Please note: this story is rated for what is going to happen throughout. As always, it won't be overly graphic, but please feel free to send me a message if you have any specific content concerns.
"My dear, you're not even watching."
"I assure you that I am much more amused by your own enjoyment of the spectacle than I am by the thing itself," Sherlock Holmes answered his brother, neglecting to look up from his newspaper as he spoke.
"It is not some 'spectacle,' Sherlock. Cricket is quite the grandest game ever played, and a great national tradition. Even I can take some time off from protecting the empire to enjoy some of its grandeur."
"Grandeur? Mycroft, it is a bunch of middle aged men sweating in unflattering uniforms and occasionally running after a ball."
"Sherlock, put the newspaper down. The doctor is up to bat now. He fits quite well in my old uniform; it was good of him to play in my stead."
"Of course he agreed to play for you. You instructed him to do so without any semblance of letting him have a choice."
"He certainly did have a choice. Whatever you may think of the power I hold, I am no tyrant."
"You are imposing, Mycroft. When you told him you'd volunteered him as your replacement for the game of course he agreed."
"Well, well, he would have agreed regardless and so it comes to nothing. I wonder how many people think he is your brother?"
"You let your name stand on your team's list of players, Mycroft: of course people will think he is my brother."
"I don't see why you're being so fussy, he didn't mind in the least."
"You could have at least let him wear a better fitting uniform."
"I had my old one and it fit him well enough, so why shouldn't he wear it?"
"You could have played yourself."
"Really, Sherlock, don't be droll. Ah, that's a good hit… damn! They got the wicket. Well, well, it was a good effort."
"And that five seconds of excitement will now be followed by watching them stand around for twenty minutes. Nothing happens in this game for long stretches, Mycroft. It's absurd."
"It's exhilarating."
"It's tedious. Perhaps it would be better if there were actual strategy involved, or at least something more intriguing than watching grown men chase a ball to and fro."
"How would you know, Sherlock? As I've already pointed out, you're not watching. I think you will find there's glorious strategy involved, as complex and interconnected as bees in a hive. Besides, the doctor's doing quite well, and I'll hate to see him discouraged when he comes off the field expecting his due praise only to realize you didn't care to observe any of his well executed plays."
"John Watson does not seek approval like a schoolboy," Sherlock argued, but he did concede, and he finally folded down the newspaper and set it next to his lawn chair, leaning back and surveying the field.
"Yes, I'm sure your friend is very flattered that you've deigned to look up only after he was up to bat." Mycroft said, and he silently reached over, snatching Sherlock's newspaper and moving it away.
"Oh, he's going onto the field now? What is he supposed to be doing?"
"He's fielding. I think he'll be bowling soon, maybe after this over."
"I do not even understand the words you are saying, Mycroft, so please refrain from attempting to make me interested and only tell me what Watson is supposed to be doing. For all other aspects I will simply clap politely when everyone else does."
"How unfortunate. Anyway, there he is, up to bowl, as I predicted."
"Left handed?"
"Oh, good tactic! There's an advantage to bowling left handed if one can manage it."
"Except he can't."
"Why are you so disparaging? He obviously can. He is doing so now."
"His left arm is his bad arm; he can't keep this up for long without causing a strain."
"You sound like you are echoing something he would say, Sherlock. When did you become the doctor? You're certainly not an athlete, else you would know a bit of pain is worth it for the game and for one's team. Now that you say so, though, I do see how his pitch is a bit odd; I'm sure he will be- bravo! Well done, Holmes!"
"'Holmes?' Really, Mycroft?"
"Why should I not? That is the name everyone else is using for him."
"Yes, and whose fault is that?"
"At least he's playing well for me. How humiliating would it be if they thought a Holmes was playing badly?"
"Not at all, really," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand through the air. He reached for his newspaper again, but it was underneath Mycroft's lawn chair and he abandoned the attempt for the moment.
"Not for you perhaps."
