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It was a mere fluke of circumstance that Lestrade and the team at Scotland Yard had never met John. He’d left for the army right out of university, before Sherlock had been unofficially taken on as a consultant, and, whenever he’d come back on leave over the past three years, they had better things to do than meet up at pubs with people Sherlock already saw too much as it was.
Still, that didn’t mean he was making him up.
“All I’m saying is, we’ve never met him, have we?” Anderson was grandstanding around the corner, the group of them gathered in Lestrade’s office, unaware Sherlock was lingering outside the door. “He never even talks about him! Only reason we’ve heard of him at all is because he told you.”
“And I regret ever passing it along,” Lestrade snapped, and Sherlock smiled down at his phone where he spun it in his fingers. “Honestly, I only told you so you’d be sensitive, not so you could rip him apart!”
“I’m just saying it’s weird, is all,” Anderson replied, and there was a small squeak, like the one the chair in the corner of Lestrade’s office made whenever he sat in it. “I mean, you haven’t even met him?”
“The man gets less than six weeks a year to spend not getting shot at,” Lestrade countered, and Sherlock nodded in solidarity before lifting his chin to make sure no one else had seen, “you really think I’m on his list of priorities?”
“I’m only saying-”
“I don’t care what you’re saying, only that you knock it off!” Lestrade snarled, the wheels of his desk chair rattling as he no doubt stood. “This is the first Christmas John couldn’t get off, and I know Sherlock’s having a hard time with it! At least act like you have some basic human decency!”
“How can you even tell he’s having a hard time with it?” Anderson asked, apparently unable to take a hint, and Lestrade’s exasperated sigh carried through the walls. “He’s like a bloody machine!”
Sherlock’s fingers stopped twisting his mobile, and he blinked down at the tile floor of the corridor, a swallow moving down his throat before he lifted his chin, pocketing the phone and turning away toward the exit. He could always text Lestrade what he’d found.
*****
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
So it was the butler?
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Mr. Richmond, yes.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Seriously though? The butler? So technically, I called it.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
You were joking.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I don’t see how that changes me being right.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Fair enough. So, what’s on your eternally busy and top-secret schedule today?
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Oh you know, the usual top-secret things. And sand. And sweat.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Are you trying to seduce me right now?
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
That would depend entirely on if it’s working.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
It’s not not working.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Then I’m calling it a win. Hey what are you still doing up anyway? It’s 4 in the morning.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
You can just say you have to go, you know.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
How do you do that from 5000 kilometers away?
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
More like 5687. Approximately.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
That’s adorable. I do have to go though. Go to sleep! And tell your mother I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it for Christmas. Mycroft can suck it, tell him whatever you like. Actually he’s probably reading this isn’t he? I don’t care, he can still suck it.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
He probably is, but that’s hardly the worst thing he’s found in an email, I’m sure. Alright, I’ll let them know.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
You know I’m sorry too right?
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Yeah, I know.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
You’re lying, but I am sorry. Okay I’ve gotta go, I’ll get back online whenever I can. Probably sometime later next week.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I’ll be here.
Don’t get shot in any major arteries.
Friday, Dec 12, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I love you too.
*****
It was Tuesday when he got the call—a woman found stabbed to death in her apartment in South Kensington—and even Mrs. Hudson didn’t bother chiding him for being excited, as thrilled as she was herself to get him out of the flat.
With just over a week until Christmas, Sherlock had been growing more incorrigible by the day, and, though he was aware of it, it hardly seemed like there was anything to be done. He just didn’t know what to do with himself! There were no cases on, the weather was far too miserable to occupy himself out of doors, and he’d watched so much television the past few days, everything was a rerun to him now, so he’d taken to sulking, playing his violin or drifting off into his mind palace for hours on end. He knew Mrs. Hudson was worried, bringing him plate after plate of food he never ate and always ensuring there was a hot cup of tea next to him, but he could not even muster up the energy to feign normality to put her mind at ease.
Sherlock didn’t even like Christmas, not really. Sitting in the back of the cab on the way to the crime scene, he wrinkled his nose at the packed streets, full of harried shoppers with red noses and eyesores of scarves tucked into their coats. There were lights strung overhead, glittering vines spread over the street between buildings, and window displays sparkled and flashed from every side, all of it giving Sherlock the beginnings of a headache, but there also an indefinable something about it, a feeling of nostalgia in the air that made one acutely aware of their own loneliness.
