A/N: So here's the deal. I haven't written in a LONG time, so bear with me. I know this has probably been done before, but I just got this idea while watching Disney's 'A Christmas Carol' and could not leave it alone! This is the first Sherlock fic I've written, though I've read quite a bit. Just a warning, this is unbeta'd and I did all the Brit-picking I could, but if you find any errors, please let me know!
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock and it's characters or A Christmas Carol
It was Christmas Eve, and John Watson could not be more stressed.
Shopping had to be done for the family dinner, and as he was the lone breadwinner, it would all be done by himself. Gifts still needed to be purchased, and John still had no idea what to get his sister or mother - not to mention his friends. His flat was in utter disarray, and he just knew that Harry would have something to say about it if he failed to tidy up.
The most daunting task, however, was his job. In most circumstances, John's job would be described as stable. Respectable. Easy even.
These were not normal circumstances. Not with Sherlock Holmes as his boss.
His formal title would be an assistant, or a secretary, perhaps. He manages Sherlock's schedule, records messages left, and answers phones. All of the things Sherlock deem to be below him.
John supposed he was special, in a way. Not to Sherlock, of course, never to Sherlock, but just in the respect of his resilience. Over the years, Sherlock had several assistants, all of which quit after the first week.
John had stayed; he dealt with the insults, the impossible demands, and the frankly pathetic wages. He sometimes wondered why he stayed with Sherlock, but he always dismissed the thoughts and the warm feelings it brought. He really didn't want to linger on the last part.
It had been over a year since his first day, and his job had transformed a bit. Now he held several titles.
Babysitter.
Housekeeper.
Doctor.
Anything and everything.
Locked out of his flat because he melted his keys in an experiment? Call John.
Waking up in an alley after a confrontation with suspects? Call John.
Need milk? Call John.
He was surprised the man managed to dress himself properly half the time. With his sporadic naps and even more sporadic meals, Sherlock needed constant reminding to perform even the simplest of tasks.
Then there were the cases.
Oh, the cases.
Any case John brought to Sherlock to look over must be worth his while. Or as Sherlock put it, "something not dreadfully boring and obvious - even your little brain should be capable of that."
And so, John trudged through the snow towards the small building, ready for a long day, pulling his tattered jacket tighter against the biting wind. A layer of white covered the block letters of "HOLMES DETECTIVE AGENCY" on the front of the building. A line of anxious customers had already formed outside the locked doors.
Sherlock's reputation preceded him. He was the best, and everyone knew it. Everyone also knew how selective he was. And his bitter personality.
Even so, many of Sherlock's possible clients had a spark of hope in their eyes as John unlocked the front door and allowed them inside.
The waiting room was clean and modern. Black plush chairs were pushed against sparkling white walls. A glass table ran along the middle of the room, and fake plants stood in the corners.
John ushered his patrons into the chairs.
He knew Sherlock could tell him at a glance who would be worth his time, just by the way they sat down in their chair, how they styled their hair that morning, or the kind of coffee they were drinking.
John, however, had no such skill, and began his lengthy interviewing process.
John cleared his throat to quiet the room, "if you could all sign in with your name and telephone number on this clipboard, please. I'll call you when I'm ready."
He passed the clipboard to a middle aged woman in a chair to his right, and exited the room.
John poked his head into Sherlock's office, the stacks of paperwork and books making the room seem smaller. Upon seeing the detective dozing in his chair, head resting on his folded arms on the desk, John quirked a soft smile. His heart jumped up into his throat, and John shook his head, knocking softly.
Sherlock bolted upright in his chair and fixed John with a piercing glare.
"What?"
John quirked an eyebrow and attempted to set his expression into something neutral.
"Just letting you know that I opened up the doors. Everyone's signing in right now. "
"Several people, I assume," he grumbled, standing and smoothing his suit jacket.
John nodded.
"Tea?" John asked, already heading towards the electric kettle in the corner of the office.
Sherlock grumbled in approval, his eyes flitting across an open file on his desk.
John came over minutes later with a steaming cup of tea, wordlessly setting it on the edge of the desk and leaving the room.
He moved to his own, small office across the hall. It was tidy and organized, with two bins on top of his desk clearly marked "Yes" and "Dull," the latter being the fuller of the two.
Grabbing a notebook and a cup of tea, John returned to the sitting room and collected the clipboard.
"Ah, Mrs. Miriam Reynolds, please? "
The middle aged woman perked up. John smiled and motioned for her to follow.
He led her down a narrow hallway and into a plain room. Two silver chairs and a metal table sat in the middle of the room, a single light hanging over the table. Personally, John felt this whole "interrogation room" was a bit dramatic, but there was no arguing with Sherlock's design.
Miriam sat down and John sat opposite her, placing his tea and notebook on the table with a pleasant smile.
"Alright Mrs. Reynolds, what do you have for us today?"
She sat up straight in her chair and squared her shoulders.
