Work Text:
-
White to play.
John frowns at the puzzle, thinking. If the bishop moves there then the king moves to g6 and then he'll bring the queen over with a check - no, but then the rook can come over with a discovered check and cover the king at the same time. No good. If the queen moves first then black's queen can move to f3 and force an exchange, and where would his attack be?
No, it's something else.
He's just started muttering curses under his breath when he sees a shadow fall on the paper; a man leans over his shoulder and John hears a quiet huff of amusement.
"Knight to e3," the man says softly, and John's mind stops and starts and whirrs into motion.
"Of course," he breathes. Of course.
It's perfect and unexpected and mad and gorgeous. John races through the moves and weaves through variations spreading inside his head, behind his eyelids, and finds himself grinning helplessly, trapped in the chase of the king, until finally he sees the mate.
He looks up, grinning like a fool. The man is gone.
-
The next day, John sits at the same bench, another puzzle in hand. Spring is just beginning, and the air is cool and calm.
Mike has been sending him puzzles via email, and he'd taken to bringing one along with him as he strolled. The park was always more welcoming than his empty flat.
I know you don't play anymore, Mike had sent, but I think you'd enjoy these. An acquaintance of mine composed them, and they are very good. P.S. once you solve them, gimme a hint for number 8?
Mike Stanford may not be a professional chess player any longer, but he's still a damn good coach. John smiles. His own professional playing days are over, but he can still give most grandmasters a run for their money, at least over the internet.
White to play.
The puzzle is tricky, as usual, and John breathes in the scent of wind as he shifts the pieces in his mind. He sinks into himself and closes his eyes, and thinks; the pieces become shadows of themselves connected to each other through imaginary arteries across the board - he stacks the rooks at the side and sacrifices a bishop and knight, and sees the veins ripple in their wake. He dances the king around the board and, twelve moves later, mates it with a pawn. He lets out a soft sigh of content.
There is a small flutter of movement behind him, like a swish of a coat. John stills.
"Queen to-"
"-c4 check," finishes John calmly. He opens his eyes to find that the sun has risen higher in the sky, and that the shadow against his puzzle sheet has retreated in surprise.
He turns around and the shadow gains a body: a lanky, alien-looking man with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dark curls hiding in the turn-up of his long coat. The man's expression is unreadable as he says, "And after Bishop e6?"
"Knight d6 check," answers John immediately. "Then King e7, Rook e1, Queen d7, Rook takes e6, Queen takes e6, Rook e1, Knight-"
"Alright." The man looks bemused. "What if instead of King e7, King f8?"
John rattles off the variation and the man grins, spreading across his face unchecked. "And what if instead of Rook d8 after Bishop f5, I play Knight c5?"
John pauses, stumped. If Knight c5 -- the combination won't work because it can block the file after four moves. He says, "Hang on," and throws himself into the position.
He's scowling when he resurfaces, because it's been a few minutes at least and he can feel himself grasping the edges of the solution, but can't find the move to put it all together. He looks at the man expectantly.
The man says slowly, "Bishop to b1."
John takes a sharp breath.
"That," he says feelingly, "Is brilliant."
The man looks taken aback for a second, but recovers and schools his expression away from a smile. "That's not what people normally say."
"What do they normally say?"
"Piss off!"
John laughs. "Maybe that's something to do with the way you interrupt when people are determined to solve the puzzle by themselves."
"Nonsense," the man says affrontedly. "The chances of someone finding the answer to a tactical puzzle fall dramatically after the first five to ten minutes of thinking. I only interrupt after at least fifteen minutes. Although that's only for average players - you were obviously a professional who's taking up chess again after being invalided from either Afghanistan or Iraq, and you're rusty enough to miss unexpected variations but good enough to find the right moves quickly most of the time. Your instincts aren't as terrible as most old players' are, and you're looking for a flat share." The man pauses, eyes John speculatively, and continues: "Good thing, really, because so am I. I know a nice little place in central London. Tomorrow, ten o'clock?"