Shrugging it off with a sharp rattle of his head—though the heaviness in his chest remained—he stepped out of the cab as it pulled to a stop beside the curb, plucking a few notes from his wallet and passing them up. “Keep the change,” he muttered, and the man nodded, giving him a gruff grunt of what he supposed was thanks before driving away the second Sherlock closed the door. He watched the cab go a moment, and then turned, slipping his hands into his pockets as he strode toward the flashing lights, a barrier of yellow tape already set up in front of the woman’s flat, where a small crowd of nervous onlookers had converged.
“Hey!” a young officer shouted at him as he made to duck under the police tape. “Get back! Nobody’s allowed in here!”
Sherlock simply stared at the man, tipping his head with a quirked brow, and the officer pulled up short, frowning at him in confusion. “You’re new, aren’t you?” he asked, and the man blinked.
“I- Um, yes,” he stammered, and Sherlock smiled, the officer looking at him in clear concern for his sanity.
“Thought as much,” Sherlock clipped, glancing out the corner of his eye to see a familiar head of grey hair approaching from the building’s front door. “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he added, making no move to extend a hand, “and I’m also not in the mood.” He turned, making to pass the man, and a hand just settled heavily on his shoulder when there was a shout from up ahead.
“Oi, Stevens!” Lestrade barked, and the man started, fingers slackening in their grip. “Let him through,” the inspector ordered, waving a hand. “He’s with me.”
Stevens looked across at him in surprise, and Sherlock smirked, ducking out from under his hand as the man glared at him.
“You’ve got to start telling them I’m coming,” Sherlock snapped as he drew up to Lestrade’s side, both of them heading toward the front door. “I’ve almost gotten arrested twice now.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Lestrade quipped, turning with a smile as they passed into the foyer. “I’m hoping to get a mugshot for my wall.”
Sherlock scoffed, and Lestrade chuckled, waving a hand as he beckoned him toward the lift.
They stepped inside, Sherlock sliding into a back corner while Lestrade hit one of the buttons, the circle of floor 7 illuminating before he leaned back against the opposite wall.
“So,” the older man chirped, and Sherlock’s hand tightened to a fist inside his pocket, “how ya holdin’ up?”
Sherlock shrugged, flicking his eyes to the inspector before examining the toes of his shoes where they tapped against the tile.
Lestrade cleared his throat, his weight shifting between his feet as he crossed his arms. “Mrs. Hudson said you-”
“You talked to Mrs. Hudson!?” Sherlock spouted, snapping his head up with a glare, but the inspector didn’t falter, jaw stiffening as he steadily met his gaze.
“She was there when I dropped off those case files on Saturday. You know, when you wouldn’t come downstairs?” he added, lifting his brows, and Sherlock huffed, glowering away to the floor. Lestrade sighed, unfolding his arms as he rolled his hands imploringly in the air. “She’s just worried about you, is all,” he urged, and Sherlock’s jaw shifted, a swallow moving down his throat. “We all are. You’re not eating; you’re sleeping even less than normal. Frankly, kid, you look like hell.”
“I’m 23,” Sherlock bit, lifting a glare at the man. “I’m not a kid. And I’m also just fine, thank you.”
“No, you’re not,” Lestrade countered, and Sherlock sniffed, shaking his head as he looked to the lift doors, waiting for them to open. “You only called me once all weekend looking for a case; you’re most definitely not fine.”
“I was busy,” Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade scoffed.
“What, watching Hollyoaks?” he mocked, and Sherlock twisted his face to him in alarm. “Mrs. Hudson told me,” Lestrade explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Apparently, you have very thin walls. Look, Sherlock, I know this whole John thing has you-”
“John thing?” Sherlock echoed, eyes narrowing as he searched over the inspector’s face, and what he found made his already leaden heart sink even further. He blinked, setting his jaw. “You don’t believe me either,” he said softly, and Lestrade’s eyes widened, his mouth popping open a few seconds before he spoke.
“I- No, Sherlock, it’s not-”
The lift bobbed to a stop, the door opening with a mockingly cheery ding, and Sherlock brushed briskly through, following the sound of a camera shutter down the corridor. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, turning his chin over his shoulder. “After all, who could believe someone would actually be interested in me?”
