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last01standingTitle: Extra Time
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock/Supernatural
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine.
Summary: When a spell over a playoff game forces endless periods of overtime hockey, Dean Winchester is forced to enlist opponent John Watson to help him end it. [Dean, John, Sam, Sherlock, Castiel, Moriarty]
Author's note: Part of the increasingly epic hockey!AU though like all stories in this verse, it stands alone. (Three guesses which game inspired this one.)
Extra Time
PREGAME
Sherlock and John arrive at MTS centre together, both well entrenched in their pre-game rituals: Sherlock is cataloging every player weakness from the opposing team and John is contemplating throwing his friend from the car. Sometimes John sometimes expects it would be less of a hassle to drive separately, but knowing Sherlock he might forget he even had to be at the arena. "Supposed to be a full moon tonight," John comments, partially to disrupt the monotony, partially because he can never resist teasing his friend.
Sherlock's eyes are closed. Something about visualizing all possible permutations of shots on goal. It all sounds rather new aged for someone who claims science is the backing for his every move. John's a bit surprised he even deigns to answer. "What possible relevance does the moon have on tonight's game?"
John shrugs and puts the car in park. "Full moon tends to bring out the crazies."
"If we were talking about what brings out the crazies, we'd be remiss if we didn't mention that the Winchesters tend to bring them out as well."
Shaking his head, John gave a small salute to Jim Moriarty who pulled into the spot next to them. "Going to be a hell of a game, yeah?" Moriarty says. His grin is missing the front two teeth. "Classic."
"It's game three, Jim," John replies as they head for the home locker rooms.
Sherlock ignores them both.
***
Dean Winchester can't believe they're still rolling. Knotted at one in the second round of the playoffs when even making the playoffs had been a question mark until the last game of the regular season. They stole the spot in a game against Florida which clinched both the third seed and the sole playoff spot from their division.
He turns up the music. The rest of the team had teased him for what Sam dubbed 'mullet rock', but he'd been blasting 'Highway to Hell' the day they made the playoffs and he'd be blasting it until they bombed out.
"You know other people just grow playoff beards, Winchester." Hendricksen calls from across the room.
"Whatever works," Chuck mumbles. His own beard is a rather scraggily affair. "I'm worried about this one."
"Prophecy worried?" Ben asks from Dean's right. "Because I'm not up for more demons."
"Just jitters," Andy says, clapping Chuck on the back. "Right, Chuck?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Probably just the moon."
FIRST PERIOD
Hendricksen sneaks one past Sherlock thirty seconds into the game on a deflection from a Sam Winchester slapshot that hits net at a truly unfair angle. Behind John on the bench, Lestrade swears. Sherlock straightens up and glances up to see the replay on the scoreboard, trying to figure out how he'd been beaten as the Winchester brothers and Victor Hendricksen celebrate the one goal road lead.
"Watson, get in there and make sure he doesn't do something stupid," Lestrade says.
There are two ways Sherlock goes when he gives up a goal early. There are some days when he refocuses and becomes the equivalent of a brick wall. But other days… John shudders to think of the 6-1 shellacking they got in Buffalo at the end of the regular season.
The crowd settles, their initial manic frenzy diminished by a road goal early but a 1-0 deficit is something that can be overcome. Jim Novak who mans the nets for the Rage is far from Sherlock's quality.
SECOND PERIOD
Watson's tiny but he hits like a freight train. Dean forgets these little details over the course of years, but back in Boston he'd been happy to have Watson on his side. It's a stroke of luck the other man's rarely on the ice at the same time as him.
Andy comes back to the bench with a gash between his eyes and Jess descends on him with her stitches only moments later. Holmes has been perfect after the early goal, but after the first few games of the series, it's what Dean expects.
The Jets take risks though. They can afford to. They jump into the rush with reckless abandon because Holmes has the Science of the Netminder backing him up. But that still leaves windows, scoring chances.
Dean wants that insurance goal.
THIRD PERIOD
Jim Moriarty ties it early in the third on an innocuous looking wrister that knuckles and fools Novak. John pumps a fist in the air from the bench, slinging an arm Dimmock for no other reason than proximity and the need to celebrate. The home crowd roars their approval. "All right boys," Lestrade is saying. "Let's get another."
The remaining seventeen minutes tick away.
