Summary: A power outage leads to an introspective John.
A/N: This is not what I started out to write, but this is the story that apparently wanted to be told. Once again, huge thanks to my wonderful beta, sarajm.
As always, reviews and constructive criticisms are welcome.
Home
"And to recap our lead story, what is being touted as the 'Storm of the Century' is still making its presence felt across the majority of Britain. Unprecedented amounts of snow have been falling on London itself and the City is at a virtual standstill. The power grid is failing and the Government is advising residents to remain indoors and refrain from driving until further notice."
A sudden crackle and the radio signal was lost. John, who had been standing at the window looking out onto Baker Street, turned and walked over to the stereo; a quick scan through the channels showed that the majority of the stations were nothing but static, so he turned it off and walked back to the window.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said aloud, though there was no one to hear him. The scene outside the window reminded him of a snow globe he'd had as child. It looked like a giant hand had given London a quick shake and the snow was swirling around and amongst the buildings to land in gentle drifts.
A loud bang announced that a transformer had blown somewhere nearby. The lights in 221B flickered, but stayed lit. "Hmmm", thought John. "I'd better get prepared, I'm sure our lights aren't going to be on much longer." He quickly grabbed his jacket, pulled on his hiking boots, wrapped his scarf around his neck and ran down the stairs.
He ducked around the corner and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.
"John, you're not going out in this weather, are you? I just had the radio on and it sounds like it's getting worse out there", said Mrs. Hudson as she opened her door.
"No worries, Mrs. Hudson. I'm just going to get some wood from the pile near your bins. Can I go out through your place? I'll bring in some wood for you as well."
"Of course, dear. I just had the kettle boiling so I'll make us some tea while you're doing that. I suppose I should also pull out my emergency candles, too. Do you have extra candles upstairs? I'm sure I've got spares if you need some."
"Ta, Mrs. Hudson, you're an angel", answered John. "We did have candles but 'His Highness' used most of them for one of his experiments. But, I managed to hide a few in my room and I've also got a battery-powered lamp so I think we'll be fine for light. I'll just get us both set up with wood for the fireplaces and I think we'll be ready for anything the storm can throw at us."
A couple of trips later there were piles of logs and kindling sitting beside the fireplaces in both apartments, candles had been set out around the rooms and a couple of jugs had been filled with water, just in case.
John and Mrs. Hudson were sitting at her kitchen table enjoying a cup of tea and some biscuits when they heard the front door bang. "Sherlock's back", said John, as he stood up from the table.
"Tell him to come in and have a cup of tea. The poor dear must be freezing if he's been out in this weather", said Mrs. Hudson as she stood to get another tea cup.
John opened the door to Mrs. Hudson's apartment and saw something that he presumed to be Sherlock. At least, the tall yeti standing just inside the front door brushing snow off its shoulders and shaking its head back and forth like a wet dog was definitely Sherlock-shaped. Water and snow were flying everywhere.
"Sherlock!" barked the ex-Army Doctor. "You're making a mess. Where have you been? Mrs. Hudson is pouring you some tea as we speak, so get out of those wet things and get in here."
"This weather is utterly atrocious, John! I was forced to leave my experiment unfinished because the power went off at Bart's and apparently the generators are for 'emergency equipment only', and my work 'doesn't qualify'. Then, I couldn't get a cab and I had to take the Tube home. The Tube, John! Filled with the unwashed masses who were breathing on me!"
By this time, Mrs. Hudson had come out with a towel in her hands and began fussing over the lanky detective, trying to dry his hair and pull him out of his coat and saying "you get those wet shoes off your feet, young man! You'll catch your death! Go on upstairs and I'll bring you up some tea and a couple of biscuits. Just this once, mind; I'm not your housekeeper". Then she turned and headed back into her apartment.
As the two men headed up the stairs, one grumbling the entire way and the other catching various pieces of outerwear being flung down the stairs at him, the lights suddenly went out.
"Perfect! Just what I need. Could this day get any worse?" wailed Sherlock as he continued up the stairs and stepped into their sitting room.
