The Bang and the Clatter (29/36)
Aug. 22nd, 2013 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - The Bang and the Clatter (29/36)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, Irene
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU.
Author's Notes - Many, many thanks to arctacuda, for helping with the writing and for uncomplainingly beta-ing when I whine.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Six - Chapter Twenty-Seven - Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They weren’t letting him into Sherlock’s room. The frustration of this was immense. John knew that even if he said I’m his boyfriend instead of the obvious I’m his catcher, it wouldn’t make a difference. Molly Hooper sent him a sympathetic look as she was hurried through but it didn’t change the fact that John was slumped into a chair in the waiting area, with the rest of the catching gear he’d stripped off in a pile next to him. At least it was a private waiting area. They’d at least taken that much pity on him in the middle of this disaster.
John really should have expected Mycroft Holmes to arrive, and yet, at the same time, it had been so long since he’d thought of him that he’d forgotten all about him. Mycroft looked at him with a faint frown, as if appalled at the dust-tumbled state of him, and then turned to the receptionist. John sighed and ran his hand through his hair for the thousandth time that night.
Mycroft was murmuring to the receptionist, and John wasn’t paying attention until Mycroft said, “Mr. Watson.”
John looked up. Mycroft was regarding him from the door he was holding open. The door behind which was Sherlock’s room, somewhere.
Mycroft made a small gesture with his head, by which John understood he was supposed to go through the door.
John wanted to ask a question, but decided he didn’t want Mycroft to change his mind, so all he did was dart through the door. It clicked closed behind him, with Mycroft still on the other side of it. Not tagging along, then. John wanted to turn back to thank him but decided it was best to keep moving.
Luckily, Molly was standing in the hallway, and she looked at him in delight. “Oh, John, I’m so glad they let you in.” She looked knowing and sympathetic, and John thought there must not be a person left in the world who didn’t know that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
“How is he?” John asked, deciding to head off any inquiries about their relationship.
“Conscious. In a bit of pain. But he’s more lucid than he was, according to the reports I got from the paramedics. Doesn’t remember much about what happened. You should go in. He can handle visitors, and he’d be happy to see you.”
John nodded briefly, remembered to thank her, and then walked into Sherlock’s room.
The room was dark, the only light coming from a nightlight that had been turned on in the adjoining bathroom, and John moved forward cautiously, feeling for the seat by Sherlock’s bed.
“John?” guessed Sherlock.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” John responded, keeping his voice low.
“You didn’t. I’m wide awake, but the lights were absurdly bright so they turned them off. You would not believe the headache I have.”
“I saw the line drive, so I would believe it,” replied John, giving in to what he’d wanted to do all along and brushing his hand carefully through Sherlock’s hair, hoping it was soothing to Sherlock but mostly focusing on the fact that it was soothing to John to feel Sherlock’s head completely solidly okay. Sherlock didn’t wince or move away, so as much as his head was aching, it apparently hadn’t yet translated to a bruise. Or, at least, not where John’s hand was.
“I don’t remember it.” Sherlock sounded confused and frustrated. “I remember you on the mound, but I don’t even remember what you said, what we talked about. I was watching you walk back to the plate, and then I was in a hospital with people shining lights in my eyes and asking me who the president of the United States is. It was a bit like being on drugs again, honestly.”
John kept stroking over Sherlock’s hair, because Sherlock had by now turned into it. “But without the withdrawal to follow.”
“Tell that to my head.”
John leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s temple carefully, hoping it wasn’t too terribly bruised. Sherlock sighed instead of flinching. John pulled back, satisfied that Sherlock was okay. He certainly seemed far more like himself. “Did you know who the president of the United States is?” he asked, curious, because it seemed like the sort of irrelevant tidbit of news Sherlock would delete.
“Of course I didn’t. Why take up space in my brain with that? I’m not even American. But I was able to tell them my ERA and my win-loss percentage, so they seemed content with that.”
“Ridiculous,” said John, fondly, shaking his head.
“Did we end up losing?”
“I haven’t talked to Lestrade.”
“What do you mean? Weren’t you there?”
“Wasn’t I where?”
“At the game. Catching. Honestly, John, which one of us has the concussion?”
John licked his lips and answered, “I didn’t stay to finish the game.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “What do you mean you ‘didn’t stay’? Where did you go?”
“I came here, of course. With you. In the ambulance.”
There was another moment of silence. “You came in the ambulance.”
John wanted to point out that he could tell Sherlock was still recovering based on the amount of repeating Sherlock was doing. Instead he said, “Yeah. I had to. You weren’t making any sense. You always make sense. I was absolutely terrified. You should have seen the way you crumpled immediately…”
“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, not exactly tenderly but reassuringly, nonetheless.
“Now you are,” John agreed. “You weren’t. You very much weren’t. There was no way I was letting you… So I went in the ambulance.”
“Well, that’s one way to get the story out there,” Sherlock remarked, after a second.
“You also mentioned our sex life in the ambulance in front of the paramedics.”
“They’re bound by privacy laws,” said Sherlock.
“You know that but not who the president of the United States is.”
“Which is more relevant to our actual lives? Speaking of privacy, how did you get in here?”
“Snuck in through the ductwork,” said John.
“John.” Sherlock sounded inordinately pleased. “How clever of you.”
“Oh, stop it,” said John, good-naturedly. “I didn’t sneak in through the ductwork. Mycroft let me in.”
“Mycroft who?”
“Do you know more than one Mycroft? Or is this a concussion side effect?”
“Mycroft my brother? Let you in?”
“Yes.”
“And where is he?”
“I don’t know. Either in the waiting area, or not in the hospital at all. He didn’t follow me.”
“Mycroft let you in and then didn’t follow you,” Sherlock mused, wonderingly.
John let him muse about this, letting the conversation lapse for a bit. Then he ventured, “We were quarreling about the Irene thing. That’s what we were talking about on the mound, in the conference you can’t remember.”
Sherlock made an indifferent noise to that.
“Sherlock—”
“I’m not dating Irene. I’m not doing anything with Irene. Did you have your heart in your throat when I was unconscious today?”
“Of course I did. Don’t change the subject—”
“What would you have done, to save yourself that moment of panic?”
“Anything,” said John, because he would have. He thought of how they’d been quarreling when it had happened, and how he would never have forgiven himself if the last words he ever spoke to Sherlock were harsh and impatient.
“I am saving myself that moment of panic over you. So leave it.”
“Sherlock—”
“Leave it. I’m sick. I’ve had a concussion. How dare you argue with me. You’re supposed to be keeping me calm. I’m supposed to be resting. Ow, my head.”
“You don’t fool me for a minute,” said John, without heat.
Sherlock’s hand snaked out and grabbed John’s, tugging at him. “Come to bed,” he half-whined.
“Yeah, that’s what got you into trouble in the ambulance.”
“Did I suggest something filthy? I’ll let you tell me what it was, so we can store it for later when I don’t have a headache.”
“You didn’t suggest anything filthy.”
“Well, that’s rather disappointing, then. Really, get into this bed, you’ll feel better.”
John wasn’t aware he wasn’t already feeling better, until Sherlock pointed it out, and then he abruptly realized he wanted nothing more than to be in bed with Sherlock until Sherlock’s breaths forced their rhythm onto his.
“The story’s already out anyway,” remarked Sherlock. “Getting into my bed isn’t half as damning as getting into my ambulance.”
“You have that very backward,” John responded. “Also, that bed isn’t going to fit two of us.”
“It’ll fit two of us if you lay in it properly,” said Sherlock.
That depended on your definition of “properly,” thought John, but gave in and crawled into bed with Sherlock. He was a mess from the game, smelly and sweaty and gross, but Sherlock merely curled into him with a contented sigh.
“You didn’t let them give me narcotics,” he said, muffled, into John’s shoulder after a moment.
“You told me not to.”
“Did I? I’m glad I remembered it.” There was a pause. “Anyway, thank you.”
John put his lips in Sherlock’s hair and said, “Anytime.”
***
In the fourth inning of his last start, Sherlock Holmes was hit in the head by a line drive and sent to the hospital with a concussion. Although Holmes now has a clean bill of health and has had a successful throwing session, Austin manager Greg Lestrade has confirmed that he will miss a start, “just to be on the safe side.” Holmes is currently the best pitcher in baseball, leading the majors in ERA, second in wins, second in opponent’s batting average, and fifth in strikeouts. His missed start—and the suspicion that it hides continued question marks about his recovery—should be the biggest story in baseball.
And yet it isn’t.
In fact, it isn’t even the biggest story about Sherlock Holmes, who, through a mutual spokesperson, confirmed a homosexual relationship with his catcher John Watson after Watson dashed into the ambulance to accompany Holmes to the hospital. Rumors had been furiously swirling about the pair for some time, fueled by their legendary inseparability, which extended to their living arrangements. Speculation in baseball, however, doubted that the pair would ever respond to the rumors one way or another—an assumption that the couple proved very wrong.
They have provided no other statements. Watson’s post-game press conferences have been devoid of references to his personal life. Not that there haven’t been questions, but they don’t get responded to, cut off by Lestrade. Both Watson and Holmes have said nothing further about their relationship, other than to confirm that it exists and to request—one senses the request was made with full knowledge of its futility—respect for their privacy.
The seismic shift of baseball’s first out players has been felt throughout the game and the nation. Signage about the issue was so vociferous at Austin games that stadiums have begun cracking down on fans who bring such signs to the field, in an attempt to try to keep peace. Opinion seems as split on the issue as the nation is about the larger issue of homosexuality in general. There are a large number of people who don’t see its relevance to who Holmes and Watson are as baseball players, but there are also numerous people who have vowed never to support Austin in the wake of the announcement.
The team itself appears to have cracked a bit but is so far holding together. Aside from growing concern that the team’s closer, Manny Ruiz, might not be totally healthy—the result of a few blown saves—the team has continued to win, maintaining its position in the standings. Team owner Martha Hudson, long known to be one of Holmes’s inner circle, and the one who actually persuaded him to come to Austin for less money than he was being offered elsewhere, perhaps unsurprisingly issued a team statement in support of Holmes and Watson, noting their “prowess as baseball players of unparalleled talent in the middle of an exciting pennant race.” The attempt to turn the attention back to their professional lives is an admirable one, but it hasn’t yet succeeded. For now, the sports shows aren’t discussing Holmes’s very good Cy Young chances or Watson’s unexpected career resurgence—or, if they are, they’re discussing whether either phenomenon is keyed to the development of the personal relationship between the two.
Lestrade has spoken on the matter in his official capacity, responding to a single question about the relationship by saying that he doesn’t comment on his players’ personal lives unless they affect their field performance, and noting that he has had no complaints whatsoever about Holmes and Watson where that was concerned. Although no one can argue with Lestrade that his star players have remained the best players on his team, regardless of their sexuality, the existence in the clubhouse of a gay relationship has put an inevitable strain on team chemistry. Much as the fans are split on the issue, Austin as a team seems split as well.
Shortstop Don Anderson has been the loudest to come out against Holmes and Watson. “How can you have a clubhouse with a couple of [homosexual men] in it?” he complained to reporters shortly after the press announcement. “What’s to stop them from ogling all of us?” For every Anderson on the team, though, there is an equally loud supporter. Mike Ryan, for instance. Currently the number two starter behind Holmes, Ryan started off the season in relative obscurity, a mediocre pitcher that no one was talking about. He credits Holmes’s and Watson’s influence for the stellar season he’s been having, said that he has never felt uncomfortable in the clubhouse with either one, and told reporters, “If people asked me about my sex life with my wife, I’d be offended. I don’t see how it’s any different to be bothering Sherlock and John about it.” There is enough support in the clubhouse that Ryan has been officially named the spokesperson for those players who support Holmes and Watson but don’t want to get in the middle of the melee by de-anonymizing themselves. Ryan’s blog posted a statement on behalf of “Austin Team Members in Support of Our Teammates Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” an unwieldy name, to be sure. The statement was frankly and straightforwardly supportive before trying, much as Hudson’s statement did, to turn the attention back to the field. There has also been a statement of support from a large group of other baseball players, both anonymous and named, supporting the relationship. There appears to be no such corresponding group opposing the relationship, although some have spoken on the record against it. For his part, the Commissioner of Baseball has stated only that he does not comment on players’ personal lives.
As Holmes hasn’t had a start since making the announcement, it’s been difficult to turn the attention back to the field the way they seem to want to. Watson, perhaps showing the strain of the maelstrom, has entered a slump that is not at all unusual in baseball but is poorly timed so as to be currently noteworthy for him. He has been subjected to some taunts and jeers, but there have also been some standing ovations. Watson himself looks as if he would prefer neither and would rather just be playing baseball in the relative anonymity he enjoyed until recently.
A team spokesperson has reported that sales of Watson’s and Holmes’s jerseys have enjoyed a sharp uptick since the announcement, perhaps the best indicator that they’re going to weather this storm just fine. Irene Adler, self-appointed head of Holmes’s large contingent of female fans known as Sherlock’s Sweeties, agrees that the announcement should only increase the players’ popularity. “Honestly, it only makes him hotter. Watson, too. We’re considering starting a related group, Watson’s Wenches.”
In the end, Holmes and Watson may have found themselves at the forefront of gay rights, but in a couple of weeks we’ll be well into August. Playoff berths will be on the verge of being clinched, and Austin sits prettily in striking distance. Their legacy might be their very public breaking of the homosexual barrier in baseball, but Holmes and Watson might prefer it to be leading a new team to a World Series in its first year. Let’s hope for their sakes that one doesn’t impact the other.
***
“Watson’s Wenches?” said John, and put the newspaper down to frown at Sherlock, who was not paying the slightest bit of attention to him, leaving his glare unappreciated. “Did Irene run this by you?”
Sherlock, slumped on the couch in the living area of the latest hotel suite, plucked a string on his violin.
“Sherlock,” said John.
“There is something wrong with Ruiz,” answered Sherlock. “Something very wrong. Has he been to see Molly? Not that Molly’s the most brilliant of doctors, but at least she theoretically has a medical degree and would be something. There’s something wrong with his shoulder; he’s favoring it in his mechanics and needs to fix it.”
“Molly says it’s regular wear-and-tear.”
Sherlock snorted. “It isn’t. He should go out on the 15-day DL, take a forced rest. We can’t win the wild card without a closer. I’m the only pitcher on the team capable of going nine innings.”
“You’re not going nine innings anytime soon unless your pitch count is under a hundred.”
Sherlock made his dismissive ugh sound. “Is this about the concussion again?”
“No, it isn’t about the concussion, it’s about the fact that you’ve got to last all the way through October, and you’re already on pace to pitch more innings than you have any other season in your career. Regardless of what those idiot homophobes are saying about it, we can’t win anything without you. And why are you talking about the wild card? We’re going to win the division.”
“No, we’re not.”
John sighed and rolled his eyes and decided not to fight him on that. He threw the newspaper down onto the coffee table and slumped dejectedly into the armchair he was currently occupying, eyeing the newspaper belligerently and feeling listless and irritated in an aimless, useless way.
“Irene doesn’t run everything by me. We barely speak.”
John didn’t look away from the newspaper. “You looked awfully cozy at the coffee shop,” he responded, not even surprised Sherlock had suddenly answered that question.
“I don’t know why you read the newspaper,” Sherlock remarked. “It always puts you in a terrible mood.”
“There is nothing else to do!” John pointed out, a bit more loudly than necessary, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mild reproach at that. “We can’t go anywhere because everyone follows us around now and asks us crude, ridiculous questions.”
“They’re idiots,” Sherlock inserted, evenly.
But John was on a roll and refused to be interrupted. “We can’t even go to the field, because when we get to the field there’s always someone around spying on us as if we’re suddenly going to start making out on the pitcher’s mound.”
“You could go to the field without me. That would eliminate the possibility you’d be ‘making out’ with somebody on the pitcher’s mound.”
“No, it wouldn’t, since, if you listen to Sally Donovan, there’s some belief that we must be sex-crazed maniacs who would make out with anything that breathed.”
“Don’t listen to Sally Donovan. She’s a hypocritical idiot who’s having an affair with Anderson, and I’m shortly going to use that to shut her up.”
“And now we’re blackmailing people,” sighed John.
“We’re not doing anything,” Sherlock replied.
John scrubbed his hands over his face. “I hate everything about this,” he said. “Everything. I even hate getting text messages of support from family and friends. I don’t want text messages of support. I want to just live a normal, obscure life like I had before. Do you know why all of this happened? Because we didn’t have sex the morning of your last start. This is why you don’t break a superstition, Sherlock.”
“To be safe, maybe we should just start having sex every morning,” remarked Sherlock.
John didn’t want to be amused by that. He didn’t want to not be in a bad mood. He grunted indifferently, closed his eyes, and hoped Sherlock would get up and come kiss him.
Sherlock didn’t. “The way I see it,” Sherlock said, from his stubborn position on the couch, “we have three options for how we spend the rest of the day until we have to go to the field. One, you continue to sulk and ignore the obvious issues with Ruiz. Two, we have sex.”
“One sounds like a horrible option,” John said without opening his eyes. “And I’m only doing two if you plan to put a bit of effort into seducing me, because I’m in a terrible mood.”
There was a knock on the door, and John opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at it in surprise.
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “There’s our third option now.”
***
The third option involved a wig. John stared at it in confusion but got the point that this was a plan Sherlock had to get them out of the hotel, and he figured that Sherlock, given how casually he talked about things like blackmail, was much better at subterfuge than he was so he should just go along with the plan. Anything to get them out of the stiflingly close quarters of the suite seemed like a good idea, anyway.
They left separately, which made sense to John, and they left out of a fire escape door that was neither a back nor front entrance of the hotel, which made him able to be ushered into a black car with tinted windows with a great deal of ease. John almost expected Mycroft Holmes to be sitting in the car waiting for him, but he wasn’t. John hadn’t seen Mycroft since he had orchestrated it so that John could get to Sherlock’s hospital room. John had asked Sherlock to thank him, but Sherlock had only snorted, so John doubted that any thanks had been communicated, which made John feel a bit bad because thanks were definitely called for.
“Do you know where we’re going?” John asked the driver, as they navigated through the streets. John didn’t know the city they were in especially well, so it could have been anywhere.
“Yes, but I’m not supposed to tell you,” he answered.
“Of course not,” said John, but he said it good-naturedly, leaning back in his seat and watching the world go by outside the window. He already felt a thousand times better. Trust Sherlock to have been smart enough to know that he needed a genuine distraction, a mystery, a surprise. John had one of those moments that he’d been having since news of their relationship had broken where he really itched to grant an interview to one of the many people requesting one, just so that he could let the world know that, every so often, Sherlock Holmes was kind of the best boyfriend. John sometimes thought it was harder to keep silent about Sherlock now that everyone knew than it had been when it was a secret.
The car eventually pulled into the parking lot of a high school, driving around the back and pulling up adjacent to the school’s baseball field. As John opened the door, he noted Sherlock leaning against the backstop, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, holding his glove and John’s.
John walked up to him, glanced at the high school baseball field, and thought of Sherlock taking John along on that scouting trip with Lestrade. “What’s this? Reference to our first date?”
“A happy side effect,” replied Sherlock, handing John his glove. “You badly need a game of catch. Do you realize how snappish you get the longer you go without access to a proper game of leisurely catch? I’ve got an algorithm for it. We must be sure to have a massive back garden at the London flat.”
John looked from Sherlock to the inviting baseball field. It was a bit unkempt, the grass burnt and intruding onto the infield, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. For so many years baseball fields had been home to him, the only place on the planet where he totally relaxed, where he got to be himself, and the worst part of all of this was that he’d lost that, and he hadn’t even realized how much he’d lost it until that moment. But Sherlock had realized, and Sherlock had found them a field and planned an outing for them, because John needed a game of catch.
John looked back at him. “Sherlock,” he started, but he didn’t even know what to say, how to thank him for the gesture. What he wanted to do was press him back against the backstop and kiss the breath out of him, but he thought of the fact that they were in public, even secluded as it seemed, and decided that probably wasn’t the best move.
Sherlock shook his head, as if reading his thoughts, which he probably was, and said, “Don’t say anything. Come and throw the ball to me.” And Sherlock turned and walked onto the field, into the outfield.
John followed him, pulling his glove on, and Sherlock tossed him a long, lazy fly ball that he had to run a playful amount to catch, and John felt so much inside of him unwind that it should have been ridiculous. He threw the ball back, slightly over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock jumped a bit to catch it, and John grinned and sent him a mocking thumbs-up, and Sherlock shook his head and let loose with an imitation of a fastball that John almost missed.
“You’re showing off,” John called to him, tossing the ball back to him.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m a show-off; it’s what we do.” But his next throw was back to lazy and leisurely, this one right on the money.
They went back and forth, back and forth, sometimes serious, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes absent-minded. John thought he should really stop them, that Sherlock’s arm must surely be getting tired, but it was such a relief to throw with no one watching, no one jeering or cheering, just him and Sherlock and the arc of a baseball through the air.
John had sometimes, once in a while, been worried about retiring. He tried not to let himself think about it too much because he didn’t want to, but he did worry about saying good-bye to the game, about finding out who he was without it. But as he played catch with Sherlock in a high school ball field, he realized that he’d discovered already exactly who he was without it: He was this. He was John Watson, with Sherlock Holmes, and in the future there would be no baseball games, but there would always be this. It was going to be enough for him, he knew it with sure certainty, it was always going to be enough for him.
Eventually, John caught the ball and didn’t throw it back. He left it nestled in his glove and walked over to where Sherlock was standing. Sherlock waited for him, presumably watching him from behind the sunglasses.
“How’s your arm?” John asked him.
“Don’t worry about my arm; it’s fine. How are you?”
John thought of how they were in public and how much he didn’t care, because Sherlock had brought him to a baseball field to throw with him because he’d been out-of-sorts, and Sherlock gave every indication of wanting to do that for the rest of their lives. John fisted a hand in the front of Sherlock’s shirt and kissed him. Sherlock made a small sound of surprise but kissed him back. Sometimes they kissed and it was filthy and single-minded and it only led to one place, but they kissed now sweetly and tenderly, and John tried to tell him with every brush of his tongue, every sip of his lips: I love you, I love you, I love you. He drew back a breath, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s and saying, firmly, “Thank you,” before leaning in and pressing his lips back to Sherlock’s again.
Sherlock’s gloveless hand had come up, was cupping the back of John’s head. When John finally ended the kiss, he kept it there, his fingers tangled in the hair on the nape of John’s neck.
John leaned his head down into the curve of Sherlock’s neck. “Sod them all,” he said. “That can be on the front page of every single newspaper if they want.”
Sherlock didn’t really respond to that. He took a deep breath, and John listened to the pounding of his heart against him. “Are you ready to go win a baseball game?” Sherlock asked, finally.
John said, “Yes.”
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, Irene
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU.
Author's Notes - Many, many thanks to arctacuda, for helping with the writing and for uncomplainingly beta-ing when I whine.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Six - Chapter Twenty-Seven - Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They weren’t letting him into Sherlock’s room. The frustration of this was immense. John knew that even if he said I’m his boyfriend instead of the obvious I’m his catcher, it wouldn’t make a difference. Molly Hooper sent him a sympathetic look as she was hurried through but it didn’t change the fact that John was slumped into a chair in the waiting area, with the rest of the catching gear he’d stripped off in a pile next to him. At least it was a private waiting area. They’d at least taken that much pity on him in the middle of this disaster.
John really should have expected Mycroft Holmes to arrive, and yet, at the same time, it had been so long since he’d thought of him that he’d forgotten all about him. Mycroft looked at him with a faint frown, as if appalled at the dust-tumbled state of him, and then turned to the receptionist. John sighed and ran his hand through his hair for the thousandth time that night.
Mycroft was murmuring to the receptionist, and John wasn’t paying attention until Mycroft said, “Mr. Watson.”
John looked up. Mycroft was regarding him from the door he was holding open. The door behind which was Sherlock’s room, somewhere.
Mycroft made a small gesture with his head, by which John understood he was supposed to go through the door.
John wanted to ask a question, but decided he didn’t want Mycroft to change his mind, so all he did was dart through the door. It clicked closed behind him, with Mycroft still on the other side of it. Not tagging along, then. John wanted to turn back to thank him but decided it was best to keep moving.
Luckily, Molly was standing in the hallway, and she looked at him in delight. “Oh, John, I’m so glad they let you in.” She looked knowing and sympathetic, and John thought there must not be a person left in the world who didn’t know that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
“How is he?” John asked, deciding to head off any inquiries about their relationship.
“Conscious. In a bit of pain. But he’s more lucid than he was, according to the reports I got from the paramedics. Doesn’t remember much about what happened. You should go in. He can handle visitors, and he’d be happy to see you.”
John nodded briefly, remembered to thank her, and then walked into Sherlock’s room.
The room was dark, the only light coming from a nightlight that had been turned on in the adjoining bathroom, and John moved forward cautiously, feeling for the seat by Sherlock’s bed.
“John?” guessed Sherlock.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” John responded, keeping his voice low.
“You didn’t. I’m wide awake, but the lights were absurdly bright so they turned them off. You would not believe the headache I have.”
“I saw the line drive, so I would believe it,” replied John, giving in to what he’d wanted to do all along and brushing his hand carefully through Sherlock’s hair, hoping it was soothing to Sherlock but mostly focusing on the fact that it was soothing to John to feel Sherlock’s head completely solidly okay. Sherlock didn’t wince or move away, so as much as his head was aching, it apparently hadn’t yet translated to a bruise. Or, at least, not where John’s hand was.
“I don’t remember it.” Sherlock sounded confused and frustrated. “I remember you on the mound, but I don’t even remember what you said, what we talked about. I was watching you walk back to the plate, and then I was in a hospital with people shining lights in my eyes and asking me who the president of the United States is. It was a bit like being on drugs again, honestly.”
John kept stroking over Sherlock’s hair, because Sherlock had by now turned into it. “But without the withdrawal to follow.”
“Tell that to my head.”
John leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s temple carefully, hoping it wasn’t too terribly bruised. Sherlock sighed instead of flinching. John pulled back, satisfied that Sherlock was okay. He certainly seemed far more like himself. “Did you know who the president of the United States is?” he asked, curious, because it seemed like the sort of irrelevant tidbit of news Sherlock would delete.
“Of course I didn’t. Why take up space in my brain with that? I’m not even American. But I was able to tell them my ERA and my win-loss percentage, so they seemed content with that.”
“Ridiculous,” said John, fondly, shaking his head.
“Did we end up losing?”
“I haven’t talked to Lestrade.”
“What do you mean? Weren’t you there?”
“Wasn’t I where?”
“At the game. Catching. Honestly, John, which one of us has the concussion?”
John licked his lips and answered, “I didn’t stay to finish the game.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “What do you mean you ‘didn’t stay’? Where did you go?”
“I came here, of course. With you. In the ambulance.”
There was another moment of silence. “You came in the ambulance.”
John wanted to point out that he could tell Sherlock was still recovering based on the amount of repeating Sherlock was doing. Instead he said, “Yeah. I had to. You weren’t making any sense. You always make sense. I was absolutely terrified. You should have seen the way you crumpled immediately…”
“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, not exactly tenderly but reassuringly, nonetheless.
“Now you are,” John agreed. “You weren’t. You very much weren’t. There was no way I was letting you… So I went in the ambulance.”
“Well, that’s one way to get the story out there,” Sherlock remarked, after a second.
“You also mentioned our sex life in the ambulance in front of the paramedics.”
“They’re bound by privacy laws,” said Sherlock.
“You know that but not who the president of the United States is.”
“Which is more relevant to our actual lives? Speaking of privacy, how did you get in here?”
“Snuck in through the ductwork,” said John.
“John.” Sherlock sounded inordinately pleased. “How clever of you.”
“Oh, stop it,” said John, good-naturedly. “I didn’t sneak in through the ductwork. Mycroft let me in.”
“Mycroft who?”
“Do you know more than one Mycroft? Or is this a concussion side effect?”
“Mycroft my brother? Let you in?”
“Yes.”
“And where is he?”
“I don’t know. Either in the waiting area, or not in the hospital at all. He didn’t follow me.”
“Mycroft let you in and then didn’t follow you,” Sherlock mused, wonderingly.
John let him muse about this, letting the conversation lapse for a bit. Then he ventured, “We were quarreling about the Irene thing. That’s what we were talking about on the mound, in the conference you can’t remember.”
Sherlock made an indifferent noise to that.
“Sherlock—”
“I’m not dating Irene. I’m not doing anything with Irene. Did you have your heart in your throat when I was unconscious today?”
“Of course I did. Don’t change the subject—”
“What would you have done, to save yourself that moment of panic?”
“Anything,” said John, because he would have. He thought of how they’d been quarreling when it had happened, and how he would never have forgiven himself if the last words he ever spoke to Sherlock were harsh and impatient.
“I am saving myself that moment of panic over you. So leave it.”
“Sherlock—”
“Leave it. I’m sick. I’ve had a concussion. How dare you argue with me. You’re supposed to be keeping me calm. I’m supposed to be resting. Ow, my head.”
“You don’t fool me for a minute,” said John, without heat.
Sherlock’s hand snaked out and grabbed John’s, tugging at him. “Come to bed,” he half-whined.
“Yeah, that’s what got you into trouble in the ambulance.”
“Did I suggest something filthy? I’ll let you tell me what it was, so we can store it for later when I don’t have a headache.”
“You didn’t suggest anything filthy.”
“Well, that’s rather disappointing, then. Really, get into this bed, you’ll feel better.”
John wasn’t aware he wasn’t already feeling better, until Sherlock pointed it out, and then he abruptly realized he wanted nothing more than to be in bed with Sherlock until Sherlock’s breaths forced their rhythm onto his.
“The story’s already out anyway,” remarked Sherlock. “Getting into my bed isn’t half as damning as getting into my ambulance.”
“You have that very backward,” John responded. “Also, that bed isn’t going to fit two of us.”
“It’ll fit two of us if you lay in it properly,” said Sherlock.
That depended on your definition of “properly,” thought John, but gave in and crawled into bed with Sherlock. He was a mess from the game, smelly and sweaty and gross, but Sherlock merely curled into him with a contented sigh.
“You didn’t let them give me narcotics,” he said, muffled, into John’s shoulder after a moment.
“You told me not to.”
“Did I? I’m glad I remembered it.” There was a pause. “Anyway, thank you.”
John put his lips in Sherlock’s hair and said, “Anytime.”
***
In the fourth inning of his last start, Sherlock Holmes was hit in the head by a line drive and sent to the hospital with a concussion. Although Holmes now has a clean bill of health and has had a successful throwing session, Austin manager Greg Lestrade has confirmed that he will miss a start, “just to be on the safe side.” Holmes is currently the best pitcher in baseball, leading the majors in ERA, second in wins, second in opponent’s batting average, and fifth in strikeouts. His missed start—and the suspicion that it hides continued question marks about his recovery—should be the biggest story in baseball.
And yet it isn’t.
In fact, it isn’t even the biggest story about Sherlock Holmes, who, through a mutual spokesperson, confirmed a homosexual relationship with his catcher John Watson after Watson dashed into the ambulance to accompany Holmes to the hospital. Rumors had been furiously swirling about the pair for some time, fueled by their legendary inseparability, which extended to their living arrangements. Speculation in baseball, however, doubted that the pair would ever respond to the rumors one way or another—an assumption that the couple proved very wrong.
They have provided no other statements. Watson’s post-game press conferences have been devoid of references to his personal life. Not that there haven’t been questions, but they don’t get responded to, cut off by Lestrade. Both Watson and Holmes have said nothing further about their relationship, other than to confirm that it exists and to request—one senses the request was made with full knowledge of its futility—respect for their privacy.
The seismic shift of baseball’s first out players has been felt throughout the game and the nation. Signage about the issue was so vociferous at Austin games that stadiums have begun cracking down on fans who bring such signs to the field, in an attempt to try to keep peace. Opinion seems as split on the issue as the nation is about the larger issue of homosexuality in general. There are a large number of people who don’t see its relevance to who Holmes and Watson are as baseball players, but there are also numerous people who have vowed never to support Austin in the wake of the announcement.
The team itself appears to have cracked a bit but is so far holding together. Aside from growing concern that the team’s closer, Manny Ruiz, might not be totally healthy—the result of a few blown saves—the team has continued to win, maintaining its position in the standings. Team owner Martha Hudson, long known to be one of Holmes’s inner circle, and the one who actually persuaded him to come to Austin for less money than he was being offered elsewhere, perhaps unsurprisingly issued a team statement in support of Holmes and Watson, noting their “prowess as baseball players of unparalleled talent in the middle of an exciting pennant race.” The attempt to turn the attention back to their professional lives is an admirable one, but it hasn’t yet succeeded. For now, the sports shows aren’t discussing Holmes’s very good Cy Young chances or Watson’s unexpected career resurgence—or, if they are, they’re discussing whether either phenomenon is keyed to the development of the personal relationship between the two.