FIRST OVERTIME
There's something different about Jim Novak when he takes the ice. Different, but not entirely unfamiliar. He holds himself a hair more upright, his glove hand that much quicker. "Dean," Sam says, "am I going crazy or is that Cas?"
"It's Cas."
"Fuck."
"On the bright side, if anyone can match Sherlock Holmes save for save, it's going to be an angel of the lord."
"Not arguing there, but I'll take Jimmy over Cas any day if it means I don't have to find the time during intermission to fight monsters. And Jimmy's our friend."
Dean shakes his head. "I'm friends with Cas too."
"Winchesters!" Ellen shouts. "On the ice!"
***
After the third pipe rings out, John knows this is going to be a long game. Sherlock will never admit it but games like this are more often won or lost on luck than anything else. Sixty minutes is a long time to be perfect in an NHL setting even for someone as good as Sherlock who's GAA hovers around 2.000 for most of the season.
"Lucky bounce," John says to him as they bring out the shovel crew at the ten minute mark.
Sherlock takes a sip from his water bottle intentionally splashing half of it on his face. He's the only player on the team not growing a playoff beard though John's not entirely sure Sherlock could grow a beard even if he wanted to. "I don't believe in luck."
Of course not, John thinks and sets up for the face off.
SECOND OVERTIME
Dean catches up to Cas in the tunnel, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. Sam and Ben hang just a few steps back from the rest of the team. Chuck had taken one look at Castiel skating off the ice and promised to talk to Ellen.
"Cas, spill. Why the hell are you here?"
"Good to see you too, Dean."
"Not saying I'm not glad to see you again, it's just whenever team heaven decides they need to crash the NHL, things get messy and I have to face the consequences."
"He missed you too, Cas," Sam teases. "Would barely look at Jimmy for a whole season."
"So not the time," Ben mutters.
"There's a shadow over this game. It is hidden from heaven," Castiel says. He's holding Jimmy's mask in his right hands, a mask Jimmy had painted angel wings on mostly as a joke. "I suspect it is a curse. My presence here is to assure your safety."
"Thought we weren't the angel's bitches anymore."
"Dean, I'm here to help. We've got to find the nature of this curse and break it."
"We've got to win the game first," Sam says and herds them back to the locker room.
***
Sherlock's got his experiment face on which is the last thing John wants in a double overtime playoff game. Nearing the end of the second and his legs are past gone. The adrenaline that got him through that first extra twenty zapped out of him. He's hit the forty minute mark on the game. He hasn't played more than thirty minutes in a game since college and even then he only just passed the threshold. Two overtimes, and forty-one minutes so far. John knows he's level-headed and plays smart, but he's not built for this much exertion.
The shifts are getting tighter. Everyone is tense, waiting for someone to make a mistake.
And the mistake comes. The hooking call isn't Dimmock's fault. It's just something that happens when people's legs are gone. While the Rage is a defense first team, they're good at maintaining pressure once they have it.
Penalty killing this late in a game is a devil. John's on the first unit and his legs feel like jelly. The Rage have possession and John's not built to handle Sam Winchester posting up in front of the net. Sherlock's gone oddly quiet and John feels off kilter without hearing the running commentary.
The puck swings down behind the net and John gets there first, keeping in on his skates as a pair of sticks dig for it. Ten precious seconds tick by and then the whistle blows accompanied by a chorus of boos. John turns around, confused and Sam Winchester's on the ground, the referee has is arm in the air pointing at Sherlock.
It takes John's brain a few moments to catch up. He looks to the replay on the scoreboard, at Sherlock's blatant slash across the back of Winchester's sweater. Something that was impossible not to call even this deep in a double overtime game.
"Are you fucking insane?" John hisses. He suspects he will be furious but its too late in the game to summon up that kind of rage.
Moriarty serves the penalty for Sherlock, sitting placidly in the box, his hands folded in his lap. There's 2:33 left in the period and that includes 59 seconds of five on three. They're done for.
"It's an experiment," Sherlock says as John heads in for a line change.
"During double overtime?"
"We'll be fine," Sherlock replies.
And miraculously, they are.
THIRD OVERTIME
"Can't believe we didn't fucking score," Dean hisses, slamming his fist into the locker. "Two more pipes."
"We didn't score because we can't score," Castiel replies.
