The Bang and the Clatter (33/36)
Sep. 9th, 2013 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - The Bang and the Clatter (33/36)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
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
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sherlock had not been planning a dramatic confrontation with Moriarty. In all honesty, he had not had enough of a position of strength to think of doing anything like that. Moriarty had everything he needed to destroy Sherlock, and the knowledge of that had kept Sherlock thinking of only modest victories. But then Mycroft had presented him with the most glorious mountain of information on the Commissioner of Baseball, and Sherlock’s plan coalesced into diamond brilliance. He couldn’t have wished for anything better than this. Well, he supposed he could have wished for the salvation not to have come from Mycroft, but, barring that, Sherlock would take what he could get.
Because the baseball gods had been kind enough to allow their team to face Moran’s in the first round of the playoffs. And Sherlock, starting the game, stood on the mound in the second inning and looked at the fourth batter the other team had sent to the plate, Sebastian Moran. He thought of Moriarty in the bullpen watching, and he thought of John, playing this first game of the playoffs under the taint of the ongoing investigation, and he thought of the way John had been grim and drawn on their way to the field, not at all the way he usually behaved on a day when they got to play baseball.
John flashed a sign at him, and Sherlock gave a nod that would have been imperceptible to anyone but John, who knew him so well. Sherlock aimed, and wound up, and threw exactly where he’d intended to: straight at Moran.
Moran tried to twist out of the way, but the ball had been a hyperenergetic fastball, and he didn’t have a chance to react fully. The ball collided solidly with his thigh, and the crowd—Moran’s team’s crowd—let out a collective gasp. Moran dropped his bat and stalked toward the mound, and John, pushing his mask off his face, scurried out quickly from behind the plate, getting in front of Moran, between Moran and Sherlock, giving Moran a gentle little shove to try to switch his trajectory away from Sherlock. Sherlock stood on the mound, watching and feeling a little bit smug, because he fancied he could sense Moriarty’s powerless fury radiating from the bullpen.
The umpire came out to tell Moran to move along. The crowd was shouting invectives now, booing loudly, so Sherlock wasn’t able to hear what it was that Moran said in Sherlock’s direction. Whatever it was, John moved so quickly in reaction that no one knew what he intended until he’d already delivered a solid punch to Moran’s jaw, least of all Moran himself, who reeled backward in shock. Sherlock blinked in surprise. He’d expected Moran to make a bit of a fuss, but he had not expected a fight.
And that was what it was, because after a moment of stunned reaction, Moran ran at John and then the dugouts emptied, and Sherlock found his entire team rushing from the playing field behind him toward the tangle of John and Moran.
“Sodding hell,” muttered Sherlock, because he really hadn’t meant to cause that. He went to head into the melee, because he needed to get John out of it, but found himself cut off by Moriarty. “Ah,” he said. “Have the bullpens joined in, too?”
Moriarty was breathing hard, and he looked more furious than Sherlock had ever seen him. He stepped close to Sherlock, exhaling sharp, jagged breaths through his teeth. “That was a mistake,” he said, quietly.
“Was it?” asked Sherlock.
“That was a mistake!” Moriarty shouted, loudly enough that a few of the players nearest them looked at them in surprise.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Sherlock responded, unflinchingly. “That sort of attack. Tends to burn the heart out of you. You don’t necessarily play fair after that. And isn’t that what you and I are doing? Playing a game? Just an extension of the game we play for a living?”
“Do you think I’m just going to let you get away with that?” Moriarty demanded.
“I think you should be grateful I didn’t throw at his head,” Sherlock replied, icily, and stepped away from Moriarty, walking away from him confidently. Moriarty wouldn’t come after him in the open. Moriarty didn’t like to get his hands dirty.
The fight had mostly broken up. The umpiring team was in the middle of it, pulling players off each other. John and Moran were being physically held apart from each other. John was breathing hard and looked a mess, blood trickling from his lip, and he and Moran were still glowering hatefully at each other.
The umpire in between John and Moran looked at Sherlock as he stepped through the crowd and made the universal motion for tossing him out of the game, which Sherlock had expected. “You two, too,” he said to John and Moran.
John shook off the players who’d been holding him back, snapped out, “Fine,” and stalked to the dugout.
Lestrade was standing on the edge staring at the two of them in angry disbelief. “Are you guys serious? Like we don’t need you? It’s October baseball, and you get into a fight?”
“Sod off, Lestrade,” said John, and knocked over a few bats on his way through the dugout to the clubhouse.
Lestrade looked at Sherlock in surprise that turned to disapproval. “And you threw right at him. What got into you? Could you have made it any more obvious?”
“I was sending a message,” Sherlock replied, shortly.
“A stupid message?”
“Like John said, sod off, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, and followed John into the clubhouse.
“What the hell, Sherlock,” John demanded as soon as Sherlock entered. He was standing in the middle of the clubhouse, hands on his hips. “What was that?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a fight like that. I was just going to throw at him.”
“Throw at Moran? Get us thrown out of the game? We’re going to be suspended. And it’s October. And I’m already on thin ice.”
“You weren’t supposed to punch him.” Sherlock peered down at John’s face, where a bruise was blooming on his cheek. “Look at you. You’re a mess. What were you doing?”
John scowled at him. “My job,” he answered, and Sherlock winced a little at having his words thrown back in his face like that. “You know it’s the catcher’s job to keep irate batters away from the pitcher.”
“Yes, I know that, and you were doing quite a good job of that without punching him.”
John dropped his eyes, looking somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. “I had to punch him.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What did he say about me?”
John shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sherlock sighed and dropped it. “Don’t worry about the suspensions.”
“Don’t worry about the suspensions.” John lifted his gaze again, glaring at Sherlock. “It’s October. How is this team supposed to win anything without either of us?”
“I’ve got the suspensions covered. Do you think I would have done that, and purposely jeopardized the postseason, if I didn’t have the suspensions covered?”
John stared. “How do you have the suspensions covered?”
“I’ve got everything covered, not just the suspensions. Come on, let’s go home. There’s nothing more we can do here, and you should get some ice on that cheek.” Sherlock turned and walked out of the clubhouse, confident that John would follow him.
