last01standing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
last01standing) wrote2011-05-01 05:40 pm
last01standing) wrote2011-05-01 05:40 pm
Entry tags:
Sherlock fic--Road Swing [1/1, John, Sherlock, Lestrade, hockey!AU]
Title: Road Swing
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock [mild crossover with Supernatural and Dexter]
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine.
Summary: NHL!AU. Sherlock Holmes is an eccentric goaltender who keeps getting traded due to attitude problems. John Watson is a perennial minor leaguer getting what could be his last shot at the NHL.
Author's note: Borrows backstory from my hockey!AU which is based around Supernatural. No knowledge of that story is needed to enjoy this. It just seemed a bit silly to have multiple hockey verses.
ROAD SWING
John gets the call after he's already gone to sleep, enjoying the night off before tomorrow morning's practice. He rolls over, ignoring his shoulder's constant protest, fumbles for the receiver and mumbles, "Is something wrong?"
"Watson," the voice greets.
John sits up in bed suddenly wide awake. There's only one reason to get a call from the GM this late. "Sir?"
"Don't know if you caught our game tonight, but we're going to be short a defenseman." A short pause. "You're up, Watson. We have the Canucks on Wednesday. Your flight leaves tomorrow. You'll join the team in transit."
He doesn't remember the rest of the conversation but when he sags back against the bed, adrenaline is already coursing through his veins. This is it. He's been waiting for a chance to get back ever since his post-injury conditioning stint had become a five-year ordeal.
John is thirty-one years old, and hasn't seen the NHL since his season and a half stint with Boston. He's almost resigned himself to the fact that he'll never get back, that Chicago, the AHL and the Wolves are as far as he'll go.
He has a chance now.
But with the nagging shoulder problems, his increasing age and ever-present questions about his size, it just might be the last chance he ever gets.
***
Five years ago, John was injured during the war.
He didn't know it was a war at the time. It felt more like regular season hockey.
***
A team official called Samford picks him up at the airport, informing him that he's already missed the morning skate. Samford is an affable sort, a former player at the collegiate level though he's definitely let himself go. "I'm afraid there's only the one room left," he says, sympathy evident in his tone. "You'll be rooming with Sherlock Holmes."
John blinks. He's heard of Sherlock Holmes of course, the man's infamous around the league. He's been in the NHL for four seasons, during the course of which, he's played for seven teams. His tenure with the Thrashers was in its infancy. As a goaltender, Holmes's numbers are unreal, his career goals against average at 2.004, but he still gets moved time and time again.
Rumours, if rumours to be believed say he's a raving lunatic.
John leans back.
He can deal with a lunatic if it meant he gets a sweater.
Holmes is in the hotel room when he arrives, having a stare-off with what appears to be a human skull seated on his dresser. "And you must be John Watson."
"Which makes you Sherlock Holmes."
"Obviously." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and it's so good to hear the right sort of accent after years surrounded by Canadians, John very nearly forgives him the rudeness. "It seems Anderson does not intend to return after all."
"I got the call because Dimmock was injured last game."
"Anderson had what appeared to be a midlife crisis while rooming with me on my first away trip with the team. It seems he'd rather be a police officer than a hockey player."
"You managed to turn him off the whole sport?"
"Quite possibly. Tell me, Watson, why do they not expect you to succeed?"
"I'm sorry."
"They assigned you to room with me. They can't expect you'll last. No one ever does. I've been lobbying for my own space but Lestrade has a sort of stubbornness about teambuilding."
John sets his duffle bag down at the foot of the bed and wonders over to the kitchenette. "I rather expected it was far more practical to put the only two English blokes in the league together. Now if you excuse, me, I'm going to go put the kettle on." Almost as an afterthought, he turns back around and adds. "And if I find my name on that website of yours—"
"You've seen the website?"
"The Science of the Netminder? Holmes, the entire league has seen your website. It's the best scouting tool out there."
"Sherlock, please," he corrects. "And up until two days ago, you had no idea you'd be part of this league and therefore no reason to waste your time scouting the NHL."
"Are you trying to pull one of these deductions on me? You've got a great read on the puck, that's for sure, but you’re an NHL level goaltender if your reactions weren't fantastic, you wouldn't be here. What you claim to do on that site is closer to magic."