"Well, you see dear, it all started when my husband started to stay out later than he usually did…"
John hoped his face didn't display the dismay he already felt.
Just another case that would ultimately end up in the dull pile. He attempted to look intrigued as he tuned out Miriam's recount of her husband's dastardly deeds, jotting a few things down where it seemed appropriate.
"…So it would be ever so helpful if Mr. Holmes could tell me what, exactly, he is up to!" She finished with a flourish, and John nodded thoughtfully.
"Oh. Yes. I'll, uh, pass that on to Mr. Holmes right away, Mrs. Reynolds."
He stood and shook her hand with a rehearsed smile, and she beamed.
"Oh, thank you dear!"
John escorted the woman back to the sitting room.
"Next please?"
And so the day went, John interviewing case after case, looking for anything Sherlock might even consider looking into. So far, he was hitting dead ends; several suspicious husbands, lost dogs, and a mildly amusing case of a sock thief.
Many handshakes and false promises later, John reached the final customer.
The woman was young, with pale, delicate features and long blond hair. She wore a light jacket over a simple pink dress, and smiled up at John when he called her name.
"Miss Mary Morstan?"
She stood and followed John into the room, and John figured that, if not for the case, at least he could keep her number for himself. She was quite pretty, after all. He was allowed to see women if he wanted to, he told himself, though the thought made his stomach lurch.
He gave her a genuine smile before delving right into it – "Alright, Mary. What is it you'd like Mr. Holmes' help with?"
Mary looked down at where her hands were clasped in her lap and bit her lip.
"It's a bit of a long story," she murmured, "but it is very important to me and my family."
John nodded, motioning for her to continue.
Taking a deep breath, Mary seemed to brace herself for the tale.
"My father died recently, an accident at work, and he left me his inheritance. As I understand, it's quite a large sum of money – something I am in desperate need of right now. Especially during this holiday season, I'm sure you understand."
John mumbled his agreement. Oh, he certainly did understand.
"The problem is," she continued with frustration, "the money is not there. There are no traces of the money left in his account or mine. I went to the bank for answers, but they had no idea! They said my father withdrew the money days before his death, but I can't help but feel that it doesn't make any sense! My father was very good with his money, and he rarely ever touched that savings account, so to withdraw it all in one day?"
Mary trailed off, looking at John with a silent plea.
"If I don't find this money," she whispered, "I don't know how my family will make it through to the new year."
John's breath hitched as Mary's glassy eyes fixed on his. He reached across the table and grasped her hand. It was cold and delicate in his palm.
"I promise you that I will bring this right to Mr. Holmes. You will get your money back, Miss Morstan."
Mary's face lit up, and she grasped John's hand in both of hers, standing to shake his hand.
"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Watson!"
John chuckled and felt himself flush.
"Please, it's John. And it's my pleasure. I'll call you as soon as I can! Er. About the case. Obviously."
His cheeks tinted pink, and Mary giggled.
"Yes, of course, John. Call me anytime."
She left the room with a wink, and John felt himself grinning. Perhaps this day wasn't a total bust.
As promised, John headed to Sherlock's office and knocked once before entering. Sherlock sat atop his desk, violin poised to play, though the bow was absent. His gaze flicked over to John, then back to the window.
"No," was all Sherlock said before plucking out random, dissonant cords.
John blinked, "No… what?"
Sherlock scoffed, setting his instrument down and whipping around to face John.
"Don't be stupid, John. No, I will not take the case you were about to propose to me. I refuse to be treated as a party trick to win you a date."
John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Okay, whatever, but please hear me out, Sherlock. This could actually be interesting! And besides, she really needs our help! Her family-"
"Ah. Sentiment. Of course, it would be a matter of sentiment with you, John. Have I not already told you that sentiment does not factor into whether or not I take a case?"
John rolled his eyes, "Yes, but-"
"Like I already said," Sherlock fixed John with a cold stare, "I refuse."
Sherlock picked up his violin, with the bow this time, and played screeching chords until John finally shook his head and sighed.
"You really don't care about anyone, do you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept playing.
"Sociopath, John," he shouted over the noise.
John hung his head and let out a slow breath, "You know, one day this will come back to haunt you. The compassion you lack for other people will be reflected right back at you, and you will have no one, Sherlock. No one."
Sherlock snorted and peered over his shoulder, "I don't need anyone, John."
John felt his heart clench, and he turned away before Sherlock could see his expression.
"It's Christmas tomorrow. Don't expect me to come in," John muttered, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."
Sherlock scoffed as John left his office, and called after him, "Bright and early the day after, John. Don't be late!"
John said nothing as he marched out the front doors, hunching his shoulders against the sudden chill.
A heavy weight seemed to sink to the bottom of John's stomach, and he berated himself for his worrying this morning. It hardly compared to the stress of being in love with your heartless boss.
Please, please, please review! I want to know what you all think! There's much more to come. (:
