New Fic: A Study in Doubles 12/?
Title: A Study in Doubles
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5K this part. 79k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Twelve
*
Even in his sleep Sherlock seemed reluctant to let him go.
Having managed to tear themselves away from each other the previous night, they had then promptly searched the suite for any food that could be thrown together quickly and had piled it up on the table. Fortunately, Lestrade it seemed had anticipated the possible need for a midnight snack - or he simply knew that Sherlock’s eating habits were as unpredictable as the rest of his personality - and there was more than enough to form a filling if eclectic spread.
After a meal that included sundried tomatoes, couscous, salad, cheese, yoghurt and fruit, combined with easy conversation and casual brushes of physical touch, they hurried through their nightly rituals before tumbling back onto the bed, limbs wrapping around each other, more soft words and gentle caresses shared before they had each fallen asleep. Sherlock had gone first, unsurprising considering that day he had had, but a relief for John as he was reminded of all the previous nights of broken sleep. What was more surprising though was waking up the next morning to find Sherlock still dead to the world while refusing to relinquish his hold on him.
It wasn’t often that he awoke fully before Sherlock and keeping his eyes closed for a while longer, he revelled in the feel of the strong arm flung around his waist and the puffs of breath against his skin. It was obvious that their legs were also entwined, one of Sherlock’s slipped between his, firm and warm, almost caging him in. It all felt rather intimate, secure and honestly really bloody nice.
Smiling, he slowly opened his eyes.
As he has thought, he was on his back and Sherlock was sprawled front down, face turned towards him, relaxed in a peaceful sleep. Shifting his head, John watched him for a moment. Under the curls, Sherlock looked so young, so young and vulnerable and trusting.
He stayed still for as long as he could, until the pressure from his bladder forced him to carefully untangle himself and retreat to the bathroom. Exiting again, he found to his amusement that in his absence Sherlock had spread himself further across the bed and stolen his pillow to snuggle up to instead, one long arm wrapped around it as he hugged it down the length of his body. For a brief moment John considered snapping a pictured of it, but decided that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it nearly as much as he would. As such it really wasn’t worth the risk.
Glancing at the clock he was surprised to see how late it actually was, certainly later than he had expected. That at least explained his current relaxed alertness; they had slept the night right through. It was definitely time to be getting up then.
Yawning, he stretched and then padded out to the main room. The plates and glasses were still out from the night before and their bags and kit were still scattered from where they had deposited them pre-argument. God, that felt like a long time ago now, but then so much had happened since; the confessions, the sex, the pillow talk. Add in the matches - one for him, two for Sherlock - the interviews and the arguments and he couldn’t remember a more jam packed or emotionally extreme day. No wonder they had slept so soundly. After all of that they had needed it.
He frowned when he heard the muffled sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing. By the time he had located it down one end of the sofa, it had stopped ringing and was now showing three new texts and one missed call. He was just contemplating having a guess at the passcode when it started to ring again, Lestrade’s name flashing up across the screen.
“Hi Lestrade, it’s John,” he said, speaking softly and moving away from the general vicinity of the bedroom.
There was a pause and then a, “John? Where’s Sherlock?”
“He’s still asleep.”
“What? Really? Still? What did you do, drop sleeping tablets into his smoothie or something?”
John’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “We talked,” he said. “Got some things sorted between us, that sort of thing.”
“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said. “Good I take it.”
“Very.”
He heard Lestrade breathe out. “Well good on you, mate.” He sounded as if he honestly meant it. “Now I know he’s not AWOL it can wait, but get him to give me a call when he wakes up.”
“Will do. Look, any chance we can meet later as well?” he said, forcing the words out before he thought better of it.
“Sounds ominous,” Lestrade said.
He gave a small laugh. “No, no, nothing like that, just wanted to run some thoughts past you before raising them to Sherlock. No point in suggesting something that’s not likely to happen.”
“Sounds like you have some kind of a plan.”
“I have an… idea,” he admitted. “It’s not a plan yet and I’ll definitely need help before it could become anything more.”
“Well I’m the go to man then,” Lestrade said. “Just let me know when and where and I’ll be there.”
“Will do, thanks.”
“John!”
Shit, Sherlock was awake.
“Gotta go,” he said hurriedly as Sherlock’s voice called him a second time. “I’ll let you know when and I’ll make sure he calls you too.”
Ending the call, he hurried to the bedroom to find a rather groggy Sherlock twisted awkwardly in the sheet as he tried to roll out of the bed. That was one of the things about Sherlock and his sleeping habits, when he crashed, he properly crashed and it took him a surprising amount of time to wake up properly afterwards.
“John?”
The slightly confused, slightly hurt expression was heart wrenching in its vulnerability, especially as he now understood where it was coming. Shit, he had meant to be there when Sherlock awoke. Had Sherlock thought he had left him again?
“You okay, love?” he said catching a wayward hand and finding himself with an armful of Sherlock Holmes.
“You weren’t here,” Sherlock said, his words very slightly slurred. “Why weren’t you here?”
“I was just next door,” he said manoeuvring him into a hug. “I got up to go to the loo and came back to find you’d stolen my pillow and side of the bed. You looked so peaceful I thought I’d let you sleep some more. I didn’t go anywhere.”
“Oh.”
He could feel the tension seeping from Sherlock’s body and knew that it wouldn’t be long before Sherlock was fully awake and despising how vulnerable and needy he must sound. It was stupid of course, not wanting anyone - including him - to see what Sherlock considered a weakness, but that was Sherlock for you. Perhaps in time he might be able to convince his lover that wanting someone, missing someone, was not necessarily a bad thing.
“I thought,” Sherlock started as John guided him back to the bed to sit down, but he never completed the sentence. There was no need for him to, it was pretty obvious what he had thought, that he had been left or abandoned again, that despite everything that he was once more alone. “What time is it?” And there it was, the complete and sudden change as consciousness reasserted itself and the normal Sherlock was back.
