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John walked around the arena, people grinning and bustling about. A few people came up to him, talking excitedly to him about how much they liked him and how talented he was. John smiled sweetly at them, thanking them and stopping to take a few pictures. A sea of thank you’s and hugs flooded towards him.
He was still in slight disbelief that he was actually in the Olympics. Sure, maybe they weren’t the Summer Olympics, which many more people liked and recognized, but he preferred the winter, anyway. Besides, hockey was more of his forte than anything else. It was fast paced and thrilling. He loved the high he got from the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He adored slamming people and getting slammed up against the glass.
It was all part of the fun of the Games, after all.
He strolled casually down the halls, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt, the English flag proudly displayed on it. The inner material was soft, so he tried to wear it as much as he could. Also, it was sort of a team uniform thing. More of the former, however.
He was in between matches, so he figured he would check out another event going on. There was the figure skating. He heard it was very good, even catching a glimpse of it on the telly after all was said and done. The figure skaters were really talented. He could never do it, though. That required all of his grace and then some. He was simply an ungraceful oaf.
Sad, but true.
There was a steady stream of people entering the area where the event was being held. John gave a quick shrug of his shoulders, figuring why not? It would be fun and he could cheer on the people from his country, as well as the others. That was the point of the Olympics, was it not? Competition was nice, sure, but it was about unity or something.
John plopped down next to a girl who was absolutely tiny. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun. They glanced at each other, sharing smiles. She must have been German. John hadn’t worked on his German in years. All he could remember was how to ask where the bathroom was. It was entirely useful, but it was something.
John ran a hand through his hair, flattening it against his head. People murmured around him, talking in all different languages and about different people.
A hush fell over the crowd as a booming voice echoed overhead. Some people nodded their heads along to the voice, as the rest waited for the translation into their language.
Soon, all fell silent. A figure moved to the center of the rink. He was tall and had fair skin with a shock of dark hair. He held his hands in front of him as the voices prattled on about who he was and what he was going to do.
When the English translation came on, he heard the voice say his name was Sherlock Holmes. He remembered seeing him before. They were on the same team, but he seemed rather unsociable. He kept to himself whilst the rest of the team chattered and laughed together. John couldn’t blame him for wanting to be left alone. Sherlock looked like he was an odd fellow.
Everyone held their breath and the first note of the music flowed from the overhead speakers. Sherlock began his intricate dance, his legs moving impossibly smoothly, too far behind him to be even be within the limits of physics, yet he remained balanced. He glided across the ice with practiced perfection.
John watched him move, his eyes widened slightly and his lips parted. His eyes followed the way Sherlock danced across the rink, occasionally jumping into the air and giving a twirl, landing on one skate, the opposite foot high in the air.
Everyone around John clapped, some even laughing in glee.
As the music sped up, so did Sherlock.
John could see the concentration on his face as he spun around, pushing himself into the air and performing intricate spins and twirls. John was absolutely mesmerized by him. He had seen figure skating before, of course. Whenever he went to practice at the rink, there was usually a pair working on a routine or someone just skating about, tweaking their moves. It was always a pleasure to watch them, but John had never seen something quite like how Sherlock moved. He moved with such precision.
The routine was drawing to an end. John watched as Sherlock straightened up and pulled the finale out. He moved to the center of the rink, slowly moving in a circle. He spun around and around until he was going fast enough that he was almost a blur. Sherlock slowly began to move downwards, one leg straight in front of him.
John raised an eyebrow at him, thoroughly impressed.
Sherlock stood up, his arms held up over his head and his breathing slightly erratic. His eyes were trained to the ceiling, focusing on that for a moment before he lowered his eyes. He looked around the crowd, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He bowed, waving to everyone as they stood up and cheered. He skated around, waving and grinning at everyone, moving to his coach. His coach grinned at him, clapping him on the shoulder.
John recognized him as Greg Lestrade. He was a nice fellow who would sometimes sit and watch his matches, laughing every time someone from his team smashed their faces against the glass. He said it was the way their faces looked squished against it that made him laugh. John just smirked and rolled his eyes.
Sherlock jumped over the wall, despite the opening to the gate being a foot away. John guessed it was just him showing off.
Figure skaters, John inwardly groaned. He chuckled and sat back down, along with the rest of the crowd. He had time to watch one more. He believed it was someone called James Moriarty that would be going next. He recalled Jim…. He was a bit of a twat, but he was talented, nevertheless.
