Title: Cold Track, Warm Heart

Author: Cat (addyke)

Warnings: Minor character death, use of strong language

Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock' (and let Steve Thompson to play in their sandbox.) I am making no money whatsoever from this.

This is an AU, set during the Winter Olympics. It is not associated with the Games, Sochi, the International Olympic Committee, Team GB or any of the other teams mentioned. It is also not associated with BBC Sport in any way.

It was written as part of the Sherlock Winter Sports Challenge on Tumblr.

The author has endeavoured to make this fic accurate as possible as regards the amazing sport of luge, but some creative liberalities have been taken.

Beta by the amazing Kizzia, who also encouraged this fic from the very start (along with my writing in general).

Sherlock Holmes sees the crash a millisecond before it happened, sees John Ferrier's normally smooth line down the track deviate on exactly the wrong bend. This didn't stop him wincing as the luge collided with the wall at over 100kmph. Sherlock looked up from the bank of monitors where he was studying his fellow competitors' training runs. His cry was the first of many, in several different languages.

"Crash! Get a medic!"

The helicopter cut low over the treetops, ferrying the gravely injured Ferrier to the nearest neuro unit. The lugers stood around like a brightly coloured death-watch, huddled with their teams in small groups.

"Fuck, it's like Whistler all over again, what a nightmare." Coach Lestrade let out a long wispy breath. "You okay, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was bent over the side of the track, right at the offending bend, watching intently as a photographer catalogued the crash site, where a normal training run ended so suddenly. Beside Sherlock, the press photographers were less forensic in their viewpoints, choosing to focus their lens on Ferrier's helmet, lying beside the wreckage. The emergency teams had to remove it to stabilise his airway.

Sherlock knew from bitter experience that although the back pages were rarely bothered with winter sports, the papers loved a good crash.

"Sherlock, you okay?" Lestrade asked again.

"Of course, I am, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock said irritably.

"I don't know. Thought it might bring back some nasty memories." Lestrade shrugged. "I know it does for me."

"How many times do I have to point out to you that I am fully recovered, Lestrade?"

"Of course, they put Humpty Dumpty back together again." Someone interrupted in a sing-song voice. "But you can still see the cra-acks..."

"The track is going to be closed for a few hours at least." Sherlock straightened, pointedly ignoring the comment. "I'll be in the gym. Text me if the track reopens."

"Was it something I said?" Moriarty smirked as Sherlock stalked off.

"Lestrade told me I'd find you here." John found Sherlock alone in the gym. He was on the rowing machine, concentrating on working in fluid movements. He finished his rep when he noticed John standing there, watching him with a fond look in his eyes.

"Any news on Ferrier?" Sherlock asked, accepting the towel that John offered him and wiping his face.

"No - haven't heard anything yet."

Sherlock winced slightly as he rose from the rowing machine and started to stretch. Despite his best efforts to hide any hint of pain from John, it was noticed. John always noticed.

"How's the neck?"

"How's the shoulder?" Sherlock retorted and John grinned at their private joke.

John thought his career in sports medicine was over when he severely injured his shoulder in a scrum collapse playing rugby for his local amateur team. He had been working for a Premiership football club at the time, but the injury had sidelined him whilst he recovered. He had been forced to go to a physio group for Neck, Shoulder & Upper Back injuries as part of his rehab programme. This was where he met Sherlock, who ended up in the same group. For some unknown reason, despite their very different dispositions, the pair had hit it off instantly. Their new friendship became as crucial to both their recoveries as any physio regime.

When Sherlock decided to return to competition, he ensured that his new friend, his only friend, was offered a job with the medical team. John eagerly accepted it, not only because it was an opportunity to get his career back on track but Sherlock, no matter how hard he protested, was not fully recovered, and John want to make sure that he wasn't going to cause further damage to himself.

Something that was hard to control when you considered Sherlock was an Olympic athlete with a punishing training schedule, in a sport that involved sliding down an icy roller coaster on a glorified tea tray at over 100kmph.

"I'll give you a massage tonight." John looked around the gym to check they were still alone before pulling Sherlock close for a quick kiss.

"I need to finish this." Sherlock stayed in John's embrace for a few moments. "I'm losing a lot of track time today."

"I better get back to work too. Just wanted to see how you were."

Sherlock lay down on the bench press. "Let me know if you hear any news on Ferrier."

"Ferrier? I just heard." Lestrade walked into the gym at that moment. "He died half an hour ago."

John released a long breath. "Fuck..."

"I know. They said after Whistler..." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "This wasn't supposed to happen again. I know accidents happen..."

"This wasn't an accident." Sherlock suddenly interrupted him.

Lestrade and John shared a look. Despite only knowing each for six months, they had very quickly forged a bond through worrying over Sherlock.

"That crash was not an accident, I'm sure of it." Sherlock continued with his workout, ignoring both men.

