New Fic: A Study in Winning (Epilogue)
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 3K 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 Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten
(Please make sure you've read part 10 before this part)
*
A Study in Winning
Epilogue
*
The ball bounced in and for a moment it was as if time stood still, and then… explosion.
He could see Moriarty’s expression, the look of shock as the ball bounced a second time and there was nothing either of them could do about it. It was in, it was good, it had taken the point and somehow, unbelievably, the Championship. In the end it had come down to a rather simple forehand, down the line, neither particularly deep nor wide, but low, fast and the staple of the modern game. If tennis matches were won by the routine shot, then it had never been truer than at that moment.
He had won.
Oh god, he had won.
A wall of sound was building up around him as a roar of a magnitude he had never heard before started to travel around the court, gathering speed and momentum, trapped as it was under the huge roof, bouncing back and only getting louder and louder until it was literally all he was aware of.
That and the faint thought at the back of his mind that told him he had done it. By god, John Watson, it said, you’ve actually done it. You’ve won Wimbledon. You’ve gone and won Wimbledon you complete and utter bastard.
It was another few moments or so before he realised that his racket had dropped from his unresisting hands, that his hands themselves were over his face, that his knees had finally given way and buckled, and it was even later still when his hands fell away that he found that the dampness on his palms was as much to do with tears as it was perspiration.
Oh god, he was crying. He was crying on Centre Court and the whole world was watching.
Sherlock.
Lifting his head he twisted to seek out the familiar face in the crowd, searching, searching, and then, there, yes, there, Sherlock, on his feet, hands clapping, a small, private smile on his face.
After that everything was a blur. There was the crowd and waving and autographs. A microphone was thrust into his face for an interview and he must have said something good because the crowd laughed and then there was more clapping and cheering and honestly, could they really expect him to be able to do much more than grin like an idiot.
Then there was the Queen and more hand shaking, and then finally they gave him the trophy. No, the trophy. The Wimbledon trophy. And it was heavier than it looked and even more beautiful close up and it was his. They had given it to him. Him.
Oh god.
Then there was more, and there were more people, and more microphones, more cameras and more bulbs flashing in his face. There were more hands to shake, more photos to pose for and more interviews to do. Even when he finally got to leave the court it didn’t stop. It seemed like everyone wanted to talk to him, wanted his picture or a quote or sound bite. Everyone wanted to know what it felt like to be the Wimbledon Champion, and to talk about what he was going to do next and was he really going to retire and all that. He smiled, he laughed and he joked his way through it as well as he could, bolstered by the message he had gotten on his phone from Sherlock.
‘Enjoy it’, the message said. ‘You deserve it. I’ll be here when you’re finished’.
But it never seemed to finish. Every time he thought it was over it wasn’t.
“Your tux is being delivered to your hotel room.”
He stopped in his lacing up of his trainers at the sound of Clara’s voice. Once again she had made herself at home in the men’s changing room, but he couldn’t complain about that, not when she had guided him through the press gauntlet so very well.
“My tux?” he asked slowly.
“For the Champions Ball tonight.”
The Champions Ball? He had completely forgotten about that. That meant he would not be seeing Sherlock any time soon.
“Yes, he knows about it,” Clara said as if reading his mind. “But you have to go.”
Yes, he had to go, which was why, hours later he found himself at the Intercontinental Hotel, fiddling with his cufflinks, surrounded by even more people who just had to speak to him, while he ached to find somewhere quiet, just for a moment. Just so he could stop and breathe. Then he saw him, saw it, a familiar shock of dark curly hair, half hidden in a corner and his breath caught in his throat.
Eyes meeting across the crowded room, the figure smiled slightly and then, after a tilt of the head, slipped out of a nearby door.
He excused himself from the crowd beyond and hurried after, apologising as he went but determined not to be held up for anything.
He ended up in a small, private room, away from the party and the noise and the people, and the door had barely had time to shut before he was being crowded into a wall, his face carefully cupped by warm fingers as familiar lips bent to meet his.
It was a kiss of praise, of congratulations, of relief and of sheer, stark affection. It was also over far too quickly. But for someone who would have been happy for it to continue all night, that was hardly surprising.
“Hello to you too,” he joked as Sherlock finally pulled away. “I should win Wimbledon more often if that’s the greeting I get.”
Sherlock smiled, his eyes flickering over him, taking in every hidden scrape, every bruise, every aching muscle.
