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. :)
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 5/?
anonymous
June 16 2011, 22:11:12 UTC
And finally, the start of the proper tennis.
*
“Hello and welcome to day one of the Championship where the weather is fine and we’re expecting a full and exciting day of tennis. On Centre Court we have Rafael Nadal, Venus Williams and British hopeful Andy Murray. Other Brits in action include Laura Robinson and journeyman veteran, John Watson. On the red button you will have a choice of court, including Number One Court where first up is the number three seed, Sherlock Holmes, in what promises to be an explosive opening match.”
Explosive? It was little short of a massacre.
John stared at the TV in silent fascination and horror as Holmes - cool as anything - pulverised his opponent. Actually it was less of a decimation and more of a careful dissection of his opponent’s game. Two games all in the opening set and it looked reasonably straight forward, then it was as if Holmes stepped up a gear, breaking serve and then dominating.
The first set went to Holmes 6-4. The second 6-2.
By the time the third set started it was clear to everyone that it was already all over and the result a foregone conclusion. Nothing his opponent tried worked and his head dropped with every error, missed shot or ace.
Just seventeen minutes into the third set and it was finally over, Holmes had won; 6-4, 6-2, 6-1.
“Yes, ah had a good metch,” Holmes told the reporter afterwards in his usual French accented brisk tone. “It was, uh, nice, easy. Net so much of a challenge.”
“You looked very comfortable out there,” the interviewer said. “Do you think it could be your turn to lift the trophy this year?”
“Bet of course,” Holmes replied as if it was a ridiculous question to ask. “Ah would net be playing if I beleeeved, uh, differently.”
John didn’t bother to watch the rest, he had his own match to prepare for. Three o’clock, court sixteen, against a kid almost young enough to be his son. Oh god, he even looked young enough to be his son. Wasn’t there a rule against looking that young? He shouldn’t be wielding a professional tennis racket, he should be at home playing Mario Power Tennis on the Wii with his mates.
He was getting too old for this.
Nonsense, Watson, he told himself firmly as he completed his stretches, it’s simply up to you to give him a firm introduction to his first grand slam. Keep calm, keep relaxed, and show the kid what it is really like to play with the pro boys.
Ten minutes later he was undergoing the long walk to court sixteen, a new crisp white shirt on his back and his racket bag slung over his right shoulder. This was it, he realised, twenty-five years of training, a thousand balls a day, 364 days a year and it was all going to end in front of a minimal crowd, on a far flung court against a kid who was just starting out.
He took his seat and retrieved his first racket, knocking it against his hand to test the strings.
No, the though. No, it wouldn’t.
He got to his feet and started his warm up. The kid was good but he wasn’t that good. He was young and fast but lacked experience and precision. Return his serve, keep him off balance, get him frustrated and the match was in the bag.
It was time to start and he was receiving first.
Come on, Watson, he thought, his racket spinning as he watched the boy bounce the ball once, twice and then it was hurtling over the net towards him.
He returned, down the line, it was good.
Love - fifteen.
Good start. Excellent start. Got the point, some more just like that and the match would be his. Keep focused, keep alert, keep relaxed.
The ball flew over the net towards him. He hit it back, again… and again… and again.
OP Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 5/?
anonymous
June 17 2011, 07:26:05 UTC
I don't suppose you were at the Cabin Pressure recording where Cumberbatch had to fake a french accent were you? Because that's exactly how I was hearing what he said...
(Also did you mean Laura Robson or were you making someone up?)
Re: Fill: A Study in Winning 6a/?
anonymous
June 17 2011, 23:32:34 UTC
*
He hated press conferences, always had, but they had gotten progressively worse over the years as it became shockingly clear that he was never going to live up to the hype placed on him by eager Brits desperate to find some sort of sporting hero. The one thing the British press enjoyed as much - if not more - than thrusting someone into the dizzy heights of potential stardom was ripping them down again when it became clear they could not live up to the expectations heaped on them. It hadn’t taken them long to realise that he was at best going to be the runner up and never the winner.
“Since this is probably going to be my last ever Wimbledon press conference,” he said keeping his gaze ahead but no focusing on anyone, “I would like to take the opportunity to formally announce my retirement from the game, effective immediately this tournament ends.”