John and Lestrade took this as their cue to leave. Sherlock preferred to work out alone.

"Keep an eye on him, will you John?" Lestrade asked. "That track has already taken one life. And Sherlock has been fighting to prove himself all season."

"He has that track memorised better than any man up there."

"There is a massive difference between theory and practice. Anything can happen up there. Anything."

There was an uncomfortable atmosphere in the Team GB common room that night. Everyone was trying to relax, make the most of the training days before the competition actually began. Yet the conversation kept coming back to the crash, and the death of Ferrier.

John was not expecting to find Sherlock in the common room - he rarely if ever socialised with the other athletes. The other athletes disliked his company too - his cold, over-analytic personality tended to rub everyone up the wrong way. None of the athletes would even share a room with him - John was the only one willing to.

John was, of course, very happy with that arrangement but was careful not to show it. That was the last thing Sherlock needed.

"You looking for Sherlock, Doc?" Phillip Anderson shouted across the room from where he was sitting with the rest of the 4-man bobsled team. "He's in his room. Probably watching that crash, you know what he's like."

"Freak." Sally Donovan muttered.

John ignored that last comment from the skeleton bobsledder, and headed back toward his room.

Anderson was right. Sherlock was sat on his bed, curled around his iPad, re-watching the footage of Ferrier's crash in slow motion.

The television was turned to BBC World News. A reporter was standing outside the Sanki Sliding Centre.

"American luger John Ferrier, of Salt Lake City, Utah, was airlifted to hospital after a dramatic crash in training today but died shortly after. The luge is known..."

"John." Sherlock suddenly acknowledged that he was standing there. John was used to this. Sherlock often didn't notice him standing there, or talked to him when he wasn't even in the room. He had a tendency to get lost in his own head.

"You alright there, Sherlock?" John sat behind him, and starting to massage him. "A lot of nasty memories for you?"

Sherlock visibly relaxed as John's fingers worked away at the knots in his neck.

"I know you and Lestrade think I'm seeing things that aren't there, but that was no accident. His lines down the track were all wrong, not Ferrier's normal lines at all."

John nodded. Sherlock knew his competitors' sliding styles better than they knew themselves. One of the reasons he wasn't very popular.

Sherlock slowed the footage down yet again and zoomed in on the runners. "See that wobble, that shouldn't be there, his runners are out of alignment. That's what caused the crash."

"It was his luge? Equipment failure?"

Sherlock gave him an intense look. "Or sabotage."

Knit two, purl two, Molly Hooper counted to herself, quickly shaping her latest knitting project as she took a short break from her job maintaining and repairing Team GB's sliding equipment.

"If I was to sabotage an competitor's luge, how would I get the access needed?"

Molly jumped and dropped a stitch as Sherlock startled her.

"Sherlock, you scared me!"

"If I was to sabotage..."

Molly put down her needles, and went over to the part of the equipment store where the Team GB luges were kept. Sherlock was standing by his own, his long fingers inspecting the highly customised sled.

"What's this about, Sherlock?"

"John Ferrier."

"You think someone sabotaged his luge?"

Sherlock opened his tablet to show Molly the same footage he was looking at the night before.

Molly spotted the distinctive wobble on the runners that Sherlock was so focused on.

"That could be a failure..."

Sherlock stopped her comment in its tracks with a stern look.

"I'll be on the look-out - see if any of the other equipment managers have noticed anything."

Sherlock nodded solemnly and went to leave, when Molly grabbed his arm.

"You can trust me, Sherlock. You know that?"

"I do, Molly. That's why I told you."

Sherlock sat up as he reached at the end of the track, bringing his luge to a stop, looking up at the time-clock out of ingrained instinct. Not bad, he thought to himself. He carried his luge off the track and headed over to where Lestrade was waiting by the monitors.

"Good run." Lestrade said as Sherlock removed his gloves, helmet and visor. He put them down on the nearest table and ruffled his hair with both hands.

"Show me the footage." Sherlock said bluntly. Lestrade rolled his eyes at this - the perils of coaching a very cerebral luger. He knew that Sherlock's intellectual style was exactly what give him the edge over most of the field, but it didn't half make him a nightmare to work with. He maintained that Sherlock was entirely to blame for the fact that he was going grey at an alarming rate.

Sherlock was going over his start over and over, bickering with Greg how as to best improve his technique and shave vital thousandths of a second off his time.

"Damn it, Sherlock! You need to pace yourself." Lestrade rubbed his forehead - he was getting a headache again. "You don't have to win the gold in the practice session!"

"Listen to your coach, Sherlock." Jim Moriarty approached, dressed in a black luge suit, the Irish tricolour adorning each arm. "In fact, you don't have to win the gold at all."

Sherlock straightened up, using his full height in an attempt to stare Moriarty down.

