Just Johnlock- The Big Book of One Shots

Off The Record

           

It wasn't terribly uncommon for an interview so late at night, or at least that's what Sherlock told himself as he made the painfully long cab ride across London. He had sat down with some fairly important people many times, surely this football player wouldn't be much different, however usually his talks were over a cup of coffee downtown, or lunch at an office. House calls weren't strange either, but this one, being at nine o'clock at night; well this was probably his latest and strangest arrangement yet. This footballer, John Watson, was quite the little athlete when it came to his sport. He was the team captain of the English National team, and of course with the World Cup approaching fast there were many newspapers who would like to know just what was on the man's mind. Sherlock was a freelance journalist, he wasn't exactly attached to a paper yet he did have some who very much preferred his work. He had a way of not only drawing out meaning from those he interviewed, but he also was good with describing without so much as words the way in which they said it, their expressions and their nervous habits as they described something that may lead to either an investigation, or even an arrest. Sherlock had sat across prison telephones just to interview those who pleaded innocent, and even stared into the eyes of those who were guilty. He's talked to politicians, and celebrities, and yes even some football players in his time. Yet this one, well John Watson was certainly going to prove a problem. That was made even more evident when Sherlock arrived at the address where they were supposed to be meeting, the great mansion which had been constructed for the sports star himself, and found that he was not the only one in attendance. There were cars of all sorts lined up on the driveway and in the road, expensive cars which Sherlock was quite apprehensive to even look at, should his gaze somehow prove to be destructive.
"Invited to a party then, were you?" the cab driver laughed, pulling up along the curb in a line of limos and sports cars which were here to drop off their prosperous occupants. Sherlock gulped very nervously, for he wished that he had some sort of invitation to prove that he was meant to be here. He very much wished that there was some sort of mistake, however upon reviewing the address, date, and time, well there was no question. This was the place, and this was the time. Interesting how this man might have arranged an interview during his party, it was almost as if he was looking for an excuse to leave early.
"No, no I don't think I was." Sherlock admitted quietly, however he pulled out his wallet and counted the money which he owed the man, hesitating only slightly as he noticed that his funds were beginning to dwindle. This interview better be worth his while, for all of this coordinating and rushing around really wasn't going to go anywhere unless he wrote an article that might be featured in all the local and national newspapers. Despite the inquisitive look on the driver's face he accepted the money, wishing Sherlock luck as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and approached the large house. He almost wanted to make the cabbie stay, for he was rather expecting to be thrown out by some sort of night guard who was scanning for those with invitations and those who did not, yet as he approached the well-lit house, he discovered that the doors were open and unguarded. Anyone could walk in, really. Sherlock made a point to let his reporter badge fall obviously across his chest, just in case anyone wanted to ask what he was doing here. He was on business, that was his explanation, yet as he stepped into the great house he felt immediately overwhelmed with what could only be described as chaos. It was a fantastic structure, with stairwells leading off in either direction while the hall itself opened into a glass paneled dance floor, complete with a bar laden with all sorts of expensive liquors and drunken people nearly falling off their stools as they signaled for another. There were people everywhere, dressed rather fantastically in their best attire, yet who might have fallen down a level in respectfulness as they downed their next drink and started to do a very out of tune dance in the center of the stage. They were tripping over themselves and falling into one another, yet the lack of proximity was taken as a great advantage by many, for whoever wandered into their arms' reach was immediately pulled in. The feeling of it all was very strange, and almost threatening in a way, yet Sherlock knew that somewhere in this mess must be the host, and that was who he was here to see. Sherlock hesitated, checking his watch and seeing now that he had a good ten minutes or so to wander about and check to see where Mr. Watson might be hiding, whether it be in the arms of some woman on the dance floor or on a bench at the bar.  Well this might have helped if Sherlock knew what he looked like without a football uniform on! His mental image might very well be an inaccurate one, for every blonde man that was in sight could very well be the man in question. The music was pumping loudly through speakers which rose up on either side, some sort of upbeat song with very little understandable lyrics, it was mostly men rapping with the occasional cry of a woman, all of which were complete gibberish to Sherlock's ears. It wasn't the sort of music he listened to, much too obnoxious and honestly very scandalous, yet it seemed to do the trick for those wild people out there on the dance floor, twirling each other madly while the world spun under their feet. At least they were having fun.