He did. “What do you mean, you’ve got everything covered?”
“John, please don’t make me repeat myself; you know I find it tedious.”
“Sherlock.” John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm and forced him to stop walking. “Tell me. Tell me now or, I swear to God, I won’t go back to that hotel with you.”
Sherlock sighed and looked around them. “Not here. Come back to the hotel with me, and I’ll tell you there.”
“If you don’t tell me when we get there, I’ll leave.”
“Agreed,” said Sherlock.
John narrowed his eyes in suspicion but nodded once, and when Sherlock resumed walking and got into the car waiting to take them to the hotel, John followed and slid in behind him.
***
John sat on the room’s couch and Sherlock knelt on the floor between his legs and pressed ice to his cheek, and if anything made John suspicious, it was Sherlock’s solicitousness. He winced at the cold and the pressure, and Sherlock said, “How much does it hurt?” and John said, instead of replying, “Tell me.”
Sherlock sighed. “I’m going to have to start at the beginning.”
“How convenient for you, then, that we got thrown out of our baseball game early and have a lot of unexpected free time this evening.”
“Irene Adler was working with Moriarty.”
“She was?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not? People like Irene Adler generally don’t need anything other than some vague ideas about their best interest. Now, are you going to keep interrupting with unnecessary questions?”
“I should have punched you instead of Moran,” muttered John, darkly.
Sherlock ignored that. “I convinced Irene to work with me instead.”
“How?” John had no intention of stopping with the questions.
“Again, just a push about her best interest. In reality, she played both of us and got paid by both of us in the end, so it really was in her best interest.”
“Did you know about the drug test?” John demanded.
“No. Irene was supposed to tell me about Moriarty’s plan. She didn’t.”
“What a fabulous ally she turned out to be,” drawled John, sarcastically.
“But she did give me all the evidence I need to prove Moriarty tampered with your drug test. We’ll clear your name, first thing tomorrow.”
John stilled and watched Sherlock concentrate on the application of the ice, peering much more closely than necessary at John’s cheek. “Sherlock,” said John, slowly.
“I do hope you got in a few good shots at Moran,” commented Sherlock.
“If you use the evidence, Moriarty will go to the Commissioner with the gambling evidence.”
“Of course he will,” Sherlock rejoined, lightly.
“Sherlock, look at me,” John demanded.
Sherlock did, meeting his eyes. “John, it doesn’t matter.”
“No. It does matter,” John insisted, and he pushed Sherlock’s hand away from his cheek, the better to have this argument.
“It doesn’t,” Sherlock replied, firmly, pushing John’s arm away and putting the ice back on his cheek, “because of Mycroft.”
“Because of Mycroft?”
“Yes.” Sherlock was paying close attention to the ice again. “We are very much in Mycroft’s debt. And you know I hate to say that.”
“Why? What has Mycroft done?”
“Mycroft knows a lot about the Commissioner. A lot about the Commissioner.” Sherlock gave John a meaningful look.
“Enough to make the Commissioner look the other way when it comes to the gambling,” John realized. Sherlock said nothing, just adjusted the ice on John’s cheek, but John knew he was right. “Enough to make him look the other way when it comes to the fight tonight. We won’t be suspended, that’s why you threw at Moran.”
Sherlock said nothing again, removing the ice and readjusting the facecloth it was wrapped in.
“You’re going to blackmail the Commissioner of Baseball,” John concluded.
Sherlock replaced the ice. “Yes,” he confirmed, simply.
“I think you’ve gone mad.”
“I think it gets Moriarty out of baseball forever and it gets you and me nothing but a lack of punishment for things we don’t deserve to be punished for.”
“I did punch Moran tonight.”
“But I trust your judgment that he deserved it,” responded Sherlock, mildly.
“I’m not going to tell you what he said.”
“And I’m not going to pry about it. I will say thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“Doing your job. Above and beyond.”
John was silent for a moment. “Will it work? The blackmail.”
“Mycroft thinks so. And I’m letting Mycroft handle it. Mycroft knows all about blackmail.”
“You’re letting Mycroft handle it?”
“I’m learning delegation. Mycroft knows more about blackmail than I do, and you’re too important not to have the starting lineup behind you.”
John considered. He lifted his hand and loosely circled Sherlock’s wrist next to his face, near the ice on his throbbing cheek. He looked at Sherlock, who looked back at him, his moonbeam eyes hard and glittering with determination. Sherlock, who had been ready to get thrown out of baseball in order to clear John’s name. Sherlock, who didn’t have to because he was instead going to resort to blackmail to do it. Going to resort to asking his brother for help to do it. And John Watson had been in baseball long enough to understand that sometimes you played by the rules and sometimes war was declared. Which was what Moriarty had done long ago. Which was what Moran had confirmed that night.
“Thank you,” he said, finally.
“For what?”
“Doing your job. Above and beyond.”
Sherlock flickered a smile at him. “It was much easier having a drug addiction, you know.”
“Shut up,” said John, and pulled him in for a kiss. Yes, his lips were a bit tender and swollen from one of Moran’s more successful punches, and his cheekbone hurt like hell, but the kiss was still worth it.
***
Sherlock woke to John curled up next to him, head cushioned on his shoulder and arm thrown possessively over his chest, feet and ankles intertwined, and he spent a little while watching the sunlight creep progressively further into the room and listening to the flutter of John’s breaths against him. This was how he started most mornings. He wondered if John knew how much time he spent simply laying against him, marveling at how deeply he slept, at how much trust was involved in that action on John’s part. Eventually, when he deemed that it was late enough that his day should get started, he slid out of the bed without waking John, a maneuver he’d perfected, and went into the bathroom to get dressed.
When he was done getting himself ready to face the day, he walked into the hotel suite’s living room, sprawled on the sofa, looked at the ceiling, and commenced waiting until John woke up and got them tea or coffee.
Then there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated in, “Yoo-hoo! Are you up yet, boys?”
Sherlock scowled and rolled himself off the sofa and went and opened the door. “Shh,” he scolded. “John is still sleeping.”
