A/N:
I wanted to write something especially for the holidays. Also, I always get bored on Christmas Eve.
Anyway, I wish you all a very joyful and safe Christmas.
If you recognize anything, it's not mine; if you do recognize it, chances are it probably still isn't.
All I ask is you enjoy.
The Nativity
we've all been there.
It had started as a perfectly normal day. The whole department had been decorated with Christmas decorations and Gregory had moaned at his colleagues for buying a depressing Christmas CD and allowing it to wail through the stereo for the whole day. It had been a plain day at the office. Until, as he was signing several papers for his current case, his wife called to inform him of two things:
It was Abby's – his six year old daughter- nativity play today.
Crap.
And it was also the day that his wife was to perform four root canal operations.
Shit.
Abby had starred in three nativity plays in her young life and Lestrade had disobediently missed all of them. It always collided with the time of the year where cases seemed to magnify in difficulty. The time of the year where the detective inspector barely had enough time to come home and nearly always had to make someone in the office purchase his children's Christmas presents for him. He had moaned at his wife and had emphasised, begged, pleaded the fact that it was nearly impossible for him to attend.
But Elizabeth Lestrade drew a difficult bargain when it came to her daughter. Greg had been powerless in the end. After kicking a few file cases in his office, he had stepped out and informed his team sternly about a very important occasion he must tend to for an hour or so. He had made sure that everything was set in stone so none of them slacked. However Greg had allowed his cover to slip and after sharing that it was actually his daughter's nativity that was his emergency – suddenly, his whole team suggested that they all go.
And now they were here in his daughter's school hall. Donovan, Anderson and the new transfer, Sebastian Felix. A bloodcurdling CD was being played as background music. It was a Christmas one. Lestrade stabbed the screen of his phone feverishly as he sat, Donovan fishing the sit next to him.
"Which character is Abby playing?" Anderson asked curiously.
Lestrade glanced up at the stage before answering the question, "An…angel, I think?"
There was a chorus of "aws" from the three adults that sat by him.
"Where's the missus, sir?" Felix quipped with a grin.
"On her second root canal," Lestrade answered, "according to her last Facebook update."
The three resumed conversation as Lestrade sat, glancing around at the various parents with their flashy camera gadgets and eerily joyful smiles. Lestrade never saw the interest in these things – sure, sure it was the Nativity. But he didn't need a play to tell him that his daughter was fantastic.
Lestrade knew that his daughter was fantastic.
"I can't believe Beth managed to drag you in here," Donovan chuckled, knowing she had met Mrs Lestrade a couple of times to know.
"I had to," Lestrade mumbled, rubbing the side of his head vehemently, "I'm pretty sure she'd divorce me otherwise."
Anderson chuckled before giving Felix a nod.
"Trust me," he jested, "he's not joking."
Lestrade managed a wolfish grin at that, deciding that perhaps he felt a little better about being here. Because they understood his pain. He momentarily pondered on how the festive holiday seemed to change him as a worker. He was nearly eternally calm – that was what made him such a good officer. But when it came to Christmas, all sorts fluctuate. And so did his habitually tested patience.
"Uh, sir. Why is he here?"
The inspector's eyes swivelled back and watched as a John Watson wandered down from the door, clearly looking for the huddled group of familiar figures.
"I invited them," He told Donovan firmly.
"Them? You invited the Freak as well?"
"Of course," Lestrade answered, voice whispering as John lifted a hand to wave as he recognized them, "we need them for the case."
"Oh, falalalafun." Donovan hissed lowly, as John approached – smile stretched across his features politely.
Deciding that at least one should be civil, Lestrade passed the doctor a kind and thoughtful nod of greeting.
"John," he greeted, "glad to see you."
"And you… all." John smiled, blinking at the faces that seemed to greet him rather unwelcomingly. Donovan's eyes were basically slits.
He used to be frightened; now it was almost amusing.
"Where's the Freak, doctor?" Donovan quipped, arching a dark brow.
"I… I don't know actually," John answered sheepishly, "but he should be here soon." Shedding off his winter coat, he slung it over to cover his chair.
It was acceptable to note that everyone's expressions changed a little once they saw the magnificently festive jumper that John was sporting. It was red and green – complete with the reindeers, Santa Claus and a mistletoe pattern dotting the very bottom.