Castiel's eyeing the set of food in front of him. Dean knows he's fond of burgers, but this is all high calorie, low impact stuff. Lots of bananas. Some rice. Ellen had walked into the room, pointed at the spread and said, "Eat. You need the calories. I'll be back in a few."
"What do you mean, can't score?" Sam asks.
"There is a curse. The game will not end until it is broken."
How many times had the posts been hit tonight? Dean's too familiar with that sound; he hates it and praises it in alternating moments. But Castiel is right. This has not been a mistake-free game. It's been a game of blow chances. Wide-open nets that simply missed despite passes right to tape. "Witches then?" Dean says around a mouthful of food. "Do we know who?"
"They are not in this room," Castiel says.
"Of course it's no one on our team. Do you see anyone in this room who can even stand? Are we looking at a fan? Because I'm not sure we can find a fan while we're supposed to be playing."
"No. It would have to be someone directly involved in the game or it would not have this level of potency."
"Anyone else liking Holmes for this?" Sam asks, rubbing his back. "I mean that penalty was unprovoked."
"No." Dean grabs for another banana. "That was frustration. Plus he's Watson's best friend and Watson's a good guy. Decent head on his shoulders. Knows to be on the lookout for supernatural things even if he's not seeking it out."
"Then we're completely at a loss."
"Not necessarily," Castiel says. "He would need a hex bag of some sort. Probably hidden in his locker."
"So we torch it."
"Uh Dean?" Sam interjected. "How are we going to get into the Jet's locker room during a nationally televised game while we're supposed to be on the ice."
"Oh," Dean said. "Fuck."
***
Jim Moriarty is smiling.
John can barely move anymore. It's another period of long changes and it's too damn easy to get caught in his own zone, the bench and fresh legs miles away. John manages to clear the puck, but it sails to the other end of the rink for an icing call. The Rage change for a new line while John doubles over trying to catch his breath. Jim Moriarty circles to the face off dot, grin still plastered on his face. John hates him just a little. Nine more minutes of this and it will be the equivalent of playing two complete games.
"It's my kind of problem," a voice says. John looks up to find Dean Winchester out on the ice in front of him.
"What?" John asks, but Dean's drifted back to his place at the point.
Gregson wins the draw and John knocks it around the boards only to have Dean intercept it to keep in the zone. Watson took after him, the throwing a shoulder as he dumped the puck back around the boards. "Damnit, Watson. I know you remember some of this. There's a curse."
John does remember some of it. He'd room with Dean for about three months when they'd both been playing for Boston and he hadn't missed his roommate's has an odd fixation with rock salt and weaponry. He had teased Dean about it right up until the haunting.
John almost stops skating as the rest of the statement takes hold. There's a curse on this game. That's why they're still playing. That's what Sherlock was testing without even knowing.
Then there's the puck on his stick and he manages to lob it into the zone on reflex before sprinting for the bench. Moriarty is already there, cracking open some smelling salts and inhaling. "Told you Wats." He grins. "Stuff of legends this one. Classic."
There are four minute left in the third overtime the next time John's shift coincides with Dean's. It happens at a stoppage in play, just enough time for Dean to mutter, "I really need your help, John."
John sighs. There's only one real way to haven an extended conversation with the opponent at this point. "Fight?"
Dean nods.
It's insanity to have a fight at this stage in the game. Fights are something best done early. A way to send a message. A way to jumpstart teammates. They've played 116 minutes of hockey. Going down a player for five minutes would only exacerbate the exhaustion problem.
They drop the gloves anyway.
Neither Dean nor John is known for fighting, but they trade a pair of big blows before grabbing fistfuls of the other's jerseys. "A hex bag," Dean says in his ear. "We can't end before it's destroyed. It's someone on your team."
"What's it look like?"
"Fist sized pouch with bones and herbs. Burning works."
He lands a solid punch against Dean's chin. Dean, who still has a fist in his jersey loses his balance and pulls them both the ground. The referees swoop in, ready to dole out the typical five for fighting. Which sends both Dean and John to the locker rooms early.
John raises his hand to the crowd who gives a roar in response that is almost enough to drown out Lestrade's call of : "What the fuck, Watson?"
He heads down the tunnel and straight to the locker room.
It's not hard to guess where the hex bag will be. The look in Moriarty's eyes told him everything he needed to know. Going to be a hell of a game, huh? Classic. A way to go down in history. Immortality.
Right now John just wants to sleep.
