I'll freely admit I don't know about UK swimming teams or meets. This story, therefore, is modeled after US teams and meets, including the order of events and such. However, regulations should be approximately the same, since swimming rules seem to be fairly universal when it comes to things like stroke technique. Still, I am sure there are inaccuracies and errors, which I take full responsibility for.
John stood just behind the line of starting blocks, stretching and hopping up and down in place. He had to keep his blood flowing, keep the adrenaline rushing through him. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly time - the girls' relay was on its last leg.
"John," Mike Stamford clapped his shoulder. "You need to relax. We've got this."
"Sorry," John chuckled. "It's my first time here, okay? Allow me to freak out a bit."
"You've got nothing to freak out about, mate," he shook his head. "You're the best flyer I've seen on this team in ages."
John smiled, the older boy's praise calming him a bit. He may have never been to a regional meet, or any meet of this size at a pool facility like this, but the faith this star swimmer showed in him did help his nerves.
"Hey," their backstroker Bill chimed in, his arms stretched out behind him as he bent over forward. He nodded, peering between his own legs at the team in the next lane over. "Mike, it's Greg."
Mike and John turned in unison, where a tanned and fit bloke was stretching, approaching the starting blocks and tugging his goggles on over his head. He looked serious, almost stern. John watched, torn between intimidated and impressed, as this Greg fellow rolled his shoulders carefully, the muscles in his back rippling.
"Who?" John asked Mike and Bill, but before they could reply, both groaned as another boy approached Greg.
"Oh, no, I was afraid we'd be up against him..."
"Ugh, not that freak..."
John tried to look around them, but they were at least a head taller than him, and besides, the girls had finished their relay, which meant that it was time for-
"Next event, the men's 400-meter medley relay. Swimmers, you may enter the water."
Bill saluted John, Mike, and their fourth swimmer Jacob, then leaped feet first into the pool. John spotted the boy Greg doing the same in the next lane, and splashes sounded all around as the eight lanes suddenly became occupied with the backstrokers. John retreated back into his head as the announcer instructed they take their marks, and then as the horn went off. He needed to focus. This was his first truly important meet of his career, and he didn't want to fail immediately. After swimming on small teams since he was ten, this was a vital step up. He only wished his secondary school had offered swimming. Maybe then he wouldn't be as nervous now, competing at last with other university-age students who were used to this sort of environment.
Unfortunately, John's nerves were not to be relieved just yet. As the butterflyer, John was set to go third, so he had almost a minute to panic. And as any swimmer knows, a minute in the pool might as well be a year.
John opened his eyes as Jacob dove in once Bill touched the wall. John couldn't stay still, eyes darting everywhere as his heart pounded. Bloody hell, he hadn't been this nervous since he'd tried out for his first team, ten years ago. What was wrong with him?
"Dammit, Anderson!" the angry growl broke through the rushing sound in John's ears, somehow, and he automatically turned his head toward the sound.
Greg was being helped out of the water by a tall pale boy, who was shaking his head at the the swimmer who'd just dove in for breaststroke. "Mediocre dive, did you see how long he hesitated before moving? You'd been at the wall for a full two seconds! He's lost us precious time we can't afford to lose!" The boy ignored Greg's breathless assurances in favor of flipping on his cap in a single fluid motion, which honestly John didn't even know was possible to do with such grace. Especially with the boy's massive fluff of ebony curls.
"John!" Mike hissed, nudging him. "Get up there."
"Shit, sorry!" He clambered onto the starting block, tracking Jacob's rapid progress toward the wall with his outstretched hands. When the boy was an arm's length away, John pinwheeled his arms back, the momentum allowing him to launch forward and leave the block just as Jacob's fingertips touched the wall. John was in the water milliseconds later, the cold water a thrilling shock.
And suddenly, all his doubt and nervousness fell away, left behind on dry land. This was what he was made to do, right here, right now.
To swim.
He kicked to the surface and broke for air he hardly needed, then went back under. Butterfly was generally considered the most difficult stroke, but that was part of why John loved it so much. He was among the elite, the few who took on butterfly and lived. It was his specialty, making him a valuable addition to the small team. Now, though, these thoughts were far away, as higher cognition gave way to physical processes. Kick, stroke, breathe, repeat. He grasped the wall for barely an instant, and then he was twisting around and pushing off again, shooting himself in the opposite direction, bubbles from where he had just been in the lane trailing past him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the tall boy from the other team gaining on him. In response, John kicked harder, launching himself through the water as hard and as quickly as he could. When he slammed his fingertips into the wall, he immediately turned his head to check the clock on the wall at the far end of the pool. Above him, Mike had dove in and was already off. He was one of their best freestyle sprinters, so John was encouraged they would at least come in second overall. As he climbed out of the water, shivering as the air hit his wet body, he saw his time flash over their team's - 30.27 seconds. And right below that, for lane 3, the curly-haired boy's time - 30.27 seconds.
