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11 February, 2014
Rosa Khutor Plateau Olympic Village
Krasnaya Polyana, Sochi, Russia
Wintry morning sunlight cut a sharp path through the wide balcony windows. John snuffled and yawned beneath the bedcovers, turning away from the irritating brightness and stretching into a comfortable sprawl. His head throbbed and his muscles ached, and it was far too early to be woken by-
John pushed himself up onto his forearms and squinted in confusion. Sun waking him? He looked to the window, where the blinding rays of the sun were just cresting over the mountainside. Fresh snow speckled the treetops beneath a dazzling blue sky. Another perfect day for Olympic competition at the Sochi mountain cluster.
The problem was that John’s room in the athlete’s village faced west, not east.
He rubbed at his eyes, blinking away the blurriness, and confirmed he was definitely in one of the snug accommodation rooms meant to sleep two Olympic athletes. The bed against the opposite wall was orderly and empty, its owner absent as well. Stacks of books and clustered bags overflowing with gloves and water bottles and other athletic gear were piled around the room. A dark blue insulated coat hung loosely on a hook on the wall. John recognized it instantly as part of the standard outfit worn by the members of Team GB at the opening ceremony last week; he had one of his own, after all.
A plastic medicine bottle, his phone, and a folded piece of paper had been left on the bedside table. John picked up the note and opened it.
Good morning, John.
Apologies for leaving so soon, but conditions are excellent and the track was calling me.
I left paracetamol for the headache, although it wouldn't surprise me if you didn’t need it. As drunk as you were, you insisted on a glass of water between each round.
SH
P.S. - If you want it back, you'll need to come and find me.
John puzzled over the note a few more times until his head was pulsing badly enough to make reading all but impossible. He opened the bottle of paracetamol and took two pills, then sank into the pillow again and combed his brain for the identity of a female athlete with the initials ‘SH’. He didn’t know everyone in the British delegation, but perhaps somewhere along the way he had met the mystery woman with whom he’d apparently spent the night.
She smelled nice, whomever she was. The evidence was alive in the sheets. John inhaled deeply. God, he wished he could remember.
The creak of the door pulled him from his fantasizing, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a pretty young woman with long brown hair edging in through the door. She wore a heavy ski coat and carried a Team GB gear bag.
When she noticed John lying in the bed, she stilled. Her eyebrows drew together and her expression descended into deep shock. “Oh,” she whispered.
John sat up on his elbows. “Are you…?”
“Molly Hooper.” She tossed her coat onto the other bed and dropped her bag at the foot of it, confirming that she wasn’t John’s ‘SH’. “Luge,” she added, answering the standard unspoken question whenever two athletes met around the village.
“Ah. Hello,” John said, rather awkwardly.
Molly looked mightily disheveled herself, wearing the rumpled dregs of last night’s clothing beneath her coat. She was obviously on the last leg of the walk of shame. John knew it well. He’d be doing his own, soon enough.
“You’re John Watson, aren’t you?” Molly asked, watching him with an odd sidelong glance.
John sat up. Cool air hit the bare skin of his back as warmth gathered in his face. “How do you know who I am?”
“You were all over the telly last night, with your enormous upset in biathlon and your silver medal,” Molly said. “The BBC’s covered you almost non-stop.”
“Oh. Right.”
John massaged his forehead. He had nearly forgotten about his win the day before, and the subsequent rush of cameras and interviewers and the dizzying blur of the medal ceremony. He’d placed forty-seventh in the 10km Sprint and nearly everyone had counted him out as a serious contender for the Pursuit, but there he had been, having the best race of his life against a world-class field of cross-country skiers and shooters. Even Greg had been surprised, he himself coming in at a respectable thirty-third. It was still odd to think about the new permanent addendum to his name: John Watson, Olympic silver-medalist.
Molly worried the fabric of her thick jumper between her fingers. “Were you here with Sherlock?” she asked, sounding hesitant.
John frowned briefly. Sherlock? Strange name, for a girl. “I think so. She left a note saying she’s at the track. Could you tell me which sport?”
Molly blinked. “He is competing in skeleton,” she said, quite carefully, “so he’s probably at the sliding center.”
John’s throat went dry. “He?”
“Yeah.”
He.
He.
Shit.
“Did you sleep with him?” Molly ventured. Her brown eyes were wide with inquisitiveness.
John stared at her in shock for a long moment and then lifted his covers. He was dressed only in his boxer briefs. “Might have done,” he said hoarsely, looking up.
“You don’t remember?”
“My memory isn’t so good when I’m drunk. Are you his girlfriend?”
Molly blushed. “No.”
“But you’re rooming together,” John pointed out. “They don’t just mix male and female athletes.”
“His brother is a member of the British Olympic Association. The standard rules don’t apply to Sherlock. And I don’t think anyone else was willing.”
