Fill: A Study in Winning 1/?
anonymous
June 13 2011, 22:11:23 UTC
A Study In Winning
*
Tennis has been my life for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is of Dad taking me to the local park to play a little knock around on the concrete courts with those huge wooden rackets we would later use as snow shoes the January after the almost white Christmas. I must have been a natural because Dad kept taking me back and Harry showed her displeasure by aiming tennis balls at my head from close range. She has always been the more violent of the two of us. Still, her aim hadn’t always been that good back then and it meant I became very good at dealing with tennis balls hurtling towards my head. Facing a hundred and forty mile an hour serve from a professional player has little on the fierce temper of my sister. Still, without her I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Which was where exactly?
He stared at his laptop screen, or more accurately at the flashing curser at the end of ‘today’ and bit back a sigh. The literal answer was in a small bed-sit near his training ground, sat at the small desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to succumb to the pressures of his painfully slow two finger typing. His shoulder ached, his leg ached, both ankles ached, his back felt sore, his neck stiff and he could do with another long massage and hot shower. He was basically falling apart.
“Face it, Watson,” he said with a stretch and a sigh, “you’re a washed up almost was with no career and no life.”
And wasn’t that the truth. He should have retired years ago, after that injury to his shoulder, but faced with the prospect of long painful physiotherapy and retraining, or finding something else to do with his life, he had chosen the former. Even his therapist had thought him crazy, reminding him that he wasn’t alone, that there was life after tennis, but then again she was his therapist, of course she thought he was crazy. That was why he was sitting staring at that screen now, because she had suggested that writing about his life would either make him more enthusiastic about it, rekindling his love for the game, or enable him to finally be able to let it go. So far it was achieving neither. It was just making him more depressed.
He closed the laptop lid with a sigh. His life was over, he was sure of it. Or if it wasn’t yet, then it would be over in less than a month. Hell, not even that. Three days to Queens and then on to Wimbledon where it would then be all over, no question about that. Out in the first round? Perhaps the second if he was lucky and his body held up. So about eighteen days then.
Eighteen days and then the end.
His shoulder throbbed in sympathy.
Christ, he should have become a doctor.
*
Sorry it's a short start but I hoping to update very reguarly and later parts will get longer. Also it isn't beta-ed and has only been edited by me. But I hope you enjoy. I'm certainly having fun writing it.
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 2/?
anonymous
June 14 2011, 22:01:14 UTC
Apologies now for the terrible use of different languages and accents throughout this story. No offence intended. Also I may have taken a little inspiration from the film Wimbledon. :)
*
“Just tell me how bad it is,” he groaned pressing his face into the towel covering the medical examination bench.
He tried not to groan again as thick fingers prodded at his shoulder muscles shooting pain down his spine and across his neck.
He should have said no to Queens. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, but they had given him a Wild Card and it was traditionally one of the last major tournaments before the green, green grass of SW19. Now he was suffering.
Still, he’d made it to the second round before being steam-rolled by the eighth seed.
“Little bit of muscle strain,” his doctor - Mike - told him in a voice that was far too cheerful, but then again it had been Mike who had put him back together again after the accident, so he had seen far, far worse.
“Nothing to worry about. We’ll have you fixed up in no time. Shall I send Günter in to loosen you up a bit?”
“Please,” he said, his voice still muffled. A good, firm rubdown was exactly what he needed right now.
“I’ll go find him then.”
Nodding, he closed his eyes as the door opened and closed and waited. And waited. And waited. In fact he was waiting so long he was tempted to go out and find out where everyone was.
Eventually, just as his temper was started to overcome the lethargy of his muscles, he heard talking by the door. It was hard to tell, but he was almost certain that it was two male voices and that they were speaking German.
“Sorry for keeping you, Mr Watson,” he heard Günter’s voice say as the door finally opened and warm, strong fingers dug into his shoulder. “I was just finishing off Mr Holmes.”
He winched and sucked in a deep breath as Günter worked out a particularly hard knot. So was that who Günter had been talking to?