“Oh. Sorry,” said Mrs. Hudson, looking unconcerned about how dire an issue that was for Sherlock. “Have you seen this? I know you’re not the best at looking over the news, and I know John’s a late sleeper sometimes—”
Sherlock took the newspaper section Mrs. Hudson was holding out at him and read the headline. And then read it again. And then he read the whole story. “Wait,” he said. “But...” Which was very unlike him, to start a thought and not finish it. “Mycroft,” he decided, grimly, and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” and went back into the hotel room and closed the door.
And then he rang Mycroft, who answered with a bland, “Something wrong?”
“What is this?” Sherlock hissed, trying to keep his voice down for John’s benefit. “John’s been cleared of all accusations? The Commissioner’s suspended Moriarty indefinitely, pending further investigation? Given the circumstances, the Commissioner has declined to issue any further suspensions, including for the fight last night?”
“I thought that was your Christmas wish list,” remarked Mycroft, dryly.
“You did all this last night?” Sherlock demanded. “Without consulting me?”
“What was there to consult about? I thought we were both settled on the plan.”
“The plan wasn’t to—” Sherlock cut himself off as John came out of the bedroom, sleep-mussed and yawning, and Sherlock sent him a tight smile that he hoped look like good morning as John wandered into the kitchen area of the suite. Sherlock turned his back to the kitchen and spoke in low tones into the mobile. “The plan wasn’t yours to run off pell-mell and do as you wished.”
“You left me no choice. Your little stunt last night tipped our hand to Moriarty. You’d never have done something like that if you weren’t feeling confident. I had to hit him before he’d had a chance to regroup.”
“But,” sputtered Sherlock, and John called from the kitchen, “Sherlock! Tea or coffee?” “I don’t care!” Sherlock called back to him.
“Sherlock,” inserted Mycroft’s infuriatingly calm tones. “This is everything you wanted. I am handing it to you on a silver platter. No strings attached. You’re feeling uneasy because you’re not used to that, I’m aware. But consider it my penance for not being as quick about John as I should have been. Now. Enjoy the rest of your day. Enjoy the rest of your season.”
Mycroft hung up. Sherlock sat with a mobile pressed to his ear with no one on the other end, staring unseeingly out the window and trying to comprehend what had just happened. Maybe his brother had been kidnapped and replaced with a robot. A nice robot.
“That must have been Mycroft,” said John, from behind him.
Sherlock put the mobile down and turned. John was leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “What makes you say that?”
“Only Mycroft could put you in such a terrible mood so early in the morning,” John commented. “You’re not the only one who can deduce.”
Sherlock allowed John’s point and leaned over to hand John the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had brought. He watched John read it through once quickly and then again more slowly, his eyebrows furrowing together.
“I…” John looked up at him. “When did you do this?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mycroft did,” John realized.
“As I somewhat requested,” Sherlock agreed. “I was supposed to be a bit more involved, but…yes.”
John glanced at the newspaper again, then back up at Sherlock. “Wait. Does that mean it’s over?”
Sherlock hesitated, and then said something he hated to say. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, doesn’t it seem too easy to you?”
John looked over his shoulder into the kitchen, checking on the progress of whatever morning beverage he’d chosen to make, and then he walked over to Sherlock and said, “It was an elaborate blackmail scheme that involved a months-long game of double-cross. You think that was easy?”
Sherlock was mainly thinking that, if he’d asked Mycroft for help years ago then Moriarty would have been neutralized years ago, would never have done anything at all to John, but Sherlock hadn’t asked Mycroft for help, and instead he’d made a huge mess and then he’d dragged John right into the middle of it. He licked his lips and opened his mouth and wondered what he was going to say.
John shook his head and said, “No,” before Sherlock could say anything at all. “It is October 3,” he said. “It is the first day of the rest of our lives. No more what-ifs. Because we got the best what-if we could have hoped for.”
Sherlock hesitated for another second before nodding, and John looked satisfied and kissed the tip of his nose before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Sherlock pushed aside the nagging suspicion that Moriarty would not fade so easily into the background. “What did you make?” he asked, striving for normality. “Coffee or tea?”
“Green tea. We’re going to have green tea every morning of the postseason.”
Sherlock made his ugh noise. “I think I hate October,” he said.
***
They ran into Lestrade on their way into the field, and he said, without preamble, “This is a mess. I’m calling a team meeting.”
“The good news is Sherlock and I aren’t suspended,” said John, brightly.
“The bad news is that you look like a boxer, not a baseball player, so there’s no way you’re playing at a hundred percent.” John privately admitted that was true; he hurt all over from the fight. “And oh, yeah, there’s that little detail of we no longer have a closer.”
“He was always a stupid closer,” said Sherlock. “I told you not to trade for him.”
“Not helping right now, Sherlock,” Lestrade told him between gritted teeth.
“I find it always helps to acknowledge that I’m usually right. We could have saved ourselves all this boring drama.”
Lestrade looked as if he might murder Sherlock, and then his team would be down a closer and their ace, so John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm and said, “Maybe not the best time to gloat. Maybe we should wait until after we win the World Series.”
“Then the two of you can write some sort of bestselling memoir,” complained Lestrade, throwing his arms about in frustration. “How We Were Gay and Always Right.”
“Good title,” said Sherlock, blandly.
“Oh, and why am I now getting reports from your brother about Moriarty’s whereabouts? Why is he tracking Moriarty?”
“He’s tracking Moriarty because he is a bit clever,” said Sherlock. “Although I don’t know why he’s giving the reports to you and not me. Where is Moriarty?”
“New York City, apparently. Meeting with counsel about what to do about everything. It’s bad. Drug test tampering and gambling and—”
“I want to make a note that this would be another perfect opportunity to say I told you so,” inserted Sherlock.
“Team meeting time,” announced Lestrade, and turned on his heel to march into the clubhouse.
“Maybe a bit less smugness, love,” John commented, under his breath, with no hope that Sherlock was going to listen to him.
The clubhouse was buzzing with gossip, and John guessed that all of it was pertaining to the Commissioner’s overnight rulings, especially since the room went deathly quiet as soon as he and Sherlock walked in.
