Working on the Edges

Chapter Two

Sherlock said, "You should do something other than skate in circles."

John knew he should. John had been thinking of it, but he was terrified of trying it. "I'm perfecting skating in circles," he said, using a joke to deflect. "Anyway, you've been working on that same angry jump for two nights now."

"I'm trying to perfect the 'angry jump,' as you so eloquently call it."

"Can we help it if we're both perfectionists?"

"It's a quad Salchow."

"Gezundheit," said John.

"If I do something other than the angry jump, will you do something other than skating in circles?"

John hesitated, suspicious. "Define the 'something other.'"

"I'll skate the whole program through for you to watch. And then we'll have a race."

John lifted his eyebrows. "A race?"

"A race. One edge of the rink to the other."

"We're not speed skaters, you know."

"It wouldn't be skating in circles," Sherlock pointed out.

John shook his head. "I don't need to race. And we don't know how to race. I think it would be a terrible idea."

"What are you talking about? Racing is racing. What is there to know?"

"How not to tumble to the ice and slice our arteries open."

"You think I don't know how to take a fall without slicing our arteries open? Although you raise a good point, and I've always thought speed skates especially would make good murder weapons."

"I'll keep that in mind should I ever need to murder anyone at the Olympics."

"What if I skate a program you've never seen before?"

That gave John pause. He'd seen both of Sherlock's programs over the past few days, and he was fairly sure (from the embarrassing amount of research he'd been doing into figure skating) that Sherlock only needed to skate two at the Olympics. "What program?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, forcibly casual. "A program I don't skate in competition."

"You don't skate it in competition?" John wanted to pursue that. He wanted to ask why. But he wanted more to see it. He wanted to see this secret program desperately. And he knew that's why Sherlock had suggested it, damn him.

"You get to see it," Sherlock said, sternly, "but then we have to have a race."

John swallowed the butterflies in his stomach and nodded before he could think himself out of it. And then he skated over to the side and sat and tried not to bounce in anticipation. Sherlock skated over to the other side and fiddled with his music, and then skated back to the middle of the rink, getting into position, waiting.

John found himself leaning forward, holding his breath, and then the music started. It was violin again, but just a single violin this time, plaintive and sweet. Sherlock skated to match it, and it was breathtakingly beautiful. The build to the climax of the program was gradual and gorgeous, the tempo increasing and Sherlock's skating quickening to match it. Sherlock glided through spins, burst into jumps, and the music flourished around him, and John felt wrapped up and drawn forward. By the time the program finished, the last impossibly pure note echoing through the rink and Sherlock drifting into stillness, John felt as if he'd lived his entire life in the course of the program, felt every emotion worth having. It was the most ridiculous thing but he had tears in his eyes.