Chapter 7: Baker Street, the Twenty-Fifth of December

On Christmas morning, Mycroft Holmes ignored any observances beyond a large breakfast of sausages and sweet buns. It was a holiday indulgence, his one treat to himself. Otherwise he kept to a strict calories-counting, diet-and-exercise regimen. He had been, to put it delicately, a hefty youth. Never again.

In the afternoon, he donned a coat and dark burgundy scarf (it was as festive as he ever got), and had his driver take him to 221B Baker Street. Though Mycroft and Sherlock were not in the habit of spending Christmas together, or even of exchanging gifts, this year he would have to break that tradition. In two more days, Sherlock would be at the end of his thirty-day grace period, and to avoid a stiff governmental fine, he had only seventy-two more hours to register a new ward.

Exemption indeed. Mycroft knew this would happen. Which was why, as his happy Christmas present to his little brother, he was gifting Sherlock a ward: a sixty-five-year-old man most recently called Abraham who was, at this very moment, en route to the Holmes estate to be taken care of with Mycroft's other elderly wards (currently, he had three). All Sherlock had to do was sign on the dotted line. If Abraham's health remained steady, Mycroft estimated another twenty years during which Sherlock wouldn't have to give another thought to hosting, and it would be a merry Christmas for all, though he doubted very much he would get so much as a mumbled thank you for it.

But when he rang the bell, Sherlock was not at home.

Nor was Mrs Hudson.

Mycroft waved the driver away, pulled out his copy of a key, and let himself in.

The first thing he noticed was that Mrs Hudson had overdone it on the pinecones and garland: the entry hall smelt like an Albanian forest. Mycroft stomped his boots clean of the snow that had dared to cling on between kerb and door, hung his hat on the rack, and went upstairs, where he planned to pour himself a whiskey and smoke until Sherlock got home. That was his other gift: second-hand smoke. He was generous indeed.

He was surprised, however, to see just how tidy the sitting room was. Immaculate, even. He'd never seen the place so neat, and it perplexed him that his slob of a brother would—not clean it himself, oh no, that would be entirely out of character—hire someone, or even allow someone, to take an organising hand and disinfectant sponge to his hovel.

And a few other things were off. Aside from the fairy lights Mrs Hudson made Sherlock string every year around the mantle, Mycroft spotted a microscope on the kitchen table. Had his toys finally spilt out of the playhouse, then? Their mother's tea set (Mycroft was still sore that Sherlock had ended up with it) was out of the cupboard and casually pushed into the corner of the counter, waiting to be hand-washed. Three teacups had been used last night, judging by the withering look of a slice of lemon on one saucer. Three cups. Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, and . . . who else would Sherlock entertain? A client? That detective inspector from the Yard? But with their mother's tea set! Sherlock should have known better. That was a pre-War antique!

So distracted by the new and perplexing state of the flat was he that he put out of his mind entirely his desire for a whiskey.

Then he heard the door downstairs open and close. Aha. He was back. Seconds passed in silence. Sherlock was evidently taking his time to remove his winter wear, scowl at the presence of Mycroft's hat, and steel himself for an argument. Meanwhile, Mycroft tugged his waistcoat and turned just so, knowing he cut an impressive figure where he stood by the hearth. Sherlock would sneer, seeing him there, and the diatribes would begin.

But those weren't Sherlock's steps ascending the stairs. They were graceless, uneven, and Mycroft felt his imperious posturing slip into something he loathed: disorientation. And when the strange-looking creature appeared in the doorway, he had the altogether bizarre sensation of thinking, however briefly, that he had entered the wrong flat: 223B or something.

The man stopped short upon seeing him. Well, not exactly. Stopped short wasn't quite the word. Froze, perhaps. Though a small man, he wasn't exactly young, perhaps just a few years younger than himself. His dark blond hair was cut close to the scalp. His nose and cheeks were ruddy from the cold. At his side, he carried a laundry sack, twisted at the neck. Laundry? On Christmas day?