Sherlock didn’t even bother to wait for a response, untwisting himself from the sheet and scrambling around for the bedside clock. He swore when he confirmed just how late it was.
“You let me sleep,” he said sharply. “Why did you let me sleep?”
On his feet again he started to rifle through his things, tossing out both casual and match clothing as he went.
“You knew I had a match.”
“And I also knew you needed your sleep,” John said. “Which your body agreed with me on apparently. Hey, stop that, stop panicking.”
“I’m not panicking. Why would I be panicking? I don’t do panicking.”
“Calm down then. You’ve got plenty of time. You’re on second, remember.”
“Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I remember? And of course I don’t have time.”
“Sherlock!”
“Nadal, John! I’m playing Nadal. Not that I expect you to understand. You’ve never played him, but-”
“Sherlock!” He pitched his voice louder and firmer and was surprised when Sherlock stopped virtually mid-sentence. “It’s alright,” he continued, this time a little softer. Stepping closer, he carefully untangled Sherlock’s fingers from around a pair of shorts and dropped the clothing onto the bed. Keeping his eyes fixed with Sherlock’s, he gently cupped the other man’s face and reached up to press a kiss gently to his lips.
“It’s alright,” he repeated, cutting off Sherlock’s protest before it could start. “No, really, it’s going to be alright. Listen, I’ll go and order breakfast while you go and shower and shave and whatever it is you need to do this morning. After that you’re going to phone Lestrade and prove that I haven’t killed you or anything, and then you’re going to consume plenty of food. We will then figure out what needs to happen after that. Understand?”
There was a pause but then a small nod.
“Good.” He pressed another kiss to the lips. “Off you go then and I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.”
For a moment he thought Sherlock was going to protest, but then the moment went and suddenly Sherlock’s mouth was once more against his, then in a flurry of movement and a brisk order of what exactly Sherlock wanted for breakfast, his lover was gone and the door to the ensuite was clicking shut.
Well, he thought, raising his eyebrows, back to normal then.
By the time the food arrived and Sherlock had emerged from the shower freshly shaved and awoken, everything was back to normal, John having also taken the opportunity to do a quick tidy and to pull his own thoughts back together again.
“So,” he said, leaning back as he sipped at his coffee. “Have you figured out your game plan?”
“Some of it.”
Right. “Anything I can help with?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious he was contemplating something, no doubt something that John had a feeling he wasn’t going to like.
“You want to help?” Sherlock said a touch sharply.
“Of course,” he said.
“And you’ll do anything?”
He frowned. “You know I will.”
“Anything at all? And you’ll do it, no questions, no complaints?” Sherlock’s fingertips steepled together under his chin.
“If that’s what you want, then yes,” he said. Wait, should he be getting worried now? Sherlock was still looking at him as if he was an equation that needed solving but wasn’t quite sure if the outcome would be good or not.
“Look, whatever it is you’d like me to do, just tell me,” he said. “If I can, I’ll do it, no complaints. Alright?”
Sherlock continued to stare at him, eyes flickering once before it seemed that he had made up his mind. “I need you to leave,” he said and that was that.
He needed him to.... John blinked. Okay, so that wasn’t quite what he had been expecting, but okay, fine, that was fine. Of course it was fine.
“Alright,” he said. “Sure.”
“Just for an hour or two,” Sherlock continued. “It’s vital that I have-” He stopped midsentence and frowned, his eyes shifting as it looked like he was replaying what John had just said. “Alright?” he repeated back with his voice rising at the end like a question.
“Yes, of course,” John said. “Of course it’s alright. You need time alone to concentrate, focus and do whatever it is you need to do in order to win and that’s obviously easier to do if I’m not here to distract you or whatever. So let me grab a quick shower first and then I’ll be out of your hair for as long as you need me to be.”
The frown on Sherlock’s face seemed to deepen into confusion. “You’re not… angry,” he said as an observation.
Now it was his turn to be confused. “Should I be?” he asked. “Why would I be angry?”
“Victor was always-” Sherlock did not finish.
“I’m not Victor,” John said firmly.
Sherlock stared before giving a small nod. “No, you’re not.”
“Good,” John said rising to his feet. “Glad we’ve got that sorted.” He rested a hand on one of Sherlock’s and gave a brief squeeze. “Finish your breakfast and then get on with your preparation,” he said. “Text me when you want me back.”
Grabbing his phone, headed to the bathroom, texting Lestrade a time and place to meet as he went. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him as he moved, but knew it would only be momentary, as soon as he was out of the room Sherlock would return to his breakfast and then get on with what else he needed to do.
He didn’t spend overly long in the shower. Time was of essence, especially since they had so little of it, and in the mood Sherlock was in, even the hum of the running water could be a distraction. Sherlock would probably only fully relax when he wasn’t there.
Searching through his clothing, he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and one of the new Dior shirts that Sherlock had gotten him, a casual one this time that he had to admit felt nice against his skin. It was amazing the difference a day could make, the shirt now a symbol of Sherlock’s affection for him and not a form of criticism on how he usually dressed.
Grabbing his mobile, he noted the confirmation from Lestrade before making sure he had his wallet and room key as well.
Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa when he made his way to the door. Eyes closed, hands held as if at prayer, he was obviously in deep thought and not to be disturbed. His forearms were blessedly free of nicotine patches, so at least that was one less thing to be worried about.
“I do, you know.”
His hand was on the door handle, ready to slip out when Sherlock’s voice cut through the stillness. Turning back, he found Sherlock’s eyes now open and his head turned so that his sharp gaze was fully fixed on him.
“Hmm?” he asked a little lost as to what Sherlock was referring to.
“All the things you said last night, the feelings, the emotions,” Sherlock said carefully. “I do you know, feel them too, for you.”
Oh right, he thought, the only words that made it past his temporary mind freeze. It hadn’t totally passed his notice that while he had unburdened his mind and his heart by making it clear with words just how he felt that Sherlock had responded not with words, but with actions, pouring everything he had first into that kiss and then into their love making, before taking the painful and frightening step of opening himself up about his past, his fears and his weaknesses. After that he had had not reason to doubt that Sherlock felt the same for him, even if the words had never been used.