“That is not what I-”
“What’ve we got?” he clipped, grabbing a pair of plastic gloves from one of the technicians near the door, and Anderson appeared in the doorway of the woman’s bedroom, begrudgingly filling him in.
It took him all of five minutes to discern it was not, as the police had expected, a robbery gone wrong, but that the woman had, in fact, met her end at the hands of her lover, a married man she worked with at her job at a local theatre.
Snapping off his gloves, he turned, leaving Sally to glare at his back as she scribbled down his deductions, and was nearly through the door when Lestrade shouldered in to block his path.
“Sherlock-” he started, but Sherlock cut him off, shaking his head.
“Sorry, Inspector, but I really have to run,” he said, blinking impassively. “Maddie just stole a minibus so Bart and Esther can stop the double wedding, and I simply won’t be able to get anything done until I know if they make it in time.” He smiled, taking Lestrade’s moment of stunned silence to push past him, heading directly for the stairs.
“Was that- Was he talking about Hollyoaks?” he heard Sergeant Donovan mutter, and smiled in spite of himself as he barreled through the fire door, the metal clanging shut loudly behind him as he descended the concrete steps.
*****
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Well, they made it to the wedding on time, but only because they crashed the minibus straight into the ceremony.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
None of the wedding party were killed though, which seems unlikely.
Sherlock was lying across the sofa, his gaze shifting between the snow gently falling outside the windows and the television. It was sometime during the wee hours of the morning, midnight having long passed, but no hint of sun yet brushing across the starlit sky, and Sherlock sighed, thumbing out yet another email on his mobile.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
One of the main characters is in hospital. I’m fairly certain she’s going to die; her character arc has run its course.
He tapped at the edge of his phone, willing it to beep with a notification, but the arrangement of metal and plastic remained stubbornly silent, just like it had all week.
John had only been estimating, of course, when he’d said he might be able to talk to Sherlock again later the following week, and it would hardly be the first time unforeseen army obligations had interfered, but Sherlock resented them more now, felt as if the entire world should spin just the way he wanted it for a while.
He was already going to be alone for Christmas, did the army really have to take John away virtually too?
He locked his phone screen to darkness, stowing it on the table in front of him as he bent an arm beneath his head, curling his legs up as he turned onto his side. Sherlock had spent many a lonely Christmas, that was for certain, but it had never been like this, never felt quite so hollow and bleak. Not since he’d met John, at least, which, now that he thought about it, was probably why Christmas felt so wrong without him.
He’d met John almost exactly six years ago—his first year at uni, John’s third—when John was working at a local department store Sherlock had unwittingly wandered into looking for a Christmas present for his mother. He’d left it far too late, as usual, and had been considering giving the whole thing up in favor of the tried-and-true gift card, when John had wandered over, brilliant smile over the cliché white nametag.
“Anything I can help you find?” he had asked, and Sherlock had been lost from the start, unfairly faced with possibly the only person who looked good in fluorescent lighting.
A little less than a week later had been the first Christmas, which they’d texted through, and they’d been together for every one since, Sherlock’s relatives more excited to see John at the annual Christmas party than they were him, but Sherlock never minded. It was nice, having someone there, someone who the whole world knew wanted to be with him instead of just tolerating his special brand of odd, and Sherlock ached for that feeling now, for that reminder that he was something more than Scotland Yard’s freak-on-call.
Sherlock closed his eyes, running through his mental lexicon of maladies to come up with a reasonable explanation for the ache in his chest, but, in the end, he just reached for his mobile, talking to John the only antidote he’d found as of yet, if only a temporary one.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Do you remember how we met?
He stared at his message, blushing for no one as he realized how horribly sentimental it sounded, but it was too late to cancel the email, so he merely flipped the phone face down on the coffee table and pretended it had never happened. That is, until it vibrated, at which point he nearly fell off the sofa lunging for it.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I’m very tempted to just sit here and see what else you say, but I don’t have very long. And yes of course I do, you were crying in front of the throw blankets.
Sherlock smiled for what felt like the first time in days, rolling onto his back as he held the phone in front of his face with both hands.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I was not crying.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
You were welling up a bit. Why are you asking me that anyway?
Sherlock blinked down at the message, biting his lip and twiddling his thumbs over the keyboard as he considered his reply.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I was just curious. I walked past that store today and it reminded me.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
That store is nowhere near Baker Street or Scotland Yard.