"Bloody hell, John!" Bill looked jubilant, as John heaved himself out of the water. "You tied with Holmes!"
"Is that a good thing?"
Bill laughed. "Look at him. Does it look like he's used to being tied with?"
John glanced over to see Holmes staring at the clock as well, eyes wide in an expression that could only be described as shock, his chest still heaving from exertion. His eyes, piercing green-blue pupils matching the pool water, flicked over to fix unerringly on John. The look in those eyes was calculating, intimidating.
And also, somehow, fascinating.
John tossed him a friendly smile, then turned back to sling an arm around Bill's shoulders. He and Jacob were busy screaming at Mike, who was nearing the flags now. John joined in; he had learned that this was a bit of a thing with swimmers, even though they all knew that most of the noise they made above the surface was muffled or lost entirely under the water. Not that the swimmers cared.
"Come on, Mike!" John yelled, tensing until the boy's fingers hit the touchpad on the wall. Their final time flickered on the board, and more importantly, their final place. First.
They yelled in excitement, hauling a gasping Mike out of the water and clapping his back. The judges of their lane had to nudge them out of the way for the next event, and they all hurried over to the practice pool, grinning widely. John couldn't help but beam, smiling even in the water as they took a few easy laps, as he felt the nerves and worry dissipate with the first real win of his swimming career under his belt. Or rather, under his swim cap.
It was only after the boys had completed a few laps of warming down and had found their towels bear their team's bench that John broached the question that had been nagging him since before the race. "So who're Greg and Holmes?"
The other three exchanged knowing looks. All of them were a year or more ahead of John in school, and had all been on the team last year. Evidently there was history with that other relay team.
"Greg Lestrade," Mike explained. "He's the best swimmer they've got over at their uni. Last year he set two national records at the Southern Qualifiers, and everyone's saying he's going to go to the Olympic pre-trials in a year. Holmes, though..." he paused, chuckling. "He's a piece of work, no mistake."
"What, is there something... wrong with him?" John asked.
"He's only sixteen but he already goes to uni on something like a full scholarship 'cause he's a genius or something. And he's already set a record in one of the smaller meets this season, plus he's good at every stroke. And when they say good, they seem to mean perfect. You didn't see him while you were in the water, John, but the bloke's got perfect technique. If he weren't on another team, I'd cheer for him myself."
John glanced around. Holmes was on the bench set up for his and Greg's team, sipping water and intently reading a heat sheet. Out of the water, he didn't look like much, but in, John remembered the speed at which the boy had gained on him, despite John having a several-second lead on him.
"He's also a bit of a freak, though," Jacob said, chuckling. "Rude as hell, too."
"Well..." Bill grimaced, as if he couldn't bring himself to deny it. Even Mike didn't refute him.
"Yeah, but Johnny here tied with him," Bill said finally, ruffling John's damp hair. "Holmes is going down for sure!"
As if on cue, or as if he sensed he was being spoken about, Holmes looked up at that moment. His eyes found John's again, a flicker of dislike sparking in them.
Great, John thought. The rude swimmer with perfect technique, and I manage to alienate him right away. Hopefully we don't have to race again, because now he's probably that much more determined to beat me.
"Can I see that?" John asked after tearing his eyes from Holmes and turning to Jacob, who was reading a heat sheet of his own. The boy nodded and handed it over. John rifled through it, scanning for any mention of Holmes' name.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding!" John cried.
"What?" Mike asked in alarm.
"I'm racing the fly and free against him?!" John lifted his gaze up and past his friends' sympathetically amused expressions to find Holmes again. The boy was smirking, as if he knew what John had just learned. Something about that challenging glint in his sparkling eyes seemed to say you've shown your hand, Watson. Now the game is on.
Bloody hell. What was John going to do?
Later, John was sitting at the edge of the warmup pool, mindlessly clenching and unclenching his water bottle in one hand, the other twirling his goggles around a finger. It was still three events until John's next race, the 100-meter Butterfly.
In other words, his next confrontation with Sherlock "perfect technique" Holmes.
A boy who, at the moment, was currently standing behind the judges at his starting block, stretching. What seemed like every few seconds, he glanced over at John. His eyes - blue, sharp, and knowing - seemed to pierce into whatever he looked at.
If that was his method of intimidating the competition, well. It was working.