He offered a small smile, considered crossing the room to his lover, hesitated, frowned to himself, kicked himself mentally up the arse, made a decision and throwing caution to the wind, crossed the room and crouched down beside his lover, who continued to watch his every movement.
“I know,” he said softly and reaching forward pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “It’s alright, I know.” What he meant was, ‘don’t waste this time thinking about it right now. I don’t doubt the depths of what you feel for me. If you can’t say the words now, that’s alright, I can wait. Take your time and I’ll still be here.’
Straightening up, he found his hand grabbed. For a moment there was nothing more, but then Sherlock squeezed it - acknowledgement, thanks, relief - before releasing it and turning himself over on the sofa to face the back cushions.
He was allowed to go then. Where before he might have considered the dismissal the height of rudeness, he now knew that it really was simply Sherlock’s way of coping. He needed to focus his mind now on Nadal and the match, and he, John, was a distraction.
With one last look, John slipped out as quietly as he could.
The same security guard was once more on duty down the corridor - did the guy ever sleep? Pausing by him, he searched for the right words, to express just how crucial the other man had been in keeping him and Sherlock together. The problem was, the words just didn’t want to come.
“About what you said last night, thank you,” he said instead, pouring as much feeling and appreciation as he could into the final two words.
“Any time, sir.”
With a nod, he made his way to the lift and down.
Lestrade was already waiting for him, sat in an arm chair in one of the hotel’s private areas. The remains of a coffee rested on the table beside him while he fiddled with his mobile.
“Morning,” he offered as he dropped into the seat opposite him.
“Still,” Lestrade said, “although you certainly seemed to have slept through a good portion of it. Out with it then, what do you want to know, or what do you need me to do?”
John gave him a small smile, briefly tapping his fingers against the arm rests of the chair before deciding that it was best to simply come out with it. He leant forward. “You did all the organising, didn’t you, our registration here, flights, visas, hotel rooms, transport, the lot.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Organiser, cleaner-upper and general dogsbody. It’s in my job spec and everything. So, what do you need?”
“I know its late notice, but I need to find out if there’s even the remotest chance I can play in New York.”
“At the Open?” Lestrade said.
John nodded.
“Singles or doubles?”
“Singles.”
“And I’m guessing you don’t want Sherlock to know, you know, just in case.”
“Yeah,” he said. There was no point in getting Sherlock’s hopes up if there was no way he was going to be able to play.
“No problem,” Lestrade said.
“Thanks,” he said sitting back. “Let me know as soon-”
“No,” Lestrade said cutting him off, “I mean you playing is no problem. You’re already registered for the singles.”
John stared at him. “I’m… hang on, I’m already registered? For the singles? How? Wait, did Sherlock put you up to it?”
“Sherlock?” Lestrade said. “God no, it probably hasn’t even crossed his mind. No, I entered you, just in case.”
“You? Why?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade said, “no matter what Sherlock claims. And I wasn’t just hired for my pretty face and ability to swear back at him in two languages either. It was bloody obvious that the doubles wasn’t going to work. Could have told you that before it started. Mind you, Sherlock definitely wouldn’t have listened and you weren’t ready to hear it. He had to realise it for himself and you had to make the decision to return to singles yourself. Which you have done, so good on you. So I’ll make sure you’re all confirmed for the Open and let you know the details. What about Cincinnati? You wanna play there too?”
Cincinnati? “That’s next week.” Monday in fact. This Monday, and today was Saturday, so it was due to start in two day time. The playing list must have been finalised by now.
“Yeah, but I know for a fact that you’re top of the reserved list and I heard there’s doubts over a couple of players. Niggly injuries and the likes. If you want to play, tell me now and I can see if I can get you confirmed. Won’t be able to get you a bye into the second round though, but they’ll probably schedule you for Tuesday in light of your match here tomorrow. That’ll be alright, right?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll give them a call and then let you know. Flights are booked for Monday lunch time anyway. I’ll keep hold of our passports and tickets. Hotel is already sorted, same sort of set up as here. You might want to talk to that delightful Clara of yours. You’ll need to break the news to her that you’re not returning to England yet. Good luck with that. Anything else you need?”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Pretty much,” Lestrade said sitting back with a relaxed smile. “But that’s my job.”
“Thanks, Lestrade,” he said. “That’s,” he took a deep breath, “well that’s bloody brilliant actually.” And an unbelievable weight off his mind.
“Greg, actually.”
He blinked having somehow stumbled off the thread of conversation. “Hmmm?”
“My name,” Lestrade said. “Greg. Not that Sherlock’s ever bothered to find out, but it’d be bloody well nice if someone called me it.”
“Of course. Greg. Thanks.” Then he frowned as the words fully registered. “Wait, you saying that Sherlock doesn’t actually know what your first name is?”
“Or he’s deleted it,” Lestrade - Greg - said. “You sound surprised.”
“No,” John said quickly. “No, somehow that sounds like Sherlock.” He paused and tapped his fingers again. “He told me you know,” he said quietly. “About his grandmother and his Euro trip.”
“Yeah, figured,” Greg said.
“He thought, I dunno, he thought I was going to leave him or something. That I wouldn’t understand.”
“Yeah, that’s one thing you get to realise when you spend a lot of time with him. For all of his intelligence and sheer brilliance, at times he’s still an idiot.”
John cracked a smile and then he laughed and then continued laughing because, oh because it suddenly just felt so good to.
“You love him, don’t you,” Greg said once the laughter had subsided.
“God yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.” He wasn’t afraid of saying it now. At least he wasn’t afraid of saying it to Greg, who already knew and apparently saw far more than he ever let on.
“Good. You’re good for him, bloody good for him in fact, and I don’t want to lay any pressure on you, but he needs you. You make him both a better player and a better person.”