John attempted to process everything. He’d gone home with a man? He wasn’t… that is to say, he’d never seriously considered… I mean, most blokes go through phases of curiosity, right? He’d never acted on anything, though. Never met anyone who’d convinced him to…
“You really don’t remember anything?” Molly asked.
John shook his head weakly. “The alcohol goes straight to my head. Always has. I remember going to the bar at the Radisson and waiting there. I was supposed to meet my roommate Greg and a few others to celebrate.”
Molly nodded. “I think I know what happened,” she said, fishing into her athletic bag. “At least at the beginning.”
She brought out her phone and swiped through a few screens. Molly turned it around and showed it to John.
“I was so excited,” she explained as she handed over the phone. “About your win.”
The first text was a blurry photo over a crowded room of people. It was nearly impossible to discern anyone's features, although the chic florescent lighting and decorative bottles of alcohol stood out prominently. John recognized the hotel bar from the evening prior.
That man from the telly is here.
SH
Which one?? Where are you?
Bar. Can’t you tell?
SH
The man you were shouting about earlier.
SH
Sherlock, why are you at the bar? You’ve got to be up early for practice runs tomorrow!
Bored. Observing people.
SH
Are you talking about John Watson? The biathlete? He’s there?
Can’t you see him?
SH
I can’t see anyone in that picture. Get a closer shot. And hold your phone steady.
The next text was another picture, although this time it was centered on a blond man in a brown sport jacket and jeans sat on a stool with his back to the counter. John held a short glass in one hand, nearly empty but for a tiny amount of brown liquor in the bottom, and seemed to be gazing out over the crowd with a deliriously happy expression.
THAT’S HIM!! :)
No need to shout, Molly.
SH
Sherlock you MUST get his autograph! And a picture! PLEASE!!!
It’s just biathlon.
SH
It’s history!
Boring.
SH
Come on, Sherlock. For me??
Sherlock sent her another series of pictures, this time from extraordinarily close up. He’d obviously engaged John in conversation because John’s mouth was open and moving in most of the shots. He was flushed and a little glassy-eyed with a fresh drink in hand, the glint of his silver medal peeking out beneath his jacket. In every picture, John was staring up at Sherlock instead of at the phone's camera, but the last one was utterly damning. Licking his lips and smiling, John leaned against the edge of the bar with his legs angled wide, suggestive and inviting.
Ooh, he’s cute! I bet they’ve got loads of endurance, those biathletes ;)
Sherlock?
Sherlock, are you still there? Did you get the autograph?
Sherlock!
SHERLOCK!
Busy.
SH
Oh. All right. I think I’m going out, myself.
Have some fun at least, won’t you?
That won’t be a problem.
SH
That was the last of the texts. John handed the phone back to Molly.
“Nothing coming back?” Molly asked.
“Nope.”
Molly picked up the note Sherlock had left and read through it, then glanced up. “If you want it back. What does that mean?”
“No idea," John said, shrugging. "My phone is right here and I don’t have anything else worth taking. I--”
It hit him, suddenly, and John froze for a terrifying moment before leaping out of the bed. He tore through the items all around Sherlock’s side of the room. John located his clothing, the brown jacket and button-down and jeans, in a crumpled pile on the floor.
“Are you missing something?” Molly asked.
“My medal. My silver medal,” John muttered as he ripped through the wad of clothes. “I was wearing it last night after the ceremony, it’s why I was out celebrating -- oh, God." John straightened as he realized it was nowhere to be found. He looked over at Molly. "That bastard took it.”
“Sounds like him,” Molly replied pensively. “Sherlock loves his games.”
"I need to find him," John said. "I need to get it back."
"I know the way to the sliding center. I'll take you," she offered.
John got dressed while Molly freshened up in the communal showers. It turned out she had competed in the Women's Singles event in luge the day before, but hadn't made it to the finals. John presumed that's why she had spent the night drinking and cavorting out in the bars. She was mum as to whom she had gone home with, and John didn't ask.
They left Molly and Sherlock's room and made their way toward the lift, John dressed shabbily in his wrinkled clothes from the night before and wearing Sherlock's Team GB coat over his jacket (he had no idea where his coat had got to). John stewed over his mobile as they walked until something caught his notice.
"Look at this," John said, stopping in the middle of the hall as he stared at his phone's screen. Molly came over to look at it too. "I was just about to text my roommate Greg. He's busy preparing for the Men's Individual so I wasn't expecting a response, but it looks like he texted me last night."
John, mate, you here?
We've searched the entire bar and the lobby too. Thought we were to meet at the Radisson?
Bartender says he saw you earlier. Did you leave with someone?
John? Are you all right?
Checking the other hotels. Where are you?
Please text one of us.
John! This isn't funny, mate.
Stop texting. It's quite annoying.
SH
Who the hell are you? Where's John?
John is perfectly fine. He's with me.
SH
Who are you and why do you have his phone?
Sherlock Holmes. John is too drunk to text properly, so I've taken the tedious task upon myself.