“Tired?” Sherlock asked.
“Exhausted. But what are you doing here?” And how had he only just noticed that Sherlock had been there?
“Clara,” Sherlock said softly. “She thought,” he started and then he averted his eyes. “John, I am conscious that this is very much your day, your evening, your victory, and I would not like to intrude unwelcome on whatever plans you have for celebrating it…”
“Sherlock.”
“…so whatever you wish to do I am more than happy to following along with.”
Whatever he wished to do?
He blew out between his lips.
“Thank you,” he said, lifting a hand to press it against Sherlock’s cheek. “That’s very generous of you. But to be completely honest with you,” he continued slowly, “what I really want to do now is to go somewhere nice and quiet where we won’t be disturbed, where I can collapse while you tell me how brilliant I am for having won and how utterly sexy and irresistible you find me.
“Then I want you to take me somewhere with a large bed where we can make as much noise as we want and then I want you to fuck me long, deep and slow while you whisper ridiculously hot things in my ear in that liquid sex voice you have until I’m begging you to go ‘harder’, ‘faster’, ‘deeper’ and ‘god if you don’t touch me now I’ll never forgive you’. I want to feel you come in me, no condom, just you, deep, marking me, reminding us both that there is no one I would rather be with.
“Then I want to fall asleep and not worry that I might end up draped over you or you over me, wake up and want to go again, this time with you riding me as I lie back and watch those gorgeous legs of yours move up and down, your cock knocking against your stomach until I finally flip you over and press you into the mattress, like we did that first time, fucking you just the way we both like it, until we come, you first, clenching around me, our lips close enough that we’re breathing the same air.
“Then more sleep, because you know, I’m really kinda knackered. Some tea, maybe some shower sex, and then… well, then we’ll see.”
He watched as Sherlock’s throat bobbed as he spoke, those pale blue eyes darkening with every word he said.
There was a pause as he let his hand slip from Sherlock’s cheek. He half expected it to be caught by the other man but Sherlock didn’t move until finally, after some rather long seconds, he spoke, his voice a little lower, a little huskier than usual, wrapping around the two simple words, “Baker Street?”
“Sounds perfect,” John said and smiled.
*-*-*
A lot has been said and written about both my surprising victory and the nature of my relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Some of it complimentary, some of it decidedly not, but most of it has been speculation. Out of self-preservation neither of us has said very much about it and until now very few people have been aware of the full extent of what happened between us that fortnight.
Many people have theorised that it was the falling in love - and yes, I can say that now, over the course of the fortnight we utterly, completely and whole heartedly fell in love with each other - that put the life back into my game. They are wrong, or at least are only partially right. The sex, the emotions, the relationship we fell into despite out mutual denial, they may have helped, but they were only the ribbons on the prize. The real thing was that in his own unique and indomitable way, Sherlock reminded me that a tennis match can be far more than just two people striking a small yellow ball over a net with a metal racket. The court is a battlefield, but your opponent isn’t the only person you are fighting, you are also fighting yourself, finding out who you are. Sometimes your greatest enemy out there is the person you see when you look in the mirror.
Somewhere along the way I had lost the sense of who I was. I had confused what I did with who I was. Before my accident I knew who I was because of what I did. I was a tennis player, I was going to be a winner, I cared little for the feelings and needs of others because my tennis came before everything else, because without my tennis I was nobody.
Mary bore the brunt of this attitude, pushed aside as I got swept up in the highs and lows of the tennis season. I believed she should love me because of what I did. I was a professional tennis player, she was lucky to have me. People told me I was talented and brilliant, therefore I as a person must have been talented and brilliant. Rather I was arrogant and selfish.
Looking back I see now what I did to her, the pain I must have put her through. I am not proud of that part of my life. I was under the mistaken impression that being good at tennis was all I had to be, that all my relationships and my life would fall together around that. In that way I didn’t need to be a particularly good or nice person because the tennis was enough. Mary tried to make me see past that but I was too young, too immature to realise that she was right, that I had a responsibility to her as well, that I shouldn’t just take and expect her to bend around me. I was angry for a long time for what she did and what she said, but I know now that I was also angry because a lot of it was true. She accused me of neglect, of emotional abuse and of not caring enough about her. I would spend time partying with other girls and while I never physically cheated on her, mentally and emotionally I was hardly faithful. She was right about a great number of things. The tennis always came first because without it I was nobody.
