Chapter Text
The queue by the bus stop feels humdrum by now, with the games now well and truly close to the end. The gymnastics team in their familiar looking uniforms look relaxed and rested, although Anderson looks pretty hungover. They’re all in holiday mode, laughing and joking as they all pile onto the bus. John notices Molly takes the seat next to Mike, sporting a similar looking pleased-but-flustered expression. Behind him, Henry is taking a poll of what event everyone’s going to see after the gala, trying to decide between the Athletics or the Diving.
As the bus zips along the express ‘Olympic traffic’ lane towards the park, John’s phone remains silent, although Lestrade next to him is getting texts aplenty, it seems. Lestrade hadn’t volunteered much, but it seems like Mary had been quietly shipped back to Britain to languish at Her Majesty’s pleasure, which John can’t feel bad about. He wonders idly if Moran has had the same privilege, because a part of him (a large part) isn’t sad at the thought of him fighting off rats in prison. John shakes the thought from his mind and thinks about his gala routine, pondering the correct amount of Watson magic to apply.
He hasn’t quite made up his mind before the bus pulls up and they’re all blinking in the bright glare and the others are waving him goodbye as they head to the spectators entrance; John and his coach heading back around the building to the athletes’ entrance for the final time. Lestrade is tugging his sleeve, dragging him further round the building to – oh.
The Holmeses are there in their little family group, all clutching onto comically large takeaway coffee cups. Lestrade is cheerily waving, half-dragging John behind, who suddenly knows what at least some of those texts were about.
Seeing Sherlock’s parents raise their arms in greeting, John goes to return the gesture, only for Violet to delightedly call out ‘Gregory!’
John looks up at his coach who looks blushingly pleased and swoops in to kiss Sherlock’s mum on the cheek. John is grudgingly impressed, and it’s his turn next as Violet plants one on his face and gives his arm a little squeeze.
John beams back at her, then looks around for Sherlock, who is standing several feet away with his brother, having a conversation that appears to be taking place entirely through the medium of eyebrow raising and supercilious expressions.
“Look at these boys of mine,” says Sieger fondly from behind John’s shoulder. “Geniuses, you know. But utter morons, the pair of them.”
John chokes back a startled laugh. “I was hoping to run into you today,” he starts, rummaging through his backpack. “I’ve got something for you.” He hands over the battered A4 envelope, feeling suddenly nervous, like he wants to rip it back and forget the whole thing.
But it’s too late, Sieger is peering into the envelope with an expression of rapture. He sticks his hand in and pulls out a few, gazing at the glint of brass and enamel in his palm. “Oh, John,” he says emotionally, looking at the others rattling around in the bottom of the envelope. “Look at them all.”
“I’ve been swapping them ‘round the village for you, since you were collecting them,” says John by way of explanation. “I thought you might like them.”
Sieger tips the pins back into the envelope. “John, a word to the wise,” he says, eyes suddenly sharp and voice firm. “Sherlock could look at you and tell you what jam you had at breakfast, but he’s an oblivious idiot when it comes to some things, do you understand?” John swallows and nods. “I don’t think Mycroft is much better, so you can pass on the message to that coach of yours as well. Be bold, but for Christ’s sake, John, be obvious, because I don’t want these bloody numpties to die alone.”
“Right,” says John. “Right, yes, I see.”
“Good,” says Sieger, pale eyes peering down at him. “I see you do.”
John blinks rapidly and Mycroft and Sherlock are approaching the group again, neither looking particularly impressed.
“Look at what John’s given me, Sherlock,” says Sieger, hand full of pins once again. “This one’s from Norway, look.”
Sherlock dutifully looks down at the pins in his father’s hand and turns his head to look at John, inscrutable expression on his face.
“Oh, what’s this big one?” Sieger says, and even as Sherlock turns his head down to look at what his aged father has pulled out of the envelope, John knows with a sick feeling of dread what it is.
Sieger holds it up to his eye where the green foil glints in the sun. As if in slow motion, Sherlock and Mycroft both turn to look at John. Sherlock looks as if he is running through every synonym for idiot that he knows, trying to decide in which order he should unleash them upon John. Mycroft just looks murderous. John feels the flood of adrenaline through his system, his legs itching to run him away from this horrific situation.