SH
Is he all right??
I already told you he's fine.
SH
Stop calling.
SH
Let me speak with John or I'm contacting the police.
By all means. I'm sure the Russian police will respond with the same attentiveness and efficiency as the construction workers who installed non-functional toilets in the men's loo of my floor.
SH
There are two sport rifles in my room. I'll take care of this myself if I must.
Standby. John wants to send you a video.
SH
Got it?
SH
Yeah.
Just be nice to him, all right? It's his night.
Obviously.
SH
"Is it still on your phone?" Molly asked once she'd finished reading the texts.
John looked at her. "What?"
"The video. It would still be on your phone, wouldn't it?"
"Maybe," John said, flicking through the apps with his thumb until he found the proper one. Inside, there was a small dark thumbnail of a video that looked as though it had been filmed at night. John pressed on it, and it began to play.
Taken by the smart phone, the video was grainy and poorly lit, but in the backdrop John could clearly hear rustling and chuckling against the distant rushing of the Mzymta river. Blurry orange orbs of streetlamps glowed in the background.
The camera pointed down at the reddish bricks of the promenade along the riverfront. The shot framed the tops of two pairs of shoes: John's brown leather beside sleek, unfamiliar black ones.
"Is it on?" came John's voice, drunkenly slurred and highly amused.
"Yes, go ahead," answered a deeper male voice.
"Give it here," John said, and the phone was lifted to show John. His hair was mussed and his eyes unfocused, but he wore an enormous grin. "Greg, sorry. Sorry, mate, I left. I know I did, I'm sorry," he rambled. "But, uh, yes, I made an interesting friend. Sherlock is here with me and we're going on an adventure. Here he is, you see?"
The camera turned, and for the first time John got a glimpse of the stranger whose bed he'd woken in. By the tilt, Sherlock was taller than him, and even with the poor video quality his long angular features were brought to spectacular contrast in the street lights of Rosa Khutor. He wore a dark coat with a popped-up collar and had a magnificent head of dark curly hair. A half-smirk touched his lips as John filmed him.
"He does skeleton, did you know?" John continued narrating in the video. "Isn't that impressive? Takes nerves of steel, sliding down that track head-first at one hundred kilometers per hour. Blimey. And he's a genius, too. He knew all about Afghanistan and why I shoot with my right arm instead of my left and why I wear ear plugs during competitions. The gunfire. He knew about that and I didn't even tell him, Greg, I swear it!"
"I'm not a stalker or anything," Sherlock said to the camera. "I didn't even know who John was until I saw the medal. There's no need to come round with guns blazing."
"Sherlock's going to show me the lights," John added. "The resort lights. I haven't had time to look. It's beautiful here at night and I never looked."
"You were busy training," Sherlock pointed out.
John snorted. "And what were you doing?"
"I'm a genius, John. My natural ability allows for certain affordances."
"Well, Mr. Genius, we're going to look at the lights, and then I'm going to get you good and drunk and then you'll be just as impaired as the rest of us."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That may be an achievement beyond the reach of even my considerable talents."
"That... what?"
"Nevermind, John," he said with an warm smile. "Now let's send this thing before your roommate thinks I've murdered you."
"Does that happen often?" John inquired.
"On occasion."
They both broke out into a fit of giggling as the video ended. John looked over at Molly.
"Oh my God," Molly said, stifling a grin. "I've never seen him like that."
"Like what? He wasn't doing anything," John replied as they started off down the hall again.
"We've been training partners for three years, even though I do luge and he does skeleton," Molly explained. "No one else will have him. He's not a people person, John. Him and the ice, that's what it's always been. That," she said, pointing at John's phone, "was a different Sherlock to the one I've known. He seemed... happy. So did you, in fact."
John rubbed at his forehead. "I think I need a coffee."
Thankfully, downstairs in the lobby was a small coffee stand run by a harried-looking older woman who seemed to be recovering from the morning's rush of athletes leaving to train. She glanced at John's rumpled clothes and tired expression briefly before shooting Molly a congratulatory smile. Finding athlete's rendezvousing in each other's rooms was all-too-common in the village, but John didn't have it in him to protest her assumption. He ordered a drip coffee, black.
As the barista prepared the coffee, a mounted television on the wall behind the espresso machine caught John's attention. The volume was low and the presenter spoke in Russian, but it seemed to be a news program detailing the overnight stories.
"Molly," John said, nudging her with his elbow. "Molly, look at that."
"Oh dear," she replied as she saw what John was staring at.
The news program cut to an interviewer speaking with a few people out on the promenade of the resort. They spoke in rapid Russian, telling a story with animated body movements and shocked expressions. Mobile phone footage began to roll as the interview continued. Two alarmingly familiar figures could be seen distantly across the resort plaza as they confronted a group of other people. The body language of everyone involved was tense and hostile.
"Sorry, what's he saying? I don't speak Russian," John said to the barista as she placed his coffee on the counter.