It took Bill dying for the illusion I had built up around my chosen career to finally shatter. Tennis is not life and death, but it took me until Sherlock to realise that while in the grand scheme of things who wins or loses is hardly important or vital for society, it can be crucial for the individual. For the player, the most important thing is not to go out there and win, but to go out there and fight, to do your best, to give your all. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Victory is always fleeting, self-worth though, that lasts a lifetime. You are not worthless or pointless if you lose, nor are you fantastic and untouchable if you win. Had I lost that last set I would have been disappointed sure, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. I would have gone away knowing that I had stood up there and given my all and that in the end that was what really mattered. No regrets. No second guessing.
I know now how to win and how to be a winner, and it has nothing to do with the final result on those courtside boards.
As for Sherlock, I like to think that I taught him something about winning as well, or at least showed him that there is more to life than just tennis. Lestrade once told me that if given a choice between tennis and something else, anything else, Sherlock would always chose the tennis. That’s no longer true. By walking into that changing room Sherlock chose me above the tennis. He knew that Moriarty could and would use me against him again, that it could cost him another match, another final, another Grand Slam, but he still chose to come. He chose to embrace that weakness rather than push it away, something I am constantly grateful for.
Of course the rivalry between Sherlock and Moriarty didn’t end there and Sherlock’s drive to win a Grand Slam and become the World Number One didn’t change just because we were now sharing a bed. In fact, if anything that Wimbledon only made him thirst for it more. He does so hate to be bested in anything, even by someone he loves. Of course his own achievements speak for themself and his own Wimbledon trophy - amongst the others - sits proudly next to mine like a matching pair.
It’s been twelve years now since I rediscovered who I was on the grass of Centre Court and this time Sherlock and I are set to return to play there once again, this time by invitation in the Wimbledon Legends Men’s Doubles. Sherlock is literally bursting with excitement and I can hardly wait. Murray and Murray are not going to know what has hit them.
John H. Watson (CBE) - 2022
John, I must apologise, if I thought the published version of your autobiography was over romanticised and dwelt needlessly on sensational detail then that is nothing compared to this draft. I may be forced to congratulate your editor for reigning in your more vicarious tendencies, and while I am more than aware of how ‘gorgeous’ my bottom was you did seem unhealthily preoccupied with it for too much of this. I hope, also, that you only wrote the sex scenes for your own benefit rather than for anyone else’s because as ‘brilliant’ as they were, there are some things best kept private. (That said, I would not be adverse to the idea of re-enacting a few of those moments, but I can’t guarantee the same flexibility.)
It also pains me to say that you grant me too much credit in this. You were always a brilliant player and it could have been anyone who reminded you of that, although I continue to be grateful that that person turned out to be me.
Oh, and regarding your latest password, if you really didn’t want me reading this then you should have tried a little harder. And in response to your actual password… I love you too. - SH
*-*-*
THE END
*-*-*
Author's Notes:
Firstly, thanks ever so much to lydt for the utterly amazing artwork. I could, and probably already have, stare at it for hours. Check out the rest of her stuff here.
There will be some more artwork by another artist, but I'm keeping it for the sequel. :)
At some point soon (possibly this weekend) I am hoping to post a 'behind the scenes' for this story. Think of it as "A Study in Winning Confidential". Let me know if there is anything you would particularly like to know.
There is a sequel to this story, because, basically this is the universe that just won't end. The sequel is currently unfinished, but part one of "A Study in Doubles" will be posted on Monday (fingers crossed). The parts won't be a long as this one - about half the length in general - but I have hoping to post a part a week. I suppose that means I should actually get down to write more of it then. The story isn't a long as this one either (thank goodness) but I've gotten a good 30k of it already finished and it's definitely over half way.
A big thank you to everyone who has commented. Very much appreciated. It felt as if it took as long to edit this story as it did to write, so to know that both the writing and initial posting last summer was loved was brilliant, but to also know that the amount of time and effort that went into editing and rewriting parts paid off is just as great.
Big thank again to arianec07 for the French and to everyone who helped along the way without even knowing it. Biggest thank you goes to trillsabells for the betaing, the encouragement and because without her and the initial prompt, this story wouldn't have happened at all.
Be good everyone and I'll see you for the sequel.