Lestrade didn’t really acknowledge the fight the night before or John’s overturned drug test. He just launched into, “It’s the beginning of October, we’ve got a postseason to win, and we don’t have a closer.” He lifted his hands, palms up, as if pushing ideas toward his team. “I am open to suggestions.”
John felt everyone in the room look at him. He blinked, startled, and looked at Sherlock instead. Why was everyone looking at him? Sherlock was the one who had ideas.
Sherlock looked as if he were reading John’s thoughts. And he still looked incredibly smug. He turned away from John and said, “I can close.”
“We need you to start,” Lestrade said, dismissively.
“I can do both.”
“You can’t do both.”
“For a few weeks in October? Yes. I can do both.” Sherlock was sounding annoyed now.
“Stop it,” said John. “You’d just be showing off, and you’d ruin your arm in the process. The human arm isn’t supposed to throw overhand at all, you know, it’s not made that way. Halfway through you’d end up throwing the last pitch you’d ever throw in your life.”
“So?” retorted Sherlock. “You know it doesn’t matter to me—”
“First of all, it matters to me. And second of all, you wouldn’t make it far enough to get to the World Series, not unless every game was a blow-out and we never needed a closer.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say more but John lifted a hand to shut him up. “Next idea,” he said, firmly, and Sherlock radiated sulky displeasure but he did shut up. “We don’t necessarily need a closer.”
“You’re anticipating that the games won’t be close for the next month?” asked Lestrade.
“I say that we can hope for that, but that, even if they are, we can rotate through pitchers. We’ve got enough of them.” John looked at his knot of relief pitchers and didn’t feel overly confident about any of them, but thought they could piece things together. “We can all help out. We won’t have a designated closer. We’ll just have the pitcher who feels the best on the day.”
“The starters can help, too,” contributed Cadogan West, and John looked at him in surprise because West wasn’t usually the best team player. West looked sheepish enough that John knew he was aware of that reputation, but West also looked firm. The fact of postseason baseball often changed motivations. West seemed to be aware that they were actually not out of reach of a World Series and was willing to step up in reaction. “I mean, we can’t pitch every day,” West continued, “that would be a terrible idea, but we can join in every so often.”
“Yes,” Mike Ryan agreed, firmly. “We can piece it together.”
“Good,” said John. “Then that’s settled.” John looked at Lestrade. “Anything else?”
Lestrade looked at the team. There was a pregnant pause because, actually, a lot had happened to this team and there was a lot to discuss, but, again, it was October, and the moment passed and no one said anything, not even Anderson, and Lestrade said, “Okay, then that’s it.”
The buzz of conversation started up in the clubhouse again, a bit more subdued than it had been before the meeting, and Lestrade looked over at John. “You think we can win the World Series without a closer?”
John thought they didn’t have a choice. But what John said was much more positive. He said, confidently, “Yes.” He was going to will it to be so. He’d gotten them this far on what felt like sheer force of will; he wasn’t going to give up at this point.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
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
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sherlock had not been planning a dramatic confrontation with Moriarty. In all honesty, he had not had enough of a position of strength to think of doing anything like that. Moriarty had everything he needed to destroy Sherlock, and the knowledge of that had kept Sherlock thinking of only modest victories. But then Mycroft had presented him with the most glorious mountain of information on the Commissioner of Baseball, and Sherlock’s plan coalesced into diamond brilliance. He couldn’t have wished for anything better than this. Well, he supposed he could have wished for the salvation not to have come from Mycroft, but, barring that, Sherlock would take what he could get.
Because the baseball gods had been kind enough to allow their team to face Moran’s in the first round of the playoffs. And Sherlock, starting the game, stood on the mound in the second inning and looked at the fourth batter the other team had sent to the plate, Sebastian Moran. He thought of Moriarty in the bullpen watching, and he thought of John, playing this first game of the playoffs under the taint of the ongoing investigation, and he thought of the way John had been grim and drawn on their way to the field, not at all the way he usually behaved on a day when they got to play baseball.
John flashed a sign at him, and Sherlock gave a nod that would have been imperceptible to anyone but John, who knew him so well. Sherlock aimed, and wound up, and threw exactly where he’d intended to: straight at Moran.
Moran tried to twist out of the way, but the ball had been a hyperenergetic fastball, and he didn’t have a chance to react fully. The ball collided solidly with his thigh, and the crowd—Moran’s team’s crowd—let out a collective gasp. Moran dropped his bat and stalked toward the mound, and John, pushing his mask off his face, scurried out quickly from behind the plate, getting in front of Moran, between Moran and Sherlock, giving Moran a gentle little shove to try to switch his trajectory away from Sherlock. Sherlock stood on the mound, watching and feeling a little bit smug, because he fancied he could sense Moriarty’s powerless fury radiating from the bullpen.
The umpire came out to tell Moran to move along. The crowd was shouting invectives now, booing loudly, so Sherlock wasn’t able to hear what it was that Moran said in Sherlock’s direction. Whatever it was, John moved so quickly in reaction that no one knew what he intended until he’d already delivered a solid punch to Moran’s jaw, least of all Moran himself, who reeled backward in shock. Sherlock blinked in surprise. He’d expected Moran to make a bit of a fuss, but he had not expected a fight.
And that was what it was, because after a moment of stunned reaction, Moran ran at John and then the dugouts emptied, and Sherlock found his entire team rushing from the playing field behind him toward the tangle of John and Moran.
“Sodding hell,” muttered Sherlock, because he really hadn’t meant to cause that. He went to head into the melee, because he needed to get John out of it, but found himself cut off by Moriarty. “Ah,” he said. “Have the bullpens joined in, too?”
Moriarty was breathing hard, and he looked more furious than Sherlock had ever seen him. He stepped close to Sherlock, exhaling sharp, jagged breaths through his teeth. “That was a mistake,” he said, quietly.
“Was it?” asked Sherlock.
“That was a mistake!” Moriarty shouted, loudly enough that a few of the players nearest them looked at them in surprise.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Sherlock responded, unflinchingly. “That sort of attack. Tends to burn the heart out of you. You don’t necessarily play fair after that. And isn’t that what you and I are doing? Playing a game? Just an extension of the game we play for a living?”
“Do you think I’m just going to let you get away with that?” Moriarty demanded.
“I think you should be grateful I didn’t throw at his head,” Sherlock replied, icily, and stepped away from Moriarty, walking away from him confidently. Moriarty wouldn’t come after him in the open. Moriarty didn’t like to get his hands dirty.
The fight had mostly broken up. The umpiring team was in the middle of it, pulling players off each other. John and Moran were being physically held apart from each other. John was breathing hard and looked a mess, blood trickling from his lip, and he and Moran were still glowering hatefully at each other.
The umpire in between John and Moran looked at Sherlock as he stepped through the crowd and made the universal motion for tossing him out of the game, which Sherlock had expected. “You two, too,” he said to John and Moran.
John shook off the players who’d been holding him back, snapped out, “Fine,” and stalked to the dugout.
Lestrade was standing on the edge staring at the two of them in angry disbelief. “Are you guys serious? Like we don’t need you? It’s October baseball, and you get into a fight?”
“Sod off, Lestrade,” said John, and knocked over a few bats on his way through the dugout to the clubhouse.
Lestrade looked at Sherlock in surprise that turned to disapproval. “And you threw right at him. What got into you? Could you have made it any more obvious?”
“I was sending a message,” Sherlock replied, shortly.
“A stupid message?”
“Like John said, sod off, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, and followed John into the clubhouse.
“What the hell, Sherlock,” John demanded as soon as Sherlock entered. He was standing in the middle of the clubhouse, hands on his hips. “What was that?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a fight like that. I was just going to throw at him.”
“Throw at Moran? Get us thrown out of the game? We’re going to be suspended. And it’s October. And I’m already on thin ice.”
“You weren’t supposed to punch him.” Sherlock peered down at John’s face, where a bruise was blooming on his cheek. “Look at you. You’re a mess. What were you doing?”
John scowled at him. “My job,” he answered, and Sherlock winced a little at having his words thrown back in his face like that. “You know it’s the catcher’s job to keep irate batters away from the pitcher.”
“Yes, I know that, and you were doing quite a good job of that without punching him.”
John dropped his eyes, looking somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. “I had to punch him.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What did he say about me?”
John shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sherlock sighed and dropped it. “Don’t worry about the suspensions.”
“Don’t worry about the suspensions.” John lifted his gaze again, glaring at Sherlock. “It’s October. How is this team supposed to win anything without either of us?”
“I’ve got the suspensions covered. Do you think I would have done that, and purposely jeopardized the postseason, if I didn’t have the suspensions covered?”
John stared. “How do you have the suspensions covered?”
“I’ve got everything covered, not just the suspensions. Come on, let’s go home. There’s nothing more we can do here, and you should get some ice on that cheek.” Sherlock turned and walked out of the clubhouse, confident that John would follow him.
He did. “What do you mean, you’ve got everything covered?”
“John, please don’t make me repeat myself; you know I find it tedious.”
“Sherlock.” John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm and forced him to stop walking. “Tell me. Tell me now or, I swear to God, I won’t go back to that hotel with you.”
Sherlock sighed and looked around them. “Not here. Come back to the hotel with me, and I’ll tell you there.”
“If you don’t tell me when we get there, I’ll leave.”
“Agreed,” said Sherlock.
John narrowed his eyes in suspicion but nodded once, and when Sherlock resumed walking and got into the car waiting to take them to the hotel, John followed and slid in behind him.
***
John sat on the room’s couch and Sherlock knelt on the floor between his legs and pressed ice to his cheek, and if anything made John suspicious, it was Sherlock’s solicitousness. He winced at the cold and the pressure, and Sherlock said, “How much does it hurt?” and John said, instead of replying, “Tell me.”
Sherlock sighed. “I’m going to have to start at the beginning.”
“How convenient for you, then, that we got thrown out of our baseball game early and have a lot of unexpected free time this evening.”
“Irene Adler was working with Moriarty.”
“She was?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not? People like Irene Adler generally don’t need anything other than some vague ideas about their best interest. Now, are you going to keep interrupting with unnecessary questions?”
“I should have punched you instead of Moran,” muttered John, darkly.
Sherlock ignored that. “I convinced Irene to work with me instead.”
“How?” John had no intention of stopping with the questions.
“Again, just a push about her best interest. In reality, she played both of us and got paid by both of us in the end, so it really was in her best interest.”
“Did you know about the drug test?” John demanded.
“No. Irene was supposed to tell me about Moriarty’s plan. She didn’t.”
“What a fabulous ally she turned out to be,” drawled John, sarcastically.
“But she did give me all the evidence I need to prove Moriarty tampered with your drug test. We’ll clear your name, first thing tomorrow.”
John stilled and watched Sherlock concentrate on the application of the ice, peering much more closely than necessary at John’s cheek. “Sherlock,” said John, slowly.
“I do hope you got in a few good shots at Moran,” commented Sherlock.
“If you use the evidence, Moriarty will go to the Commissioner with the gambling evidence.”
“Of course he will,” Sherlock rejoined, lightly.
“Sherlock, look at me,” John demanded.
Sherlock did, meeting his eyes. “John, it doesn’t matter.”
“No. It does matter,” John insisted, and he pushed Sherlock’s hand away from his cheek, the better to have this argument.
“It doesn’t,” Sherlock replied, firmly, pushing John’s arm away and putting the ice back on his cheek, “because of Mycroft.”
“Because of Mycroft?”
“Yes.” Sherlock was paying close attention to the ice again. “We are very much in Mycroft’s debt. And you know I hate to say that.”
“Why? What has Mycroft done?”
“Mycroft knows a lot about the Commissioner. A lot about the Commissioner.” Sherlock gave John a meaningful look.
“Enough to make the Commissioner look the other way when it comes to the gambling,” John realized. Sherlock said nothing, just adjusted the ice on John’s cheek, but John knew he was right. “Enough to make him look the other way when it comes to the fight tonight. We won’t be suspended, that’s why you threw at Moran.”
