Game day. John hated to admit it, but he got nervous before every game. He could hardly manage his breakfast. Of course, soccer wasn't as big of a deal in America, but John was British. And football was an essential part of life. At home, his success on the pitch had determined the mood of his father when he got home. It was hard to pull away from the fears that a loss had ingrained into his head. Sometimes winning wasn't enough, if the ball had gotten away from John one too many times or he had missed a shot. There was an ocean between John and Mr. Watson, but it was not enough.

John didn't think it was a completely conscious decision, but after breakfast he found himself standing in front of the closed door to Sherlock's office. He contemplated knocking. Why was he here? What did he want to say? He wasn't sure. But then he remembered Sherlock knew; it wasn't a secret from his teacher. And Sherlock understood; he had been through something similar. John sucked in a breath and rapped his knuckles against the door.

"Who is it now?" a stern voice called back.

"Uh... John Watson."

The door burst open. "John," Sherlock breathed. "Don't you have a game you should be prepping for?"

"Yeah," John admitted, wringing his hands. "Could I... is that blood on your apron?"

Sherlock glanced down. He had a white apron on as well as goggles and gloves for his experiment. Crimson was splattered across the front. He shrugged. "It's old, really. A stain. You were saying?"

"Uh, yeah... I was wondering if I could come in and just... talk to you." John stared down at his sneakers.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "If it's anything about football I won't be much of a help."

"It's not," John said. "It's something more... personal."

Sherlock cocked his eyebrows and John ran his fingers down his own wrist, to convey what he wanted to talk about without having to say the words.

"Oh, right," Sherlock said. "Sure. Come in. Watch out for the flasks on my desk. They'll burn your flesh off if you aren't careful."

John carefully stepped through the room and into the hard chair seated before Sherlock's desk. Sherlock himself checked a few thermometers before easing into his big chair behind his desk.

"How can I assist you, John?" he asked, steepling his hands and looking at his pupil with sharp grey eyes.

"It's... I just need you to listen, I think. And I didn't know who else to talk to. You're the only one who knows."

"About the bruises." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah, about the bruises. Today's the first game of the season, and I can't fuck up. I can't. When I fuck up, he gets mad. It gets worse. The bruises get bigger."

"John," Sherlock said softly. "He's another country away. He can't reach you from here."

"But I can still hear his voice, screaming at me," John admitted. "Every time I mess up. I can feel his hands tightening on my arm and twisting. I can feel the marks he leaves behind. Fuck, I can almost see the bruises before they're even there. I thought, coming miles away, I'd feel safe. But I don't. I'm still terrified."

"John, you're shaking." Sherlock reached out and wrapped his long pale fingers around John's hand. "Relax, okay?"

John looked down at his hand enclosed in Sherlock's and thought he couldn't breathe. "Sherlock?" John pleaded, looking back at the grey eyes.

"You're here, John. You're safe here. And you're going to do amazing during your match, alright? And even if you don't, your father can't hurt you while you're here."

"He won't forget if I mess up," John whispered. "And I have to go home eventually."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it. "You're overthinking things John. It's going to be okay. I promise."

"How can you promise? It never ends okay." John was vaguely conscious of his hand still being in Sherlock's. He shifted his hand slightly so their fingers entwined.

"I won't let it be anything but okay," Sherlock promised.

John bit his lip. Should he? No, he absolutely shouldn't. Not at all. But Sherlock looked so perfect with the goggles pushed into his messy curls and his eyes gleaming and his hand in John's and his lips so so close...

"Come to my game," John said.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, pulling his hand away from John's. "I don't know," he said.

"Please, Sherlock. Come to my game. I need you there. For moral support."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged upward. "Moral support from a sociopath," he mused. "Interesting idea."

"So you'll be there?"

"Possibly. You should probably get ready now, shouldn't you?"

John glanced at his watch. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Sherlock. See you later, hopefully?"

"Possibly."

John left his teacher's office with a new kind of flutter in his stomach, not from nervousness from the game but from having entwined his fingers in those of Sherlock Holmes.

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