Many Thanks
Jupiter Ash :)
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 3K 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 Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten
(Please make sure you've read part 10 before this part)
*
A Study in Winning
Epilogue
*
The ball bounced in and for a moment it was as if time stood still, and then… explosion.
He could see Moriarty’s expression, the look of shock as the ball bounced a second time and there was nothing either of them could do about it. It was in, it was good, it had taken the point and somehow, unbelievably, the Championship. In the end it had come down to a rather simple forehand, down the line, neither particularly deep nor wide, but low, fast and the staple of the modern game. If tennis matches were won by the routine shot, then it had never been truer than at that moment.
He had won.
Oh god, he had won.
A wall of sound was building up around him as a roar of a magnitude he had never heard before started to travel around the court, gathering speed and momentum, trapped as it was under the huge roof, bouncing back and only getting louder and louder until it was literally all he was aware of.
That and the faint thought at the back of his mind that told him he had done it. By god, John Watson, it said, you’ve actually done it. You’ve won Wimbledon. You’ve gone and won Wimbledon you complete and utter bastard.
It was another few moments or so before he realised that his racket had dropped from his unresisting hands, that his hands themselves were over his face, that his knees had finally given way and buckled, and it was even later still when his hands fell away that he found that the dampness on his palms was as much to do with tears as it was perspiration.
Oh god, he was crying. He was crying on Centre Court and the whole world was watching.
Sherlock.
Lifting his head he twisted to seek out the familiar face in the crowd, searching, searching, and then, there, yes, there, Sherlock, on his feet, hands clapping, a small, private smile on his face.
After that everything was a blur. There was the crowd and waving and autographs. A microphone was thrust into his face for an interview and he must have said something good because the crowd laughed and then there was more clapping and cheering and honestly, could they really expect him to be able to do much more than grin like an idiot.
Then there was the Queen and more hand shaking, and then finally they gave him the trophy. No, the trophy. The Wimbledon trophy. And it was heavier than it looked and even more beautiful close up and it was his. They had given it to him. Him.
Oh god.
Then there was more, and there were more people, and more microphones, more cameras and more bulbs flashing in his face. There were more hands to shake, more photos to pose for and more interviews to do. Even when he finally got to leave the court it didn’t stop. It seemed like everyone wanted to talk to him, wanted his picture or a quote or sound bite. Everyone wanted to know what it felt like to be the Wimbledon Champion, and to talk about what he was going to do next and was he really going to retire and all that. He smiled, he laughed and he joked his way through it as well as he could, bolstered by the message he had gotten on his phone from Sherlock.
‘Enjoy it’, the message said. ‘You deserve it. I’ll be here when you’re finished’.
But it never seemed to finish. Every time he thought it was over it wasn’t.
“Your tux is being delivered to your hotel room.”
He stopped in his lacing up of his trainers at the sound of Clara’s voice. Once again she had made herself at home in the men’s changing room, but he couldn’t complain about that, not when she had guided him through the press gauntlet so very well.
“My tux?” he asked slowly.
“For the Champions Ball tonight.”
The Champions Ball? He had completely forgotten about that. That meant he would not be seeing Sherlock any time soon.
“Yes, he knows about it,” Clara said as if reading his mind. “But you have to go.”
Yes, he had to go, which was why, hours later he found himself at the Intercontinental Hotel, fiddling with his cufflinks, surrounded by even more people who just had to speak to him, while he ached to find somewhere quiet, just for a moment. Just so he could stop and breathe. Then he saw him, saw it, a familiar shock of dark curly hair, half hidden in a corner and his breath caught in his throat.
Eyes meeting across the crowded room, the figure smiled slightly and then, after a tilt of the head, slipped out of a nearby door.
He excused himself from the crowd beyond and hurried after, apologising as he went but determined not to be held up for anything.
He ended up in a small, private room, away from the party and the noise and the people, and the door had barely had time to shut before he was being crowded into a wall, his face carefully cupped by warm fingers as familiar lips bent to meet his.
It was a kiss of praise, of congratulations, of relief and of sheer, stark affection. It was also over far too quickly. But for someone who would have been happy for it to continue all night, that was hardly surprising.
“Hello to you too,” he joked as Sherlock finally pulled away. “I should win Wimbledon more often if that’s the greeting I get.”
Sherlock smiled, his eyes flickering over him, taking in every hidden scrape, every bruise, every aching muscle.