More to the point, who was he? He couldn't readily deduce, so he was forced to ask directly:

'Who the devil are you?'

'John,' said the man, though without much conviction, almost like he wasn't sure.

'Where the bloody hell is Sherlock? And what are you doing in his flat? And with his laundry?'

The man, John, looked down at the laundry sack, embarrassed. 'I thought I would finish the laundry, sir, while Mr Holmes was at work, but when I arrived at the launderette, sir, it was closed, sir.'

'Of course it's closed! It's Christmas!'

'I didn't realise, sir.' He seemed incapable of making eye contact.

'And what do you mean, at work? You mean he has a case?'

'Police came early this morning, sir, and he left with them.'

He also seemed incapable of lifting his chin more than a few inches of above his neck.

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Leaving with the police could mean one of two things: a case, or arrest. He hoped he didn't have to spend his Christmas bailing Sherlock out because he had nicked confidential police files again, or been busted for illegal narcotics, or any number of past offences. But that still didn't answer the question of this John.

And then he spotted the bracelets. They were tucked under the cuffs of John's coat, but then John shifted, apparently to relieve pressure on a leg, and that's when Mycroft spotted them. Identifying bracelets. He was a ward. The question, though (and he feared he already knew the answer), remained: who was the ward's host?

'What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?' he asked.

'He is my host, sir.'

Damn. Damn damn damn. That fool of a genius brother of his! Selecting a ward without the benefit of Mycroft's good opinion? Was he of good stock? Was his history without blemish? His temperament above reproach? His health top rate? Had Sherlock even done his research? Because at one glance, Mycroft was pretty damn sure this ward was none of those things.

'Come here, ward.'

The ward set the laundry sack aside and obediently crossed the room to him, stopping a few paces short. Mycroft pulled out his phone and brought up the MI5 Ward ID app.

'Show me.'

The ward began to turn away.

Mycroft grabbed his shoulder and roughly turned him back, ignoring the little cry trapped in the ward's throat, behind closed lips. 'No,' he said. 'Be still. Left arm. Now.'

The ward's breathing had turned shallow, but he lifted his left arm, palm up, and Mycroft seized the wrist, bypassed the black bracelet, and pushed the coat and shirt sleeves up to mid-forearm. There, he saw, not the registration tattoo, but a mass of shiny scar tissue where it should have been. He scowled, and pushed the sleeve higher. Sometimes, it was placed in the crook of the arm. But there was nothing on this ward's skin.

Then he understood. And he was annoyed.

'Turn around.'

As the ward had intended on doing, he turned, and bent his neck forward. Mycroft yanked down the collar of the coat and shirt, exposing the unusually placed tattoo. He then snapped a photo of it with his app reader, and the file floated up.

He released the ward and reviewed the file. It was true. Sherlock was listed as the present host. But the file didn't stop there, and Mycroft's frown deepened with every passing second.

'Is that how he came by you?' He stepped closer, knowing his comparable size and comportment would intimidate the already cowed ward. 'Were you just another of his cases, the maimed ward of an unstable host? Mm? Speak up!'

'I was placed in a pound, sir. Mr Holmes found me there.'

'A pound? Bloody hell, you're a mess. Look at me. Don't look at your shoes, look at me.'

Mycroft was standing so close the ward had to tilt his head back to comply.

'What are you, then? A curiosity, a specimen, one of his experiments? Why did he choose you?'

'I cannot say, sir.'

'What has he done to you?'

'Sir?'

'If you think there is anyone in all of New Britain who understands Sherlock better than I, you are sorely mistaken, so listen well. Sherlock has only one passion, and that is crime. Not rescue wards. He does not do charity. He is not a philanthropist. He does not have a compassionate soul. He wants to use you for something, something to satisfy some greater need, and I'm asking you what.'