She turned to the television for a few moments, nodding lightly as she listened to the news report. "This woman was a victim of an assault and theft by a group of young men," she told John. "Two men came to help her, she says. They spoke with her and very soon located the ones who had committed the crime, even though she did not see their faces. She says they knew the criminals by their shoelaces. The presenter says this is foolish, but there is a video from witnesses to say otherwise."
The fuzzy phone footage showed a scuffle erupting between the parties in question, but it appeared the larger group wasn't prepared for the coordinated response of the duo in front of them. Fists flew and people toppled to the brick, writhing in pain.
"Three of the thieves received broken bones," the barista translated. "They say the men laughed like devils as they did it, but they returned the woman's belongings to her."
The footage shook violently as the witness holding the camera ran closer, but by the time they got close enough the two do-gooders were already departing at a rapid pace. The camera managed to catch the flare of a long coat and a flash of silver ignited in the streetlight as they hurried away.
"The presenter says the vigilantes are wanted for questioning by the police," the woman continued. "Citizens are to call and give information if they know anything."
John stared at her. "Wanted for questioning?"
"Do you not see the pictures? They are sick men."
John laughed in disbelief. "But they helped that woman!" he said, pointing at the telly.
She shrugged. "Tell that to the police."
John collected his coffee and joined up with Molly to head toward the front entrance. "Christ, this is getting madder by the minute," he said in a low voice. "Apparently a tour of the village wasn't enough. Now we're a pair of ridiculous crime-stoppers."
"I'm so sorry that you got wrapped up in this, John," Molly said. "Sherlock must've got you involved in all that. He loves a good mystery and has a talent for provoking others. And a strange sense of humor."
John stopped walking. "Sherlock? I thought--"
"What?"
"It just sounds like the sort of stupid thing I would do," John told her. "Picking a fight with a gang of lowlifes. Especially if they were harassing someone. I've been known to get over-involved against my better judgment, drunk or not."
Molly tilted her head. "Is that so?"
"What of it?"
"I think I know why Sherlock was so keen to ignore my texts."
A growing crowd of onlookers was swarming the Sanki Sliding Center as midday approached. Practice runs were well under way when Molly and John escaped the bright sunlight beneath the geometric struts of the grandstand lining the end of the course.
The track itself formed a long sinuous imprint on the mountainside, stretching over 1300 meters from the highest launch point to the end. Several display monitors were set up to show footage of the ongoing runs to the waiting crowd. Molly checked with one of the officials and determined that Sherlock was somewhere at the top of the course still waiting for his turn.
"Is it always this packed?" John asked Molly as an Italian luger rumbled to a stop in front of the crowd, his steel sled precariously thin to John's eyes. Dozens of shouts erupted as the luger lifted his visor and checked his practice time.
"This is nothing," Molly replied over the din of cowbells and clapping. "For finals they seat over eleven thousand."
"Is Sherlock up soon?"
Molly nodded. "He was scheduled for an hour ago, but there was a bobsleigh crash earlier. They had to clear the track and it delayed everyone. He's been rather anxious to test the new ballast setup on the track here."
"Ballast?" John prompted.
"The sleds aren't allowed any handbrakes or steering mechanisms," she explained. "It's all leaning and pressure to steer it, but Sherlock likes to experiment with different designs and find the optimal balance. He's been experimenting with a new one for several months but it hasn't seen competition yet. He said he was going to test it on the track today and make his final decision for the actual event."
A female skeleton slider careened into the final stretch of track, outstretching her legs to drag her spiked shoes along the ice and slow her sled. Another round of cheers went up as she lifted off her stomach.
"He used to do luge, when he was young," Molly continued, "but he says sliding head-first gives him more of a rush."
"He's an adrenaline addict," John pointed out. "I know the feeling."
They watched as a two-man bobsleigh team took their turn, the massive composite body of the sleigh seeming to lumber down the curves in contrast to the more agile lugers and skeleton sliders. John was almost starting to relax and enjoy watching the athletes when someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder.
"John Watson?"
John and Molly both turned as another luger arrived safely. The crowd's roar of approval was lost to John's ears as he took in the dark suit, wired earpiece, and stern expression of the man who had spoken.
"Yes?" John asked.
The man motioned with one hand. "Come with me, please."
John glanced back at the monitors. "I'm sorry, I'm waiting to watch the practice runs."
"You're waiting to see Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yes, how did-"
"There's plenty of time," said the man in the suit. His tone indicated that John was trying his patience. "He's not up for another nine runs."
How the hell did he know the order? Not even Molly had been able to find that out. John frowned. "I'm quite busy, at the moment. Perhaps later."
The man opened his jacket, just enough so that the hilt of the pistol strapped to his waist was visible. "Now, Dr. Watson."