Somewhere along the tirade John has pushed himself off the chair. He doesn't remember doing it; he holds his cane loosely in his hand. John turns to face the man with the piercing eyes.
"Who are you? How do you know all this?"
The man smiles. His phone gives a ping, and he manoeuvres it out of his coat with graceful ease. "I'm a consulting chessmaster, the only one in the world. I invented the job. And I also composed the puzzles you've just been trying to solve."
He looks down, and grimaces apologetically, and gathers himself. "Sorry, got to dash. Just discovered a new line against the Dragon, probably, I'll have to check to be sure."
"Wait wait- hang on. We've only just met and now we're going to look at a flat? Also-” because he honestly can’t decide which piece of information he needs to process first “-a new line against the Dragon?"
The man pauses. "Problem?"
"Yes," says John emphatically, then remembers the puzzles and glimpses of brilliance and stumbles to clarify. "What I mean is - I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name. Mine, by the way, is John."
The man flashes him and grin and winks. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."
The man is mad, John thinks quite astonishedly, standing shell-shocked as he watches Sherlock stride away. He must be a bloody genius.
-
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Some puzzles
Number 8 is a tricky one. You have to use the pin and you need to set up a discovered check.
Who did you say you got these puzzles from?
John
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Some puzzles
Oh, I think I got it. Bd6?
The guy who made them is called Sherlock Holmes. I don't know if you've heard of him? He's brilliant but has no interest in competing. He's a bit of an oddball really, I met him when he visited the centre a few days. Made almost all the kids cry, but all their ratings went up a few dozen points at least within the month.
Mike
P.S. how about number 12?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Some puzzles
Ah. Right. D'you think he'd make a good flatmate?
Yeah, Bd6 is right. I haven't got to 12 yet, I'll let you know when I have.
John
From: [email protected]
Subject: Holmes??
You're thinking of a flatshare with Sherlock??? Really?? How did that happen? I think he'd make a bloody annoying flatmate. Mad, but also a genius.
...actually, you might get along pretty well. He's easily twice as obsessed over chess as you are. I say give it a try :)
Mike
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Holmes??
Bumped into him in the park. I am not obsessed, I just don’t have anything else to do.
But I guess I might as well. How bad could it be?
John
-
John steps into the flat and surveys the wreckage.
"This is-" he stops and clears his throat at the sight of Sherlock's hopeful face. "Very nice. Very nice indeed."
And it is, actually.
There are several computers and large monitors set up in what is obviously a work station, and a fresh stack of paper and stationery by its side. There are books and printouts strewn over bookcases and tables and chairs, pages fluttering under the ceiling fan across every surface but one - the firm black table standing in the middle of the room, a lone pillar emerging from the chaos. John finds himself walking towards the board gleaming on its surface: a marvellous carved wooden tournament set, and melts a little inside for the sleek silver chess clock by its side.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Sherlock's baritone sounds like the smooth sound of a black piece making an en passant. John nods, inwardly stunned.
Beside it, one armchair is black and the other is white. Sherlock bounds over to the black one and sinks into it with a blissful sigh. John tears his eyes away from the pieces long enough to sit in the chair on the other side of the board, and almost falls into the rich leather. It is altogether an immensely satisfying feeling.
They sit across the board for a moment, and listen to the computers hum.
-
"I looked you up on the Internet last night," begins John, lounging cheerfully in the armchair.
Sherlock looks up. "Oh?"
John still isn't sure how to read the other man's expressions, but he's not sure that he would be able to decipher this particular expression even if he’d known Sherlock for months. There is something shuttered behind Sherlock’s eyes, a carefully controlled mask so perfect that John wonders why someone as brilliant as Sherlock would need it.
He would have to do something about that.
"You said you helped Topalov with his game against Anand two years ago, and that he came to you for advice."
"I did."
“He didn’t win, though.”
Sherlock frowns. “That wasn’t my fault. He refused my help for the last game. No idea why.”