The ward could no longer keep his eyes locked onto Mycroft's. He dropped his head and said again, 'I cannot say, sir.'

'Cannot or will not?'

A pause. 'I suppose either, sir.'

'Are you being impertinent?'

'No sir. I mean only, sir, that I am Mr Holmes' ward. The business of his house is his own, and not mine to tell to a stranger.'

'Stranger!'

The ward shifted his weight. Mycroft could tell that he wanted to back away, but to his credit, he kept his place. 'I do not know you, sir, nor why you are in Mr Holmes' flat.'

Mycroft laughed without amusement. 'You're very loyal. Very quickly.'

'No sir. I'm just a ward.'

Mycroft grabbed the ward under the chin and lifted his head, forcing him to make eye contact. 'And just what kind of ward would that be?' The ward swallowed, which was difficult, given the angle at which Mycroft held his head, but he didn't answer. He was holding his breath, unwilling or unable to answer. 'All those hosts you've had, being shunted from one place to another. You're trouble, aren't you?'

The ward tried to shake his head no, but Mycroft held firm at the chin, restricting any movement at all.

'You're a runner, I know that much. What else? A firebrand? A schemer? A thief?'

'No sir,' the ward said, straining to talk. His eyes had begun to burn with pain.

'Aha. A liar as well.'

Mycroft dropped the ward's head but seized his left arm, once again jerking the fabric away to reveal the scar tissue.

'You did this to yourself, didn't you?'

'Please, sir . . .'

'Why did you do it? And do not lie to me.'

The ward was not fighting, but Mycroft was furious, and his fingers dug into the lesser man's skin. The ward trembled in terror. Good, thought Mycroft. He should be afraid of a man like me. But just as the ward began to accede and nod his head, from the entrance to the flat came a dark voice of anger.

'Take your damn hands off him.'

Both Mycroft's and the ward's heads turned to the door, where Sherlock stood wide-eyed and enraged. At his side, he carried a small box, wrapped in black paper and affixed with a blue ribbon and bow.

But Sherlock had no business being angry with him. Mycroft wasn't the one who had gone out and bought a problem instead of a ward, and then neglected even to mention it. It was Mycroft who was rightfully incensed.

'Whatever happened to your exemption?' Mycroft said before Sherlock could get in another word. He threw the ward's arm away from him, because to do anything less would be to admit penitence to his little brother, a thing he'd not done since they were children and Mummy had made him say sorry. The ward spun halfway around and caught himself on the edge of the armchair.

'I changed my mind.' Sherlock stalked closer. 'Now get out.'

'And a happy Christmas to you, too.'

'John, if you wouldn't mind heading upstairs for a few minutes while I deal with the intruder.'

Mycroft glowered. 'Why yes, and John, while you're at it, why don't you go ahead and pack yourself a bag. I'll be taking you with me and assisting in your relocation.'

In that moment, a curious exchange took place between his brother and the ward. It happened so quickly that Mycroft almost missed it: the ward blanched and his frightened eyes sought Sherlock's before falling away, but otherwise his body was frozen against the armchair. Sherlock's expression was less readable for someone who didn't know how to read Sherlock Holmes as well as Mycroft did. It said, I'm in control; you're not going anywhere. And though they met eyes for only a fraction of a second, the ward seemed to understand the message. It was less certain whether he believed it.

'The hell you will,' said Sherlock. 'This is John's house, and I am his host, and you are not welcome here. Go on, John. Tell him to get out of your house.'

Mycroft laughed out loud at the look of shock now registering on the ward's face. 'He is one of your experiments, isn't he? Good lord, Sherlock, has your boredom finally driven you mad? What about Mummy's invaluable tea set, then, eh? You barely trust yourself to touch it, and you're letting this waif of a ward serve you from the entire spread? He'll destroy it for sure. Don't give me that look, it's a sign of things to come. You really have no idea the bull you've released into china shop, do you?'