Sherlock said nothing again, removing the ice and readjusting the facecloth it was wrapped in.
“You’re going to blackmail the Commissioner of Baseball,” John concluded.
Sherlock replaced the ice. “Yes,” he confirmed, simply.
“I think you’ve gone mad.”
“I think it gets Moriarty out of baseball forever and it gets you and me nothing but a lack of punishment for things we don’t deserve to be punished for.”
“I did punch Moran tonight.”
“But I trust your judgment that he deserved it,” responded Sherlock, mildly.
“I’m not going to tell you what he said.”
“And I’m not going to pry about it. I will say thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“Doing your job. Above and beyond.”
John was silent for a moment. “Will it work? The blackmail.”
“Mycroft thinks so. And I’m letting Mycroft handle it. Mycroft knows all about blackmail.”
“You’re letting Mycroft handle it?”
“I’m learning delegation. Mycroft knows more about blackmail than I do, and you’re too important not to have the starting lineup behind you.”
John considered. He lifted his hand and loosely circled Sherlock’s wrist next to his face, near the ice on his throbbing cheek. He looked at Sherlock, who looked back at him, his moonbeam eyes hard and glittering with determination. Sherlock, who had been ready to get thrown out of baseball in order to clear John’s name. Sherlock, who didn’t have to because he was instead going to resort to blackmail to do it. Going to resort to asking his brother for help to do it. And John Watson had been in baseball long enough to understand that sometimes you played by the rules and sometimes war was declared. Which was what Moriarty had done long ago. Which was what Moran had confirmed that night.
“Thank you,” he said, finally.
“For what?”
“Doing your job. Above and beyond.”
Sherlock flickered a smile at him. “It was much easier having a drug addiction, you know.”
“Shut up,” said John, and pulled him in for a kiss. Yes, his lips were a bit tender and swollen from one of Moran’s more successful punches, and his cheekbone hurt like hell, but the kiss was still worth it.
***
Sherlock woke to John curled up next to him, head cushioned on his shoulder and arm thrown possessively over his chest, feet and ankles intertwined, and he spent a little while watching the sunlight creep progressively further into the room and listening to the flutter of John’s breaths against him. This was how he started most mornings. He wondered if John knew how much time he spent simply laying against him, marveling at how deeply he slept, at how much trust was involved in that action on John’s part. Eventually, when he deemed that it was late enough that his day should get started, he slid out of the bed without waking John, a maneuver he’d perfected, and went into the bathroom to get dressed.
When he was done getting himself ready to face the day, he walked into the hotel suite’s living room, sprawled on the sofa, looked at the ceiling, and commenced waiting until John woke up and got them tea or coffee.
Then there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated in, “Yoo-hoo! Are you up yet, boys?”
Sherlock scowled and rolled himself off the sofa and went and opened the door. “Shh,” he scolded. “John is still sleeping.”
“Oh. Sorry,” said Mrs. Hudson, looking unconcerned about how dire an issue that was for Sherlock. “Have you seen this? I know you’re not the best at looking over the news, and I know John’s a late sleeper sometimes—”
Sherlock took the newspaper section Mrs. Hudson was holding out at him and read the headline. And then read it again. And then he read the whole story. “Wait,” he said. “But...” Which was very unlike him, to start a thought and not finish it. “Mycroft,” he decided, grimly, and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” and went back into the hotel room and closed the door.
And then he rang Mycroft, who answered with a bland, “Something wrong?”
“What is this?” Sherlock hissed, trying to keep his voice down for John’s benefit. “John’s been cleared of all accusations? The Commissioner’s suspended Moriarty indefinitely, pending further investigation? Given the circumstances, the Commissioner has declined to issue any further suspensions, including for the fight last night?”
“I thought that was your Christmas wish list,” remarked Mycroft, dryly.
“You did all this last night?” Sherlock demanded. “Without consulting me?”
“What was there to consult about? I thought we were both settled on the plan.”
“The plan wasn’t to—” Sherlock cut himself off as John came out of the bedroom, sleep-mussed and yawning, and Sherlock sent him a tight smile that he hoped look like good morning as John wandered into the kitchen area of the suite. Sherlock turned his back to the kitchen and spoke in low tones into the mobile. “The plan wasn’t yours to run off pell-mell and do as you wished.”
“You left me no choice. Your little stunt last night tipped our hand to Moriarty. You’d never have done something like that if you weren’t feeling confident. I had to hit him before he’d had a chance to regroup.”
“But,” sputtered Sherlock, and John called from the kitchen, “Sherlock! Tea or coffee?” “I don’t care!” Sherlock called back to him.
“Sherlock,” inserted Mycroft’s infuriatingly calm tones. “This is everything you wanted. I am handing it to you on a silver platter. No strings attached. You’re feeling uneasy because you’re not used to that, I’m aware. But consider it my penance for not being as quick about John as I should have been. Now. Enjoy the rest of your day. Enjoy the rest of your season.”
Mycroft hung up. Sherlock sat with a mobile pressed to his ear with no one on the other end, staring unseeingly out the window and trying to comprehend what had just happened. Maybe his brother had been kidnapped and replaced with a robot. A nice robot.
“That must have been Mycroft,” said John, from behind him.
Sherlock put the mobile down and turned. John was leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “What makes you say that?”
“Only Mycroft could put you in such a terrible mood so early in the morning,” John commented. “You’re not the only one who can deduce.”
Sherlock allowed John’s point and leaned over to hand John the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had brought. He watched John read it through once quickly and then again more slowly, his eyebrows furrowing together.
“I…” John looked up at him. “When did you do this?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mycroft did,” John realized.
“As I somewhat requested,” Sherlock agreed. “I was supposed to be a bit more involved, but…yes.”
John glanced at the newspaper again, then back up at Sherlock. “Wait. Does that mean it’s over?”
Sherlock hesitated, and then said something he hated to say. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, doesn’t it seem too easy to you?”
John looked over his shoulder into the kitchen, checking on the progress of whatever morning beverage he’d chosen to make, and then he walked over to Sherlock and said, “It was an elaborate blackmail scheme that involved a months-long game of double-cross. You think that was easy?”