John ignores this proclamation for the sake of his sanity. "You also said that you could identify a person's style of chess by their behaviour to within a 60% accuracy, and to a 90% accuracy after seeing one of his games."
"I did," agrees Sherlock.
John furrows his brows. "That's not possible."
Sherlock cocks his head and stands, the line of his body suddenly straight with tension. "When I met you for the first time yesterday I said you were a professional player recently home from either Afghanistan or Iraq."
"Afghanistan- yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military; your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You don't use your cane while you stand so the limp is at least partly psychosomatic - that says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. The way you solved the puzzle with your eyes closed - literally - says professional; my puzzles aren't so simple just anyone could solve them without a board, but you're out of touch - you're frustrated you're taking so long to see the right move. So: professional chess player, rusty, wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."
"Fantastic.”
The words slip out of John’s mouth before he can register it. Sherlock looks surprised. John is surprised, too, but he presses on.
“So what opening do I play, then?"
Sherlock draws a breath, and gives a thoughtful hum. "I'd say - Ruy Lopez for white and Sicilian Dragon or King's Indian for black."
John's eyebrows climb to his hairline. "How on earth could you possibly know that?"
"You're an active player with an affinity for tactics, of course you'd want to play into the sharper lines. Judging by your military background it's likely you don't mind solidly plowing through massive amounts of opening theory, so there you have it." Sherlock pauses, and adds, "By the way, the line for the Dragon I was talking about - do you want to have a look?"
John taps his cane against the floor incredulously. He leans forward. "You want me to have a look?"
Sherlock shrugs. "It's a perfectly sensible proposition. You're a Dragon player, I'm not."
John can’t help it - he laughs, a little sound that spirals into tiny gasping giggles and he puts his head in his hands, and then he looks up at Sherlock’s alarmed expression and that sets him off again. “Oh- sorry-” he gets out between his laughter, “I just - what are you, a genius super grandmaster? I haven’t - I haven’t even made my second GM norm yet, what- why-?"
Once he started speaking Sherlock had become progressively calmer, realisation dawning as he processes the source of John’s hysteria.
“Oh! Don’t worry about that,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not a GM. I’m not even an IM. I’m hardly even rated.”
“What - how do you mean?”
“I don’t play chess,” says Sherlock, suddenly looking rather uncomfortable. He sits back down and begins to play out the first few moves of the variation, unconsciously adjusting the pieces towards the middle of the squares. He handles the them with the smooth grace that only comes with years of practice. John narrows his eyes. Sherlock notices, and sees what he’s doing, and stops.
“At least, not anymore," he amends. "Not in person. I make things and I deduce things and I’m available for consultations, but I don’t actually compete. It’s too much trouble.”
Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on the board, and John opens his mouth to call him out on the lie, but hesitates. There is a story here, and if Sherlock doesn’t want to tell him, John won’t ask.
“So what’s your rating, then?” he says instead.
Sherlock looks up, lips quirking upwards in amusement. “Two thousand and eighty three.”
John feels his jaw drop. “You cannot be serious.”
“I assure you, I am.”
“But but but- but I’m two four hundred!” splutters John, “And that was when I was twenty-five!"
"You are underrated," says Sherlock seriously.
John laughs again. "You can't possibly know that."
And there is a strange glint in Sherlock's eye, and he says, "So let's play, then."
John draws a sharp breath. "Alright,” he hears himself say. "Let's."
-
Sherlock is fast.
John has the white pieces, and after e4 c5 Nc3 Nc6 f4 Sherlock looks up and says, "Grand Prix Attack, John?"
John just looks back, and whatever Sherlock sees it makes his eyes darken and his tempo quicken as he plays g6, fingers sharp on the clock.
John's hand is firm and sure around the chess pieces as Nf3, the pieces familiar despite their unfamiliar wooden shell. His clock ticks: 4:56. 4:55. Blitz is a game of speed and intuition and John loves it to death, and judging by the thrumming in Sherlock's shoulders, it's a sentiment both of them can share.