'Oh please—'

'You may have seen his list of past hosts—seventeen, was it?—but only I have access to the details of his past, a key to the confidential gate that keeps lowly hosts like you from knowing the full story. Don't you want to know his story, Sherlock? Might make you change your mind.'

The ward's right fist began to shake a little, and he turned his body to try to hide it. But Mycroft had also pricked a nerve with Sherlock. He saw the curiosity in his eyes warring with his deepening frown; historically, he had refused to accept anything from Mycroft. But now, he was tempted.

After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock finally said, 'John's past is his own. Let him keep it.'

'You're a stubborn idiot,' said Mycroft.

'If you've come here just to mock me—'

'I came to tell you that I've found a solution to your problem! I found you a ward. A better ward. One more suited to your lifestyle. One you don't have to even look at.'

This ward, this John, really was a sad-looking creature.

'Pass,' said Sherlock.

'You're being unreasonable.'

'You're being nosey. And unwelcome.'

'So you've made clear.'

Sherlock stepped aside and extended his hand toward the door. His teeth were clenched and his eyes burned with fury. Mycroft knew there was no sense trying to talk with him when he was like this. He had been caught unprepared to defend what he must have known was a bad decision. Now he was being irrationally defensive.

But as he headed for the door, Mycroft couldn't restrain himself from making one last comment. 'You have many regrets in your life, little brother. Shall you add yet another to the lot?'

'Merry Christmas,' said Sherlock, 'and let that suffice for the next ten Christmases. Goodbye.'

The moment Mycroft crossed the threshold, Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

The only guilt Mycroft felt was in imagining what Mummy might think, if she saw her sons behaving this way. On Christmas day, of all days.


'Well,' said Sherlock with false cheer, trying to recover the moment, 'I see you've met my nemesis.'

'He was in the flat when I returned, sir,' John hastened to explain. 'I didn't let him in. I . . . perhaps I forgot to lock the door? Or—'

'No no, he has a key. He's always letting himself in, as if he has any right to do so, and if he weren't such a prominent bigwig, I'd have him arrested for trespassing. I still might. The charges won't hold, but . . . Wait a minute, what did you say? Returned from where?'

But his scanning eyes had already found the sack of laundry by the sofa.

'John, were you doing chores?'

'Yes sir.'

'On Christmas?'

'I did not remember the day, sir.'

'Shit. That's my fault. Lestrade called before sunrise with a case. There's always a case on Christmas. That's the beauty of shoving people who hate each other into the same room and forcing them to share a pudding and pull a cracker. It's bound to lead to murder somewhere. In this case, Whitechapel. Poison, is my highly educated guess, awaiting confirmation by the lab, and with five prime suspects, all in paper crowns, it was a classic whodunit . . .'

And Sherlock had promised to bring John. On his next case, that's what he had promised to do. Dammit, he'd forgotten. He'd been so excited, he'd hurried out the door without so much as a good morning, let alone a happy Christmas, to join a disgruntled Lestrade, who for some reason didn't share in his delight at Christmas morning murders.

It also occurred to Sherlock that his Christmas treat had meant leaving John—who undoubtedly had not had a proper Christmas in a long, long time—to his own devices. And what did a ward like John do when left alone? Did he sulk, or feel abandoned, or treat himself to any holiday indulgences? No. He worked.

'Did you find who did it, sir?' John asked. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his wrist where Mycroft had been holding him.

Oh. A question. The man was curious. Now Sherlock was especially repentant he hadn't thought to bring him along.

'It was the family matriarch,' said Sherlock, now distracted. The excitement of the case was already slipping away. 'Did he hurt you?'

John pulled his hands apart. 'No sir.'

'You can tell me if he did.'

'I'm not hurt, sir.'

Sherlock sighed. 'He had no right even to touch you. I'm sorry. That oaf brother of mine works for the British government. He thinks he is the British government, and that he can do just about anything and get away with it. I won't let it happen again.'