The man in the suit escorted John through a set of secluded service doors of the sliding center. More serious-faced men were waiting at various junctions of the concrete hallways to join in the procession, radioing in their status over their earpieces. None sounded foreign, and as his security detail grew John began to wonder whether he had accidentally committed treason against his country while drunk the night before.
They ushered John into what appeared to be a converted custodial closet, a sleek dark desk placed in the very center where industrial-grade cleaning equipment might normally reside. Another suited man lounged behind the desk, although his expression was strategic and predatory and identified him as the man in charge. His hands were steepled thoughtfully in front of his mouth as John was brought inside and made to sit across from him.
"Who are you? What is this? I haven't done anything," John demanded.
"Mycroft Holmes," the man replied ever so calmly, lowering his arched fingers. "Vice-Chairman of the British Olympic Association. And you've done quite enough in the last twenty-four hours, Dr. Watson."
John raised an eyebrow. "The Olympic Association? You mean about my second-place finish yesterday? If this is about drugs testing, I already told the media I wasn't doping-"
"No, not your remarkable performance in your event," Mycroft interrupted with the wave of a hand. "Rest assured we're convinced you were not on any performance-enhancing drugs. No, this is a far more serious issue. I want to know what your game is."
John tilted his head in confusion. "Pardon? My game?"
Mycroft nodded, his eyes cold and serious. "What it is you want with my brother."
"Sherlock is your brother."
"That's right."
John stiffened in his seat. "We have a personal matter that needs settling."
"Is that so?" Mycroft asked softly. "And what, precisely, is the nature of this 'personal matter'?"
"Listen, the only game I've come to compete in is biathlon, and as I've already won a silver medal I see no reason to participate in any others." John stood and crossed his arms. "If you want to make an accusation then get on with it, or else I will be obliged to get back to the track."
Mycroft watched him carefully, no hint of a response surfacing on his face. After a moment he leaned over and opened a folder on his desk. "Affected recall," he said, eyes shifting up to glance at John. "It's mentioned here in your medical profile. Do you really not remember anything?"
John's left hand automatically clenched into a fist. "No," he said tightly.
"You don't remember my brother."
"No."
"Shall I enlighten you?"
He said it so softly, a veiled threat behind placid words. John got the distinct feeling he was in deep, and only swimming deeper, but intimidation tactics had never put him off so easily.
Curiosity grown too strong, John nodded his assent. Almost instantly an enormous projected image blinked into existence on the concrete wall beside them. It was grainy, grey-toned CCTV footage, blown to a massive scale and showing a familiar-looking hallway. Cyrillic letters lined the bottom of the video.
"From the athlete's village," Mycroft narrated as the timer in the corner indicated the passage of time. "It took some greasing of the right palms to get it, but then this is Russia. Nothing is off-limits for the determined. No sound, I'm afraid, but I trust you'll understand."
It wasn't long before two people emerged in the frame. They were dark blobs at first, stumbling and lurching arm in arm down the hall, until they were close enough and John made out a long dark coat and head of messy hair. Sherlock was holding tight onto John's bicep, guiding him and keeping him steady. John's uncoordinated movements indicated he was far more drunk than Sherlock, and as they passed under an overhead light the silver medal around his neck glinted prominently. They were both smiling broadly, laugh lines etched across their faces. It struck John as exceedingly odd to see himself so unrestrained and jubilant.
Sherlock pointed at one of the closed doors and said something. John grabbed his arm and leaned to see, swaying as he tried to get a better look until he stumbled over. Sherlock caught him in time and they banged together against the wall, laughing all the while.
Sherlock straightened and smirked, pushing John back onto his feet, but something had come over John's expression. He was staring at Sherlock oddly, and then suddenly he was pressing Sherlock against the wall and kissing him, his hands disappearing under Sherlock's coat.
They broke off and John held him there, although the angle only provided a good shot of Sherlock's face. He appeared surprised and shocked, his mouth moving slightly as he said something to John. They conversed, staring intently at one another, until John leaned in again to kiss him, this time Sherlock meeting him halfway. His arms rose up around John's shoulders, pulling him closer.
As he watched the footage of himself snogging a strange man in a foreign hallway, John was at a loss for words. He knew he had probably slept with Sherlock, but seeing it all unfolding before him on video felt strangely surreal. He glanced at Mycroft, eyes wide, but Mycroft just raised his eyebrows to indicate that John should keep watching.
John seemed to be tilting in Sherlock's grasp, barely able to stand steady on his feet. Sherlock realigned him, laughing, and reached down to take up John's hand. He pulled John toward the door, unlocking it and leading him inside. The last shot was a perfectly clear view of John's face, overjoyed to be invited into Sherlock's room.
"And this morning," Mycroft said.
The footage suddenly cut ahead in time. The lighting in the hall was different, now flooded with natural sunlight rather than purely artificial tones. The same door John had just watched himself enter now cracked open slowly. Sherlock edged out, wearing his long coat over athletic track bottoms and carrying a Team GB equipment bag. He paused just long enough to gaze back at something inside the room, smiling gently as he did so, and then closed the door. As he turned to head down the hall the sunlight caught the flash of John's silver medal hanging around his neck.
