could flick through the telly channels.
A car and driver had been provided for him, although he wasn’t too certain whether that was down to Wimbledon or Mycroft, although admittedly those weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive things. He still got snapped of course by the reporters, but he managed to get into the car without incident.
*
“If we look at the men’s first, there are some interesting draws there.”
“Oh absolutely. All the top four are through, in fact the top six, and so far they’ve all come through unscathed.”
“Who do you think has looked most impressive so far?”
“Nadal has been on fine form. World number one of course. For me he’s the man to beat. He’s strong, excellent all round play, confident, looks unstoppable.”
“Could he be stopped though? Who could beat him? Moriarty? Holmes? Murray?”
“Holmes, definitely. He’s the only one Nadal has lost to this year.”
“The French Open semi-final.”
“Exactly. That was one of the most epic games I’ve seen in a long time. Some of the finest tennis as well.”
“And yet Holmes then lost to Moriarty in the final. What was that? Tiredness? Nerves? Pressure? Did it get too much, especially in front of his home crowd?”
“Who knows. Who knows what was going through his mind. Maybe it was the thought that it would be his first Grand Slam victory. Maybe it was the pressure. Tennis is such a mental game as well as a physical one. In the end it simply comes down to you, the racket, the ball and the net. Nothing else really matters."
*
Wimbledon was perhaps at its quietest. Fans were queuing for tickets to get in and the stewards were out, but compared to the afternoon it was quiet.
He managed to slip in and made his way to the changing rooms, stowing his practice rackets, clothing and other equipment before making his way to the gym. He spent time slowly warming up, getting the blood pumping around his body, stretching his muscles and making a note of what hurt, twinged, felt stiff, where and how much. Over all he felt good, although obviously not perfect. At least the weekend’s athleticisms hadn’t damaged him in any way.
Right, Watson, he told himself, get through this and you get to celebrate and you know what that means.
*
“Holmes will of course be facing Jefferson Hope today. First time they have ever met. What do you predict?”
“Holmes, all the way, although that’s not to say it won’t be a bit of a challenge for him. Hope has been underestimated by a number of good players already. One moment he’s being smashed round the court, barely in the game, the next he’s picking out surprising winners and taking the match.”
“Could he do that here? Possibility of an upset?”
“Possibility, yes, in all likelihood though, I don’t think so. Holmes has a talent for beating you at your own game. My money’s on him, straight sets, a fourth possibly at a push.”
*
“Any problems? Strain? Stiffness?”
John shook his head a Mike finished looking over his shoulder.
“And the hand, quite recovered from punching Moriarty?”
“It’s fine,” he said pulling his shirt back on.
“Haven’t seen that temper of yours in a while,” Mike said. “Something he said?”
“Something like that,” John admitted.
“Ooh-ooh, not going to tell me. Don’t blame you. You need to go out there and win.”
*
“Of course that Andy Murray match will be later this afternoon, but before that we have another Brit in action. John Watson, once ranked British Number One and a wild card entry here, is taking on twelfth seed, Australian Victor Trevor on Number Three Court, the former Number Two Court, known as the Graveyard of Champions. Tim, could we have an upset here?”
“I don’t know. I would love to say yes, but we’ve got to be realistic. Trevor is a great player who has shown some class so far. I fear he may be too good for Watson to overcome.”
“John Watson’s progress has been somewhat surprising. You’ve played with him in the past, where do you think this sudden form has come from?”
“It’s hard to tell. He was a great player in his day, and then of course came his accident. It’s tough recovering from something like that.”
“Many thought he would retire from the game then.”
“That no doubt crossed his mind too. He’s found something here though. It’s his last tournament, maybe that is it. The one last push.”
“He’s certainly been pushing indeed, but can he push his way past Victor Trevor? Or is the twelfth seed going to be too much for him? We’ll be bringing you all the updates as they come. Now, over to Centre Court.”
*
His stomach was dancing. After the pleasant relaxing weekend, he now felt anything but. The muscles the massage had loosened were tightening with anticipation, and the realisation of the situation was dawning on him. Sherlock was under the impression he could beat Trevor, but it was clear that no one else did. He wasn’t even too sure that he did.
Closing his eyes, he hung his head and tried to breathe deeply. It was just another tennis match, one he could win. One he would win. He would win this. He would.
*
“And over to Number Three Court where play is about to start very shortly. How are the players looking?”
“Trevor’s looking relaxed and rather stress-free, practicing his serve away to my left. Watson on the other hand, looks tense and keeps rolling his shoulders as if trying to loosen them. He doesn’t look happy.”
“And what’s your prediction for the match?”
“Same as everyone else I would think. Trevor to win, straight sets.”
“No chance of an upset then?”
“Not with the way Watson looks. He’s had a brilliant Wimbledon so far, but this is the first seed he’s had to face. This will most likely be his last professional tennis appearance.”
*
Come on, Watson, remember what Sherlock said. You can do this. He’s just another player and this is just another match. Don’t do anything rash, play him at the rallies, force him close to the net and keep returning the ball.
“Time.”
Picking up his racket, he took a deep breath and got to his feet.
*
“And let’s go back to Number Three Court. Richard, what’s going on over there? Any good news?”
“Not if you’re a British tennis fan, Ann. Trevor has just taken the first set six games to three. Watson was broken in his second service game and never really looked like recovering. Trevor is clearly the better player, although not dominating as much as some predicted. Watson’s shoulders have slumped again. I’m not sure he believes he can win. That could make all the difference. He’s never beaten Trevor, that’s surely got to be playing on his mind.”
*
Partners, Sherlock had said. Trevor and he had been partners in all meaning of the word.
Pressing the lip of his drink bottle to his mouth he glanced across at where Trevor was sat. He was just as he remembered him; tall, well built, handsome, tanned. Damn it, he and Sherlock must have looked good together, quite the striking couple.
Oh for god’s sake, stop thinking like that. He’s not the one shagging Sherlock now. Yeah, but if he didn’t win he wouldn’t be shagging Sherlock any more either.
Damn it.
He pursed his lips together. It may be the first time he had dropped a set this tournament but that was hardly a reason to raise the white flag. Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it if he cracked and buckled now.
That is if he ever saw the Frenchman again.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it to hell.
He could win this match. He could!
*
“And back to Number Three Court, Richard, what have you got for us?”