"Excuse me; do you know where I could find Mr. Watson?" Sherlock asked one of the men who appeared to be a waiter, a man wearing a red tie and holding a very shiny looking silver tray laden with empty glasses. The waiter however just gave Sherlock a very peculiar look, as if he had said something that was quite unexpected, and turned away without so much as a word. Sherlock stood rather helpless alone on the edge of the mess of people, noticing now that there was something of a doorway on the other side, somewhere that looked a bit more private and may offer him at least some place to think. If Mr. Watson was in this mess of people he would surely find him, yet if he wasn't he might even be down that hallway at the other end of the building. Well it was worth a shot, was it not? Sherlock began to push his way through, clearing his throat and saying "excuse me" more times than he thought would be considered polite. However that was the only decent way he could find to get through, for there were many arms that dared reach out at him, and many pairs of tempted eyes that lingered out of crowd in his direction. More than once he was pulled into the arms of some very inattentive women, those who appeared to be very confused and drunk as they tried to hold him against their chests, however Sherlock was good at wiggling out of that particular situation and he did so to the very best of his abilities. None of them kept hold for long, yet still the amount of human contact he had tonight already was enough to call for a good, private bath once he had arrived home. Finally he arrived at the end of the great dance floor, where he found that there was indeed a hallway which seemed to be populated by some very prosperous looking men and women. It would appear that this was the calmer side of the party, for those who frequented this hallway looked as though they could at least walk straight and talk without a slur, which was definitely more than could be said of those who were losing all of their dignity to that terrible music.
"Excuse me, could you tell me where I could find Mr. Watson? I have an appointment for...well for now." Sherlock admitted a bit nervously, checking his watch again and finding that those precious ten minutes had gone by much quicker than he would have liked. The man which he had questioned appeared to be a football player himself, for he was very well built with a hairstyle that was very much characteristic to those clean cut gentlemen on the field. The man looked rather amused, looking Sherlock up and down with a sort of lift to his well-manicured eyebrows.
"Well John said there would be some entertainment, but I didn't think he'd go as far as ordering you." The man said with a little laugh, taking another great sip of his cocktail and giving a rather tipsy sort of giggle. Sherlock blinked, trying to figure out what on earth the man was talking about before finally deciding just to flash his reporter badge. He was no entertainment, that was for sure. Unless of course there was a violin which he might be able to play, then he might at least be able to calm these folks down with some real, tasteful music.
"I'm a reporter! I have an appointment for nine o'clock, but I can't seem to find him anywhere in this mess." Sherlock admitted finally, waving his badge around for the man to see. The stranger gave another little laugh, something which was a very confusing mix of regret and relief; all the while he nodded down towards the end of the hallway.
"Third door down I think, but I'll warn you, I'm pretty sure he has company." the man muttered, and with that he gave another laugh and started his way towards the dance floor, undoubtedly to pull a poor drunken woman from the crowd. Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat and poking a bit at his hair so as to make himself look at least somewhat presentable. He had to admit that the idea of interviewing Mr. Watson had been something of a stressful idea all these days which he was arranging it. This interview was critical for his livelihood, and should he somehow mess it up through distraction or through drunkenness, well then he would have to find another topic to write on, and fast. His finances were running short, and any day now his landlord might kick down his door and demand the proper dues. And yet there was another, small troubling fact which made this interview dangerous. The fact that Sherlock found Mr. Watson to be devilishly attractive, and the mere thought of being alone with him in this setting made his stomach twist with excitement. Yet he needed to stay focused, that was the main issue these days. He had to keep on task and keep the questions coming, otherwise he might not be taken seriously, and the interview would certainly be a bust. He would have come all this way for nothing. Sherlock took a deep breath, approaching the door which he was directed to by that curious fellow in the hallway. Third door down, of course it was closed, and it was all Sherlock could do but take a deep breath and knock as loudly as he could, just in case Mr. Watson had already passed out over the couch and needed to be awoken.
"Go away!" was the immediate response, followed by what was undoubtedly some female giggling. Sherlock swallowed hard, feeling his stomach drop in disgust as he realized what that man had meant by 'company'.