"Or perhaps because it would be true, and I am not ashamed of the truth, whatever it reveals of me," Sherlock countered. "I do not know the rules of the game and you have no stamina to play anymore. Therefore, a Holmes brother on the field would play rather badly indeed. It is the truth, Mycroft."
"Cricket does not have 'rules,' my dear, it has laws. You ought to know that. And it is few men who have the stamina for a five day game, and so I shall ignore your assertions."
"Five days? Now you are taking advantage of my ignorance of the game: I will believe there are laws, but I do not believe that. There have been battles fought in less time which determined the course of history!"
"Believe me or not as you will, but that's the limit: a game can last up to five days until it ends. This is a charity game, however, being played by old teams reuniting to have a good time, so it won't last more than a few hours."
"You should not have imposed upon Watson to play a five day game."
"Stop grumbling and watch, Sherlock. I have imposed nothing."
"I am watching. He throws the ball, they swing and miss. He throws the ball, they swing and miss. He throws the ball again… oh, that other man caught it. Well done!" He clapped politely.
"I told you he's playing well. He'll be pleased to know you've paid more attention to his playing than you ever did to mine."
"Of course I have: I never watched a single match you played. But that was not my fault."
"No, I suppose it was not. I didn't think you were wholly ignorant of the game, however."
"I am not 'wholly' ignorant. I know it involves grown men hitting a ball and running around in stuffy sweaters."
"And your friend is quite good at it."
"Yes, I suppose so... Why isn't he pitching anymore?"
"Bowlers rotate after six pitches, it wasn't that he wasn't doing well. Look… he's in a good position to make a catch. If he does, you'd best observe it."
"I told you, I am watching," Sherlock grumbled, and he was.
He watched as the ball went high, as Watson ran, as the ball fell into his hands… and then as Watson fell onto the ground, crumpled in a way that seemed less like an athlete injured on a sports field and more like a soldier felled on a battlefield. The crack reverberated in Holmes' ears, and he sat still for a moment, confused. What had happened? The other athletes looked around at each other, also confused, and one of them began to jog towards Watson's fallen form as Holmes stood, also thinking that perhaps he should go to him, still wondering what exactly had hit him.
It wasn't until the second shot rang out and masked men with guns in hand barged onto the field that anyone realized something serious was happening and reacted with any urgency. Sherlock dropped all denial in his mind, spun around turning his back on his fallen friend, grabbed his brother roughly, and yanked him to his feet with more force than necessary. "Move!" he hissed. "We have to go!"
By then the athletes, the first ones to realize what was happening, were scattering from the fields and the crowd was beginning to do the same, their chairs flipping over as the scrambled to their feet, some people knocked down in their haste. Sherlock gripped Mycroft so hard he was sure to bruise, pulling him in the direction of the building where the teams changed into their uniforms.
"They're here for you, Mycroft," he told his brother as gunshots rang out behind them. "They must be; that's why they shot Watson. When they realize he's not you, they'll come looking for you. Find a place to be safe; I have to go help him if I can."
"Sherlock…"
More gunshots went off behind them, and Sherlock herded his brother to the building, not content until they'd emerged out the other side and were safe, at least for the moment. He'd glanced back and saw they were mostly firing randomly into the dirt, more a show of force to make others flee than a real attack; it was more evidence to his mind that they had a target, and that that target was Mycroft.
"Keep going, don't stop until you've reached home," Sherlock commanded his elder brother.
"Sherlock..."
"I have to go to him!"
"Sherlock, don't!" Mycroft called, reaching out and grasping him.
Sherlock looked, saw the naked fear and urgency in his brother's eyes, felt the iron grip on his arm, and he hesitated.
He was moving before he'd realized he'd made a decision, taking his brother's hand and running with him away from the place. By the time he got his brother to safety and made it back to the field, the masked gunmen were gone. So was the body of John Watson, the only indication of what had happened there a red smear of blood on the grass.