Title: White Christmas (Part 1/?)
Rating: PG/K+
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, slight Sherlock/John but nothing major
Author's Notes: Yes, I am aware that it hasn't snowed in London in quite some time now, but let's pretend that it's a freak occurrence. Also, this has not yet been britpicked or betaed, so if someone would be willing to take on the job I wouldn't be offended! Please read and review, and merry Christmas!
The snow fell like a dove's feathers, ending the relative peace that had temporarily graced Baker Street. Children of all shapes and sizes and ages flooded the sidewalk, constructing men out of snow and throwing snowballs at each other and at passersby.
Sherlock, in fact, was once hit by a snowball during this period of chaos. He had been stalking across the sidewalk, John following closely behind him, to an awaiting taxicab, though with a little trepidation due to that nasty incident with the crazed cabbie and the two pills. His hands were gloved and shoved deep in his pockets and his scarf was wrapped closely around his pale white neck. He looked to John a raven amongst the pristine snow, and sometimes he rather thought that Sherlock resembled a bird, for his flighty temperament and strange ways of holding himself, like a hawk watching his prey.
And then, it came. The snowball, propelled by the swing of a young boy no more than eight years old, hit Sherlock square in the chest. Thrown by the motion, Sherlock stumbled a bit, and then looked across to the source of the attack. Of course, his narrow grey eyes landed on the boy. When struck with such a glare, the boy shrunk back a little into his coat and glanced the other way, clearly made nervous by Sherlock's reaction to the innocent snowball.
Without a second thought, John grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and dragged the man into the taxicab. Sherlock brushed the remaining snow from his coat before it had the chance to melt, and then he laid his head against the cool glass of the window, looking out upon the city. His city.
John turned to the other man, barely affording him the chance to brood.
"That was rude, what you did there," John said. Sherlock did not even turn his head to face the doctor.
John decided to try again. One really needed endless patience when dealing with this man.
"That boy was just trying for a bit of fun, you know," John continued. "He didn't mean to hurt you or anything."
"It didn't hurt," Sherlock muttered, finally deciding to open his mouth and speak.
"Then why did you glare at him like that?"
"I have a case, John. I'm busy."
"So you only have time to be nice to people when you're not on a case? Because last time you didn't have a case, you shot a bunch of holes in the wall and you stuck a head in the refrigerator. I'm not getting it, Sherlock."
"Not my problem, John. Let me think in silence, now."
And that was that, because, well, if Sherlock wanted to be a stubborn git, then John was willing to let him be a stubborn git.
It did not, though, turn John's thoughts away from the nagging mystery of why Sherlock got so annoyed by the boy's snowball-throwing. No one got hurt, and he was pretty sure that the boy was not Moriarty in disguise or something awful like that.
He could always text Mycroft Holmes about it, he figured, once they were done with this case. He did not like talking to Mycroft (the man was just a little too government for John's own comfort). But when push came to shove and John needed answers considering Sherlock, talking Mycroft was usually a good solution. Best of all, he could trust Mycroft not to breathe a word of their discussions to Sherlock, for Mycroft valued secrecy at least twice as much as his brother did.
They wrapped up the case in no time, which was nice because at least one thing then was off his mind. Sherlock, though, soon found himself to be bored again, which did not bode well for John or Sherlock's peace of mind.
The wall, too, suffered greatly in the coming days.
John was still wondering about the incident with the boy and the snowball, and so, one day at work, he texted Mycroft.
TO: MYCROFT HOLMES
QUESTION CONCERNING SHERLOCK. CAN YOU TALK NOW? JW
FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES
CAN'T TALK AT THE MOMENT, BUT CAN TEXT. WHAT'S GOING ON THIS TIME? MH
TO: MYCROFT HOLMES
DID SHERLOCK EVER GET FRIGHTENED BY A SNOWBALL AS A CHILD? THERE WAS AN INCIDENT A FEW DAYS AGO. JW
FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES
HE DIDN'T HAVE THE MOST CLASSICAL UPBRINGING. HIS PERSONAL BUSINESS. BUT HE DOESN'T LIKE CHRISTMAS MUCH. MH
Thoughts of the fabled Grinch of Seuss tales dancing through his head, John felt a smile break across his face. He wondered, though, what kind of incident could have happened that would have scared Sherlock off of Christmas.
