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Fandom: SHERLOCK BBC
Principal Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating PG
*takes place after series two*
Genre: Humour, Mystery, Friendship
(Can be seen as pre-slash if you put those goggles on)
Sherlock Holmes and related characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock (BBC 2010) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss
This is a work of fiction; no remuneration is taken by the author.
Illustrations copyright Karadin 2011 all rights reserved.
Synopsis: John Watson takes on the challenge of finding the Perfect Present for the World's Only Consulting Detective and the complications that ensue when he finds It.
Part Two of Three. Word count 4,716
HAPPY NEW YEAR
*revised 1/1/12*
The local pub frequented by John's new friends proved to be The Royal Oak in Woodstock Road, its interior a combination of the old - blackened wood wainscoting, a red brick fireplace, worn wooden floor - with the new - modern light fittings, magnolia painted plaster, gold flocked wallpaper.
Kevin directed Gareth, Bart and John to seating at the back of the pub, explaining that while the tables at the bay windows facing the street were popular, they were also chilly this time of the year. In the early afternoon the pub was less densely populated, with a few Keble students and Radcliffe Hospital staff gathered at the bar and around the fireplace.
John picked up a menu, slouching against the back of the banquette with a happy sigh, enjoying the prospect of a meal with company that would not drag him away from it half-finished.
Kev regretted that they couldn't indulge in the Sunday Roast for which the pub was famous. John selected the Salmon and Devon crab fishcakes at Gareth's suggestion. As they waited for the food to arrive, the conversation turned inevitably to Sherlock Holmes; Bart, being the only person unfamiliar with the World's Only Consulting Detective.
Wanting to find an easier way to explain his work, John glanced over to where a pair of students sat together watching a livestream on a laptop. "Does anyone have access to a computer?"
Kev went back out to his car to fetch his notebook and returned just as their food was delivered; between bites that John introduced Mr. Bartholomew to Sherlock's website The Science of Deduction and his own blog. While impressed, Bart was more interested in the mechanics of creating websites. John only looked up from the notebook when Kev lifted his arm to direct an attractive young woman to their table.
Kevin's friend wore jeans and a scoop neck black tee with a yellow wool swing coat, her bobbed blonde hair pulled back by pink headband with what John thought of as a black Hello Kitty design, also featured on the large squashy handbag over her shoulder.(John was later informed this was Nyanpire, another Japanese mascot.)
"Dr. Watson? I'm glad to meet you!" The woman set her hand on John's shoulder in a familiar way and he caught a heady floral scent from her clothing.
"The pleasure is all mine," John grinned, only to have his side elbowed.
"Oi, that's the trouble and strife, Meg!" Kevin laughed. John interpreted the Cockney Rhyming slang as 'wife'. The men now shuffled around the booth, picking up pint glasses, plates and silverware to make room for the new member of their party.
"The name is Megan, if you please," the lady said, lifting up her chin. John inquired how the couple had met, Megan informed him that she and her husband were members of the Society for Creative Anachronism and began a funny story about Japanese Heian-era costume that John found impossible to follow.
Bart continued to study John's blog as Gareth worked on a second pint, tapping his feet in time to the Hard Day's Night soundtrack playing over the pub's speakers. Kev's mobile went off and he took some time to wrestle it from his coat pocket.
He reached out to grip John's upper arm, thrusting his phone in front of the doctor's face. "Look!"
"It's Sherlock," John gasped.
Kevin lowering his voice to a whisper. "What do I do?"
"I don't know." Having just accessed Sherlock's website, John knew their code for emergencies had not been posted.
"Should I answer?"
Bart and Gareth leaned forward, watching their exchange intently, with the exception of Megan, who was excavating the depths of her cat bag.
"Any response, verbal or text, might give away the fact that I'm with you." John said. "He's that good."
Kev set his mobile down on the tabletop carefully, as if it were an unexploded bomb. "Okay. I suppose if it's important Mr. Holmes will leave a message."
As John wondered how his flatmate could have possibly found him after all his precautions, Meg pulled a vibrating mobile out of her bag, oblivious to the panicked gestures of her companions.
"Hello? Oh! He's sitting right next to me! It's for you, Dr. Watson!"
John shoulders slumped as he stretched out his hand to take Megan's black mobile decorated with crystal stickers.
"Sherlock, you absolute pillock! How am I supposed to keep anything a secret from you?"