John sighed, rose to his feet, and tugged on his goggles, then his swim cap. He caught sight of Mike, Bill, and Jacob waving and thrusting their fists in the air, calling out encouragements from afar. They had been glued to his side a few minutes ago, keeping up a constant strain of support and trash talk about Sherlock. However, five minutes ago, John waved them off so he could swim another lap as warmup, then stretch. Those boys were some of the best support he'd ever had for anything, but at the same time, he felt like worrying on his own, internally.
Taking a breath and rolling his shoulders, making sure he was loose, he stepped up behind the judges. He had another heat to wait, but it didn't hurt being ready.
He glanced over and was unsurprised to see Sherlock Holmes still looking at him. John, in spite of his hammering heart and slightly shaky breaths, felt a strange urge to chuckle.
"Like what you see, Holmes?" he smirked.
To his surprise, Sherlock blinked rapidly, a slight pink tinge spreading across his cheeks. "I'm only trying to understand how someone of such a... minimal stature can expect to handle competition at this level."
John raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"I'm attempting to imply," Sherlock replied with a hint of a scornful expression. "That you are far too short to possibly win events at this level, let alone anything higher, as is clearly your aspiration."
John felt stung, but he didn't let it show. Jacob was clearly right about this boy being rude. Instead of retaliating directly, though, he felt it was his turn for a little psychological warfare. After all, the swimmers of the previous heat were approaching the flags; John had only seconds until his turn.
"Nah," he responded, mustering a cocky grin. "I think you were just checking me out."
He winked as he adjusted his goggles one last time. Sherlock only gaped at him, and John felt a surge of triumph as he hopped up onto the starting block.
Take that, Holmes.
"Swimmers, take your marks."
John gripped the end of the block, tensed and ready to dive. He sensed more than saw Sherlock doing the same next to him.
Silence fell around the pool as everyone waited, as if frozen in time. All ears were straining for... The buzzer sounded its blaring alarm, and that frozen moment broke, and John launched himself into the water.
He had never been more aware of his competitors in the lanes next to him, and this time he found his focus almost entirely on Sherlock Holmes, the taller boy speeding past him as they both reached the halfway point of the first 25. John's stroke, with naturally good technique, was suddenly on autopilot, his fear and nerves slipping away as he shifted all his attention onto beating the strange, rather arrogant boy next to him.
However, John's weakness soon became apparent to him. He was strong, quick, and had an innate knack for swimming the fly, but Sherlock had all of those as well. And on top of that, unfortunately, he also had a physical advantage over John. As they pushed off the wall at the 50, John caught a glimpse of the pale legs and sinuous body just a second or so ahead of him. Sherlock was tall, with large hands and long limbs, which were physical attributes that did nothing but lend assistance, especially when compared to John's shorter, stockier stature. John had physical strength, but he was starting to feel, in the midst of this sprint, that it might not be enough.
At the 75, he whirled back around and launched himself off, taking a half-dozen dolphin kicks under the water. He rarely did so many, but Sherlock was right there, half a body-length ahead. That was too much of a gap, John knew, and he threw himself through the water with even more fervor. He felt the cool currents rush by him, splashes and bubbles obscuring his vision when he took a breath, but under the water he could see Sherlock much more clearly.
And he had already reached the flags.
If John had been on land, he would have cursed.
He slammed his fingers into the wall with such force, he flinched. It felt as though he might have jammed a digit, and he surfaced wincing. Clutching his finger to his chest, he turned and squinted through fogged goggles at the score board.
Lane 4 - 59.84 - 1st place
Lane 5 - 1:01.05 - 2nd place
"Damn!" John hissed, slapping the water. Then he cried out; he had hit the surface with his injured hand. Grumbling, he clambered out of the pool one-handed, then stood to find Mike right in his face, grinning.
"Mate, that was incredible! Isn't that a personal record for you?" He clapped John's shoulder, throwing a towel around him as they walked away back toward their team's bench.
"What?" John blinked, then whirled back around to stare at his time again, just managing it before the board reset for the next event. Oh. Oh! "Bloody hell, you're right! I didn't even-!" He grinned, some of the bitterness left behind by his defeat at Sherlock's hands. "I'm almost under a minute!"
Mike laughed and squeezed his shoulders. "Great job, John, honestly. Your stroke is really good."
"Thanks," John smiled. "Didn't beat Holmes, though."
"Aw, come on, so what? You've spooked him, obviously." Mike smirked and nodded to somewhere to their left as they settled back down onto the bench and grabbed waters.