The hex bag is foul smelling and in plain sight. John steals one of the lighters Sherlock has hidden in his locker and takes it to the hex bag. It flares up in a green ball of flame. John drops it in surprise and it smolders against the floor.
Then he sits down, grabs his bottle of Gatorade and listens to the constant roar of the crowd. Two minutes later, there's a sudden hush and he knows it's over. The stunned silence lasts a good thirty seconds before a heartfelt round of applause rings out.
John buries his head in his hands. Game over. He knows the score from the crowd's reaction before it's confirmed by the faces of his teammates.
Rage two, Jets one.
POST GAME
"You've done something," Sherlock says as they ride back toward their apartment. "Something you don't want to tell me. Something you think lost us the game."
The goal came with just 1:13 remaining in the third overtime. Andy Gallagher on a persistence play, hacking at a rebound until it slipped under Sherlock's pads. Not the glorious kind of goal, but more than enough after six periods of hockey.
"Drop it Sherlock."
"You don't normally fight. Neither does Winchester. You've spoken fondly of him in the past and there's no tactical reason for a fight like that in the third period of sudden death overtime."
"It's nothing."
"There was something wrong with that game altogether. The statistical probability of that many pucks hitting the crossbar in a single game is astronomical. And there's no possible way we should have been able to kill that five on three."
"Trust me Sherlock, you don't want to hear this story."
It's exactly the wrong thing to say to a man like Sherlock Holmes, but John is too tired to care.
***
"Watson came through then?" Sam asks.
"Seems like. I owe him a beer or ten when this series is over." Dean's eyes drift over to Castiel. "Thanks, Cas. We never would have gotten out of this without your help."
Castiel tilts his head sideways and replies, "You're quite welcome, Dean. If you need help again, I will be around."
Then he's gone. Jimmy straightens up, blinking. "God, my head is killing me. Did we win?"
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock/Supernatural
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine.
Summary: When a spell over a playoff game forces endless periods of overtime hockey, Dean Winchester is forced to enlist opponent John Watson to help him end it. [Dean, John, Sam, Sherlock, Castiel, Moriarty]
Author's note: Part of the increasingly epic hockey!AU though like all stories in this verse, it stands alone. (Three guesses which game inspired this one.)
Sherlock and John arrive at MTS centre together, both well entrenched in their pre-game rituals: Sherlock is cataloging every player weakness from the opposing team and John is contemplating throwing his friend from the car. Sometimes John sometimes expects it would be less of a hassle to drive separately, but knowing Sherlock he might forget he even had to be at the arena. "Supposed to be a full moon tonight," John comments, partially to disrupt the monotony, partially because he can never resist teasing his friend.
Sherlock's eyes are closed. Something about visualizing all possible permutations of shots on goal. It all sounds rather new aged for someone who claims science is the backing for his every move. John's a bit surprised he even deigns to answer. "What possible relevance does the moon have on tonight's game?"
John shrugs and puts the car in park. "Full moon tends to bring out the crazies."
"If we were talking about what brings out the crazies, we'd be remiss if we didn't mention that the Winchesters tend to bring them out as well."
Shaking his head, John gave a small salute to Jim Moriarty who pulled into the spot next to them. "Going to be a hell of a game, yeah?" Moriarty says. His grin is missing the front two teeth. "Classic."
"It's game three, Jim," John replies as they head for the home locker rooms.
Sherlock ignores them both.
Dean Winchester can't believe they're still rolling. Knotted at one in the second round of the playoffs when even making the playoffs had been a question mark until the last game of the regular season. They stole the spot in a game against Florida which clinched both the third seed and the sole playoff spot from their division.
He turns up the music. The rest of the team had teased him for what Sam dubbed 'mullet rock', but he'd been blasting 'Highway to Hell' the day they made the playoffs and he'd be blasting it until they bombed out.
"You know other people just grow playoff beards, Winchester." Hendricksen calls from across the room.
"Whatever works," Chuck mumbles. His own beard is a rather scraggily affair. "I'm worried about this one."
"Prophecy worried?" Ben asks from Dean's right. "Because I'm not up for more demons."
"Just jitters," Andy says, clapping Chuck on the back. "Right, Chuck?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Probably just the moon."
