A/N: It should really be noted that, in reality, I honest to god hate football. Sport in general, actually. Anyway, the point is, if I have muddled up any football jargon in this chapter, I apologise.
Sort of.
Not really.
Book.
John was tilted forwards on the sofa, his body pointed towards the television, with his hands clasped under his chin in an unusually Sherlock-like stance. He leant closer, and mumbled more coherently, whenever whatever trivial thing was on become more heated.
Sherlock peered over the rim of his book at the screen.
Football.
He sighed loudly and turned back to his book on the study of criminology and the human mind.
"Problem, Sherlock?" John asked, his attention taken from the screen for mere moments before something caught his eye, and he became infinitely more involved again.
"It'll be a free kick. At that angle, however, he's likely to miss- I'd say just over the top bar of the goal. It'll most likely result in him being the next substitution, what with the current rate of injuries. I'd imagine the fans would be angry, so it'll be more than likely that the player he'll be swapped for will be- to some degree at least- more of a "token" player, to please the fans." He let out another heavy sigh as- true to form- the ball sailed over the top of the goal.
He raised a solitary eyebrow. "Predictable."
John stared at him for a moment.
"Can you at least refrain from deducing football? Please?"
Sherlock just smirked, and returned to his book.