Christmas at Baker Street
John readies to visit his family and says goodbye to Sherlock, for the holidays at least. 'Happy Christmas, John.'
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"So, you're sure you don't want a stocking?" John asked.
"No stocking," Sherlock answered monotonously from his place lying on the couch. His eyes were closed, his hands folded just beneath his chin.
"No Christmas dinner plans?" John asked. "You could always come to my folks house. I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
Sherlock was silent for a long while. At length, he let out a breath and said, "Your father would not find my company so enjoyable as you seem too, due to his stubborn nature and the fact that he is actually shorter than I am. Your mother would find it hard to be genteel toward an addict, former or otherwise, that she doesn't know, seeing as she can barely handle your sister Harriet. No. I think it best I stay here."
"You could always go to your family's home for Christmas," John suggested.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he narrowed them at John where he stood across the coffee table. "Never." He shut his eyes and returned to his thinking pose. "Besides, I'm certain Mycroft will find some way to make my Christmas miserable, regardless of my location. And Mummy's on holiday, to return shortly before the new year, and I will visit her then."
John sighed. His gaze slid to the small Christmas tree Mrs. Hudson had bought them. It barely fit in the corner, surrounded on two sides by Sherlock's books and case files and random other items that he just seemed to accumulate. There were a grand total of five ornaments on it, all gifts from Mrs. Hudson to John and Sherlock, and one from John's mother to John. There was a bent golden star at the top that Sherlock had procured from who knew where. It wasn't exactly an ideal Christmas tree.
There was a spring of holly over the front door of 221 Baker Street that Mrs. Hudson had placed because she loved seeing romance during the holidays. She watched the door like a hawk whenever she wasn't busy and made sure that any two people caught under it would kiss. Sherlock had been making absolutely sure to only go under it when he had at least six feet of space between him and whoever else was in the immediate area. Mrs. Hudson had complained that Sherlock was ruining her fun more than once.
Other than the tree and the mistletoe, it didn't look like Christmas in 221B. There were no other decorations, no Christmas cards on the mantel, no gifts under the tree, no baking being done. It was just another time of year that would pass, at least for Sherlock Holmes.
John shook his head and walked to the door. He knelt down to where his bag sat and reached inside. Only a moment later, he stood back up with a wrapped gift. The paper was simple red with holly and snowflakes drawn in darker red periodically across it. There was no bow. There was no note. John stepped over to the couch, this time on the same side of the table as Sherlock, and held out the package.
"Here. Happy Christmas."
Sherlock peeked his right eye open and reached out to accept the gift. But instead of opening it, he sat it on his chest and went back to his thinking position. He probably already knew what it was: a book - a book on the world's most dangerous plants, including several types of fungi. Sherlock had mentioned, briefly but often, how interested he was in the subject.
Inside the book, however, John had slipped a CD of classical violin music, in a simple cover slip so it wouldn't open the book at all. John wanted to see Sherlock's reaction, but it didn't seem like the consulting detective was going to open the gift any time soon.
John sighed again and resisted the urge to stuff his hands in his pockets and slouch his shoulders. "Well," he said, breaking the silence, "Mrs. Hudson's got some really nice mince pies downstairs if you get hungry, and she said she'd be making enough Christmas dinner and pudding for the whole street tomorrow, so I don't have to worry about you starving. If you don't go down and get some, I sure she'll bring it up here and force you to eat it."
The only clue that Sherlock heard him at all was the slight exhalation of breath that was almost a scoffing laugh.
Rolling his shoulders, John cleared his throat. "I guess I'd better be off then. Don't want to miss the train." He waited, but Sherlock didn't speak. Frowning, John moved to pick up his travel bag off the floor. "I'll see you in a few days then."
Sherlock, again, didn't move or speak at all. John frowned and walked out the door, leaving it open. He'd hoped that Sherlock would be nicer during Christmas, but the season seemed to have no effect on him. Maybe he was a Scrooge after all.
John checked the ground floor for other residents before stepping up to the front door and under the mistletoe. He hurried through the door with a quick, "See you in a few days, Mrs. Hudson!" over his shoulder, and then he was out in the cold of London.
He caught a cab to the station. It was warmer in the cab than outside, and John was a bit sad to have to get out when they'd reached the station. He reached in his pocket for his wallet and paused.
"What?" he let out softly as he pulled his hand out of his pocket. He held his wallet, but he also held the corner of an envelope.
Unfolding the envelope, John saw his name written neatly on the front in Sherlock's fine handwriting. The cabby made an impatient noise and John hurriedly paid him and exited the cab. John slipped the envelope and his wallet back in his coat until he was seated on his train to his parent's house. Then he pulled the envelope back out.
"When did you put this here?" he asked under his breath, glad that the seat beside him was empty so far.
John carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Four tickets to a theater production of A Christmas Carol, prime seating. John's jaw dropped slightly. John checked the envelope for anything else and found a small folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read:
"Happy Christmas, John"
John couldn't help the smile that drew his lips up and open, showing his teeth. He also couldn't stop the soft laugh that escaped him.
The train was just shutting its doors when John's phone vibrated in his pocket. Slipping the tickets back into the envelope and carefully folding and replacing the envelope in his coat pocket, John pulled out his phone. It was a new text message. From Sherlock.
Thank you. SH
John's smile was more quaint now, but no less happy. He'd opened the book and found the CD.
Perhaps Sherlock wasn't Scrooge after all.