“And I need him too,” he replied.
“Well,” Greg said, “can’t be helped. Every man has his failings and all that.”
He grinned and shook his head. “He knows you talk about him like this behind his back, right?”
“Smart man like him, I’m sure he’s figured it out by now. Mind you,” Greg added, “I say it to his face too.”
“It’s a wonder he hasn’t punched you,” John said.
Greg raised his eyebrow. “What makes you think he hasn’t tried?”
“Oh god,” John said. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Greg said. “I punched him back.”
“You… punched him back?”
“Yeah, but not too hard. Mind you, that was right back near the start and he did rather deserve it.”
“Did it work?”
“Well, he’s never tried it since.”
“Oh God.”
“Not quite what he said at the time, but pretty much. I take it he’s kicked you out then.”
“For the moment, yeah.”
“You don’t seem too bothered about it.”
John shrugged. “Should I be? He needs to concentrate, I’d only be a distraction. State he’s in and everything that’s happened recently he’d probably spend most of it trying to figure out what I was thinking if I were there. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
“So you understand then?” Greg said.
“Understand what?”
“How his mind works.”
John gave a small smile. “Not a bloody clue. Well, other than the fact it’s brilliant and makes connections and conclusions us mere mortals can only gape at. You know, he virtually deduced my entire career from my serve, my clothes and my bags.”
“Clothes, fingers and stance,” Greg said. “That’s all he needed in order to tell me my life story. Considered punching him then as well, especially when he started sprouting off about my ex-missus. Met people like him before though, people who would go on the attack because it’s just easier. Didn’t take me long after that to realise that under all that bravado was just a young, skinny kid trying to act tough. You’re doing better than Trevor at least.”
Trevor again. Two mentions very close together. There was something there, something untold. He already knew that they had been training partners and something more, but obviously there was more to the story than just that.
“What happened with Trevor?” he asked.
“Not my division,” Greg said. “You want to know, you ask Sherlock.”
“Ended badly though,” he said.
“You could say that,” Greg said. “You could also say it started badly as well, so perhaps not too surprising. Look, I’ll better go and make those phone calls. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got some confirmation.”
“Thanks,” John said as Greg got to his feet. “And thanks for, well, everything.”
“Don’t mention it. Like I said before, you make my life easier, not harder. You wanna return the favour, just keep doing what you’re doing and it’ll work out well for all of us.”
“I will,” he promised and he meant it, because this he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
*
He went for a walk in the end, nowhere in particular, just wherever his feet took him. The betting shop had Nadal as odds on favourite to win, something which he could only agree with. It made sense, Nadal was the world number two to Sherlock’s world number three, and Nadal hadn’t been playing doubles as well, not since the first round at least. Of course he would be the favourite, but this was tennis. In the end anything could happen. Just look at him.
Moriarty was the favourite in the other semi-final, this time against Federer, although the odds were closer, probably due to Federer’s impressive history. They were playing first of course, so their result would be known before Sherlock stepped out on court. Could he beat Moriarty if they both made it through to the final? Now that was the question.
He reached into his pocket as he felt his mobile vibrate with a text alert.
Where are you? it read. Leaving in 20mins. Would prefer it if you were with me. SH.
He smiled and gave a shake of his head. That was so like Sherlock, abrupt, demanding and at the same time vulnerable.
Went for a walk, he typed back as he turned around to return to the hotel. Be back in about 10. He picked up his pace and hit the send button. Twelve minutes later he walked into their suite to find his practice gear all neatly packed and waiting by the door - he recognised Greg’s handiwork when he saw it - and a fully dressed, back to normal Sherlock tossing a notebook into his own bag while snapping orders at a Greg who was just exiting the spare bedroom.
“Ah, John,” Sherlock said as he zipped the bag closed with a firm pull. “There you are. The car will be here shortly. We’ll do a short warm up once we get there while Lestrade sorts out food.”
Apparently, from Greg’s eye roll, this was news to him as well, although not unexpected.
“Then we’ll eat,” Sherlock continued. “I’ll run through some last minute game plan prep, maybe pop to the gym and then hopefully Federer would have finished wiping the smug smile off Moriarty’s face, although I wouldn’t waste putting money on it.”
From Sherlock’s pointed look, John got the impression that his lover had an idea of just how long he had stood outside the bookies for before deciding that going any closer would be a very bad idea. One little bet, a little flutter, was how it would start.
“Agreed. Yes, good, excellent,” Sherlock continued, barely pausing for confirmation on what he had previously said. “Now practice bags, match bags, change of clothing, rackets, room key, mobile, everything ready. Lestrade, take the stuff down. I’ll follow once I’ve done one final thing.”
Greg didn’t say a word, just started to pick up the bags and slung them over his shoulder.
“What final thing?” John asked once the door had shut and it was just the two of them again.
“This,” Sherlock said plainly, stopping in front of him and after a moment of direct eye contact, bent his head and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. It was a simple, pleasant, decidedly unhurried kiss, one part greeting, one part thanks. It was surprising enough that John found himself smiling into it, raising a hand to rest on Sherlock’s lower arm. He licked his lips as Sherlock then moved away.
“Oh, okay,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but any reason for that, or just a general hello?”
“Because,” Sherlock said and that was all that was needed. The rest could be filled in silently.
Because I wanted to. Because I could. Because I missed you. Because you left when I asked and you didn’t complain. Because you came back. Because you understand. Because I can’t believe that you exist. Because you love me.
Raising himself up onto tip toes, John pressed an answering kiss to Sherlock’s lips, an acknowledgement.
Of course I love you, you idiot. You’re everything to me. Of course I understand you. Of course I came back.
“Always,” he whispered, squeezing Sherlock’s hand lightly.
This is what a partnership is, he conveyed silently. This is what a couple does. Give and take. Understand. Help. Love.
Sherlock smiled and he knew that at that moment nothing more needed to be said.