"Calm down, Sherlock", said John as he came up behind him. "Just hold on a tick. I've got candles at the ready and the fire is laid. Just think … it'll be just like camping".
While he couldn't see his flat mate through the blackness, the doctor could certainly feel the glare being aimed at his back!
"I don't camp", retorted the detective with a sniff.
"Well, you do now", said John with a smirk in his voice as he went around the room lighting candles. Handing the now-affronted Sherlock a torch, he said, "You get changed and I'll go give Mrs. Hudson a hand." The doctor then turned and headed off down the stairs with light in hand and calling "Mrs. Hudson, hold on a minute. I'm coming to help."
Twenty minutes later found the residents of 221B Baker Street ensconced in Sherlock and John's sitting room, drinking tea, enjoying some homemade chocolate biscuits and chatting about the weather and life in general. Well, John and Mrs. Hudson were chatting; Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa in a sulk. It turned out that not only had the power gone out; the weather had also knocked out the mobile phone service. And, as the icing on the cake, Sherlock's laptop battery was dead. The world's only consulting detective was now in a communications black hole and he was not enjoying it at all.
"Why didn't you charge up my laptop, John?" demanded Sherlock. "You must have seen it was low on power".
"Unlike you, I use my own laptop – which, by the way, is out of power. Sorry. Anyway, how was I supposed to know yours was low on power?" asked John.
"I told you to plug it in as I was leaving."
"Sherlock, I was in my room when you left!" said John with great exasperation.
With a huff, the fully-grown child turned his back to the two of them, grabbed his phone and began desperately punching buttons in the hopes the phone service was up and running again.
"Sherlock, you do know that no matter how many times you hit the 'power' button on your phone, nothing's going to happen, right?"
"I'm not an idiot", said Sherlock, with a muttered 'not like some people' added on for good measure. "But now Lestrade can't get hold of me and with weather like this, you know the crime rates will escalate".
"Actually, Sherlock, if the criminals had any sense, they'd be staying in like the rest of us", said John. "But look at it this way … sure, Greg can't get hold of you right now … but neither can Mycroft!"
A slight chuckle came from the sofa and the curly-haired detective sat up with a smile. "You're right; I didn't think of that", said Sherlock, looking much happier now.
"Boys, it is just me or is it starting to get a little chilly in here?" asked Mrs. Hudson as she pulled her sweater tighter across her chest.
"I do believe you are correct. John, start the fire", intoned Sherlock with an imperious wave of his hand.
"Who died and made you King?" muttered the smaller man as he headed over to the fireplace. He'd already laid the logs and kindling so it was the work of about a minute and two matches to get the fire going.
As he knelt by the fire, slowly feeding in some bigger kindling, John stared into the flames, lost in memories. He'd always loved power outages when he was a kid: He loved sitting in the dark, playing cards by candlelight and helping his Mum put together some sort of meal over the fire. Then, after eating, they'd all snuggle together on the sofa under a couple of blankets, and his Dad would tell the best, and scariest, stories. Of course, that all changed when he and Harry hit their teenage years, but the memories still made him smile.
Looking around the room, John saw that the candles were burning merrily and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were now standing over by the window looking out into the darkened City and discussing what to do about dinner.
"I've got some soup downstairs in my fridge. I suppose we could heat it up over the fire if you've got a pot you don't mind ruining", said Mrs. Hudson.
"Mrs. Hudson, all our pots are pretty much ruined already, so I don't think setting one in the fire is going to make it any worse", answered Sherlock with a smile.
"Oh, you boys", said Mrs. Hudson with a fond sigh. "I'll head down and get the soup, if you'll find me a pot".
"Let me go", said Sherlock. "It's not safe for you to be wandering around in the dark. Just tell me where everything is and I'll be back up in no time."
"That's very sweet of you, Sherlock. The soup is in the fridge in a container with a blue lid, and there's a fresh loaf of bread on the counter. Bring that as well. Actually …..I've seen the state of your dishes; you'd better bring along some bowls and cutlery too", said Mrs. Hudson.
