His Majesty, The Queen

The Sandringham Serpents

"They're going to crush them this time; I know they're going to do it." Molly muttered as the ball was flung into action.
"Certainly they will." Sherlock assured with a nervous little sigh, almost feeling the need to fan himself to counter his excitement. "Certainly they will." He repeated again. The game was off to a good start, as Mazarin began with the ball and was able to make it very far down the field before they lost possession. It was much more interesting to watch now that Sherlock knew the basic rules, and this time he found himself cheering almost as passionately as the rest of the student section every time something outstanding happened. Every time one of the Mazarin boys tackled a Serpent he cheered, and every time a pass was completed from one boy to the other he yelled in excitement. And when at last John was able to carry the first touchdown of the night into the end zone, well Sherlock found himself up on his feet without any memory of having stood up, screaming so loudly that he nearly gave himself a headache from all of the enthusiasm.
"HE'S DONE IT, THAT'S...THAT'S MY FRIEND!" Sherlock exclaimed, nearly losing his mind as he finally sat back down into his seat and bounced up and down eagerly. But as the words silenced in the air around him he couldn't help but thinking on a completely different path. That wasn't just his friend, that was his boyfriend. That was his lover, that was...oh that was simply his.
"It's a good start!" Mary exclaimed. "Historically when we score the first run we win. It helps them with motivation."
"Yes, oh he's just brilliant is he not?" Sherlock muttered, ducking his chin into his hands and watching the game propped up on his elbows, trying to keep that smile hidden from where Mary might be able to see.
"He certainly is." She said with the same levels of admiration, speaking with the same sort of pride that Sherlock's voice now rung with. Well of course they were both beaming at the boy they loved, assuming that he loved them back just as unconditionally. Which of them now owned John's heart was yet to be seen, though Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that the boy had one of his suitors in his mind as he at last finished his victory lap about the field, screaming in excitement that may very well be unrelated to the game. Perhaps he had beat his fists against the sky and let out a howl of passion not because he was en route to win a conference championship, but because he was guaranteed a night he had been looking forward to for ages. He was guaranteed Sherlock, in all his glory, in all his submission. For a long while the game seemed to have fallen into a stalemate, the ball being passed back and forth and carrying the line mere yard each time. No one seemed any closer to scoring when the halftime whistle blew, and it was all the boys could do but run off into their locker rooms, feeling better but not at all comfortable with the numbers which were displayed on the scoreboard. Just because they had seven points did not mean anything, necessarily. The game could still be taken back, one mistake in their defensive line could spoil the entire night for the entire squad of Mazarin supporters, and even more so for a rather eager boy in particular. For the duration of half time Sherlock sat with his legs on the empty bench in front of him, happy that its occupants had gone off for snacks and would likely be caught in that mile long line. It felt good to stretch out, and for a moment he leaned against the back of the bleachers and stared up at the stars where they were twinkling from beyond the halo of stadium lights. He smiled for a moment, stretching his limbs from underneath his clothes and imagining for a moment what John's hands might feel upon them. Imagining the boy's fingers gliding down his chest, down his legs...Sherlock let out a sigh of anticipation, wishing that time would permit this game to go faster, and wishing that Mazarin would assure them a win before long. Oh win or lose, win or lose he would be willing. It was just a matter of John's attitude, of course. If he was anything like the last time then surely his love would be misplaced, it would be aggression and not affection. It would be a hallow act, and not something to carry with you for the rest of what this miserable war might bring.
"Sherlock, tell us what England is like." Janine suggested, breaking through his pristine silence with that caw of her dreadful voice. Sherlock sighed heavily, pulling himself back up into sitting position and staring rather lazily at where the girl sat.
"England?" he muttered, giving a small smile as he imagined once more his windowsill, feeling already the warm touch of a hot mug against his frozen fingers. "Well it's lovely, Janine. The buildings are beautiful, ancient structures. Most of them are row homes, though they are usually well maintained, with flower boxes in the windows and cats on the stoop. And the people are foul, with language like a sailor and hearts of gold. The food is all sorts, and the weather is gloomy, and when it rains you can watch everyone's umbrellas going by from where you sit in the second story."
"It sounds rather similar to America." Janine commented stupidly.
"Everyone talks eloquently, nothing like here. And we drink much more tea." Sherlock said abruptly, crossing his arms to conserve his body heat and nodding his head in sad acknowledgement.
"I'm more of a coffee drinker myself." Janine muttered at last, obviously not finding a very intelligent response to such an obscure comment. Then again she never seemed to find an intelligent response to anything, so it wasn't entirely surprising.
"Did you have a girlfriend, back in England?" Sarah wondered, looking past Mary from where she sat on the end of the row. Sherlock gave something of a chuckle, glancing out onto the field before shaking his head quietly.
"No, I hadn't bothered." He admitted at last. "I was too busy for love."
"For someone of such a high status, you'd honestly think that you'd be sought after more. You'd think you'd be more conceited." Mary muttered with a sigh.
"Is that a compliment?" Sherlock asked with a curious little laugh.