“Sherlock Holmes?” he asked between gasps. “I though…” wince, “he was…” whine, “French.”
“Ja,” Günter said, “but he speaks very good Deutsch.”
Somehow John was not surprised. Everyone knew about Sherlock Holmes. Currently ranked third in the world, he was an English born, French raised, bilingual star on the courts, who despite having an English father had horrified the British press by daring to become a potential world champion under a different flag. Not only that, but the French Tricolour. (The traitor!) And all due to having been trained in France from a young age by his French Grandmother. As such the British press had initially been torn between wanting to embrace him as a prodigal son, or vilify him. Luckily for the press he had taken that decision out of their hands by being arrogant, abrupt and down right rude at times, three things the British and the English in particular greatly abhorred. So that was that, Britain would have to look elsewhere for their Wimbledon hopeful.
Well, John thought as his pains and cares were forcefully and efficiently manhandled away, at least they were no longer looking at him either.
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 3/?
anonymous
June 14 2011, 22:04:02 UTC
*
‘Johnny, its Harry. Look about the tickets, you were joking right? You are gonna get me some. You know how much I enjoy watching you play, and if this is going to be your last, well then, and you promised you’d keep in touch. Sucks having to find out how you’re doing from the newspapers. You know what they’re like. Anyway, call me.’
He sighed and hit three to delete the message. No tickets, that was what he had told her the last time they had spoken, well argued. He had no desire for her to come only to eat the strawberries and drink the free booze, because they both knew what happens after that. It was a miracle Clara was even speaking to him. Well, actually she wasn’t, but that was more down to him than his uncontrollable sister.
The cab finally stopping not because of London traffic, he made sure to check he had everything before bailing out. It wouldn’t do for him to forget something important, like his rackets… again.
Clothes, check. Laptop, check. Half a pharmacy in acceptable drugs, lotions and muscle relaxant, check. Rackets and other sundries and accessories, check.
Grabbing his wallet from his pocket he paid the cabbie and made his way to his new temporary home. The Dorchester Hotel. Yeah, it was as grand and imposing as he remembered, although he wasn’t sure he recalled quite so many security guards. Blimey some of those men looked imposing.
“Welcome to the Dorchester, Mr Watson,” the woman on the desk smiled as she handed over his key. “Your room is on the third floor. Enjoy your stay.”
He would, he just doubted it would be a particularly long one.
Sighing, he made his way through the crowds, past a number of faces that he recognised. Andy Roddick, 2003, second round Rogers Cup, three sets disaster. David Ferrer, 2006, US Open, third round, painful disaster. He really needed to stop remembering when he lost to each of them, it was hardly helping.
Was that Maria Sharapova?
“Sorry. I’m so, sorry.”
And now he had done it. Distracted as he was he had ended up walking into someone, someone with dark hair who was dressed incredibly smartly in a dark suit and white shirt, both of which were undoubtedly designer. The man looked incredibly familiar, but fumbling for his dropped key and bags he made his apologies and disappeared as soon as he could.
It was only later when he got to his room, sorted out his things and switched on the telly that he realised who it had been.
“Damn,” he said sinking onto the bed. Of all the people to have literally walked into.
So, he typed a little later having decided that he might as well try and settle his mind with a spot of introspection and self therapy, the day before my last tournament and I’m here, by myself, in my room, in a huge hotel, basically talking to myself. Christ, nothing ever happens to me. Except tennis of course. There’s always tennis, although not for much longer. Sod it, I’m going to the courts for a last final practice.
Re: OP Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 3/?
anonymous
June 15 2011, 22:22:54 UTC
Hello OP, so glad you're enjoying it. Poor John when it comes to his litany of losses. That was fun (and also kinda mean) to write. And it was partly your comments about Sherlock that had me drawn back to this prompt. Added such a fun different element to it (the traitor!). :D
Lets just hope that you won't have to watch the film Wimbledon for as long as possible. Come on Murray!
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 4a/?
anonymous
June 15 2011, 22:13:38 UTC
Slowly getting there. :)
*
Arm up, ball up, racket up. Racket down, ball down, beer can… not quite down.