Lestrade has spoken on the matter in his official capacity, responding to a single question about the relationship by saying that he doesn’t comment on his players’ personal lives unless they affect their field performance, and noting that he has had no complaints whatsoever about Holmes and Watson where that was concerned. Although no one can argue with Lestrade that his star players have remained the best players on his team, regardless of their sexuality, the existence in the clubhouse of a gay relationship has put an inevitable strain on team chemistry. Much as the fans are split on the issue, Austin as a team seems split as well.
Shortstop Don Anderson has been the loudest to come out against Holmes and Watson. “How can you have a clubhouse with a couple of [homosexual men] in it?” he complained to reporters shortly after the press announcement. “What’s to stop them from ogling all of us?” For every Anderson on the team, though, there is an equally loud supporter. Mike Ryan, for instance. Currently the number two starter behind Holmes, Ryan started off the season in relative obscurity, a mediocre pitcher that no one was talking about. He credits Holmes’s and Watson’s influence for the stellar season he’s been having, said that he has never felt uncomfortable in the clubhouse with either one, and told reporters, “If people asked me about my sex life with my wife, I’d be offended. I don’t see how it’s any different to be bothering Sherlock and John about it.” There is enough support in the clubhouse that Ryan has been officially named the spokesperson for those players who support Holmes and Watson but don’t want to get in the middle of the melee by de-anonymizing themselves. Ryan’s blog posted a statement on behalf of “Austin Team Members in Support of Our Teammates Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” an unwieldy name, to be sure. The statement was frankly and straightforwardly supportive before trying, much as Hudson’s statement did, to turn the attention back to the field. There has also been a statement of support from a large group of other baseball players, both anonymous and named, supporting the relationship. There appears to be no such corresponding group opposing the relationship, although some have spoken on the record against it. For his part, the Commissioner of Baseball has stated only that he does not comment on players’ personal lives.
As Holmes hasn’t had a start since making the announcement, it’s been difficult to turn the attention back to the field the way they seem to want to. Watson, perhaps showing the strain of the maelstrom, has entered a slump that is not at all unusual in baseball but is poorly timed so as to be currently noteworthy for him. He has been subjected to some taunts and jeers, but there have also been some standing ovations. Watson himself looks as if he would prefer neither and would rather just be playing baseball in the relative anonymity he enjoyed until recently.
A team spokesperson has reported that sales of Watson’s and Holmes’s jerseys have enjoyed a sharp uptick since the announcement, perhaps the best indicator that they’re going to weather this storm just fine. Irene Adler, self-appointed head of Holmes’s large contingent of female fans known as Sherlock’s Sweeties, agrees that the announcement should only increase the players’ popularity. “Honestly, it only makes him hotter. Watson, too. We’re considering starting a related group, Watson’s Wenches.”
In the end, Holmes and Watson may have found themselves at the forefront of gay rights, but in a couple of weeks we’ll be well into August. Playoff berths will be on the verge of being clinched, and Austin sits prettily in striking distance. Their legacy might be their very public breaking of the homosexual barrier in baseball, but Holmes and Watson might prefer it to be leading a new team to a World Series in its first year. Let’s hope for their sakes that one doesn’t impact the other.
***
“Watson’s Wenches?” said John, and put the newspaper down to frown at Sherlock, who was not paying the slightest bit of attention to him, leaving his glare unappreciated. “Did Irene run this by you?”
Sherlock, slumped on the couch in the living area of the latest hotel suite, plucked a string on his violin.
“Sherlock,” said John.
“There is something wrong with Ruiz,” answered Sherlock. “Something very wrong. Has he been to see Molly? Not that Molly’s the most brilliant of doctors, but at least she theoretically has a medical degree and would be something. There’s something wrong with his shoulder; he’s favoring it in his mechanics and needs to fix it.”
“Molly says it’s regular wear-and-tear.”
Sherlock snorted. “It isn’t. He should go out on the 15-day DL, take a forced rest. We can’t win the wild card without a closer. I’m the only pitcher on the team capable of going nine innings.”
“You’re not going nine innings anytime soon unless your pitch count is under a hundred.”
Sherlock made his dismissive ugh sound. “Is this about the concussion again?”
“No, it isn’t about the concussion, it’s about the fact that you’ve got to last all the way through October, and you’re already on pace to pitch more innings than you have any other season in your career. Regardless of what those idiot homophobes are saying about it, we can’t win anything without you. And why are you talking about the wild card? We’re going to win the division.”
“No, we’re not.”
John sighed and rolled his eyes and decided not to fight him on that. He threw the newspaper down onto the coffee table and slumped dejectedly into the armchair he was currently occupying, eyeing the newspaper belligerently and feeling listless and irritated in an aimless, useless way.
“Irene doesn’t run everything by me. We barely speak.”
John didn’t look away from the newspaper. “You looked awfully cozy at the coffee shop,” he responded, not even surprised Sherlock had suddenly answered that question.
“I don’t know why you read the newspaper,” Sherlock remarked. “It always puts you in a terrible mood.”
“There is nothing else to do!” John pointed out, a bit more loudly than necessary, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mild reproach at that. “We can’t go anywhere because everyone follows us around now and asks us crude, ridiculous questions.”
“They’re idiots,” Sherlock inserted, evenly.
But John was on a roll and refused to be interrupted. “We can’t even go to the field, because when we get to the field there’s always someone around spying on us as if we’re suddenly going to start making out on the pitcher’s mound.”
“You could go to the field without me. That would eliminate the possibility you’d be ‘making out’ with somebody on the pitcher’s mound.”
“No, it wouldn’t, since, if you listen to Sally Donovan, there’s some belief that we must be sex-crazed maniacs who would make out with anything that breathed.”
“Don’t listen to Sally Donovan. She’s a hypocritical idiot who’s having an affair with Anderson, and I’m shortly going to use that to shut her up.”
“And now we’re blackmailing people,” sighed John.
“We’re not doing anything,” Sherlock replied.
John scrubbed his hands over his face. “I hate everything about this,” he said. “Everything. I even hate getting text messages of support from family and friends. I don’t want text messages of support. I want to just live a normal, obscure life like I had before. Do you know why all of this happened? Because we didn’t have sex the morning of your last start. This is why you don’t break a superstition, Sherlock.”
“To be safe, maybe we should just start having sex every morning,” remarked Sherlock.
