The Bang and the Clatter (32/36)

[earlgreytea68]

Title - The Bang and the Clatter (32/36)
Author -earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft, Lestrade, Sally, 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 - Chapter Thirty - Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

They weren’t going to win the division, but the wild card was well in hand, and on the morning of the last game of the regular season, John Watson was lying in the bed he shared with Sherlock Holmes and staring up at the sun-splashed ceiling. Sherlock was not in the bed. He usually wasn’t in bed when John woke up. Sherlock almost never slept, as far as John could tell. He was making the world’s most enormous racket in the kitchen, and John was calculating the odds that he was going to start a fire or was merely making a huge, potentially toxic mess.

The bedroom door swung open, and John turned his head as Sherlock walked in, holding two mugs.

“What’s that?” he asked, in surprise, struggling to sit up.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Sherlock looked disappointed as he handed John one of the mugs. “I was going to kiss you awake.”

“Ah, well, don’t let the technicality stop you,” said John, and Sherlock leaned over and kissed him. John said, in approval, “Mmm,” and then, when Sherlock drew back, “What’s with the tea? You don’t pitch today.”

“It’s congratulatory tea,” said Sherlock, straightening and sipping from his own mug.

“We haven’t won yet.”

“We could lose today; we’d still be playing baseball in October.”

“Right, but I mean that wasn’t my goal.”

“I didn’t think you were going to make October at all with this team. You pulled that off. This is you-were-right tea. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Frankly, I find you admitting I was right to be terrifying. Almost as terrifying as the amount of chaos you seemed to cause in the kitchen while making two cups of tea.”

“It might be a slightly experimental tea.”

“Oh my God, have you drugged me?”

“That was a joke, John,” said Sherlock, his lips curving into a smile.

“The thing is that I wouldn’t put you drugging my tea past you.”

“If anything I’d drug your coffee. I think it would mask the flavor better.”

“See? You’ve thought about this.”

Sherlock put his mug down on the bedside table and crawled onto the bed next to John, propping up on his elbow on his side. “I was thinking about the postseason rotation.”

“Stop it,” said John. “You’re jinxing it.”

“I can’t jinx it. It’s mathematically impossible to jinx it.”

“You’re jinxing something.”

“Put your tea down,” said Sherlock, nudging John’s hand over to the bedside table.

“Why?” asked John, suspicious, even as he complied.

Sherlock rolled on top of him and leaned his forehead against his. He didn’t kiss him, which John had been expecting, he just laid there and breathed, holding his weight carefully so as not to crush John.

“Sherlock,” said John, eventually, questioningly.

“I just want one morning where we’re not waiting for the other shoe to drop. We’ll go back to worrying tomorrow. All right?”

John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled curls and said, tenderly, “Yes. All right. We’ll fix your jinx with the old superstition.”

“What’s the old superstition?” asked Sherlock, sounding resigned.

“You owe me 307 seconds of sex.”

“Oh, that superstition,” said Sherlock, pleased now. “I love that superstition.”

***

John was thinking of the 307 seconds of sex as he sat in Lestrade’s office later that day, staring in silent shock at the piece of paper Lestrade had handed him. The office was completely silent, and all John could think of was Sherlock jinxing things that morning, of Sherlock asking for one morning without the shadow of the other shoe hanging over their heads, and Sherlock had gotten his wish, John supposed, since the other shoe had solidly dropped. Directly on him.

“John,” Lestrade said, finally, gently.

“It can’t…” John stared at the piece of paper and tried to make it make sense. “It can’t… It can’t be right. Greg. I haven’t… I’ve never… It can’t be… How did it…” John stopped talking, because it wasn’t like he was making sense anyway. He stared uncomprehendingly at the piece of paper on his lap.

“Can I get Sherlock?” asked Lestrade.

“What?”

“This is confidential, John. I can’t get him without—”

“This is confidential?” John asked, and was finally able to look up at Lestrade, waving the paper around violently. “This is confidential? No, it’s not! It’s going to be splashed all over the Internet in twenty minutes’ time! If it hasn’t been already! And it’s not even true.”