"I do think it is." Mary agreed with a grin. "I figured it was time I paid you one."
"Perhaps it was overdue." Sherlock muttered, giving her a rather dazzling smile before falling back onto the bleachers and giving a great sigh. He really didn't deserve any praise from her, considering that he was only living on with the hopes of making love to her boyfriend, though at the moment nothing had happened. At the moment he was only sort of guilty of what should be considered adultery. And so he accepted her compliment, figuring that he hadn't been flattered nearly as much here in America as he was used to in London. His father loved to shower him in praise, though those comments were usually only out of spite to Mycroft. He never showed affection towards his older son, and so his compliments were spoiled with the guilt of being the favorite.
"Well maybe tonight's your night, Sherlock." Sarah suggested, seeming to have remembered her own conversation starter when everyone else had moved onto their own blissful silence. Sherlock hummed curiously, letting his gaze fall curiously in her direction.
"My night for what?" he wondered quietly.
"For a girlfriend." She said with a chuckle. "I've known boys for much too long, and one of the only things I really know from them is that they can hardly go a week without a kiss, or a little word of affection. You must be so...so starved."
"I'm not like most boys." Sherlock assured with a shrug. "But perhaps you're right, Sarah. Perhaps it is my night, my night to be lucky." Janine gave a great giggle from where she sat, for of course she assumed that Sherlock's romantic optimism was pointed in her direction. All the same she was definitely setting herself up to be disappointed, they all were! For if Sherlock's night did go as planned, well they wouldn't hear about it. No girl would be around the next morning sharing her tale, and Mary might indeed end up with heartbreak. He would be fulfilled and they would still be left confused, wondering what sort of friend they had made who never seemed to kiss a girl, despite his seemingly constant flow of romantic attention. Thankfully their conversation was cut short with the end of half time, and all of their blissful optimism was crowded out once more with anxiety, watching as the Sandringham Serpents took their place on the line. They looked positively menacing, so much that Sherlock almost wouldn't believe that Mazarin was currently a single touchdown ahead. For now they were beating the odds, it was just a matter of if they were going to pull it off that counted. It all fell down to this second half, as it had the game before. Hopefully time didn't repeat itself, hopefully they didn't get clobbered when all seemed to be looking brighter. Sandringham started with the ball, and as the crowds watched from their tight spots on the bleachers they made it quite a nerve wracking way down the field. In fact there seemed only to be thirty yards left when at last they made their last incomplete pass and handed the ball back to Mazarin, where they had to try to make up for all the damage that had been done in the first couple of plays. It was looking admittedly bleak for a good fifteen minutes of the second half, and at the twenty minute mark the dark cloud fell upon the entire red half of the stadium when one of the very large receivers from Sandringham ran the ball into the end zone. It was a touchdown, and with a solid penalty kick they leveled out the scoreboard once more. Sherlock was silent, pulling his knees to his chest and watching from a very condensed ball on the bleachers, feeling himself beginning to shake with the anxiety of it all. There was only ten minutes left for Mazarin to score another time and solidify their dominance over the conference. Then again, there was also a whole ten minutes for the Serpents to do the same. No one spoke on either side of the bleachers; even the student sections from both teams had silenced themselves in worry. Sherlock could see John yelling to his players as they arranged themselves for the kick off, he could see him trying to motivate them back into fighting shape. Thankfully the boys all looked much more excited than they had the last game, and they all seemed to have their heads on straight and their confidence up. They were jumping up and down with their own motivation, giving hoots that were audible even from where Sherlock and the girls sat up in the bleachers. It was enough to bring hope to Sherlock's heart, that necessary little sliver of optimism that made it possible to keep his eyes open as the ball came flying across the field and safely into the arms of number twenty two. It was John, then, who carried that ball as fast as he could towards the charging line of Serpents. Even from here Sherlock could see the fire in his eyes, he could see his teeth grinding, he could see his heart pumping. It seemed to be one man against the entire team of giants, and still Sherlock had a fleeting feeling that perhaps he should not be worried. Perhaps John had this quite under control. And yes, yes! It seemed to be going very well, he was racing through the line, pushing and dodging and being overall very athletic. He was making his way down the field, passing yard after yard, making it almost three quarters of the way down the field until at last a large and menacing looking Serpent went crashing towards him, grabbing him by the waist and pulling the poor boy down onto the field in a heap. Sherlock could nearly hear the thunk of his leather helmet hitting onto the ground as he fell, so hard that for a moment there was no cheering. And for a moment he didn't get up. Sherlock jumped to his feet, not knowing what he could do for John except worry, and there was a split instant where he thought that John was not moving at all. The larger boy rolled off of him, looking down and saying something that no one from the stands could quite hear. A handful of Mazarin boys ran over for support, looking down upon their teammate with worry in their eyes...