'He is your brother?'

'Mycroft. And I wouldn't claim him if I could find some other way around it. Erm.'

He looked down at his hand, in which he held the small gift he had bought a few days before after seeing it in a shop window and then hid (child-like) on the top shelf in the downstairs cupboard where John (bless his shortness) wouldn't spot it. He had even had it gift wrapped because, well, because it was Christmas. But he was Sherlock Holmes, and he didn't give Christmas presents! Not even to Mrs Hudson, unless one counted the wreath now hanging on the outside door and that bottle of strong cider she liked so well. But, well, he had always lived alone, and acknowledging the holiday had seemed pointless before now. Yet here he was, bearing gifts.

'Sir,' said John, 'if I may, I just wanted to say, I'm not . . . that is, I shan't . . . I mean, the things I've done, before, the things Mr Holmes, your brother, said he knows—'

'Nope. Not a word. It's not important.'

'I'll not use the tea set again.'

'Please do. Some things aren't meant to sit behind glass.'

'I hope I shan't prove you've made . . . a mistake . . . in me.'

'John, take a seat.'

John sat in the armchair, and Sherlock in the leather chair directly across. There was no point in a preamble, so Sherlock reached across the space dividing them and passed John the small package.

'I'm not usually one for observing holidays or maintaining traditions, but, as this is your first Christmas here, well . . . happy Christmas.'

John received the gift with astonishment, like he wasn't sure what it meant, or like he was being tricked, or like he thought the little box might explode or sting him or laugh at him. 'For me, sir?'

Sherlock almost quipped: what, has no one ever given you a gift before? But he decided he didn't want to hear that answer. So instead, he just waved a hand and said, 'Open it.'

Still uncertain, John moved slowly, pulling one end of the ribbon, then popping the tape off the wrapping, waiting for something to go wrong. But Sherlock just waited him out, hoping he had picked out the right thing. Maybe he should have had Mrs Hudson go with him. At last, the paper fell away, revealing a hard, transparent, plastic box, inside which lay a watch.

'It's a Tag Heuer, limited edition,' said Sherlock, pleased with himself. 'Last in the shop. The display watch, actually, so I got it at a bit of a discount, but it's in perfect working order. Tells the time and date, naturally, and all features are luminescent. Also, it's water resistant, the buckle is steel, and the strap is real leather. Top-of-the-line chronograph, that is, so it keeps excellent time. That watch will last you a lifetime.'

Speechless, John just stared.

'What do you think?'

'Thank you, sir,' said John, in a whisper. He swallowed hard. Then he looked up and said, like he still couldn't comprehend what was going on, 'This is for me?'

Sherlock laughed. 'Go on then. Take off those ridiculous bracelets while you're in the house, and try it on. I'll put on the kettle. We'll drink from Mummy's tea set, with relish.'

By the time he returned, John had set the identifying bracelets on the side table, cracked into the box, and was fitting the strap around his left wrist, admiring the watch face.

'How's that then?' Sherlock asked.

'Good, sir. Very nice, sir. Thank you.' He looked up, and it was subtle, and fleeting, but John smiled before dropping his head again. 'Happy Christmas, sir.'

Sherlock felt like they'd just advanced one giant step, and the unexpected feeling of elation spurred him onwards. He clapped his hands together (John's flinch at the noise was contained and quickly overcome) and announced, 'Games!'

'Games?'

'That's what people do at Christmas. They play games. We'll drink ginger-orange tea, put some Tchaikovsky on in the background, and break out the boards. Do you know chess?'

'No sir.'

'Draughts?'

'No sir.'

'Gin rummy?'

'No sir.'

'Looks like I have a lot to teach you.'


John was not Sherlock's experiment. He resented the insinuation.

But that didn't mean he wasn't curious about his new charge, nor that he would refrain from learning more about how John's mind worked. Thinking was an endless fascination for him, and he wouldn't apologise for that.