"Mr. Watson, we had an appointment for nine o'clock? For the article?" Sherlock called through the door, knocking again as if to make sure the man understood that he was not going to be so easily shunned. There was some muffled complaining from the other side of the door, yet it did not take long for it to finally be opened. First there ran a woman, who was wrapped only in a white bathrobe, giggling all the while she ran down the hallway with her long blonde hair flowing effortlessly behind her. She seemed, well she seemed at least accomplished in a way. Sherlock watched her go a bit apprehensively, for with what he understood of heterosexuals, such a woman would not be very easily sacrificed. Surely Mr. Watson will be in a grumpy mood, and football would be the last thing on his mind. Finally the man in question arrived at the door, clothed in merely a battered pair of trousers, with his chest and feet bare. He looked tired, however that sort of sagging eyelid might be due to either drunkenness or disappointment, seeming as though his own party had been ruined by the very reporter which he had called willingly to his home. Sherlock felt a quick blush coming to his cheeks, yet very quickly he held out a hand to shake, finding that his breath did not come easily in this man's direct presence.
"Mr. Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Sherlock Holmes, freelance journalist." Sherlock said very quickly, sounding very poorly spoken as his words jumbled up together in his mouth. John did not seem to notice him yet; instead he was leaning heavily on the door frame and looking off towards where the woman had run, as if trying to get her attention to call her back. Yet finally he nodded, looking up at Sherlock before pausing in what could only be described as an amazed way, all signs of weariness completely vanishing from his terribly and inconveniently attractive face. Maybe it was the alcohol which made him look up at Sherlock as if he had approached God himself, however that man's eyes were alight with admiration, and of course desire. Such a look was terribly dangerous for good reports, especially when Sherlock was trying to keep himself professional.
"Well hello." John said finally, his voice sounding rather hoarse as he repositioned himself against the doorframe. He was now looking Sherlock over with those hazel eyes which internet pictures could simply give no justice, and Sherlock felt his poor little heart do a paralyzed flip flop in his chest.
"Hello." Sherlock muttered back unimpressively.
"The article, yes of course! Well come on then, let's go over to the patio." John decided finally, closing the door behind him and taking Sherlock's arm, walking him down towards an open door which led to a very nice little overhang. The door was glass, with white fabric stretched across it so as to give some privacy, and as predicted just as soon as Sherlock stood outside John snapped the doors shut almost too eagerly. Surely it was not just a good uninterrupted interview that was on the man's mind. The patio was a large one, with full furniture sets that were placed so as to admire the beautiful view of the distant city. From here all notable buildings of London were visible, lit brilliantly against the night sky so they themselves looked like stars. Sherlock took it all in very quietly, all the while John was pulling what appeared to be a half finished bottle of champagne from a mini fridge which sat over in the corner. He didn't ask before pouring two generous glasses, and came around towards where Sherlock was standing near the balcony and looking out over the night horizon.
"Beautiful view, isn't it?" John said with a proud sort of grin, handing Sherlock one of the glasses of champagne while downing half of his own in one gulp. Not that he needed anymore intoxication, by the way he was acting it was quite obvious that he's had his fair share already tonight. Yet John merely giggled, settling himself on one end of a sleek black couch and motioning for Sherlock to join him.
"Yes, very beautiful." Sherlock agreed, sitting down on the other end of the couch so as to at least have some distance between the two of them, for John was obviously not in his right mind and Sherlock knew that any advances would be hard to push away. Both of them seemed to have some sort of burning desire for the other, yet Sherlock's was based entirely off of looks, and John's was based off of his present state of drunkenness. Neither of their longings were in the least justified, and Sherlock tried to take that into consideration as he took his notebook out from his jacket pocket, clicking his pen and starting upon a fresh new page.
"The view isn't the only beautiful thing here, of course." John said with a flirtatious little smile, clearing his throat before settling into the corner of the couch and bringing his knees up to his chest. Sherlock nodded, not entirely sure how to respond to that and so he decided that he ought to just change the subject entirely.
"Well then, Mr. Watson, being the captain of England's football team, I wanted to ask you about your hopes and predictions for the World Cup. It's coming up quite soon, in a couple of months I think?" Sherlock asked, getting his pen ready to write all the while John was struggling to find some words to quote.
"Ya, it's coming up." John agreed finally, sounding awfully uneducated on the subject of his own sport. Sherlock nodded, finding such a question rather inadequate, yet deciding merely to carry on all the same. At least John was actually listening to him, which really was more than Sherlock had expected.
