I meant to finish this before the World Cup was over, but, I didn't. I own nothing. Enjoy!
Sherlock was returning to Baker Street after investigating and ultimately concluding a case. His success had placed him in a jovial mood, and the prospect of a hot meal, in such contrast with the gloomy weather, brightened his spirits still further. Upon reaching the door marked "221B", he knocked enthusiastically and was answered by Mrs. Hudson. She appeared relieved when she saw him, and sighed,
"Oh Sherlock, I'm so glad you're back. I'm afraid John may need a bit of supervision. He's been yelling worth something awful, and I really am a bit worried about him. I understand he's watching some type of sport, but-" She held out her hands helplessly. Smiling and placing an arm around her shoulders, Sherlock replied,
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll take care of it." She breathed a sigh of relief, and Sherlock climbed the stairs to their room. However, just as he reached his hand up to knock on the door, he was startled by a:
"No! No, what are you doing? Get off the field!" in violent tones. Sherlock was mildly surprised, for he rarely knew John to grow this upset. Sports. What a useless pastime, he thought haughtily.
Upon entering the room, he surveyed John sitting bolt upright on the couch, intensely concentrated on the football game on the TV screen. Sherlock only shook his head and strode in to his own room. He sat on his bed and thought for a moment, but was jolted from his introspection by a cry of anguish from the living room. Genuinely alarmed, he sprang to his feet and hurried to check on Watson. The fear was unfounded, however, as he found when he sat down next to his friend. Without averting his eyes from the television, John said aside to him,
"Our goalie just let a ball by, and now we're down by one. I can't believe it! U.S.A was supposed to be defeated before preliminary rounds!" He then went back to complete concentration and didn't say another word for many minutes.
Sherlock knew nothing about football, and thought to himself: What a vigorous crowd of fellows. For which colour is John cheering? He saw no point to the ceaseless scampering back and forth over the field, but slowly it dawned on him that they were trying to get the ball in one of the goals. As to anything further, he was hopelessly lost.
After several minutes had passed, with occasional outbursts and swearing from his friend, Sherlock turned abruptly to John and asked,
"John, what redeeming qualities do you find in this activity? Any at all?" John didn't reply for a moment, but finally he took his eyes from the screen and fixed them upon Sherlock.
"Sherlock, you can say nothing, for you don't even understand the basic concepts of the game!"
"I'm sure if I did I still would find nothing in the least enjoyable about it!" John was seething, but managed to hold his tongue for a few moments. Then, returning to his surveillance of the TV, he began to make terse comments to Sherlock at regular intervals.
"That person there with the different coloured jersey? That is a referee. He keeps an eye on the boys to make sure they don't do anything wrong or dirty. If they do, he blows a whistle, and if it is particularly bad, he gives them a card. A yellow is a warning, and a red is an ejection. Two yellows make a red." Sherlock didn't let on, but he had been wondering this very thing. It now all made sense.
After several more minutes, John explained to his friend which was their team.
"England is in the red. The U.S. is in the white. Cheer for the red team." Sherlock nodded, but Watson, too wrapped up in the game, failed to notice his friend's growing interest. Almost as soon as he had said this, England was able to score a goal and tie the game, one to one. John let loose a yell, and even Sherlock smiled.
"We have to win this game to advance, though, so we'd better score again," said Watson. Sherlock grew sober, and watched the game intensely. Once, when a referee blew a whistle, Sherlock asked John why. Watson was caught completely off guard by his friend's curiosity, and stared for a moment before saying,
"Well, ah, it's called being offsides, which means that the defender, that is, the team that doesn't have the ball, is behind the offensive team's man when the ball is kicked to the offensive man." Pausing a moment, he then added: "Sherlock, are you enjoying this?"
Sherlock didn't dare admit it, but he was growing fond of the match. However, he only replied,
"Of course not, John. I'm merely humouring you."
"You never humour me unless you are genuinely interested yourself."
"Oh nonsense, Watson, I can be considerate at times."
"So now you are denying the 'brain without a heart' diagnosis of your condition."
"I was just-" but Sherlock's reply was cut short by a triumphant shout from the doctor.
"There we are, England! Show them what we're made of!"
"What did I miss?" asked Sherlock.
"The U.S. fouled us, and now we get a free kick," explained John. Nodding, Sherlock watched closely to see what would happen. The player lined up to shoot, but when he did, the ball flew over the goal.
"No!" yelled the detective. His outburst of ferocity attracted Watson's attention. He wisely refrained from speaking, and merely continued watching with a trace of a smirk on his face.
As the game neared its end and the score remained one and one, John risked a quick glance at his friend's face. The concentration and alertness he witnessed there were enough to confound all he had ever believed of the detective. Even as he watched, Sherlock's face lit up with joy and he sprang from his seat with a thunderous cry.
"We scored! We scored! And with only six seconds to go, that means we've won! We've won!" Only then did John realize he had missed his team's winning goal. However, the excitement of his friend, a rarity indeed, more than compensated for his loss. And ever afterwards, he had a faithful companion with whom to watch football.