He decided to start with draughts.

'Simple enough,' said Sherlock as he laid the board. 'One side yellow, one side brown. Oak and cherry. Now, all the chips—let's call them men—start out just like this: star-side up, all placed on the dark squares. You can't ever move to a lighter square; remember that. See this? Stars on this side, crowns on the opposite. Crowns down for now. We take turns, moving one man at a time. Now, you can only move diagonally, and only in a forward direction. Like this, yeah? But what happens if you're blocked by one of my men?' He manoeuvred the chips around the board to demonstrate. 'You jump him, as long as the spot behind him is vacant, like so. Bam. You've captured one of my men, and he goes over here. So far so good?'

'Yes sir, I think so, sir.'

'Now what you're trying to do is clear the board of my men before I clear the board of yours. And to do that, you need to promote as many of your men to kings as possible, because kings have more manoeuvrability. They can go forwards and backwards. So how do you make a king? Move a man all the way across the board, past your opponent's line of defence and to the king's row, which is this one, and just like that.' He flipped the chip. 'Star becomes a crown, and you've made a king. Then we chase each other around the board until one of us is wiped off or has no more moves, and the other player wins. Sound easy?'

John nodded, staring at the board, and Sherlock imagined he was reviewing the rules in his head.

'Questions?'

'No sir.'

'Which colour do you want?'

'I don't mind. Whichever you don't.'

Sherlock regarded him critically. 'I'd like you to choose, John.'

John licked his lips, contemplative, as if the act of deciding meant something significant. But it was just draughts. Then he pointed to the oak chips. The light side. Sherlock turned the board. 'Light side goes first.'

John was rubbish. To start. He had no sense of strategy, and he kept forgetting the rules. For Sherlock, it was an exercise in patience. 'You can't move there, John.' 'You can't go backward, John.' 'That's my chip, John.' But he was learning, and as Sherlock let him struggle with the game, a style began to develop. What Sherlock had first assessed as lack of strategy was revealing itself as a different sort of tactic. John wasn't out to win. He wasn't trying to capture Sherlock's men. Instead, he was just trying to survive. He ran as quickly as he could to the edges of the board where it was impossible to be jumped, and only when he was out of moves did he sacrifice one of his men to Sherlock's. Playing this way, he would never outlast Sherlock, but he tried to last all the same.

Six games in, John never once moved a man all the way across the board to be crowned, even when Sherlock deliberately gave him a wide opening. Sherlock decided to force John's hand.

So on the seventh game—John gave no signs of being bored—Sherlock manoeuvred carefully around the board, accurately predicting John's movements based on prior observations, to ensure that for his next move, one of his men would have to capture two of Sherlock's and land him in the king's row.

John's hand hovered. His eyes roved, looking for another option. There wasn't one. Slowly, he picked up his man from the board and passed it over Sherlock's. Tapped the square. Then over the second. And he settled the piece in the king's row, saying softly, 'King me?'

Sherlock grinned and removed his defeated soldiers. Then he crowned John's. John didn't win, but Sherlock decided it was victory enough.

They moved on to a game Sherlock figured John might have a little more success at.

'Does your person have spectacles?' Sherlock asked.

'No sir.'

Sherlock flicked down the cartoon heads wearing glasses.

'Are you,' said John, 'a woman?'

He wished he hadn't drawn Susan. Too easy to guess. All John needed to do was ask two questions: are you a woman (yes) and do you have white hair (yes), and the game was his! His only hope was that John was more curious about the hats.

John knocked down all the men on his board, and it was Sherlock's turn. His board was filled with non-spectacles-wearing characters, which were far too many.

Narrow it down, narrow it down.

'Are you bald?'

'No sir.'

Damn.

'Do you have . . .' John reviewed his options, few though they were. 'White hair?'

Sherlock sighed. 'Well, that's me buggered. Yes. I do.'

'Then you're Susan?'

'Indeed I am.'