“Oh, I say!” says Sieger, and breaks into peals of laughter. “Bet no-one else will have one of these, eh?” he chokes out. “Wait till I show this to the chaps down at the Arms! Ho-ho, we hear about what you lot get up to don’t we? Well, well,” he says, still chuckling. “An Olympic condom of my very own, what a thrill.” He smiles at it fondly before dropping it back into the envelope.
John sags limply on his feet as Lestrade grabs his arm and starts steering him away before anybody else can say anything. “Well, perhaps we’ll run into each other after the gala, yes? But we must go now! Enjoy the show!”
Lestrade is hissing into John’s ear as he drags him into the building, but John’s too busy thinking over his near-death experience to pay attention.
“Christ! Are you even listening to me?!” Lestrade practically roars once they are inside.
“No,” says John, shaking his arm free of his coach’s grip. “Also, I need to change my song.”
…….
Cat lover. Tinea. Disappointing hotel breakfast.
Accountant. Reads zombie novels. Recently contracted an STI, and not from his girlfriend.
Frustrated hockey player. Adopted. Bakes own bread.
These people are all boring. Dull. God, when will this blighted performance be over? This hateful show is meant to be fun, fun for the crowd with all the athletes and ‘entertainment’ on display, and fun for the athletes with no scoring to worry about. Fun. Sherlock has had more fun taping his toes back together after dance practice.
He fidgets and squirms in his seat, occasionally being shot quashing looks by hateful Mycroft who sits statue-still, hands resting on the umbrella upright between his legs. On his other side, Father is too busy examining his new pins and sticking them into his hat to pay much heed to Sherlock’s frustrated sighs. And Mummy is thoroughly enjoying the show, clapping and ‘ooh-aah’ing at the appropriate spots and resolutely ignoring them all.
It’s intolerable.
Mummy is still enthusiastically clapping the Chinese tumblers when, sure as a compass needle, Sherlock is drawn to a small figure in blue hovering at the sides of the arena floor. Then the tumblers are walking off and John is walking up to the parallel bars, and the announcer is calling out John’s name, reminding everyone that he is a double gold medallist. They neglect to mention the bronze, because they are clearly incompetent. The crowd is applauding warmly, particularly, Sherlock thinks with a scowl, the female portions of it. God knows, even his mother is sitting on the edge of her seat.
“Hmm, I wonder what John has got in store for us today, hmmm?” says his father idly, finally putting his hat down on the floor. Sherlock himself is, well, perhaps not wholly immune to it - but that’s probably just the excitement of his incipient return to London talking.
John’s music starts, something vacuous and cheerful; under the bars John is clapping along, swivelling his hips and smiling. Sherlock crosses his legs as John rubs some extra powder off his hands, makes some sort of ‘hands-up’ gesture to the crowd (what could this mean? Effect: increased cheering volume) and launches himself up onto the bars, effortlessly swinging up into the handstand position and then clapping with his feet. “Oooh, so clever,” says Mummy, clapping along. Sherlock rolls his eyes as John does another few spins on the bars, coming back to a handstand position again.
John slowly drops down one foot, then the other and slowly adjusts his centre of gravity so that he is standing upright on the bars, one foot balanced on each. John is doing his little dance again, fists circling each other and hips rolling. Although rationally it is impossible, as John will have too many lights and be too far away to pick out Sherlock in the crowd; he appears to be staring straight at Sherlock. Sherlock gulps. One side of John’s mouth cocks up into a smile and his pink tongue peeks out to wet his lips. He look positively predatory. Sherlock has a sudden, complete, and unambiguous understanding of how a small man who spends most of his life in a tracksuit has a nickname like Three Continents.
Still with that smile, John slides one hand up his chest (rectus abdominus. Pectoralis major) and over his shoulder (deltoid), takes a gentle hold of the strap of his leotard and slides one arm out of it. Sherlock’s chest feels peculiar. John slides the other arm out of his uniform and rucks it down his body, arranging it neatly on his hips (rather low on the hip) and walking closer on the bars. It reveals a patch of purple bruising, shot through with red scrapes, the sort you might get trying not to fall off a rooftop. Sherlock wheezes in a breath of air.
