fic: Just Got Lucky 1/2

Apr 16, 2011 07:49


Title: Just Got Lucky
Pairing: John/ Sherlock
Rating: very soft R
Warnings: Non-explicit sex and discussions of sexuality
Genre: Romance, fluff, smattering of angst
Word Count: ~7k
Summary: If you were to ask Sherlock how he ended up at the final table in a high-stakes, no-limit Texas Hold 'em tournament being filmed for broadcast on American television, he would simply wave you off and tell you it was for a case. If you were to ask John, he'd tell you it was because his flatmate was an ego-maniacal twat that would go to almost any length to prove a point.
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.

A/N: Written for the help_nz  auction for madder_badder  , who wanted to see Sherlock and John on vacation. This what fell out instead. A working knowledge of poker, specifically Texas Hold 'em, might make this fic easier to read in places. A good primer, along with a glossary of poker terms, can be found here.  The title is from the song of the same name, by JoBoxers.

Many thanks to my quick and skilful betas, blue_eyed_1987  and mazarin221b .



An Over-simplified Guide to Texas Hold 'em:
Each player is dealt two cards face down. A total of five communal cards (flop, turn, river; see below) are then laid on the table face up. The player who has the best five-card hand (using the total of seven cards available) wins.

Quick-n-dirty Texas Hold 'em Terminology Glossary:
flop: first three communal cards dealt, all three at once
turn card: the fourth communal card dealt
river card: the fifth and final communal card dealt
pot: all the chips bet in a hand, collected by the winner
big blind: mandatory bet by the player to the immediate left of the dealer
small blind: mandatory bet to by the player to the immediate left of the player who puts up the big blind, half the amount of the big blind (example: the big blind player is required to bet 100 chips, the small blind must then bet 50). Both blinds are used to "seed the pot," ensuring there is money to be won in the hand, even if no one else places a bet.
short stack: the player with the least amount of chips
suited/ on-suit: two cards of the same suit. Two hearts, two clubs, etc. Having two cards on-suit is the foundation for a flush (five cards of the same suit, non-sequential) or a straight flush (five cards of the same suit, in sequential order, such as 2-3-4-5-6)
off-suit: two cards of different suits.
pocket: (as in pocket jacks, pocket aces, etc.) the two cards a player is dealt
bluff: instead of folding an inferior hand, a player continues to play it in order to make the other players think they're holding a winning hand.
deuce: a card with the face value of two
check: to not bet, with the option to raise or call later in the betting round.
all-in: when a player bets all of their remaining chips.

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

If you were to ask Sherlock how he ended up at the final table in a high-stakes, no-limit Texas Hold 'em tournament being filmed for broadcast on American television, he would simply wave you off and tell you it was for a case. If you were to ask John, he'd tell you it was because his flatmate was an ego-maniacal twat that would go to almost any length to prove a point.

The case itself had been interesting enough. Two security guards, a dealer, a floorman, a Suicide Girl, a valet, and three players had been arrested for trying to throw the tournament. With a top prize of just over ten mil, each would have walked away a millionaire and then some. It had taken three days and Sherlock's advancement to the final round of the tournament to put all the pieces together, but by that time, he and John were barely on speaking terms.

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

John had always had an affinity for gambling. Risk-taking and the rush of coming out on top were addictive, and if there's one thing he got from the Watson side, it was a predisposition for addiction. The nature of his risk-taking was tempered by the sensibility of his Mum's side, so he'd never been inclined to try jumping from very high places as a child or doing anything illegal as a teenager.

Betting on races or football scores wasn't his thing. Slots, dice games, and roulette were all chance, no strategy and no challenge. Blackjack was decent, if you were into quick games. But poker? That was thrilling. He'd played a bit of stud and draw with his mates in Uni, nickel and dime games, with vouchers for housework and girls' phone numbers finding their way into the pot when things got interesting. It wasn't until he was in Rwanda with Doctors Without Borders that he'd learned Texas Hold 'em from one of the Americans in his camp. They'd used the contents of care packages as stakes and, by the first month, John had had a monopoly on the camp's supply of gum and hand lotion.

It had been much the same after signing up for the RAMC, although the officers liked to play with real money. John had gained a bit of a reputation by the time he'd been deployed, and the other officers had wished him luck but said their wallets weren't sorry to see him go.