*
End Part Twelve
Next part next week, hopefully, although not guaranteed.
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5K this part. 79k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Twelve
*
Even in his sleep Sherlock seemed reluctant to let him go.
Having managed to tear themselves away from each other the previous night, they had then promptly searched the suite for any food that could be thrown together quickly and had piled it up on the table. Fortunately, Lestrade it seemed had anticipated the possible need for a midnight snack - or he simply knew that Sherlock’s eating habits were as unpredictable as the rest of his personality - and there was more than enough to form a filling if eclectic spread.
After a meal that included sundried tomatoes, couscous, salad, cheese, yoghurt and fruit, combined with easy conversation and casual brushes of physical touch, they hurried through their nightly rituals before tumbling back onto the bed, limbs wrapping around each other, more soft words and gentle caresses shared before they had each fallen asleep. Sherlock had gone first, unsurprising considering that day he had had, but a relief for John as he was reminded of all the previous nights of broken sleep. What was more surprising though was waking up the next morning to find Sherlock still dead to the world while refusing to relinquish his hold on him.
It wasn’t often that he awoke fully before Sherlock and keeping his eyes closed for a while longer, he revelled in the feel of the strong arm flung around his waist and the puffs of breath against his skin. It was obvious that their legs were also entwined, one of Sherlock’s slipped between his, firm and warm, almost caging him in. It all felt rather intimate, secure and honestly really bloody nice.
Smiling, he slowly opened his eyes.
As he has thought, he was on his back and Sherlock was sprawled front down, face turned towards him, relaxed in a peaceful sleep. Shifting his head, John watched him for a moment. Under the curls, Sherlock looked so young, so young and vulnerable and trusting.
He stayed still for as long as he could, until the pressure from his bladder forced him to carefully untangle himself and retreat to the bathroom. Exiting again, he found to his amusement that in his absence Sherlock had spread himself further across the bed and stolen his pillow to snuggle up to instead, one long arm wrapped around it as he hugged it down the length of his body. For a brief moment John considered snapping a pictured of it, but decided that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it nearly as much as he would. As such it really wasn’t worth the risk.
Glancing at the clock he was surprised to see how late it actually was, certainly later than he had expected. That at least explained his current relaxed alertness; they had slept the night right through. It was definitely time to be getting up then.
Yawning, he stretched and then padded out to the main room. The plates and glasses were still out from the night before and their bags and kit were still scattered from where they had deposited them pre-argument. God, that felt like a long time ago now, but then so much had happened since; the confessions, the sex, the pillow talk. Add in the matches - one for him, two for Sherlock - the interviews and the arguments and he couldn’t remember a more jam packed or emotionally extreme day. No wonder they had slept so soundly. After all of that they had needed it.
He frowned when he heard the muffled sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing. By the time he had located it down one end of the sofa, it had stopped ringing and was now showing three new texts and one missed call. He was just contemplating having a guess at the passcode when it started to ring again, Lestrade’s name flashing up across the screen.
“Hi Lestrade, it’s John,” he said, speaking softly and moving away from the general vicinity of the bedroom.
There was a pause and then a, “John? Where’s Sherlock?”
“He’s still asleep.”
“What? Really? Still? What did you do, drop sleeping tablets into his smoothie or something?”
John’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “We talked,” he said. “Got some things sorted between us, that sort of thing.”
“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said. “Good I take it.”
“Very.”
He heard Lestrade breathe out. “Well good on you, mate.” He sounded as if he honestly meant it. “Now I know he’s not AWOL it can wait, but get him to give me a call when he wakes up.”
“Will do. Look, any chance we can meet later as well?” he said, forcing the words out before he thought better of it.
“Sounds ominous,” Lestrade said.
He gave a small laugh. “No, no, nothing like that, just wanted to run some thoughts past you before raising them to Sherlock. No point in suggesting something that’s not likely to happen.”
“Sounds like you have some kind of a plan.”
“I have an… idea,” he admitted. “It’s not a plan yet and I’ll definitely need help before it could become anything more.”
“Well I’m the go to man then,” Lestrade said. “Just let me know when and where and I’ll be there.”
“Will do, thanks.”
“John!”
Shit, Sherlock was awake.
“Gotta go,” he said hurriedly as Sherlock’s voice called him a second time. “I’ll let you know when and I’ll make sure he calls you too.”
Ending the call, he hurried to the bedroom to find a rather groggy Sherlock twisted awkwardly in the sheet as he tried to roll out of the bed. That was one of the things about Sherlock and his sleeping habits, when he crashed, he properly crashed and it took him a surprising amount of time to wake up properly afterwards.
“John?”
The slightly confused, slightly hurt expression was heart wrenching in its vulnerability, especially as he now understood where it was coming. Shit, he had meant to be there when Sherlock awoke. Had Sherlock thought he had left him again?
“You okay, love?” he said catching a wayward hand and finding himself with an armful of Sherlock Holmes.
“You weren’t here,” Sherlock said, his words very slightly slurred. “Why weren’t you here?”
“I was just next door,” he said manoeuvring him into a hug. “I got up to go to the loo and came back to find you’d stolen my pillow and side of the bed. You looked so peaceful I thought I’d let you sleep some more. I didn’t go anywhere.”
“Oh.”
He could feel the tension seeping from Sherlock’s body and knew that it wouldn’t be long before Sherlock was fully awake and despising how vulnerable and needy he must sound. It was stupid of course, not wanting anyone - including him - to see what Sherlock considered a weakness, but that was Sherlock for you. Perhaps in time he might be able to convince his lover that wanting someone, missing someone, was not necessarily a bad thing.
“I thought,” Sherlock started as John guided him back to the bed to sit down, but he never completed the sentence. There was no need for him to, it was pretty obvious what he had thought, that he had been left or abandoned again, that despite everything that he was once more alone. “What time is it?” And there it was, the complete and sudden change as consciousness reasserted itself and the normal Sherlock was back.