John followed his gaze and saw Sherlock sitting alone again as he jotted down notes on his heat sheet, but as John watched, the other boy glanced up. The moment he met John's gaze, however, he blushed and looked quickly back down, gnawing on his lip.
"So," John said to Mike. "What's his deal?"
But before Mike could answer, another voice, suave and confident, cut in. "Oh, Sherlock's obsessive about keeping records of everything he does, whether he perceives it's good or bad. You should see his heat sheet from last month's conference."
John turned and saw Greg Lestrade, leaning casually against the end of the bleachers with a small smirk on his face. He seemed ridiculously tanned, considering it was midwinter in England, but the look suited him.
"Oh, hi, Greg," Mike greeted, smiling. Greg stepped over and shook his hand. "This is our newbie, John Watson," Mike introduced.
"Hey, John," Greg gave him an easy smile. "You're the one who went up against Sherlock in the relay, right?"
"Yeah, and just now in 100 fly."
Greg grimaced. "I don't envy you that one, mate. Never could do that stroke myself, at least without drowning."
Mike laughed and John joined in reluctantly. "Feels that way for me too, sometimes," he admitted.
Greg smirked. "Well it sure doesn't look like that. You look good in the water. Even Sherlock said so."
John blinked. "What?" His eyes immediately flicked over toward the curly-haired boy, who appeared to be studiously avoiding his gaze, chin tucked and eyes fixed on his heat sheet. However, the tips of his ears were red; clearly, he knew they were discussing him.
John felt incredulous. Sherlock "I'm better than you because I'm tall" Holmes, give him a compliment?
"Oh yeah," Greg continued. "When he wasn't complaining about Anderson earlier, he was talking about you. Seems you impressed him in that relay." He bent down so his face was at their level, brown eyes a bit mischievous, raising his voice a bit. "Or rather, intimidated him."
Over Mike's shoulder, John saw Sherlock look up sharply at that, pink cheeks bright. John bit back a grin, and Sherlock glared. He stood abruptly and stalked off toward the practice pool.
Which reminded John...
"Shoot!" he blurted. "I forgot to warm down!"
"Oh, yeah, go do that," Greg smiled reassuringly. "No worries. Nice to meet you."
"Yeah, you too," he replied, seizing his goggles and following Sherlock at a distance. He watched the boy dive into the deep end of the practice pool, stroking smoothly toward the other end. John slipped into the lane next to him, dodging around other swimmers but all the while keeping half an eye on Sherlock.
He couldn't quite explain the strange fascination with Sherlock that was so rapidly growing within him. Perhaps it was simple rivalry, perhaps it was genuine interest. John, to his own surprise, was inclined to believe it was the latter. Who was Sherlock, really? Why was he behaving so antagonistically toward John at one moment, then was flustered the next?
And why did he have to be so damn fast in the water?
John mindlessly warmed down, too distracted by Sherlock Holmes to concentrate.
The final heat of the girls' relay was still in the water, but the first place swimmer was nearing the flags; the race would be over in moments, and then it would be John's last event of the meet. He let out a breath slowly, rolling his shoulders as the boys behind him downed drinks and stretched.
"Are you sure about this?" John asked Mike once again.
The other boy simply laughed. "Coach said it was fine, John. Why do you think he would have made you anchor if he thought you didn't deserve it?"
John had no response to that, and Mike grinned. "You'll be great."
He nodded, trying to ignore the anxiety he was feeling. Because once again, through a happy coincidence, he was facing off directly against Sherlock.
The 50 free had gone - pardon the pun - swimmingly, John actually besting Sherlock by a few milliseconds. Still, it did nearly nothing to his confidence, considering the fact that the look in Sherlock's eyes after the race would have melted steel, had there been any steel around. Clearly, Sherlock would be coming to win, even more determined than he had been earlier.
John decided then and there that he would have to try to soften up the competition.
He looked up as he yanked on his swim cap for the last time that day, scanning the clumps of boys waiting behind their judges. Sherlock was easily spotted, being one of the taller ones present and having the most distinctive head of hair of anyone. Catching his eye, John grinned and gave a cheeky salute. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John thought there was a slight embarrassed pink tint on Sherlock's face too. Satisfied, John turned away. Clearly, Sherlock was unused to this particular brand of mind games.
Or maybe... John frowned, remembering what some of the boys had said about him earlier, about the reputation Sherlock seemed to have garnered. People obviously respected his skills, but he also appeared to be regarded generally as an anomaly, as someone who couldn't be counted as a friend. In fact, the only person John had noticed him interact with (other than himself) was Greg. So even most of his team avoided him, and judging from the mutterings John had overheard in the last few hours, few found him anything other than unpleasant. So maybe, rather than simply not being used to friendly rivalry, perhaps Sherlock was not used to friendly... anything.