"John, is that any way to speak to your partner? And you should know by now not to try."
"Okay. Gimmie," John said, beginning to grin, any feelings of disappointment fading before his admiration for his partner.
"I monitor the IP addresses of everyone accessing your blog and my site; a pattern of hits came from Oxford today, the Ashmolean, the Flying Dragon Dojo, and now The Royal Oak. "
John sighed, he hadn't considered that when he arrived at the museum unannounced that Kev - who had never met him before - would check his site for his profile image. And Gareth, when rung up by Kev for an appointment, had also accessed both sites.
Sherlock continued. "Once I remembered Mr. Wong, I looked up his contact information. When he did not respond to his mobile, I recalled his mention of a wife; the name Wong is not so common in Oxford. I was able to finesse her mobile number from her employers at Fabulous Flowers."
"Oh, I thought she was wearing strong perfume," John replied.
"We will make a detective of you yet."
"I'm quite content to assist and blog. Thank you very much."
"With his expertise in Japanese art, Mr. Wong is an excellent resource. The dojo he frequents has a gift shop above it. Considering the amount you withdrew from your bank account, estimating what you have spent on expenses, coupled with the fact that you could not bring back something of large size and a perusal of shop's inventory online, you may have bought me a tsuba or even a set of shuriken, if you have become complacent regarding further damage to the sitting room walls."
"Amazing," John said, with a shake of his heard, not daring to expand on his friend's deductions. "But what about being surprised this Christmas?"
"I have no idea as to the particulars of the item you've purchased. I look forward to that."
"So." John kept his head down, unable to keep a smile from his face. "Why did you call?"
"I think I missed you, but more to the point; I need to know when you expect to return, as my endevours in gift making have taken over most of the flat."
"I could be back at eight. If you want me to stay here overnight you'll have to send me some dosh or I could see if Murray has a scratcher."
"Why would Murray want to scratch you?"
"Scratcher is military slang for a place to sleep, you berk."
"Irrelevant, deleted. You can come home."
John couldn't help laughing.
"Feel free to offer your friends a round of drinks. I've a first class ticket waiting for you at the station for the last train at 7:18. Don't be late."
"I won't," John paused, surprised at his partner's uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. "Thank you Sherlock."
But the detective had already rung off.
****
Whatever project Sherlock had taken on, John found no evidence of it when he arrived at 221B. The mantle of their fireplace was decorated with a string of white fairy lights. A vintage Space Age aluminium tree Sherlock had discovered was set up between the long windows, spinning on a motorized base, a spotlight on the floor switching at intervals to red, yellow, blue and green, reflecting off the silver branches and glass baubles.
John set down his holdall in his favourite red chair and gave Siger a pat on the head. Sherlock Holmes chose this moment to glide silently out of his bedroom, clad in a white shirt, black tailored trousers and his mouse-coloured dressing gown with the bullet hole in the pocket, shutting the door firmly behind him. Sherlock's hair was tousled, his eyes red-rimmed and his complexion paler, John thought, than usual.
"Did you sleep or eat while I was gone?"
Sherlock waved this question away, mumbling something about fruitcake and Mrs. Hudson, but John stopped mid-stride, turning on his heel smartly, to grasp the detective's wrist.
"What have you been doing with yourself?"
Sherlock's hands were wrecked, for lack of a better term, his fingers swollen and dotted with small red puncture wounds and strange thin diagonal cuts.
"Working," the detective frowned in the manner of a petulant child.
"Just set yourself on the sofa. I'll fetch the tea and the first aid box."
Sherlock turned on the telly and John tended his wounds, using Captain Scarlet plasters to give Sherlock's fingers a festive red and white striped appearance. The doctor instructed his patient to keep his hands still as they watched The Curse of the Cat People, holding a teacup up at intervals to the detective's mouth so he could drink his tea.
"What's on the itinerary for the week, in lieu serial murders, locked-room mysteries, jewel thefts or attacks by arch-enemies?"
"If only," Sherlock sighed. "There are the usual 'festive' rituals, Angelo expects us mid-week with Mrs. Hudson, then there's Midnight Mass at the parish church. I thought we would spend Christmas Day together at the flat, before I have to make an appearance at my arch enemy's house for dinner in the evening."
When John only leveled a blank stare in response, Sherlock snapped, "You know by arch-enemy I mean Mycroft. "
"You are going to Midnight Mass," John stated.