There, he had said it and the press had hardly been bothered. They had been more interested in the arrival of the American number two seed that happened to walk past as he had been speaking. It was somewhat crushing of course, but he had had worse. Choking in the semi final of the French Open and losing despite having been two sets up certainly sprung to mind. He had never been allowed to forget that one.
Escaping the conference he headed back to his hotel by taxi, glancing at his mobile to see what he had missed.
‘You have two new messages.’
‘Hi John, Mike here. Congrats on the win. Shoulder’s looking good. Don’t forget to put someone on it. Call me if you have any trouble.’
‘Johnny, its Harry, you still haven’t called. Good result by the way, second round here you come. Keep playing like that and who knows, you could even make the second week, then you’ve got to get me tickets. Call me.’
He saved the first but deleted the second.
The press were all over the front entrance to the hotel when he got there, although they showed no interest in him, which was more than fine. Slipping past, he made his way up to his room and then frozen in the door way.
The figure stretched out on his bed barely reacted, just glanced up and then returned to whatever he was doing on the laptop.
“I see you managed to relax your shoulder,” the intruder said after a few moments. “Not a bad win, although your back hand slice could do with a little work. You’re turning your wrist a fraction too much, means your returns end up in the net more often than not. And you might want to consider coming in. Standing in the corridor gapping really isn’t a good look for you.”
Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bleeding Holmes, was in his room, giving him advice. Bloody hell.
Stepping in, he let the door close behind him and carefully placed down his bag and rackets.
“Mr Holmes,” he started as calmly as he could.
“Sherlock, please,” the other man said, “and you're John, unless you prefer Watson.”
He blinked. “Uh, John,” he said.
“John it is then,” Holmes… Sherlock said.
Right. What had he been saying? Oh yes. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”
“Bored,” Sherlock said, his fingers still tapping away.
Tapping away?
“Wait,” he said with a frown, “is that my laptop?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said without an ounce of embarrassment. “Mine’s in my suite.”
“But… but its password protected.”
“And it took me less than two minutes to crack yours.”
Bloody hell! Finally spurned into action he crossed the room and snapped down the laptop lid, removing it from Sherlock’s lap. Putting it down he turned back to stare at the Frenchman.
‘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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*
“Hello and welcome to day one of the Championship where the weather is fine and we’re expecting a full and exciting day of tennis. On Centre Court we have Rafael Nadal, Venus Williams and British hopeful Andy Murray. Other Brits in action include Laura Robinson and journeyman veteran, John Watson. On the red button you will have a choice of court, including Number One Court where first up is the number three seed, Sherlock Holmes, in what promises to be an explosive opening match.”
Explosive? It was little short of a massacre.
John stared at the TV in silent fascination and horror as Holmes - cool as anything - pulverised his opponent. Actually it was less of a decimation and more of a careful dissection of his opponent’s game. Two games all in the opening set and it looked reasonably straight forward, then it was as if Holmes stepped up a gear, breaking serve and then dominating.
The first set went to Holmes 6-4. The second 6-2.
By the time the third set started it was clear to everyone that it was already all over and the result a foregone conclusion. Nothing his opponent tried worked and his head dropped with every error, missed shot or ace.
Just seventeen minutes into the third set and it was finally over, Holmes had won; 6-4, 6-2, 6-1.
“Yes, ah had a good metch,” Holmes told the reporter afterwards in his usual French accented brisk tone. “It was, uh, nice, easy. Net so much of a challenge.”
“You looked very comfortable out there,” the interviewer said. “Do you think it could be your turn to lift the trophy this year?”
“Bet of course,” Holmes replied as if it was a ridiculous question to ask. “Ah would net be playing if I beleeeved, uh, differently.”
John didn’t bother to watch the rest, he had his own match to prepare for. Three o’clock, court sixteen, against a kid almost young enough to be his son. Oh god, he even looked young enough to be his son. Wasn’t there a rule against looking that young? He shouldn’t be wielding a professional tennis racket, he should be at home playing Mario Power Tennis on the Wii with his mates.
He was getting too old for this.
Nonsense, Watson, he told himself firmly as he completed his stretches, it’s simply up to you to give him a firm introduction to his first grand slam. Keep calm, keep relaxed, and show the kid what it is really like to play with the pro boys.
