A/N: This is a revision of "First Christmas" which became necessary due to the events that occurred in "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch." The only significant changes have to do with the Christmas Eve service.
Apologies to my readers. This was all because I altered my original timeline of events in John & Sherlock's relationship.
Christmas & what came of it
It's actually late January now, and I haven't made any of these personal (password protected and unpublished) updates for awhile. I've been busy with work, and Sarah, and with helping Sherlock now and again. It's hard to believe that I've lived on Baker Street almost a year now. There hasn't been any major cases for awhile though, it's been fairly quiet since the Russian Mafia case (the one I call "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch" but never put on the blog), just a lot of little cases that Sherlock is often able to solve without even leaving the flat after he hears the details. But for his sake, I'm glad to see him keeping busy. As I mentioned, I'm still seeing Sarah; I definitely love her and we have such a good time together…but more on that later.
I just wanted to back up to Christmas because it was, obviously, my first Christmas on Baker Street and with Sarah.
All through December I had been puzzling over what to give Sherlock and Sarah. I hadn't discussed exchanging gifts at all, but I knew I wanted to get them each something. The problem was what? As anyone could imagine, Sherlock's a bit difficult to shop for. I was also fretting over what to do for Sarah, as money is still a bit tight for me.
I was really wracking my brains and starting to stress out about it when Christmas was just one week away. I was flipping through the paper, looking for ideas while Sherlock was playing his violin. I didn't know what piece it was, but it was lovely. Gradually, the music sucked me in and eventually I put down the paper.
"That was beautiful, what was that?" I asked when he stopped.
"A few of Mendelssohn's Lieder. You are a generous audience. But I wouldn't want to be compared against a professional."
That's when I had THE IDEA. It seemed so obvious I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I gathered up the paper, looked through it, but couldn't find what I was looking for.
Sherlock had begun playing another piece, so I slipped out to my room to surf the internet in privacy. I was successful and extremely pleased with myself. Not only had I come up with what I thought was a great idea for Sherlock, but also (with modification) the same gift could also be given to Sarah.
The morning of Christmas Eve came, and over breakfast Sherlock suddenly asked me if I was free that evening. "Yes, I am, why?"
"Well, I was planning on going to church this evening; I always do on Christmas Eve. I like to attend the Festival of 9 Lessons and Carols. It's the one tradition from my childhood that I still hang on to. Plus, it has the added benefit of getting me out of going to Mycroft's for the evening. He can't really argue with me putting God in front of him. Would you like to come with me?"
I was a little stunned at first. Sherlock seemed like the last person in the world that would want to go to church. But then I realized the meaning of his words: the one tradition of my childhood that I still hang on to. Of course. The memory of what I had recently learned about Sherlock's family was still very fresh. My heart seemed determined to climb up into my throat. Sherlock was asking me to share in what had to be very complicated (to say the least) childhood memories. This was totally unexpected. But, as he had kept his tone very casual, I followed his lead.
"Sure, it sounds nice. Sarah is going to be with her family tonight. We were going to see each other tomorrow, so let's go!"
That evening saw us in St. Mary's. I hadn't been to church in years.
Sherlock had seemed a little tense and withdrawn on the way over. He steered us over to the back of the church. Once the service began he seemed to gradually relax. Evidently he had the entire service memorized, his lips moved not just along with the carols but with the scripture readings as well. He appeared to forget that I was even there. I spent most of the time making sure that I didn't pay too much attention to him. It felt a little awkward, I didn't want to intrude on his privacy, but on the other hand he had asked me to come with him.
When the service ended, he turned and smiled at me with slightly reddened eyes.
"Happy Christmas John."
"Happy Christmas."
We made our way through the crowd and back out for a cab. It was a clear night, crisp and cold, with the bright winter stars snapping in the sky. During the cab ride home Sherlock was silent, looking out the window. I felt like I should say something, but I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.
"Sherlock, thanks for asking me to come with you tonight," I finally said.
He turned and looked at me for a long moment, his face was unreadable. "Thanks for coming," he eventually replied, and turned back to the window. After a pause he added, "the Christmas I was ten was the last year we went as a family."
If he had been any other friend or family member I would have reached over and given him a hug. But to do that to Sherlock Holmes seemed like too much of an imposition. So instead I reached over and gave his shoulder something between a pat and a rub. To my great surprise he reached up and placed his gloved hand over mine for a second before returning it to his coat pocket.
