I Know Your Face

The Winners And the Losers

    "Sixteen minutes, we've got plenty of time." Sherlock insisted, but nevertheless he walked faster, allowing himself to get carried along. They reached the stadium with eleven minutes to spare, and as soon as they walked up the bleachers John was starting to feel anxious. His team was already collecting near the benches, he was supposed to have shown up ten minutes ago, and he was still to make his excuses. As anticipated the stands were filled with people, all sorts of kids from all grades, all decked out in their school colors and standing on the bleachers in excitement. Sherlock and Victor definitely drew some eyes, most people recognizing Victor as the other boy in the picture. But thankfully they didn't say anything; they were too occupied by the game to bother with bullying for now. John sighed heavily, as soon as Sherlock picked out a seat in the back he knew that he had to make an excuse, he simply had to leave.
"Oh man, Sherlock, that's my phone." John muttered, tapping his leg as if he was getting some sort of call. He was really bad at acting, but Sherlock seemed convinced. He didn't seem to care, but he didn't look suspicious.
"That's alright, call them back later." Sherlock insisted, taking his hand once more and sitting down on the cold aluminum bleachers. John stayed standing, trying to look anxious, as if he simply had to take this call right now.
"I'm sorry." John muttered, taking out his phone but making sure to cover it with his hand. "I've got to take it, it's my mom."
"Alright then, I'll come with you." Sherlock decided, getting to his feet obediently. He was really bad at getting ditched, wasn't he?
"No, save the seats, I won't be a moment." John insisted, turning away without a goodbye. He was halfway down the bleachers, surrounded by fans and listening to their cries before he realized he couldn't just leave Sherlock there, not like that. He turned around and darted up the stairs, catching Sherlock right before he sat back down.
"Victor I thought you were..." he muttered, but John grabbed the color of his fancy shirt and pulled him closer, pressing a much needed kiss on his lips before pulling away just as quickly.
"What was that for?" Sherlock wondered, looking flattered yet embarrassed. His beautiful cheeks were glowing red once more, his nervous eyes scanning the crowd in front of them.
"I love you." John said with a cute little smile, and finally he ran down the bleachers, leaving a very stunned Sherlock to sit down alone, likely to remain that way for the rest of the night. John ran to the locker rooms, very relieved to see that his bag was sitting there as promised. He dragged it inside, happy to see that no one was around, everyone was either on the field or in the bleachers. Obviously he was the only one who didn't know how to prepare for a soccer game. He ripped off his sweatpants and sweatshirt, stuffing them all into his bag along with the wig and glasses. John was moving faster than he'd ever thought possible, as if he were already playing the game. He grabbed his water bottle, his cleats, and everything else he might need before dashing back out onto the turf field in his socks.
"Watson, where in the world have you been, get your shoes on, you've got three minutes!" the coach demanded, sounding extremely exasperated as he saw John approaching. The whole team stared at him as if he had personally offended them all, very accusing eyes following him as he darted across the field.
"Sorry coach, the car broke down, I had to run here!" John exclaimed, falling behind the bench laden with soccer players under the harsh stadium lights. The sun had already disappeared, and the only light on the beautiful turf field was electric, all of the bugs swarming around the bulbs in the darkness. John put on his cleats desperately, got checked in with the ref, and got a small sip of water before finally the whistle blew, and they all went out to their positions on the field. John's breath was already gone, his stomach was twisting nervously and his legs felt like jelly. But he had made it, somehow he had done it, he was playing. He told himself not to look at Sherlock on the bleachers, who was undoubtedly sitting alone and looking around, searching the excited crowd to try to spot his absent boyfriend from the masses. John's lips were still tingling with that last minute much needed kiss, the energy from which he would power himself with for this whole game. He was doing this for Sherlock, even if Sherlock was suffering because of it. The other team looked mean and menacing, all very tall boys with picture perfect hair and long legs, they looked like soccer stars, that was sure. John felt very small compared to them, both metaphorically and literally, but looked towards his team. They had gotten this far, hadn't they? What's one more game? What's one more win? Those soccer boys would be crying on their way home when they had silver medals hanging around their necks. For Sherlock.The whistle blew, and the game was off. Suddenly the wind rushed by John's ears, the previously silent night was filled with the screams of the fans, the beating of his heart, the heaving of his breath, and the pounding of his feet. The ball was kicked back and forth, skimming across the cold grass flawlessly. John possessed it for a little while, holding off defenders before finally passing it along to Greg, who was a little ways up the field. John wiped the sweat off of his brow, dying to look over at the bleachers to where Sherlock sat. But he would get distracted, if he told himself it was alright to look away once surely he'd do it again and again until he wasn't focused on the game at all, and the minute his concentration slipped the game was lost. Sherlock could wait a while, this game was happening now. The first goal was scored by Mike from a beautiful assist over from Greg, straight through the defensive line and shot into the goal, flawlessly to the back corner. The goalie dived but was simply too slow, and the crowd burst into cheers. John couldn't help but let out a whoop of excitement as well, the whole team congregating to