4:54, 4:53 and Bg7 Bc4 and John loses himself to the adrenaline and the pieces flying across the board; and Sherlock is good - better than good. The black pieces play fiercely and precisely and the slight weakening from a dozen moves earlier comes back to haunt him when Sherlock pushes his c-pawn, and then oh, John's position is compromised. He glances at the clock: he has one minute left to Sherlock's one minute and thirty seconds.
A few moves later and he shakes his head. He smiles and tips his king over.
"Good game," says John, as he offers his hand.
Sherlock takes it. They shake.
-
"If it makes you feel better," says Sherlock later, after they're done with the analysis - John made a petty mistake, really, but against Sherlock that's enough - "My blitz rating on Playchess is twenty-seven hundred."
"What," says John. Because really, what.
Then again, mad genius: ridiculously high ratings probably came with the territory.
Sherlock brightens. "Also, I'd say you're definitely at least twenty-five hundred for blitz."
John's hovering around 2530, actually, but there's no way he's telling Sherlock that. "Sherlock," he says.
"What?" says Sherlock distractedly, seizing a laptop and entering a swift series of keystrokes. "I haven't even told you your handle yet."
"How- oh bloody hell have we played online before? How can you possibly remember something like that?"
Sherlock swirls the laptop round. John recognises the familiar program: Chessbase - the newest version, he notes without any actual surprise; Sherlock has opened his database of internet games and filtered them by opening. John staggers: there are over three hundred games against the Grand Prix Attack alone - and the list goes on and on, uniform rows of Consultant playing black against myriad white handles.
"This- this is amazing," says John, as he scrolls down the page. In the results column there are whole patches of tidy '0-1' scores. Sherlock has barely dropped thirty games against the Grand Prix. Then he sees his handle and stops.
"Yes," says Sherlock.
John double clicks and waits numbly as the board loads on the screen. He scrolls.
He reaches the end.
"I should have won," he says because it's the easiest thing to say, compared to this was the game that I played after dinner with Harry and I was online playing until I stopped caring about anything besides the games, and partially also to stop himself from saying the probably offensive, ‘Consultant’, really?
Sherlock shrugs. "You asked how I could remember."
"I remember," says John. "Because I should have won."
"I wouldn't say that."
John gives him a look. Sherlock concedes, "If you hadn't made a terrible blunder, it's possible that you may have won."
"Prat," says John. He searches his handle and - nope, he's only played the one game with Consultant.
Sherlock says, "So you'll be moving in, then?"
John looks at the madman with the beautiful mind to go along with the most beautiful game he’s ever known, and he doesn’t even need to think. He opens his mouth to say yes, but closes it, and says, "Only if you show me your puzzles."
Sherlock smiles and his eyes crinkle at the sides, and John finds himself smiling back.
“Another game?”
“Oh god, yes.”
-
From: [email protected]
Subject: Thanks, I think
I know you said he was a genius and also bloody annoying but you didn’t tell me he was absolutely, amazingly insane. I mean, he’s amazing, but I’m a chess player, and he’s had John Nunn come over two days. John Nunn! I poured tea for John Nunn. I think I may still be in shock.
Anyway. Thanks for all the puzzles. And for the introduction and encouragement too, I suppose. Though if he snaps one day and murders me over pawn structures (we had an enormous row about it the other day) it will be on your head.
John
P.S. Number 12 is brilliant. It’s about geometry and zugzwang, you have to use the pawns in the end.
P.P.S. Did you know he plays multiple games at once online???? He actually has multiple computers for that very purpose. It’s mad.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Thanks, I think
Ha, I knew you’d hit it off! I fully expect to be informed of any updates to my openings (I’m sure you remember, but that’s the English, French and Stonewall). I know I’m not exactly playing anymore, but it’s always nice to know the latest developments. Besides, look at you! Surely there’s always hope for me ;)
Mike
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Thanks, I think
Mike, I’m not exactly playing in the Candidates Tournament either. There’s no real hope for either of us anymore! But Sherlock is really something. Massively frustrating, but absolutely brilliant. Do you happen to know why he doesn’t play anymore?