Ten minutes later he was undergoing the long walk to court sixteen, a new crisp white shirt on his back and his racket bag slung over his right shoulder. This was it, he realised, twenty-five years of training, a thousand balls a day, 364 days a year and it was all going to end in front of a minimal crowd, on a far flung court against a kid who was just starting out.
He took his seat and retrieved his first racket, knocking it against his hand to test the strings.
No, the though. No, it wouldn’t.
He got to his feet and started his warm up. The kid was good but he wasn’t that good. He was young and fast but lacked experience and precision. Return his serve, keep him off balance, get him frustrated and the match was in the bag.
It was time to start and he was receiving first.
Come on, Watson, he thought, his racket spinning as he watched the boy bounce the ball once, twice and then it was hurtling over the net towards him.
He returned, down the line, it was good.
Love - fifteen.
Good start. Excellent start. Got the point, some more just like that and the match would be his. Keep focused, keep alert, keep relaxed.
The ball flew over the net towards him. He hit it back, again… and again… and again.
He won. 6-4, 6-4, 6-2.
Yes!
He was still in the game.
*
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(Also did you mean Laura Robson or were you making someone up?)
Murray's playing! Will John have to defeat him?
My love fror this only grows and grows!
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Hey Chief, I might be wrong but you appear to be speaking with a funny accent.
(Laura Robson, oops, thought it looked funny, and being anon I can't change it)
As for Murray, I'm not saying. :D
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He hated press conferences, always had, but they had gotten progressively worse over the years as it became shockingly clear that he was never going to live up to the hype placed on him by eager Brits desperate to find some sort of sporting hero. The one thing the British press enjoyed as much - if not more - than thrusting someone into the dizzy heights of potential stardom was ripping them down again when it became clear they could not live up to the expectations heaped on them. It hadn’t taken them long to realise that he was at best going to be the runner up and never the winner.
“Since this is probably going to be my last ever Wimbledon press conference,” he said keeping his gaze ahead but no focusing on anyone, “I would like to take the opportunity to formally announce my retirement from the game, effective immediately this tournament ends.”
There, he had said it and the press had hardly been bothered. They had been more interested in the arrival of the American number two seed that happened to walk past as he had been speaking. It was somewhat crushing of course, but he had had worse. Choking in the semi final of the French Open and losing despite having been two sets up certainly sprung to mind. He had never been allowed to forget that one.
Escaping the conference he headed back to his hotel by taxi, glancing at his mobile to see what he had missed.
‘You have two new messages.’
‘Hi John, Mike here. Congrats on the win. Shoulder’s looking good. Don’t forget to put someone on it. Call me if you have any trouble.’
‘Johnny, its Harry, you still haven’t called. Good result by the way, second round here you come. Keep playing like that and who knows, you could even make the second week, then you’ve got to get me tickets. Call me.’
He saved the first but deleted the second.
The press were all over the front entrance to the hotel when he got there, although they showed no interest in him, which was more than fine. Slipping past, he made his way up to his room and then frozen in the door way.
The figure stretched out on his bed barely reacted, just glanced up and then returned to whatever he was doing on the laptop.
“I see you managed to relax your shoulder,” the intruder said after a few moments. “Not a bad win, although your back hand slice could do with a little work. You’re turning your wrist a fraction too much, means your returns end up in the net more often than not. And you might want to consider coming in. Standing in the corridor gapping really isn’t a good look for you.”
Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bleeding Holmes, was in his room, giving him advice. Bloody hell.
Stepping in, he let the door close behind him and carefully placed down his bag and rackets.
“Mr Holmes,” he started as calmly as he could.
“Sherlock, please,” the other man said, “and you're John, unless you prefer Watson.”
He blinked. “Uh, John,” he said.
“John it is then,” Holmes… Sherlock said.
Right. What had he been saying? Oh yes. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”
“Bored,” Sherlock said, his fingers still tapping away.
Tapping away?
“Wait,” he said with a frown, “is that my laptop?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said without an ounce of embarrassment. “Mine’s in my suite.”
“But… but its password protected.”
“And it took me less than two minutes to crack yours.”
Bloody hell! Finally spurned into action he crossed the room and snapped down the laptop lid, removing it from Sherlock’s lap. Putting it down he turned back to stare at the Frenchman.
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