Damn, Sherlock should’ve thought of that. He began bobbing his knee, trying to think up a plausible reason why he would have suffered the Christmas crowds of Oxford Street, but John was quicker.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Sherlock are you okay?
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
You’re watching Hollyoaks.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
It’s for a case.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed, dropping the phone to his lap a moment. He could hear John saying it in his head, hear the unyielding tone clipping over his name like he had a thousand times before, and he knew it would do no good to lie.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I miss you.
He swallowed, heart skipping erratically at the loathsome admission, but it was also freeing somehow, a weight lifted off his shoulders even as the one in his chest increased.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I miss you too. And I’d give anything to be there, you know that right?
Sherlock turned his eyes to the window, watching the snow swirl down toward the street. It was an old argument, one they’d repeated one-too-many times already, but Sherlock couldn’t help but think of it now, selfish as it was. ‘You could’ve never left me.’
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I know.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Can we not fight right now? I really don’t have a lot of time and this is probably the last chance I’ll have to talk to you before Christmas.
Sherlock swallowed, even his tongue bitter somehow, but John was right; he was being childish.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Sorry. I do know you’d rather be here.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I’d always rather be with you. Always. But it is also nice getting care packages.
Sherlock chuckled, tugging down the blanket from the top of the sofa as he curled up beneath the soft wool.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I was hoping it would arrive in time. Did they “confiscate” my mother’s biscuits again?
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
No. But I think that’s only because she put a big heart sticker over the seal. Not even hardened generals can steal biscuits with hearts on them.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I think that might have been the idea. Did you see the newspaper clippings?
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
Yeah. Haven’t had a chance to read them all yet though. Did you highlight all the information you gave the police? They look like reverse blackout poetry.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I may have. How did you guess?
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I never guess.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
You’re hilarious.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
I try. Look babe I’m sorry but I’ve gotta run. We’ve been doing patrols like mad all week. My blisters have blisters.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
You should see a doctor.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
YOU should see a doctor.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
Well, I’d like to, but, unfortunately, he has a world to save.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
How heroic and handsome of him.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I’m not sure what handsome has to do with it.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
John Watson <[email protected]> to Sherlock Holmes:
You wound me. Okay I’ve gotta go. I sent you something too but I have no idea when it’ll get there (post is a mess over here) but just so you know I didn’t forget. I love you, and Happy Christmas/6th Anniversary (well tomorrow, but whatever, and no I will never stop counting from the day we met, which I remember perfectly thank you very much) and I will read all your newspaper articles and annoy the rest of the unit with my bragging, and I love you and I love you and I love you.
And I love you.
Saturday, Dec 20, 2014
Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]> to John Watson:
I love you too.
Idiot.
After a full minute without a reply, Sherlock released the phone, placing it atop his chest as he closed his eyes, trying to hold onto the feeling, to capture the warm light of John’s however-vague presence and hold it out in front of him like a shield against the world, but, as always, it faded, and he sighed, blinking up at the ceiling as he shivered in the dark.
*****
“What’s he look like?”
“You. I’m secretly in love with you and dating men with similar features in an attempt to get it out of my system.”
Anderson blinked at him, lowering his camera in front of his chest. “Seriously?” he breathed, and though Sherlock very much wanted to see how far down that rabbit hole Anderson would go, it was Christmas Eve and there was a dead body in the room, so it didn’t seem quite the time.
“No!” he spat, rattling his head, and Anderson startled a moment before glowering at him, a suspicious hint of pink rising up his neck. “Don’t you have a job to be bad at?” he snapped, waving a hand down at the man, and Anderson sneered, going back to his pictures as Sherlock wandered away to take in the scene.
This one looked fairly routine on the surface, which was likely how far the police would look, but Sherlock knew immediately something wasn’t right.