"It's not magic, it's reason. For instance from one look at you, I can tell that you were in the NHL once before, though not with this same club. You suffered and injury five years ago and have been in the minor leagues since then. If the way you held your duffle bag is any indication, it was your left shoulder. Because of the year, my guess would be it happened in a game against Philadelphia as they injured more opponents than any other. You're a defenseman but you've had to retool your game completely or you would have made it back to the NHL well before. Which means you must have lost something with the injury. My guess would be roughly twenty percent of your slapshot. Supposition: you used to be an offensive-minded defenseman but can't be anymore. You're English but your very presence in the NHL mean you've spend significant time away from home. The slight rounding of your vowels say Canada is the most likely. Edmonton if I'm not mistaken. Judging by the accent contamination, I'd say you moved there in your early teens."
John blinks at him. "That was… amazing."
"You really think so?"
"Of course." John offers the other man a smile. "But there's still no way you could do that on the ice where people are wearing uniforms and the shot comes in less than a second."
"You'd be surprised."
"You'd have nothing but shut outs."
"The goals? My defensemen are idiots."
John shoves a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock looks down at it, bewildered. After a moment, he recovers, takes a sip and says, "I see you've recently elected to begin fighting in hopes of getting a reputation as an energy player."
"And you deduced this from the bruises on my fists and my massive shiner, did you?"
Sherlock graces him with a tight smile. "Of course. You must realize you're far too small to be that sort of defenseman. You're going to lose more fights than you win."
"And you're much to skinny to be a proper goaltender. You seem to get by."
***
Lestrade, only five years removed from his playing days, is one the most inexperienced coach in the league. His reputation as an intelligent player and a team leader had facilitated his rise to assistant. He would have been in line for the top job after a few more years, but when Atlanta fired their head coach, interim responsibilities fell to Lestrade.
The inexperience is obvious during the skate, but most of the players are willing to forgive it. Coaching changes tend to leave players very receptive to instruction as they fear for their own jobs.
All the same though, it's a game day and the session is very light. John slots into the play well enough. They've been running the same system in Chicago, a way to facilitate traffic between the two clubs. Though the skate is optional, nearly everyone attends. John half suspects it's just so they can see how the new guy will fit in.
After the skate, Lestrade called John aside. "I had a chance to play a few games against you back before your injury. You're a tough bastard and you play hard. It's why I pushed them to pull you up instead of one of the younger kids. But you should know this, it might be your only shot. I'm gone as soon as they find a replacement."
Something tightened in John's stomach. "Thank you, sir."
"Play your game, Watson. You wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could handle it."
***
The sweater looks wrong. His number for the Wolves had been 9. Before the injury he'd been 23. He's never assigned much meaning to numbers, but he realizes that 79 isn't a number of someone who's expected to stay. No one talks to him. No one really talks much at all, but John had expected that. It's February and it already looks doubtful that the Thrashers will make the playoffs. Vancouver on the other hand leads the league in nearly every offensive category.
The perfect audition for a washed up defenseman on his last gasp for the NHL.
Jesus.
The boards are livelier than the ones he's used to and the ice undeniably better, but John aches for the familiarity of the Wolves's arena in Chicago. His first shift out he misreads a puck and it careens of the board to the stick of a waiting forward. Sherlock flashes out a blocker but the puck lifts up and over it to find the back of the net.
Over, John realises. That's it, his only chance and he's blown it.
Ironically, that's what settles him down and through the rest of his six minutes of work in the period, he's solid.
At the intermission, Sherlock sidles up to him and succinctly details every mistake he's made thus far. John listens quietly, understanding why most people think this man is an ass.
He's also right about everything and John has always responded faster to criticism than praise.
So he adjusts.
Luongo, unfortunately, is hard to beat on a mere twenty one shots a game. With a minute to go, John finds himself on the bench next to Sherlock, their empty net yawning in favour of an extra attacker. The goaltender holds his mask in his hands. It's white except for the cartoon of a magnifying glass. John guesses Sherlock has never been one place long enough to go with the home team colours.
"Overcommitted," Sherlock says as the defenseman moves in from the point.
John sees it the play develop only a second later and the Vancouver's on the break out, lobbing the puck toward the empty goal. Sherlock casts his eyes skyward, puts on his mask and moves back onto the ice. After a quick word from Lestrade, John follows.