After we got back and had some hot tea brewing Sherlock said, "I avoid him Christmas Eve, but there's no avoiding Christmas dinner with Mycroft tomorrow. So I was thinking I would give you your present now."
"Oh!"
"Hang on just a minute and I'll get it."
While he was occupied, I ran to my room and got his.
He came out of his room carrying a fairly good-sized box. "It's really not much of a gift," he said. "I mean, in a way, it's downright self-serving. But I hope you will accept it just the same."
"OK, well, here is yours." I handed him a sealed envelope.
"I'm not opening this until you open yours."
"All right."
I opened the box and discovered a collection of books. I lifted the first one, a slim volume titled: Trails of Tobacco: How to Identify 140 Varieties of Cigarette, Cigar, and Pipe Ash. It was by Sherlock.
"Sherlock! I didn't know you were an author!"
"Oh, I can assure you I've never hit the bestseller lists, but I have published a few minor pieces in my field." He looked pleased by my reaction.
I looked through the rest of the box which he said contained the complete published works of Sherlock Holmes. They were bound and published by various universities.
"This is amazing! I can't wait to read them," I said.
"Well, keep in mind that they are technical pieces, intended for specialists. They aren't exactly meant to be read for pleasure." But behind the protests, he had a satisfied smile.
"Open one up," he prodded.
I opened one titled The Book of Life (only Sherlock would have the audacity to use such a title, I thought) and found a written dedication: To my friend John with warmest regards, Sherlock. A fairly standard inscription, but coming from Sherlock, who had previously claimed to have no heart and no friends, I understood the significance of the words. A lump formed in my throat.
"Thanks, Sherlock. That's really…I'll treasure them forever." I cleared my throat. "OK, open yours now."
He opened the envelope and then opened the enclosed card. He grasped the tickets inside and read out loud what I had written in the card: "I suggest that two people who like each other go out and have fun - but it's not a date." He chuckled, looked at the tickets and said, " Touché and thank you. Tickets to the London Symphony Orchestra! I haven't been for years. It will be fun. Thanks John. Hmmm...Shostakovich Violin Concerto Number 1! That's a surprise." He shot me a glance, then quickly smiled. "But I'm not criticizing." He seemed anxious to make sure he didn't hurt my feelings, which showed that he has changed in the months since I've met him.
He continued, "I haven't had my evening wear out for three years, since being bribed into going to a state dinner with Mycroft. I hope it still fits."
My feeling of dismay must have shown on my face because he chuckled.
"I see Dr. John H. Watson does not own evening attire."
"I'm an army doctor, why would I? And what's wrong with my nice suit?"
"You can't attend the LSO in a business suit! I'm ashamed you would even think of it!"
How did my gift go so horribly wrong?
"Sherlock, I can't possibly afford..."
"Nonsense! I know someone who can fix you up at a very reasonable price, trust me. And as long as you don't gain or lose more than a stone or so, with minor alterations you'll be set for life, or at least a few decades. And, as the concert is only two weeks away, we had best try to see him as soon as possible." He was texting as he spoke.
"Sherlock! It's Christmas Eve! You can't possibly be texting your tailor!"
"I'm sending him the greetings of the season, and he doesn't have to answer if he doesn't want to."
Much to my amazement, Sherlock received a response 10 minutes later.
"We have an appointment for 9am on Boxing Day," he reported triumphantly.
I sighed my usual sigh, once again acknowledging that I had no control over the situation. I was trying not to be bitter that my gift had turned against me.
On Christmas Day I slept in late, as I had no plans to get together with anyone that morning. By the time I got up Sherlock was on his way out.
"Wish me luck with Mycroft."
"Be nice, he is your brother, after all, and it's Christmas."
"Physician, heal thyself," he quipped and then was gone. He made me feel a little ashamed, I hadn't even thought about Harry. I sent her a brief text to which she briefly responded. I felt better, but still didn't miss seeing her. Maybe next year.
At 11:30 I texted Sarah to see when she would like to get together. She was over within the hour. She showed up lugging a large hamper.
"Happy Christmas John! I've brought you Christmas brunch! I know you guys never keep anything decent to eat around here."
It was quite the feast. Somehow she managed to pack a mountain of food plus two bottles of champagne. She had also brought a large quilt. We cleared a space on the floor in front of the fireplace (the kitchen table was occupied, as usual, by one of Sherlock's experiments), took off all the furniture cushions for sitting and reclining, and had a glorious picnic.