Supposedly, the man had been shot by his wife sometime that morning—the neighbors reporting hearing shots at around 8am, though the police hadn’t heard about it until the woman’s 999 call when she’d supposedly woken up at 10:30—after they’d been heard publically arguing at a Christmas party the night before about him flirting with his secretary, something Sherlock filed away as an excuse to be too traumatized to attend his mother’s that evening. The woman couldn’t remember a thing about the shooting, seemingly due to the drinking, but Sherlock was suspicious of her horrible headache. It seemed more likely to him that she had been drugged, and, on top of that, that her husband was killed somewhere else on the property and moved into the kitchen—most likely somewhere on the grounds, considering the blades of grass on the right sleeve of his shirt. There were black fibers under the armpits of his shirt, the only place they were present, which would suggest that the body had been picked up, and, considering the size of the man, there must have been someone else carrying him at the ankles, which was further confirmed by a small fingernail-shaped cut on the man’s lower calf. Man and a woman, then. Seemed obvious enough. That and the fact that there was not nearly enough blood at the scene made Sherlock nearly positive, but he still had an ace up his sleeve. He’d wait for Lestrade to reveal that one though.
“Well, she tested positive,” Lestrade said with a sigh as he strode into the kitchen, lifting his mobile in the air as he assumedly got off the phone with the technicians, the wife having long-ago been taken down to the station. “Seems like this one’s pretty open and shut.”
“Which hand?” Sherlock asked, and the inspector turned to him with a frown.
“Her right,” he said warily, and Sherlock shook his head, looking once more down at the body.
“She’s left-handed,” he dismissed, kneeling down beside the corpse as he tilted his head, squinting just to double-check his findings. “She’s being framed.”
“Framed!?” Sally scoffed, chiming in as she stepped in behind Lestrade. “What are you talking about? The gun was on her nightstand!”
“She went to bed at 1am,” Sherlock said, standing up again as he folded his hands behind his back. “Just like she said. I suggest you take urine and blood samples; I think you’ll find she’s been drugged.”
“Drugged?” Lestrade asked, significantly less incredulous than the look in Sally’s eyes as she shook her head.
Sherlock waved a hand down at the body, winding up for his dramatic reveal. “This man was not killed by his wife,” he pronounced, pacing around toward the man’s head. “He also wasn’t killed here. There’s grass in the treads of his shoes, as well as a few blades on his shirt. I doubt he just decided to take a roll about the grounds in the middle of the night.”
“But the neighbors we talked to said they heard shots at around 8,” Lestrade interjected, and Sherlock shook his head.
“I told you, this man wasn’t shot. He was dead long before those shots were ever fired, probably by our killers after they were done staging the scene. Look at the bruising patterns.” He pointed down to the front of the man’s legs, where, quite clearly, the skin was discolored. “The blood settled twice. Once when he was lying on his front somewhere on the grounds after he was actually murdered, and again when he was dragged in here, most likely by a male and a female. There are black fibers under his arms, as well as a fingernail mark on his calf. My money’s on the secretary they were supposedly fighting about, as well as some close male acquaintance—probably an old boyfriend. What better way to get revenge than to kill your lover and frame the wife he won’t leave for you?”
Lestrade frowned, looking thoughtfully down at the body before turning away, thumbing out a text message on his mobile.
“Alright then, genius,” Sally snapped, folding her arms while Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How was he killed, then?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock retorted, lifting an imperious brow, and the woman glared at him. Sherlock sighed, shaking his head to further drive home the point of their incompetence. “Really, must I do everything? It’s grotesquely apparent that this man was-”
“Strangled.”
Sherlock froze, eyes widening down at the floor as his blood roared in his ears, thumping in tandem with the rib-shaking pounds of his heart, because he was losing it, he must be, must have completely gone off the deep end into full-blown hallucinations, because there was no way he had just heard-
“Sorry,” the voice said again, and Sherlock slowly turned, lifting his chin to follow the sound, “didn’t mean to ruin the moment. It’s just, with the bruising pattern on the neck and the traces of petechial hemorrhaging-”
“Excuse me, who are you?” Lestrade demanded, stepping toward the doorway the man occupied. “This is a closed crime scene.”
John Watson smiled, his blue eyes dropping to the floor a moment in a small gesture of chagrin, and he looked awful in the best way, exhausted and bedraggled in wrinkled jeans and a simple red jumper he’d obviously just ripped out of his suitcase the second he’d landed, because he’d gotten on a plane, performed a miracle and gotten on a plane to drop in at a crime scene and be with Sherlock for Christmas. The fact that the sun had lightened his hair and darkened his skin to give him the appearance of some sort of sculpted Greek god probably also had something to do with the dryness in his mouth, but, either way, it was all Sherlock could do to scrape syllables past his teeth.
“John?” he breathed, a question, because he really wasn’t sure, even now, and, as the eyes—slate today, like the tired blue of the sky during a waning storm—turned up to him, it seemed even less real.