Sherlock didn’t even bother to wait for a response, untwisting himself from the sheet and scrambling around for the bedside clock. He swore when he confirmed just how late it was.
“You let me sleep,” he said sharply. “Why did you let me sleep?”
On his feet again he started to rifle through his things, tossing out both casual and match clothing as he went.
“You knew I had a match.”
“And I also knew you needed your sleep,” John said. “Which your body agreed with me on apparently. Hey, stop that, stop panicking.”
“I’m not panicking. Why would I be panicking? I don’t do panicking.”
“Calm down then. You’ve got plenty of time. You’re on second, remember.”
“Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I remember? And of course I don’t have time.”
“Sherlock!”
“Nadal, John! I’m playing Nadal. Not that I expect you to understand. You’ve never played him, but-”
“Sherlock!” He pitched his voice louder and firmer and was surprised when Sherlock stopped virtually mid-sentence. “It’s alright,” he continued, this time a little softer. Stepping closer, he carefully untangled Sherlock’s fingers from around a pair of shorts and dropped the clothing onto the bed. Keeping his eyes fixed with Sherlock’s, he gently cupped the other man’s face and reached up to press a kiss gently to his lips.
“It’s alright,” he repeated, cutting off Sherlock’s protest before it could start. “No, really, it’s going to be alright. Listen, I’ll go and order breakfast while you go and shower and shave and whatever it is you need to do this morning. After that you’re going to phone Lestrade and prove that I haven’t killed you or anything, and then you’re going to consume plenty of food. We will then figure out what needs to happen after that. Understand?”
There was a pause but then a small nod.
“Good.” He pressed another kiss to the lips. “Off you go then and I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.”
For a moment he thought Sherlock was going to protest, but then the moment went and suddenly Sherlock’s mouth was once more against his, then in a flurry of movement and a brisk order of what exactly Sherlock wanted for breakfast, his lover was gone and the door to the ensuite was clicking shut.
Well, he thought, raising his eyebrows, back to normal then.
By the time the food arrived and Sherlock had emerged from the shower freshly shaved and awoken, everything was back to normal, John having also taken the opportunity to do a quick tidy and to pull his own thoughts back together again.
“So,” he said, leaning back as he sipped at his coffee. “Have you figured out your game plan?”
“Some of it.”
Right. “Anything I can help with?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious he was contemplating something, no doubt something that John had a feeling he wasn’t going to like.
“You want to help?” Sherlock said a touch sharply.
“Of course,” he said.
“And you’ll do anything?”
He frowned. “You know I will.”
“Anything at all? And you’ll do it, no questions, no complaints?” Sherlock’s fingertips steepled together under his chin.
“If that’s what you want, then yes,” he said. Wait, should he be getting worried now? Sherlock was still looking at him as if he was an equation that needed solving but wasn’t quite sure if the outcome would be good or not.
“Look, whatever it is you’d like me to do, just tell me,” he said. “If I can, I’ll do it, no complaints. Alright?”
Sherlock continued to stare at him, eyes flickering once before it seemed that he had made up his mind. “I need you to leave,” he said and that was that.
He needed him to.... John blinked. Okay, so that wasn’t quite what he had been expecting, but okay, fine, that was fine. Of course it was fine.
“Alright,” he said. “Sure.”
“Just for an hour or two,” Sherlock continued. “It’s vital that I have-” He stopped midsentence and frowned, his eyes shifting as it looked like he was replaying what John had just said. “Alright?” he repeated back with his voice rising at the end like a question.
“Yes, of course,” John said. “Of course it’s alright. You need time alone to concentrate, focus and do whatever it is you need to do in order to win and that’s obviously easier to do if I’m not here to distract you or whatever. So let me grab a quick shower first and then I’ll be out of your hair for as long as you need me to be.”
The frown on Sherlock’s face seemed to deepen into confusion. “You’re not… angry,” he said as an observation.
Now it was his turn to be confused. “Should I be?” he asked. “Why would I be angry?”
“Victor was always-” Sherlock did not finish.
“I’m not Victor,” John said firmly.
Sherlock stared before giving a small nod. “No, you’re not.”
“Good,” John said rising to his feet. “Glad we’ve got that sorted.” He rested a hand on one of Sherlock’s and gave a brief squeeze. “Finish your breakfast and then get on with your preparation,” he said. “Text me when you want me back.”
Grabbing his phone, headed to the bathroom, texting Lestrade a time and place to meet as he went. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him as he moved, but knew it would only be momentary, as soon as he was out of the room Sherlock would return to his breakfast and then get on with what else he needed to do.
He didn’t spend overly long in the shower. Time was of essence, especially since they had so little of it, and in the mood Sherlock was in, even the hum of the running water could be a distraction. Sherlock would probably only fully relax when he wasn’t there.
Searching through his clothing, he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and one of the new Dior shirts that Sherlock had gotten him, a casual one this time that he had to admit felt nice against his skin. It was amazing the difference a day could make, the shirt now a symbol of Sherlock’s affection for him and not a form of criticism on how he usually dressed.
Grabbing his mobile, he noted the confirmation from Lestrade before making sure he had his wallet and room key as well.
Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa when he made his way to the door. Eyes closed, hands held as if at prayer, he was obviously in deep thought and not to be disturbed. His forearms were blessedly free of nicotine patches, so at least that was one less thing to be worried about.
“I do, you know.”
His hand was on the door handle, ready to slip out when Sherlock’s voice cut through the stillness. Turning back, he found Sherlock’s eyes now open and his head turned so that his sharp gaze was fully fixed on him.
“Hmm?” he asked a little lost as to what Sherlock was referring to.
“All the things you said last night, the feelings, the emotions,” Sherlock said carefully. “I do you know, feel them too, for you.”
Oh right, he thought, the only words that made it past his temporary mind freeze. It hadn’t totally passed his notice that while he had unburdened his mind and his heart by making it clear with words just how he felt that Sherlock had responded not with words, but with actions, pouring everything he had first into that kiss and then into their love making, before taking the painful and frightening step of opening himself up about his past, his fears and his weaknesses. After that he had had not reason to doubt that Sherlock felt the same for him, even if the words had never been used.
