Chapter Text
The rink was silent in only the way which ice rinks can be, vast, echoing, faintly humming cooling systems beneath the surface - all before the chaos ignited within it throughout the day, flooded with public sessions.
This early morning air carried a sharp chill, biting enough to ward off most people, Sherlock preferred it that way. Fog rose from the ice, cloaking the rink in a mantle of condensation and obscuring any motion within the barrier’s confines.
He cut across the ice with effortless precision, sharp slicing sounds emanating from his blades with every edge; each movement was deliberate, every edge carved clean, each turn polished and exact. No echo of a rink mate’s program music permeating through the ice, an utter absence of any sound other than that of his movements. Only the rhythm in his head remained: every count, flowing patterns.
He turned onto his forward outside edge, launching into a jump - triple, tight rotation, clean landing - absolutely magnificent by the standards of any uninformed bystander.
“No, not clean enough.” Sherlock hissed under his breath, already circling back to his initial starting point, his mind already replaying the “error” in perfect detail. Slightly under rotated, 3 rotations, 0.5 short, lazy on the entry, the outside edge wasn’t deep enough. Utterly deplorable!
Again. The second attempt was sharper, cleaner, better. Yet not perfect, it never was.
He stopped abruptly, breath fogging in front of him like a raincloud, irritated simmering slightly beneath the surface. The rink lights reflected off of the ice in protracted streaks, every scratch on its surface accentuated - almost producing a pattern. Just for a moment, he stood there. Lost within his own relentless standards.
----
The door slammed, Sherlock didn’t flinch, yet the sound shattered the stillness like a crack through a glass pane. Footsteps succeeded the bang, heavy and uneven. Certainly not anybody who he recognised, anybody civilised - that is. Sherlock turned his head, already egregiously annoyed at this unknown intruder.
A man had entered through the double doors of the rink, broad shouldered, wrapped in a thick tawny brown jacket, rather oversized hockey bag slung carelessly over one shoulder – sticks poking out of the top like some kind of malformed palm tree. He moved with the sort of grounded confidence which Sherlock associated with somebody who had never even once considered the elegance (and suffering) of edge work.
A hockey player. Of course it was a hockey player. Sherlock’s face dropped immediately.
“You’re early,” he called, his voice carrying uninterrupted across the ice, echoing off of the barriers. “This session is reserved.”
The man paused mid-step, looking at him across the ice as if he had only just registered Sherlock’s existence.
“Oh,” he replied, blinking. “Didn’t realise that anybody would be on this early.”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow, “clearly.”
The man huffed a laugh at that, dropping his rather large bag onto the benches with a dull thud. “Ice is ice, isn’t it, it’s big enough on there? Thought I’d get a head start.”
“It isn’t,” Sherlock replied sharply, one toe pick planted firmly into the once-pristine ice. “This is a patch session. You’d find that your… activities are better suited to the scheduled hockey slot.” He glanced down at his watch, “which happens to start in fifteen minutes.”
The man straightened, glancing back over at him properly now, leg half into some form of protective gear. There was something assessing in his gaze, almost analytical. “Right,” he replied. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your spinning.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “Figure skating,” he corrected, his tone sharp. “And it requires considerably more skill than charging into people at speed.”
The man snorted, like actually snorted. “Yeah?” He said, unzipping yet another section of his colossal bag. “Try staying upright while someone twice your size is aiming to knock you flat.”
Sherlock pushed off, gliding closer to the opening in the barrier with smooth, controlled strokes. Up close, the contract was almost absurd; the clean lines of his dark, fitted training outfit juxtaposing the bulk and bluntness of the copious amount of hockey padding.
“I have no interest in barbarism masquerading as sport,” Sherlock said coolly.
“And I’ve got no interest in sequins,” the man shot back, seemingly entirely unbothered.
Sherlock glided backwards, now a few extra feet away from the barrier, eyes narrowing. “Then perhaps you should leave.”
The hum of the cooling system echoed around them, the man tilted his head slightly, studying him in a way which almost seemed deliberate. “John,” he said suddenly, sticking out a hand as if they weren’t in the middle of a confrontation, expecting Sherlock to skate forwards to take the offer. “John Watson.”