“A tie break in the second set, Ann. Eight points each with Watson having the slight advantage of it being his service game. He’s about to serve from the deuce court… and it’s good, forehand return from Trevor to Watson’s backhand, backhand return down the line, Watson returns, Trevor… Watson’s there… Trevor. Oh, he’s netted it. Watson wins the point, 9-8. Trevor to serve, set point to Watson.”
“Bit of a fight back from Watson then?”
“Absolutely. It looks like he came out and stepped up a gear from that first set. It’s like he’s given himself a good talking to, picked himself up, dusted himself down and come out more determined. Just a moment… an excellent serve from Trevor, but somehow Watson gets his racket to it. Trevor anticipates at the net… and oh, he’s hit it long. Half the court to choose from and Trevor has hit it long, which means Watson has managed to take the set, 7-6, 10-8 on the tie break. Would you believe it? One set all. We’re going to four sets.”
*
Yes!
Jogging back to his seat he grabbed his towel, drying himself as much as he could. It had been a long hard set, but it had paid off. It was one set all and the momentum was very slightly in his favour. Trevor would be kicking himself for that last shot, but sometimes that was all it took; a little bit of luck and an awful lot of perseverance.
*
“Moriarty has just taken the second set, he leads here on Centre Court two sets to love, 6-2, 6-3, while over on Number Three Court you have a potential upset brewing on your hands, Richard.”
“That we do. You can probably hear the crowd. It’s one set all, nine games into the third set and John Watson has just broken Victor Trevor, fighting back from thirty love down to take the game on deuce from right under Trevor’s nose. He now leads the set, five games to four and it’s his turn to serve.”
“And he serves… and gets the point as Trevor’s return just clips the net and rolls back. Fifteen love.”
“Has that happened a lot, Richard?”
“More so recently. Luck it seems is on Watson’s side, as is the crowd. They’re really getting into this match now. Watson serves again, Trevor returns this time but to Watson’s strong forehand, crosscourt, Trevor gets there, Watson backhand, he’s coming into the net and volleys Trevor’s return and there was no chance of Trevor getting that. Thirty love.
“Do you have time to stay with us, Ann?”
“We do, Richard.”
“Excellent, because this is turning into one surprising fight. Watson serves again but it’s wide. Who would have thought we would be in this position an hour ago? He’s bouncing the second ball and… second serve is slower, Trevor has time to pick out a spot and that’s an excellent return from Trevor. Thirty-fifteen.
“Do you think Watson could win this?”
“If he holds his nerve now, anything is possible, Ann. This I think it is the most telling moment so far. Trevor looks like he’s starting to flounder, but he’s come back from worse than this. I wouldn’t write him off just yet.
“Watson serves, Trevor returns to Watson’s backhand, pushes the ball deep, Trevor down the line but Watson’s there, returned by Trevor, another safe shot from Watson, Trevor crosscourt, Watson forehand, Trevor forehand, and it’s just too long. Would you believe it, any other time and Trevor would have made that shot, now it’s forty-fifteen and Watson’s on serve with two set points.
“He collects the balls from the ball-boy, tests them, pockets one, throws away the third. He’s taking his time, collecting himself. He bounces the ball, throws it high… and it’s an ace. Watson takes the third set 6-4 and he leads two sets to one. Just listen to that crowd!”
“First upset of the day, Richard?”
“Could well be. Could well be.”
*
Trevor was angry, it was clear from his body language. That was good. He could work with anger. Anger meant loss of control, loss of control meant silly mistakes, silly mistakes meant easy points.
He was winning, he was actually winning. Sherlock, the bloody brilliant bastard had actually been right. Although overall victory was far from a forgone conclusion, it was decidedly closer than it had been an hour ago.
Stay focused, stay calm, for god’s sake don’t think about all the times you got so far and then choked. Oh and remember that every point you take from Trevor could translate into a kiss from a certain Frenchman.
*
“Forget Centre Court, forget Number One Court, Ann, the real match is here. Number Three Court where we’ve been treated to over three hours of glorious, nerve-wracking tennis and just when you thought it couldn’t get any better something else happens.”
“So what’s happened?”
“Everything! Watson started on serve only to have Trevor break him in the third game. Then believe it or not, Watson broke him straight back, taking it to two games all. He then held his next service game and his nerves to take the fifth to make it three games to two. Trevor made it three all, clearly shaken but managing to hold on. Then Watson made it four three, and then would you believe it, he broke Trevor again and we’re about to go into the ninth game of the fourth set, Watson 5-3 ahead and with serve. He’s literally just four points away from a place in the quarter finals.”
*
Come on, Watson, you can do it. Four points, that’s all you need. Four points and then you’ll get your shag. I wonder if Sherlock is watching you beat his ex?
He threw the ball up in the air.
*
“Trevor, waiting for the serve, now plays a backhand return, Watson down the line, forehand return from Trevor, backhand from Watson, Trevor forehand, and the winner from Watson, down the line, beautifully placed with just the right amount of pace.”
“Trevor really had no chance there.”
“Wonderful play from Watson, and you can hear the crowd. They know that something totally extraordinary is going on here. It’s thirty-fifteen and Watson’s first serve has just gone into the net. He’s bouncing the second ball slowly again. Got to wonder what’s going through his mind right now. And the serve is good, Trevor returns, Watson plays it short forcing Trevor in, Watson knocks it back, Trevor with the forehand volley which lands out. Yes, it’s out. Trevor is protesting but there’s no hawkeye here and both the linesman and the umpire have confirmed. The ball is out and it’s forty-fifteen. Watson with two match points.
“He’s looking rather calm about it, pretty much ignoring Trevor’s protests. He’s bouncing the ball up and down… and serves, returned forehand, backhand Watson, another forehand, forehand chip from Watson, Trevor coming in, Watson volley, Trevor volley, down the line and Watson has done it. He has actually done it. He’s taken the game to Victor Trevor and after a shaky start has beaten him at it. 3-6, 7-6, 6-4, 6-3. John Watson, wild card entry, is through to the quarter finals. Would you believe it?”
*
If he had thought he had been popular before that was nothing compared to what happened after that match.
The press descended the moment he stepped off the court, or actually even before that. The cameras were certainly flashing as he stopped to sign autographs, voices calling for him to look their way, to smile, to wave. By the time was he walking back to the changing rooms they were swarming, shouting him questions, some about the match, some about his prospects, some about Moriarty and the punch. He smiled but shook his head, refusing to speak to them until the official press conference.