In Afghanistan, they played for chips only because no one had much to spare in the way of tiny luxuries and no one could be arsed to figure out the exchange rates on paper currency. Most patients were only there long enough to be stabilized and shipped home or patched up and sent back to their units, but there were always games going while soldiers waited for transport. John hadn't played in many of those games - even if the pots weren't for anything tangible, it had still felt wrong to be cleaning out a bunch of kids that could die any day.

And then John had almost died, and everything had lost its shine for a while. He'd played a bit on his laptop, but it was different. He'd still done it though, chasing the echo of the thrill that the real games had given him. He'd ended up losing most of his savings and accruing a bit of debt while he'd been stuck in hospital between surgeries to repair his shoulder. In retrospect, trying to play while heavily dosed with painkillers and slowly sinking into a deep depression had not been the best choice he'd ever made.

Then he'd met Sherlock and he'd found a better way to get his kicks. He still met up with Murray and a few of Murray's mates every now and then for a friendly game, but his heart wasn't in it. He usually ended up walking away with his pockets a few pounds lighter, but a smile on his face.

Some of his most epic rows with Sherlock had been over the stupidity of gambling. It wasn't that Sherlock cared about the money John lost (never more than he could afford, John had learned his lesson) - it was a matter of principal. Sherlock thought it was all a matter of luck, and that the only skill involved was reading and manipulating the other players. More than once, John had tried to explain odds and strategies associated with a number of possible hands, but Sherlock didn't seem to care about the maths. From there it had always devolved into the core issue of Sherlock's imperiousness vs. John's right to do as he pleased when they weren't working a case, and had usually ended with doors being slammed and one of them leaving the flat for an indeterminate period of time.

No wonder everyone thought they were a couple.

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

So when the case that had brought them to Las Vegas in the first place had turned out to be centred on a high-stakes Texas Hold 'em tournament, John had thought Sherlock would have finally observed enough to realize that it wasn't all just luck and manipulation. They'd both entered the first round (a $25k buy-in, bankrolled by the casino, because that was only a fraction of what they'd stand to lose if the media ever got wind of the fact that such a high-profile game had been thrown) with fabricated identities to find the parties involved. Sherlock had read a quick primer on the basic rules of the game and watched a few hours of Final Table footage from a few World Series tournaments, declining John's offer of playing a couple practice hands (which hurt, if John were completely honest, as did all the other times Sherlock had deemed John's various skills wanting) in preparation, and away he'd gone.

They'd both made it to the second round, and by that time Sherlock had figured out that the cards were being marked with a special dye that was only visible under the casino lighting by a special filter. Sherlock, mad chemist that he was, had been able to whip up a concoction that, when spread over the lenses of regular non-Polarized sunglasses, worked as a the same kind of filter. From there they'd been able to eliminate a handful of possible suspects simply by what they'd worn to the table.

For the next round, Sherlock had made John keep the sunglasses on. John had always been a purist when playing - no good luck charms, no rituals, no hats, no hoodies, no sunglasses. Just wearing the sunglasses was disconcerting and felt wrong. When combined with the knowledge of what everyone else was holding and that he was, himself, cheating, John had been thrown off his game. He was the first one eliminated from his table.

Sherlock had raged at that, not understanding how it could have happened. John was sure that if the case had already been solved, the man would have entered into an epic sulk in their hotel room. As it stood, John had been left in their room with a stack of files and discs containing security camera footage to vet the rest of the suspects based on movement and interaction with the other players and casino staff. It was tedious work, even for him, but he'd been able to make a connection between a security guard and one of the floormen as a source for the marked cards, so it hadn't been all for naught.

Then Sherlock had come whirling into the room, two garment bags slung over his arm, fresh from another victory and with a spot at the final table. They'd been invited to some kind of black-tie party by one of the high-rollers that Sherlock had knocked out with a bluff earlier in the tournament. Also in attendance: a collection of highly sought-after call girls, one of whom had been spotted with one of the suspected players and who happened to be the girlfriend of a dealer in the tournament.

As predicted, the party was excruciating. It wasn't that John minded wearing a tuxedo or hobnobbing with a bunch of rich, beautiful people. He could hold his own in just about any conversation, thank you very much. It wasn't even watching Sherlock get a lapdance from one of the hired girls, or seeing him smoke like a chimney and pretend to throw back expensive scotch like it was water. It was when John had overheard Sherlock propose a threesome "with his friend" to one of the girls (covered in tattoos and more metal in her face than what held John's shattered shoulder together; couldn't have been older than 24, tops) that he'd had had just about enough. He'd politely excused himself and found the nearest bar, intent on either finding a one-night stand of his own or drinking until he didn't care.

