Roger Federer lost a bloody tennis match
Sep. 12th, 2010 01:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
louiseluxWhy is tennis such a difficult fandom? I keep asking myself this. There's no actual reason to be tipped into despair just because Roger bloody Federer loses a tennis match yet I woke up this morning with epic sad. This is alongside an actual hangover from drinking many cocktails so perhaps that is magnifying my woe. Perhaps.
I didn't see any of the match because of the cocktail party and J&J's house, but they let me sneak away to watch the livescores now and then. On my own. Drunkenly. If there had been a secret film you'd have been able to see me watching through my fingers at the damn livescore box, whimpering. By all accounts it was a pretty thrilling match though and props to Novak for coming through it.
On the upside, a moment of pure amazingness is potentially almost on us. If Rafa wins the US Open today he achieves his career slam and I will probably cry tears of pure mooky happiness for him. And so will Roger!
(Roger says he's not going to watch. Yeah right.)
I didn't see any of the match because of the cocktail party and J&J's house, but they let me sneak away to watch the livescores now and then. On my own. Drunkenly. If there had been a secret film you'd have been able to see me watching through my fingers at the damn livescore box, whimpering. By all accounts it was a pretty thrilling match though and props to Novak for coming through it.
On the upside, a moment of pure amazingness is potentially almost on us. If Rafa wins the US Open today he achieves his career slam and I will probably cry tears of pure mooky happiness for him. And so will Roger!
(Roger says he's not going to watch. Yeah right.)
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Date: 2010-09-12 01:35 pm (UTC)Ah well, Rafa has a shot at it (as you said).
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Date: 2010-09-12 06:59 pm (UTC)Stupid tennis.
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Date: 2010-09-12 03:43 pm (UTC)Did I write this myself, in my sleep or something? because yes, this. this so much. :(
*hugs*
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Date: 2010-09-12 06:57 pm (UTC)Bloody tennis!
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Date: 2010-09-12 07:06 pm (UTC)A gorgeous lovable mook?
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Date: 2010-09-12 06:24 pm (UTC)Tennis. Idek, idek. :(
You know what's less sad than tennis?
*
John is inured to sharing his living space with all types of body parts. The riding crop applied to anything save his own person is no longer cause for comment. (His comment was: "Stop that right now unless you want the entire length of it shoved somewhere uncomfortable, and I don't mean the back of a Volkswagen." And then they'd had to watch Mallrats.)
Very little throws him these days, and he takes a certain pride in that. Maybe it's not surprising, then, that he gets the shock of his life from something that, in other circumstances, with other flatmates, would be perfectly normal.
He comes home and finds a strange woman coming out of Sherlock's room, shoes in one hand, purse dangling from the other. She's tall, thin, terribly pale (he hopes that's her natural complexion and not due to one of Sherlock's experiments), with auburn hair that falls just past her shoulders.
His first thought, if expressed on on his blog, would look something like this:
alksdjfa;lskoweir?????!!!!!!
His manners run on automatic pilot though, and he says, "Hi, I'm John, the flatmate. You must be Sherlock's..."
And then he sees the eyes, and the end of that sentence is either going to be "sister" or endless mockery for John, because no one else has eyes like that.
He lets his hand drop, unshaken. "Nice wig," he says.
"Thank you," Sherlock says, gravely. "It's real human hair."
"Is it."
"They're quite expensive."
"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that."
"Get dressed. We're going out."
"I am dressed."
"A suit. A tie. I need an escort. You have ten minutes. No, five."
John goes to his room to change and pretend this isn't going to figure prominently in every fantasy he gets off to for the next, oh, just call it forever.
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Date: 2010-09-12 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 06:57 pm (UTC)It is from the new Sherlock series from BBC, like a modern Sherlock Holmes AU; it's fabulous:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t4pgh
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Date: 2010-09-12 07:09 pm (UTC)*eyes the series*
it does look shiny and pretty ................... :c
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Date: 2010-09-13 08:03 am (UTC)"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that."
Oh, yes. Postponed:(
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Date: 2010-09-12 06:56 pm (UTC)You are right! It is less sad than tennis. What happens next, I must know!
(I agree about the skinniness, it's not ideal but it's the only layout with colours that didn't offend me in one way or another)
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Date: 2010-09-12 06:58 pm (UTC)Idk what happens next! What happens next?