Damn.
He watched as the ball bounced a few more times before rolling to a harmless stop at the far end of the court. The beer can, however, remained obstinately upright.
“Right,” he muttered to himself and went back to the baseline again.
This time the ball clipped the can but the can still remained upright.
“Interesting. Old injury to your left shoulder, slight tightening of your serratus anterior, partially from overuse, most probably picked up at Queens. Out in the first, no second, round, beaten by someone younger, fitter, faster, but not necessarily better. Wild card entry here, partly due to Queens, mainly because you’re British. They’re desperate and love an underdog. Once ranked as high as 15th in the world, but that was years ago now. This is it, your last tournament. You’re worried you’ll go out in the first round, and unless you change something then I admit there’s a very good chance that you will. You’re just not sure what you need to change.”
He stared in blatant shock at the tall, slight figure leaning casually against the fence behind him. His face fell half in shadow due to the angle of the sun, but there was no mistaking the tousled curls of his dark hair. His image was well known, plastered across billboards, posters, busses, while his name was mentioned practically every time there was a major tournament being discussed. Anyone who knew anything about the sport had heard of -
“Sherlock Holmes,” he man said pushing off from the fence to close the gap between them. “I don’t believe we’ve had the honour.”
No, that was one thing that he did know, they had never faced each other across a tennis court, Holmes’ almost meteoric rise to the top coinciding with his injury and equally spectacular fall from household name status.
“Yes,” he said nodding as if he understood what had just happened, “I recognised you, although your accent’s different.”
Holmes cocked his head slightly but made no effort to explain, rather a different question emerged. “And you are?” he asked.
John blinked, absently turning his racket in his hand. “John, John Watson,” he said, “but you must have already known that, you know, what with everything you just said.”
“Hardly,” Holmes said. “Everything I said I gleamed simply from my observation of you just now. While from your equipment I can gather your initials to be either JHW or, the slightly less likely due to an inconsistency in capitalisation, MHR, your precise name needed more information than I have in front of me, information you have just now supplied.”
He stared. “You… you don’t know who I am?” he asked slowly.
The other man made a motion that could almost be a shrug. “Should I?” he asked casually.
“No, uh, I guess not,” he conceded.
“Sherlock!”
They both looked up as another man suddenly appeared on the other side of the fence. Older than them both, his dark hair was peppered with white and he had the look of someone who was clearly annoyed.
“What are you doing?” the newcomer said in an aspirated tone. “You know you’re supposed to be back at the hotel room. You have an interview in twenty minutes or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget, Lestrade,” Holmes bit back. “I said I’ll be there, so I’ll be there. Laissez-moi, allez-vous en!*”
The other man - Lestrade? - looked even more annoyed at that if his scowl was anything to go by, but he left without another word.
“Agent or trainer?” John asked, watching as Holmes bounced a ball twice before executing a text book serve that sent the beer can flying.
“Neither,” Holmes said tossing him a spare ball. “Try not to tense your arm and you should be fine.” He pointed to the next beer can along.
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 4b/?
anonymous
June 15 2011, 22:15:27 UTC
John raised his eyebrow but executed the serve anyway. He missed.
“On better thoughts,” Holmes said, “pack it in, take a long shower, get a back rub and spend the evening watching something mindless on the telly.” Then he walked away, just like that.
Bloody hell, John thought. He had literally no idea what had just happened. Was that what people meant when they said that Holmes was abrupt and strange? And why had he come over here in the first place? What had been the point? What had been his motivation?
Shaking his head he shrugged is shoulders and rolled them a few times before retrieving another ball. Arm up, ball up, racket up. Racket down, ball down, beer can… down.
Re: OP Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 4b/?
anonymous
June 16 2011, 22:18:10 UTC
LOL. Oh well.