They lose 2-0. John retires to the hotel, expecting a call that never comes. He listens as Sherlock complains about the game to the skull on his dresser. Its name appears to be Patrick Roy.
John's pretty sure Roy's not dead.
***
Friday is a 3-2 win over Calgary. John clocks 18:09 in ice time and has a +1 rating. He's getting better at this, getting used to the speed, used to reacting to Sherlock's often befuddling orders. After the game, Sherlock lists every mistake he made. John listens, takes notes and offers him tea.
The list is getting shorter.
In Edmonton, John blocks three shots during the same shift and his pass out of the zone frees a breakaway. Clara is in the crowd even though Harry isn't and she takes John out for a bite after the game. They munch on chips that Clara insists are called fries and talk about everything except Harry.
"They told you how long you're going to be playing with the big boys?"
"No," John says. "But they did tell me it might be my last chance."
Clara reaches over the table and squeezes his hand. "You're going to be fine, Johnny."
When he gets back to the hotel, every inch of the place is covered with the white bathroom towels. John raises an eyebrow and calls, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock pops out from behind one of the beds, looking quite serious. "John?"
"What are you doing?"
Very slowly as if John were dense, Sherlock replies, "It's an experiment."
John turns back to the door. "Right. Well I'll be off for a few hours then. Next time hang a sock or something."
He winds up drinking at the hotel bar with a few of his new team-mates who spend most of the time complaining about Sherlock. "Watch out for that one, Wats," Donovan warns him after the fourth round. "He's a psychopath."
With practice ease, John downs a shot. "Damn good goalie though."
No one can argue with that.
And then they're in playing the Rage in Lawrence, Kansas, a place even less suited for hockey than England. Against all odds, the Rage are sitting at on the sixth seed in the east for the first time in their existence. Sherlock's excited to be there, because reports of weird crimes spike around any place the Rage play. Most of it of course, was concentrated five years ago but John's quickly learned that Sherlock is prone to fixation.
It takes the opening announcement and a fair few Winchester jerseys emblazoned with the C before John remembers that Dean Winchester and his brother play for the Rage. It feels funny to see Dean after all these years. He'd been John's defensive partner when he'd broken into the NHL with Boston an eternity ago. They'd fit together well, John, a sniper from the blue line, Winchester with more than enough strength to do the hard work.
Dean's a captain now and John's thirty-one years old, struggling to stay where he is. He doesn't think they'll ever be that many people wearing Watson sweaters to a game.
Sherlock, watching the other squad's warm-ups, sidles up to John and whispers, "If you get the chance, go after Dean Winchester's right side."
John blinks. "He tore his left ACL a few years ago."
"Right side," Sherlock repeats. "Ribs."
John heads back to the locker room to fiddle with his equipment and tries to delete that particular piece of information. He didn't work with Dean long as the other man's ACL injury ended his season early, but he'd liked him.
That all goes out of John's head the minute the puck drops. He feels like he's ten years younger and when the puck finds his stick in the offensive zone, he doesn't even hesitate before sending it sailing towards Jim Novak's goal. He's not got the power he used to but his accuracy's improved. When the red light goes on, the crowd goes silent and John pumps a fist into the air.
Dean invites him out for a pint after the game. John agrees because it's the last time the Thrashers face off against the Rage this season which means they aren't rivals again until October.
The pub Dean favours is small and dark, but the beer is good and so is the company. "We'll take you all down next time," Dean promises. "Just you wait."
John stares at his beer. He's not sure he'll still be around next time.
"Glad you made it back, Wats," Dean says, raising a glass.
John clicks is against it. "Cheers."
As Dean knocks back the drink, John can't help but notice the slight wince. "Someone knock you good in the game?"
Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Your ribs," John says.
"Upper body injury," Dean corrects.
***
"There's something strange about the Winchester brothers," Sherlock says in their hotel room. Patrick Roy, sitting atop the television seems to agree.
"Next you'll be telling me they're some kind of serial killing duo. I can promise you, that's not true."
"No, the only serial killer operating out of the National Hockey League is doing so out of Miami. He plays for the Panthers. Morgan something."
"Dexter Morgan?" John sputters. "You're having me on."
"I most assuredly am not."