"And what do you expect for England? You won into the qualifying rounds quite easily, the teams you faced really didn't seem to be challenging at all. Do you expect the competition to be just as strenuous come the preliminary rounds?" Sherlock questioned quietly. John nodded, looking a little bit blankly at Sherlock before a small smile appeared onto his lips.
"Ya, I mean we crushed the qualifying rounds, I think we can win the cup if we keep our heads on straight. And, well speaking of straight...or not straight really, I find you very beautiful." John admitted finally, smiling in a rather childish manner as he admitted such a thing. Sherlock's cheeks erupted into a furious blush, however he instructed himself to stay focused, and to disregard such a statement.
"And as for the cup itself, who do you think the top competitors are? I mean, Germany's win last year was very impressive, and you've always got more distant competitors to worry about, Brazil, Argentina..."
"England can beat them, sure." John said confidently. "Are you single?"
"Mr. Watson, if we could please stay on the subject." Sherlock pleaded, finding it awfully difficult to concentrate when he had this man gazing at him and asking such questions, and making such remarks. Yet they were both getting somewhere, at least Sherlock had a statement, and at least John had some sort of reaction.
"Answer the question, and I'll answer yours." John suggested with a grin, his eyes flashing with a sort of persistent flirtation which was getting to be only too impossible to ignore. Sherlock nodded, taking a rather deep breath to calm himself, all while his pen was shaking against the notebook. Surely he had not adequately prepared himself for this? When he thought of an interview, he had never expected to be so determinedly pursued. Then again, he certainly wasn't complaining.
"Yes, I am single." Sherlock said finally.
"And yes, I believe Germany is a very adequate competitor. As are Brazil and Argentina, but ever since the last World Cup we've been training as hard as could be humanly managed, and we won't stop until we bring that trophy home. I know that this year is our year." John said finally, to which Sherlock was nodding very excitedly, scribbling down John's sentence as fast as could be managed before he forgot the more important parts. It was a very good statement, headline worthy in fact.
"Wonderful, very good Mr. Watson. And as for the team aspect, have you all been working together as a unit? I know that your team is like family, yet is the dynamic on the field the same as might be quoted in the press?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John to find that he had rearranged himself. He was now sitting much closer, making Sherlock only a little bit apprehensive. Yet surely he would not complain, this may just be a once in a lifetime opportunity, something of a strange dream that might have accidently become reality.
"We are family on and off the field. A good team isn't good unless the players trust each other, and work together well. We win together and lose together." John said finally. "Now, Mr. Holmes, would you be willing to stay awhile? At my party?"
"I um...well Mr. Watson I have not concluded my interview, yet I don't have any plans tonight other than this. Surely it would not be too trying to stay a little while afterwards." Sherlock admitted finally.
"And who will you have, tonight? A woman, a man?" John asked. Sherlock gave him a rather playful smile, taping his pen to the notebook as if trying to remind him that they had a deal.
"First, tell me of the coaches. Have they showed promising skills, or offered any tips with training that may be a little bit, unorthodox?" Sherlock asked quickly.
"A coaching style is a team secret, Mr. Holmes. We can't risk our little techniques falling into the hands of our competitors. Now tell me then, a man or a woman?" John insisted, now leaning ever closer, his eyes looking positively overcome with desire, he looked almost as if he would die if Sherlock were to leave him now. Lucky for him, Sherlock had no intentions of leaving. Lucky for him, even Sherlock had forgotten momentarily about the article, and the reason he had come here in the first place.
"I would be better suited for a man, I do believe." Sherlock muttered, all the while John's lips upturned into something of a pleased mile.
"Will you then, do me the honor?" John whispered, leaning even closer and pressing his hand up against Sherlock's shoulder, steadying him against the arm of the couch all the while John attempted to rearrange themselves into a more intimate position on the black couch.
"Off the record, I could only imagine?" Sherlock presumed, letting the notebook fall to the floor as he allowed himself to lie flat on the couch, staring up into John's eyes all the while the man took deep, excited breaths.
"Off the record, of course." John agreed, and with that he pressed the first of many kisses to Sherlock's awaiting lips.

A/N: Written for my dearest friend @DrWordsmith as another one of her challenges. It was a movie theme with a twist, and so she gave me Notting Hill (I took from that a celebrity and a commoner) with a FIFA twist. As for her, the poor thing I gave her Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at a daycare. If anyone else has some suggestions I'd be happy to write them as well! I do love a challenge!