"I suggest you concentrate on your own runs, Moriarty, and stop assuming that that gold is yours."

"Oh dear, poor Sherlock Holmes, fighting his way back to fitness and looking for his fairy-tale ending." Moriarty's voice took on a sing-song edge again, emphasising his accent. "Sorry, my dear - so not going to happen."

"I assure you, once the clock starts ticking, I will beat you on the ice."

"So confident - is there some truth in those rumours that Magnussen was spreading?"

Sherlock visibly stiffened, the wrongful accusations still fresh.

"I'm clean." He muttered through clenched teeth as Lestrade moved between them.

"Jim, get lost before I call an official over here." Lestrade said as he tried to turn Sherlock back towards the monitors.

Moriarty strolled off with a satisfied smirk on his face, having clearly hit his mark.

Sherlock tried to concentrate on the readout of his speeds at different parts of the track; Moriarty's taunts ringing in his ears.

Sherlock's form had greatly improved as the World Cup went on, as he adjusted to being back in competition, continued to recover and grew closer and closer to John. So much so, half way through the season, allegations were made that his improvement was due to chemical help. This nearly destroyed him, and only John had convinced him to stand firm until he was cleared. The source of the doping allegations was Danish double medallist, Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"Sherlock, look at me - you need to learn to deal with Moriarty! Do you honestly think he is going to lay off if he knows he can get you to react like that?"

Sherlock nodded at his coach but it was clear that he wasn't taking in anything that Lestrade was saying.

"I mean it. You know better than anyone that this sport is won in the head." Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the tension pent up within him. "Do you want me to get John?"

Lestrade didn't pretend to know the nature of their relationship, although there were more than enough rumours flying around the athletes' village. All he knew was that John was the best thing to happen to Sherlock Holmes and had come into his life at a time when Sherlock was nearly destroyed.

"No. He's working. I'm fine. I just need another training run, work on that start."

Lestrade followed Sherlock's gaze to where Moriarty was laughing with the Irish coaching team. His instincts were tingling; this was a lot more than a simple sporting rivalry.

As Sherlock prepared for his next practice run, he watched one of the other competitors, Gruner, at the start line. The German was examining his runners with a look of concern. He called his team over, all of them starting to talk in hushed tones.

"Holmes! Take your run." Gruner said, taking his luge off the track. "My runners are out of alignment."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, his suspicions heightened once again.

He gave his own luge another, more thorough safety check before taking his place at the top of the slope.

"John." Sherlock stood in the doorway of their room, dressed in his coat and scarf.

John closed his laptop, grabbed his own coat and rushed to follow him. He quickly fell into step with Sherlock's long strides. They flashed their IDs at the security guards at the gates and followed the ill-defined path to a small wooded area behind the athletes' village. John knew what Sherlock was doing. He evidently needed to talk, and it needed to be away from the usual gossips and rumourmongers.

"You know I think Ferrier's crash was caused by sabotage." Sherlock didn't look directly at John, instead looking out on to the mountain scenery. "I'm now sure of it."

"What's happened?"

"Gruner found his luge out of calibration. Just before he started his run. Realised at the last minute."

"I know you're going to shoot me down for saying this but I'm going to say it anyway ... Any chance that it's just a coincidence?"

Sherlock shifted his gaze from the vista to look at him. "The universe is rarely that lazy."

"Then you need to tell someone."

"No!"

"At least tell Lestrade, if you won't tell someone higher up. You can't handle this on your own."

"Tell Lestrade what? A suspicion? He'll want proof, evidence."

"And what if the evidence you are waiting for is another crash?" John stepped closer to Sherlock, taking his hand . "What if it's you next time?"

"I'll be careful."

"It's not about being careful. I … I'm scared, Sherlock - if you have another crash..."

"I know." Sherlock raised their joined hands to his lips, briefly kissing John's knuckles before putting them in his own deep coat pocket. "I know..."

Sherlock pulled John close for one last kiss whilst they were still out of view of the security guards at the gate. It was John who pulled away first, stepping back so as there was a respectable distance between them as they entered the athletes' village.

"I've been looking for you, Sherlock. Hello John." Lestrade was waiting in the entrance hall to their block. His pointed look at John told them both that his relationship with Sherlock wasn't just between them anymore.

"Can we have this conversation in our room and not in the hallway?" Sherlock was never one for dancing around the matter.

Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, and slouched on his bed without taking off his shoes. John stood, making no move to take off his own coat. Lestrade made a point of closing and locking the door behind him.

Lestrade cleared his throat "So I assume, you two are, you know... together?"

"Yes." Sherlock said bluntly. "So glad you have opened your eyes to what is under your nose."

"Sherlock!" John shook his head in exasperation. "Sorry, Greg - we were keeping it quiet. We were going to tell you. Just..."

"When you were ready." Lestrade nodded. "I understand. How long have you, you know?"