Also - sure, but he’s having a 1.d4 phase now though, so it might be a while before you get to see anything new in your openings.
John
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Thanks, I think
John, I am an indolent old chess coach. You’ve got passion, which is enough for you to play in whatever the hell you want. Don’t sell yourself short. Besides, you’ve got Sherlock now, and if you keep at it you might find yourself surprising John Nunn the next time he comes over.
Sherlock is.. complicated. I’ve never asked. Maybe you could dig it out of him eventually. If anyone has a shot at it, it's you.
Mike
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Thanks, I think
Thanks, Mike.
John
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Thanks, I think
No problem. Everyone needs someone to knock some sense into them at one point or another in their lives.
Mike
-
“Sherlock, why don’t you play competitively?” asks John one day.
This finally happened after Michael Adams (!!! John thinks this should deserve more exclamation marks, but mentally refrains in the interest of brevity) had left their flat following a brief but illuminating conversation about a rook endgame, and at Sherlock’s casual acquaintance with the man, John had been unable to hold the question in any longer.
“I mean,” he adds hurriedly, seeing Sherlock’s stricken expression. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s just… I’ve been living with you for six months, and it’s been the most exciting six months of my life. I’ve seen more childhood heroes in 221B than I have the rest of my life put together! What I’m trying to say is,” and he pauses, and fumbles awkwardly with his words. This sort of conversation is alien to him, but he started it and now he has to see it through.
“You’ve been really good to me. For me. But it feels like I hardly know anything about you. I know your favourite openings and the way you take your tea. But I don’t know - well, these are the whats, and I don’t know any of the the whys. And why you stopped - that’s the biggest why of all.”
John finishes, and dares a glance at Sherlock. Sherlock isn’t looking back, obviously, but at least he doesn’t look too traumatised. He doesn’t look like he’s in a murderous rage either, which is definitely a good thing, because it would be awful if John had to move out after all this time.
The silence stretches for so long that John at first thinks Sherlock has forgotten that he’d even asked a question at all. The board in front of them is a beautiful arrangement of black and white, and John stares at it to fill the gap in time.
“I used to play,” says Sherlock suddenly. His voice is a low shock, a truth unsaid unfurling for the first time in slowness. John swallows and waits.
Sherlock’s fingers curl around the black king. He turns it between his fingers thoughtlessly, mesmerizing, and continues, “I stopped playing under my name because I started playing in tournaments when I was high.”
Sherlock lifts his eyes to John’s stunned expression. He smiles mirthlessly. “I stopped playing when I was caught high.”
Oh.
“But,” starts John, and stops. “But - why?”
“Why the drugs? Or why stop?”
“Both, I guess.”
Sherlock shrugs. “Chess is beautiful, but it’s slow. I hated how opponents would take so long to think. I got bored, restless. When I was high it was easier to concentrate, easier to see, and much more interesting. I stopped because you aren’t allowed to compete when you’re on drugs, obviously, and there was little point in competing without them.”
John shifts in his chair. “So you play simultaneously online and consult with grandmasters to alleviate your boredom, as an alternative to your drug habit.”
Sherlock nods. “In essence, yes. Does that bother you?”
John thinks about it for a while. “Not really. You’re still brilliant, even when clean - I’m assuming you’re clean,” he says with narrowed eyes, and Sherlock says somewhat shiftily, “I am now.” John sighs, because with Sherlock he takes what he can get.
“Chess players are all mad anyway, so I don’t suppose I mind,” he concludes, and Sherlock can’t help but grin.
“Even you?”
“Even me,” agrees John. “I’m sticking with you, aren’t I?”
Sherlock looks at John for a while, fierce and wondering, and then he straightens and raps twice on the chessboard. “Play,” he commands, something warm like friendship in his voice, and John smiles, and does.