Author's note: It's Mike Stamford's turn, and it takes place before the series.
I don't own anything, please review.
If there was one thing he hadn't expected when he became a teacher, it was this.
However, he had never paid much attention to what he might have been expecting, so he wasn't as confused as he could have been.
And at least he didn't have to spend Christmas Eve alone.
His parent had passed away a few years ago, and he didn't have many close friends – one of whom had invited him to dine with his family on Christmas Day, so he wasn't going to spend all the holiday alone in his flat and anyway, he didn't want to complain. He had a job he liked, he had friends, in short, he had everything he wanted.
And it couldn't hurt to grade a few papers on Christmas Eve.
That he'd forgotten part of them was a minor setback, but at least he could enjoy the Christmas lights on his drive there, and since almost no cars were on the streets, it wouldn't take long.
As he had suspected, the labs and offices of St. Bart's were deserted.
All but one.
He almost didn't notice it, too intent on getting back home and grade the last papers before celebrating with a nice glass of red wine.
Yet, in the corner of his eye, he suddenly saw a speck of light in the surrounding darkness.
Thinking that someone must have forgotten to turn it off, he decided to do it for them.
As it turned out, nobody had left the light on, for the simple fact that someone was in the lab.
Someone Mike had never seen before.
It was a man around thirty, thin and tall, wearing a suit, intently looking through a microscope.
Mike stood in the door, surprised.
He knew almost everyone who worked at Bart's – and this man didn't seem to belong here, for some reason.
In fact, looking at him, so completely focused, slightly shivering even though it wasn't that cold, the light from the ceiling only highlighting how thin and pale he was, he almost didn't seem to belong to the human race.
Mike shook his head; this was ridiculous. He'd simply ask the man what he was doing here. He had no doubt that he'd have an explanation – he couldn't imagine anyone breaking into a lab at Christmas Eve to experiment – and then Mike could go back to grading the papers, his curiosity satisfied.
He cleared his throat, but the man either didn't hear or decided to ignore him, so he stepped fully into the room and walked over to the desk the man was working on.
Next to him there was a file, and Mike glanced at it.
He was surprised to find that it was a police file, on a death that had taken place a few days ago. He even recognized the man's name because Molly Hooper, the nice new pathologist, had told him about the autopsy in the cafeteria. There had been some difficulties on finding the cause of death.
He cleared his throat again.
This time the man reacted.
He looked up and Mike was taken aback by the anger in his eyes, but only for a second.
Because, once he had taken the time to study the man's face –
He looked all but angry. In fact, he looked like he had the weight of the World on his shoulders, like he expected Mike to challenge his presence.
He tried to hide it. Somehow, Mike was sure that he would have succeeded if anyone else had stumbled upon him. That wasn't to say that Mike considered himself a good judge of character; he simply took the time to really look at a person before he talked to them.
This train of thought led to him smiling and saying, "Good evening, I'm Mike Stamford. And you are..."
Just for a second, the man seemed shocked. Then he recovered and answered, "Sherlock Holmes".
Silence filled the lab. Mike felt that he shouldn't ask for explanations, so he waited.
A moment later, the man added, "I am solving the Weston case for the police".
At the time, Mike didn't realize the strange wording – "for the police", not "with the police" – and nodded, whatever fears he had harboured before gone. No one would consider using this explanation. It was far too unbelievable to be used by a burglar.
"Molly Hooper told me about it. Have you figured out the cause of death yet?"
At his introduction, the man had seemed shocked; now, he looked surprised. Almost as if he hadn't thought Mike would believe him.
The man cleared his throat, and his face became an impersonal unreadable mask.
"Nicotine. I can't believe the police overlooked it; it isn't the easiest to trace, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't have paid attention to it. Since there was no weapon involved and a healthy man was found dead in his flat, locked from the inside, one would suppose they would consider everything..."
He trailed off and studied Mike, and the teacher had the strange feeling that this man – Sherlock Holmes – was looking right into his soul.
"Not a doctor – but evidently studied at Bart's, you're far too comfortable in this place not to have been here long – teacher then. Of course; there's a stain on the second finger of your right hand that indicates you wrote a lot in the past few hours, since if you hadn't been busy, you would have washed your hands – you have been grading papers. Single, parents deceased; no siblings, but there has to have been a relative you were close to, since you are wearing a rather cheap watch that you would have replaced if it hadn't been the gift of someone who was important to you – the watch is at least ten years old, but you are still wearing it, which suggests the person you were close to died, otherwise they would probably have given you a new one by now; therefore, you have no family left; nonetheless cheerful at this date, therefore you have friends, one of whom has most likely invited you to dinner tomorrow."