"Pretty jumper," Anderson cooed teasingly.
"Nice haircut," John jested back, watching as the forensics specialist's hands flew to his head self-consciously.
The haircut that John was referring to had been the subject of all jokes the past month. Lestrade did not normally contribute to the banter that all of his team seemed to jab at each other, but Anderson's haircut had begged for it the moment he came into the office.
"Well, he better come soon," Lestrade nodded, glancing casually at the time, "The nativity's going to start in about five minutes."
"Ah, which character is Abby going to play?"
"An angel."
"Aw," John commented sweetly, "I can't wait. I haven't seen one since my own actually."
"I was Joseph in mine," Felix offered with a small flicker of childish pride.
"A star," Donovan muttered, finding the need to contribute irresistible.
"I was a wise man!" Anderson chirped.
John couldn't help but feel that Anderson's sentence would have made Sherlock laugh.
Rubbing his temples fitfully, Lestrade realized that some of the parents were beginning to take pictures of the stage. He couldn't help but glance at Donovan in an almost concerned manner.
"Do you think Beth would want me to take photos?" He asked her, searching for an honest answer.
The fact was that Lestrade owned a Blackberry (a phone which according to Charlie – his eldest son – was the sickest phone in the universe). And he had no idea how to operate everything parting from the call button.
"I'll do it." Anderson nodded, taking out his camera from his briefcase reliantly, "Just got to delete some of these… photos."
Seeing the flashes of dead bodies and bloody images being deleted off the screen, Lestrade glanced away and simply eyed the stage.
It was going to be a very lengthy afternoon.
John was enjoying the show very much. It was adorable, to say the least but he could tell that the children were enjoying it which was always a good thing. He had never liked kids much – thus why paediatrics never proved a contender when he was choosing his speciality. However, he had to say that these kids were doing a damn good job of doing everything. Even if one of the stars did look about ready to burst into tears.
Lifting his head as John tried to locate which exactly was Lestrade's daughter, his eyes fell on the empty seat beside him. God. He had been so intrigued by the play that he had forgotten that Sherlock wasn't here yet. Head rotating to spot the detective, in case he couldn't see them, the man scowled as a woman behind him glared at his swivelling neck.
"Sorry," he apologised briefly as he tentatively eyed his phone.
No messages. Why – there was a loud slam.
The moment the slam came, John really should have realized that it could only be Sherlock. He glanced up and watched as the curly haired man straggled into the aisle and looked around the den of seats. People's eyes had turned around to watch him. Fortunately, the show had remained unperturbed.
"Oh, damn," Donovan drawled bleakly, "I almost thought my Christmas wish had come true."
Lifting up from his seat, John began to wave his hands to catch Sherlock's attention. Fortunately it had and the curly haired man began to manoeuvre towards his row of chairs.
"He's here." John hissed – inexplicably loudly – to Lestrade who nodded, red-faced.
"I can see." The inspector responded, shaking his head as he massaged his temples palely.
"What the hell happened to him?" Anderson gawped, referring to the fact that the detective was limping as he hopped through the row, forcing all the people to stand and to allow him through.
John, a little flustered, blurted out a couple of hushed apologies as people began to murmur around them. It was probably not the best time to mention that they weren't even related to anyone here.
Deciding not to talk anymore, John watched as Sherlock collapsed onto the seat he had saved for him. It was here that the darkness of the hall seemed to wither away and he realized something breathlessly important. The row of police specialists in front of them had also turned, watching Sherlock wheeze through his chest with arched brows.
"Is that… is that a cut lip?" Felix blinked widely as John spotted something rather peculiar.
"Sherlock," he nudged the other, eyeing the detective's slightly disoriented eyes, "…what the hell happened to your sleeve?"
His left shirt sleeve had been completely ripped off.
The curly haired man's lips parted slightly to answer. But then, the door slammed open again and this time the whole theatre heard. It was enough to prompt a few gasps around the people at the front.
"Oh, what have you done now?" John rasped rather painfully as three or so masked men entered the pitch black hall, holding machetes.
Cue, the screams. People began to jump up from their seats and as humans did, pushed each other hysterically to the walls in a dry attempt to find the exit.