"Beautifully vague, Lestrade." Sherlock drawled.

John chose to ignore that comment. "When we were in Canada for the World Cup - it just happened."

"Oh, lovely. A deep emotional connection born of friendship develops in a romantic and sexual relationship between two grown, supposedly intelligent men - 'it just happened'? You should write romance novels, John.'

"Love you too, Sherlock."

"So a couple of months then. I would have thought longer." Lestrade said. "And Sherlock..."

"I'm not using John as my doctor - Stamford is now my go-to on the medical team."

"Okay, then. Well, congratulations, I guess."

"Thanks Greg." John shook Lestrade's offered hand and relaxed for the first time since this conversation started. "Can you keep this to yourself, please?"

"John is determined that our relationship be kept secret." Sherlock said with a tone that showed his complete disagreement.

"Sherlock, normally I would be shouting about us from those mountains but this is the wrong place to do that and you know it!"

"And you know that I couldn't care less what other people think."

"Not here - you need to concentrate on the ice, not dealing with all that outside stuff!"

It was as if they had forgotten that Lestrade was still there as they rehashed an old argument.

"Sherlock, I'm delighted for you both, really I am." He said. "But John's right. All your energies need to be on the track and all the homophobic bullshit that's going on will only serve as a distraction."

Sherlock grabbed his iPad off his bedside table, signalling that for him at least, this discussion was over.

Used to such blunt dismissals, Lestrade went to leave.

"This is good, John. I'm glad he has you, he needs you."

John smiled. "I need him too."

"So are you ready for the Games, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"You came second in the World Cup to Jim Moriarty."

"This isn't the World Cup. And is there a question in that statement?"

"What do you think of the rivalry between you and Jim Moriarty? Both of you are big favourites for the medals."

"Jim Moriarty has nothing to do with my performance. It is the track times that count, not some trackside rivalry."

It was press day at the Sanki Sliding Centre. Television teams and sports reporters were following the athletes around, trying to get interviews, sound bites, and in Sherlock's opinion, getting in the way. He was tempted to shove the next person to wave a microphone into his face down the track. Without the aid of a sled.

"The press are here because we need the publicity." Lestrade felt like he was explaining something to a four-year-old. "More publicity means we get the funding."

"Results mean we get the funding."

"In a perfect world, Sherlock, yes; but sadly not in this day and age. Grin and bear it, eh?"

Sherlock looked over to where Moriarty was loudly holding court with a RTÉ documentary team. As Ireland's only realistic medal hopeful, he was getting a lot of media attention - and he was loving it.

Sherlock tried to ignore the commotion until Moriarty came over, followed by the gargle of reporters.

Moriarty hung his arm around Sherlock, grinning at his mobile that he held at arms length.

"Selfie for my twitter!" He declared, much to the laughter of the gathered press.

"Jim, we're trying to work here." Lestrade said as lightly as he could. He was tempted to use much stronger language but was trying to avoid a scene. Especially since Sherlock was so agitated he was visually shaking.

"Oops. Sorry." Moriarty's voice was child-like as he went on his way.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock heaved in a breath, clenching his fists in an attempt to get control of himself. He didn't look at Lestrade.

"Sherlock." Lestrade stepped right into Sherlock's personal space, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Sherlock go back to your room. Calm down, clear your head..."

"The competition is this weekend. I need these practice runs, Lestrade. I need..."

"To calm down. You're in no fit state to go down that track."

"Lestrade!"

"I'll book you a session for tonight, for when all the press are gone."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the compromise. As he went off to change out of his suit, Lestrade pulled out his mobile to text John.

Sherlock having bad day. Press too much for him. Jim as well. Gone back to room. Check on him?

When John had finally got back to their room, Sherlock had changed into his pyjamas and was lying on his bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Lestrade texted. Said you'd had a rough morning." John sat on his own bed. The twin singles were barely a foot apart.

"Lestrade exaggerates."

"I hear Jim Moriarty is being a dickhead again."

"Nice to know the rumour-mill is still running around here."

Sherlock relaxed his hands and patted the duvet beside him. John moved over to that spot and leaned over to take Sherlock's lips in his own. Sherlock pulled him closer so he was lying on top of him.

"Lestrade says I need to clear my head." Sherlock whispered as the kiss ended.

John ran his hands through Sherlock's curls. "I think I can help with that."

The late practice session that Lestrade organised went well. Sherlock tended to prefer to slide at night anyway, when the track gleamed brilliant white under the floodlights.

John even came to watch; the first time he had had a chance to since they had arrived in Russia.

Both of them were in high spirits as they returned to their room, John giggling at Sherlock's observations of his fellow athletes

The joy left Sherlock's face the instant he opened the door and noticed a dreaded silhouette standing by the window.

"Evening, little brother. Dr Watson."

"You know, after Munich, I thought that security in the athletes' village was supposed to be paramount." Sherlock slumped onto his bed. "I'm concerned that they are letting anybody in."