Lestrade’s gaze was even and sympathetic and John hated everything about it. He wanted to rewind the clock so he could wake up before Sherlock and stop him from making the jinx-inducing tea that had caused the domino effect that had ended in this.

“I can’t get Sherlock,” repeated Lestrade, carefully, “without your—”

“Oh my God, get him, don’t get him, what difference does it make?” snapped John.

Lestrade picked up his phone and pressed a button and murmured something into it. John heard Sherlock’s name. John was reading the piece of paper again, although he felt like he was reading it for the first time. Silence stretched in Lestrade’s office until the door flew open and Sherlock stalked in with his characteristic forcefulness.

“What have you done to John?” he demanded.

“I haven’t done anything,” Lestrade defended himself, offended.

“Then why does he look like that? John, what’s Lestrade done this time? What’s that?” He had clearly caught sight of the piece of paper John was holding.

“It’s the result of my drug test,” John said, and he was surprised how simple that sounded, said out loud like that, so straightforward.

“What’s it say?” Sherlock asked, although he asked it with dread, and John didn’t have to look at him to know that he already knew what it said.

“It’s positive,” answered John. “For steroids.”

“What? Steroids? You?” Sherlock snatched the piece of paper out of John’s hands.

John finally looked at him, watching as his eyes sped over the piece of paper before he dropped it to Lestrade’s desk imperiously.

“Well, this is preposterous,” said Sherlock. “Surely you can see that.”

“It’s an automatic fifty-game suspension—” Lestrade began.

“Of course it’s not, because we’re appealing it.”

“On what ground?” asked Lestrade.

“On the ground that it isn’t true.” Sherlock whirled to look down at John. “John, have you ever taken steroids?”

“Of course I’ve never taken steroids,” said John, dully. “But how are we going to prove that?”

“Appeal it,” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade. “We at least need the delay so he can play in the postseason.”

“They’re going to rule quickly, Sherlock. They’re not going to want the scandal of a tainted October if he loses the appeal.”

“He’s not going to lose the appeal,” said Sherlock.

John looked at him, feeling much sharper suddenly. “Sherlock,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

Sherlock affected an innocence that filled John’s belly with cold dread. “Nothing.”

“Then how do you know I’m not going to lose the appeal?”

“Because I have faith in the truth and justice of the Major League Baseball disciplinary system,” replied Sherlock, loftily. He turned to Lestrade. “Lodge the appeal. Do it now. John is playing tonight.” Sherlock swept out of the room.

Lestrade looked at John, eyebrows raised, and John knew he was seeking John’s agreement. John hesitated, and then nodded. “Do it.” He didn’t have any other options, and he needed to buy a bit of time to figure out what Sherlock had planned. He left Lestrade’s office and sprinted after Sherlock, who hadn’t yet reached the elevator. “Sherlock. What are you planning?”

“This is Moriarty,” said Sherlock, not breaking stride.

“Moriarty tampered with my drug test?”

“Well, you haven’t taken steroids ever, so what’s your explanation?” Sherlock punched the button for the elevator and looked at John demandingly for an answer.

“Tell me what you’re going to do, Sherlock,” John said, firmly.

“It doesn’t matter—”

“Of course it matters.”

“This is my mess. Let me clean it up.” The elevator doors slid open, and Sherlock stepped onto it.

John followed. “It is not your fault that years ago Moriarty—”

“That’s not why it’s my fault. It’s my fault because I jinxed us this morning.”

“You don’t even believe in things like jinxes,” complained John.

“What can I say? You’ve convinced me.” The elevator door opened again, and Sherlock strode quickly off it.

“Sherlock,” John pleaded, desperately, following him.

Sherlock turned to face him, leaned close to speak softly to him, his eyes hard on his. “You have a game to catch. Do it. I’ll be back in time for the champagne in the clubhouse.”

“Where are you going?” asked John, between his teeth.

“See you soon,” said Sherlock, pointedly not answering the question and walking quickly away.

John watched him, furious but not knowing what he could do. He had a positive drug test hanging over his head, one last regular season game to catch before a chaotic postseason with a closer who hated the ace of his pitching staff, and a boyfriend who had just run off to wreak some sort of ill-advised and doubtless addle-minded revenge.