"Someone call the police!"
Well, technically police was here.
John's eyes dashed to Lestrade instantaneously who had already withdrawn his gun and was approaching the mad dash of well –
Ninjas.
Donovan was on the phone. Anderson looked petrified. Felix looked a hundred percent ready to kick arse.
"Do you see what happens when you invite Freaks sir?" Donovan hissed abrasively as she shuffled after him.
The detective inspector hobbled tentatively towards the three, uniformed men. He had glanced at the stage to make sure that Abby was definitely not in danger before approaching. God. For Pete's sake.
This was a Nativity! A Nativity. He was already suffering from all sorts of health troubles. This was not making his already stressful day any easier. Amidst the haze of confusion was restlessness.
Greg Lestrade had always found danger somewhat interesting. This was very interesting.
But unnecessary.
"Put your weapon down!" He yelled over the still, inhospitable cries of the parents around him, "Down!"
One of the masked men quirked his head at Lestrade's face.
And dropped his machete. For a few seconds, all seemed well until the man wandered forwards and punched Lestrade straight in the nose.
Of course after that, it was pure carnage.
Lestrade's instinctive response was to punch the bloke back. It was his bar-brawl days returning as he took a swing and the masked man collapsed into the floor.
It was almost movie-like.
"John, for god's sake help!" Anderson screamed as the three men suddenly became six and flooded through the hall. Most of the parents had fled through the fire exit.
It was just a doctor, a passed out detective, a pissed off inspector, two moody sergeants and Anderson.
God bless them all. Yelling primitively, John left Sherlock's side and quickly joined in the action. The seemingly-foreign ninjas seemed perfectly happy to do this all without their sharps. Unfortunately for John, they were pretty good with their punches.
"Where the hell is your BACK UP!" John shrieked, ducking as the man's arm poised itself over his head.
"Backed up!" Donovan screeched back, "God! I haven't done this since the academy!"
Stumbling backwards, John found himself mounting on the stage.
And then he tripped.
His bum consequently fell on and crushed the manger.
Taking one of the shepherd's staves that had been left on the surface of the stage, he quickly recovered and began to smack the masked stranger on the shoulder. Except it was more like poking.
"Get… away from me!" the doctor screeched, inwardly deciding that Sherlock was going to be dead after this. If he wasn't dead already.
Taking swings and jabs at random directions, it never occurred to the doctor that he was slowly destroying the set. His long stave then beheaded one of the plastic sheeps and the reality collided with him.
Eyes glancing around at the damage, the man expressed a small hum of frustration.
"C'moooooon, where's the police... when you need it," the doctor chanted, shifting his weight on both heels.
Suddenly he realized that it wasn't movie-like at all. Because in movies, there was never that many injuries. And the heroes rarely ran around shrieking like Anderson was doing.
"I'm a bit busy!" the forensic specialist growled as he tried to fight off two masked assassins who seemed to have targeted him as the weakest.
John really tried not to laugh. He shouldn't. They could all be dead in five minutes. But he could only say one thing:
God bless Anderson.
If they live through this (which seemed a little unlikely at the moment), John had officially found respect for the bloke. Of course by admitting this, John had released his guard.
His body was throttled to the floor as the assassin gripped and squeezed the side of his throat. Choking, the doctor's eyes were beginning to fill up with pained tears until the mask man's grip disappeared.
Sherlock's pale face surfaced instead.
He was holding the headless body of a wax cow.
"All these assassins are for you!" was the first thing John managed as he got up, tone flustered as he pushed away the body of the passed out ninja, "how badly did you piss them off?"
"Very, badly," Sherlock responded with a small smile, "you alright?"
"Good. How's..."
There voices were drowned by the sound of police sirens. Relief.
It was then coupled by the sound of Lestrade swearing loudly as he was kicked in a rather, sensitive area.
"Oh," John blinked, watching the detective inspector bounce at one of the masked assassins attempting to kill him, "You do know that this was a children's nativity play right?"
Sherlock blinked.
"You were serious about that?"
John blinked, lamely.
"Oh god, Sherlock," the doctor shook his head, "Lestrade is going to kill you."
a/n - second installment tomorrow. hope you liked.
it was completely random. too much eggnog methinks.