Like a Fairytale

The Next LeBron Jordan

    When Sherlock woke up his stomach was growling with annoyance, maybe it wasn't the best idea to have skipped dinner. So he got up, got all ready for the day with a very tired, angry look on his face, and descended down the stairs for a large breakfast. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen with a waffle maker, looking very surprised to see Sherlock up so early.
"Well I didn't think I'd be seeing you at all!" she exclaimed, as if that were some type of hilarious joke, and poured more batter into the waffle maker.
"I'm hungry." Sherlock grumbled.
"You're all dressed and ready too, where are you off to?" she asked, pressing the top down to that steam and battler leaked out from the sides onto the drip trays.
"Places." Sherlock snapped, not wanting the fact that he was going to the park to reach his stalker family.
"What kind of places?" Mrs. Hudson sighed.
"Places that are in the city." Sherlock clarified, making Mrs. Hudson roll her eyes. Sherlock opened the fridge door and grabbed a glass, pouring himself a large glass of water.
"You've been out a lot lately; if I'm not mistaken I'd say you got yourself a girlfriend." Mrs. Hudson said, but she didn't seem like she was joking. Sherlock, who was drinking from his cup, almost choked with surprise.
"Oh ya, like that's ever going to happen. Keep dreaming Mrs. Hudson." He decided with a nervous little laugh. He wasn't lying; he was never going to get a girlfriend, maybe a boyfriend a little bit along the road though.
"It's not out of the question, you are a very attractive young man, I'm sure any girl..."
"I came down here to eat and now I'm losing my appetite." Sherlock warned, making Mrs. Hudson roll her eyes but leave the subject.
"How was that football game then?" she asked.
"It was fine."
"Who won?"
"We did." (I did)
"That's good. I heard it was a big game or something." Mrs. Hudson pointed out, scraping a freshly made waffle off of the press and putting it on a plate, buttering it and putting little berried into the holes.
"One waffle, for the first bidder." She said, holding it high above her head. Unfortunately for her, Sherlock was about a head taller than her and barely had to extend his arm to take it.
"I'm the only person here, and I'm not six." He snapped.
"You and your brother used to be jumping all over, getting stepladders and everything." She pointed out, laughing kind of sadly.
"Well sorry to hear that, but Mr. Mycroft isn't going to be smiling anymore, it's not in his agenda." Sherlock pointed out, sitting on top of the counter and drowning his waffle in syrup.
"Your brother works very hard to support this family, the business is on his shoulders." She pointed out.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes.
"Well I didn't mean it like that, but I thought you said you didn't want to take over the business?" She remembered.
"I don't, but if I wanted to I could." Sherlock debated.
"Well there you have it, no harm done." Mrs. Hudson sighed, pouring more batter in the waffle maker. After about three waffles and painful conversation Sherlock decided that it was time to retreat to his room and make some last minute touch ups on his appearance. Mrs. Hudson laughed at that, claiming that he was going to do his makeup, but let him leave in the end. Sherlock ran up the steps two at a time, feeling almost cat like when his footprints barely made a sound, and checked his reflections in the mirror over and over again to make sure he looked decent. There were a couple of curls poking up here and there, but it only took a couple of annoyed pats to get them to stay down, like a disobedient dog or something. When nine thirty came he was out the door with a final wave, cutting Mrs. Hudson off mid-sentence with the slam of the door. He hoped off of the porch, pulling his coat onto his shoulders dramatically and flipping his coat collar up. It made him look even more cool and mysterious and he thought it really emphasized his sharp cheekbones. He went down the street, avoiding random people and crossing the street to avoid who he recognized as a girl from school, who he doubted even saw him since her nose was almost pressed to her phone screen.
"Sherlock, hey!" said a small, drowned out voice from behind him. Sherlock turned, knowing it had to be John but not seeing him through the thick crowd. Finally, between two business men and a rough looking woman with her hair chopped up John emerged, dragging his bag along and running to catch up.
