Roger Federer lost a bloody tennis match

[louiselux]

Why 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.)

Comments

[emungere]

"Then we shouldn't stay long. What are we even doing here? It doesn't look like your kind of scene."

"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."