Sherlock was mainly thinking that, if he’d asked Mycroft for help years ago then Moriarty would have been neutralized years ago, would never have done anything at all to John, but Sherlock hadn’t asked Mycroft for help, and instead he’d made a huge mess and then he’d dragged John right into the middle of it. He licked his lips and opened his mouth and wondered what he was going to say.
John shook his head and said, “No,” before Sherlock could say anything at all. “It is October 3,” he said. “It is the first day of the rest of our lives. No more what-ifs. Because we got the best what-if we could have hoped for.”
Sherlock hesitated for another second before nodding, and John looked satisfied and kissed the tip of his nose before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Sherlock pushed aside the nagging suspicion that Moriarty would not fade so easily into the background. “What did you make?” he asked, striving for normality. “Coffee or tea?”
“Green tea. We’re going to have green tea every morning of the postseason.”
Sherlock made his ugh noise. “I think I hate October,” he said.
***
They ran into Lestrade on their way into the field, and he said, without preamble, “This is a mess. I’m calling a team meeting.”
“The good news is Sherlock and I aren’t suspended,” said John, brightly.
“The bad news is that you look like a boxer, not a baseball player, so there’s no way you’re playing at a hundred percent.” John privately admitted that was true; he hurt all over from the fight. “And oh, yeah, there’s that little detail of we no longer have a closer.”
“He was always a stupid closer,” said Sherlock. “I told you not to trade for him.”
“Not helping right now, Sherlock,” Lestrade told him between gritted teeth.
“I find it always helps to acknowledge that I’m usually right. We could have saved ourselves all this boring drama.”
Lestrade looked as if he might murder Sherlock, and then his team would be down a closer and their ace, so John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm and said, “Maybe not the best time to gloat. Maybe we should wait until after we win the World Series.”
“Then the two of you can write some sort of bestselling memoir,” complained Lestrade, throwing his arms about in frustration. “How We Were Gay and Always Right.”
“Good title,” said Sherlock, blandly.
“Oh, and why am I now getting reports from your brother about Moriarty’s whereabouts? Why is he tracking Moriarty?”
“He’s tracking Moriarty because he is a bit clever,” said Sherlock. “Although I don’t know why he’s giving the reports to you and not me. Where is Moriarty?”
“New York City, apparently. Meeting with counsel about what to do about everything. It’s bad. Drug test tampering and gambling and—”
“I want to make a note that this would be another perfect opportunity to say I told you so,” inserted Sherlock.
“Team meeting time,” announced Lestrade, and turned on his heel to march into the clubhouse.
“Maybe a bit less smugness, love,” John commented, under his breath, with no hope that Sherlock was going to listen to him.
The clubhouse was buzzing with gossip, and John guessed that all of it was pertaining to the Commissioner’s overnight rulings, especially since the room went deathly quiet as soon as he and Sherlock walked in.
Lestrade didn’t really acknowledge the fight the night before or John’s overturned drug test. He just launched into, “It’s the beginning of October, we’ve got a postseason to win, and we don’t have a closer.” He lifted his hands, palms up, as if pushing ideas toward his team. “I am open to suggestions.”
John felt everyone in the room look at him. He blinked, startled, and looked at Sherlock instead. Why was everyone looking at him? Sherlock was the one who had ideas.
Sherlock looked as if he were reading John’s thoughts. And he still looked incredibly smug. He turned away from John and said, “I can close.”
“We need you to start,” Lestrade said, dismissively.
“I can do both.”
“You can’t do both.”
“For a few weeks in October? Yes. I can do both.” Sherlock was sounding annoyed now.
“Stop it,” said John. “You’d just be showing off, and you’d ruin your arm in the process. The human arm isn’t supposed to throw overhand at all, you know, it’s not made that way. Halfway through you’d end up throwing the last pitch you’d ever throw in your life.”
“So?” retorted Sherlock. “You know it doesn’t matter to me—”
“First of all, it matters to me. And second of all, you wouldn’t make it far enough to get to the World Series, not unless every game was a blow-out and we never needed a closer.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say more but John lifted a hand to shut him up. “Next idea,” he said, firmly, and Sherlock radiated sulky displeasure but he did shut up. “We don’t necessarily need a closer.”
“You’re anticipating that the games won’t be close for the next month?” asked Lestrade.
“I say that we can hope for that, but that, even if they are, we can rotate through pitchers. We’ve got enough of them.” John looked at his knot of relief pitchers and didn’t feel overly confident about any of them, but thought they could piece things together. “We can all help out. We won’t have a designated closer. We’ll just have the pitcher who feels the best on the day.”
“The starters can help, too,” contributed Cadogan West, and John looked at him in surprise because West wasn’t usually the best team player. West looked sheepish enough that John knew he was aware of that reputation, but West also looked firm. The fact of postseason baseball often changed motivations. West seemed to be aware that they were actually not out of reach of a World Series and was willing to step up in reaction. “I mean, we can’t pitch every day,” West continued, “that would be a terrible idea, but we can join in every so often.”
“Yes,” Mike Ryan agreed, firmly. “We can piece it together.”
“Good,” said John. “Then that’s settled.” John looked at Lestrade. “Anything else?”
Lestrade looked at the team. There was a pregnant pause because, actually, a lot had happened to this team and there was a lot to discuss, but, again, it was October, and the moment passed and no one said anything, not even Anderson, and Lestrade said, “Okay, then that’s it.”
The buzz of conversation started up in the clubhouse again, a bit more subdued than it had been before the meeting, and Lestrade looked over at John. “You think we can win the World Series without a closer?”
John thought they didn’t have a choice. But what John said was much more positive. He said, confidently, “Yes.” He was going to will it to be so. He’d gotten them this far on what felt like sheer force of will; he wasn’t going to give up at this point.
Next Chapter
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Date: 2013-09-10 02:45 am (UTC)Love, love, love this, especially all the pitchers coming together- I am sad that there are only 3 more chapters of this, but I can't wait to read them!