Pissoffbuggeroff. How did I not think of that when I was writing it. That's just perfect. Should I ever anon and clean it up I'll have to put that in as the unofficial translation. :)
Of course John's a better player due to Sherlock. Because its Sherlock of course. He makes Johns better regardless of universe. :D
As for Lestrade... well, you'll just have to wait to find out. ;)
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 4b/?
anonymous
June 16 2011, 22:13:51 UTC
Thanks. I'm actually surprised by how much fun I'm having writing it. It's all working far better than I expected and I am so excited about where it's going, but I can't tell anyone about it. I just have to write it. :)
*
Tennis has been my life for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is of Dad taking me to the local park to play a little knock around on the concrete courts with those huge wooden rackets we would later use as snow shoes the January after the almost white Christmas. I must have been a natural because Dad kept taking me back and Harry showed her displeasure by aiming tennis balls at my head from close range. She has always been the more violent of the two of us. Still, her aim hadn’t always been that good back then and it meant I became very good at dealing with tennis balls hurtling towards my head. Facing a hundred and forty mile an hour serve from a professional player has little on the fierce temper of my sister. Still, without her I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Which was where exactly?
He stared at his laptop screen, or more accurately at the flashing curser at the end of ‘today’ and bit back a sigh. The literal answer was in a small bed-sit near his training ground, sat at the small desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to succumb to the pressures of his painfully slow two finger typing. His shoulder ached, his leg ached, both ankles ached, his back felt sore, his neck stiff and he could do with another long massage and hot shower. He was basically falling apart.
“Face it, Watson,” he said with a stretch and a sigh, “you’re a washed up almost was with no career and no life.”
And wasn’t that the truth. He should have retired years ago, after that injury to his shoulder, but faced with the prospect of long painful physiotherapy and retraining, or finding something else to do with his life, he had chosen the former. Even his therapist had thought him crazy, reminding him that he wasn’t alone, that there was life after tennis, but then again she was his therapist, of course she thought he was crazy. That was why he was sitting staring at that screen now, because she had suggested that writing about his life would either make him more enthusiastic about it, rekindling his love for the game, or enable him to finally be able to let it go. So far it was achieving neither. It was just making him more depressed.
He closed the laptop lid with a sigh. His life was over, he was sure of it. Or if it wasn’t yet, then it would be over in less than a month. Hell, not even that. Three days to Queens and then on to Wimbledon where it would then be all over, no question about that. Out in the first round? Perhaps the second if he was lucky and his body held up. So about eighteen days then.
Eighteen days and then the end.
His shoulder throbbed in sympathy.
Christ, he should have become a doctor.
*
Sorry it's a short start but I hoping to update very reguarly and later parts will get longer. Also it isn't beta-ed and has only been edited by me. But I hope you enjoy. I'm certainly having fun writing it.
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Looking forward to more!
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*
“Just tell me how bad it is,” he groaned pressing his face into the towel covering the medical examination bench.
He tried not to groan again as thick fingers prodded at his shoulder muscles shooting pain down his spine and across his neck.
He should have said no to Queens. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, but they had given him a Wild Card and it was traditionally one of the last major tournaments before the green, green grass of SW19. Now he was suffering.
Still, he’d made it to the second round before being steam-rolled by the eighth seed.
“Little bit of muscle strain,” his doctor - Mike - told him in a voice that was far too cheerful, but then again it had been Mike who had put him back together again after the accident, so he had seen far, far worse.
“Nothing to worry about. We’ll have you fixed up in no time. Shall I send Günter in to loosen you up a bit?”
“Please,” he said, his voice still muffled. A good, firm rubdown was exactly what he needed right now.
“I’ll go find him then.”
Nodding, he closed his eyes as the door opened and closed and waited. And waited. And waited. In fact he was waiting so long he was tempted to go out and find out where everyone was.
Eventually, just as his temper was started to overcome the lethargy of his muscles, he heard talking by the door. It was hard to tell, but he was almost certain that it was two male voices and that they were speaking German.
“Sorry for keeping you, Mr Watson,” he heard Günter’s voice say as the door finally opened and warm, strong fingers dug into his shoulder. “I was just finishing off Mr Holmes.”
He winched and sucked in a deep breath as Günter worked out a particularly hard knot. So was that who Günter had been talking to?
