A/N: Update! I don't think I've done this, I might have, but this is a World Cup themed chapter (what each couple does during the Cup.) I love football (soccer for me) so I thought this would be fun. Writing it was odd because I've written two teen!AU's (Being 16 and Meant to Be) so I kept writing things then remembering that it happened in a different story. Odd, right? So anyway, please enjoy and please review!

Couple 1

Mycroft asked only once about the upacked box that took housing in the corner of the room designated as Greg's office.

"Just a box of junk that I can't find a place for," Greg had explained about its contents.

Mycroft, of course, made sure there wasn't a collection of dead things or memorabilia from crime scenes ("I don't even want to know where you're getting that idea," Greg had said), but after that he let it go.

He pretty much forgot about that box, too. Greg's space is more or less an unspoken Mycroft-Free Zone. Greg would never tell Mycroft to stay out, but Mycroft knows that the groove in his library is thrown off when Greg is inside, so he leaves Greg's office alone.

That's why he doesn't notice that the contents had been emptied until the contents started migrating out of the office.

And it didn't start slowly. It was sudden and quite frankly very loud and it looked like a novelty shop.

"Greg, what the hell is all of this?"

Greg grins widely from his spot on the sofa. He looks pleased. It makes Mycroft all the more confused.

"It's an even year, love. You can't tell me you don't know what that means."

Mycroft eyes him skeptically. "Should I?"

Greg smiles wider, if that's at all possible, and hops into a standing position.

"It's World Cup year!"

Mycroft sighs. "What?"

"Well, the Cup is every four years, but Euro's is every four in between, so really every two ye—"

Mycroft rubs his forehead. Football. He hates football. He's never appreciated football. He's always known Greg has liked football, he just didn't know it was this much.

It really does look like a sports shop from many of the local club teams threw up in their sitting room.

There's a British flag hanging from the ceiling, next to a flag with the national team crest and a flag that commemorates their last title, which was the year Greg was born.

There's a throw blanket with the crest of the English National Team resting on the back of the sofa, along with two throw pillows resting against the arms. One says "Gerrard" and one says "Rooney".

There are figurines on the coffee table, along with crest-decorated coasters and even the glass Greg's drinking from has a crest on it.

There are cheer pom-poms, which Mycroft hopes were once Greg's daughters.

There are knickknacks everywhere, everything is covered in blue or red or white.

Mycroft's gaze falls back to Greg.

"This was the junk in the box, wasn't it?"

Greg nods, still looking triumphant.

Mycroft rubs his eyes.

"I'll take it all down," Greg says, sounding disappointed. Clearly he can read in Mycroft's body language that Mycroft doesn't like it.

Mycroft sighs, defeated. Greg's tone is a tone that he never wishes to pull from his love, not even if Mycroft is telling Greg a tale of something someone else did.

"How long does this last?" Mycroft asks.

"A month. And this year it will be a month because we're going all the way."

Mycroft shakes his head, in disbelief that he's actually going to say this.

"Fine," he finally says. "Fine, you can leave it.

Greg punches the air in excitement. "Thank you, thank you!" he cries, stepping around the coffee table to take Mycroft in a tight embrace. He kisses Mycroft's cheek over and over.

Mycroft cracks a smile, loving seeing Greg this happy.

When Greg finally pulls away, Mycroft runs a hand through his hair. "Goodness, all of this color is making me dizzy. I need a drink."

"Ahh," Greg stops him. "Allow me."

Greg goes over to the drinks trolley and pours, stirs, then licks the stir stick and smiles. He takes the glass over to Mycroft and Mycroft sees why he was smiling so widely.

"Good god, has this junk taken over my entire home?" Mycroft asks, peering at the English crest on the glass he's about to drink from.

Greg just smiles. "Wait 'til you see our bed."

Mycroft's eyes grow wide.

"I'm kidding!" Greg cries. "I'm just kidding. Not the bed. But…" He steps closer to Mycroft. "I thought you'd need a bit of persuasion, so I put on some personal decoration I used for one Cup match I attended in my twenties."

Mycroft grows a confused look.

Greg glances down his own body, then takes the drink out of Mycroft's hand to push the now free hand down to his jeans.

Still confused, Mycroft slowly unzips and unbuttons Greg's jeans, then shoves them a bit down his hips. His eyes grow wide and he licks his lips.

"You…you wore these to a match once?"

"Sure. Had these, painted my chest, a flag as a cape around my neck, and that was it."

Mycroft licks his lips again, unable to look away. Greg leans forward and licks his ear.

Suddenly, Mycroft grabs Greg by the band of the tiny, tiny British flag pants and pulls him to their bedroom. Greg downs the last of Mycroft's drink and grins widely.

Couple 2

John stares impatiently at Sherlock while Sherlock sloshes a swig of tea around his mouth.

"Columbia and Ivory Coast."

John moves to write, but quickly stops. "Really? Ivory Coast?"

"Do not question me, John. It's not as though I like being used like this."

And used is what he is being.

When Sherlock had joked long, long ago that he could predict the lottery numbers, of course John knew he was joking. It wasn't until the summer of 2012 that John actually started believing his prediction abilities.

John had been stressing about the England against Italy quarterfinal game for days. He had so much faith in England pulling through and winning, and finally Sherlock, who was tired of his stress, said, "I don't know why you're stressing. Italy is going to win."

John was offended, of course. "How patriotic of you."