TO: MYCROFT HOLMES
ANYTHING I COULD DO TO HELP HIM? JW
FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES
IF YOU GIVE HIM ANYTHING, DON'T WRAP IT. ALSO, DON'T GIVE HIM ANYTHING. MH
TO: MYCROFT HOLMES
WHY? JW
FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES
HIS PERSONAL BUSINESS. HAVE TO GO. PRESSING MATTER AT HAND. TEXT ME IF THERE ARE FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. MH
Well, that was that, then. It was always a strange experience, dealing with the Holmes brothers.
And John decided to go against Mycroft's advice concerning Sherlock. He wanted, after all, to learn why Sherlock had such an aversion to Christmas and presents and snowballs. Perhaps Father Christmas had frightened the genius at a young age. In any case, John was curious.
He had noticed a little while ago that the edges of Sherlock's trusty blue scarf were beginning to fray. Sherlock, of course, had not noticed. But then again, Sherlock only seemed to notice things about other people, not himself.
So John went out two days before Christmas and bought Sherlock a new scarf. This one was almost exactly the same shade of blue that Sherlock's current scarf was, except for it had black strands woven in as well that John thought could perfectly complement Sherlock's coat.
And he did not wrap it, just in case. Regardless of his disregard for one part of Mycroft's advice, he wasn't going to push his luck. Sherlock was certainly mercurial and it wouldn't be too good for any of them for John to get on his bad side. If he did, John might be the next thing Sherlock shot when he got bored.
Christmas morning came with an additional dusting of snow on the windowsill. John woke up a little earlier than he usually would on a day off – seven in the morning – in order to make his preparations. By some stroke of luck, Sherlock wasn't awake yet. But John decided not to push it and so he hurried through it all anyway, just to be careful. He made some French toast and poured milk into cracked glasses (he was going to have a talk about the state of the glassware with his flat-mate after all of this was over) and set the table, his heartbeat accelerating all the while.
Finally, Sherlock padded into the room, his steps full of grace despite the early hour. Tying his dressing gown around himself, he sat down and simply began digging into the food laid out in front of him without sparing a word to the man who had just prepared it.
John gave a little cough, hoping that Sherlock, genius that he was, would get the hint.
Sherlock, genius that he was, didn't quite get it.
"Do you have a cold, John?" he asked, his fork hovering above his plate. "Because I sense a case coming on, and the winter is rather vile this time of the year."
"It's Christmas, Sherlock," John replied, giving up on the food. "Somehow I doubt Lestrade will come ringing by with a case today. In any case, I want to stay in the flat and enjoy a peaceful winter day."
"Just because it's Christmas doesn't mean that all of the criminals of London will take the day off," Sherlock replied petulantly. "I certainly won't be taking the day off. I have some experiments to attend to."
"Well, I'm sure you can spare a few minutes to exchange presents, can't you?" John asked, trying to push the subject lightly. After what Mycroft had texted him, he didn't know what to expect from Sherlock.
Sherlock's face grew paler, if that were possible, but he carefully schooled it into a look of boredom. "I don't care much for Christmas," he murmured, tapping his fingers on the table.
"Why is that?" John took the seat opposite his flat-mate, watching him carefully.
"That's none of your business."
"Well, I have a present for you, and even if I have to force it on you I still want you to have it. It's useful; it's not just some chocolates or something."
Sherlock ducked his head down, refusing to look John in the eyes.
So John drew the scarf from his coat and laid it on the table next to Sherlock's plate.
The two men regarded the scarf, one with benign interest and the other giving it such a glare that it might just burst into flames.
"Merry Christmas?" John tried hopefully.
"It's a scarf," Sherlock said, a little dumbfounded. "A scarf."
"Yes, it is. I noticed yours was getting a little frayed, and I never see you leave the flat without it, so I figured you might want a back-up, you know, in case yours gets too worn to wear." He had seen the fastidious way that Sherlock dressed. Not a thread out of place. And there was no reason, then, that one of the most important parts of his outfit should look so out of place.
"Just a scarf?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"Uh, yeah…"
"Nothing more?"
"No…did…did you want something more?" John asked, confused.
"No, no," Sherlock replied hastily. "No, not what I meant at all. Thank you, John," he said, abruptly standing up. He grabbed the scarf and dashed back to his room, leaving John utterly disturbed.
To be continued…