“Watson.”
Reaching the changing rooms relatively unscathed, he turned as he heard his name called, surprised to find himself face to face with a serious looking Victor Trevor. He gave a small smile and a nod, commenting on the good game and wishing him luck in the future, but it wasn’t the game that Trevor appeared interested in.
“Look, mate,” Trevor said in his characteristic soft Australian accent, “be careful.”
He tipped his head questioningly.
“I know what he’s like. He has a way of sucking you in until you think… well, just be careful. Don’t let him break you. And good luck in the next round.”
He took refuge in the steam room, letting the heat soak away the aches and pains following the match, slipping into a daydream of what he and Sherlock might get up to that night.
The quarter finals. He was actually through to the quarter finals of a Grand Slam. It had been years since he had gotten that far. The last eight!
Finishing his warm down with a shower he composed himself as best he could for the press conference that was to come. Finding his mobile he glanced at the notice that said he had three missed calls - Clara, Harry and Sarah - and eight texts - Harry times two, Clara times two, Sarah, Mike, Dimmock and a blocked number that wasn’t Sherlock.
John, the message said, congratulations on your well fought victory. When they ask, the punch was a mild misunderstanding now resolved, you had a quiet weekend and if they want to know anything about Sherlock Holmes they should ask him instead. Regards, Mycroft.
He sucked in a deep breath and then went to face the press.
“How do you feel about your victory?”
“Good,” he said flashing them a smile, “bloody brilliant if you must know.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Still there.”
“You’re playing with more passion and confidence than you have in years. Any reason for that?”
“Success, I suppose,” he said. “It’s hard to be confident when you’re being run off the court by kids a decade your junior. This is my last Wimbledon, it seems I’m refusing to go down without a fight, but if I knew what the reason for my winning streak was I’d try to bottle and sell it. Would at least make a fortune.”
They at least laughed, although he suspected it was at least partly down to politeness rather than really finding it funny.
“You’ve been spotted with Sherlock Holmes, could he be part of it?”
He made sure to keep the small smile and not react to the question. “Sherlock Holmes is a great player,” he said. “I’ve been fortunate enough to have learnt a lot from him over the past few days,” and learnt a lot about him as well, he added mentally. “It’s hard to spend any serious time with him and not come away feeling either horribly inferior, or greatly inspired. Fortunately for me, it’s been the latter.”
“He’s known to being pedantic about who he works and trains with, why do you suppose he’s picked you?”
He forced a smile. “Haven’t the foggiest. You’d have to ask him about that.”
“Why’d you punch Moriarty?”
Ah, he had been waiting for that question. In all honesty he was surprised they had taken so long to get to it.
“Misunderstanding,” he said running his hand down his thigh as he recalled the text message. “Not something I’m proud of and not something I’m planning on repeating.”
“You were spotted afterwards leaving the party with Sherlock Holmes, where did you go?”
“I decided a quiet weekend was on the cards,” he said. “A friend offered me the chance to stay at their place, I took them up on the offer.”
“Did Holmes go with you?”
“I’m sure Holmes has better places to be than trailing after me.”
They laughed again.
“You’ve got Andy Murray in the next round. They’re calling it the Battle of Britain. Do you think you can win?”
Murray next? Hell. There was no way that could possibly end well. Either he would go out and that would be the last he would see of Sherlock Holmes, or somehow, by some miracle he beat the British number one then there would be a good chance that the general public would hate him for knocking out Britain’s best hope for a Wimbledon Champion. Bloody, bugger, bollocks, hell.
“Well,” he said, “in a game of tennis, if you don’t go in thinking that you could walk away the victor then you definitely won’t. Trust me, I know all about that.”
They let him go not long after that and he did his best to slip back into obscurity, hiding away to get a long massage, desperate to loosen the muscles in his shoulder and back partly caused by the match, partly by the press conference.
By the time he emerged, the press had other people to occupy them and he went to find some food and check on the other matches. Murray beating Querry first on Centre Court he already knew about - thank you, the British media - but on Number One Court Moriarty had beaten Ferrer, with Federer and Melzer due to play after the women had finished there. On Number Two Court Djokovic had beaten Hewitt and Roddick was due to be playing there later. Holmes and Hope, like Federer and Melzer, were yet to start.
His phone bleeped.
John, go back to the hotel. He will join you later. Mycroft.
He stared at it, the number once again having come up as blocked. Of course the message was right. There was little point in waiting around here. He wasn’t about to see Sherlock in person or anything, and nor did he think the Frenchman would be happy to see him anyway, and yet he didn’t want to move. The hotel was simply too far away, too removed from the action.
Pocketing his phone, he finished his food and decided he might as well grab a beer while he was at it. The ladies fourth round tie of Serena Williams verses Maria Sharapova was just finishing on Centre Court which meant that Sherlock would be up next.
“John Watson, you can be an infuriatingly hard man to contact.”
He looked up as Clara took the seat next to him, still looking as attractive and well turned out as ever.
“But for once,” she said, “I bloody well forgive you because somehow you’ve gotten that cute little arse of yours into gear and are winning some matches. Although that could quite probably come to an end next round, but I fully intend on taking advantage now before you become known as that English guy who beat those other guys, only to lose to the Scottish guy in the quarter finals.”
Sherlock was now walking out onto Centre Court, head high as usual, ignoring everything as he made his way to his chair. Beside him was the smaller, older figure of Jefferson Hope, somewhat unkempt looking, especially against Sherlock’s easy elegance.
“…of course if you bothered to return my calls once in a while you would know that I’m close to cutting you a deal with Robinsons, oh and Radio 5 Live want you for an interview.”
They were warming up now, practicing their serves. Sherlock looked self-composed as he bounced the ball and then seemed to uncurl like a spring as he thudded it across the net.
“…Question of Sport is practically guaranteed, and it’s a shame Hole in the Wall has been cancelled, but there are some things that… John!”
“Mmmm?”
“Are you even listening to me or is… ahhh.”
Tearing his eyes from the screen he found Clara looking at him, her lips pressed quite tightly together.
“You were, uh, saying?” he said shifting slightly in his seat.
“Why are you here, John?” she said after a moment.