"But—but he's won the Lady Byng trophy three years running."
"He's very good at hiding. I believe the technical term is sociopath."
"If he's a serial killer, why not go to the police?"
"As far as I can tell, he's only killed other serial murderers. America has far too many of those. It's become practically pedestrian. I say leave him be."
John can't tell if he's joking or not and decides he needs more tea.
***
In Dallas, Sherlock is trucked through the crease by an overeager forward and even though John sees the referee's arm go up for the penalty, he's up in the guy's face.
Dallas was Sherlock's last team and they didn't take too kindly to him. John doesn't know the name of the forward, but the dislike is immediate and powerful. "Back the hell off."
The forward shoves him back. "Why the fuck are you sticking up for the freak?"
John throws down his gloves.
He ices his knuckles and gets four new stitches during intermission. Sherlock does not return to the game but they sit next to each other in the trainer's room, listening to Lestrade's speech through the door..
"No one's ever done that for me before," Sherlock says lowly. "That was good."
John claps him on the back and squeezes his shoulder. Then he heads out for the second period.
***
And then it's back to Atlanta. John's fifth game in the NHL. He feels a bit awkward as all the players disperse to their homes while he checks into a hotel. Lestrade had smiled at him coming off the plane and told him Dimmock's out for at least another week.
He has his first practice at Atlanta's facility and is the last one to leave. He stays almost an hour after the last Thrasher vacates the ice, amusing himself with a pile of pucks on the blue line. One at a time, he sends them sailing for the net, aiming for the upper left corner. The crossbar sings out twelve times in a row, misses once and rings six more times. John's grinning ear to ear by the time he leaves the ice and is completely shocked to see Sherlock, wearing street clothes, watching him by the bench.
"You’re a crack shot," he observes, surprise in his tone.
"You make it sound like I'm wielding a gun."
"You may as well be." Sherlock's eyes scan up and down the ice again as if tracing the lines of John's shot. "I should have seen it earlier. Of course you're a crack shot."
***
John realizes something odd is going on the third time Sherlock plays the puck instead of freezing it. He's still on the ice, dog tired but Sherlock dumps it behind the goal to his waiting stick. Exasperated, John swings the puck up the boards to their man on the blue line. The dump in attempt is intercepted in the neutral zone and sends a two and one back the other way. John sprawls to the ice in an effort to block the pass but he mistimes it slightly and Sherlock's not fast enough this time.
They go into the first intermission down two. John's barely into the tunnel when he rounds on Sherlock and demands, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
"Bored," Sherlock drawls like it explains everything.
They're playing Ottawa tonight. The Senators are bottoming out the Eastern Conference but even after the successful road swing, Atlanta's not much higher. "We're trailing the Sens," John says. "Which means they're better than you. And I know you're a mad genius but you've forgotten your maths. If they score on you, that means today, they're better than you. Is that something your massive ego can handle? Play the game correctly. I'd rather not have another two minute shift."
Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again. His locker is right next to John's but he refuses to glace to the goaltender.
The rest of the game Sherlock is flawless and they pull out a shootout victory. Sherlock is named first star of the game, an honour that he doesn't appear to even notice. Lestrade calls John back before the team is dismissed. "I don't know what you said to Holmes, but I swear, Watson, you're worth your weight in gold."
Sherlock is waiting for him in the parking lot, hands shoved in the pocket of a coat far too warm for this city. "You've been staying in a hotel since we came back to Atlanta."
"Yes," John replies. He's still living out of a suitcase. Things are going well but he doesn't want to assume it's going to stay that way.
"I have an extra room in my flat," Sherlock says. It's as close as John has seen him to nervous. "It's probably far more comfortable than where you've been staying."
***
They homestand and Dimmock is reactivated but John stays where he is. He keeps Sherlock as his roommate for the upcoming road swing. Lestrade looks at him like he's crazy but for the first time in years, John has everything he could ever want.
***
"You're a genius," John tells Sherlock after the game. They're in their hotel room in Pittsburgh, watching crap telly as they bask in the high of a shootout victory. "Why the hell are you playing hockey instead of solving world hunger?"
"This is more fun," Sherlock says.
"Yes," John agrees. "It really is."
(end)
***
So yeah, if you want to prompt hockey fic, name a fandom I know and you can probably coerce some fic from me.