But then John smiled, and Sherlock’s stomach wouldn’t spin like that if it wasn’t truly happening.
“I tried calling,” he said, tipping his head apologetically, and Sherlock dimly registered the shocked expressions on the Scotland Yard Trio’s faces as he stared unblinkingly at John, lest he disappear back into the snow whirling outside. “Then I stopped by Baker Street. Nearly gave your landlady a heart attack. Something about me being real?” He frowned, rattling his head at the strangeness he would hopefully never know the extent of, but, then again, Anderson and Sally were there.
“You’re John?” Sally blurted, poor Mr. Mitchell put on the backburner for the moment, but Sherlock had pretty well wrapped that up for them anyway. “The John?”
John quirked a brow at her, looking to Sherlock in confusion, but Sherlock wasn’t much help to anyone right now, still too shocked to so much as take a step. “Yes,” he murmured, shuffling further into the room when it appeared no one was going to shoot him. “At least, I hope I’m the only one,” he added, flashing Sherlock a smile, and that unlocked him somehow, his mouth curling as feeling slowly came back to his knees.
Suddenly, Anderson began laughed, throwing his head to the ceiling as he shook his head. “Seriously!?” he sputtered, looking incredulously between them all. “We’re supposed to buy this!? Come on, really, who are you?” he added, turning to John like they’d suddenly become best mates, but John only furrowed his brow, looking the man up and down.
“Um…John,” he murmured, once again looking quizzically to Sherlock, who couldn’t do much beyond shrug.
“You’re his boyfriend?” Anderson pressed, pointing across at Sherlock, whose lips twitched in a proud smile before he ducked his chin to hide it.
John’s eyes narrowed, flashing a bit as he caught the disdain in Anderson’s tone. “Yes,” he said, a little firmer, and Anderson’s arm dropped to his side.
“You’re in the army?” Sally chimed in, and John snapped his head to her, leaning back as she stepped forward in shrewd scrutiny.
“I am,” John replied with a nod, and Sally folded her arms.
“What regiment?” she snapped, and John did that thing with his mouth that Sherlock knew from experience meant nothing but trouble.
“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he calmly replied, but Sally only narrowed her eyes.
“What rank?”
“Captain.”
“Where are you stationed?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Doing what?”
“I can’t say.”
“AHA!” Anderson shouted, pointing triumphantly, everyone in the room startling a bit as they turned to him. “I knew it! You’re a fake, an actor or something he hired to play his imaginary boyfriend!” The man grinned with disconcerting glee, his eyes bright as they looked between Sherlock and John.
John didn’t react other than to tilt his head slightly, lifting an inquiring brow. “You weren’t hugged much as a child, were you?” he mused, and Sherlock snorted, sucking his lips over his teeth as he tried to stifle the laugh.
“I think we’re all just surprised,” Lestrade interjected from where he’d been even more stunned-still than Sherlock, stepping back into the fray to shoulder between Sally and John. “Sherlock said you couldn’t come back for Christmas, and it’s not exactly everyday people pop in at a crime scene.”
John opened his mouth, a retort clearly ready on his tongue, but Sherlock cleared his throat, drawing the man’s attention.
He shook his head fractionally, a silent indication that Lestrade was one of the good guys, and John begrudgingly closed his mouth, shoulders relaxing somewhat as he turned back to the inspector. “That was rather last minute,” he explained, rolling a hand to Sherlock to include him. “My leave request was denied at first, but then I got a call last night that they could swing it after all.” He looked to Sherlock then, a pointed look in his eyes. “I suspect someone called in a favor,” he drawled, lifting his brows, and Sherlock scowled, twisting his face away. John just smiled fondly at him, always having the oddest reactions to Sherlock’s belligerence. “You should call him,” he said, and Sherlock shook his head. “Sherlock, it’s Christmas.”
“So?” Sherlock snapped, and John smiled broader.
“So some people get into this whole goodwill toward men thing.”
“I didn’t ask him to call in a favor.”
“That’s why they call it the season of giving.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“If you don’t call him, I’ll invite him to Christmas brunch.”
Sherlock snapped his face up, eyes widening in growing horror at the steadiness of John’s gaze. “You wouldn’t,” he muttered, and John smiled again, the curve of his lips holding a hint of threat, and fuck they needed to get out of here if he was going to start pulling those sorts of faces.