After Jim came and went, John stood up and walked up the steps and out the door. He glanced down at his watch. He had a few hours to waste before he had to start to head over to his team to gear up for another match.
He turned on his heel, catching sight of Sherlock leaning across a table, his chin in his palm, and a bored expression on his face as an older woman went on and on about how eye-catching his outfit was.
John had to admit, it really was. It was like any other outfit: nicely fitted, dark, heavily decorated with sparkly bits. That was another reason why he could never do figure skating. The outfits were just wretched.
The blond let out a sigh and walked over to Sherlock. He paused next to the table, patiently waiting for him to look over.
When Sherlock did, he glanced over at him from the corner of his eye. The figure skater straightened up and looked down at John, arching an eyebrow at him.
John didn’t expect him to be so tall. He had to be at least four inches taller than him. He blinked up at Sherlock, his mouth hanging open slightly.
“Can I help you?” Asked Sherlock in an irritated voice.
“Yeah, sorry. I just wanted to say I thought you were brilliant out there. I have never seen something so good. You’ll definitely win a gold.”
Sherlock stared down at him, smiling slightly. “It was hardly that good. But, thank you very much. You must be John Watson, correct?”
John grinned, nodding his head excitedly.
Sherlock hummed, nodding his head slowly. “Good to know. Do you have a match later?”
“Yeah, but I have a few hours to kill before that.”
“Is that so….” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. He drummed his fingers against his arm and looked over to the woman whom still sat behind the table. “I’ll catch up with you later, Mrs. Hudson. Besides, you story was boring.”
Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and smiled up at him. “Promise me you’ll come chat later.”
“Yes,” Sherlock groaned, running a hand through his curly hair, mussing it.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled and shooed him off.
Sherlock looked back to John, tilting his head to the side and a soft smile on his lips. “Come, walk with me. I think it is best to get to know my teammates whilst we are here. Seems reasonable, no?”
John couldn’t argue with his logic. He followed after him, giving a tiny wave to Mrs. Hudson as he passed.
They weaved through the crowds, Sherlock going on and on about different techniques that John had earlier asked about. He explained how much weight he had to put on each foot and how much pressure he had to build before he could launch himself in the air. “It’s all rather complex, if you look at it from a mathematical perspective. You also have to make physics your bitch. Otherwise, you’ll fall straight onto your ass.”
John chuckled, his hands held neatly behind his back. Sherlock seemed like a lovely gent, if you can overlook the fact that he sometimes acted like a complete shithead. But, John didn’t pay much attention to tiny details like that.
“Though, I must admit, I never quite understood the appeal to such a mindless and violent game like hockey. I mean, what is so fun about being pushed and shoved about to a point where you might lose teeth?”
“Only Canadians really play that rough. But, it does occasionally happen, yes.” John paused for a moment, walking next to Sherlock in a small silence. “I suppose it’s a way to vent? I mean, you can’t beat the shit out of anyone, but you can get some of the pent up anger out. Wouldn’t you be excited if you could do that, given you have any pent up aggression?”
Sherlock chuckled, looking over to John. “You know, I find that what I do is a lovely stress reliever. I just picture that those that irritate me rely on me to mess up, so that helps me tread lightly on the ice so that they are severely disappointed.”
John smirked. Sherlock had a point.
He glanced down at his watch and stopped. “Looks like I should start heading over to get ready. I’m all the way across the building,” he said, gesturing behind him.
Sherlock looked back at him. “Oh, well all right then. I’ll be sure to check out your game. Graham will certainly be there.”
John furrowed his eyebrows. “Who’s that?”
“My coach.”
“Pretty sure his name is Greg….”
Sherlock stared at John a moment. “So it is.” He turned on his heel and sauntered away, leaving John to stare after him.
John shook his head and made his way to the other side of the building.
John patted his helmet, making sure it was on securely. His team mates walked by him, smiling and giving him pats on the back and shoulders.
John was always nervous before a game.
They were going up against America, who would not be difficult to beat. At least, that was what everyone teased about.
The American team was not amused.
The sounds of the cheers and chants from the crowds echoed about the arena, giving John that extra boost of confidence to continue on.
He and his teammates moved out into the rink, the sea of unfamiliar faces and an array of varying color swarmed into John’s vision. He smiled at them, turning in a slow circle to look at the whole area. He caught side of Greg, sitting near the front and chatting away to Sherlock, who sat next to him. Sherlock wore the same bored expression as he had earlier, complete with chin in palm.