He offered a small smile, considered crossing the room to his lover, hesitated, frowned to himself, kicked himself mentally up the arse, made a decision and throwing caution to the wind, crossed the room and crouched down beside his lover, who continued to watch his every movement.
“I know,” he said softly and reaching forward pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “It’s alright, I know.” What he meant was, ‘don’t waste this time thinking about it right now. I don’t doubt the depths of what you feel for me. If you can’t say the words now, that’s alright, I can wait. Take your time and I’ll still be here.’
Straightening up, he found his hand grabbed. For a moment there was nothing more, but then Sherlock squeezed it - acknowledgement, thanks, relief - before releasing it and turning himself over on the sofa to face the back cushions.
He was allowed to go then. Where before he might have considered the dismissal the height of rudeness, he now knew that it really was simply Sherlock’s way of coping. He needed to focus his mind now on Nadal and the match, and he, John, was a distraction.
With one last look, John slipped out as quietly as he could.
The same security guard was once more on duty down the corridor - did the guy ever sleep? Pausing by him, he searched for the right words, to express just how crucial the other man had been in keeping him and Sherlock together. The problem was, the words just didn’t want to come.
“About what you said last night, thank you,” he said instead, pouring as much feeling and appreciation as he could into the final two words.
“Any time, sir.”
With a nod, he made his way to the lift and down.
Lestrade was already waiting for him, sat in an arm chair in one of the hotel’s private areas. The remains of a coffee rested on the table beside him while he fiddled with his mobile.
“Morning,” he offered as he dropped into the seat opposite him.
“Still,” Lestrade said, “although you certainly seemed to have slept through a good portion of it. Out with it then, what do you want to know, or what do you need me to do?”
John gave him a small smile, briefly tapping his fingers against the arm rests of the chair before deciding that it was best to simply come out with it. He leant forward. “You did all the organising, didn’t you, our registration here, flights, visas, hotel rooms, transport, the lot.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Organiser, cleaner-upper and general dogsbody. It’s in my job spec and everything. So, what do you need?”
“I know its late notice, but I need to find out if there’s even the remotest chance I can play in New York.”
“At the Open?” Lestrade said.
John nodded.
“Singles or doubles?”
“Singles.”
“And I’m guessing you don’t want Sherlock to know, you know, just in case.”
“Yeah,” he said. There was no point in getting Sherlock’s hopes up if there was no way he was going to be able to play.
“No problem,” Lestrade said.
“Thanks,” he said sitting back. “Let me know as soon-”
“No,” Lestrade said cutting him off, “I mean you playing is no problem. You’re already registered for the singles.”
John stared at him. “I’m… hang on, I’m already registered? For the singles? How? Wait, did Sherlock put you up to it?”
“Sherlock?” Lestrade said. “God no, it probably hasn’t even crossed his mind. No, I entered you, just in case.”
“You? Why?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade said, “no matter what Sherlock claims. And I wasn’t just hired for my pretty face and ability to swear back at him in two languages either. It was bloody obvious that the doubles wasn’t going to work. Could have told you that before it started. Mind you, Sherlock definitely wouldn’t have listened and you weren’t ready to hear it. He had to realise it for himself and you had to make the decision to return to singles yourself. Which you have done, so good on you. So I’ll make sure you’re all confirmed for the Open and let you know the details. What about Cincinnati? You wanna play there too?”
Cincinnati? “That’s next week.” Monday in fact. This Monday, and today was Saturday, so it was due to start in two day time. The playing list must have been finalised by now.
“Yeah, but I know for a fact that you’re top of the reserved list and I heard there’s doubts over a couple of players. Niggly injuries and the likes. If you want to play, tell me now and I can see if I can get you confirmed. Won’t be able to get you a bye into the second round though, but they’ll probably schedule you for Tuesday in light of your match here tomorrow. That’ll be alright, right?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll give them a call and then let you know. Flights are booked for Monday lunch time anyway. I’ll keep hold of our passports and tickets. Hotel is already sorted, same sort of set up as here. You might want to talk to that delightful Clara of yours. You’ll need to break the news to her that you’re not returning to England yet. Good luck with that. Anything else you need?”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Pretty much,” Lestrade said sitting back with a relaxed smile. “But that’s my job.”
“Thanks, Lestrade,” he said. “That’s,” he took a deep breath, “well that’s bloody brilliant actually.” And an unbelievable weight off his mind.
“Greg, actually.”
He blinked having somehow stumbled off the thread of conversation. “Hmmm?”
“My name,” Lestrade said. “Greg. Not that Sherlock’s ever bothered to find out, but it’d be bloody well nice if someone called me it.”
“Of course. Greg. Thanks.” Then he frowned as the words fully registered. “Wait, you saying that Sherlock doesn’t actually know what your first name is?”
“Or he’s deleted it,” Lestrade - Greg - said. “You sound surprised.”
“No,” John said quickly. “No, somehow that sounds like Sherlock.” He paused and tapped his fingers again. “He told me you know,” he said quietly. “About his grandmother and his Euro trip.”
“Yeah, figured,” Greg said.
“He thought, I dunno, he thought I was going to leave him or something. That I wouldn’t understand.”
“Yeah, that’s one thing you get to realise when you spend a lot of time with him. For all of his intelligence and sheer brilliance, at times he’s still an idiot.”
John cracked a smile and then he laughed and then continued laughing because, oh because it suddenly just felt so good to.
“You love him, don’t you,” Greg said once the laughter had subsided.
“God yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.” He wasn’t afraid of saying it now. At least he wasn’t afraid of saying it to Greg, who already knew and apparently saw far more than he ever let on.
“Good. You’re good for him, bloody good for him in fact, and I don’t want to lay any pressure on you, but he needs you. You make him both a better player and a better person.”