The recorded images sped up, catching various other athletes walking up and down the hall as they left for their meetings and practices. Finally, Molly showed up, wandering down the hall with a slower, defeated gait. She went inside her and Sherlock's room, and the footage blurred ahead again until Molly and John stepped out together to head to the sliding center.
John watched familiar events unfold as he and Molly stopped in the middle of the hall to read Greg's texts and watch the video he and Sherlock had shot. As they started toward the lift again John looked dazed and worried, a far cry from the easy relaxation from the night before.
The projection ended. Mycroft remained in his seat, calm as ever. "In three days' time Sherlock will compete in his first Olympic games. It is the culmination of a lifetime of work," Mycroft remarked. "You are a distraction from that goal, Dr. Watson, and are taking advantage of his hyper-focused state. You will return to the athlete's village and avoid further contact with him. Once his event is finished, we will consider allowing renewed contact if, after an appropriate amount of time for him to clear his head, he wishes to see you. Do I make myself understood?"
John pursed his lips as he considered Mycroft's words. Not talk to Sherlock? After everything he'd seen? "Sorry, but no."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"No," John reiterated. "It was a lovely show, really. Quite intimidating for most people, I'm sure. But Sherlock and I are both adults and it's not up to you whether I see him. I'll tell you what is going to happen, though. I'm going to go back upstairs, without an escort, and I'm going to sit with Molly and we're going to watch Sherlock's practice run, and when it's over Sherlock and I are going to have a long, uninterrupted conversation, the contents of which shall not be recorded, overheard, or otherwise available for others to see or hear. Do I make myself understood?"
Mycroft's face contorted in quiet indignation. He leaned forward in his chair. "If you do not abide my wishes in this matter, I have it in my power to make it very difficult for you to ever be considered for a future Olympic team, medalist or not."
"I'm sure you can, operation like this," John said, glancing around and shrugging. "And that's all right. I'm aging out of professional competition. This was likely my last Olympics, anyway, and I couldn't have asked to go out with a bigger bang. Enjoy your plotting down here in the basement. I've got a skeleton run to catch."
"What was that about?" Molly asked when John found her again near the track.
"Oh, just some BOA rubbish," John said, tucking his hands into the insulated pockets of his coat. "Seems they caught me on the telly last night, too."
"You're quite the celebrity now," Molly laughed.
"I'll be happier when it's died down. Certain forms of attention can be a bit too intrusive for my taste."
Molly hummed. "You don't like the spotlight? Just wait until you get to know Sher- OH!" She jolted, grabbing John's arm and jumping where she stood. "Look! It's him, it's him!"
Up on the monitor, the camera showed the next athlete preparing to take to the track. John's mouth went strangely dry as he saw Sherlock, live and in the flesh, for the very first time, although frankly it could have been anyone standing there in a skin-tight speedsuit and helmet. Sherlock was long and lean, silhouetted in navy blue under his Sochi 2014 bib. He wore a dark helmet and visor, although the helmet was painted to look like parts of it had been shredded away to reveal a skull done up in a Union Jack pattern. His body language was relaxed as he leaned his lightweight sled against his hip, drumming his fingers on the steel and waiting for the signal to begin his run.
A few fingers prodded John in the arm. "John?" Molly prompted.
He broke his stare away from the monitor. "Huh?"
A mischievous smile spread across Molly's face. "Nothing. Just watch his precision as he does his run. Sherlock's a magician on the ice."
Someone up top had given Sherlock the go-ahead, because he laid down his sled so that right-hand runners fit snugly in the grooves of the starting area. Sherlock set his cleats at the starting block and bent his legs at practiced angles, flexing his knees slightly as he prepared to launch.
A buzz sounded and he was off, bursting from the block at a sprint and pushing his sled down the track for thirty meters before throwing the weight of his body on top of it. Sherlock compressed himself against his sled as he entered the first curve of the course, picking up speed with every passing meter. Helmet and legs hanging over the edges, it was nearly impossible to see Sherlock's sled underneath him as he glided over the ice.
"My God," John said. "It looks like he's flying."
"He keeps his head down for improved aerodynamics," Molly explained. "It's risky because it makes it harder to see the track, but it could mean the difference for getting on the medal stand."
John was no expert in skeleton, but even he could see Sherlock's skill in the fearless way he performed. His face was only centimeters from the rushing ice with only a thin piece of helmet in between. As Sherlock picked up speed and hit the tighter curves, he controlled his body beautifully against the powerful G-forces trying to knock him around. He skimmed within hairs-breadths of striking the walls and aimed his small sled with subtle shifts of his shoulders and legs, speed mounting as he plummeted face-first down the course.