Hendricksen sneaks one past Sherlock thirty seconds into the game on a deflection from a Sam Winchester slapshot that hits net at a truly unfair angle. Behind John on the bench, Lestrade swears. Sherlock straightens up and glances up to see the replay on the scoreboard, trying to figure out how he'd been beaten as the Winchester brothers and Victor Hendricksen celebrate the one goal road lead.
"Watson, get in there and make sure he doesn't do something stupid," Lestrade says.
There are two ways Sherlock goes when he gives up a goal early. There are some days when he refocuses and becomes the equivalent of a brick wall. But other days… John shudders to think of the 6-1 shellacking they got in Buffalo at the end of the regular season.
The crowd settles, their initial manic frenzy diminished by a road goal early but a 1-0 deficit is something that can be overcome. Jim Novak who mans the nets for the Rage is far from Sherlock's quality.
Watson's tiny but he hits like a freight train. Dean forgets these little details over the course of years, but back in Boston he'd been happy to have Watson on his side. It's a stroke of luck the other man's rarely on the ice at the same time as him.
Andy comes back to the bench with a gash between his eyes and Jess descends on him with her stitches only moments later. Holmes has been perfect after the early goal, but after the first few games of the series, it's what Dean expects.
The Jets take risks though. They can afford to. They jump into the rush with reckless abandon because Holmes has the Science of the Netminder backing him up. But that still leaves windows, scoring chances.
Dean wants that insurance goal.
Jim Moriarty ties it early in the third on an innocuous looking wrister that knuckles and fools Novak. John pumps a fist in the air from the bench, slinging an arm Dimmock for no other reason than proximity and the need to celebrate. The home crowd roars their approval. "All right boys," Lestrade is saying. "Let's get another."
The remaining seventeen minutes tick away.
There's something different about Jim Novak when he takes the ice. Different, but not entirely unfamiliar. He holds himself a hair more upright, his glove hand that much quicker. "Dean," Sam says, "am I going crazy or is that Cas?"
"It's Cas."
"Fuck."
"On the bright side, if anyone can match Sherlock Holmes save for save, it's going to be an angel of the lord."
"Not arguing there, but I'll take Jimmy over Cas any day if it means I don't have to find the time during intermission to fight monsters. And Jimmy's our friend."
Dean shakes his head. "I'm friends with Cas too."
"Winchesters!" Ellen shouts. "On the ice!"
After the third pipe rings out, John knows this is going to be a long game. Sherlock will never admit it but games like this are more often won or lost on luck than anything else. Sixty minutes is a long time to be perfect in an NHL setting even for someone as good as Sherlock who's GAA hovers around 2.000 for most of the season.
"Lucky bounce," John says to him as they bring out the shovel crew at the ten minute mark.
Sherlock takes a sip from his water bottle intentionally splashing half of it on his face. He's the only player on the team not growing a playoff beard though John's not entirely sure Sherlock could grow a beard even if he wanted to. "I don't believe in luck."
Of course not, John thinks and sets up for the face off.
Dean catches up to Cas in the tunnel, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. Sam and Ben hang just a few steps back from the rest of the team. Chuck had taken one look at Castiel skating off the ice and promised to talk to Ellen.
"Cas, spill. Why the hell are you here?"
"Good to see you too, Dean."
"Not saying I'm not glad to see you again, it's just whenever team heaven decides they need to crash the NHL, things get messy and I have to face the consequences."
"He missed you too, Cas," Sam teases. "Would barely look at Jimmy for a whole season."
"So not the time," Ben mutters.
"There's a shadow over this game. It is hidden from heaven," Castiel says. He's holding Jimmy's mask in his right hands, a mask Jimmy had painted angel wings on mostly as a joke. "I suspect it is a curse. My presence here is to assure your safety."
"Thought we weren't the angel's bitches anymore."
"Dean, I'm here to help. We've got to find the nature of this curse and break it."
"We've got to win the game first," Sam says and herds them back to the locker room.
Sherlock's got his experiment face on which is the last thing John wants in a double overtime playoff game. Nearing the end of the second and his legs are past gone. The adrenaline that got him through that first extra twenty zapped out of him. He's hit the forty minute mark on the game. He hasn't played more than thirty minutes in a game since college and even then he only just passed the threshold. Two overtimes, and forty-one minutes so far. John knows he's level-headed and plays smart, but he's not built for this much exertion.
The shifts are getting tighter. Everyone is tense, waiting for someone to make a mistake.