John smiled at him giving him a tiny wave.
Sherlock straightened up, returning his smile and waving back at him. He placed his hand over Greg’s mouth and pointed to John. “That’s the guy I was talking to you earlier about, “Sherlock said to Greg. John was very good at reading lips.
He blushed and looked down at his feet.
God, he just met the guy (officially) and he was already blushing. What a complete loser.
Mike Stamford, a good defense, came up behind him and patted him on the back. John turned to him, raising his eyebrows at him. Mike smiled softly at him. “Come on. Time to go sit down and wait for the game to start.”
John gave a curt nod and followed after him, looking to the side and catching Sherlock’s eye. The figure skater smirked at him. John blushed again.
Like said previously….John Hamish Watson was a complete loser.
The game began and John waited patiently to be alternated in. His team was one up on the American team, but he could tell the other team was stubborn and dead-set on at the very least tying with them.
John tried to not look over at Sherlock. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he could tell Sherlock would just be a horrible distraction. John certainly believed in love at first sight, but things just didn’t happen to him. Still, the idea was tempting to lean towards.
His coach gestured for him to switch with Sebastian.
He gave a small nod and grabbed his stick. His grip tightened slightly and he pushed through the opening. He skated to his position and held his stick in his hand. His face hardened and he stared at who he was supposed to block and defend the puck from.
The puck dropped and everyone made a move towards it. Bodies smashed together, tiny sounds of grunts came from various places across the ice as they all fight over the puck.
There was copious amounts of shoving and elbows in faces.
He never said was an easy sport. It was messy and rough and sometimes even confusing. Whose crotch am I touching? Who just touched my ass? Was that blood on the ice or just blood seeping into my pupil?
John was ready. He was so fucking ready. Nothing was going to break his concentration. He was going to help his team win, maybe even scoring a point or two for his team. Hell yeah he was prepared for anything.
He made the mistake of looking over to the bleacher. Sherlock sat, leaning back casually and staring off into space. His light blue oversized sweatshirt was ruffled and folded over his stomach. His legs were causally crossed over each other, a hand lazily rubbing at his thighs. Sherlock turned his head, their gazes locking.
John felt his face heat with a deep flush. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him, his mouth opening slightly. Then, all of a sudden, John was pressed up against the glass wall behind him. His vision blurred for a moment. He shook his head, grunting at the person responsible in annoyance. He looked over to Sherlock, finding him laughing his ass off.
John narrowed his eyes at him. What a jerk. Sigh, but a beautiful jerk.
Wait what.
No, he had to stop drifting off.
He set his jaw and focused on the task at hand. The match wasn’t going to last much longer and if he could last the last twenty minutes, he could day dream of the light hitting Sherlock’s face just the right way—
God damnit.
John sat down on a nearby chair, rolling his shoulders. Hockey sure was fucking torture on his body.
Ah, but he loved it.
“Nice job out there.”
John opened his eyes and looked up to see Sherlock. His head was tipped to one side, a small smile spread across his face. His curly hair was mused and a mess atop his head. Was it ever neat, only God knows.
“Thank,” replied John, dropping his shoulders. “Would have done better if you hadn’t distracted me.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Hey, I was just sitting there. Not my fault you find my beauty alluring.”
John hummed skeptically, standing to his feet and flattening his hair. He didn’t have much, but he always got helmet hair. Curse of being in a sport, he supposed.
Sherlock shuffled his feet, staring down at the ground. “All teasing aside, I thought you did splendidly. It was funny, however, when you got chucked against the glass, though.”
John laughed, ducking down his head so that Sherlock couldn’t see his reddening cheeks. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so. Although, I’m not as good as you are at figure skating.”
“True,” Sherlock said, laughing.
John looked up at Sherlock, biting his lip. “So. Does this mean we’re friends?”
Sherlock nodded. “Yes, we’re friends.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” John asked.
Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together. It was sudden, but not unreasonable. Sherlock paused, thinking about the question for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I do. I’ve always had a soft spot for fairytales,” he admitted.
John grinned at him. He grabbed the front of Sherlock’s sweatshirt and pulled him down, connecting their lips. Sherlock’s were warm and soft. It was heavenly.
It was a brief kiss, but nonetheless effective. When John pulled away, he let out a shaky breath. “Good.”
The figure skater blinked at him, a bit surprised. He quickly got over the shock and smirked down at John. “I suppose this makes us good friends?”
John chuckled. “The best.”