"Don't be overdramatic, Sherlock. I'm hardly just 'anybody'."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft? Suddenly taken an interest? Not like you."

"I do not approve of you wasting your obvious intelligence by spending your days sliding down a hill on your backside." Mycroft studied the tip of his umbrella that was scoring a dent into the lino floor. "That doesn't mean that I don't take an interest in you."

"Supportive as ever, Mycroft." John didn't bother to hide his disgust. He could count the number of occasions he had encountered Mycroft on one hand but that was more than enough time to develop a dislike of the man.

"You obviously didn't come all the way to Russia just to see me." Sherlock said. "You're here for work, and they have made you actually travel here, rather than you apply your own brand of 'armchair diplomacy'."

"Unlike you, I do not hide behind sporting ideals." Mycroft looked at them both. "The Games are political, whether you like it or not. The tension in this region, terrorist threats..."

"And?" Sherlock could tell his brother was dancing around his point.

"You may not agree with your host country's laws and stance on certain... issues." Mycroft's tone was even but grave "But I cannot have you simply disregarding them. Either of you."

"Get out!" Sherlock snared. John held the door open, giving Mycroft a look that made it clear that if he didn't leave of his own accord, he would be thrown out. He didn't care about making a scene any more.

Mycroft stopped at the doorway on his way out "Good luck, brother dear."

John slammed the door behind him.

"Your brother is a piece of work, Sherlock." He was trying to keep it light but it was very clear that any benefit from a good evening's training was quickly dissipating.

Sherlock's foul mood at his brother's visit persisted into the next morning and dramatically affected his training. His runs were far below his normally high standards and he took several hard hits as he went down the track. Both Moriarty and Magnussen managed to get a few digs in, hoping that Sherlock's poor form would continue as the competition drew closer. with the stress brought out the worst in Sherlock and by the end of the session Lestrade, who Sherlock had verbally eviscerated, had used every single curse word he'd picked up over twenty years of international competition, as both athlete and coach.

By the time the session ended Sherlock's arms were bruised, his ego was bruised and his heart was pounding; another crash on the track (thankfully the unlucky luger walked away with just a few scrapes) convincing him further that there had to be a saboteur at work.

With the first runs of the competition only 48 hours away he could feel the fear creeping in.

John Watson, however, had a plan.

"Come with me." He ordered, wrapping a scarf around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock knew not to argue with that tone and accepted his coat when John handed it to him.

Night had fallen over the Caucasus Mountains, cold and crisp. John was still getting used to working in these winter playgrounds but for Sherlock, each icy breath tasted like home. This was his natural habitat.

They walked in comfortable silence, their gloved hands brushing against each other every few steps. They reached the spot John was leading them to - a clearing on top of a hill, overlooking the floodlit Sanki Sliding Centre. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the view.

John dusted the snow off a bench with his gloved hand and opened the picnic basket he had brought with him. Gesturing for Sherlock to sit down, he served up steaming hot stew from a Thermos flask and fresh bread rolls. A night-time picnic for two.

"I begged a few favours off the catering team." John said in explanation. He sat beside Sherlock, who was still studying the view, and sighed in contention as he brought a spoonful of the stew to his lips. Sherlock was quietly eating his own meal but John could tell he was enjoying it.

"Why the luge?" John finally asked, something he'd been wanting to say for months. "You're the smartest, fittest bloke I know. What is it about this sport?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, trying to put into words how it felt, up on the Hill.

"Because for that one minute, all I can think about, all I have to think about is my run. The turns of the track, the smell of the ice, the feel of my luge beneath me - as if it is part of my own body, the rush of the wind in my ears. How everything for that one minute is so blissfully quiet."

A relaxed look came over Sherlock's face as he described his sport in the most poetic terms and John gazed on in wonder, seeing a completely different side to the analytical, driven athlete who was determined to win. This was the side he'd fallen for initially – those little glimpses he' d been given through the brash, harsh exterior – and every new part he got to see sealed the deal a little more.

"Whatever happens this week, you hold on to that feeling." John wrapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. "Don't let the likes of Jim Moriarty take that away from you. And no matter if you come first or last, I will be here for you. Always."

"I will not be last." Sherlock said stubbornly, but then he relaxed into John's embrace. "Thank you, John. For this. For being here."

"Are you going to the Opening Ceremony tonight?" Molly asked.

Sherlock was sanding the runners of his luge. "With competition starting tomorrow? Er - no."

"Watching it on the telly then. Quiet night in for you and John. Just as friends of course, not in that way. If John's not going." She spluttered.

Sherlock stared at her as she went red in the cheeks.

"I don't believe John is going, no."

Molly turned her attention back to her knitting. Her hat was taking shape, knitted in the Team GB colours and complete with pictograms of the sliding disciplines.

