John had been badgering Sherlock to attend one of his rugby matches for weeks. Well, he said badgering; John had indicated a time or two that his presence would not be amiss, and Sherlock had informed him in no uncertain terms that he had plenty of other things to do that took precedence to watching him throw himself about a field and muddy up his clothing. Rather than press the issue, John simply let it slide, going about his business as usual and dropping by to spend time with Sherlock after he was finished. Perhaps that was the reason why Sherlock found himself without a great deal to do one afternoon, and afternoon conveniently located during one of the times when John was practicing rugby. It certainly wasn't orchestrated that way, and it was more than likely that if he'd had anything else to do at the time he would not have attended it, but the nice thing about John was that he wouldn't assume that Sherlock was going out of his way to please him.

(How could he? They were friends, but Sherlock was still very much the same as he'd ever been, as far as he was concerned. John certainly gave him enough glances with lifted eyebrows to imply that his social skills hadn't really improved.)

Comforted by the notion that his actions wouldn't be misconstrued to mean more than they did, he bundled himself in his favorite coat, twisted his scarf around his neck, and made his way to the rugby pitch. There weren't many about aside from the team, which was to be expected as it wasn't a match; girlfriends here and there, though half of them were too busy texting on their mobiles to pay much attention to the players. He could easily see why they were preoccupied, however, as the lack of competition on the field rendered the entire experience completely pointless for anyone but the rugby team.

Perhaps his initial decision to attend a practice rather than a match had been ill-conceived. Less people for him to be annoyed with, certainly, but without a great deal of activity, he could see this being a tremendous waste of his time.

Mouth flattening into an unmistakable grimace, he crossed swiftly to an unoccupied bench, perching himself at the end of it to avoid dirtying his coat as much as possible. It made for an uncomfortable seat, but he didn't expect himself to be there for long. He laced his hands between his knees, tapping his thumbs together in a mindless pattern as his eyes roved across the field and he sought his friend. Not difficult overall; John was slightly shorter than the average man his age, and that aside, Sherlock could probably identify him confidently from within twenty meters if he had to. Well, perhaps that was pushing it a little, but John did have a distinctive walk and frame that he had made it a point to remember. He hardly wanted to mistake anyone else for his friend, after all.

He didn't really understand what was going on, which was a given, because he considered rugby a general waste of time and didn't want to clutter his head with the intricate workings of it. It was important to John, which merited consideration long enough to observe that it involved two teams and a ball, and he supposed the reason that they moved the ball about the field was to gain points for an eventual victory, but aside from that he could not have cared less.

It was a bit chilly, which he supposed the players didn't mind due to their physical exertion, but Sherlock was not exactly pleased by the breeze. He frowned, tucking his chin against his chest and pulling his scarf over the lower half of his face, and supposed that would have to do until he eventually got frustrated enough that he couldn't stand being there any longer.

As he watched, the group coalesced and then split in half, moving to opposite sides and apparently preparing to face one another. He cocked his head a bit, tracking John as he placed a hand firmly against one shoulder and swung his arm in a wide arc - must have been bothering him, so why did he bother continuing to practice? the chances of him further injuring himself were high, especially in the event of actual confrontation at this point of the practice. - and found himself leaning forward a bit in interest. He hadn't expected to see them doing anything but running drills, which was what John said they generally occupied themselves with during these practices, but it would be just like him to gloss over the interesting part of the event.

"Who are you here for?"

Without waiting for a proper invitation, a girl a couple years older than him seated herself by him, adjusting the sleeves of her jacket as she did. He tore his gaze away from John to give her a quick once-over, expression closing down into cool disinterest as he did. Average height, judging by the length of the arm and leg visible to him; not interested in him, as she hadn't angled her body toward him, so there was that at least. She had shoulder-length honey-brown hair and a friendly smile, and was dressed sensibly and in muted colors, though she had a pair of dangling earrings that Sherlock supposed hinted at her whimsical side.

Boring.

Without bothering to answer, Sherlock turned back to the field, bringing his shoulders up fractionally to indicate he was disinterested in talking. Unfortunately, the girl was not adept in reading body language - that could be the only reasonable assumption to make, after all, as she continued speaking to him pleasantly.

"I'm here to see John, John Watson. Aren't you his friend? He's told me about you, you know." Sherlock's eyes snapped to her face, and the half-smile there betrayed her; ah, she was a little clever. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally."

Feeling strangely proprietary for reasons he couldn't quite explain, Sherlock narrowed his gaze, thrusting his chin out from the safety of his scarf. Calmly, and just a bit coldly, he said, "Oh? I've never heard of you."