each other and jumping on each other's backs and making a big fool out of themselves. Mike got a lot of pats on the back, but soon they had to get back in formation, their hopes high and their hearts racing in anticipation. You could see the nervousness spreading throughout the other team, the anxious doubt, knowing that they had to score a goal to tie. It was a lot more pressure for the other team now, not to mention their own defensive line. They had to lead this game the whole way, just for insurance. The whistle blew once more and the game was on, the other team was in possession, moving it down the field until it was intercepted and moved the other way. John was focusing on getting open a little ways down the field, trying to make sure that if there was an opportunity for a goal that he would be the one to score. He had to look good for Sherlock, obviously. It took a good five minutes until the ball arrived at his feet, but once it was with him the goal was inevitable. He only had to take on one defender, faking a step to the right before going around their left and hitting the ball hard into the corner once more. That goalie really wasn't having a good day; the tips of their gloves brushed the ball but not enough to actually stop it. The whistle blew, and it was now a two to zero game. John was congratulated of course, the crowd cheered and he felt like he was on top of the world. Sherlock was undoubtedly beaming down at him, everyone was. He was awesome. The game went on from there, but there seemed to be a goal freeze. The other team didn't score, but neither did they, and it remained two to zero until half time. They all went to the locker rooms, their spirits high and their confidence higher, all patting each other on the back and jumping around, if everything went their way then the second half of this game would be a breeze. They sat in the warm locker rooms and listened to the muffled talking of the crowd above, staring off into space as the coach talked pointless strategy. Then they did a lot of pumping up, screaming and yelling and listening to motivational pep talks. The coach said they had to imagine themselves holding the trophy, winning for the first time in about ten years; they just had to imagine the legacy that would leave. Needless to say, John was about ready to smash some heads as soon as he got into that field. They ran out two minutes to the beginning of the start of the second half, getting large cheers from their optimistic crowd. John couldn't help but glance over at Sherlock, trying to find him in such a large crowd. Shockingly he stood right out, with that beautiful white skin, illuminated wonderfully in the lights of the stadium. But he looked sad; he was sitting in a small ball on the bleachers, his trench coat wrapped around him even though it was relatively warm. He was sitting alone, and his eyes kept scanning the bleachers, as if hoping Victor would return to him even after this long. John couldn't help but pity him, but there was nothing he could do. That was his fill of Sherlock for the night, he had to keep thinking straight, he had time for gay thoughts later. John breathed heavily, walking out onto the field and getting in his spot. The other team was looking just as pumped, if not angry. They were muttering things to each other and giving John and his team very ugly glares, as if their coach had told them to pretend that John had killed their dogs or something. But whatever, honestly John couldn't care less what their tactics were. They were going down. The second half began like it had left off; it was really a draw between the two teams. It took about fifteen minutes until finally the ball sailed into the back of the wrong net, and John and his team were left speechless as their opponents cheered away with their fans. Now it was two to one, time to start really playing.
"Come on ladies, stop messing around!" the coach screamed from the sidelines, and John gave him a reassuring thumb up. No more messing around. The whistle blew and John started with the ball, taking it down the field expertly, passing it along to Greg, who carried it another ten feet. But he was blocked, and the ball taken back. The game went on for another twenty minutes; no one had scored, except a couple of fouls had been called, mostly on the angry other team. Greg had been tripped, one of their defenders had their legs kicked out, and Mike had accidently brought someone down in a slide tackle. Nevertheless the game continued, and the longer it went the bloodier and sweatier the teams got. It was down to the last five minutes, and both teams knew that there was only one way to win this game for good, score another goal. The defenders were working just as hard as the offenders to keep the ball in possession, but it really was a bloodbath. Both teams were ravenous, showing no mercy as they attacked to try to get the ball back. John was on fire, almost literally, as he ran after everyone in the wrong colors, taking the ball away with screening and sliding and expert ball tricks, but no one scored the rest of the game. The final buzzer went off, echoing across the field, and the crowd exploded. John and his team were mobbed by their adoring fans, all spreading around and congratulating them fiercely, patting them on the back and making a huge deal. They were screaming, cheering, and hugging their favorite players. Greg and Molly kissed right in the middle of the field, to which John politely looked away, but he was looking for more important things anyway. More beautiful things. Sherlock wasn't on the field, it was obvious to pick him out on the bleachers, still scanning the crowd and looking hopeless. John's heart broke when he saw Sherlock looking so lonely, and he had a strong urge to just leave the field and the fans, who cared about the game, who cared about the trophy? It was theirs now, the game was over, they had won, who cared? But no, he felt a hand slide into his own and looked over to see Mary smiling at him, decked out in all of her school colors and looking windswept. John immediately averted his gaze from where Sherlock sat, but obviously she had noticed.