He frowned. “What? Uh, to play tennis?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean here, now, through to the quarter finals of Wimbledon, day off tomorrow. You could be in your hotel room, out with friends, in a proper bar, in a steam room, finding someone to shag, so why are you here, still at the club, quite clearly only interested in a certain Frenchman.”
He fidgeted slightly while telling himself to stay still.
“Clara,” he said warningly ready to throw the usual spiel at her, anything to deflect her away from the truth.
“Do you even know?” she asked her tone more curious than accusing.
He looked back at the screen where the first set was now underway. Sherlock’s racket was flying as he powered the ball back across the net, his whole body focused, committed, no doubt, no hesitation, just him, the racket and the ball.
“Clara, I….”
“Watch the match, John. Watch what the man does, how he plays. Watch and try to figure out why you are watching.”
She patted him on the arm, and then left him there. For the rest of the time he watched alone. The match was a long one and incredibly tight. It was clear that Sherlock was the technically better tennis player, but Hope was tough. It took some brilliant returns from Holmes to eventually break down Hope in the first set, a grim look on the Frenchman’s face as he sat down having taken the set 6-4, but he had been forced to move around the court to do so.
The second set was even tighter, where although Sherlock won considerably more points, Hope took his crucial ones, taking the match into a tie-break. They were incredibly evenly matched, Hope refusing to give an inch while Sherlock stood his ground, expecting everything that was thrown at him as Hope made shots he had previously missed. It was a long hard battle that had John wincing at moments, until finally - FINALLY - Sherlock with some superbly brilliant but basic play, broke through and the set was his 7-6, 16-14 on the tie-break.
John blew out a deep breath as the players returned to their chairs. They had been playing for over two hours now but Sherlock was winning. That was the test, John realised. Hope had a habit of losing the first set and then winning the next three, but Sherlock had stood firm, refused to be dragged into his game, and gone for simplicity over show.
The third set was far shorter. At two games all it became clear that the life was draining from Hope’s game. His returns were that little bit slower, little bit less well placed than previously.
Sherlock broke him in the sixth game and again in the eighth to finally win the match; 6-4, 7-6, 6-2.
It was all that John could do not to punch the air. Instead he collapsed back in his seat with a relieved laugh, pressing his hand to his forehead and smiling far too broadly. He had done it, they had both done it. They were both through to the last eight.
On screen Sherlock had stopped to sign a few autographs, a French Tricolour thrust at him with a thick pen, before he was pulled over to do an interview for the BBC. He looked sweaty, drained and very slightly relieved.
John watched for a few more moments until the cameras switched to Number One Court. At that he got to his feet. It was time to go back to the Dorchester. Sherlock would be another hour or two at least, and there was no point waiting here. Not now anyway.
They were both through. Another day, another round… another evening they could spend together. This was… this was good.
*
Continue
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 11K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous parts: One Two Three Four
*
A Study in Winning
Part Five
*
For a Sunday afternoon there was a surprising number of reporters hovering outside the entrance to the hotel.
“What’s all that about?” John asked as they circumvented the front and rather pulled in at the rear entrance.
“You should check your mobile more often,” Sherlock said tapping away on his own phone.
Slipping his mobile out of his pocket John looked at it in surprise. Apparently he had eight missed calls and eleven texts.
The car stopped before he had a chance to see more and Sherlock was already out of door.
“Go to your room,” Lestrade said leaning over from the front passenger seat. “If asked say nothing. We’ll get your stuff sent up later. Alright?”
John nodded decided it wasn’t worth questioning. He got out the car. Sherlock had already disappeared but that was hardly surprising. Grabbing just his main holdall he made his way in.
The hotel wasn’t particularly busy, thank goodness, and there were no reporters inside, but he did notice a few odd looks from the people he passed.
“How’s the hand?” someone asked him as he waited for the lift.
“Uh, fine,” he said.
“Good to hear,” the stranger said. “Would hate for anything to disrupt your game tomorrow. Good luck with that by the way.”
“Thanks.”
He made it to his room which was pretty much as he had left it, small, somewhat basic, but a little tidier and lacking in a lot of his personal belongings which were still in the car downstairs. The phone in his room was blinking red with messages. Curious, he pressed it.
“You have twenty-eight new messages.”
“Mr Popular,” he muttered moving to the small fridge to retrieve one of the cold beers.
“Mr Watson, Daniel Harris, Daily Mail, any comment on the punch?”
Beep.
“Emily Lovett, The Sun, congratulations on reaching the second week. Any comment on why you hit Jim Moriarty? Is this some kind of rivalry?”
Beep.
“News of the World. Are you shagging Sherlock Holmes?”
Beep.
“Harris, Daily Mail again. We’d like to offer you an exclusive. Your side of the story. The Passion of Wimbledon. Call us.”
Beep.
“News of the World. What about James Moriarty? Are you shagging him?”
Beep.
“John, it’s Clara, what the hell were you thinking and where the hell are you?”
Beep.
“Mr Watson, this is George D’Silva from The Observer. We would be most interested in an interview. Do you think you can beat Victor Trevor?”
Beep.
“Daily Express, we want your story. Money no issue.”
Beep.
“John, it’s Harry. Answer your bloody phone before I go to the press and make up some stories about you.”
Beep.
“John, are you with Sherlock Holmes? Something going on that I should know about? Look, I’m doing my best to smooth this over, but Moriarty’s people aren’t exactly happy. Call me. It’s Clara, by the way.”
Beep.
“Daily Mail again…”
He deleted the rest almost dreading to look at his mobile. Unsurprisingly most of the missed calls and messages were from Harry and Clara, although there was also one from Mike. He sighed and flopped back onto the bed. Great, just what he needed.
He toyed with which one to call first and settled on Mike. The good doctor was his usual cheery self, didn’t ask too many questions and quickly agreed to a pre-match check over in the morning.
Harry though, was not so straight forward, calling mere minutes after he finished talking to Mike. She was understandably cross; that he hadn’t returned her calls, that he had punched a player without her permission, that he was through to the fourth round and yet he still hadn’t gotten her any tickets to his matches. He managed to not mention Clara as he could definitely not have heard the end of it if he had.
For the most part he half listened, offered the right noises at the appropriate time and just let her talk. It was usually better that way anyway. Eventually it was the knock at his door that gave him the perfect excuse and having gotten in a few words quickly ended the phone call.
He had expected the knock to be about his bags being brought up. He was wrong.