OMG! The lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thearchpoet has written a Sherlock/Dexter tag to this in the comments. Go read and tell her how lovely it is.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock [mild crossover with Supernatural and Dexter]
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine.
Summary: NHL!AU. Sherlock Holmes is an eccentric goaltender who keeps getting traded due to attitude problems. John Watson is a perennial minor leaguer getting what could be his last shot at the NHL.
Author's note: Borrows backstory from my hockey!AU which is based around Supernatural. No knowledge of that story is needed to enjoy this. It just seemed a bit silly to have multiple hockey verses.
John gets the call after he's already gone to sleep, enjoying the night off before tomorrow morning's practice. He rolls over, ignoring his shoulder's constant protest, fumbles for the receiver and mumbles, "Is something wrong?"
"Watson," the voice greets.
John sits up in bed suddenly wide awake. There's only one reason to get a call from the GM this late. "Sir?"
"Don't know if you caught our game tonight, but we're going to be short a defenseman." A short pause. "You're up, Watson. We have the Canucks on Wednesday. Your flight leaves tomorrow. You'll join the team in transit."
He doesn't remember the rest of the conversation but when he sags back against the bed, adrenaline is already coursing through his veins. This is it. He's been waiting for a chance to get back ever since his post-injury conditioning stint had become a five-year ordeal.
John is thirty-one years old, and hasn't seen the NHL since his season and a half stint with Boston. He's almost resigned himself to the fact that he'll never get back, that Chicago, the AHL and the Wolves are as far as he'll go.
He has a chance now.
But with the nagging shoulder problems, his increasing age and ever-present questions about his size, it just might be the last chance he ever gets.
Five years ago, John was injured during the war.
He didn't know it was a war at the time. It felt more like regular season hockey.
A team official called Samford picks him up at the airport, informing him that he's already missed the morning skate. Samford is an affable sort, a former player at the collegiate level though he's definitely let himself go. "I'm afraid there's only the one room left," he says, sympathy evident in his tone. "You'll be rooming with Sherlock Holmes."
John blinks. He's heard of Sherlock Holmes of course, the man's infamous around the league. He's been in the NHL for four seasons, during the course of which, he's played for seven teams. His tenure with the Thrashers was in its infancy. As a goaltender, Holmes's numbers are unreal, his career goals against average at 2.004, but he still gets moved time and time again.
Rumours, if rumours to be believed say he's a raving lunatic.
John leans back.
He can deal with a lunatic if it meant he gets a sweater.
Holmes is in the hotel room when he arrives, having a stare-off with what appears to be a human skull seated on his dresser. "And you must be John Watson."
"Which makes you Sherlock Holmes."
"Obviously." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and it's so good to hear the right sort of accent after years surrounded by Canadians, John very nearly forgives him the rudeness. "It seems Anderson does not intend to return after all."
"I got the call because Dimmock was injured last game."
"Anderson had what appeared to be a midlife crisis while rooming with me on my first away trip with the team. It seems he'd rather be a police officer than a hockey player."
"You managed to turn him off the whole sport?"
"Quite possibly. Tell me, Watson, why do they not expect you to succeed?"
"I'm sorry."
"They assigned you to room with me. They can't expect you'll last. No one ever does. I've been lobbying for my own space but Lestrade has a sort of stubbornness about teambuilding."
John sets his duffle bag down at the foot of the bed and wonders over to the kitchenette. "I rather expected it was far more practical to put the only two English blokes in the league together. Now if you excuse, me, I'm going to go put the kettle on." Almost as an afterthought, he turns back around and adds. "And if I find my name on that website of yours—"
"You've seen the website?"
"The Science of the Netminder? Holmes, the entire league has seen your website. It's the best scouting tool out there."
"Sherlock, please," he corrects. "And up until two days ago, you had no idea you'd be part of this league and therefore no reason to waste your time scouting the NHL."
"Are you trying to pull one of these deductions on me? You've got a great read on the puck, that's for sure, but you’re an NHL level goaltender if your reactions weren't fantastic, you wouldn't be here. What you claim to do on that site is closer to magic."