“And I need him too,” he replied.
“Well,” Greg said, “can’t be helped. Every man has his failings and all that.”
He grinned and shook his head. “He knows you talk about him like this behind his back, right?”
“Smart man like him, I’m sure he’s figured it out by now. Mind you,” Greg added, “I say it to his face too.”
“It’s a wonder he hasn’t punched you,” John said.
Greg raised his eyebrow. “What makes you think he hasn’t tried?”
“Oh god,” John said. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Greg said. “I punched him back.”
“You… punched him back?”
“Yeah, but not too hard. Mind you, that was right back near the start and he did rather deserve it.”
“Did it work?”
“Well, he’s never tried it since.”
“Oh God.”
“Not quite what he said at the time, but pretty much. I take it he’s kicked you out then.”
“For the moment, yeah.”
“You don’t seem too bothered about it.”
John shrugged. “Should I be? He needs to concentrate, I’d only be a distraction. State he’s in and everything that’s happened recently he’d probably spend most of it trying to figure out what I was thinking if I were there. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
“So you understand then?” Greg said.
“Understand what?”
“How his mind works.”
John gave a small smile. “Not a bloody clue. Well, other than the fact it’s brilliant and makes connections and conclusions us mere mortals can only gape at. You know, he virtually deduced my entire career from my serve, my clothes and my bags.”
“Clothes, fingers and stance,” Greg said. “That’s all he needed in order to tell me my life story. Considered punching him then as well, especially when he started sprouting off about my ex-missus. Met people like him before though, people who would go on the attack because it’s just easier. Didn’t take me long after that to realise that under all that bravado was just a young, skinny kid trying to act tough. You’re doing better than Trevor at least.”
Trevor again. Two mentions very close together. There was something there, something untold. He already knew that they had been training partners and something more, but obviously there was more to the story than just that.
“What happened with Trevor?” he asked.
“Not my division,” Greg said. “You want to know, you ask Sherlock.”
“Ended badly though,” he said.
“You could say that,” Greg said. “You could also say it started badly as well, so perhaps not too surprising. Look, I’ll better go and make those phone calls. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got some confirmation.”
“Thanks,” John said as Greg got to his feet. “And thanks for, well, everything.”
“Don’t mention it. Like I said before, you make my life easier, not harder. You wanna return the favour, just keep doing what you’re doing and it’ll work out well for all of us.”
“I will,” he promised and he meant it, because this he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
*
He went for a walk in the end, nowhere in particular, just wherever his feet took him. The betting shop had Nadal as odds on favourite to win, something which he could only agree with. It made sense, Nadal was the world number two to Sherlock’s world number three, and Nadal hadn’t been playing doubles as well, not since the first round at least. Of course he would be the favourite, but this was tennis. In the end anything could happen. Just look at him.
Moriarty was the favourite in the other semi-final, this time against Federer, although the odds were closer, probably due to Federer’s impressive history. They were playing first of course, so their result would be known before Sherlock stepped out on court. Could he beat Moriarty if they both made it through to the final? Now that was the question.
He reached into his pocket as he felt his mobile vibrate with a text alert.
Where are you? it read. Leaving in 20mins. Would prefer it if you were with me. SH.
He smiled and gave a shake of his head. That was so like Sherlock, abrupt, demanding and at the same time vulnerable.
Went for a walk, he typed back as he turned around to return to the hotel. Be back in about 10. He picked up his pace and hit the send button. Twelve minutes later he walked into their suite to find his practice gear all neatly packed and waiting by the door - he recognised Greg’s handiwork when he saw it - and a fully dressed, back to normal Sherlock tossing a notebook into his own bag while snapping orders at a Greg who was just exiting the spare bedroom.
“Ah, John,” Sherlock said as he zipped the bag closed with a firm pull. “There you are. The car will be here shortly. We’ll do a short warm up once we get there while Lestrade sorts out food.”
Apparently, from Greg’s eye roll, this was news to him as well, although not unexpected.
“Then we’ll eat,” Sherlock continued. “I’ll run through some last minute game plan prep, maybe pop to the gym and then hopefully Federer would have finished wiping the smug smile off Moriarty’s face, although I wouldn’t waste putting money on it.”
From Sherlock’s pointed look, John got the impression that his lover had an idea of just how long he had stood outside the bookies for before deciding that going any closer would be a very bad idea. One little bet, a little flutter, was how it would start.
“Agreed. Yes, good, excellent,” Sherlock continued, barely pausing for confirmation on what he had previously said. “Now practice bags, match bags, change of clothing, rackets, room key, mobile, everything ready. Lestrade, take the stuff down. I’ll follow once I’ve done one final thing.”
Greg didn’t say a word, just started to pick up the bags and slung them over his shoulder.
“What final thing?” John asked once the door had shut and it was just the two of them again.
“This,” Sherlock said plainly, stopping in front of him and after a moment of direct eye contact, bent his head and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. It was a simple, pleasant, decidedly unhurried kiss, one part greeting, one part thanks. It was surprising enough that John found himself smiling into it, raising a hand to rest on Sherlock’s lower arm. He licked his lips as Sherlock then moved away.
“Oh, okay,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but any reason for that, or just a general hello?”
“Because,” Sherlock said and that was all that was needed. The rest could be filled in silently.
Because I wanted to. Because I could. Because I missed you. Because you left when I asked and you didn’t complain. Because you came back. Because you understand. Because I can’t believe that you exist. Because you love me.
Raising himself up onto tip toes, John pressed an answering kiss to Sherlock’s lips, an acknowledgement.
Of course I love you, you idiot. You’re everything to me. Of course I understand you. Of course I came back.
“Always,” he whispered, squeezing Sherlock’s hand lightly.
This is what a partnership is, he conveyed silently. This is what a couple does. Give and take. Understand. Help. Love.
Sherlock smiled and he knew that at that moment nothing more needed to be said.
*
End Part Twelve
Next part next week, hopefully, although not guaranteed.