Hunched over the bar, shirt collar unbuttoned and bow-tie hanging loose around his neck, John had had a tiny epiphany. At first he'd thought he'd been angry at the nature of Sherlock's presumption and the lengths he'd go to for a case. He'd known that Sherlock would have found a way out of it before anything went too far, but only after he'd got whatever information he'd been looking for from the girl. That wasn't the issue, though.

John had long known Sherlock didn't hold anything sacred and that he certainly didn't respect other people's privacy. He'd probably long-ago deduced the depth and breadth of John's sexual experience and had assumed John amenable to playing along - after all, it's not like a threesome with another bloke was something John hadn't ever done.

Relatively speaking, this incident didn't even make the top ten list of ways Sherlock had affronted John's not-so-delicate sensibilities. John had sat, staring down into his vodka tonic and wondering, then, why he felt like one giant, raw nerve. Maybe the effects of Sherlock's constant insults and denigration had finally had a cumulative effect. That hadn't seemed likely to John, since he'd been brushing those things off for well over a year now. No, the issue had definitely been centred on Sherlock and sex.

That was a connection John had so far actively resisted making, with very few slip-ups. Sherlock had never once discussed sex or sexuality (unrelated to a case) after his awkward married-to-my-work speech, nor had John ever seen him take any kind of interest in anyone. John was fairly certain Sherlock was asexual. That was fine, he'd said all fine and meant it. But then, to hear the offer made so casually... that had stung.

Rationally, he'd known it hadn't been a personal sleight. Sherlock was just being Sherlock. It hadn't been intentional cruelty (although he was quite capable of that, but never without provocation), but more of an issue of Sherlock stumbling upon a trigger John hadn't previously known he'd had. So far, John had been able to keep his thoughts about Sherlock in check, but right then he'd felt like some kind of Pandora's box had been opened.

John wasn't in the business of lying to himself, not in the past, and not then. He'd harboured strong feelings for Sherlock practically from the first day he'd met the man, and those feelings had grown into something he hadn't wanted to admit the depth of to himself, mostly because Sherlock was OFF LIMITS in bold, flashing neon letters. He'd resisted the very notion at first. The reasons why having romantic feelings for the man was a bad idea were numerous and varied, from the obvious (Sherlock's lack of interest, their working relationship, John's previously firmly-rooted sexual identity) to the inconsequential (their siblings' and colleagues' reactions or lack thereof), but no amount of rationalization would change things.

John was a realist, if nothing else. In terms of attraction, everyone (straight or gay) had an exception, he'd supposed, and who was more exceptional than Sherlock Holmes? So he'd dealt with those feelings the way he'd dealt with most other things, by keeping his eyes forward and soldiering on. Of course, if not having feelings was a matter of will alone, none of it would have been an issue in the first place.

John had downed the last of his drink and signalled for another as he'd contemplated how he would talk his way out of any kind of real discussion (the kind that involved awkward admissions and the rebuff that was sure to follow) with Sherlock. He'd most definitely shown his hand, and in more ways than just the abstract I-don't-want-you-to-die way that Sherlock had, and on more than one occasion. Flouncing off and having a strop over Sherlock's insensitivity had been nothing new, but when combined with all the other tiny clues over time, Sherlock had surely figured it out by then. John had been convinced that it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock's tolerance of his mooning ended. John had nursed the fresh drink while thinking up all the ways Sherlock would tell him that the interest wasn't mutual, ranging from stumbling-but-tactful to being made homeless upon his return to London.

John had been pulled from his thoughts when his phone had vibrated in his pocket with a text from Sherlock.

The girl is in on it, was a organic chemistry major, formulated dye and marked cards. -SH

John wondered how he'd gained that information, and found himself emphatically not wanting to know. He hadn't bothered responding. His phone had buzzed again on the bar top a few minutes later.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, work to be done. -SH

John had snorted into his drink, but finished it quickly and then had left to go back to the room. It was probably as close as Sherlock would ever come to acknowledging the reason for John's departure, and John had hoped that to be the end of it.