“Still,” Lestrade interrupted, incredibly insensitive to people having a moment here, thank you very much, “that doesn’t explain how you got in here. This is a closed crime scene.”
“Ah,” John murmured, bobbing his head as he rocked his weight back on his heels, “that one’s much simpler. I, er, saw the police cars while I was heading to Scotland Yard.” He glanced at Sherlock, who twitched a repressed smile, knowing full well John had more likely heard about it on the police scanner Sherlock kept at the flat. “I followed them, and then, when I got to the crime scene, I just flashed my credentials and said Sherlock Holmes had requested me as a consultant. They seemed too shocked to argue much.” He then turned to Sherlock, amused sort of frown creasing his face. “And they don’t seem particularly fond of you.”
Sally and Anderson both snorted, but their smug chortles were cut off as Sherlock himself chuckled.
“Yes, apparently, I can be a bit-”
“Of an ass?” John suggested, smiling as Sherlock sneered.
“I was going to say abrasive,” he replied, and John scoffed.
“Oh, so you were going to lie,” he quipped, and Sherlock just barely refrained from sticking his tongue out at him.
God, he’d missed this.
“Well,” he chirped, stepping over Mr. Mitchell’s prostrate body as he strode toward the door, “if nobody else needs me to do their job for them, it seems I have plans.”
John grinned, stepping aside for Sherlock to walk through the doorway ahead of him. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to the group at large, though only Lestrade bowed his head in reply, smiling between them in a way that dimly reminded Sherlock of the look on his father’s face after he’d won the science fair in primary school.
They moved in quick tandem out the front door, not speaking until they were past the crime scene tape, and then John leaned in toward his shoulder as they neared the corner.
“You reckon they’re watching?” he murmured, and Sherlock smiled, angling his chin down.
“Probably,” he replied, and then was abruptly spun around by a sharp tug to the sleeve of his coat, his yelp cut off as John pulled him down to his mouth.
Sherlock was going to blame the weakness in his knees on the latent surprise of John’s appearance, because there was no way he would ever admit to it just being the kiss, the feel of John’s wind-and-sun-chapped lips against his smoother ones, the way his tan fingers lifted up into Sherlock’s curls like he never wanted to let him go, like he’d never left at all, and, though they pulled apart mere seconds later, Sherlock was utterly breathless. He blinked, slowly focusing on John’s face, which was smiling softly as his eyes flickered brightly between Sherlock’s.
He dropped his gaze, finding Sherlock’s hand as he threaded their fingers, and then bobbed his head up the street, tugging Sherlock a bit to get him moving again.
Sherlock called the cab, per usual, John shaking his head and muttering about ‘black cab magic’, also per usual, and they piled into the backseat, Sherlock giving the cabbie the address before settling into John’s side, sentimentality be damned.
John chuckled, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders as he dropped a kiss to the corner of his forehead. “I like the new place,” he said, words rumbling deliciously against Sherlock side, and Sherlock burrowed in further, chest aching for an entirely different reason as he nestled his head on John’s shoulder. “The kitchen looks brand new.”
“Mrs. Hudson remodeled before I moved in,” Sherlock explained, twisting at John’s fingers as he held their hands in front of his face, looking down at the contact points of their skin with still lingering disbelief.
But John was here, warm and solid at his side, and the whole world was changed for his presence.
The crowds of shoppers, so loathsome mere hours ago, were now a source of infinite amusement, Sherlock taking great delight in deducing what was in each and every one of their shopping bags. The lights wrapped around lampposts and strung over the streets were no longer a migraine waiting to happen, and instead seemed to drape over them like a canopy of daytime stars, flickering and flashing as a layer of pure white snow fell atop everything, softening the concrete edges of the city.
Sherlock beamed at nothing, turning his face into John’s chest to breathe him in, the scent of sun and sand and bad airplane tea drifting up his nose as sweetly as Mrs. Hudson’s freshly made gingerbread. “Thank you,” he said, and John stiffened in momentary surprise, Sherlock realizing belatedly he could count on one hand the times he’d said that.
John quickly relaxed, however, his hand lifting from around Sherlock’s shoulder to card gently through his hair. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” he said softly, dropping his chin to whisper the words into Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock turned up his face, unable to stop grinning, even when it was against John’s lips.