"It's not magic, it's reason. For instance from one look at you, I can tell that you were in the NHL once before, though not with this same club. You suffered and injury five years ago and have been in the minor leagues since then. If the way you held your duffle bag is any indication, it was your left shoulder. Because of the year, my guess would be it happened in a game against Philadelphia as they injured more opponents than any other. You're a defenseman but you've had to retool your game completely or you would have made it back to the NHL well before. Which means you must have lost something with the injury. My guess would be roughly twenty percent of your slapshot. Supposition: you used to be an offensive-minded defenseman but can't be anymore. You're English but your very presence in the NHL mean you've spend significant time away from home. The slight rounding of your vowels say Canada is the most likely. Edmonton if I'm not mistaken. Judging by the accent contamination, I'd say you moved there in your early teens."
John blinks at him. "That was… amazing."
"You really think so?"
"Of course." John offers the other man a smile. "But there's still no way you could do that on the ice where people are wearing uniforms and the shot comes in less than a second."
"You'd be surprised."
"You'd have nothing but shut outs."
"The goals? My defensemen are idiots."
John shoves a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock looks down at it, bewildered. After a moment, he recovers, takes a sip and says, "I see you've recently elected to begin fighting in hopes of getting a reputation as an energy player."
"And you deduced this from the bruises on my fists and my massive shiner, did you?"
Sherlock graces him with a tight smile. "Of course. You must realize you're far too small to be that sort of defenseman. You're going to lose more fights than you win."
"And you're much to skinny to be a proper goaltender. You seem to get by."
Lestrade, only five years removed from his playing days, is one the most inexperienced coach in the league. His reputation as an intelligent player and a team leader had facilitated his rise to assistant. He would have been in line for the top job after a few more years, but when Atlanta fired their head coach, interim responsibilities fell to Lestrade.
The inexperience is obvious during the skate, but most of the players are willing to forgive it. Coaching changes tend to leave players very receptive to instruction as they fear for their own jobs.
All the same though, it's a game day and the session is very light. John slots into the play well enough. They've been running the same system in Chicago, a way to facilitate traffic between the two clubs. Though the skate is optional, nearly everyone attends. John half suspects it's just so they can see how the new guy will fit in.
After the skate, Lestrade called John aside. "I had a chance to play a few games against you back before your injury. You're a tough bastard and you play hard. It's why I pushed them to pull you up instead of one of the younger kids. But you should know this, it might be your only shot. I'm gone as soon as they find a replacement."
Something tightened in John's stomach. "Thank you, sir."
"Play your game, Watson. You wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could handle it."
The sweater looks wrong. His number for the Wolves had been 9. Before the injury he'd been 23. He's never assigned much meaning to numbers, but he realizes that 79 isn't a number of someone who's expected to stay. No one talks to him. No one really talks much at all, but John had expected that. It's February and it already looks doubtful that the Thrashers will make the playoffs. Vancouver on the other hand leads the league in nearly every offensive category.
The perfect audition for a washed up defenseman on his last gasp for the NHL.
Jesus.
The boards are livelier than the ones he's used to and the ice undeniably better, but John aches for the familiarity of the Wolves's arena in Chicago. His first shift out he misreads a puck and it careens of the board to the stick of a waiting forward. Sherlock flashes out a blocker but the puck lifts up and over it to find the back of the net.
Over, John realises. That's it, his only chance and he's blown it.
Ironically, that's what settles him down and through the rest of his six minutes of work in the period, he's solid.
At the intermission, Sherlock sidles up to him and succinctly details every mistake he's made thus far. John listens quietly, understanding why most people think this man is an ass.
He's also right about everything and John has always responded faster to criticism than praise.
So he adjusts.
Luongo, unfortunately, is hard to beat on a mere twenty one shots a game. With a minute to go, John finds himself on the bench next to Sherlock, their empty net yawning in favour of an extra attacker. The goaltender holds his mask in his hands. It's white except for the cartoon of a magnifying glass. John guesses Sherlock has never been one place long enough to go with the home team colours.
"Overcommitted," Sherlock says as the defenseman moves in from the point.
John sees it the play develop only a second later and the Vancouver's on the break out, lobbing the puck toward the empty goal. Sherlock casts his eyes skyward, puts on his mask and moves back onto the ice. After a quick word from Lestrade, John follows.