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Date: 2013-09-10 07:09 am (UTC)GO MYCROFT!!!!
But I just KNOW Moriarty has another card up his sleeve - he's not going to give up this easy.
*is nervous*
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Date: 2013-09-26 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-09-10 12:27 pm (UTC)Though I am like Sherlock and I am a bit wary. This was all wrapped up too nicely. I'm sure Sherlock's plan wasn unnecessarily complicated and probably had something to do with helecopters, a duck, four cups of tea, and the baseball hall of fame. Anyway, I would not be surprised if Moriarty gives one last ditch attempt ... but there are only 3 chapters left...
OH CRAP! ONLY THREE CHAPTERS! That's far too many chapters left for Moriarty to do some damage and it's far to close to this fic being over. :O
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Date: 2013-09-26 03:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-10 12:44 pm (UTC)"“Sherlock,” inserted Mycroft’s infuriatingly calm tones. “This is everything you wanted. I am handing it to you on a silver platter. No strings attached. You’re feeling uneasy because you’re not used to that, I’m aware. But consider it my penance for not being as quick about John as I should have been. Now. Enjoy the rest of your day. Enjoy the rest of your season.”"
and this ~
"This was how he started most mornings. He wondered if John knew how much time he spent simply laying against him, marveling at how deeply he slept, at how much trust was involved in that action on John’s part."
Oh and lots of other things, too, especially the fight! *grin*
And although it seems Moriarty is beaten, there's always that last little bit of doubt that he'll come back with something even more cunning . . .
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Date: 2013-09-26 03:48 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-09-10 10:59 pm (UTC)And the team, standing together as a unit, to get that World Series! \o/
I'm still a little wary about Moriarty, and although I know there are only three chapters left, well... you can move a story really quick *laughs*
Fantastic chapter, as always :D
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Date: 2013-09-26 04:03 am (UTC)And yes, I wanted the whole baseball-is-a-team-sport thing to really fall into place here. I tend to align with John's vision of baseball, and I wanted him to win.
Glad you enjoyed! :-)
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Date: 2013-09-11 11:52 pm (UTC)Wrong person, wrong body part. You must aim at Moriarty, Sherlock. In the head. (I'm sorry but this man gives me homicidal thoughts. It's all your fault anyway.)
getting in front of Moran, between Moran and Sherlock, giving Moran a gentle little shove to try to switch his trajectory away from Sherlock
Yay for protective!John!
he fancied he could sense Moriarty’s powerless fury radiating from the bullpen.
Excellent. It serves him right.
John moved so quickly in reaction that no one knew what he intended until he’d already delivered a solid punch to Moran’s jaw
NEVER lash out against Sherlock in front of John. Just ask the Chief Superintendant. Also, I wonder what Moran said. Well, I can imagine. Maybe...*gasps* Maybe he said Sherlock's hair was not pretty. Kill him, John! :D
Sherlock found his entire team rushing from the playing field behind him toward the tangle of John and Moran.
Everybody loves John. I wonder if the team would have been so willing to help if it had been Sherlock. :D
He went to head into the melee, because he needed to get John out of it
They protect each other in turns, endlessly.
“I had to punch him.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What did he say about me?”
I like that Sherlock knows Moran said something about him, that John wouldn't have been so angry if Moran had said something about John.
Sherlock turned and walked out of the clubhouse, confident that John would follow him.
He did.
Well that was unexpected. :D
“I should have punched you instead of Moran,” muttered John, darkly.
But he would have avoided his nose and teeth too.
Mycroft knows all about blackmail.
I'm certain it's a kind of compliment.
This was how he started most mornings. He wondered if John knew how much time he spent simply laying against him, marveling at how deeply he slept, at how much trust was involved in that action on John’s part.
Aww. *sighs happily*
When he was done getting himself ready to face the day, he walked into the hotel suite’s living room, sprawled on the sofa, looked at the ceiling, and commenced waiting until John woke up and got them tea or coffee.
Sherlock, you big lazybones.
But consider it my penance for not being as quick about John as I should have been.
Has he just... Has he just admitted he was wrong? Wow.
“Well, doesn’t it seem too easy to you?”
There are three chapters to come yet. Which can mean anything. *looks at you nervously*
“Green tea. We’re going to have green tea every morning of the postseason.”
Sherlock made his ugh noise. “I think I hate October,” he said.
JOHN: We're also going to have sex every morning. Just to be sure.
SHERLOCK: I think I love October.
“How We Were Gay and Always Right.”
Sherlock insisted on adding a subhead: "Especially Me."
Oh, and why am I now getting reports from your brother about Moriarty’s whereabouts?
BECAUSE OF MYSTRADE! :D (I mean, please.)
Sherlock radiated sulky displeasure
*giggles* I love this expression. Very Sherlock.
“The starters can help, too,” contributed Cadogan West
Oh, so that's why he goes cycling so often? He wants to stay in shape!
I hope you won't mind if the post important thing I'll remember from this chapter is the fact that I was right to love your Mycroft and that it's now obvious that in the end he and Greg will be madly in love with each other. What do you mean, "Wishful thinking"? :D
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Date: 2013-09-27 04:11 am (UTC)BUT WHO COULD EVER THINK SHERLOCK'S HAIR WASN'T PRETTY?
I had exactly that Chief Superintendent scene in mind when I wrote this.
Teams do tend to go to bat for each other in these circumstances. I think Sherlock's team would have showed up on his behalf. But I think they were really into it for John.
Sherlock is very aware that he is John's most vulnerable point. Mainly because he knows that John is his.
Yup. John definitely did not avoid Moran's nose and teeth. ;-)
It's the nicest thing Sherlock's ever said about Mycroft!
John loves him, even though he's the laziest person in the universe.
OMG THAT SUBHEAD.
I left that interpretation open for all of you Mystraders out there. ;-)
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Date: 2013-09-13 03:56 am (UTC)btw, when Benedict said here that Sherlock is quite a good driver but not a sensible one, I immediately thought of your Sherlock in his Aston Martin. :D
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Date: 2013-10-01 04:09 am (UTC)And I'm glad you've enjoyed this fic so much! :-)