"Problem?" Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, folding his arms around them, careful to keep his sore fingers loose.
"I thought, considering your pursuit for rationality and your love of science, you'd have no patience for," here John made a wagging gesture with both hands, " ... religious theatre and superstitious belief."
Sherlock lifted his head, a spark of interest now brightening his expression.
"How intriguing, John. Your stock is Anglican, your parents never attended church, yet you have some experience of it. Something turned you off."
"I met Susan, my first love, at Barts. She was from a very upright, C of E family. I went to church to please her; we planned a long engagement and as proof of my commitment, I agreed to no pre-marital sex."
At Sherlock's brow-lift he added, "... stopping before intercourse at any rate"
"She cheated on you."
John nodded, surprised to find the bitter sting of betrayal had faded with time. Perhaps, he mused, this was because Susan's decision had given him the impetus to live life to the full, without holding anything back. He had studied hard, brawled, gambled, made love, joined the army, fought and saved lives until he was invalided home. Now he was here, bandaging Sherlock's hands, watching telly, sharing a cuppa.
But he still wouldn't cross the street to speak to his ex-fiance if the opportunity arose.
"She was an idiot, obviously" was Sherlock's scathing response, then the detective changed tack.
"I was brought up in the Catholic faith, but it did not stick, much to Mummy's dismay. If I were to classify my spiritual belief I would say I am a Secular Humanist with Pure Land Buddhism and Shinto leanings."
"Er ..." John Watson's confusion was evident in his expression and Sherlock laughed.
"One of the larger donations - from Shad Sanderson - on my Christmas List goes to the Marylebone Healing and Counseling Centre, located in the basement of the St. Marylebone Parish Church. Many of my 'Irregulars' in the homeless network have been helped there. As many of them have spoken of my work to the Church Fathers, I have a standing invitation. I thought I would attend this year."
"I'll go," John said. "I'd be happy to go with you."
"If Lestrade rings, crime takes precedence."
"Of course," John grinned. His smile growing wider when he discovered Sherlock had left him some of Mrs. Hudson's excellent Dark Jamaica Fruitcake.
****
John's first stop that Christmas week was to collect his clothes, mobile and watch from Lestrade at the Yard. The next day John stopped in at the surgery, though he no longer worked there, Sarah had asked him to lunch and John greeted her a kiss on the cheek, grateful they had remained friends.
Sherlock ran back and forth across London to make certain his holiday exchanges were going according to plan, snapping and growling at the general incompetence of his fellow Londoners, therefore, John was grateful when the detective holed up in his bedroom.
The only clue as to the nature of John's gift from Sherlock was the vivid purple feather the doctor found perched on top of the detective's head one morning, caught in his dark curls.
****
On Wednesday night Sherlock and John took their landlady to Angelo's and Mrs. Hudson adored dining by candlelight. She cooed over her gift from John, a stylish purple Mac. From Sherlock she received a very gorgeous, quite large - and therefore heavy - crystal snow globe with a scene of Victorian London inside.
Mrs. Hudson proceeded to tell John a story of finding a certain pale, skinny, English boy breaking into her home one Christmas Eve, knocking him unconscious with a snow globe.
"I'm sorry for giving Sherlock such a whopping goose egg, but how was I to know he was really my Christmas Angel, come in answer to my prayers? Don't tell anyone I told you that, dear." She patted John's hand, speaking as if the detective was not sitting just to her left. "It embarrasses him."Mrs. Hudson paused to dab at her eyes with a serviette, worrying that her mascara was not truly waterproof. John bit his lip knowing Sherlock was also teary-eyed, attempting to hide it by remarking that Angelo should invest in smokeless candles. After pudding, Mrs. Hudson was bundled into a black cab to take her to her sister's house in Surrey, leaving the detective and his blogger alone at Baker Street for the holiday.
****
On Christmas Eve - after a cold supper provided by a well-stocked hamper from Fortnum's - John put on a jacket to attend Midnight Mass with Sherlock. They arrived late and took seats in the few empty pews remaining at the back of the long gallery. During the service John and Sherlock remained seated as the congregation knelt, but stood up as the ceremony called for it. The Reiger Organ, when played, made the fillings in John's teeth vibrate.
The sermon became one of the memorable moments of that night for John, if not for the reasons the Reverend may have wished for.
