Endless list of perfect songs: Simon & Garfunkel – The Boxer
And he carries the reminders
Of ev’ry glove that layed him down
or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains
Okay, yes, fine. This is this song’s fault, along with Nichellen’s. There may or may not be more where this came from, at some point.
The wind off the Hudson is bone-cuttingly cold. The New York City winter can bleed a man if he’s not careful. It would remind Sherlock of London, if he ever let himself think of London.
Fortunately he’s found enough pain and distraction on the boxing circuit. He doesn’t need any more.
He tugs the collar of his wool coat closer around his neck and lets himself into his manager’s office. The man’s at his desk, silver head bent over a sheaf of papers which make a run for it from the gust of frigid air that follows Sherlock in.
Lestrade slams his hand down on them before they can escape, and looks up with a scowl.
“Mrs Hudson passed on your message,” Sherlock informs him. “She said you sounded quite excited.”
The scowls transforms into a broad grin. “You won’t believe who came to see me today.” His East Ender accent is running thick, as it tends to when he forgets himself. Not that anyone in this part of the world cares much, besides some Irish immigrants and Sherlock. It’s for Sherlock’s benefit; Lestrade hates sounding like a dock worker next to Sherlock’s public school pronunciation.
Sherlock glances at the papers Lestrade is holding; at the guest chair pulled to and cleaned off; at the generally more-reputable-than-usual state of the office; and raises his eyebrows.
“Leonard Martin.”
Lestrade’s jaw drops. “Who told you?”
“No one,” Sherlock sighs. “It’s a simple trick of logic, Lestrade. Now, what did he want? Judging from that stack of papers, he came to you to schedule a match. Of his stable of boxers…” He narrows his eyes in thought. “John Watson wants to match me?”
Like that, Lestrade’s grinning again. “Mad, innit? You’re making a name for yourself, Sherlock! This is your moment. Take down Watson, and everyone’ll know who you are.”
It’s a pretty sentiment, but Lestrade should know better. “Watson’s on his way down, Lestrade. He’s never been the same since he injured his shoulder. It’s only a matter of time before someone defeats him.”
Lestrade leans eagerly forward on his elbows. “Yeah, and that somebody could be you. You can’t underestimate him, Sherlock. The man’s a pit bull. No matter what he takes, he just won’t go down. But you, you can do it. The way you can suss out a bloke’s weakness, you can find just how to hit him.”
So much of boxing is thuggery. Lestrade knows damn well that Sherlock doesn’t care how popular or brutal a fighter is. The only real challenge is in a man who understands more of the art than ‘stand up longer than the other guy.’
But Watson—he’s small, fierce, and infamously tenacious, but he wouldn’t be the name he is if he didn’t know precisely what he’s doing. He has legendarily brought down men with six stone on him.
A bolt of regret goes through Sherlock that he’ll never be able to fight Watson at the height of his powers, but there’s no help for it. His shoulder was more than dislocated in that famous brawl with Moran; the man set out to permanently cripple Watson, and by all rights he should have succeeded. What drives Watson to stay in the ring, when he’s been robbed of his edge and must be in constant pain every time he fights?
Sherlock finds he wants to know. “Tell him yes.”