“Now can we talk about it?” Clara said, a no nonsense expression on her face and her eyebrow raised.
He let her in because there was no way he was having this conversation in anywhere that could be classified as even slightly public.
“I trust you had a good weekend,” she said walking in and taking a seat on the one chair in the room.
“Yes,” he said closing the door and retreating to perch on the bed. “It was good, yeah.”
“And how is Sherlock Holmes?”
He kept his expression blank. “Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together and made it clear that she did not believe his innocence trick. “If I had known what would happen when I introduced the pair of you I would have thought twice about it.”
He said nothing.
Her eyes narrowed.
“John H Watson,” she said, “that wasn’t the first time the pair of you had met, was it?” She leant forward suddenly far too interested in his response. “Go on, tell me the truth, how long have you known him?”
He held her gaze and protested, but his words died with the realisation that he was not about to get away with this one.
“Sunday,” he finally said. “Last Sunday. I’ve known him a week. Just a week, alright.”
“A week?” she said and raised an eyebrow. “And exactly how well do you know him?”
“Clara.”
“What?” she protested. “I know all about you Three Continents Watson. He’s handsome, enigmatic, dangerous and something has gotten into you this week. You haven’t played with this much conviction, passion, belief in, well in a very long time. Is it him? Has he gotten into you? Oh god, tell me you’re not shagging him. Or if you are, tell me it’s going to continue.”
“Clara.”
“If I’d known he was your type I would have introduced you years ago.”
“Clara!”
She finally stopped talking.
“There’s nothing between me and Holmes. Alright? For the first time in a very long time my game is going well. Do you really think I would jeopardise that by getting involved with an arrogant, self-absorbed Frenchman, especially after my track record?”
“Yes.”
Her bluntness almost knocked him off guard. Dropping his head, he massaged his temple and sighed. “Look, Clara, what is it you want, because I have a crucial match tomorrow, which could well be the most important or at least the last of my professional career. I need to be prepared with my head in the right place.”
She looked at him, her expression virtually blank, at first saying nothing until her face seemed to soften slightly. “John,” she said, “what I want is to be able to put some money in both of our pockets, for you to keep playing like a demon, and for you to hold onto whatever it is that had put this fire back into you. But most of all, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, what I want is for you to be happy. Understand?”
He went to say something but found himself without words, so he just nodded instead.
“Good,” she said, “and if we can combine all of those things, then all the better.”
He breathed out in amusement, shaking his head. “Goodbye, Clara.”
“Alright, alright,” she said rising to her feet and holding up her hands. “I’m going, I’m going. But seriously, yeah, next time you want to punch someone and then run off into the night with Sherlock Holmes, give me some warning first. A few good pictures and we could have made a mint selling those to the tabloids.”
“Out!”
She went.
Twenty minutes later his bags were delivered, complete with a note on top of the DVDs which were decidedly not his. ‘Thought you might enjoy them more than me. And remember what I said about VT. I’ll see you tomorrow to celebrate reaching the quarter finals. SH’.
Shaking his head, he grinned to himself, ordered room service and settled in for an evening watching Sean Connery as Bond.
*
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Magic Monday, the biggest day of the competition. Today all the fourth round singles matches will be battled out; thirty-two players, sixteen matches and only eight men and eight women will make it through to the coveted quarter finals. Epic clashes, mighty battles, bloody massacres, we’ve had it all here over the years. Favourites have stumbled, outsiders have prevailed, championship form has been discovered. Today past performance, ability, rank don’t matter, only the tennis counts.”
*
He left the hotel early, partly to avoid as much of the press as possible and partly because there was only so long he could spend by himself in his room. He was too distracted to read and there were only so many times he could flick through the telly channels.
A car and driver had been provided for him, although he wasn’t too certain whether that was down to Wimbledon or Mycroft, although admittedly those weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive things. He still got snapped of course by the reporters, but he managed to get into the car without incident.
*
“If we look at the men’s first, there are some interesting draws there.”
“Oh absolutely. All the top four are through, in fact the top six, and so far they’ve all come through unscathed.”
“Who do you think has looked most impressive so far?”
“Nadal has been on fine form. World number one of course. For me he’s the man to beat. He’s strong, excellent all round play, confident, looks unstoppable.”
“Could he be stopped though? Who could beat him? Moriarty? Holmes? Murray?”
“Holmes, definitely. He’s the only one Nadal has lost to this year.”
“The French Open semi-final.”
“Exactly. That was one of the most epic games I’ve seen in a long time. Some of the finest tennis as well.”
“And yet Holmes then lost to Moriarty in the final. What was that? Tiredness? Nerves? Pressure? Did it get too much, especially in front of his home crowd?”
“Who knows. Who knows what was going through his mind. Maybe it was the thought that it would be his first Grand Slam victory. Maybe it was the pressure. Tennis is such a mental game as well as a physical one. In the end it simply comes down to you, the racket, the ball and the net. Nothing else really matters."
*
Wimbledon was perhaps at its quietest. Fans were queuing for tickets to get in and the stewards were out, but compared to the afternoon it was quiet.
He managed to slip in and made his way to the changing rooms, stowing his practice rackets, clothing and other equipment before making his way to the gym. He spent time slowly warming up, getting the blood pumping around his body, stretching his muscles and making a note of what hurt, twinged, felt stiff, where and how much. Over all he felt good, although obviously not perfect. At least the weekend’s athleticisms hadn’t damaged him in any way.
Right, Watson, he told himself, get through this and you get to celebrate and you know what that means.
*
“Holmes will of course be facing Jefferson Hope today. First time they have ever met. What do you predict?”
“Holmes, all the way, although that’s not to say it won’t be a bit of a challenge for him. Hope has been underestimated by a number of good players already. One moment he’s being smashed round the court, barely in the game, the next he’s picking out surprising winners and taking the match.”
“Could he do that here? Possibility of an upset?”
“Possibility, yes, in all likelihood though, I don’t think so. Holmes has a talent for beating you at your own game. My money’s on him, straight sets, a fourth possibly at a push.”
*
“Any problems? Strain? Stiffness?”
John shook his head a Mike finished looking over his shoulder.
“And the hand, quite recovered from punching Moriarty?”
“It’s fine,” he said pulling his shirt back on.
“Haven’t seen that temper of yours in a while,” Mike said. “Something he said?”