Sherlock finished his normal post-practice maintenance, and returned his luge to its storage shelf, as gently as if he were putting a baby to bed.

"Have you heard anything from the other teams, the other equipment managers?" Sherlock asked as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"You still suspect sabotage?"

"Yes."

"Nothing concrete. A few teams are saying that they're having to do more maintenance than usual. There's a lot of the talk the track being to blame, those uphill stretches."

"It's not the track." Sherlock went over to her laptop and logged in.

"Sherlock what are you... How do you know my password?"

"Never use a pet's name as your password, Molly. So obvious."

Sherlock set up the integrated webcam to record, in the slim hope of catching the saboteur in the act.

"Why won't you report this, Sherlock, instead of trying to catch them on your own?"

"I'm not Magnussen. I need evidence first before I start making accusations." Sherlock said with a hint of venom.

Molly nodded. "Well, if I don't get the chance to talk to you tomorrow, good luck!"

Sherlock had already left before she finished speaking.

"Welcome to BBC Two and our live coverage from the Winter Olympic Games in Sochi. We are at the Sanki Sliding Centre where we will soon be joining the Men's Singles Luge for the first run of the competition. British medal hopes are high with Sherlock Holmes a strong contender, but anything can happen over the next two days. This has known to be a difficult and dangerous track and sadly that was proven during the training runs with the death of John Ferrier of the United States..."

Sherlock stood to one side at the top of the track, headphones on, listening to one of his favourite violin pieces. He breathed deeply, ignoring everything and everyone. He visualised each turn and dip of the track, thought of the whole range of the tiniest movements of his calves needed to achieve his desired line to the finish.

On this starting run, Moriarty was to go first, as he was ranked World Number One after his victory in the World Cup. Up second, Sherlock had his eyes closed and didn't pay any attention as Moriarty waved to the crowds, striding up to the start line with all the pomp and confidence of a matador entering the bullring. Moriarty ensured he flashed a cocky grin to the camera as he sat down on his luge, before pulling his visor down and grabbing the handholds on either side of the track.

Lestrade knew to leave it to the last possible moment before gently tapping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock took his headphones and his Team GB bomber jacket off to reveal his navy luge suit and his Sochi bib. He nodded at his coach as he put on his helmet, visor and gloves and placed his luge at the start line. Unlike Moriarty before him, he readied himself without ceremony.

His fight for the Gold Medal had started.

After Run 1, Moriarty was leading, but only by two thousandths of a second. A lead that Sherlock could easily destroy over the three remaining runs, if everything goes plan.

Run 2 would be in reverse order, with Moriarty going last and Sherlock just before that.

Sherlock took the time to have a short discussion with Lestrade, and to ensure his runners were in good condition and ready for the temperature check. He just needed to keep his head and concentrate on his next run.

Consistency was an important trait in the luge. It was the combined times of all four runs that counted, not just the one.

When Sherlock took his second run, he was in the lead. And when Moriarty took his run, Sherlock was still in the lead - Moriarty's poor time ruining any advantage he had built up.

"Enjoy seeing your name at the top of the table, Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty sang once he had gotten over his initial disgust at his time. "It won't be there for long."

"You never know what might happen tomorrow." He continued when Sherlock failed to acknowledge him. "It might all come crashing down..."

Sherlock fixed him with an icy stare as that tiny spark of suspicion he had been harbouring ignited into a flame.

"Of course, that is a familiar feeling for you, Sherlock."

John caught the tail end of his comments as he approached.

"Oh look Sherlock, your little doctor... friend. Here to kiss your bruises all better."

"Jim - get lost." John's lips tightened.

Sherlock watched Moriarty's retreating form.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked, full of concern.

Sherlock nodded and a smile suddenly spread across his face. "I think we've found our saboteur."

"I know Moriarty is a cocky little shit but sabotage! You honestly think he's capable of this?"

John had spent the evening trying to talk some sense into Sherlock but so far, had completely failed.

"Not only is he capable, he has chosen his next target."

"Who?"

Sherlock give John his patented 'Don't be so obtuse' look.

"You?"

Sherlock nodded.

"That's it. I'm telling Lestrade. This has gone on for too long!"

"No."

"No? Sherlock!"

"Not without evidence. I intend to catch him in the act."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"Stakeout. Tonight."

John brought his hand to his forehead in exasperation. "A stakeout. The night before a medal run. Anyone would think you would be looking a decent night's sleep, but no."

Molly was just closing up the equipment sheds for the night when a sudden movement behind her made her drop her swipe card and bags.

Sherlock emerged from the shadows, John a few steps behind him.

"You scared me, Sherlock," Molly gasped. John gave her an apologetic look.

She bent to pick up her dropped swipe card but Sherlock had already retrieved it and handed to her. He then used his own to unlock the door.

"I'm going to spend tonight here." He said.