"My God, is he alright?" Mary exclaimed, rising to her feet as well and clutching onto Sherlock's shoulder for support. Well he certainly wasn't stable enough to hold her, and so he pushed her hands off and started his way down the steps of the bleachers, running faster than he ever remembered towards the edge of the fence that wrapped its way around the field, leaning as far as he possibly could and letting out what could only be described as a desperate cry, watching as white clad medics raced into the infield to assist the boy in standing. He was moving, that was for sure, Sherlock could see his body wiggling through the gaps of his worried teammates, though he wasn't getting up.
"Why isn't he getting up?" Sherlock whispered, looking to his left to see that Mary had appeared at his side, wearing an equally worried look upon her pretty face. "Why isn't he getting up?" Sherlock asked, louder this time.
"He might have knocked himself out." she suggested nervously. "Or paralyzed himself."
"That's not...that's not likely." Sherlock whispered, shaking his head and straining his view through the legs of the Mazarin boys, wishing they would all just clear out of the way so that he might get a better view.
"I hope it's not." Mary whispered, though her voice was trembling as if she was already getting prepared to be met with the worst. At last the medics were able to drag John to his feet, where he leaned upon their shoulders very heavily while the crowd all gave a very discouraged clap from where they sat on the stands. They were nervous to see their top player being carted off the field, but really what choice did they have? He almost broke himself as he tried to carry the entire game on his back, and now they were down a man as the time kept ticking away. John seemed to be limping on one leg, as if the fall had twisted a limb and not broken a back or a skull. That was at least some relief, and Sherlock could breathe easier knowing that the boy had merely been keeping himself down so as not to hurt himself more, and not because he was unable to move his legs. Perhaps Sherlock had allowed himself to jump to the worst possible situation, but that allowed for all the more relief when the injury turned out to be a minor one and not a fatal one. The play had put Mazarin in a good position, though that was no longer Sherlock's concern. He was worried about John now more than any Conference championship, more than any night of passion. He was worried that the boy would blame himself if this all went sideways, that he was immediately think it was his fault for getting injured.
"John!" Sherlock cried, rushing down the length of the fence to where they had sat the boy down on a chair. Thankfully the team arrangement was right on the other side of the fence, and the boy's leather bound head was practically leaning up against it for support. He was being tended to by a medic, who had taken off his shoe and was assessing the flexibility of his ankle. Perhaps it had been twisted on the way down, under the enormous weight of the defensive line.
"You guys aren't supposed to be here." commented one of the younger coaches, an assistant who probably thought himself to be very important.
"We're within our boundaries, behind the fence." Mary spat back, though as soon as the words left her mouth she began to hang over the fence so as to touch her hand against John's shoulder. Thankfully the coach left them being, deciding that he had other battles left to fight. The footballers had all gotten back into their arrangements, with John's replacement looking quite small and afraid as he stood where the star should have been, cowering in his cleats and whimpering in the shadows of the large Serpents before him. They had three downs to get this ball into the end zone, and now with just eight minutes to go.
"I've got to go back out there." John muttered at last, his speech sounding perfectly fine and cohesive. Sherlock knew that head trauma would result in slurred speech, and while John's words were stupid they certainly weren't uncharacteristic enough to be the result of brain damage.
"You're not going back out there, you nearly died." Sherlock insisted.
"Sherlock..." John muttered, having at last realized that he was being visited by both of his love interests at the same time. Perhaps he hadn't noticed Sherlock was there, for as soon as he heard his voice he attempted to spin around in his chair, much to the dismay of the medic who was now trying to wrap and icepack securely around his injured ankle.
"Stay still, John." the man insisted, pulling the boy back before giving a very unhappy glare to the two visitors. Thankfully he didn't say anything about their being there, and he continued on with his job as if he decided he might mind his own business today.
"No don't put ice on it, I'm going back out!" John growled, yanking his foot away from the medic as he tried to secure the icepack on the swollen area.
"You are not going back out!" the man debated, though he couldn't seem to get John's foot back in his grip. John was waving it all around, in an attempt to keep any permanent treatments from slowing him down.
"They need me, just wrap it tight so it doesn't move and let me go!" John demanded. "I'm the only chance they have!"
"They're doing fine, John. You've done what you can." The medic insisted, though just as soon as his words left his mouth the quarterback through a beautiful throw at the hands of John's replacement player. The poor boy seemed to be so afraid of the ball coming his way that he rather smacked it out of the air, and let the pass fall incomplete for their last down.
"They're doing terribly." Sherlock commented.
"That's why I need to go! Wrap it, or else I'm putting my shoe back on and going like this!" John exclaimed.
"Your ankle might be broken!" the medic insisted. "You can't play on it!"
"It also might not be broken. And so I think I can." John demanded stubbornly.
"John don't talk madness, you can't hurt yourself on the behalf of the team!" Mary whined, shaking her boyfriend's shoulders as if to try to encourage him to think for once in his life. Then again, Sherlock had to agree with Mary. If John tried to risk his health just for a Conference championship, well then that was an awfully stupid thing to do. Nevertheless the medic seemed to be listening, as he had abandoned the ice pack and was instead beginning to wrap John's ankle with very tight bandages, as if to try to keep it in place while he ran on it. Surely he wasn't supporting John's decision?