"Don't feel bad John, you had to prioritize." Mary assured, pressing a kiss to John's cheek, who still wasn't paying attention anyway. He was away in his own head; his heart was hurting for Sherlock while his brain reminded him he had to look happy, he had just won the championship, something he had wanted to do forever. Then why was he so upset? Was it the fact that Sherlock looked on the verge of tears? Or possibly because Mary's hand was interlocker in his own? John simply couldn't concentrate; he couldn't smile genuinely until he was back in Sherlock's arms. Something about victory made him long to be with Sherlock even more, to hold him in his arms and cherish his breath and absorb his warmth. Nevertheless John faked it; he smiled along with the rest of the team as the held that trophy high, the beautiful golden plaque gleaming in the stadium lights. Champions. They all smiled for pictures in the paper, all congratulating each other and all of that, but John simply couldn't rejoice any longer. He looked up from the field to see that the spot Sherlock had been sitting in was empty, he had left, and John didn't even get to say goodbye! Well that simply wasn't going to do. John pushed through the crowd, ignoring the congratulations, ignoring their attempts at conversation. He left Mary, Greg, Molly, his team, his coach, his parents, even his trophy on that field as he ran to Sherlock, the only thing that truly mattered. John rushed out of the stadium, his soccer cleats clacking against the cement as he broke into a run down the nearly deserted sidewalk. He saw Sherlock's familiar outline against the dull glow of the street lamps ahead, and he followed the boy's path, stopping not ten feet away so as not to scare him.
"Sherlock!" John called desperately, coming to a rough stop and catching his breath, still in his muddied soccer uniform. Sherlock turned around, a look of obvious hope in his eyes. Obviously he was looking for Victor, obviously he expected Victor to be standing there waiting for him .But no, it wasn't Victor, it was John, and his disappointment was evident even in this darkness.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating?" Sherlock asked bitterly, drawing his trench coat tighter around himself against the chill. John just shrugged, the obvious answer to that question was yes, but John wasn't really in the mood for celebrations just yet. He wanted to be with Sherlock, alone, together.
"Shouldn't you?" John wondered. Sherlock just sighed, looking as if this were some great inconvenience. Obviously he didn't want to talk to John, obviously he didn't care.
"Where's Victor?" John asked, wanting to sound oblivious to this whole story. Sherlock looked down at his feet, looking almost embarrassed to admit such a thing.
"He um, he went home." He muttered. John looked at him curiously, wondering if that's really what Sherlock thought had happened. "He didn't feel well." Sherlock added, and John nodded. Ah, so he was lying, lying to protect his image. He wanted everyone to think that his relationship was a solid one, a perfect one; of course he would lie to the one person he probably wanted to impress. His bully.
"That's a shame." John muttered. And it was, it really was.
"Yes, well, what are you going to do?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking a little bit. He sniffled suddenly, turning his head away and blushing the tiniest bit, as if embarrassed of these telltale signs of crying.
"Are you alright?" John wondered, taking a caring step forward, not intending to go anywhere. Sherlock stumbled back a couple of steps, as if not wanting to get any closer to John than he had to. As if John was going to hurt him in some way, instead of comfort him.
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Sherlock insisted in a very weak, unconvincing voice, turning away completely so that his back was facing John.
"Are you crying?" John asked in a soft voice. Sherlock shook his head, his curls shaking madly as he denied the obvious. He was ashamed to show any type of emotion, he was terrified to show any sign of weakness. But John understood, John wanted to help him, to hold him and love him as he should.
"I'm fine, I just...I've got to go. Good job tonight John." Sherlock muttered, tucking his hands into his pockets but staying still.
"Are you alright alone?" John wondered. Sherlock looked back in curiosity, but as soon as he saw John staring back he looked right back at his feet, still not moving.
"I'm not alone John. And neither are you." Sherlock insisted. John was silent, because he knew that meant more than it sounded. Sherlock wasn't alone, he had Victor. John wasn't alone, he had Mary. Sherlock was turning him down, using all of these metaphors in this dark solitude to reject whatever advances he had picked up from John's discreet flirtation. John's heart sunk, but he couldn't show it, he just stayed very still, keeping his eyes fixed on his shoes in something like shame. But it wasn't shame, of course not, more disappointment, more resentment. Hate for that wig that would sit upon his head.
"Goodnight Sherlock." John muttered in a small voice. Sherlock nodded, and John could hear him take a deep breath, quickly wiping something away from his face.
"Goodnight John." he agreed, starting down the sidewalk alone, his shoes clicking against the cement as he ventured deeper and deeper into the darkness ahead.