Sherlock | Crappy Fanfics

Why John Hates Football

"But I play rugby..."

"So?"

"So, rugby and football aren't the same game," John pointed out, shouldering his messenger bag as he and Greg strode towards the school changing rooms. "I'm better at rugby. I'm Captain, for Pete's sake. I can't play football."

Greg frowned, pushing the door open and holding it for John to slip through.

"You kick a ball in rugby, don't you?" Greg quizzed, letting the door slam shut before joining John on the bench.

"Yeah, but it's not the same," John hesitated, pulling out a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pulling them on. Everyone else on the pitch would have their standard kit, but John was stuck looking like a tramp. Plus, his mum would kill him if he got any more grass stains on his rugby kit.

"Just kick the ball and aim for a slightly lower goal," Greg joked, and John offered him a small smile before taking off his shirt. However, Greg said nothing else on the subject until they were striding out onto the pitch.

Before the match began, John sent a quick text to Sherlock to let him know where he'd be. They were supposed to be meeting up later on, but John presumed that Sherlock would be quite happy to busy himself in the library until he was done.

--

Oh, God.

These opposing teams were vicious and cry babies all at the same time: John was loathing every second. His only comfort was the sight of the black haired teenager who'd appeared on the edge of the pitch; frowning but offering John random yells of encouragement when it was needed, which John appreciated.

However, there was one particular player who John definitely did have problems with. The guy had a triangular figure, with broad shoulders and keen eyes. His waist was pinched in the middle, and his legs were sharp long needles with thick wiry bristles. But it wasn't the guy's figure that John had a problem with, it was his attitude.

His dad was referee, and since jogging onto the pitch he'd had a sickening grin plastered across his face. In exchange for the penalties his team were receiving, the team John was playing for became inundated with yellow and red cards, and Greg was quickly losing his temper.

"I going to get that ball off him," John seethed, watching as Greg stormed over to him. Despite not wanting anything to do with football initially, John was very quickly becoming a bit too involved.

"John, leave it," Greg said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "We've lost already, what with daddy's favourite," he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the guy who was now brooding over a bunch of girls who'd materialised on the side of the pitch. They were standing quite closely to where Sherlock was busy not paying attention, but as the boy made his way over to him John couldn't help but snarl as the two conversed.

"John, leave it," Greg tried, but John shrugged him off as the biased referee blew his whistle.

Of course, Daddy's Favourite was quickly in possession of the ball, and launched himself down the pitch. John jogged next to him, slipping his foot to the side and wrangling the ball from in between the other guy's legs.

Feeling a sudden, whooshing sense of accomplishment, John turned to offer Sherlock a grin, but found instead the sight of the now grumpy footballer glaring at him.

With one quick kick to his shin, John was on the floor. The ball was God knows where, and his mouth was filled with muddy grass. He was about to clamber back up and rejoin the match (countless rugby tournaments told him that it was just a bruise), but he was put back down by a hard football boot connecting with his collar bone.

All he could hear was Greg's persisted yells of: "foul! That was a foul! He fucking-", but all John cared about was the fact that he was in agony.

The whistle was blowing, and someone was calling the ambulance. The referee couldn't deny foul play this time, and was being heavily berated by both teams, not just the one John had been playing for.

"John!"

John sighed heavily as Sherlock leaped towards him, falling to his knees next to John's face and crouching over him, brushing away splatters of mud from his face with his gloved hands.

"Are you alright?" He asked, pulling off his coat and dropping it over John, who laughed bitterly.

"No," he attempted, but it got lost through the dryness of his voice.

Sherlock smiled sympathetically at him, before standing up and turning to face the guy who'd caused John so much pain.

"What're you looking at?" He boy spat, and John was sure he heard a low growl from Sherlock.

"Don't you fucking touch my boyfriend again, do you understand?" He commanded, and while the boy was taller than Sherlock, Sherlock was definitely towering above him.

"He's your-"

"Do you understand?" Sherlock repeated angrily. The boy whimpered, but when he next spoke the fierceness was evident.

"What're you going to do about it?"

With one quick punch, the boy was reeling on the floor next to John, who was cheering Sherlock painfully.