Working on the Edges

Chapter One

"What do you mean someone else is using it?" demanded Sherlock Holmes flatly.

"Someone else has it signed out." Lestrade shrugged as if this weren't a big deal.

"Well, they can't use it," said Sherlock. "We need to use it."

"That isn't how it works."

"Do they know who I am?"

"I have no idea. And I don't really care."

"Surely it's more important that I be on the ice than them. Whoever they are." Sherlock paused and narrowed his eyes. "Is it Moriarty?"

"It's not Moriarty."

"It's probably Moriarty."

"Why would it be Moriarty?"

"Why wouldn't it be Moriarty?" Sherlock sulked. "He's trying to deprive me of the gold."

"You've always seemed to be perfectly capable of doing that all on your own."

"Thank you," Sherlock scowled.

Lestrade shrugged again.

Sherlock decided he hated him. He was a terrible coach. Well, no, he was an excellent coach, because Sherlock didn't need a coach, he just needed someone he could ignore easily, and normally Lestrade was perfect for that purpose. Right now Lestrade was failing him in the only thing Sherlock had left up to Lestrade, which was to get him into the rink in the middle of the night so that he could practice for hours and not deal with reporters and other teams and people.

Who else would want to practice that way? If it wasn't someone who was trying to thwart him, then it had to be someone...interesting.

Sherlock never met interesting people.

***

The Olympic Village was quiet as Sherlock walked through it, heading for the ice rink. Partly that was because it was still early in the week and many of the athletes hadn't bothered to arrive yet since the Opening Ceremony was still days away. And partly it was because it was three o'clock in the morning. Those who were partying were still out at the bars, and the parties in the Village hadn't started in earnest yet since there wasn't enough of a population to sustain them. This was Sherlock's favorite part of the Olympics. The Village was nice before it got too crowded, too full of idiots who treated it like a two-week party. Exhausting and stupid.

Sherlock basically hated everyone at the Olympics and especially whoever had signed the rink out at three o'clock in the morning.

The back entrance to the rink wasn't locked, and Sherlock didn't even bother to be stealthy as he moved through the training rooms and then out next to the ice. The lights were on, bright off the white of the oval, and Sherlock took a deep breath of the cold, sharp air. And he leaned against the boards, trying to determine who it was who was skating on the ice. A hockey player, judging by his skates. Short, compact, graying blond hair that had been combed too carefully and with not enough flair. He was skating in street clothes, making slow circles at the far end of the ice. As Sherlock watched, he shifted to skate backward, still in careful circles.

Sherlock leaned and watched and didn't say a word. And that went on for twenty minutes until the hockey player started skating back toward the training rooms and finally saw Sherlock, startling on the ice. Sherlock watched him thoughtfully, watched him frown heavily and pick up the pace of his skating, throwing up shaves of ice in his annoyance.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, as he got to Sherlock.

"It's psychosomatic," Sherlock said.