Sherlock had been undressing when John had walked into the room. Barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in the black satin-striped tuxedo trousers, it had been a bit much for John to handle after the conversation he'd had with himself at the bar. He'd headed for the en-suite, intent on taking a hot shower to get the scent of smoke and booze off of his skin and clear his head, but Sherlock had suddenly been in front of him, nattering on about the case. Any other time, he'd have been paying more attention, but his eyes had spotted a red smudge over Sherlock's collar bone.

"You've lipstick on your chest," he'd said before he'd realized he'd opened his mouth. It had sounded more accusatory than a simple observation.

"You're drunk," Sherlock had replied with equal parts surprise and disdain.

John had shrugged him off and closed himself in the bathroom. Three drinks wasn't enough to get John even close to drunk, but he hadn't contradicted Sherlock. He'd heard Sherlock lurking outside the bathroom door before he'd turned on the water. By the time he'd finished with his shower, Sherlock had already left the room again. John had settled in on his bed and stared at the ceiling until he'd fallen asleep much later, resolutely not letting his eyes drift to Sherlock's rumpled bedding.

Sherlock had bounded into the room sometime the following morning with the name of the valet that had transported the marked cards into and out of the casino. The only would-be criminals left to round up were the players that had been in on the scam. Sherlock was sure that there hadn't been more than three initially and that he'd knocked one out of the game at his own table the day before. Out of the nine players set to start at the final table, six (not including Sherlock) were in the habit of wearing sunglasses. Of those six, Sherlock had eliminated two as suspects based on opportunity and motive.

The game was expected to last anywhere from twelve to seventeen hours, with breaks every three hours. By the second break, Sherlock had identified the two cheaters and had systematically eliminated them by calling one on a bluff and forcing the other to go all-in with an inferior hand.

Most of the break had been taken up by Sherlock making a show of quietly talking on his mobile to his "Mum" (actually the casino's head of security) to report his findings. As soon as the phone call had been concluded, John had pulled Sherlock aside. He'd assumed Sherlock had lost all interest since the case had been solved.

"So, how long are you planning on staying in? It might look a bit fishy if you go all-in on a bad hand." John had asked casually, trying to gauge how much longer he'd have to sit there and act as Sherlock's cheering section.

"Who says I'm not planning on winning?"

"Won't be winning if you're cheating, will it?" John had countered.

"And who says I'll be cheating?" Sherlock had asked with a smirk. He'd plucked the sunglasses from where they'd been resting on top of his head and slipped them onto John's face. One of the cameramen moved closer, his curiosity piqued by Sherlock's actions.

"It's all a mind game, John," he'd said, bending low and whispering in John's ear. John, well aware of the angle of the camera and what it would look like to anyone watching, had felt his face flush bright red. Sherlock had been just as aware, John was positive, and so his next action had to be a move to affect the other players. Had to be.

Sherlock had cupped John's jaw, tipping his head back. He'd planted a (surprisingly) tender kiss on John's lips, then had pulled back and said just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, "For luck." With a cheeky wink he'd whirled back to the table where the remaining four players had already taken their seats.

John had gone through a rapid series of emotions, from confusion to elation to disappointment to embarrassment, finally settling on low-simmering anger. Sherlock had crossed a line yet again, purely for the sake of a reaction and without regard to John's feelings.

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

And so there John sat, in the darkened poker arena with two-hundred or so other spectators, family members, and real-time bloggers, watching in disbelief as Sherlock held his own against four other men - professionals - playing by behavioural observations alone. It was really too much, insult to injury. John followed along with the hands on the flatscreens that hung around the room (placed so the audience could see what was happening at the table) with interest. His anger began to fade the longer the game went on, replaced by genuine enthusiasm.

Sherlock's playing style had thus far been fairly loose and aggressive, and had only seemed to get more so without knowing what the other players were holding. Even the commentators had noticed and began to bandy about the phrase "dark horse" while making comparisons to a range of well-known players in the world of poker, speculating that he would go far on the pro tournament circuit if his performance tonight was anything to go. John found it quite amusing.

After three folds on both blinds and a called bluff on a big hand, Sherlock was the short stack. He was so far down on chips that if he didn't win something substantial back in the next few hands, he'd be eliminated. On the very next hand, after a very intense round of betting, he went all-in with pocket jacks before the flop was even laid down. To say it was a bold move was an understatement - pocket jacks were arguably the hardest hand to play. Sherlock wasn't playing his cards though, he was playing the two men who hadn't folded their hands immediately.