Over the next several hours we slowly nibbled and sipped our way through the contents of the hamper while talking, laughing, and kissing. I really think it was my best Christmas ever.
About halfway through the second bottle of champagne Sarah admitted with giggles that the meal was my Christmas present.
"Oh, then let me get yours," I said, and I handed her an envelope.
She opened the card and found the tickets I had purchased for an upcoming performance of Romeo and Juliet. She squealed with delight and we rolled around on the floor for a few minutes laughing and kissing like teenagers. Then, one of us spilled our champagne, so we decided it would be safer if we just passed the bottle back and forth.
Well, I think I need hardly describe the rest of the afternoon, but I will say that we had a really fun time and a nice long nap as well.
It was probably around 7pm, and Sarah and I were curled up in our nest of cushions like a couple of kittens when I heard the front door open. I was so drowsy and comfortable that I didn't feel like moving. Sarah was sound asleep. I could hear Sherlock come up the stairs, then come into the sitting room. I still couldn't be bothered to move. I was so warm and cozy! Sherlock evidently was just standing there, probably reading the history of our day in the objects surrounding us. I had the vague idea that I wanted to ask him how the day with Mycroft went, but I just couldn't summon the energy. After a minute I heard him go into his room and softly close the door.
I drowsed off again, but at about 9pm Sarah and I both woke up again. After a lot of yawning, stretching, quiet giggling and kissing, we decided Christmas was over and we'd better clean up. A few minutes and a full trash bin later saw Sarah packed up and ready to leave. I saw her safely into a taxi, then came back upstairs. I half-expected Sherlock to emerge from his room, but he never did.
The next morning was the appointment with the tailor. On our way over I asked Sherlock how his Christmas with Mycroft went.
"Same as always. I don't want to discuss it. Although, he was a bit put out that you didn't come."
"Me? Why on earth..."
"You'll have to ask him," he said in a way that closed the discussion. After a pause he said, "I take it you and Sarah had a good time."
For a moment, the warm, happy glow of yesterday suffused me. "Oh yes we did." I realized I was grinning like an idiot. Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing.
We arrived at a small tailor's shop where Sherlock was greeted with considerable warmth by the proprietor. It turns out that of course he's a former client who benefitted greatly from Sherlock's work on his behalf.
Sherlock abandoned me there, saying he had a potential client to meet, but assured me I was being left in good hands.
I tried to explain to Mr. Poole that I did not have a lot of money and was hoping to get something very cheap and not to go to much bother. My concerns were dismissed. "For you, no problem. You pay when and what you can - £5 per month - whatever!"
He proceeded to take measurements of every possible dimension of my body while I felt as if I had become the star of some bizarre version of "Pretty Woman." After that was done he told me to come back in a week for my first fitting (first?).
Fast forward to the night of the concert...
Sherlock and I arrived at the Barbican by taxi, and made our way to coat check. I was extremely nervous, as I had never worn formal attire before. As we checked in our coats, I started looking cautiously around at the crowd. My heart sank down into my shoes.
"Sherlock!" I hissed.
"What?"
"I don't know if anyone has told you this or not, but Queen Victoria died about 100 years ago."
"What?"
"And apparently the tradition of wearing evening clothes to concerts died with her!"
"What are you going on about?"
"Look! Sherlock! No one else is dressed like we are!"
"Ah, but they wish they were!" He was smiling, his eyes full of mischief. I could have punched him.
"Relax," he went on, "Trust me, there will be others. You just don't see any right now. Come on, let's go find our seats."
I had to admit, as I followed him through the crowd, that he drew many admiring glances. He has a tall, slim, elegant figure anyway, and his usual air of self-assurance suited the formal clothes. I felt like a duck paddling in the wake of a swan. What really galled me is that even if the entire crowd were pointing and laughing, it still wouldn't give him a moment's concern.
Well, we found our seats, and the rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Sherlock was right, there were others in formal attire, although I pointed out that none of the other men in fancy dress seemed to be under the age of 90.
On the way home, Sherlock thanked me again. "This has been great fun. I had quit going to these sorts of things because people would try to strike up conversations with me. I suppose it's assumed that a person alone wants company."
When we arrived home we sat in the sitting room for a few minutes, loosening our ties and taking off our shoes.
"Well," I said, "Maybe Mycroft will start inviting me to state dinners so I'll have a reason to wear this bloody thing again."
I saw Sherlock's eyes light up.
"I'm kidding Sherlock, KIDDING!"