They lose 2-0. John retires to the hotel, expecting a call that never comes. He listens as Sherlock complains about the game to the skull on his dresser. Its name appears to be Patrick Roy.
John's pretty sure Roy's not dead.
Friday is a 3-2 win over Calgary. John clocks 18:09 in ice time and has a +1 rating. He's getting better at this, getting used to the speed, used to reacting to Sherlock's often befuddling orders. After the game, Sherlock lists every mistake he made. John listens, takes notes and offers him tea.
The list is getting shorter.
In Edmonton, John blocks three shots during the same shift and his pass out of the zone frees a breakaway. Clara is in the crowd even though Harry isn't and she takes John out for a bite after the game. They munch on chips that Clara insists are called fries and talk about everything except Harry.
"They told you how long you're going to be playing with the big boys?"
"No," John says. "But they did tell me it might be my last chance."
Clara reaches over the table and squeezes his hand. "You're going to be fine, Johnny."
When he gets back to the hotel, every inch of the place is covered with the white bathroom towels. John raises an eyebrow and calls, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock pops out from behind one of the beds, looking quite serious. "John?"
"What are you doing?"
Very slowly as if John were dense, Sherlock replies, "It's an experiment."
John turns back to the door. "Right. Well I'll be off for a few hours then. Next time hang a sock or something."
He winds up drinking at the hotel bar with a few of his new team-mates who spend most of the time complaining about Sherlock. "Watch out for that one, Wats," Donovan warns him after the fourth round. "He's a psychopath."
With practice ease, John downs a shot. "Damn good goalie though."
No one can argue with that.
And then they're in playing the Rage in Lawrence, Kansas, a place even less suited for hockey than England. Against all odds, the Rage are sitting at on the sixth seed in the east for the first time in their existence. Sherlock's excited to be there, because reports of weird crimes spike around any place the Rage play. Most of it of course, was concentrated five years ago but John's quickly learned that Sherlock is prone to fixation.
It takes the opening announcement and a fair few Winchester jerseys emblazoned with the C before John remembers that Dean Winchester and his brother play for the Rage. It feels funny to see Dean after all these years. He'd been John's defensive partner when he'd broken into the NHL with Boston an eternity ago. They'd fit together well, John, a sniper from the blue line, Winchester with more than enough strength to do the hard work.
Dean's a captain now and John's thirty-one years old, struggling to stay where he is. He doesn't think they'll ever be that many people wearing Watson sweaters to a game.
Sherlock, watching the other squad's warm-ups, sidles up to John and whispers, "If you get the chance, go after Dean Winchester's right side."
John blinks. "He tore his left ACL a few years ago."
"Right side," Sherlock repeats. "Ribs."
John heads back to the locker room to fiddle with his equipment and tries to delete that particular piece of information. He didn't work with Dean long as the other man's ACL injury ended his season early, but he'd liked him.
That all goes out of John's head the minute the puck drops. He feels like he's ten years younger and when the puck finds his stick in the offensive zone, he doesn't even hesitate before sending it sailing towards Jim Novak's goal. He's not got the power he used to but his accuracy's improved. When the red light goes on, the crowd goes silent and John pumps a fist into the air.
Dean invites him out for a pint after the game. John agrees because it's the last time the Thrashers face off against the Rage this season which means they aren't rivals again until October.
The pub Dean favours is small and dark, but the beer is good and so is the company. "We'll take you all down next time," Dean promises. "Just you wait."
John stares at his beer. He's not sure he'll still be around next time.
"Glad you made it back, Wats," Dean says, raising a glass.
John clicks is against it. "Cheers."
As Dean knocks back the drink, John can't help but notice the slight wince. "Someone knock you good in the game?"
Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Your ribs," John says.
"Upper body injury," Dean corrects.
"There's something strange about the Winchester brothers," Sherlock says in their hotel room. Patrick Roy, sitting atop the television seems to agree.
"Next you'll be telling me they're some kind of serial killing duo. I can promise you, that's not true."
"No, the only serial killer operating out of the National Hockey League is doing so out of Miami. He plays for the Panthers. Morgan something."
"Dexter Morgan?" John sputters. "You're having me on."
"I most assuredly am not."
"But—but he's won the Lady Byng trophy three years running."
"He's very good at hiding. I believe the technical term is sociopath."