“Something like that,” John admitted.
“Ooh-ooh, not going to tell me. Don’t blame you. You need to go out there and win.”
*
“Of course that Andy Murray match will be later this afternoon, but before that we have another Brit in action. John Watson, once ranked British Number One and a wild card entry here, is taking on twelfth seed, Australian Victor Trevor on Number Three Court, the former Number Two Court, known as the Graveyard of Champions. Tim, could we have an upset here?”
“I don’t know. I would love to say yes, but we’ve got to be realistic. Trevor is a great player who has shown some class so far. I fear he may be too good for Watson to overcome.”
“John Watson’s progress has been somewhat surprising. You’ve played with him in the past, where do you think this sudden form has come from?”
“It’s hard to tell. He was a great player in his day, and then of course came his accident. It’s tough recovering from something like that.”
“Many thought he would retire from the game then.”
“That no doubt crossed his mind too. He’s found something here though. It’s his last tournament, maybe that is it. The one last push.”
“He’s certainly been pushing indeed, but can he push his way past Victor Trevor? Or is the twelfth seed going to be too much for him? We’ll be bringing you all the updates as they come. Now, over to Centre Court.”
*
His stomach was dancing. After the pleasant relaxing weekend, he now felt anything but. The muscles the massage had loosened were tightening with anticipation, and the realisation of the situation was dawning on him. Sherlock was under the impression he could beat Trevor, but it was clear that no one else did. He wasn’t even too sure that he did.
Closing his eyes, he hung his head and tried to breathe deeply. It was just another tennis match, one he could win. One he would win. He would win this. He would.
*
“And over to Number Three Court where play is about to start very shortly. How are the players looking?”
“Trevor’s looking relaxed and rather stress-free, practicing his serve away to my left. Watson on the other hand, looks tense and keeps rolling his shoulders as if trying to loosen them. He doesn’t look happy.”
“And what’s your prediction for the match?”
“Same as everyone else I would think. Trevor to win, straight sets.”
“No chance of an upset then?”
“Not with the way Watson looks. He’s had a brilliant Wimbledon so far, but this is the first seed he’s had to face. This will most likely be his last professional tennis appearance.”
*
Come on, Watson, remember what Sherlock said. You can do this. He’s just another player and this is just another match. Don’t do anything rash, play him at the rallies, force him close to the net and keep returning the ball.
“Time.”
Picking up his racket, he took a deep breath and got to his feet.
*
“And let’s go back to Number Three Court. Richard, what’s going on over there? Any good news?”
“Not if you’re a British tennis fan, Ann. Trevor has just taken the first set six games to three. Watson was broken in his second service game and never really looked like recovering. Trevor is clearly the better player, although not dominating as much as some predicted. Watson’s shoulders have slumped again. I’m not sure he believes he can win. That could make all the difference. He’s never beaten Trevor, that’s surely got to be playing on his mind.”
*
Partners, Sherlock had said. Trevor and he had been partners in all meaning of the word.
Pressing the lip of his drink bottle to his mouth he glanced across at where Trevor was sat. He was just as he remembered him; tall, well built, handsome, tanned. Damn it, he and Sherlock must have looked good together, quite the striking couple.
Oh for god’s sake, stop thinking like that. He’s not the one shagging Sherlock now. Yeah, but if he didn’t win he wouldn’t be shagging Sherlock any more either.
Damn it.
He pursed his lips together. It may be the first time he had dropped a set this tournament but that was hardly a reason to raise the white flag. Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it if he cracked and buckled now.
That is if he ever saw the Frenchman again.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it to hell.
He could win this match. He could!
*
“And back to Number Three Court, Richard, what have you got for us?”
“A tie break in the second set, Ann. Eight points each with Watson having the slight advantage of it being his service game. He’s about to serve from the deuce court… and it’s good, forehand return from Trevor to Watson’s backhand, backhand return down the line, Watson returns, Trevor… Watson’s there… Trevor. Oh, he’s netted it. Watson wins the point, 9-8. Trevor to serve, set point to Watson.”
“Bit of a fight back from Watson then?”
“Absolutely. It looks like he came out and stepped up a gear from that first set. It’s like he’s given himself a good talking to, picked himself up, dusted himself down and come out more determined. Just a moment… an excellent serve from Trevor, but somehow Watson gets his racket to it. Trevor anticipates at the net… and oh, he’s hit it long. Half the court to choose from and Trevor has hit it long, which means Watson has managed to take the set, 7-6, 10-8 on the tie break. Would you believe it? One set all. We’re going to four sets.”
*
Yes!
Jogging back to his seat he grabbed his towel, drying himself as much as he could. It had been a long hard set, but it had paid off. It was one set all and the momentum was very slightly in his favour. Trevor would be kicking himself for that last shot, but sometimes that was all it took; a little bit of luck and an awful lot of perseverance.
*
“Moriarty has just taken the second set, he leads here on Centre Court two sets to love, 6-2, 6-3, while over on Number Three Court you have a potential upset brewing on your hands, Richard.”
“That we do. You can probably hear the crowd. It’s one set all, nine games into the third set and John Watson has just broken Victor Trevor, fighting back from thirty love down to take the game on deuce from right under Trevor’s nose. He now leads the set, five games to four and it’s his turn to serve.”
“And he serves… and gets the point as Trevor’s return just clips the net and rolls back. Fifteen love.”
“Has that happened a lot, Richard?”
“More so recently. Luck it seems is on Watson’s side, as is the crowd. They’re really getting into this match now. Watson serves again, Trevor returns this time but to Watson’s strong forehand, crosscourt, Trevor gets there, Watson backhand, he’s coming into the net and volleys Trevor’s return and there was no chance of Trevor getting that. Thirty love.
“Do you have time to stay with us, Ann?”
“We do, Richard.”
“Excellent, because this is turning into one surprising fight. Watson serves again but it’s wide. Who would have thought we would be in this position an hour ago? He’s bouncing the second ball and… second serve is slower, Trevor has time to pick out a spot and that’s an excellent return from Trevor. Thirty-fifteen.
“Do you think Watson could win this?”
“If he holds his nerve now, anything is possible, Ann. This I think it is the most telling moment so far. Trevor looks like he’s starting to flounder, but he’s come back from worse than this. I wouldn’t write him off just yet.