When Sherlock rounded the corner of the hallway and John could no longer see him, John pushed his hands through his hair, sighed in frustration, and turned away, catching Moriarty standing in the doorway of the clubhouse, watching him.

“What’s up, Doc?” asked Moriarty, casually.

John smiled tightly in response.

***

Photographers would snap him with Irene Adler, because they always did. They seemed to think he spent so much time with the head of Sherlock’s Sweeties because he was trying to improve his image or some such nonsense. Sherlock didn’t divest them of the notion because he didn’t want to tell them that he spent so much time with the head of Sherlock’s Sweeties because he was using her to double-cross his closer.

Irene sat opposite him at the table, all legs and blood-red lipstick as usual. She looked pointedly at the coffee in front of Sherlock. “And you didn’t order me one? Rude.”

“John’s drug test came back positive today,” said Sherlock, who was not in the mood.

“Ah,” said Irene, and smiled at him. “Good.”

“No,” retorted Sherlock, sharply. “Not good. You were supposed to warn me what Moriarty’s plan was.”

Irene’s smile turned into a scowl. “I couldn’t, could I? He would have suspected something if I told you, if you thwarted him. Don’t you want to take him down? Isn’t that what you want?”

“No, what I want is for John not to be hurt,” bit out Sherlock, “but it’s too late for that now.”

Irene leaned over the table, hissing at him. “This is the only way to guarantee John’s not hurt. Don’t you see? You’d be playing this game with Moriarty forever, always trying to keep one step ahead of him. Now you’ve let yourself fall one step behind so that you can win it all. Because there’s going to be a phone on your mantelpiece when you get home tonight that’s going to have all the evidence against Moriarty that you could ever wish for.”

Sherlock regarded her. “Evidence that he tampered with John’s drug test?”

“Exactly. Foolproof.” Irene leaned back in her seat. “Impressed?”

“Not especially,” responded Sherlock. “I would have been more impressed if you’d managed to do it without John getting caught in the crossfire. The way we agreed.” Sherlock stood.

“You’re welcome,” said Irene, pointedly.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t get exactly what you wanted out of all of this,” Sherlock told her, and handed her the rest of his coffee. “Enjoy,” he said, grimly, as he walked out of the coffee shop.

He didn’t even take two steps to his Aston Martin before the dark car drew up next to him, the back door swinging open and Mycroft snapping from inside, “Get in.”

Sherlock sighed and looked at his watch. Still time to have another delightful talk with his brother before getting to the field for the celebration. He ducked into the car. “This had better be worthwhile.”

“Irene got you the evidence on Moriarty tampering with John’s drug test, I assume?”

Sherlock frowned. “Did you know Moriarty was going to tamper with John’s drug test?”

“No. I thought he was going to tamper with your drug test.”

“Idiot. I told you he’s going after John, not me.”

Mycroft didn’t acknowledge the fact that Sherlock had been right and Mycroft had been wrong. Not that Sherlock had expected him to. “If you use the evidence, Moriarty will retaliate with the evidence against you about the gambling.”

“I don’t care.”

“But you should care.”

“Why? All of a sudden you’re worried about my baseball career?”

“I’ve spent most of my life protecting your reputation from the things you’ve done to sully it. I’m not about to let all my hard work go to waste because of something you didn’t do.”

“Well, it isn’t your decision. I’m not letting this ruling stand against John.”

“You don’t have to,” said Mycroft. “You can use your evidence. I’m just saying that you ought to have something in your pocket for when Moriarty retaliates.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. “What do you have on him?”

“On Moriarty? Nothing. On the Commissioner of Baseball? Oh, quite a delightful amount.”

***

The clubhouse was covered in plastic to protect everything from the champagne, and the champagne was chilling, and Moriarty was closing the game out, even though there was no need to have their closer out there. More evidence that Moriarty was wrapping people around his fingers left and right. Or effectively threatening them.

Sherlock stood in the clubhouse and watched the final out on the television screen in there. They’d clinched the wild card days before, but it had happened on a road trip, and they had decided to celebrate the end of the season since they were ending at home, and Sherlock watched his teammates flood Moriarty on the mound. John didn’t. John walked pointedly off the field, and Sherlock wished he’d stayed to celebrate a little, because the cameras would read a guilty conscience into the action.