John, still apparently looking right at him, is moving his arms and doing some kind of rolling motion with his midsection that is whiting out parts of Sherlock’s brain. Abs, he thinks. All the abs. Many abs.
Is it at this moment that his brain latches on to the music, obviously as a desperate attempt to save itself from lustful self-immolation.
…come to me baby, don’t be shy, don’t be shy…
John has spun round on the bars and bent over a little, waggling his bum at Sherlock. Left, right, up, down.
…come to me baby, don’t be shy, don’t be shy…
John is bent almost in half now, bottom pointed right at Sherlock as his legs tap out behind him. Sherlock is helpless. Stranded by reason. Destitute of logic. Bereft of any capability to do anything other than watch John’s bum bounce in time to the music.
John turns around again and blows a kiss to the audience, who have passed through rowdy, left behind boisterous and have happily arrived at earsplitting as John does another handstand before swinging down and off the bars to dismount. Sherlock stares after the retreating blond figure and crosses his legs.
“Well, Irene, wasn’t that a stimulating way to end the gymnastics programme here in Rio?”
“Kate, hard to imagine a more rousing finale to these games. Young John Watson finishing with a punchy routine there, sure to leave everyone satisfied.”
…..
Sherlock has never been gladder of his parent’s typical dilatory progress through public spaces than he is when John bounces towards him, ruddy and smiling, outside the arena.
“Hello,” he said, as if all the planets and stars are not orbiting him; “I don’t think I’ve actually said congratulations to you in person yet.”
Sherlock feels his mouth open, but his mother swoops in before he can get anything out. “Ah! John! Greg! How nice – why don’t we all have lunch?”
“Oh, I’m afraid we can’t, Violet,” John said smoothly. “Sherlock and I need to go to a gymnastics team meeting back at the Village, you know, official wrap-up, now that the competition is over.”
“Yes,” butts in Lestrade. “Very important. Mycroft, perhaps you’d like to come back to the village with me to, er, inspect the accommodations on behalf of the ministry?”
Sherlock looks at his brother’s face: curiosity, excitement and a soupçon of…nerves? “Ye-es, yes, an excellent notion. Ensure standards are being upheld, and such. Yes.”
Lestrade beams, Mycroft volunteers his car, and they are walking off.
“Well, perhaps another time,” said Violet, dismayed.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future, dear. Meanwhile, there’s Caipirinhas at the hotel bar, so all is not lost, eh, darling girl?” Sherlock, eyes closed at his parent’s shameful behaviour, so he misses the huge wink his father throws at John over his wife’s shoulder as they walk away.
“C’mon,” said John, voice low, “there’s the bus.”
Sherlock is incredibly conscious of the warmth of John’s body as the bus trundles back to the village. Sherlock catalogues the points of contact; pushed together at shoulder; thigh and knee. Sherlock looks out the window, like always. And John, like always, like he’s never noticed, looks equal parts straight ahead, and at Sherlock.
They walk quickly back to the GB building, John breaking out into a laughing run when it comes into sight. Surprised, Sherlock starts to run behind him, blood pounding as he remember this; other days, nights, running back to this place. But as John looks at him, breathless and happy in the lift up to the eighth floor, he’s not sure what will happen this time.
John follows him very closely out of the lift; he’s half-pressing Sherlock into the door to his room as he opens it. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, it feels as if only the top half of his lungs are taking in any air; he stumbles a little as the door opens and he enters into the room. He turns to face John, who is heading into the bedroom. That seems a little…forward? Sherlock thinks in rising panic. Surely there’s supposed to be more….something?
John comes darting back into the room with a long sock in his hand, opens up the apartment door and ties the sock firmly around the handle, before shutting it with a grand gesture.
Sherlock is still frozen in the middle of the floor.
“Sherlock?” John asks uncertainly.
“John, God, I don’t – I’ve never – I’m.” Sherlock clams his jaw shut, eyes closed.
“Sherlock,” John says again, rough and drawn out. “D’you want to sit on the couch? Because right now I’d just really, really like to kiss you. If that’s ok with you.” John swallows. “If that’s what you want.”
On wobbly legs, Sherlock heads over to the couch.