“Sherlock Holmes?” he asked between gasps. “I though…” wince, “he was…” whine, “French.”
“Ja,” Günter said, “but he speaks very good Deutsch.”
Somehow John was not surprised. Everyone knew about Sherlock Holmes. Currently ranked third in the world, he was an English born, French raised, bilingual star on the courts, who despite having an English father had horrified the British press by daring to become a potential world champion under a different flag. Not only that, but the French Tricolour. (The traitor!) And all due to having been trained in France from a young age by his French Grandmother. As such the British press had initially been torn between wanting to embrace him as a prodigal son, or vilify him. Luckily for the press he had taken that decision out of their hands by being arrogant, abrupt and down right rude at times, three things the British and the English in particular greatly abhorred. So that was that, Britain would have to look elsewhere for their Wimbledon hopeful.
Well, John thought as his pains and cares were forcefully and efficiently manhandled away, at least they were no longer looking at him either.
*
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‘Johnny, its Harry. Look about the tickets, you were joking right? You are gonna get me some. You know how much I enjoy watching you play, and if this is going to be your last, well then, and you promised you’d keep in touch. Sucks having to find out how you’re doing from the newspapers. You know what they’re like. Anyway, call me.’
He sighed and hit three to delete the message. No tickets, that was what he had told her the last time they had spoken, well argued. He had no desire for her to come only to eat the strawberries and drink the free booze, because they both knew what happens after that. It was a miracle Clara was even speaking to him. Well, actually she wasn’t, but that was more down to him than his uncontrollable sister.
The cab finally stopping not because of London traffic, he made sure to check he had everything before bailing out. It wouldn’t do for him to forget something important, like his rackets… again.
Clothes, check. Laptop, check. Half a pharmacy in acceptable drugs, lotions and muscle relaxant, check. Rackets and other sundries and accessories, check.
Grabbing his wallet from his pocket he paid the cabbie and made his way to his new temporary home. The Dorchester Hotel. Yeah, it was as grand and imposing as he remembered, although he wasn’t sure he recalled quite so many security guards. Blimey some of those men looked imposing.
“Welcome to the Dorchester, Mr Watson,” the woman on the desk smiled as she handed over his key. “Your room is on the third floor. Enjoy your stay.”
He would, he just doubted it would be a particularly long one.
Sighing, he made his way through the crowds, past a number of faces that he recognised. Andy Roddick, 2003, second round Rogers Cup, three sets disaster. David Ferrer, 2006, US Open, third round, painful disaster. He really needed to stop remembering when he lost to each of them, it was hardly helping.
Was that Maria Sharapova?
“Sorry. I’m so, sorry.”
And now he had done it. Distracted as he was he had ended up walking into someone, someone with dark hair who was dressed incredibly smartly in a dark suit and white shirt, both of which were undoubtedly designer. The man looked incredibly familiar, but fumbling for his dropped key and bags he made his apologies and disappeared as soon as he could.
It was only later when he got to his room, sorted out his things and switched on the telly that he realised who it had been.
“Damn,” he said sinking onto the bed. Of all the people to have literally walked into.
So, he typed a little later having decided that he might as well try and settle his mind with a spot of introspection and self therapy, the day before my last tournament and I’m here, by myself, in my room, in a huge hotel, basically talking to myself. Christ, nothing ever happens to me. Except tennis of course. There’s always tennis, although not for much longer. Sod it, I’m going to the courts for a last final practice.
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At the moment I'm hoping to post a part a day while my muse continues to play ball. So far, so good. :)
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(Also Wimbledon is one of the OP's favourite films. She watches it pretty much every year, usually just after the last British player has gone out...)
Loving this so far
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Lets just hope that you won't have to watch the film Wimbledon for as long as possible. Come on Murray!
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*
Arm up, ball up, racket up. Racket down, ball down, beer can… not quite down.
Damn.
He watched as the ball bounced a few more times before rolling to a harmless stop at the far end of the court. The beer can, however, remained obstinately upright.
“Right,” he muttered to himself and went back to the baseline again.