And the mistake comes. The hooking call isn't Dimmock's fault. It's just something that happens when people's legs are gone. While the Rage is a defense first team, they're good at maintaining pressure once they have it.
Penalty killing this late in a game is a devil. John's on the first unit and his legs feel like jelly. The Rage have possession and John's not built to handle Sam Winchester posting up in front of the net. Sherlock's gone oddly quiet and John feels off kilter without hearing the running commentary.
The puck swings down behind the net and John gets there first, keeping in on his skates as a pair of sticks dig for it. Ten precious seconds tick by and then the whistle blows accompanied by a chorus of boos. John turns around, confused and Sam Winchester's on the ground, the referee has is arm in the air pointing at Sherlock.
It takes John's brain a few moments to catch up. He looks to the replay on the scoreboard, at Sherlock's blatant slash across the back of Winchester's sweater. Something that was impossible not to call even this deep in a double overtime game.
"Are you fucking insane?" John hisses. He suspects he will be furious but its too late in the game to summon up that kind of rage.
Moriarty serves the penalty for Sherlock, sitting placidly in the box, his hands folded in his lap. There's 2:33 left in the period and that includes 59 seconds of five on three. They're done for.
"It's an experiment," Sherlock says as John heads in for a line change.
"During double overtime?"
"We'll be fine," Sherlock replies.
And miraculously, they are.
"Can't believe we didn't fucking score," Dean hisses, slamming his fist into the locker. "Two more pipes."
"We didn't score because we can't score," Castiel replies.
Castiel's eyeing the set of food in front of him. Dean knows he's fond of burgers, but this is all high calorie, low impact stuff. Lots of bananas. Some rice. Ellen had walked into the room, pointed at the spread and said, "Eat. You need the calories. I'll be back in a few."
"What do you mean, can't score?" Sam asks.
"There is a curse. The game will not end until it is broken."
How many times had the posts been hit tonight? Dean's too familiar with that sound; he hates it and praises it in alternating moments. But Castiel is right. This has not been a mistake-free game. It's been a game of blow chances. Wide-open nets that simply missed despite passes right to tape. "Witches then?" Dean says around a mouthful of food. "Do we know who?"
"They are not in this room," Castiel says.
"Of course it's no one on our team. Do you see anyone in this room who can even stand? Are we looking at a fan? Because I'm not sure we can find a fan while we're supposed to be playing."
"No. It would have to be someone directly involved in the game or it would not have this level of potency."
"Anyone else liking Holmes for this?" Sam asks, rubbing his back. "I mean that penalty was unprovoked."
"No." Dean grabs for another banana. "That was frustration. Plus he's Watson's best friend and Watson's a good guy. Decent head on his shoulders. Knows to be on the lookout for supernatural things even if he's not seeking it out."
"Then we're completely at a loss."
"Not necessarily," Castiel says. "He would need a hex bag of some sort. Probably hidden in his locker."
"So we torch it."
"Uh Dean?" Sam interjected. "How are we going to get into the Jet's locker room during a nationally televised game while we're supposed to be on the ice."
"Oh," Dean said. "Fuck."
Jim Moriarty is smiling.
John can barely move anymore. It's another period of long changes and it's too damn easy to get caught in his own zone, the bench and fresh legs miles away. John manages to clear the puck, but it sails to the other end of the rink for an icing call. The Rage change for a new line while John doubles over trying to catch his breath. Jim Moriarty circles to the face off dot, grin still plastered on his face. John hates him just a little. Nine more minutes of this and it will be the equivalent of playing two complete games.
"It's my kind of problem," a voice says. John looks up to find Dean Winchester out on the ice in front of him.
"What?" John asks, but Dean's drifted back to his place at the point.
Gregson wins the draw and John knocks it around the boards only to have Dean intercept it to keep in the zone. Watson took after him, the throwing a shoulder as he dumped the puck back around the boards. "Damnit, Watson. I know you remember some of this. There's a curse."
John does remember some of it. He'd room with Dean for about three months when they'd both been playing for Boston and he hadn't missed his roommate's has an odd fixation with rock salt and weaponry. He had teased Dean about it right up until the haunting.
John almost stops skating as the rest of the statement takes hold. There's a curse on this game. That's why they're still playing. That's what Sherlock was testing without even knowing.