"You're spending tonight in a shed." She didn't hide her confusion. "Okay?"

"Sherlock thinks the saboteur is going to strike tonight." John explained.

"My laptop's still recording - no need to stay in there."

"I rather do this myself, Molly." Sherlock said. "I prefer the personal touch."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's dramatics. "Have a nice evening."

"You too. I think." Molly waved goodnight and headed back to her accommodation.

Sherlock and John found a darkened corner where they were hidden from view and waited.

It was two o'clock in the morning, when the bleeping of the electronic lock opening broke the silence.

Sherlock and John were on instant alert.

The main light remained off and the light of a torch cast long shadows across the room.

The two hidden men watched the dance of the torchlight as it approached where Sherlock's luge was kept.

John was ready to reveal himself there and then but Sherlock held him back with a hand to the shoulder. They stayed hidden from view as they listened to the chunk of metal against metal.

After a minute or so, the torchlight's dance began once again, heading back towards the door.

"Leaving so soon, Jim?" The beam of the torch swung round to light where Sherlock now stood, John by his side.

Moriarty simply laughed - he did not look the slightest bit concerned that he had just been caught.

"Lovely night, isn't it?" He said light-heartedly.

Sherlock nodded. "For a spot of sabotage, certainly."

Moriarty laughed again, the low light distorting his features.

"Sabotage is such a strong word."

"Not really, considering. People have died."

"That's what people do." The mirth left Moriarty's face, replaced by pure steel. "Ferrier knew how dangerous this sport is every time he got on his luge. I just... encouraged that danger along."

"Why?" John said in disbelief. "Why have you been doing this?"

"Oh please. Do you know how boring a level playing field is? I had to do something to amuse myself!"

"Wait, you've been tampering with people's sleds - actually killed someone - because you were bored?" John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"It does have the added advantage of messing with Sherlock Holmes's head." Moriarty was taunting now. "Magnussen with his little tales showed how much fun that could be!"

Sherlock didn't react to this very targeted comment.

"I can't have my main competitor on top form, can I?"

"You're insane." Sherlock whispered.

Moriarty giggled. "You're only just figuring that out now!"

"You do realise that this whole area is covered by CCTV." Sherlock said.

"Which I had disabled before I came in. Same way I got a master swipe card for all the equipment sheds. It's amazing what the right amount of money will buy you in this country."

John suddenly realised the extent to which Moriarty had planned things.

"Nice chatting to you boys but it's my bedtime. Big day and all." Moriarty said as he left. "Sweet dreams!"

Sherlock turned the main light on and went over to check Molly's laptop that had recorded the whole encounter. He pulled his mobile out and pressed stop - he had recorded the conversation on that as well.

"Got him." He muttered.

Molly was still in her pyjamas, with a winter coat thrown over.

She didn't appreciate being dragged out of bed in the small hours of the morning. The things she did for Sherlock Holmes.

Mind you, she only had a few hours to get Sherlock's sabotaged luge competition-ready, so she had better get started.

"I let the other teams know that someone was breaking in, so they could check everything too." She mentioned.

She stood over the luge like a surgeon over a patient. Spanner in hand, she attacked the damage that Moriarty had caused.

"So you're finally going to turn him in then?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock didn't look up from where he was assisting Molly.

"You've got your evidence! Why wouldn't you do anything about it?"

"I will, John. After the competition."

John looked at him in utter disbelief.

"I have to beat him on the track first. If I report him now, he'll probably have to withdraw from the competition..." Sherlock said softly, walking over to where John stood. "I need to beat him, prove he never got to me."

"Sherlock, you have said yourself, it's not about the other competitors; it's just you and the clock."

"That isn't how the world is going to see it."

"Since when did you care what other people think?" John was running his hands down Sherlock's arms.

"I need to do this."

"OK. OK, fine." John nodded in defeat. "I'll be at the finish line waiting for you then."

"Well, it's a glorious evening here in the Caucasus Mountains, and we're here at the Sanki Sliding Centre for the final two runs of the Men's Singles Luge competition. There is literally thousandths of a second separating the top competitors. Denmark's Charles Augustus Magnussen is chasing his third Olympic medal, having won silver in Turin and bronze in Vancouver. Jim Moriarty is chasing after Ireland's very first medal in a Winter Games and of course, GB's very own, Sherlock Holmes is on top of the table and has his eyes set on gold. You can follow the whole, nail biting contest right here, on BBC One."

Run 3, and Sherlock sat at the top of the completely fresh track. He would be the first and last person down it today.

He took a deep breath, visualising the course perfectly.

Today was the day.

Molly and John were at the bottom of the track, wearing their Team GB uniforms - Molly was wearing the hat she had been knitting. They were waving a massive Union flag between them.

Molly hugged him tightly as he came off the track after Run 3.

"How's your luge holding out?" She asked, still concerned after the all-night repair session.