“Tired?” Sherlock asked.
“Exhausted. But what are you doing here?” And how had he only just noticed that Sherlock had been there?
“Clara,” Sherlock said softly. “She thought,” he started and then he averted his eyes. “John, I am conscious that this is very much your day, your evening, your victory, and I would not like to intrude unwelcome on whatever plans you have for celebrating it…”
“Sherlock.”
“…so whatever you wish to do I am more than happy to following along with.”
Whatever he wished to do?
He blew out between his lips.
“Thank you,” he said, lifting a hand to press it against Sherlock’s cheek. “That’s very generous of you. But to be completely honest with you,” he continued slowly, “what I really want to do now is to go somewhere nice and quiet where we won’t be disturbed, where I can collapse while you tell me how brilliant I am for having won and how utterly sexy and irresistible you find me.
“Then I want you to take me somewhere with a large bed where we can make as much noise as we want and then I want you to fuck me long, deep and slow while you whisper ridiculously hot things in my ear in that liquid sex voice you have until I’m begging you to go ‘harder’, ‘faster’, ‘deeper’ and ‘god if you don’t touch me now I’ll never forgive you’. I want to feel you come in me, no condom, just you, deep, marking me, reminding us both that there is no one I would rather be with.
“Then I want to fall asleep and not worry that I might end up draped over you or you over me, wake up and want to go again, this time with you riding me as I lie back and watch those gorgeous legs of yours move up and down, your cock knocking against your stomach until I finally flip you over and press you into the mattress, like we did that first time, fucking you just the way we both like it, until we come, you first, clenching around me, our lips close enough that we’re breathing the same air.
“Then more sleep, because you know, I’m really kinda knackered. Some tea, maybe some shower sex, and then… well, then we’ll see.”
He watched as Sherlock’s throat bobbed as he spoke, those pale blue eyes darkening with every word he said.
There was a pause as he let his hand slip from Sherlock’s cheek. He half expected it to be caught by the other man but Sherlock didn’t move until finally, after some rather long seconds, he spoke, his voice a little lower, a little huskier than usual, wrapping around the two simple words, “Baker Street?”
“Sounds perfect,” John said and smiled.
*-*-*
A lot has been said and written about both my surprising victory and the nature of my relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Some of it complimentary, some of it decidedly not, but most of it has been speculation. Out of self-preservation neither of us has said very much about it and until now very few people have been aware of the full extent of what happened between us that fortnight.
Many people have theorised that it was the falling in love - and yes, I can say that now, over the course of the fortnight we utterly, completely and whole heartedly fell in love with each other - that put the life back into my game. They are wrong, or at least are only partially right. The sex, the emotions, the relationship we fell into despite out mutual denial, they may have helped, but they were only the ribbons on the prize. The real thing was that in his own unique and indomitable way, Sherlock reminded me that a tennis match can be far more than just two people striking a small yellow ball over a net with a metal racket. The court is a battlefield, but your opponent isn’t the only person you are fighting, you are also fighting yourself, finding out who you are. Sometimes your greatest enemy out there is the person you see when you look in the mirror.
Somewhere along the way I had lost the sense of who I was. I had confused what I did with who I was. Before my accident I knew who I was because of what I did. I was a tennis player, I was going to be a winner, I cared little for the feelings and needs of others because my tennis came before everything else, because without my tennis I was nobody.
Mary bore the brunt of this attitude, pushed aside as I got swept up in the highs and lows of the tennis season. I believed she should love me because of what I did. I was a professional tennis player, she was lucky to have me. People told me I was talented and brilliant, therefore I as a person must have been talented and brilliant. Rather I was arrogant and selfish.
Looking back I see now what I did to her, the pain I must have put her through. I am not proud of that part of my life. I was under the mistaken impression that being good at tennis was all I had to be, that all my relationships and my life would fall together around that. In that way I didn’t need to be a particularly good or nice person because the tennis was enough. Mary tried to make me see past that but I was too young, too immature to realise that she was right, that I had a responsibility to her as well, that I shouldn’t just take and expect her to bend around me. I was angry for a long time for what she did and what she said, but I know now that I was also angry because a lot of it was true. She accused me of neglect, of emotional abuse and of not caring enough about her. I would spend time partying with other girls and while I never physically cheated on her, mentally and emotionally I was hardly faithful. She was right about a great number of things. The tennis always came first because without it I was nobody.