The suited six-eight spades to Sherlock's left folded, leaving him only one opponent. John held his breath as the other player (holding a ten and an ace, off-suit) fiddled with his chips. John was the first out of his seat when the man called. The flop yielded two cards that didn't help either of them and an ace, giving the other player the better hand - a pair of aces beat a pair of jacks. John's stomach dropped as he watched the odds of winning expressed as a percentage next to Sherlock's name on-screen drop to a single digit. The turn card was a ten, giving the other man two pair, and the percentage dropped to four. Sherlock's face flashed on the screen - a calm, indifferent mask - and then the last card, the river card, was dealt, more a formality at that point than anything.

It was a jack.

Sherlock's three of a kind had beat the other man's two pair.

John let out a whoop and punched the air. Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a tiny smile as he raked the pot toward himself.

"Stroke of good luck, that," he said to the player next to him. The way Sherlock enunciated the final consonant of 'luck' and the slight pause after the word was deliberately for John's benefit, he was sure. Sherlock being an arrogant prick didn't dampen the exhilaration John felt in that moment. It was like the vicarious excitement he felt when watching a match on telly combined with that strange little bubble of pride he felt when Sherlock laid out a string of deductions to Lestrade while on a case.

By the next break, the table was down to four players, with the short stack sure to be knocked out in the first few hands after the game was resumed. Sherlock accepted a plastic cup of something from one of the casino staff and bummed a cigarette from one of the other player's girlfriends before sauntering up to John.

John refrained from lecturing him on the dangers of smoking while wearing multiple patches (applied to his ribs so the other players couldn't see them when he rolled up his sleeves), as he knew it was an argument that couldn't be won.

Instead, John chose to comment on the hand that had had the crowd going wild. "I would have folded," he said conversationally.

"I know you would have." Sherlock took a drag off his cigarette.

"Why didn't you? Roylott plays tight, you had to have known he had a good hand."

Sherlock sipped his drink and then set the cup down on the table behind him. He looked at John from the corner of his eye. "I was feeling lucky."

John had been expecting Sherlock to respond with a scornful dismissal or a brush-off. Was Sherlock saying what John thought he was saying? Sherlock didn't do subtle. Incomprehensible, yes, but never deliberately ambiguous. John amended that - never deliberately ambiguous unless he was fishing for information. John tried to squash down the tendril of hope that unfurled in his chest.

Sherlock looked at him full-on, presumably reading all he needed to know from John's reaction. Somehow, a wire must have got crossed because after a few seconds, he blanked his expression and cleared his throat, looking at a fixed point over John's shoulder.

"Right. Forget I said anything." He physically drew away from John and began to back-pedal. "I apologize, I misread-"

For once, Sherlock had utterly failed to correctly interpret John's body language and facial expressions. He wondered disconnectedly how many times that had happened in the past and he'd missed it, then realized he needed to say something before Sherlock closed off or left entirely.

"No," John said sharply.

He took a step forward, chasing Sherlock's withdrawal right back into the man's personal space. John hesitated for a split second before making a grab for Sherlock to prevent a further retreat. Sherlock looked startled, his eyes darting to where John's hand was clamped around his wrist, then back up to John's face. John pulled him closer to his body and set his hand lightly on Sherlock's neck, a fair warning of what he was about to do. When he was met with no resistance, John tilted his head and pushed himself upward. He brushed a feather-light kiss over Sherlock's lips before pulling back. Sherlock followed John's mouth for a second until he caught himself, his eyes snapping wide open.

Sherlock looked down at John in wonder before his face split into a wide grin.

"Wouldn't want your luck to run out, would we?" John said, then grimaced at how incredibly cheesy he sounded.

Sherlock laughed, then twisted to drop his cigarette in the abandoned plastic cup. Then he was back and snogging the life out of John, tasting vaguely of tobacco and Coke. It wasn't a very long kiss, since they were surrounded by spectators and a camera crew and neither was fond of a spectacle, but it held a definite promise that once the event was over, there would be more.

Sherlock lounged back against the table looking well-pleased. His voice held a hint of amusement when he asked, "So you're admitting luck is an important factor in poker?"

"Still a game of strategy," John smiled back.

Part 2

slash, john, fic, bbc!sherlock, sherlock/john, sherlock, auction, nz auction

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