“Watson serves, Trevor returns to Watson’s backhand, pushes the ball deep, Trevor down the line but Watson’s there, returned by Trevor, another safe shot from Watson, Trevor crosscourt, Watson forehand, Trevor forehand, and it’s just too long. Would you believe it, any other time and Trevor would have made that shot, now it’s forty-fifteen and Watson’s on serve with two set points.
“He collects the balls from the ball-boy, tests them, pockets one, throws away the third. He’s taking his time, collecting himself. He bounces the ball, throws it high… and it’s an ace. Watson takes the third set 6-4 and he leads two sets to one. Just listen to that crowd!”
“First upset of the day, Richard?”
“Could well be. Could well be.”
*
Trevor was angry, it was clear from his body language. That was good. He could work with anger. Anger meant loss of control, loss of control meant silly mistakes, silly mistakes meant easy points.
He was winning, he was actually winning. Sherlock, the bloody brilliant bastard had actually been right. Although overall victory was far from a forgone conclusion, it was decidedly closer than it had been an hour ago.
Stay focused, stay calm, for god’s sake don’t think about all the times you got so far and then choked. Oh and remember that every point you take from Trevor could translate into a kiss from a certain Frenchman.
*
“Forget Centre Court, forget Number One Court, Ann, the real match is here. Number Three Court where we’ve been treated to over three hours of glorious, nerve-wracking tennis and just when you thought it couldn’t get any better something else happens.”
“So what’s happened?”
“Everything! Watson started on serve only to have Trevor break him in the third game. Then believe it or not, Watson broke him straight back, taking it to two games all. He then held his next service game and his nerves to take the fifth to make it three games to two. Trevor made it three all, clearly shaken but managing to hold on. Then Watson made it four three, and then would you believe it, he broke Trevor again and we’re about to go into the ninth game of the fourth set, Watson 5-3 ahead and with serve. He’s literally just four points away from a place in the quarter finals.”
*
Come on, Watson, you can do it. Four points, that’s all you need. Four points and then you’ll get your shag. I wonder if Sherlock is watching you beat his ex?
He threw the ball up in the air.
*
“Trevor, waiting for the serve, now plays a backhand return, Watson down the line, forehand return from Trevor, backhand from Watson, Trevor forehand, and the winner from Watson, down the line, beautifully placed with just the right amount of pace.”
“Trevor really had no chance there.”
“Wonderful play from Watson, and you can hear the crowd. They know that something totally extraordinary is going on here. It’s thirty-fifteen and Watson’s first serve has just gone into the net. He’s bouncing the second ball slowly again. Got to wonder what’s going through his mind right now. And the serve is good, Trevor returns, Watson plays it short forcing Trevor in, Watson knocks it back, Trevor with the forehand volley which lands out. Yes, it’s out. Trevor is protesting but there’s no hawkeye here and both the linesman and the umpire have confirmed. The ball is out and it’s forty-fifteen. Watson with two match points.
“He’s looking rather calm about it, pretty much ignoring Trevor’s protests. He’s bouncing the ball up and down… and serves, returned forehand, backhand Watson, another forehand, forehand chip from Watson, Trevor coming in, Watson volley, Trevor volley, down the line and Watson has done it. He has actually done it. He’s taken the game to Victor Trevor and after a shaky start has beaten him at it. 3-6, 7-6, 6-4, 6-3. John Watson, wild card entry, is through to the quarter finals. Would you believe it?”
*
If he had thought he had been popular before that was nothing compared to what happened after that match.
The press descended the moment he stepped off the court, or actually even before that. The cameras were certainly flashing as he stopped to sign autographs, voices calling for him to look their way, to smile, to wave. By the time was he walking back to the changing rooms they were swarming, shouting him questions, some about the match, some about his prospects, some about Moriarty and the punch. He smiled but shook his head, refusing to speak to them until the official press conference.
“Watson.”
Reaching the changing rooms relatively unscathed, he turned as he heard his name called, surprised to find himself face to face with a serious looking Victor Trevor. He gave a small smile and a nod, commenting on the good game and wishing him luck in the future, but it wasn’t the game that Trevor appeared interested in.
“Look, mate,” Trevor said in his characteristic soft Australian accent, “be careful.”
He tipped his head questioningly.
“I know what he’s like. He has a way of sucking you in until you think… well, just be careful. Don’t let him break you. And good luck in the next round.”
He took refuge in the steam room, letting the heat soak away the aches and pains following the match, slipping into a daydream of what he and Sherlock might get up to that night.
The quarter finals. He was actually through to the quarter finals of a Grand Slam. It had been years since he had gotten that far. The last eight!
Finishing his warm down with a shower he composed himself as best he could for the press conference that was to come. Finding his mobile he glanced at the notice that said he had three missed calls - Clara, Harry and Sarah - and eight texts - Harry times two, Clara times two, Sarah, Mike, Dimmock and a blocked number that wasn’t Sherlock.
John, the message said, congratulations on your well fought victory. When they ask, the punch was a mild misunderstanding now resolved, you had a quiet weekend and if they want to know anything about Sherlock Holmes they should ask him instead. Regards, Mycroft.
He sucked in a deep breath and then went to face the press.
“How do you feel about your victory?”
“Good,” he said flashing them a smile, “bloody brilliant if you must know.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Still there.”
“You’re playing with more passion and confidence than you have in years. Any reason for that?”
“Success, I suppose,” he said. “It’s hard to be confident when you’re being run off the court by kids a decade your junior. This is my last Wimbledon, it seems I’m refusing to go down without a fight, but if I knew what the reason for my winning streak was I’d try to bottle and sell it. Would at least make a fortune.”
They at least laughed, although he suspected it was at least partly down to politeness rather than really finding it funny.
“You’ve been spotted with Sherlock Holmes, could he be part of it?”
He made sure to keep the small smile and not react to the question. “Sherlock Holmes is a great player,” he said. “I’ve been fortunate enough to have learnt a lot from him over the past few days,” and learnt a lot about him as well, he added mentally. “It’s hard to spend any serious time with him and not come away feeling either horribly inferior, or greatly inspired. Fortunately for me, it’s been the latter.”
“He’s known to being pedantic about who he works and trains with, why do you suppose he’s picked you?”
He forced a smile. “Haven’t the foggiest. You’d have to ask him about that.”
“Why’d you punch Moriarty?”
Ah, he had been waiting for that question. In all honesty he was surprised they had taken so long to get to it.