It took Bill dying for the illusion I had built up around my chosen career to finally shatter. Tennis is not life and death, but it took me until Sherlock to realise that while in the grand scheme of things who wins or loses is hardly important or vital for society, it can be crucial for the individual. For the player, the most important thing is not to go out there and win, but to go out there and fight, to do your best, to give your all. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Victory is always fleeting, self-worth though, that lasts a lifetime. You are not worthless or pointless if you lose, nor are you fantastic and untouchable if you win. Had I lost that last set I would have been disappointed sure, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. I would have gone away knowing that I had stood up there and given my all and that in the end that was what really mattered. No regrets. No second guessing.
I know now how to win and how to be a winner, and it has nothing to do with the final result on those courtside boards.
As for Sherlock, I like to think that I taught him something about winning as well, or at least showed him that there is more to life than just tennis. Lestrade once told me that if given a choice between tennis and something else, anything else, Sherlock would always chose the tennis. That’s no longer true. By walking into that changing room Sherlock chose me above the tennis. He knew that Moriarty could and would use me against him again, that it could cost him another match, another final, another Grand Slam, but he still chose to come. He chose to embrace that weakness rather than push it away, something I am constantly grateful for.
Of course the rivalry between Sherlock and Moriarty didn’t end there and Sherlock’s drive to win a Grand Slam and become the World Number One didn’t change just because we were now sharing a bed. In fact, if anything that Wimbledon only made him thirst for it more. He does so hate to be bested in anything, even by someone he loves. Of course his own achievements speak for themself and his own Wimbledon trophy - amongst the others - sits proudly next to mine like a matching pair.
It’s been twelve years now since I rediscovered who I was on the grass of Centre Court and this time Sherlock and I are set to return to play there once again, this time by invitation in the Wimbledon Legends Men’s Doubles. Sherlock is literally bursting with excitement and I can hardly wait. Murray and Murray are not going to know what has hit them.
John H. Watson (CBE) - 2022
John, I must apologise, if I thought the published version of your autobiography was over romanticised and dwelt needlessly on sensational detail then that is nothing compared to this draft. I may be forced to congratulate your editor for reigning in your more vicarious tendencies, and while I am more than aware of how ‘gorgeous’ my bottom was you did seem unhealthily preoccupied with it for too much of this. I hope, also, that you only wrote the sex scenes for your own benefit rather than for anyone else’s because as ‘brilliant’ as they were, there are some things best kept private. (That said, I would not be adverse to the idea of re-enacting a few of those moments, but I can’t guarantee the same flexibility.)
It also pains me to say that you grant me too much credit in this. You were always a brilliant player and it could have been anyone who reminded you of that, although I continue to be grateful that that person turned out to be me.
Oh, and regarding your latest password, if you really didn’t want me reading this then you should have tried a little harder. And in response to your actual password… I love you too. - SH
*-*-*
THE END
*-*-*
Author's Notes:
Firstly, thanks ever so much to lydt for the utterly amazing artwork. I could, and probably already have, stare at it for hours. Check out the rest of her stuff here.
There will be some more artwork by another artist, but I'm keeping it for the sequel. :)
At some point soon (possibly this weekend) I am hoping to post a 'behind the scenes' for this story. Think of it as "A Study in Winning Confidential". Let me know if there is anything you would particularly like to know.
There is a sequel to this story, because, basically this is the universe that just won't end. The sequel is currently unfinished, but part one of "A Study in Doubles" will be posted on Monday (fingers crossed). The parts won't be a long as this one - about half the length in general - but I have hoping to post a part a week. I suppose that means I should actually get down to write more of it then. The story isn't a long as this one either (thank goodness) but I've gotten a good 30k of it already finished and it's definitely over half way.
A big thank you to everyone who has commented. Very much appreciated. It felt as if it took as long to edit this story as it did to write, so to know that both the writing and initial posting last summer was loved was brilliant, but to also know that the amount of time and effort that went into editing and rewriting parts paid off is just as great.
Big thank again to arianec07 for the French and to everyone who helped along the way without even knowing it. Biggest thank you goes to trillsabells for the betaing, the encouragement and because without her and the initial prompt, this story wouldn't have happened at all.
Be good everyone and I'll see you for the sequel.
Many Thanks
Jupiter Ash :)