"What would we have seen, had we gone to Bethlehem that night? According to Saint Luke’s version of the story, we would have seen Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. Would we have seen anything else? Not, I suspect, if we were hoping to see choirs of angels in the sky; and yet, everything we need to see is here. For those with eyes to see, is the mystery of life, the truth about ourselves laid plain before us."
John turned his head to look at his friend and Sherlock gazed back, the edge of his pale lips curling upward. John had faith in the friendships he forged in battle; on dusty streets, in emergency rooms and dark moors. He had faith in the man he stood beside.
He wondered if Sherlock Holmes had deduced this.
****
After the service, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked back in silence to 221B Baker Street, opening the front door and climbing the seventeen steps to the door of their flat. Sherlock turned on the gas fire while John heated up cups of wassail, after checking that nothing else was residing in the microwave.
John brought over the drinks and clinked mugs with his flatmate. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."
"Happy Christmas, John. I'd play the Strad for you, alas." Sherlock held out his still bandaged hand. "When do you consider it proper to open our presents to each other?"
"When I was a kid we ran downstairs as soon as we woke up, the gifts were all under the tree. Mum and Dad didn't even bother wrapping them."
"Ah," Sherlock sighed. "I had to wait until Mummy had risen for the day. We had to be dressed and sit to breakfast. Only then were my brother and I allowed to open our gifts."
John tsked in sympathy. "How did you stand it?"
"It's probably why I developed by abilities for deduction," Sherlock said, "staring at those presents under the tree and aching to open them."
John tried to hide his excitement, slowly sipping his spiced wine.
Sherlock began bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Oh, Hell." John relented. "Go get yours and I'll get mine!"
Sherlock tore off for his bedroom and John sprinted up the stairs to his. He had kept his partner's gift in its bag, in his Army footlocker, bound with chain and a huge rusty padlock.
A sign taped to the trunk warned, Do Not Open On Pain Of Death. I Mean It SHERLOCK!
John had intended these precautions as a tease, knowing they were no challenge to the detective. A set of bolt cutters tucked behind the wardrobe made quick work of the chain, as John had thrown away the only key to the padlock in the Thames.
He proceeded quickly down the stairs, holding the bag with the Flying Dragon logo emblazoned on the side. Sherlock stood beside the sofa with two parcels wrapped up in black and white glossy paper.
"You made me two presents?" John asked.
"It is one present in two parts," Sherlock replied. "You go first."
"Oh, no. You go first, I had to go all over England for your gift."
The detective held up his hands, wrapped in their red and white striped plasters.
"I bled for mine."
"Bastard," John muttered, good-natured. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, indicating that John should open the larger package first.
Once the doctor ripped away the wrapping paper his gift was revealed as a long hard-sided case with three front zippered pouches. John moved the case onto the coffee table to zipper it open to discover what the case had been custom-designed to carry.
John stared up at his flatmate, who stood with his hands almost primly behind his back.
"You've not brought anything from your old life into the flat but your footlocker and your great-grandfather's split bamboo fly fishing rod. It was free of dust, which led me to deduce that you took it out quite often to practice casting. You've been waiting to take up the sport but time and the expense haven't allowed it. While antique, this rod and reel were in excellent shape, it only needed a bit of refurbishing."
Sherlock leaned over, indicating the removable padded dividers inside. "This case will hold multiple rods, reels and fly boxes. Being easily transportable, you could take it along on our travels, if you happen to be at loose ends because of an early resolution or as an method of surveillance."
John had been so engaged in finding a present for his flatmate he had not thought at all about Sherlock's gift for him. He looked at gleaming varnished bamboo, the reel now burnished a bright shining gold.
"My mum wanted to toss this out, every girlfriend I ever had called it rubbish. No one ever asked me if I wanted to fish with it, much less fix it." John swallowed down the lump rising in his throat. "Thank you, it is perfect."
Sherlock nodded, regally accepting the accolade as his due and handed John the second box.
"You did say that I should make you a gift," Sherlock explained, as John tore off more wrapping paper. In his hands he held a box of black walnut, expertly crafted, with the name Dr. John H. Watson burned into the lid. He opened the box to reveal 16 compartments on one side, and foam padding on the other.
Inside the compartments were dozens and dozens of hand-tied flies, lures consisting of wire hooks bound with thread, wire, delicate feathers and tiny glass beads. The colours and styles were myriad and John spied a bee as well as a purple Deceiver with a tiny human skull on its spine.
John's gaze dropped to Sherlock's bandaged hands.
"You made all of these?"