"It's not about being patriotic, of course I just don't care about the result. I'll even tell you that they'll lose in a…what's it called? At the end when nobody's scored and—"

"A penalty shoot-out?"

"That's it," Sherlock muttered, then swept out of the room.

In the end, that is exactly what happened, so the next game John asked Sherlock what would happen.

He was right about Spain winning the semi-final against Portugal, and about Italy beating Germany in the semi, so for the final John went to a pub to get into the bets. He ended up winning a thousand pounds thanks to Sherlock, so this year he isn't missing any chances.

Which is why he's staring at Sherlock waiting for his answer about the result of Group D.

"Italy and Costa Rica."

"Oh, come on!" John cries. "Not England?!"

Sherlock sighs and moves to get out of his seat.

John grabs his wrist. "Okay, I'm sorry. Please continue."

Sherlock looks at John. "What's in it for me anyway?"

"Part of the cut if he win."

"When we win."

John smiles. "Who's to win it all, then? Just so I know what we're working towards."

"Brazil."

"Really?"

"Of course. Brazil against Ivory Coast."

"Ivory Coast?!"

Sherlock shifts to stand again.

"I'm sorry that I am in disbelief of such a shocking outcome," John tries.

Sherlock sits again. "Fine. But I don't want money when we win."

"Okay," John says. "What do you want, then?"

Sherlock slowly grows a mischievous grin.

John eyes him. "What?"

Sherlock's smile only grows.

"No," John mutters. "No, no way, no."

"But John, you don't even know what I'm going to say!"

"No, absolutely not. No way am I letting you keep those livers in the fridge."

"Fine," Sherlock says. "I was lying about the outcome of the championship anyway."

John glares at him. "Were you?"

Sherlock examines a finger nail and shrugs.

John sighs in annoyance. "Fine," John says. "Fine. We win and you get to keep the livers in the fridge."

Sherlock smiles widely and leans forward to kiss John quickly.

"Okay," he says, "Who's next?"

Couple 3

Sebastian's need to prove his masculinity makes Jim roll his eyes. He doesn't care that Sebastian lifts weights, he doesn't care that Sebastian orders steak at dinner, he doesn't care that Sebastian sometimes has to assert his force in bed (in a good way).

What he cares about is that Sebastian saved up his year's vacation to spend an entire month off just to watch football. To sit around and do nothing to watch football. At least he bathes when there isn't a match on, because if he didn't then Jim would seriously consider renting a new flat for a month.

Jim wanders into the sitting room where Sebastian is watching the (Jim glances at the television) Spain against Netherlands game.

He throws himself onto the sofa, mashed right up next to Sebastian.

"What's the score?" Jim asks, pretending to sound interested.

"Zip zip," Sebastian says. "But Netherlands is going to win. How could they not, with what they have to prove."

Jim reaches for Sebastian's beer and takes a drink. He makes a face and slips it back into Sebastian's hand. "I thought you liked Spain."

He can hear Sebastian's smile, no doubt pleased to know that Jim actually listens to him. "Netherlands has something to prove," Sebastian answers. "And with Robben and Van Persie up top, nothing can stop them."

"Van Persie, that's the bloke you like from Manchester, yes?"

"Aww, baby, you do listen."

Jim doesn't say anything to that. He reaches over and drinks the last two gulps of Sebastian's beer.

"Another?" he asks.

"Sure," Sebastian says, smiling as Jim gets up.

He returns and hands Sebastian the drink.

"Alright, what do you want?" Sebastian asks.

"Nothing, I want you to enjoy the match."

Sebastian eyes him, but he gladly drinks the new beer.

Jim grows bored quickly, of course. He doesn't care about football, never has and never will no matter how much Sebastian tries to teach him to love it. He just doesn't care. And he wants the television off so he can have a nice, quiet evening. With the day he had without Sebastian, he deserves it.

He starts with the distraction against football by kissing Sebastian's cheek. Sebastian smiles, and Jim kisses the dimple formed there.

He kisses down Sebastian's cheek, to his jaw, then Jim licks the stubble grown there. Oh, how he likes that stubble. It's so sexy when Sebastian misses a few shaves. Of course, he'd never tell Sebastian that. If he did, Sebastian would jump right into the loo to shave, no matter what he was doing at the time.

When he gets to Sebastian's neck, Sebastian tilts his head to allow Jim access to more of his neck. Jim takes the hint and licks, then sucks faintly where he knows Sebastian would like it.

He's rewarded with a small moan.

"What're you trying to do?" Sebastian asks, smiling. "I'm not going to turn off the television."

Jim kisses down his neck while lifting the bottom of his shirt up his stomach. He rubs the trail of hair from Sebastian's belly button that disappears below his pants (only pants, no jeans, no sweats, just underpants), then up to one of his nipples.

Sebastian sighs when Jim dips his head to lick Sebastian's chest. He spreads his legs, hoping Jim would take the hint, but Jim doesn't move.

"This is nice," Sebastian says, lust dripping in his voice.

Jim begins to kiss down his chest to stomach.

"You doing this while watching these hot, sweaty Spaniards run around a pitch, their kits sticking to—OW!"

Jim sits up, face red with irritation. Sebastian rubs the spot where Jim just bit and laughs.

"I'm sorry, I had to!"

Jim glares harder, then throws himself off the sofa and stomps off to their bedroom. Sebastian isn't upset by the loss, he's just glad he can watch the rest of the match.