As he rounded curve nineteen, Sherlock was soaring. He rocketed along the near-vertical turn, but as he returned to the flat plane along the final stretch his control over the sled seemed to disintegrate. It rattled sharply and clipped against the icy wall.
"Too much speed!" Molly shouted. "He's losing control over-- OH!"
Sherlock's velocity propelled him forward despite the violent weaving of his sled, and John stopped breathing entirely as he watched Sherlock's blue-clad body fly off its perch and tumble directly onto the ice. His limbs extended wide as he searched for friction to stop his momentum, but there was nothing for it; Sherlock slammed head-first into one of the barrier walls, his body going limp as soon as his helmet struck solid ice. His sled skittered to a similarly inelegant stop beside him.
John was bounding over the barrier wall of the track before he knew it, one amidst a group of many Team GB personnel rushing to help Sherlock. The ice was slippery under the soles of his shoes but he managed to reach Sherlock first. Hands pulled at him and voices yelled, but somehow he formed the right words to tell them he was a doctor, and that they should go call for an ambulance.
Sherlock was sprawled on his back, gloved hands limp and open. John knelt next to him on the freezing ice and lifted the visor of his helmet.
"Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Underneath the visor were the nose and eyelids of a newly-familiar face. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open when he heard John's voice, revealing astonishingly pale irises that matched the ice beneath his head. Sherlock blinked rapidly and inhaled a sharp intake of breath.
"Look at me, Sherlock," John ordered, palpating along his neck to test for injury. "Focus your eyes straight ahead."
"John?" Sherlock wheezed, sounding like the wind had been knocked out of him. One of the hands beneath John moved, pressing against him as if to determine whether John was actually there. He blinked again and his eyes came into focus.
"That's right. Excellent, Sherlock, keep on looking at me," he said. Sherlock wasn't reacting in pain and his pupils were the same size, indicating to John that a serious injury wasn't likely. "I'm going to remove your helmet. Hold still, now."
John unlatched the straps on the underside of the helmet and pulled it off Sherlock's head. His curls had been flattened by the compression of the helmet, but it was Sherlock, finally, right in front of him.
Sherlock smiled as his eyes settled on John. "If I'd known you'd be watching," he said, "I would've tried harder not to crash."
John paced outside the medical pavilion, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, for nearly an hour before one of the trainers said he could come inside. The team doctors had determined that Sherlock had miraculously crashed without receiving so much as a minor concussion.
Sherlock was sat on one of the examination stations when John saw him again, still dressed in his skin-tight speedsuit. Various coaches and personnel were packing up and clearing out around them.
"John!" Sherlock called when he noticed him there, looking far more put-together than when they had unceremoniously carried him away from the sliding center track.
"What were you thinking, trying a stunt like that?" John demanded as soon as they were together. "It's a practice run, not an experimental track. Are you always this stupid? People die on these tracks, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes sank down to John's chest. "You're wearing my coat."
"That's not the point, that's-" John sputtered. He looked down as well and opened the coat to display his leftover clothes. "It's not like I had much to choose from, is it? Did you even bother to check whether I had a coat at the bar? Because I did. God knows where that's got to."
"You didn't seem interested in retrieving it," Sherlock said, smirking.
"I was drunk, wasn't I? I can't be responsible for..." John pursed his lips and looked around. Most everyone around them was preoccupied with other tasks and not paying them the least bit of attention. “Why did you run off this morning?” he asked in a lower voice.
"I had a practice run scheduled," Sherlock replied flatly.
John rubbed his forehead. "I mean, why did you run off without waking me?"
Sherlock shrugged. “Available evidence indicated you would react badly if you suddenly woke up in another man’s bed."
"Okay. Yes, I did have a bit of a... crisis. Briefly," he amended. "But I've seen all the texts, Sherlock. I saw the video we sent to Greg. I saw us on the news. Your bloody brother showed me CCTV footage of us in the hall. I was drunk and celebrating and these things happen. The only thing I don't understand is why you took it."
Sherlock looked at him innocently. "Took what?"
Was he being intentionally dense? John raised his eyebrows. "My medal, Sherlock. You took my silver medal."
"Oh. This?" Sherlock zipped open the neckline of his speedsuit. There, hanging from his neck and tucked inside against his bare chest, was John's silver medal.
"You wore it?" John asked in alarm. "If you'd hit the wall with your chest it would've shattered your ribs, Sherlock. Jesus."
"Where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock scoffed, pulling it off from around his neck and zipping up his speedsuit again. "In my bag? Someone might steal it and then you'd never get it back."
"But you already stole it!"
Sherlock appeared gravely insulted at that, and for a fleeting moment John sensed that there was something deeper going on than a mere theft.
"You said you wouldn't remember," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I should've believed you. That’s why you… well. It’s probably best if you saw for yourself.”
"Saw what?"
Sherlock slid off the examination table and walked over to his Team GB bag. He scrounged around inside before bringing out his phone and handing it to John. "Watch it."