“Misunderstanding,” he said running his hand down his thigh as he recalled the text message. “Not something I’m proud of and not something I’m planning on repeating.”
“You were spotted afterwards leaving the party with Sherlock Holmes, where did you go?”
“I decided a quiet weekend was on the cards,” he said. “A friend offered me the chance to stay at their place, I took them up on the offer.”
“Did Holmes go with you?”
“I’m sure Holmes has better places to be than trailing after me.”
They laughed again.
“You’ve got Andy Murray in the next round. They’re calling it the Battle of Britain. Do you think you can win?”
Murray next? Hell. There was no way that could possibly end well. Either he would go out and that would be the last he would see of Sherlock Holmes, or somehow, by some miracle he beat the British number one then there would be a good chance that the general public would hate him for knocking out Britain’s best hope for a Wimbledon Champion. Bloody, bugger, bollocks, hell.
“Well,” he said, “in a game of tennis, if you don’t go in thinking that you could walk away the victor then you definitely won’t. Trust me, I know all about that.”
They let him go not long after that and he did his best to slip back into obscurity, hiding away to get a long massage, desperate to loosen the muscles in his shoulder and back partly caused by the match, partly by the press conference.
By the time he emerged, the press had other people to occupy them and he went to find some food and check on the other matches. Murray beating Querry first on Centre Court he already knew about - thank you, the British media - but on Number One Court Moriarty had beaten Ferrer, with Federer and Melzer due to play after the women had finished there. On Number Two Court Djokovic had beaten Hewitt and Roddick was due to be playing there later. Holmes and Hope, like Federer and Melzer, were yet to start.
His phone bleeped.
John, go back to the hotel. He will join you later. Mycroft.
He stared at it, the number once again having come up as blocked. Of course the message was right. There was little point in waiting around here. He wasn’t about to see Sherlock in person or anything, and nor did he think the Frenchman would be happy to see him anyway, and yet he didn’t want to move. The hotel was simply too far away, too removed from the action.
Pocketing his phone, he finished his food and decided he might as well grab a beer while he was at it. The ladies fourth round tie of Serena Williams verses Maria Sharapova was just finishing on Centre Court which meant that Sherlock would be up next.
“John Watson, you can be an infuriatingly hard man to contact.”
He looked up as Clara took the seat next to him, still looking as attractive and well turned out as ever.
“But for once,” she said, “I bloody well forgive you because somehow you’ve gotten that cute little arse of yours into gear and are winning some matches. Although that could quite probably come to an end next round, but I fully intend on taking advantage now before you become known as that English guy who beat those other guys, only to lose to the Scottish guy in the quarter finals.”
Sherlock was now walking out onto Centre Court, head high as usual, ignoring everything as he made his way to his chair. Beside him was the smaller, older figure of Jefferson Hope, somewhat unkempt looking, especially against Sherlock’s easy elegance.
“…of course if you bothered to return my calls once in a while you would know that I’m close to cutting you a deal with Robinsons, oh and Radio 5 Live want you for an interview.”
They were warming up now, practicing their serves. Sherlock looked self-composed as he bounced the ball and then seemed to uncurl like a spring as he thudded it across the net.
“…Question of Sport is practically guaranteed, and it’s a shame Hole in the Wall has been cancelled, but there are some things that… John!”
“Mmmm?”
“Are you even listening to me or is… ahhh.”
Tearing his eyes from the screen he found Clara looking at him, her lips pressed quite tightly together.
“You were, uh, saying?” he said shifting slightly in his seat.
“Why are you here, John?” she said after a moment.
He frowned. “What? Uh, to play tennis?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean here, now, through to the quarter finals of Wimbledon, day off tomorrow. You could be in your hotel room, out with friends, in a proper bar, in a steam room, finding someone to shag, so why are you here, still at the club, quite clearly only interested in a certain Frenchman.”
He fidgeted slightly while telling himself to stay still.
“Clara,” he said warningly ready to throw the usual spiel at her, anything to deflect her away from the truth.
“Do you even know?” she asked her tone more curious than accusing.
He looked back at the screen where the first set was now underway. Sherlock’s racket was flying as he powered the ball back across the net, his whole body focused, committed, no doubt, no hesitation, just him, the racket and the ball.
“Clara, I….”
“Watch the match, John. Watch what the man does, how he plays. Watch and try to figure out why you are watching.”
She patted him on the arm, and then left him there. For the rest of the time he watched alone. The match was a long one and incredibly tight. It was clear that Sherlock was the technically better tennis player, but Hope was tough. It took some brilliant returns from Holmes to eventually break down Hope in the first set, a grim look on the Frenchman’s face as he sat down having taken the set 6-4, but he had been forced to move around the court to do so.
The second set was even tighter, where although Sherlock won considerably more points, Hope took his crucial ones, taking the match into a tie-break. They were incredibly evenly matched, Hope refusing to give an inch while Sherlock stood his ground, expecting everything that was thrown at him as Hope made shots he had previously missed. It was a long hard battle that had John wincing at moments, until finally - FINALLY - Sherlock with some superbly brilliant but basic play, broke through and the set was his 7-6, 16-14 on the tie-break.
John blew out a deep breath as the players returned to their chairs. They had been playing for over two hours now but Sherlock was winning. That was the test, John realised. Hope had a habit of losing the first set and then winning the next three, but Sherlock had stood firm, refused to be dragged into his game, and gone for simplicity over show.
The third set was far shorter. At two games all it became clear that the life was draining from Hope’s game. His returns were that little bit slower, little bit less well placed than previously.
Sherlock broke him in the sixth game and again in the eighth to finally win the match; 6-4, 7-6, 6-2.
It was all that John could do not to punch the air. Instead he collapsed back in his seat with a relieved laugh, pressing his hand to his forehead and smiling far too broadly. He had done it, they had both done it. They were both through to the last eight.
On screen Sherlock had stopped to sign a few autographs, a French Tricolour thrust at him with a thick pen, before he was pulled over to do an interview for the BBC. He looked sweaty, drained and very slightly relieved.
John watched for a few more moments until the cameras switched to Number One Court. At that he got to his feet. It was time to go back to the Dorchester. Sherlock would be another hour or two at least, and there was no point waiting here. Not now anyway.
They were both through. Another day, another round… another evening they could spend together. This was… this was good.
*
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