Sherlock looked at the offered hand incredulously, like it was something utterly obscene. “I didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t say you did.” John’s mouth twitched. “Just thought that I’d introduce myself, since we’re apparently sharing the ice.”
“We are not sharing-“ Sherlock broke off as John stepped straight onto the rink, without skates. Sherlock stared, “You’ll damage the surface!” He snapped.
John looked down at his shoes, then back up at Sherlock’s flabbergasted expression, utterly unconcerned. “Pretty sure it’ll survive.”
Sherlock inhaled slowly, the kind of breath taken before saying something scathing enough to end the interaction early, and perhaps get them both kicked out of the rink, but John had already stepped back off, reaching for his skates.
“Relax,” he said, almost amused. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
“That would be advisable,” Sherlock replied, eyes fixed onto John’s position.
John sat down, beginning to lace up with practiced ease – well, as much ease as can be achieved while banging your foot into a skate and attempting to get the thing as tight as possible. Yet his movements almost seemed efficient, a lack of wasted motion or energy, his fingers winding between the laces.
Sherlock watched for a moment longer than necessary, then turned sharply and pushed back across to the opposite side of the ice. If the man insisted on staying when he was supposed to be on the session, then Sherlock would simply ignore him.
His speed built quickly, program music blaring in his headphones, cutting into a step sequence, flowing into turns, into a jump. Clean landing, better. He allowed himself half a second of smug satisfaction before continuing, something wasn’t right – it was pre-rotated, the entrance was uncontrolled, God, it had bad vibes; any excuse to be unsatisfied. He continued, pushing harder, every turn sharper. If anything, the unwanted audience somehow only sharpened his focus, not allowing himself to be disrupted.
----
Behind him, the swoosh of blades against the ice was made audible. He didn’t turn. John joined the ice with far less grace, his strides heavier and far more forceful, yet somehow impeccably controlled. Skating in wide arcs, testing the surface of the almost freshly Zamboni-ed ice. Rather annoying.
Sherlock altered his path, avoiding even glancing over at him, forcing further distance between the two. For several uncomfortable minutes they existed in tense silence, the ripping of edge against the harsher, driving cuts of hockey stride. Then, far too close.
Sherlock pivoted sharply, just as John cut across his path, missing eachother by the skin of their teeth. “Watch it!” John snapped instinctively.
Sherlock stopped dead, turning to face him. “You are in my space.”
“Your space?” John echoed. “It’s a rink, mate, not your living room.”
“This section is allocated-“ Sherlock cut off, pointing at the middle line of paint below the ice.
“You don’t get to own the ice,” John cut in, irritation growing now.
Sherlock stepped closer, eyes flashing. “And you don’t get to blunder through it like-“
“Like what?”
The question hung there and for a moment, none of them moved. Now closer, Sherlock could see the details which he had missed before; the faint lines of old injuries within John’s posture, the steadiness in his stance – fostered through years of practice and cultivation, the way which he held his ground as if second nature. Absolutely infuriating!
“Like somebody with no regard for discipline,” Sherlock finished coldly.
John let out a short breath, half laugh and half disbelief. “Right,” he said. “And you’re what, then?” John shook his head, pushing off backwards towards his side of the ice.
“Unbelievable.”
“Then leave,” Sherlock repeated.
John paused, pushing forward and skating a slow circle around him. “No,” he said simply.
Sherlocks eyes narrowed, John met his gaze – something almost challenging.
“I got here before the rest of the team today, and the figure skating patch usually has way more people than just you,” John added. “And I’ve got just as much right to the ice as you.”
Sherlock tilted his head, studying him, getting a grasp on his intolerable personality; stubborn, irritating, hockey player. “…Fine,” Sherlock said at last, voice somehow consecutively quieter and sharper. “Just try not to get in my way.”
John smirked, “no promises.”
Sherlock turned without another word, gliding across the ice, carving with renewed intensity. At the other side of the ice, John did the same. Neither side willing to give even an inch.