John didn’t want to be amused by that. He didn’t want to not be in a bad mood. He grunted indifferently, closed his eyes, and hoped Sherlock would get up and come kiss him.
Sherlock didn’t. “The way I see it,” Sherlock said, from his stubborn position on the couch, “we have three options for how we spend the rest of the day until we have to go to the field. One, you continue to sulk and ignore the obvious issues with Ruiz. Two, we have sex.”
“One sounds like a horrible option,” John said without opening his eyes. “And I’m only doing two if you plan to put a bit of effort into seducing me, because I’m in a terrible mood.”
There was a knock on the door, and John opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at it in surprise.
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “There’s our third option now.”
***
The third option involved a wig. John stared at it in confusion but got the point that this was a plan Sherlock had to get them out of the hotel, and he figured that Sherlock, given how casually he talked about things like blackmail, was much better at subterfuge than he was so he should just go along with the plan. Anything to get them out of the stiflingly close quarters of the suite seemed like a good idea, anyway.
They left separately, which made sense to John, and they left out of a fire escape door that was neither a back nor front entrance of the hotel, which made him able to be ushered into a black car with tinted windows with a great deal of ease. John almost expected Mycroft Holmes to be sitting in the car waiting for him, but he wasn’t. John hadn’t seen Mycroft since he had orchestrated it so that John could get to Sherlock’s hospital room. John had asked Sherlock to thank him, but Sherlock had only snorted, so John doubted that any thanks had been communicated, which made John feel a bit bad because thanks were definitely called for.
“Do you know where we’re going?” John asked the driver, as they navigated through the streets. John didn’t know the city they were in especially well, so it could have been anywhere.
“Yes, but I’m not supposed to tell you,” he answered.
“Of course not,” said John, but he said it good-naturedly, leaning back in his seat and watching the world go by outside the window. He already felt a thousand times better. Trust Sherlock to have been smart enough to know that he needed a genuine distraction, a mystery, a surprise. John had one of those moments that he’d been having since news of their relationship had broken where he really itched to grant an interview to one of the many people requesting one, just so that he could let the world know that, every so often, Sherlock Holmes was kind of the best boyfriend. John sometimes thought it was harder to keep silent about Sherlock now that everyone knew than it had been when it was a secret.
The car eventually pulled into the parking lot of a high school, driving around the back and pulling up adjacent to the school’s baseball field. As John opened the door, he noted Sherlock leaning against the backstop, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, holding his glove and John’s.
John walked up to him, glanced at the high school baseball field, and thought of Sherlock taking John along on that scouting trip with Lestrade. “What’s this? Reference to our first date?”
“A happy side effect,” replied Sherlock, handing John his glove. “You badly need a game of catch. Do you realize how snappish you get the longer you go without access to a proper game of leisurely catch? I’ve got an algorithm for it. We must be sure to have a massive back garden at the London flat.”
John looked from Sherlock to the inviting baseball field. It was a bit unkempt, the grass burnt and intruding onto the infield, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. For so many years baseball fields had been home to him, the only place on the planet where he totally relaxed, where he got to be himself, and the worst part of all of this was that he’d lost that, and he hadn’t even realized how much he’d lost it until that moment. But Sherlock had realized, and Sherlock had found them a field and planned an outing for them, because John needed a game of catch.
John looked back at him. “Sherlock,” he started, but he didn’t even know what to say, how to thank him for the gesture. What he wanted to do was press him back against the backstop and kiss the breath out of him, but he thought of the fact that they were in public, even secluded as it seemed, and decided that probably wasn’t the best move.
Sherlock shook his head, as if reading his thoughts, which he probably was, and said, “Don’t say anything. Come and throw the ball to me.” And Sherlock turned and walked onto the field, into the outfield.
John followed him, pulling his glove on, and Sherlock tossed him a long, lazy fly ball that he had to run a playful amount to catch, and John felt so much inside of him unwind that it should have been ridiculous. He threw the ball back, slightly over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock jumped a bit to catch it, and John grinned and sent him a mocking thumbs-up, and Sherlock shook his head and let loose with an imitation of a fastball that John almost missed.
“You’re showing off,” John called to him, tossing the ball back to him.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m a show-off; it’s what we do.” But his next throw was back to lazy and leisurely, this one right on the money.
They went back and forth, back and forth, sometimes serious, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes absent-minded. John thought he should really stop them, that Sherlock’s arm must surely be getting tired, but it was such a relief to throw with no one watching, no one jeering or cheering, just him and Sherlock and the arc of a baseball through the air.
John had sometimes, once in a while, been worried about retiring. He tried not to let himself think about it too much because he didn’t want to, but he did worry about saying good-bye to the game, about finding out who he was without it. But as he played catch with Sherlock in a high school ball field, he realized that he’d discovered already exactly who he was without it: He was this. He was John Watson, with Sherlock Holmes, and in the future there would be no baseball games, but there would always be this. It was going to be enough for him, he knew it with sure certainty, it was always going to be enough for him.
Eventually, John caught the ball and didn’t throw it back. He left it nestled in his glove and walked over to where Sherlock was standing. Sherlock waited for him, presumably watching him from behind the sunglasses.
“How’s your arm?” John asked him.
“Don’t worry about my arm; it’s fine. How are you?”
John thought of how they were in public and how much he didn’t care, because Sherlock had brought him to a baseball field to throw with him because he’d been out-of-sorts, and Sherlock gave every indication of wanting to do that for the rest of their lives. John fisted a hand in the front of Sherlock’s shirt and kissed him. Sherlock made a small sound of surprise but kissed him back. Sometimes they kissed and it was filthy and single-minded and it only led to one place, but they kissed now sweetly and tenderly, and John tried to tell him with every brush of his tongue, every sip of his lips: I love you, I love you, I love you. He drew back a breath, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s and saying, firmly, “Thank you,” before leaning in and pressing his lips back to Sherlock’s again.
Sherlock’s gloveless hand had come up, was cupping the back of John’s head. When John finally ended the kiss, he kept it there, his fingers tangled in the hair on the nape of John’s neck.
John leaned his head down into the curve of Sherlock’s neck. “Sod them all,” he said. “That can be on the front page of every single newspaper if they want.”
Sherlock didn’t really respond to that. He took a deep breath, and John listened to the pounding of his heart against him. “Are you ready to go win a baseball game?” Sherlock asked, finally.
John said, “Yes.”