"Careful, there's a girl from school around here." Sherlock warned out of the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, sorry." John muttered, keeping his distance, as if the two weren't following each other's every step. When they got inside the gates of the park they found their bench, once again, occupied by the wrinkled old yoga women, so they dropped their bags and collapsed against the tree trunk. This time, Sherlock noticed, John had both a football and a basketball, and eyed the courts nervously, knowing what was coming eventually.
"So, just a little bit of review today, no test or anything since we haven't been working together for the past week." Sherlock decided. It was a little bit past the one week anniversary of the kiss, but John didn't seem to notice, sitting as close to Sherlock as he did two Saturdays ago.
"AS you've probably noticed I brought a basketball along as well, he can shoot some hoops when we're done." John suggested.
"Wouldn't people see us?" Sherlock pointed out, looking through the thin crowd of walkers, runners, and bikers.
"No one but the yoga prunes and people that don't care." John pointed out. Sherlock couldn't help but stifle a laugh.
"Yoga prunes?" he asked, thinking that was an extremely offensive but accurate description of the women occupying their bench.
"You heard me." John agreed. Sherlock smiled as he got the designated papers out of his bag, passing them to John, who had a pencil and a binder already out and ready to go.
"Is it bad that this looks foreign?" he asked, tilting his head adorably.
"Well, yes, a little bit." Sherlock agreed. John tapped his pencil against his forehead, which almost made Sherlock expect to hear a hallow sound.
"Oh wait, this is that exponent thingy!" he pointed out, obviously with an expensive knowledge of the mathematical content.
"Ya, that..." Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes because John was just so pathetic. John forged on, his pencil wagging madly in the air as he scribbled down his work and answers.
"There, done." He decided proudly, handing Sherlock the paper proudly and smiling up at Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock's face glowed, but he looked away, hoping John hadn't noticed. He checked the answers quickly, finding that he got a decent 94% overall, which really wasn't bad considering he probably failed the test drastically when they actually learned it.
"94." He said, handing it to John.
"94 what?" John asked jokingly.
"Times I'm going to throw you out of a tree." Sherlock clarified, making John just laugh and roll his eyes, checking over his answers with a frown.
"Oh come on, I should get a half a point there, it's a negative!" John defended.
"Yes, it's a negative and that's 70 numbers away from the answer." Sherlock pointed out.
"But I just forgot it!" John debated.
"Well sucks for you apparently." Sherlock said with a teasing smile, but took the test back anyway and added a little ½ to the score.
"There you go, happy?" he asked, trying to look like an annoyed teacher.
"Oh yes, now I can eat for another week." John said, over exaggerating a fake faint.
"You pour soul." Sherlock muttered, but smiled feebly anyway.
"I know, I have it so bad." John sighed.
"Terrible, just terrible, you don't have a mansion or a housekeeper or enough money to make a throne out of." Sherlock agreed.
"And you don't have an IQ of three thousand or a mansion or a house keeper or enough money to build another house with." John complained.
"And you can't score a goal in football for the life of you."
"And you can't get 100%s on all of your tests."
"We just have it so hard; I don't know how we even live." Sherlock sighed, a stupid smile still on his face. John was giggling like an over excited child, but the sound was like angels singing, so Sherlock didn't necessarily mind.
"Speaking of football look what I brought." John said, picking up the basketball to show Sherlock, as if it were something to be very proud of.
"That's a basketball John, there's a difference." Sherlock pointed out. John just groaned, waving his hand in the air as if he were trying to swat away the comment.
"On the topic of sports, let's go shoot a few, that's all the math right?" John asked.
"I suppose so." Sherlock agreed.
"Then come on!" John decided, launching onto his feet and leaving his bag behind, running madly to leave Sherlock in the dust, trying his best to keep up somehow. Finally when he got to the court he was already tired, but John was there, standing with the ball balanced on his hip and smiling at Sherlock as if his exhaustion was funny. The court was completely empty, no one wanted to come around this time of day, but it would be flooded sooner or later with all of the losers that shoot it from the half point line backwards.
"You know how to play?" John asked, twirling the basketball on one finger somehow. Sherlock watched with curiosity, but that looked all too complicated for him to try.
"No, of course not." Sherlock pointed out, feeling very out of place in this basketball court.
"Do you know how to score?" John asked.
"Throw the ball in the hoop, I know that much." Sherlock sighed.
