A Study At Bullimore

14

John's match started at 3 pm the next day. It was a friendly match, another university from not too far away had come to play a test match with their team. Apparently, this match wouldn't affect the league, whatever that met. John cared little for the league or positions or points, he played for the infantile fun he got from the game. However, he knew that for the men who had been raised throwing a rugby ball league was important, so John knew to take it seriously.

He met Greg and Mike, along with Sherlock, downstairs in the dorm house at 2 o'clock. Greg and Mike were smiling, intrigued with John's play. He was so small, so scrawny that they had no idea how he managed to play so well. He had made first reserve, they had said to each other the night before, so he must be good. Greg was fourth reserve, not playing this match, and had to admit he was a little jealous of his friend but ensured that he didn't show it on his face. Sherlock, of course, could see it but still agreed to stand with Greg and Mike. If they were friends with John, they truly couldn't be too bad.

Currently, they seemed to be discussing something to do with football as they walked across the grounds to the sports house by the river. Sherlock cared little for sports; they took up unnecessary space in his brain. But John cared about rugby, so Sherlock had to at least pretend to be interested, that what good friends do, he had been told.

"We're thinking of going into town and grabbing food after the game. Will you come?" John asked across the two other men, who were to Sherlock's left. Sherlock rubbed his arm self-consciously.
"Okay." He replied, watching the sports house come close with every step. There was a sudden pit in his stomach, but he focused on the skyline to force it away. It of course, did not work. The rest of the walk down hill and, as Sherlock was taller than the other lads, he was forced to take smaller steps. It made him feel a little more out of place than normal, but Sherlock pushed that down, sentiment like that made him feel worse.

-

The pitch was standard, the lines marked out in white paint. Mike, Greg and Sherlock were told to stand at the sides of the pitch. It seemed as though this part of the universisty that had the least investment. The sports house was nice, it had a gym and badminton courts for out of hours, but even that was inferior. It seemed that sports were the only thing Bullimore did not excessively fund.

Sherlock watched John stretch, his friend looking concentrated in a way he had never seen before. He bent and tucked and jumped and lunged for some minutes, Sherlock's own body aching at the sight of John. He could tell the shorter man was nervous, though, he was repeatedly running his hands down the short sleeves of his jersey, something he did also with his jumpers.
The coach in the Bullimore colours of burgundy and black called them over, John walking to the huddle of other players, all sporting the same jersey as him, before some low words were said. Sherlock watched the men nod their heads in agreement and then space out into their positions, John taking the back line. The other team, in a disgusting mix of red and blue, did the same. He didn't look up at Sherlock, but he could tell John was looking at him.
"During match season they use the stadium at Camshire. It's weird they're playing now, I didn't think October was a good time for rugby." Mike said, leaning over towards Sherlock and Greg.
"Well it rained this week, didn't it. I guess the ground is soft." Greg replied. "Good time to play rugby." There was a slight edge to his voice. Sherlock let out a silent sigh. Boring.
"I'd hate to play in all that mud. I think I'd rather stay inside." Just as Sherlock was about to remark about the fact Mike spent too much time inside, there was a whistle and the game started.

Sherlock had never watched a game of rugby before, so he wasn't quite sure whether John's team was winning or not. It was mostly silent, other than the occasional shout from one of the men and the scrape of their boots against the mud. John did not seem to be doing much at the moment other than shout some form of criticism, however, he was completely focused on the game. Sherlock couldn't help but fixate on John. He had his legs bent, arms ready at his side, shuffling from foot to foot, ready to receive the ball. Sherlock thought that this was the most interesting John had ever been. John knew exactly what he was doing, and the way his eyes scanned the pitch made Sherlock wonder what he was thinking. He would never be able to guess, and there was very little that Sherlock did not know, which gave him all the more incentive to watch John, to find out what was happening. He himself only dabbled in tennis once or twice, but he couldn't see what was so interesting in a ball being hit or, in this case, passed around. His Mother had insisted that he and Mycroft have tennis lessons one summer, which led to Mycroft spraining his ankle and Sherlock giving the instructor a black eye with a very rouge tennis ball. The Holmes' and sports did not mix, so seeing John so engaged in another ball sport was deeply interesting.