Next Chapter
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no subject
Date: 2013-08-23 03:25 am (UTC)::hugs you tightly::
no subject
Date: 2013-09-09 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-23 08:38 am (UTC)I have two little nitpicks, though, 'cause that's what I do... first, you wrote that Sherlock drives an Aston Martin with a manual transission, but in later chapters you mention how he shifts the car into "drive" or "park" - those don't exist in a manual transmission. Also, Sherlock's got his language history a bit mixed up: "Sorry" is a word both Old High German and Old English inherited from Germanic, but as English is not a descendant of Old High German (more like a cousin or a brother/sister) you cannot actually say it's "rooted" in OHG. On the other hand, Sherlock isn't exactly in a sane state of mind at that point, so maybe that's why he was confused ;)
no subject
Date: 2013-09-09 03:57 am (UTC)Ah, I did not know that manual transmissions don't have a "park" setting! Who knew? How tricky!
Heh. And I know nothing about the roots of "sorry," I admit, I just stole that from the Internet. And you know how the Internet is!
no subject
Date: 2013-08-23 11:34 am (UTC)he really itched to grant an interview to one of the many people requesting one, just so that he could let the world know that, every so often, Sherlock Holmes was kind of the best boyfriend. John sometimes thought it was harder to keep silent about Sherlock now that everyone knew than it had been when it was a secret.
Sally and Anderson being stupid as usual- can't wait to see what Sherlock has planned for Sally! And I love that a group of their teammates are being supportive.
Also, this:
“Leave it. I’m sick. I’ve had a concussion. How dare you argue with me. You’re supposed to be keeping me calm. I’m supposed to be resting. Ow, my head.”
Very much reminded me of "I'm in shock. Look, I have a blanket." :) Such perfect Sherlockiness!
no subject
Date: 2013-09-09 04:01 am (UTC)Hahahaha! Yup, Sherlock knows how to manipulate to get his way. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2013-08-23 01:44 pm (UTC)I love that Sherlock went to all that effort just so John could have a game of catch. I could totally see them doing this whenever they need to and the neighbourhood kids joining them in a makshift game.
“Don’t listen to Sally Donovan. She’s a hypocritical idiot who’s having an affair with Anderson, and I’m shortly going to use that to shut her up.”
I have the feeling that Sherlock is going to show up for a postgame interview and fry Sally when she asks him her, inevitable, impertinent question.
It's mean of me, but I'm looking forward to what he has in store for her (and by default Anderson because, seriously Anderson. WTF?).
no subject
Date: 2013-09-10 03:19 am (UTC)And Anderson, well, I might be unfair toward Anderson as a character in this fic!
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Date: 2013-08-23 03:37 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2013-09-10 03:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-23 07:38 pm (UTC)Sherlock's recovered. Mycroft's wonderful. They're "out". They're happy. They're playing catch.
What's not to like in this chapter? *happy sigh*
no subject
Date: 2013-09-10 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-24 11:46 am (UTC)In a way, I almost feel sorry for Irene Adler. What a thing it would have been for her Sherlock's Sweeties, to have been able to even fake-date Sherlock for a little while. The comments she made to the press were terribly gracious, but I bet she's hurting a little, even so.
Just out of curiosity - did Sally write that article? It sounds almost too nice to have been her.
(Excellent chapter, though - I think maybe one of my favorites in the story so far.)
no subject
Date: 2013-09-10 03:42 am (UTC)Irene is definitely sad she couldn't orchestrate that coup, but she'd never admit it. Irene is very good at pretending not to want the things she didn't get!
Glad you enjoyed!
no subject
Date: 2013-08-26 12:59 am (UTC)That's why they must get married as soon as possible. Yep.
Mycroft made a small gesture with his head, by which John understood he was supposed to go through the door.
Aaaah, I knew your Mycroft couldn't be that nasty. I think you're physically unable to write a nasty Mycroft. :D
But he’s more lucid than he was, according to the reports I got from the paramedics.
I wonder what the paramedics told her exactly...
“Mycroft who?”
*giggles*
“Leave it. I’m sick. I’ve had a concussion. How dare you argue with me. You’re supposed to be keeping me calm. I’m supposed to be resting. Ow, my head.”
He’s in shock! Look, he's got a blanket!
“It’ll fit two of us if you lay in it properly,” said Sherlock.
Id est, if John snuggles up to him. I approve. Also, I'm surprised Sherlock doesn't make any remark about John's height. The concussion, I guess. :D
In fact, it isn’t even the biggest story about Sherlock Holmes, who, through a mutual spokesperson, confirmed a homosexual relationship with his catcher John Watson after Watson dashed into the ambulance to accompany Holmes to the hospital.
Hurray for the coming out! Getting hit by this line drive was a Very Goog Thing, all things considered.
signage about the issue was so vociferous
Vociferous... I hope John reads this article, or at least this passge, aloud. Ahem.
Shortstop Don Anderson has been the loudest to come out against Holmes and Watson.
Oh, shut up Donald.
“What’s to stop them from ogling all of us?”
Oh come on. Who would ogle you if they have Sherlock or John to ogle instead?
“Honestly, it only makes him hotter. Watson, too. We’re considering starting a related group, Watson’s Wenches.”
This is so true. Was Martin so hot before all this eye-sex with Benedict? :D Also, is it possible to be a Sherlock's Sweetie and a Watson's Wench, please?
when we get to the field there’s always someone around spying on us as if we’re suddenly going to start making out on the pitcher’s mound.
Nobody would complain. I know I wouldn't.
“To be safe, maybe we should just start having sex every morning,” remarked Sherlock.
Hear, hear!
“we have three options for how we spend the rest of the day until we have to go to the field. One, you continue to sulk and ignore the obvious issues with Ruiz. Two, we have sex.”
Can I vote please?
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “There’s our third option now.”
*looks daggers at the third option, whatever it is*
It was going to be enough for him, he knew it with sure certainty, it was always going to be enough for him.
Aww. A bit of the happy ending in advance...
I'm so happy Sherlock's concussion didn't bring any further ansgt! The scene in the hospital room is lovely, you make us feel John's relief so well. I like Sherlock's reaction when he learns that John followed him in the ambulance very much, it seems he can't believe John loves him enough to leave a game before the end. Once again you use the newspaper article very cleverly, it looks like a newsreel and it's very effective at this moment of the plot. And Sherlock giving John a game of catch is adorable, as is the sod-them-all kiss. *sighs happily* I'd like everything to go well now that they have come out, but I wonder if Moriarty will admit defeat so easily...
no subject
Date: 2013-09-11 03:38 am (UTC)It's true, I can't make Mycroft totally mean! It's a weakness of mine!
lol - Sherlock actually tries not to tease John about his height...much.
Hahahahaha! I never realized how much I use the word "vociferous"!
Yes, it is definitely possible to be both!
You're right, that Sherlock can't quite believe that he was so beloved as to be followed in the ambulance that way. I think he's getting to believe it, though.