"Perfect. So you just stand here, plant your feet, hold the ball in two hands, one pumping and one steering, and shoot." John let the ball fly towards the net, and it swished easily through the net without touching the rim at all. He made it look ridiculously easy, shame it wasn't though. Sherlock was sure his basketball would kill a pedestrian or something when he tried.
"Your turn." John announced, retrieving the ball and throwing it at Sherlock rather forcefully. Sherlock caught it and turned the ball in his long fingers, not wanting to embarrass himself too badly in front of John, but if he expected him to shoot he'd at least make an attempt. Sherlock went in front of the net, pretty close, and did exactly as John had said, planting his feet, holding the ball, doing his best to aim, and chucking it one handed over his shoulder as hard as he could. The ball bounced off the bottom corner of the backboard, coming flying back and hitting him straight in the face. He has endured many injuries, but this was the first one he laughed at. John had fallen to the floor, laughing so hard he had lost the strength in his legs, and Sherlock had tears of laughter swelling in the corner of his eye. The ball was rolling innocently across the court but no one paid it any attention, it seemed like Sherlock had the absolute worst luck when it came to sports, and this was only more proof.
"That was the absolute best thing I've ever seen!" John exclaimed in a weak breath, pulling himself to his feet and brushing the dust off of his clothes.
"I told you I'd be rubbish!" Sherlock pointed out, chasing after the ball that was rolling lazily over the court.
"Oh god, if only I could tell Greg that, he'd die!" John assured.
"He'd make a reenactment, trust me." Sherlock assured with a little laugh, rubbing his face to make sure he wasn't bleeding or anything. But the only sign he had been hit was a pain in his cheek and a gross taste of rubber on his lips.
"Well, there was a couple of things you did wrong there, let's start with the most obvious." John decided.
"If it's the fact that my head was in the way I've already figured that out." Sherlock pointed out, making John crack another adorable smile.
"No, it's only your form, the way you throw the ball, your aim, and the height. So ya, pretty much everything."
"Don't talk to me about height you hobbit." Sherlock snapped.
"What?" John asked, tilting his head in confusion.
"That would be funny if you were a nerd." Sherlock said, shaking off the comment.
"Okay then, well, you need to keep your lead leg out like this, are you left or right handed?" John asked.
"Right."
"So theoretically your right foot should be your lead foot, place that in front of you, like this." John said, demonstrating the very difficult task of taking half a step. Sherlock mimicked his actions, taking half a step and holding the basketball awkwardly in his hands.
"And now hold the ball above your head, like you were about to shoot it." John instructed. Sherlock did as he said, holding the ball over his head like a good little basketball student. John sighed, obviously he had done something wrong, as John was walking up to him with an annoyed little smile.
"Okay, first off you need to hold the ball at six and three, so one hand here..." he took Sherlock's hand lightly and moved it to where he had to place it. Sherlock's entire body went numb and his vision temporarily cut out to just blurry shapes floating around. John's hand was rough yet soft, which made Sherlock's weak little heart almost melt.
"Oh, ya, sorry." John muttered as he saw Sherlock start to wobble on the spot, his face so red he could blend in easily to a room of ketchup. John saw his mistake, obviously, as he stepped away a little bit awkwardly and stepped forward and backwards, obviously not sure what to do.
"No, it's fine, put my hand here, got it." Sherlock's voice came out like a little croak, and now both of them were awkwardly staring at the court, trying to think of something casual to say but not sound like they were changing the topic. Sherlock had never seen John so awkward, usually he was so alive and confident that seeing him mutter something was like the eighth wonder of the world. Was it wrong that he wanted to misplace his other hand just so John had to move that one as well?
"So, uh, put your other hand right next to your face, bend your knees a slight bit and push the ball and let go." John decided, mimicking that again without a ball so that he looked pretty stupid. Sherlock nodded, followed the instructions and pushed off on the ball. It went up in the air about three feet, crooked, before plummeting down onto the court.
"It's a start, I suppose." John muttered, but he was looking more and more hopeless. Sherlock smiled weakly to himself, it's not like he was ashamed or anything, he knew this was going to be what happened.