Chapter Text
John eyed up the edge of the vaulting table as he bounced from foot to foot at the end of the runway. Catching Lestrade’s signal from the corner of his eye, he spat on his hands and reached down to grab a handful of powder, dusting off the excess in rapid swipes of his palms. Step up. Salute. Run. Bounce. Right hand spring. Two front turns. Land (stuck). Come on, Watson, we can do this!
Run. Bounce. Right hand spring. Two front turns. Land. Hop. Bugger!
“Oh, Watson, try harder!”
John rolled his eyes at Anderson’s back as he jumped down from the landing zone.
“Dirty, Watson, and not in a good way. Foot position on the springboard. And Anderson, shut it!” came the call back from Lestrade.
“Yes, Coach,” John muttered under his breath. Too short on the board meant too short in the air, unable to get enough time in the air to bring his legs completely back around underneath, and a little undignified hop was the result. John exhaled sharply – not just undignified, but costly in competition.
“Don’t dwell on it mate,” advised Stamford, clapping John on the back. “As long as Henry here doesn’t break something before tomorrow, ours won’t even count”.
Huffing a laugh, John turned to watch Henry Knight begin his sprint up to the vault; a roche with half turn. “Let’s see what he can do and… Ho ho! Nailed it!” Knight’s feet remained frozen on the floor as his head swivelled towards them, an expression of disbelieving delight on his face.
“Nice one mate!” John called up, applauding. “Don’t look at us like you’re surprised though!”
“Place in the finals for you if you do that tomorrow, Knight, lovely work!” Knight swung a hand up to wave at Lestrade, acknowledging the feedback.
“Right, gents, nicely done. Five minutes before the rhythmic girls come in, so let’s have a round or two each. Knight, parallel bars. Anderson, high bar, and watch your landing; none of that mess from this morning. Stamford, pommel; Murray, back here on the vault. Watson on the floor. Let’s go!”
The team scattered to the various apparatuses around the gymnastics hall at the Athlete’s Park, the collection of huge tents that made up the training spaces for the athletes at these games. Taking his starting position at the corner of the sprung floor, John nodded at the assistant coach, focused on his first tumbling line, and started his routine.
Well, that was a better landing, John thought to himself as he stuck his closing two and a half twist. Very tidy. Rolling his shoulders, John heard the rise of chatter outside the doors – the girls had arrived. Toeing the ground as the assistant coach ran through some minor points, John looked at the door from the corner of his eye.
“Mmm, yep,” he nodded to the coach, taking up his starting position again. With the first tumbling line done, he snuck a glance over at the door to see everyone milling around the entry – perfect. Taking position on the floor, he went into his air flare sequence – time for a little Watson magic! Spinning on his hands, John swung his legs around and around before pivoting his legs up in the air, giving his best b-boy moves, popping up onto one hand and then the other, then back for another 360 spin before coming to rest gently on his side facing the room’s new occupants, elbow out, hand supporting his head, looking for all the world like he was propped up in bed, gazing at a lover. And to complete the routine? A sexy eyebrow wiggle at the room’s new occupants, of course.
“Won’t work on the judges, Watson!” hollered Lestrade. “Or on us, either, nice try though!” seconded Sally Donovan, next to Anthea who didn’t appear to have looked up from her phone at all.
“Yeah, I already have a boyfriend, sorry. Jim takes up so much of my time….” Molly broke off with a breathless giggle.
Winking at Sarah as she shook her head at him, John trotted over to grab his gear. Pulling on sweat pants over his shorts, he thought he saw Mary Morstan look him up and down. Perhaps not totally wasted, then. Turning around to yank a t-shirt over his bare chest, he suddenly noticed Sherlock Holmes, regarding John with a focused expression, ducking his eyes away when he became conscious of John’s returning his gaze. Catching up the rest of his stuff, John crossed over to him, snaking his way around the women’s team: some still stripping their shoes and tracksuits off, some already warming up on the floor.
“Hey! Sherlock! Didn’t expect to see you here!”
A quick glance from Sherlock as he stuffed shoes and socks into a duffel bag. “Yes, well. Not a huge amount of training space so I need to… share,” he bit out with a small moue of distaste.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” John replied, absently watching as Sherlock pulled down sweat pants to reveal dark grey tights.
Like a ballet dancer’s, John mused. “Is that what you wear in competition, too? Like a ballet outfit?”
Sherlock’s made an indistinct noise, reply muffled inside his hoodie as he pulled it over his head. “Something like that, yes… John?”
John startled back into awareness. “Oh sorry, I was just looking at your hair.”
“My hair?”
“Yeah, uh, your jumper um, disturbed it a bit...” John gestured vaguely at his own head in increasingly mortifying explanation.
“Well…. if you’re finished enquiring about my clothes and hair, I do have some work to do here,” Sherlock said, looking down at John from his full height.
“Yes, yes of course. Well, see you ‘round the village I s’pose? Best of luck with the training!” Fumbling his goodbyes, John backed towards the doors and blissful oblivion.
“Right, lads,” said Lestrade. “Qualifiers tomorrow, you don’t need me to tell you how important this is. The bus will go from the village at 8:30. You will all be at the bus stop at 8:15 or so help me God, whatever happens to you will not be my division. Go warm down now, gentle walking and stretching. See you bright and early – bring the great!” The men around him muttered various acknowledgements, trailing behind their coach out of the training park, meandering back in the direction of the Olympic village. John scrubbed his hand through his hair as he brought up the rear.
“Here, mate, reckon you could use this.”
“Ah, cheers, Bill, perfect,” John grabbed the sports drink Murray was offering him gratefully.
“What was that back there? That wasn’t Three Continents Watson, the lover of international volleyballers and badminton players we know and love. Aiming for something closer to home are we?”
“Shut up, Bill, what do you know about it,” John grumbled. “I need to eat. Protein shake or something.”.
“Is that a crude fellatio reference, Watson, because as your roommate, there are some things I do not want to… ow!”
“Well, if you can’t get out of the way fast enough, whose fault is that?”
“Calm down, Mister Smooth,” laughed Bill, rubbing at his arm. “At least I can get out of my own way when chatting someone up!”
“Oh my God, Bill, tell me. Was it that awful?” John looked imploringly at his long-time training partner and roomie from the London Olympic village.
“Mate, how is that even a question? It was shocking and you know it. Not all the muscles in the world will help you with that one, I don’t think.” John groaned.
“Don’t fret mate. Focus on tomorrow – there’s no aphrodisiac like a gold medal, I’ve heard. All the nice boys love a medallist!” And with a slap to John’s back that sent him stumbling, Bill was jogging off after the others, leaving John to his artificially flavoured drink and reflections on his horribly diminished flirting skills. Shit, he was getting old.