All of this was said so quickly that Mike needed a moment or two to comprehend what Sherlock had been talking about.
Once he realized, he answered, "You are right. Almost. The watch was a present from a cousin who died almost nine years ago".
It had been an accident, and Mike still lighted a candle for him whenever he happened to have the time and pass by a church.
Sherlock murmured "There's always something" and turned back to his microscope, obviously thinking the conversation was over.
Mike decided that it wasn't.
"So you are working with the police?"
Sherlock looked up again and frowned.
"They were not able to establish the cause of death. This will not do. I have decided to rectify their mistake".
He sounded so certain, so sure that only he could solve the case that Mike couldn't help but stare at him.
Especially since he had finally realized why the man was shivering.
He might not be a practicing doctor – he certainly hadn't treated patients since he graduated, being a teacher suited him just fine – but he recognized the hunger in Sherlock's eyes and the tremor for what it was.
Sherlock was experiencing withdrawal symptoms. Mike suspected that he wouldn't be allowed to work with the police if he was still taking drugs, so he must have quit. Not that long ago, but not just now either; the withdrawal symptoms would otherwise be too bad for him to stand in the lab.
He felt more than saw Sherlock tense and decided to say nothing.
"And, do you have an idea?"
He was not being polite; he was genuinely interested what this strange man could have found in a lonely lab on Christmas Eve.
Sherlock was silent for a moment before answering, "nicotine".
That explained why the police hadn't yet established a cause of death. Nicotine was difficult to trace.
It didn't explain why Sherlock was here at this time, though, rather than being cared for. He was obviously clever, and the police certainly could use someone who figured out people's life stories by looking at them; but – he was here on Christmas Eve, experiencing withdrawal symptoms, and no one seemed to care.
At least no one had come in during the time they had talked, which suggested that he was indeed here alone.
Sherlock was writing something down, obviously thinking that Mike was going to leave, but the teacher couldn't find it in himself to do so.
"And the case prevented you from celebrating, I gather" he said next.
Sherlock looked up. He gave Mike a confused look.
"Celebrating?"
If he had been talking to anyone else he'd ever met at Bart's, Mike would have been certain he was being made fun of. But Sherlock – he was genuinely confused on why anyone should think he was celebrating.
"Christmas?" he asked, "as you correctly pointed it, this is no day to be alone". Sherlock frowned.
"I fail to see why a date set by the Christian church in order to facilitate the pagan's acceptance of Christianity should be of any significance to me".
Somehow, Mike had the feeling that "Because it's Christmas" wouldn't be an acceptable answer, so he said nothing.
"The work is important" Sherlock added, and Mike understood that for this strange man, solving a murder when he should have been cared for and helped through withdrawal, it was, more than anything. He couldn't say that he understood him completely; he loved being a teacher, but he couldn't imagine spending all his time teaching and doing nothing else – what Sherlock's words were clearly implying – but he was glad that there was something to keep Sherlock away from drugs, something he valued more than the next high.
However –
Spending Christmas Eve alone, and not expecting anyone to think of him on Christmas Day, must be depressing. He refused to believe otherwise. It was Christmas.
And somehow –
He couldn't say why, but it seemed that Sherlock was more comfortable now than he had been when he'd first spoken to him, and it probably had something to do with Mike not challenging his presence, accepting his explanation, not asking about the obvious withdrawal symptoms.
He couldn't say why, but it made the teacher feel good about himself. He'd always liked people to be comfortable when he was around.
And he didn't think Sherlock had many people he was comfortable around.
Despite the younger man not believing in celebrating Christmas, Mike decided that he might just have done a good deal today.
And then he made another decision.
"How did you figure out it had to be nicotine? Or did you make as many tests as you could before you found it?"
They way Sherlock's head shot up and the twinkle in his eyes as he started to explain why nicotine had been the only logical choice told him he'd made the right decision.
He chose to grade the papers he'd taken with him from his office in the lab, keeping Sherlock silent company, once he had finished his explanation. The other man didn't comment on it, in fact, it looked like he'd forgotten he was even there, but Mike felt that he hadn't.
He left only when Sherlock texted the freshly-made Inspector he was apparently working the case with and who, Mike understood, would come by immediately, whether it was Christmas or not.
The younger man only mumbled something under his breath when he told him he was going home, but he did look up from his phone when the teacher stood by the door and said, "Merry Christmas".
He didn't reply, not with words; but he stared at Mike, surprise written on his face, and nodded.
Mike smiled and left.
Driving back home, he reflected that it hadn't been a bad Christmas Eve after all.
And certainly not a lonely one.
For both of them, he hoped.
Author's note: This... happened.
I hope you liked it, please review.