This time the ball clipped the can but the can still remained upright.
“Interesting. Old injury to your left shoulder, slight tightening of your serratus anterior, partially from overuse, most probably picked up at Queens. Out in the first, no second, round, beaten by someone younger, fitter, faster, but not necessarily better. Wild card entry here, partly due to Queens, mainly because you’re British. They’re desperate and love an underdog. Once ranked as high as 15th in the world, but that was years ago now. This is it, your last tournament. You’re worried you’ll go out in the first round, and unless you change something then I admit there’s a very good chance that you will. You’re just not sure what you need to change.”
He stared in blatant shock at the tall, slight figure leaning casually against the fence behind him. His face fell half in shadow due to the angle of the sun, but there was no mistaking the tousled curls of his dark hair. His image was well known, plastered across billboards, posters, busses, while his name was mentioned practically every time there was a major tournament being discussed. Anyone who knew anything about the sport had heard of -
“Sherlock Holmes,” he man said pushing off from the fence to close the gap between them. “I don’t believe we’ve had the honour.”
No, that was one thing that he did know, they had never faced each other across a tennis court, Holmes’ almost meteoric rise to the top coinciding with his injury and equally spectacular fall from household name status.
“Yes,” he said nodding as if he understood what had just happened, “I recognised you, although your accent’s different.”
Holmes cocked his head slightly but made no effort to explain, rather a different question emerged. “And you are?” he asked.
John blinked, absently turning his racket in his hand. “John, John Watson,” he said, “but you must have already known that, you know, what with everything you just said.”
“Hardly,” Holmes said. “Everything I said I gleamed simply from my observation of you just now. While from your equipment I can gather your initials to be either JHW or, the slightly less likely due to an inconsistency in capitalisation, MHR, your precise name needed more information than I have in front of me, information you have just now supplied.”
He stared. “You… you don’t know who I am?” he asked slowly.
The other man made a motion that could almost be a shrug. “Should I?” he asked casually.
“No, uh, I guess not,” he conceded.
“Sherlock!”
They both looked up as another man suddenly appeared on the other side of the fence. Older than them both, his dark hair was peppered with white and he had the look of someone who was clearly annoyed.
“What are you doing?” the newcomer said in an aspirated tone. “You know you’re supposed to be back at the hotel room. You have an interview in twenty minutes or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget, Lestrade,” Holmes bit back. “I said I’ll be there, so I’ll be there. Laissez-moi, allez-vous en!*”
The other man - Lestrade? - looked even more annoyed at that if his scowl was anything to go by, but he left without another word.
“Agent or trainer?” John asked, watching as Holmes bounced a ball twice before executing a text book serve that sent the beer can flying.
“Neither,” Holmes said tossing him a spare ball. “Try not to tense your arm and you should be fine.” He pointed to the next beer can along.
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“On better thoughts,” Holmes said, “pack it in, take a long shower, get a back rub and spend the evening watching something mindless on the telly.” Then he walked away, just like that.
Bloody hell, John thought. He had literally no idea what had just happened. Was that what people meant when they said that Holmes was abrupt and strange? And why had he come over here in the first place? What had been the point? What had been his motivation?
Shaking his head he shrugged is shoulders and rolled them a few times before retrieving another ball. Arm up, ball up, racket up. Racket down, ball down, beer can… down.
Blimey.
*
*Translation - Leave me alone, go away!
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(or as The Creature would put it, pissoffbuggeroff!)
beer can... down
Hee! Five minutes in Sherlock's company and he's already a better player. Love it. Can't wait for more of their interaction.
Am also curious as to which role Lestrade is playing. Body guard? General nagger? Brother/agent/coach's boyfriend?
Also, Go Murray!
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Pissoffbuggeroff. How did I not think of that when I was writing it. That's just perfect. Should I ever anon and clean it up I'll have to put that in as the unofficial translation. :)
Of course John's a better player due to Sherlock. Because its Sherlock of course. He makes Johns better regardless of universe. :D
As for Lestrade... well, you'll just have to wait to find out. ;)
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