John snatched it away, glaring at Sherlock suspiciously before looking down at the phone. A video was loaded up. John pressed play.
It had obviously been filmed by Sherlock inside of his room, because the opening shot was of John lying passed out on Sherlock’s bed, fully clothed with his arms bent underneath him at awkward angles. A line of drool oozed from his open mouth onto the fabric of the duvet.
“And here we see Olympic silver-medalist John Watson,” came Sherlock’s voice from out of frame. “The pride of the British nation enthroned in his shining hour of glory.”
John snorted suddenly and his eyes popped open. He clumsily wiped at his mouth with one hand.
“What’ve you to say, John?” Sherlock asked, zooming in. “The people wish to hear from their Olympic champion.”
John rolled onto his side, silver medal drooping off his chest. “Bugger off.”
“Words for the ages.”
"I need to sleep," John said thickly, peering around at the walls. "God, I need to sleep. Ugh. Why did you make me drink so much, you bastard?"
"You were already drunk when I found you," Sherlock replied. "And I recall getting more drinks was your idea."
"Oh. Right." John yawned and began peeling his sport jacket off his shoulders with extreme difficulty, getting the sleeves stuck around his elbows. Sherlock chuckled from behind the camera. "Stop laughing," John said, but he was smiling as well. "Stop laughing, God."
"Here." Sherlock reached an arm out to yank the jacket off John's elbows. It slid free and John chucked it feebly across the room, onto the floor.
John started undoing his collar, but as he worked the button at his throat he suddenly stopped and squinted down at the medal around his neck. He seemed to study it for a moment, then slipped it off and presented it to Sherlock with both hands.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.
“Take it,” John said.
“I don’t want your medal, John. It’s yours. You won it.”
“You need to take it.”
“I’ll have my own soon enough.”
John’s face scrunched in annoyance. “Sherlock, take it. I want you to keep it. Just for a little while, mind you. No funny business.”
Sherlock reached out and took it from John. He held it there, weighing it in his palm. “Why?”
“Because,” John sniffed.
“Because why?”
“Because I want to see you again, you arse,” John loudly slurred. He returned to picking at his collar. “If you’ve got my medal I’ve got to come see you again, don’t I?”
A long silence spread between them as John undid his shirt. “You’re baiting yourself?” Sherlock asked eventually.
“I know me, Sherlock, and I know I don't like men." John paused. "No. Wait. I don't like... I don't like to like them, you see."
"You're not making any sense, John."
John gave up on his shirt buttons and ineptly fumbled at his belt instead. "I don't like to like them, but I like to like you, but I won't if I'm not... yeah?"
“Are you saying you have trouble admitting you like men?" Sherlock asked.
“That." John said, stabbing a finger into the air. "Not so much, when I’m sober.”
Sherlock snorted. “I find that hard to believe. You were openly snogging me out in the hall."
"You're the first one I like to like. So we need to fool him, you and I."
"Fool who?"
"Me, you stupid genius," John sighed. "Sober me."
As John wrestled with his jeans, grunting and muttering under his breath, Sherlock turned the silver medal around in his hand and examined the laser-etched design. "I promise I'll take care of it," he said.
John slumped back against the mattress, his jeans halfway down his legs and his shirt half-open. He tilted his head drowsily toward Sherlock. "I know. I trust you."
"You barely know me, John," Sherlock replied.
"Really?" John mumbled. "Feels like I've known you for ages."
The final shot was the camera on high, held up by Sherlock’s long arm, looking down at the two of them sharing a pillow and lying next to each other in Sherlock’s bed. John had apparently divested himself of the rest of his clothes and was visibly asleep again, mouth open with a fresh puddle of drool collecting on the pillowcase. Sherlock, wearing the silver medal around his neck, glanced over at John and back up at the camera. He smiled as the video ended.
When John looked up from the screen of the mobile, Sherlock was watching him closely.
“I set myself up,” John said.
“It would appear so.”
"And I slept in your bed."
Sherlock shrugged. "You didn't seem all that interested in moving."
John licked his lips. "In the hall... it looked like I wanted to..."
"That's the impression I got, yes."
"But we didn't."
"You were tired from your race and from drinking," Sherlock told him. "You fell asleep on my bed almost as soon as we got inside. I barely got that conversation out of you before you stripped your clothes and went to sleep again."
John nodded silently and fiddled with Sherlock's phone, turning it around in his fingers. He had been trying to send himself a message this entire time. Sherlock was interesting and gorgeous and fearless. Sherlock was like him in so many ways. He'd be a damned idiot to throw it all away over his own ingrained stubbornness. The Olympics were a time to take risks and put it all on the line, to become the very best of yourself and not be afraid to shine your brightest. Yesterday had demonstrated what the best of John Watson looked like, and not all of it had to do with the medal he'd worn round his neck.
John cleared his throat and offered out Sherlock's phone. “Dinner?” he asked.
Sherlock accepted the phone and grinned.