The thought made John unexpectedly sad.
He was stepping away from his relay team before he could think better of it, ignoring their confused calls after him. Glancing at the clock and seeing he only had a minute before the relay began, he weaved through the crowd on the deck until he was in front of a frowning fluff of curls.
"John?" Sherlock said, perplexed. "What do you want?"
"Just... Just wanted to say good luck," John mustered a smile. "Whatever happens, I..." he trailed off. Was this even a good idea? "I think you're a really great swimmer."
Sherlock hesitated, the wheels nearly visibly turning in his head. John waited, shuffling his feet, entirely too conscious that time was running out before he had to be back at the starting blocks with his team.
"I..." Sherlock huffed, blushing a bit again. "I look forward to seeing you at the next meet. You are proving yourself to be surprisingly adequate competition."
John barked a laugh. "Well, it's an unorthodox compliment, but I'll take it."
Sherlock smiled, a genuine one. Then, to John's delight and amazement, he extended his hand for John to shake.
John took it. "So, may the best swimmer win."
"Oh, it'll definitely be me, John Watson." Sherlock smirked, a glint in his eyes.
John grinned right back. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we, Sherlock Holmes?"
And he turned away then, heading back to his starting block. He watched, contentment overriding any residual nervousness, as the relay began. He cheered with the other boys for his team, and then, as the third leg swimmers flip-turned at the other end of the pool, he climbed up and readied himself to dive. Glancing over, he saw that Sherlock too was poised and ready, his strong form balanced perfectly on the block, arms extended before him as he prepared to dive.
As if sensing John's gaze just then, Sherlock glanced over, a challenging smirk on his face. John smiled back and looked away. Suddenly, it didn't matter so much if Sherlock beat him. The boy was an arrogant, pompous git, but he had proven himself to be the best part about this meet.
I can't wait for the next one, John thought as he tracked Mike, who was hurtling toward the wall. Their team was currently tied, dead even, with Sherlock's. It was all down to John to win. And the instant before John hit the water, he heard a splash beside him in the next lane.
The race was on.
A few definitions for you guys, in my own words, if you care to know:
Heat - When an event has too many swimmers to all compete at once, the event is separated into heats. The first eight swimmers (typically the ones with slower previous times or who have no time for this particular event) go first, then the next eight, and so on - if needed - until all have competed. Ultimately, all the times are compared to each other. Interestingly, this means that even if a swimmer is from the first heat, they can still beat a swimmer from another heat, which means there's a good chance they will be in the later heat themselves next meet.
Starting block - It's not exactly a block (or a diving board), but it's the short, sturdy platform swimmers dive from at the beginning of all events except backstroke (a stroke which begins in the water, as seen at the beginning of the fic during the medley relay).
Swim cap - Those hellacious rubber hat-things swimmers have to jam over their heads and hair to increase hydrodynamic-ness. They are not the most comfortable headgear. Really, the only kinds of swim caps that are kind of worth the pain are the ones with the swimmer's last name on it.
Touchpad - A large, flat, soft-ish, electronic gizmo that hangs over the edge of the pool in each lane that records the moment the swimmer touches it, then sends the data to the scoreboard to be displayed, usually within a second or so. Small pools don't always have them, but larger pools that host meets often do. Having them provides an easy way to get almost instant results of who won the heat.
Warm down - As it sounds, it's the opposite of warming up, but it's just as important. Basically, it's a few slower laps in the pool after a race in order to get rid of the lactic acid created during sprints, to slow the heart rate, and generally to recover.
Heat sheet - The papers that list the order of events, who is competing in them, what lanes they are in, their previous times, and (sometimes, not always) record times. In other words, heat sheets have all the information you need about the meet. Swimmers consult them to keep track of the meet's progress and to size up their competition. Sherlock probably makes notations on everything about all the other swimmers and predicts the outcomes of events. Basically he's a huge dork and we love him.
Anchor - The swimmer in the final position of a relay. Usually he/she is one of the best/fastest swimmers and can make quite a difference so late in the race. The fact that the coach gives John the chance to be anchor as opposed to the star, Mike, shows that the coach sees promise in John and that he's probably a pretty good coach, willing to give newer swimmers opportunities to lead.
Flip-turn - Self-explanatory, I think, but it's the thing swimmers do in races to get turned around quickly. It's basically a somersault near the wall so swimmers can get their feet around to push off quickly.
Next in series: Ghosts (a paranormal investigator AU). Title: Give Up the Ghost. I'm super pumped/intimidated by this one, guys, let's do this!
Please review :)