At least it meant John walked into the clubhouse before anybody else did. He drew to a halt when he saw Sherlock.

“Told you I’d be back for the champagne,” said Sherlock, and picked up a bottle, shook it, and fired the cork out of it, spraying John with the champagne that came flying out. John scrunched up his face against the attack.

“Have you started already?” shrieked Caleb Broughton, as he bounced in at the head of the rest of the team, and then there was champagne everywhere.

Sherlock tried to duck out of the melee, looking both for John and Moriarty. He had expected Moriarty to come and gloat, but he was being occupied by the rest of the bullpen, who were dousing him in champagne. Sherlock wasn’t sure if this was a sign of affection or a sign of resentment. Either way, in keeping Moriarty away from him, the bullpen had just become his favorite members of the team.

John was standing in the middle of the fracas, yet entirely by himself at the same time. He was holding a champagne flute that he wasn’t drinking and had his head tipped back, watching the post-game press conference Lestrade was holding that the television was showing. Normally, John would have been at that press conference. There must have been a decision made to keep John away from the press for a bit.

Sherlock walked over to stand next to him. John didn’t look at him, kept his gaze on the press conference.

“So the team is standing by John Watson?” Sally Donovan shouted at Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Lestrade, grimly.

“Mrs. Hudson’s doing,” guessed Sherlock, who would have expected a no-comment on ongoing investigations.

“Lestrade’s, actually,” corrected John, and Sherlock gave Lestrade a few reluctant points in his favor.

“Even though he uses steroids?” demanded Sally Donovan on the screen.

There was a sudden commotion at the press conference, what sounded like a crescendo of vibrations and ringtones all going off at once. Lestrade looked confused on the screen. “What was that?”

“We all just got a text,” answered one of the reporters, off-screen.

“The same text,” said another one.

“Just says ‘wrong.’”

John looked at Sherlock. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

Sherlock looked at the television screen but let his lips twitch. “Not at all,” he lied, blandly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught John smiling for the first time since he’d walked into Lestrade’s office and found him with the drug test results in his hand. John was a smiler. Sherlock couldn’t remember seeing him go so long without smiling ever before. He didn’t care for it at all.

“Sherlock, what did you do today?” John asked, sounding fearful. “I mean, other than program a mass text to go to the entire press corps.”

Sherlock looked at him, met his eyes. “Nothing to fret over. I didn’t sell my soul or anything like that.”

“But what did you do?” John persisted.

“My job,” Sherlock replied, and wanted to touch him. John looked exhausted, actually. Sherlock really wanted to gather him up and press his head into his chest and tell him to sleep and not to worry about any of it. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

John nodded weary agreement and put his glass down. No one tried to stop them as they trailed out. The celebration was in full-swing, and the rest of the team knew that John was not really in any mood to celebrate at the moment.

John was silent as Sherlock drove them home. Not sleeping, just thinking, and Sherlock left him to it because he didn’t know what he could do to help with those thoughts, and he didn’t really want John to ask more about what Sherlock had spent the day doing. So Sherlock drove them without a word and walked into their flat in the same silence and then turned to John and said, “Shower.”

John nodded, not arguing, and trailed into the bathroom. Sherlock listened to the shower turn on and knew John would make it very hot and would stay in it for a while.

John’s mobile rang where he’d dropped it on the coffee table on his way through the door, and Sherlock looked at it for a second before pulling himself off the sofa to answer it. It was blinking Mum, so Sherlock answered with, “Fiona.”

“Sherlock?” she said. “What is going on? They’ve been talking about—”

“I’m handling it,” Sherlock interrupted her. “I’m handling all of it.”

Fiona paused. “Is he okay?”

Sherlock considered. Not terribly, he thought. “I’m handling it,” he repeated. Which was true.

There was another pause. Then she said, “Tell us if you need any help.”

He wasn’t going to need any help. He had it all covered. “I will.”

“And give him a kiss and a hug from us.”

“Er,” said Sherlock. “Yes,” he agreed, with no intention of really doing that. But he understood the sentiment.

And he hung up John’s mobile, tossed it back on the coffee table, and, after a moment’s contemplation, reached for his violin.

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