MirabileLectu

Getting Sherlock into the Olympics had been alarmingly easy. Having an older brother with questionable and potentially despotic control over the British government notwithstanding, John privately believed that it should not be possible for a man with no previous athletic experience besides absurdly overpriced lessons as a child to sneak his way into what was supposed to be the pinnacle of human athletic endeavor. It just seemed wrong that Sherlock should be able to waltz in when so many worked so hard to be here, but here they were. After all, there was an international smuggling ring that had been created in the Olympic village, and the government was desperate to handle the matter as quickly and quietly as possible. And apparently the best way to do that was to send Sherlock Holmes, a man who was capable of spectacular feats of stupidity, undercover as an Olympic fencer competing for Great Britain.

John sifted nervously in his seat in the arena, counting up exactly how many ways this could go wrong. Sherlock was apparently a decent enough fencer thanks to years of private tutelage, but was he really capable of standing even a tiny chance against an Olympic-level athlete? The match that was coming up was very likely to be both short and humiliating, and John was not looking forward to watching it. All too soon it was Sherlock's turn, and there he was approaching the competition area foil in hand and ready to compete in the first seeding round. Sherlock, the git, looked as calm and collected as ever despite the monumental pressure of this moment, and as he strode forward clad in the pristine white fencing kit carrying the mask that was emblazoned with the flag of his country he looked every inch the consummate professional.

In fact, John realized with a start, he looked more than professional. He looked...regal. The uniform fitted him like a glove, and somehow his already composed and dignified bearing was only enhanced by it. His mask was donned with brisk efficiency, and before John could believe that this was actually happening Sherlock was bowing to his opponent and taking his stance. Long legs took up a powerful position, foils were lifted to the ready, and muscles were tensed and ready to spring into action. John could not tear his eyes off of Sherlock, and when he leaped into motion with startling speed he could not help but gasp aloud at the pure strength that was contained in his thrust. A buzzer sounded. First touch, Sherlock. First point, Sherlock.

Attacks and parries were traded back and forth with lightning speed. John, only dimly aware of the complicated rules governing the scoring of a fencing match, could barely keep up with the incredible quickness of their actions and the scores as they were tallied, but even he could discern one thing that startled him beyond belief. Sherlock was holding his own. It was incredible, but somehow Sherlock was managing to hold his ground against an Olympic fencer far better than anyone, including John, had ever expected. Even if he was currently behind, he was managing to score touch after touch that kept him well within striking distance of the lead. And he was moving unlike anything that John had ever seen. He was fast, and powerful, and moving with catlike agility as his foil danced in the bright lights of the arena. It was incredible, and very nearly unbelievable.

All John knew for certain was that if Sherlock continued much further in the rounds it was going to be very difficult for him to concentrate on the investigation while haunted by the memory of those long limbs clad in white dancing across a lighted stage.