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Date: 2010-09-12 07:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 09:42 pm (UTC)lolol omg, i can't decide whether that is the greatest thing i have ever heard, or rank mookery.
also, your icon!
also: noooooooooooooooooooooooo.com
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Date: 2010-09-12 09:49 pm (UTC)I just went to press that button. It's had too much use this year for my liking.
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Date: 2010-09-12 09:41 pm (UTC)you are a genius.
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Date: 2010-09-13 01:33 am (UTC)sherlock is using his geniusy wiles~
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Date: 2010-09-13 02:45 am (UTC)"I haven't got anything else. Go on your own."
"Dress unif--"
"No."
"John."
"No! Everyone will stare and it makes me look like I'm going to a fancy dress party."
"If they're staring at you, they won't be staring at me. All the better."
"They will still be staring at you," John says, with utter certainty.
Sherlock points imperiously back up the stairs. John sighs and goes. It will smell of mothballs, somehow, though it's never been near them. He can smell them already.
***
He asks Sherlock about it when they've passed muster at the entrance to the horrifically posh party.
Sherlock frowns. "Why would you smell of mothballs? You smell like that aftershave and your deoderant, as well. A sort of combined miasma of mint and pine with undertones of soap."
"So sorry to offend," John mutters.
Sherlock frowns still more. "I didn't say it was offensive. I said it smells like you."
"Will you please stop talking like that? Someone's going to notice."
"Oh, very well," Sherlock says, reverting to the voice he'd demonstrated in the taxi, thus giving John a near concussion when he brained himself getting in. He sounds, honestly, like a woman. A woman with a low voice, one who could perhaps sing tenor, but not in any way like a man striving for a woman's voice.
Muscle control in the throat, Sherlock said. Between that and the voice, John had been silent all the way to the party.
"But it does irritate the throat after a time," Sherlock adds.
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Date: 2010-09-14 08:00 pm (UTC)"No bodies, I assume you mean."
"Mm," John agrees, though he meant something more like: this is a party where everyone will be excruciatingly polite under all circumstances, up to and including zombie invasion. Where could Sherlock be more out of place?
As for himself, he's not as out of place as he'd feared in his uniform. There are other, far higher ranking uniforms drifting through the crowd: generals and admirals. He sees faces he recognizes from television, and not all of them are military.
He nudges Sherlock. "Is that the Archbishop of Canterbury over there talking to Roger Federer?"
"Who's Roger Federer?"
"The man talking to the Archbishop of Canterbury!"
"In that case, I believe you have answered your own question."
"What are we doing here?" John repeats, without much hope.
"Dancing. I think we ought to dance, don't you?"
Although phrased as a question, it's clearly not one. Sherlock pulls John onto the dance floor and out into the gently swirling crowd.
Sherlock's eyes scan the crowd without ceasing. That, more than anything, convinces John that this is a real job and not another way to mess with his head, although it is proving remarkably effective on that front as well.
He has his hand at Sherlock's waist and can feel the warm shift of muscle and skin through thin silk. Sherlock's hand in his is a touch cool and holding on with a deliberate grip. The distance between them is nothing less than proper, and yet John can feel himself growing warmer than the mild exertion or the close air could possibly explain.
Sherlock's lips are glossed with pale pink. It makes them very shiny, and perhaps it makes them taste good because Sherlock keeps licking them with little dabs of a deeper pink tongue.
A hand taps John on the shoulder and saves him from mortal embarrassment.
"May I cut in?" Mycroft Holmes says.
Sherlock scowls. "No. Get away, you're going to ruin everything. As usual."
"I did ask you to look into this before tonight."
"I'm here, aren't I? And he'll never recognize me. I'll see him, point him out, and your thugs can take it from there."
Mycroft sighs. "You're risking an important life for your usual dramatics."
"Is that worse than risking an unimportant life?"
"Look, I don't know what this is about," John starts.
Mycroft holds up a hand. "That's right. You don't."
Sherlock glares at Mycroft. Mycroft frowns faintly back.
"You will regret the severity of your expressions when the wrinkles start to form."
"Go drool on the dessert trolley."
"Focus, Sherlock. Please."
Mycroft slid away into the crowd, moving like a dancer between the dancers.
"Who's going to get killed, then?"
"Mycroft doesn't want me to tell you. It's a matter of national security."
"So obviously you are going to tell me. Waiting for an engraved invitation? I only had the one and I had to give it up at the door."