Then there's the puck on his stick and he manages to lob it into the zone on reflex before sprinting for the bench. Moriarty is already there, cracking open some smelling salts and inhaling. "Told you Wats." He grins. "Stuff of legends this one. Classic."
There are four minute left in the third overtime the next time John's shift coincides with Dean's. It happens at a stoppage in play, just enough time for Dean to mutter, "I really need your help, John."
John sighs. There's only one real way to haven an extended conversation with the opponent at this point. "Fight?"
Dean nods.
It's insanity to have a fight at this stage in the game. Fights are something best done early. A way to send a message. A way to jumpstart teammates. They've played 116 minutes of hockey. Going down a player for five minutes would only exacerbate the exhaustion problem.
They drop the gloves anyway.
Neither Dean nor John is known for fighting, but they trade a pair of big blows before grabbing fistfuls of the other's jerseys. "A hex bag," Dean says in his ear. "We can't end before it's destroyed. It's someone on your team."
"What's it look like?"
"Fist sized pouch with bones and herbs. Burning works."
He lands a solid punch against Dean's chin. Dean, who still has a fist in his jersey loses his balance and pulls them both the ground. The referees swoop in, ready to dole out the typical five for fighting. Which sends both Dean and John to the locker rooms early.
John raises his hand to the crowd who gives a roar in response that is almost enough to drown out Lestrade's call of : "What the fuck, Watson?"
He heads down the tunnel and straight to the locker room.
It's not hard to guess where the hex bag will be. The look in Moriarty's eyes told him everything he needed to know. Going to be a hell of a game, huh? Classic. A way to go down in history. Immortality.
Right now John just wants to sleep.
The hex bag is foul smelling and in plain sight. John steals one of the lighters Sherlock has hidden in his locker and takes it to the hex bag. It flares up in a green ball of flame. John drops it in surprise and it smolders against the floor.
Then he sits down, grabs his bottle of Gatorade and listens to the constant roar of the crowd. Two minutes later, there's a sudden hush and he knows it's over. The stunned silence lasts a good thirty seconds before a heartfelt round of applause rings out.
John buries his head in his hands. Game over. He knows the score from the crowd's reaction before it's confirmed by the faces of his teammates.
Rage two, Jets one.
"You've done something," Sherlock says as they ride back toward their apartment. "Something you don't want to tell me. Something you think lost us the game."
The goal came with just 1:13 remaining in the third overtime. Andy Gallagher on a persistence play, hacking at a rebound until it slipped under Sherlock's pads. Not the glorious kind of goal, but more than enough after six periods of hockey.
"Drop it Sherlock."
"You don't normally fight. Neither does Winchester. You've spoken fondly of him in the past and there's no tactical reason for a fight like that in the third period of sudden death overtime."
"It's nothing."
"There was something wrong with that game altogether. The statistical probability of that many pucks hitting the crossbar in a single game is astronomical. And there's no possible way we should have been able to kill that five on three."
"Trust me Sherlock, you don't want to hear this story."
It's exactly the wrong thing to say to a man like Sherlock Holmes, but John is too tired to care.
"Watson came through then?" Sam asks.
"Seems like. I owe him a beer or ten when this series is over." Dean's eyes drift over to Castiel. "Thanks, Cas. We never would have gotten out of this without your help."
Castiel tilts his head sideways and replies, "You're quite welcome, Dean. If you need help again, I will be around."
Then he's gone. Jimmy straightens up, blinking. "God, my head is killing me. Did we win?"
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(no subject)
7/5/12 13:08 (UTC)Loved it. (Also, go Caps!)
(no subject)
8/5/12 01:50 (UTC)=)
(no subject)
8/5/12 02:42 (UTC)Good luck!
(no subject)
10/5/12 07:23 (UTC)2) I LOVE THIS VERSE WITH ALL MY HEART CAN I JUST NOT GO TO SCHOOL AND LIVE HERE FOREVER.
3) DEAN AND JOHN ARE FRIENDS I'M SO HAPPY I COULD CRY
oh god too tired for real reviews but THIS IS BEAUTIFULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
(no subject)
8/7/12 21:49 (UTC)(no subject)
22/5/12 13:09 (UTC)(no subject)
8/7/12 21:52 (UTC)(no subject)
26/7/12 11:19 (UTC)(no subject)
4/8/12 04:08 (UTC)Anyone who reads the hockey verse automatically becomes one of my favorite people. =)