Working on the Edges

Chapter Nine

Sherlock walked and walked and walked and walked, and when he finally stopped walking it was dark and he had to blink to reorient himself. He missed London, where he could have walked for hours like that and known every single stretch of pavement. He hated the Olympics. He hated the Olympics. He had always hated the Olympics, and he had come out of some sense of misguided pride, some thought that he had one last shot and he would capitalize, and then he had met John and it had all seemed so marvelously, amazingly perfect. And it was all going to be marvelously, amazingly perfect, right up until the moment when John left, because of course John would. John would come to his senses. He had already started to be swayed by Moriarty's arguments against him, or else why wouldn't John have mentioned running into him?

Sherlock finally looked at his phone. There were multiple texts from John and multiple missed calls. And it was late. Later than he had thought. He had lost track of time. He had lost track of so much time. His entire career had passed by in the blink of an eye and he had made a mess of it.

He trudged back in the direction of the skating house and was startled to run straight into John, stalking toward him.

"Where the hell have you been?" John snapped.

Sherlock blinked, and then felt answering anger settle hot in his blood. "Walking," he retorted.

"I have been texting and calling and texting and calling."

"Sorry, I didn't realize I had to be at your beck and call," Sherlock retorted.

"I don't care about that. I was worried about you."

"Worried about me?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Worried about me walking around in the sodding Olympic Village? I can't get into trouble here, trust me, I've tried my hardest."

"Look," said John, and tore a hand through his hair. Nervous? thought Sherlock, watching him closely. But why would he be nervous? "Lestrade stopped by and said you had a bad practice—"

"Said I had a bad practice?" Sherlock interrupted, annoyed.

"Yes, and then he... You frightened me—"

Sherlock read between John's lines. "He told you, didn't he," said Sherlock flatly. "About the drugs."

John looked at him, his expression confirmation. "Sherlock," he said helplessly.

"I didn't go off to find drugs," Sherlock said, walking briskly toward the skating house. "Lestrade is so overdramatic. He gets that from my brother."

"Maybe you're putting too much pressure on yourself—"

Sherlock whirled suddenly, abruptly. "Putting pressure on myself," he repeated.

"Yes. You know it doesn't matter, right? The medals. I mean, just being here is—"

"Are you going to tell me that just being here is reward enough?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes," said John, setting his jaw stubbornly. "Because it is."

"No, it's not. There is no point to being here without a medal. Only the idiots are happy to be here with no medal chances."

"The idiots like me," said John.

"No," said Sherlock, and then, reconsidering, "Yes. Because you sell yourself short. You shouldn't be happy with anything less than a medal. That's the problem with everyone. Everyone's so complacent!"

John folded his arms and said, calmly, "Stop yelling at me. I'm on your side here."

Sherlock stared at him in speechless astonishment for a moment. And then he said, incredulously, "No, you're not."