"Really, Mrs. Hudson. John does occasionally wash things with hot water, you know", retorted Sherlock.
"Yes dear, but I know you don't, so I'd feel much happier eating out of my bowls. Now go!"
With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock grabbed a torch and headed off down the stairs to do as he was told.
"He's a sweet boy, though very trying at times", said Mrs. Hudson as she turned towards John.
With a laugh and a nod of agreement, the doctor gestured for Mrs. Hudson to sit back down. "I'll find us a clean pot, then. You just relax. Is it warm enough for you, or would you like a blanket?"
"I'm fine, dear; this is perfect. You've built such a lovely fire. Thank you".
By the time John had found a clean pot, Sherlock was back with his arms laden with everything he'd been told to get. "I also brought some butter for the bread and the rest of your biscuits, Mrs. Hudson. After all, we wouldn't want them to go stale, would we?" said Sherlock, in the most innocent tone he could muster.
"Of course not", responded their landlady with a smile.
With the soup heating on the fire, John set the table and was busy slicing up the bread. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson was telling them a story about a childhood summer by the sea in Cornwall and a terrible storm that came up one day. All the while, the frustrated detective was half-listening as he paced around the room bemoaning the lack of internet service.
"Sherlock, will you relax! Here, dinner's ready so please just sit down and eat something", said John as he ladled the soup into the bowls.
"Fine", snapped Sherlock as he sat at the table and picked up his spoon, "but I'm not hungry".
"Whatever you say, dear. Here, have some bread", said Mrs. Hudson as she passed him the cutting board.
"Mrs. Hudson, this soup is delicious", said John after he swallowed his first mouthful.
"Oh, I'm so glad you like it. It's an old family recipe".
There was silence around the table as they enjoyed their simple meal. And for someone who wasn't hungry, Sherlock had two bowls of soup and three pieces of bread. John and Mrs. Hudson simply shared a look and a smile at Sherlock's expense.
"Just leave the dishes, Mrs. Hudson. I'll clean everything up and get your stuff back to you once the power's back on", said John as they all pushed back from table, full from their meal.
"If you're sure", said Mrs. Hudson.
As John was clearing the table, Sherlock stood up and started pacing the sitting room again, like a caged tiger, muttering under his breath all the while and on every second turn of the room, he'd stop in front of the window and glare out at the falling snow. He'd also been running his hands through his hair the entire time and it was starting to stick out all over his head. The lanky detective now resembled nothing less than an agitated poodle.
"Should we do something?" whispered Mrs. Hudson to John as she watched the consulting detective wander about the room in a tizzy.
"Maybe you could ask him to play?" said John, as he placed the dirty dishes in the sink.
"Sherlock …. would you play your violin for me? The piece I heard you playing a couple of days ago was just lovely. I'd love to hear more", said Mrs. Hudson to an obviously-frustrated Sherlock.
Sherlock turned with a start; he'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he'd forgotten Mrs. Hudson and John were still in the room. "Oh! Of course, Mrs. Hudson; I'd be happy to play for you". Sherlock picked up his violin, checked the tuning and then began a short series of finger exercises to warm up.
As Sherlock was preparing to play, John brought over a 'wee dram' to Mrs. Hudson who was now seated in Sherlock's chair with a blanket across her lap. John added some more wood to the fire, picked up his own drink and settled himself in his chair, the Union Jack pillow at his back.
As the tender sounds of the violin floated through the air, John took a look around the room and gave a sigh of great contentment. It was an odd room, but it suited him: the mess, the shadows playing across the skull on the mantle, the headphones perched on the cow's skull hanging on the wall (John still wasn't sure what the point of that was!). But, the house was filled with warmth from the fire, the gentle glow of candles and the joyful presence of dear friends.
The warmth and companionship had obviously settled into Sherlock as well, even if he would deride it as "sentiment" if anyone mentioned it. He was engrossed in his music, playing with his eyes half-shut and a gentle smile on his face. His hair even seemed to have relaxed in the quiet atmosphere.
"Home", thought John. "It may have taken me a while to find it, but this is definitely home".