"A comprehensive beginner's set, the fly you use will depend on where you fish, a running stream or still water, what species of fish will also determine the type of fly, brown trout, salmon, wet flies, dry flies, it's quite a complex sport when you get down to it, involving strategy and skill."
John set down the box and stood up.
" ... crunchers, muddlers, sedge hogs, buzzers, poppers, mini lures, nymphs,"
He reached out to take hold of Sherlock's arms.
His flatmate's eyes widened. "John?"
"You. Are. Amazing. Quite, amazing and wonderful. This, these, are works of art."
Sherlock stood quite still between his friend's outstretched arms.
"You aren't going to hug me, are you?"
"I think a person who makes such Perfect Presents should expect them."
"Could we consider it given? It's Christmas."
John chuckled as he gave Sherlock's forearms a tight squeeze before allowing his hands to loosen and drop to his sides naturally. "Now it's your turn."
The detective did not hesitate in snatching up his present from the sofa, reaching inside allowing the bag to drop to the floor. As he lifted the box, he placing it parallel to the side of his head. John held both hands out.
"For god's sake, don't shake it!"
Sherlock's sharp gaze stopped John from moving forward.
"Just, open it carefully."
The detective slid two of his fingers under one of the neatly mitered corners of the blue and white wrapping and stripped it off, revealing the black lacquer box, and took a moment to study the design of golden koi.
Sherlock's lips quirked. "I knew you liked fish."
John unconsciously adopted his friend's gift giving posture, placing his hands behind his back, but with a military stance.
Sherlock prized the lid of the box away from the bottom, bending so that he could place the lid on the coffee table. He peeled away another layer of paper, revealing the worn leather pouch.
John could feel his toes curling, studying every subtle movement of Sherlock's features, the light furrow between his brows, the flare of his nostrils as he lifted the pouch to his nose. Setting the bottom of the bento box on the table, so both hands were free, Sherlock loosened the leather drawstring, placing his forefingers into the top of the pouch, gently prizing the material apart.
His right hand held the pouch at a forty five degree angle to his left hand, palm open to receive the watch as it slid out.
John nearly whimpered with suppressed excitement, watching Sherlock's head tilt at an angle and the chain with its deaths head fell out of the pouch to swing in the air.
In one fluid movement Sherlock pocketed the pouch to study the perfect little carving of the human skull, every sense tuned and focused on John's gift with the same intensity as a crime scene.
"A watch, possibly Victorian, early, not English, material organic." Sherlock held the timepiece to his nose, sniffing it, perhaps even touching just the tip of his tongue to its surface.
"Numerals painted in 18 karat gold leaf mixed with a bit of white gauche." He turned the watch over in his hand. "Inscription, incised with a metal tool, slightly burred; 'Without Equal' some time after the watch was made. Chain original, skull added later, a memento-mori."
Sherlock inhaled sharply, and his eyes widened as he stared at his partner. "Where did you find it?"
"A man came into the shop, a friend of Gareth's, who collected Victorian things."
Sherlock held up his hand in an abrupt gesture, and John, well versed in Sherlock's gestures, kept silent.
John felt slightly dizzy, waiting, hoping that Sherlock would open the watch, biting his lip to keep from blurting out the suggestion.
"It's made of bone," The detective said. "Animal bone probably, if it is human bone .... wouldn't that be incredible." Sherlock's eyes were shining even before he used a single finger to flip open the watch to see its intricate workings carved completely from bone.
John should have been prepared, he was a solider, but in the blink of an eye Sherlock seemed to cross the room in a single stride to press up against his flatmate, his entire lean frame shivering.
John kept his hands to his sides and Sherlock - who recalled which shoulder it was safe to rest his head against - allowed John to support him.
"I knew you'd find something perfect for me."
"Even if it's not made of human bone?" John asked.
Sherlock lifted his head, smiling, holding his watch to his mouth, the chain wrapped around his thumb, so Little Siger seemed to be grinning at the doctor.
"Even then. I can't wait to show it off."
"Best Christmas ever," John grinned.
End Two
Part Three to Post Just After New Year!
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Date: 2012-06-26 05:39 am (UTC)But I totally understand about real life consistently getting in the way. I also must admit that I have some unfinished works left to my name that people natter me about, so I hate to be that guy. However, I felt I just had to ask.
Either way, your work is beautifully written, and I love how you have interpreted these characters.
w.w.w.
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