It might have been a bit beneath him, but he was feeling peculiarly threatened, and he disliked having people sprung on him suddenly. He couldn't be certain if this woman was attempting genuinely friendly overtures, or if she had been sent by one of John's rugby mates to make a fool of him; he wasn't willing to take any chances and embarrass himself, whatever the case. The thought flickered through his mind for just a moment that perhaps John was behind it - that he'd been casually endearing himself to Sherlock for weeks, only to expose him in front of all of his friends at a practice (or worse, a match) once the opportunity presented itself - but he dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him.

If he felt a little bit sick to his stomach at the thought, that was his own business, and he didn't care to examine it.

"John said you'd be like that, and not to mind you." Apparently determined beyond all reason, the girl added, "I'm Sarah. Sarah Sawyer."

"Do you do that all the time?" Sherlock demanded, lip curled unattractively.

"Do what?" Sarah asked, blinking.

"Sarah," he imitated, his voice more than a fair likeness of hers. "Sarah Sawyer. John, John Watson. It's needlessly repetitious."

To Sherlock's surprise (and somewhat annoyance) Sarah only laughed. "Pardon me for offending your delicate sensibilities, then."

Inhaling deeply, he straightened his back and glowered at her. "I don't have delicate sensibilities." Even as he said it, he realized that he'd only reinforced that particular opinion of hers, and his expression darkened further. "You are simply irritating."

The silence between them was stretched taut, but not for long; Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but was preempted by a cheer, a chant, and the rugby team dispensing. Apparently thinking better of whatever she had to say, she turned and lifted her hand, waving it above her head. "John!"

Studiously ignoring Sarah, Sherlock firmly pointed his knees toward his approaching friend, unable to quite rid himself of the tension in his face and shoulders. His hands, fingers folded beneath his palms and pressed tight to his knees, itched to fuss with something, anything, but he wouldn't allow it. His unrest would be obvious enough to John as it stood; there was no need to make the man overly concerned.

Coming to a halt in front of them, his face smeared in filth but the smile beneath it unmistakable, John exclaimed, "You came!"

It was difficult to tell which of them he was referring to, and so Sherlock remained uncomfortably silent.

"Didn't expect to see you," he added, nodding to Sherlock. "How'd you like it, then? The practice?"

All of the adjectives he would have normally used whirled in his mind, each as apt and tempting as the last, but he could see Sarah watching him out of the corner of his eye. Undoubtedly she had found it stimulating and interesting, and more than likely she attended practices regularly; John would have acknowledged her presence more readily had she been an aberration from the norm. Did she go to his matches as well? Were they - and he grimaced - dating, perish the thought?

John hadn't mentioned it, but it stood to reason that he would acknowledge that Sherlock found such things dull and would not want to be informed. And while that was normally the case, it was absolutely untrue in this respect. He was keenly interested in John's romantic liaisons, if only because he knew his friend to have poor taste in women and he wanted to be able to head off any more disastrous couplings if he could help it. That was what friends did, after all.

Disliking how defensive and paranoid his thoughts were becoming, he finally settled for, "It was interesting. I would like to attend a true match to solidify my opinion on the experience. You seemed very in your element," he added, tucking his right shoulder closer to his body as he did. (It had the benefit of physically excluding Sarah from the conversation a little more, and he flattered himself that only he would be quite aware of that advantage.)

The pleasure this inspired in John was near comical and Sherlock would have assumed it to be purposefully exaggerated had it been anyone else. He flushed slightly, unconsciously drawing himself to his full height and damn near preening; here, obviously, was the key to John's ego. He would file that away and utilize it properly at a later date, likely when he'd managed to thoroughly get himself on John's bad side. It was only inevitable, after all, given his personality, and he wanted to have some sort of safety net in place to slip back into John's good graces. It was important to him, he realized, which was almost as uncomfortable as the fact that he was very nearly jealous of the girl beside him.

Ugh, she was still sitting there.

"Good game, John," was all she said, reaching out with her hand fisted. Bizarrely, John mimicked her move before knocking their hands together, and Sherlock watched the exchange with a sliver of fascination that couldn't quite be dwarfed by his annoyance.

"Thanks. Getting better all the time. Oi, but I ache." He sounded ridiculously pleased by it. "Going to hit the showers and grab a bite. Hungry?"

His eyes passed between both of them. Sherlock tensed, but Sarah simply said, "Study group, can't." and he relaxed again.

"I suppose I could make time," Sherlock said graciously, unaware that Sarah's lips were twitching up into a smile behind his back.

"Excellent," John said, casting a warm smile down at Sherlock. Absurdly, even beneath the flecks of mud and what Sherlock could now identify as a days' worth of stubble, his stomach did a strange little flop in response to having that particular look aimed directly at him.

And even though that was not good, Sherlock found himself hesitantly smiling, just a tiny bit, before he hid his mouth behind his scarf again.