"If he's a serial killer, why not go to the police?"
"As far as I can tell, he's only killed other serial murderers. America has far too many of those. It's become practically pedestrian. I say leave him be."
John can't tell if he's joking or not and decides he needs more tea.
In Dallas, Sherlock is trucked through the crease by an overeager forward and even though John sees the referee's arm go up for the penalty, he's up in the guy's face.
Dallas was Sherlock's last team and they didn't take too kindly to him. John doesn't know the name of the forward, but the dislike is immediate and powerful. "Back the hell off."
The forward shoves him back. "Why the fuck are you sticking up for the freak?"
John throws down his gloves.
He ices his knuckles and gets four new stitches during intermission. Sherlock does not return to the game but they sit next to each other in the trainer's room, listening to Lestrade's speech through the door..
"No one's ever done that for me before," Sherlock says lowly. "That was good."
John claps him on the back and squeezes his shoulder. Then he heads out for the second period.
And then it's back to Atlanta. John's fifth game in the NHL. He feels a bit awkward as all the players disperse to their homes while he checks into a hotel. Lestrade had smiled at him coming off the plane and told him Dimmock's out for at least another week.
He has his first practice at Atlanta's facility and is the last one to leave. He stays almost an hour after the last Thrasher vacates the ice, amusing himself with a pile of pucks on the blue line. One at a time, he sends them sailing for the net, aiming for the upper left corner. The crossbar sings out twelve times in a row, misses once and rings six more times. John's grinning ear to ear by the time he leaves the ice and is completely shocked to see Sherlock, wearing street clothes, watching him by the bench.
"You’re a crack shot," he observes, surprise in his tone.
"You make it sound like I'm wielding a gun."
"You may as well be." Sherlock's eyes scan up and down the ice again as if tracing the lines of John's shot. "I should have seen it earlier. Of course you're a crack shot."
John realizes something odd is going on the third time Sherlock plays the puck instead of freezing it. He's still on the ice, dog tired but Sherlock dumps it behind the goal to his waiting stick. Exasperated, John swings the puck up the boards to their man on the blue line. The dump in attempt is intercepted in the neutral zone and sends a two and one back the other way. John sprawls to the ice in an effort to block the pass but he mistimes it slightly and Sherlock's not fast enough this time.
They go into the first intermission down two. John's barely into the tunnel when he rounds on Sherlock and demands, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
"Bored," Sherlock drawls like it explains everything.
They're playing Ottawa tonight. The Senators are bottoming out the Eastern Conference but even after the successful road swing, Atlanta's not much higher. "We're trailing the Sens," John says. "Which means they're better than you. And I know you're a mad genius but you've forgotten your maths. If they score on you, that means today, they're better than you. Is that something your massive ego can handle? Play the game correctly. I'd rather not have another two minute shift."
Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again. His locker is right next to John's but he refuses to glace to the goaltender.
The rest of the game Sherlock is flawless and they pull out a shootout victory. Sherlock is named first star of the game, an honour that he doesn't appear to even notice. Lestrade calls John back before the team is dismissed. "I don't know what you said to Holmes, but I swear, Watson, you're worth your weight in gold."
Sherlock is waiting for him in the parking lot, hands shoved in the pocket of a coat far too warm for this city. "You've been staying in a hotel since we came back to Atlanta."
"Yes," John replies. He's still living out of a suitcase. Things are going well but he doesn't want to assume it's going to stay that way.
"I have an extra room in my flat," Sherlock says. It's as close as John has seen him to nervous. "It's probably far more comfortable than where you've been staying."
They homestand and Dimmock is reactivated but John stays where he is. He keeps Sherlock as his roommate for the upcoming road swing. Lestrade looks at him like he's crazy but for the first time in years, John has everything he could ever want.
"You're a genius," John tells Sherlock after the game. They're in their hotel room in Pittsburgh, watching crap telly as they bask in the high of a shootout victory. "Why the hell are you playing hockey instead of solving world hunger?"
"This is more fun," Sherlock says.
"Yes," John agrees. "It really is."
(end)
So yeah, if you want to prompt hockey fic, name a fandom I know and you can probably coerce some fic from me.
OMG! The lovely
thearchpoet has written a Sherlock/Dexter tag to this in the comments. Go read and tell her how lovely it is.
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