Chapter 9: Touching Base

John Watson:

Of all the tedious and boring sports in the World According to Sherlock Holmes, Cricket was the worst, possibly second only to American Football. "What is the point?" he would say whenever John put it on. "They throw a ball at a bunch of sticks, then run back and forth until somebody knocks them over, and then they put them back up again. It's not even involved enough to count as physical exercise".

So when he had come home and found two tickets to the upcoming local match, with a note beside it from Sherlock asking him to meet him there, John was deeply suspicious.

Sherlock was waiting for him at the stadium entrance, his eyes taking in everything at once with that slightly unnerving gaze, as though trying to deduce what hid beyond the horizon. John was pretty sure he did it to look cool, though. The Look; it went with the collar and the cheekbones.

"Sherlock, what's-" John began as he approached.

"Ah, John!" Sherlock said loudly. "So glad you could come. I thought we could do with a day off."
"But I thought you ha-" John tried.
"Oh, just look at your clothes, John! Tch. That will never do. Really, you ought to have at least the common sense to wear casual clothes to a sports game."

John looked down at his best suit, which Sherlock's letter had specifically asked him to wear, his suspicion growing stronger still. Hm. I wonder…

"Who are we playing against?" he tried.

A faint smile from Sherlock. "Why, London, of course. This is the quarterfinal game in the series. If we win here, we just have to beat one other minor team, and then we get to take on the big one."

Sherlock escorted him into the toilets, threw him into one of the cubicles, and ordered him to change into some "old spare" clothes Sherlock "happened" to have with him in a duffel bag. They were exactly John's size, and still had the labels attached.

When John emerged dressed in the new things, his own suit carefully stowed in the duffle bag, he asked Sherlock, "Look, what is all this about?"

Sherlock shook his head mutely. "Just going to spend some quality time and catch up on things. Whoops," he added, as he deftly tossed the duffle bag over the seven-foot chain link fence and into a ditch.

Dragging him on towards the seating, Sherlock continued in a much lower voice:

"All new clothes, so nothing is bugged. We're sitting in a completely different area than are on our tickets, thanks to a swap I arranged earlier. I, ah, might need to borrow some cab fare later."
"You're lucky I kept my wallet, then," John commented sarcastically, "though I might need to ditch that, too."

"Oh, don't be paranoid," Sherlock said offhandedly. "Mycroft won't have bugged your billfold. There's never enough in it to conceal a mike, anyway. More importantly, Mycroft's agents are off on a little wild goose chase, and nobody's up top to notice where we really are and alert them."

"Why not?" John was struggling to keep up, both physically and mentally, with the conversation.

"Because I suggested to my dear parents that they ought to spend a bit more time with my elder brother. Right now, I imagine they're hearing the songs of angry men on the barricades, or some similar nonsense."

They took their seats in the stadium. "So, no codes?"

"For now, just once; no codes, no riddles. You can ask me anything."

"I take it you'll have done your deducing thing with Mary by now?"

"Sixteen times so far, yes," Sherlock replied, his eyes on the game. One of the players knocked over the wicket and Sherlock applauded.

"No, Sherlock, that was our wicket, " John told him.

"Well… whatever."

"So, Mary. Is she…" John struggled to find the right words and the courage to voice them.

"Is she hiding anything from you? Yes, she's actually an agent assigned to you by Mycroft to keep you from killing yourself during the period that you thought I was dead."

"Oh, yes, I already knew that," John said, rather ruining the dramatic reveal Sherlock had been expecting.

"What? How?"

"I used to treat spies in Afghanistan, I know how to spot them," John replied testily. "Now, about Mary…"

"But...how could you know who she was working for?" Sherlock interrupted.

John watched as England's bowler threw the ball a little too wide. "We discussed it over the England vs. New Zealand about a fortnight back. Good team, the New Zealanders. Particularly their bowler, Baggins or something like that." With a snort, John added, "Besides, who else could send in a spy without your brother spotting it and swooping in? No, what I was going to ask you was… well, does she really care about me?" This last came out a bit quicker than John would have liked.

There was a tense silence, during which Ian Bell scored six runs for England. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was sulking or browsing his mind palace. Probably both.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Sentiment...is not something I can properly predict all the time. Even when I know it's there, the source can be difficult to trace. However, considering she has hired me to make sure she isn't reassigned; considering the genuine panic when you were in danger on Bonfire Night;

...yes, I think those are signs of sentiment, don't you agree?"

In his seat, John silently melted with relief.

A thought occurred. "So, how are we going to do this? How do we get her out from under Mycroft's thumb?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "we have some planning to do."

And so, as the leather ball cracked against London's wicket, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson hashed out the Plan.