They’re both the same one, actually That’s a bit of a mess from one of those download-save thing. Boxer…is either a finished fic, or the first chapter of something longer, which is why I haven’t posted it yet.
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?”