John Watson's last dart thumped into the board with rather more force and less accuracy than was really preferable. Anderson smiled.

"90", he announced, aproaching the board to pull the darts free. "Well done, Watson, you finally beat me at one."

The other man grinned warmly at him, accepted Anderson's handshake, and turned away to pick up his drink. To think that, only half an hour ago, Anderson had thought that the freak and his hanger-on's appearance at the pub would spoil the evening.

As soon as he'd noticed Watson watching him practicing darts on his own, he'd invited him to play, and quickly realised that the good doctor's game was somewhat lacking. Of course, he'd immediately lowered his own scores to around the 70 mark to suit, and now had Watson firmly believing that he himself was the better player.

"We're pretty evenly matched," Anderson told him in an undertone. "Care to put a bit of money on the next game?"

Watson raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, thinking it over, then gave Anderson another smile and a nod.

"Alright. I do think I'm getting better though."

Anderson viciously supressed his urge to grin. "You are, that's true. But I'm fairly confident. Shall we say...fifty pounds?"

Watson nodded again and they shook on it, then Anderson went to the bar to get a fresh drink. Donovan made eye contact with him as he passed her and gave him a curious look, but he just smiled reassuringly. Nobody else in the pub seemed to have noticed his exchange with Watson. Lestrade and the rest of his detectives were mostly crowded around one of the larger tables, exchanging embarrassing stories about one another, all just edging towards being drunk. Donovan was sitting with that morgue girl and a female detective inspector whom Anderson didn't know, and they appeared to be talking shop. And Holmes...

Holmes appeared at Anderson's elbow as soon as he had placed his order at the bar.

"So you and John are gambling now, are you?" he asked, not raising his eyes from the screen of his phone.

"It's no business of yours," Anderson told him coolly.

Holmes smirked. "I'd rather you didn't try to play tricks on him. In fact, I think you'd find yourself better off if you didn't."

"Was that a threat?" Anderson demanded. "You must be really full of yourself if you think you can threaten me in a room full of bloody police!"

Holmes' eyes lifted from the phone and flicked towards the tv behind the bar, then to the crowd at large, before fixing on Anderson's face. "It's not a threat," he said, calmly.

Anderson suddenly got it. Holmes was cross that he'd have to sit and watch while Anderson took his friend's money. He must know that Watson's silly pride wouldn't let him back down now that he'd shaken on it, military men being rather dim in that way, to Anderson's experience. So instead of trying to warn Watson away, Holmes had decided to try and work on Anderson instead. Well, that wasn't going to go over.

"He's a grown man and he can do what he likes with hs money, including lose it to me," Anderson told him firmly. "Bugger off, Holmes."

He picked up his drink and crossed the room back to the dartboard, vaguely aware of Holmes following him. He wanted to see the thing first hand, no doubt. See if he could find a loophole to make the bet invalid or some such thing. Well, he wouldn't. Anderson was a good enough player that he didn't need to cheat.

Watson was waiting for him, almost childishly eager, the darts in hand. "You want to go first, or shall I?" he asked.

"May I go first?" Anderson requested, and Watson handed him the darts and stepped back to give him space.

Anderson loved seeing their faces when they realised they couldn't beat him, and then again when they realised that they still had to try.

A few other people had approached the board now, and Detective Constable Menzies took it upon himself to call out the scores as each of Anderson's darts hit the board.

thump

"Forty!"

thump

"Forty!"

thump

"Sixty! That's a hundred and forty. Nice one, Anderson."

Anderson smiled as a couple of hands reached out to pat him on the shoulders. "My college friends used to call me 'Bristow' Anderson," he told them, and turned to look at Watson. The other man was still and stoic, only the barest hint of apprehension showing on his face. Anderson grinned and backed out of the way of the board.

Detective Sergeant Begum pulled the darts out of the board and handed waved Watson into place eagerly, and he nodded to her in a perfunctory manner before stepping up. He took a moment to shift his stance around, twirled his first dart in his fingers to be sure of his grip. Then his eyes cut to Anderson.

He smiled.

thud!

thud!

thud!

Anderson gaped. How in hell had he thrown them all so fast?

Beaming, Menzies approached the board, the better to see exactly where the closely grouped darts had hit.

"Sixty, sixty aaaaaand...sixty!" he confirmed. "One hundred and eighty! Well done, John!"

Watson grinned as a dozen or so officers appeared to congratulate him. Anderson got bumped towards the back of the crowd before he knew it, and only became aware that his mouth was hanging open when a chilly fingertip reached out to push it shut. He turned to find Holmes giving him a thin smile.

"You weren't thinking of leaving, were you?" he asked in syrupy tones, and it was only then that it occured to Anderson that, perhaps, the thought of ditching had briefly crossed his mind.

"Of course not. Bugger off!"

Holmes sighed happily, and the smile spread wider. "I did try and warn you," he told Anderson earnestly. "But of course, you never do listen. John is a trained marksman, and also not an idiot. Rare qualities. Unlike some."

"Oh...fuck you," Anderson snapped, and got his wallet out. Fifty bloody quid! His wife was going to be furious with him.

::

I love being mean to Anderson.
'Bristow' refers to Eric Bristow, a world champion British darts player who was largely responsible for the rise in popularity of the game in the 80's. He was so popular and successful that legendary (and often unintentionally hilarious) sports commentator Sid Waddell said of him; 'When Alexander the Great was 33 he cried salt tears because there were no more worlds to conquer. Bristow is only 27!'
And yes, Donovan's 'curious look' was her trying to tell him not to fucking mess with Watson. Shame Anderson didn't notice, really.
Oh, and in case you don't know, 180 is the highest score you can get in a darts game, or at least it is in the version of darts rules that are used in most British pubs.