"Good as new, thank you." Sherlock gave John a look, and John led them to a quiet spot, away from the cameras, the crowds and the other competitors.

"Have you still got that USB?" Sherlock checked.

John pulled out the memory stick from his pocket - it contended all the evidence against Moriarty.

"No matter what happens..."

"I know, I know. I'm to hand this to the officials." John smiled, but his worry showed. "Nothing is going happen, Sherlock, apart from you winning a gold medal."

"You're very sure of that, John."

"I'm very sure of a lot of things." John flashed an innuendo-laden grin to lighten the mood. "Like how bloody sexy you are. Especially in that luge suit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smiled. "I'd better go. See you at the finish line?"

"Of course. I wouldn't be anywhere else."

Sherlock took off his headphones, but tried to keep the sound of violins in his head, blocking out the cheers and singing as Moriarty took off down the track.

Magnussen was out of contention; he had messed up his third run. Gruner was a strong contender for the bronze but gold would be between him and Moriarty.

"Do you want to know Moriarty's time?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock took position.

Sherlock shook his head. Just him and the clock, that was all that matter at that moment.

He grabbed the handholds, sliding his luge back and forth in fluid movements. Letting go, his hands took over, his spiked gloves biting into the ice, his long hand span propelling him forward at higher and higher speeds. He lay back, aligning himself in the optimal aerodynamic position. The wind rushed over him as he tackled the first turn.

"... and he enters the last few turns of the course. The speeds he's been reaching are just incredible. His lines down this course have been near enough perfect. I think we can say he's done it - last turn and the finish line... And Holmes takes gold! Sherlock Holmes has just won the gold medal for Great Britain! Look at that time - he's completely smashed the course record! Sherlock Holmes is Olympic Champion and he's done it in style!"

Sherlock sprinted over to the stands, to Molly, to John. They both embraced him in a massive hug, his own cool, collected exterior melting away in the joy and exhilaration of his win. John wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down for a deep and passionate kiss. Around them, the cameras flashed, the volley of lights surrounding them. Many of the spectators, regardless of their national alliances, whooped and cheered at the sight.

"I thought we weren't going public, John Watson." Sherlock joked as the kiss ended.

"Fuck that. My boyfriend is Olympic Champion. I don't care what the world, Putin, the IOC or your bloody brother thinks anymore." John grinned as he initiated another kiss, to the renewed cheers around them.

"We'll now cross over to our correspondent in Sochi, Clare Balding. Evening Clare."

"Evening, George - I'm here at the Sanki Sliding Centre with a very special guest. Sherlock Holmes has just won Britain's first medal of these Games and it's gold. How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

"Delighted, of course."

"You have been recovering from a horrific crash two years ago - you only returned to competition this season. How have you come so far in such a short period of time."

"Training. Dedication. Commitment. The team behind me, such as my coach. The usual sentiment that people sprout in these interviews. And John. I couldn't have done this without John."

"John?"

"My partner, who is the wisest, bravest and kindest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

"Well I will let you get back to him and your celebrations then. Congratulations, Sherlock! There will be more coverage of Sherlock's amazing win, and other news from Sochi in 'Today At The Games' at 7pm on BBC Two. Back to you, George."

"One, two, three!" Lestrade held the bottle at arms length. Everyone else ducked as the cork came flying out and champagne dripped onto the lino, leaving a sticky mess. Molly presented her glass to the bottle. Lestrade filled it and went over to where Sherlock and John were sat on one of the beds to fill their glasses as well. In the background, the news was reporting the sudden investigation into Jim Moriarty and allegations of sabotage. None of them were paying it much attention.

"This is good stuff." Molly sipped at her glass. "Who sent you this lovely hamper, Sherlock?"

"My brother." He said. "Apparently sliding down a hill on my arse is ok if it brings glory to Queen and Country."

"Has he apologised yet?" John explored the hamper further, finding more treasures as he went along.

"My brother doesn't apologise. Hence the hamper."

Lestrade pinged his glass. "May I propose a toast?"

They raised their glasses as one. "To Sherlock Holmes, Champion in the Men's Single Luge at the 22nd Winter Olympic Games in Sochi, and to John Watson, the only bugger I know who is willing to put up with him!"

"Cheers!" They all laughed and clinked glasses.

John's arm was draped around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock relaxed against him, a content smile on his face.

For the first time in two years, since the crash nearly destroyed him, he felt like his equilibrium had been restored.

It had very little to do with a gold medal, and everything to do with the man by his side.

The man who would always be at his side.

The End

Author's Disclaimer: I am a proud Irishwoman and this is the only time I will ever expect you not to root for Ireland. Can I still keep my passport?!

Note for non-UK readers: Clare Balding is a BBC Sports correspondent and is their lead reporter for their coverage of the Games in Sochi. She is also openly gay.