'Then . . . I won?'

'You certainly did.'

John pursed his lips, trying to hide how pleased he was. Then, shyly, he asked, 'Shall we play again?'


They munched on sea-salt crisps and drank orange Fanta from their ginger-tea-drained teacups. Mycroft would be appalled.

Sherlock drew a six of clubs and discarded a three of diamonds that was of no use in his run of hearts.

'And I can pick up that red three?' John asked.

'Absolutely. If you think it might be useful.'

John picked up the three of diamonds.

'And discard one you don't need,' Sherlock reminded.

They played in comfortable silence, but for the occasional crunching of crisps. It was probably the most relaxed Sherlock had ever seen John, even if he did allow himself a crisp only after Sherlock had helped himself, and even if he did still struggle to make full eye contact for more than half a second. It had taken a month, a solid month, but although he was still discernibly damaged, he was vastly improved from the ward he had brought home on that first day. His hair was now long enough to properly cover his scalp, though still too short to be combed, a dusky, dark blonde. He was still quite thin, though Sherlock estimated that he had put on four or five pounds, now that he was eating better. His skin was a healthier hue though quite pale and untouched by sunlight. But then, it was winter, and the man was English. Still, his eyes seemed a brighter blue. He was off the meds, both painkillers and antibiotics, and the gunshot wound was healing as well as one could expect. Range of motion was still restricted, but he no longer had to wear dressings, and as far as Sherlock could observe, he was practising proper hygiene by showering regularly, brushing his teeth, and wearing freshly laundered clothes.

These things were encouraging. John did know how to do these things after all, and Sherlock didn't find himself in the awkward position of having to buy him a how-to pamphlet or demonstrating how to brush one's teeth.

But so much about him was still a mystery, and it frustrated Sherlock that he didn't know more. John was disinclined to speak much of himself. Or to speak much at all, when it came to it. Which made it difficult to know if Sherlock was doing rightly by him now. He didn't know if John was happy now. He never expressed any wants, and he was clearly content to ignore his own needs. Was he doing okay? Was Sherlock overlooking something?

'So John,' said Sherlock, pulling from the draw pile, 'how does this compare to past Christmases?' He discarded the offending eight of spades.

John picked it up. (This was something else Sherlock was noticing: John preferred the card he did know, to the card he didn't, no matter its usefulness.)

There was a long moment before John answered, quietly. 'It's good, sir.' Ever the descriptive one.

'What did you do . . . last Christmas, for instance?' He tried to be casual, like he wasn't trying to prise open the vault, but John's demeanour reverted back to a man on his guard; he rolled his injured shoulder and sank a little into himself.

'Erm,' he said, and Sherlock detected a hint of panic as John cast around for something to say.

'You know what? Bad question. I ask too many questions. Why don't you ask me something, for a change? You can ask me anything, and I'll answer honestly.'

'I shouldn't wish to pry, sir.'

'I'm giving you free and unfettered permission. Ask me anything. A month you've been here, and you've barely wondered anything aloud. But surely you've thought: who is this strange man whose home I now share? Go on. No holds barred.'

'Um.' Again a long pause. John was staring at the cards in his hand, but he wasn't really examining them. He was trying to think. Sherlock allowed him time to do it, unrushed. 'I had wondered . . . if it is no concern to me, sir, I shouldn't need to know.'

'Ask.'

'What did your last ward do to displease you, sir?'

'What?'

'I only mean to, er, that is, not repeat . . . I mean, make mistakes.'

Sherlock folded his cards in his lap. 'John. What makes you think he displeased me?'

'You had need of a ward. Didn't you? Because you sent the last one away? That's why I'm here?'

'No, John.'

Sherlock exhaled slowly. He supposed it was only natural that a new ward would wonder what happened to the last, but his question was more telling than that. Seventeen hosts. How many of those had discarded him because they were displeased with him? It was no wonder he was so afraid of screwing up even the smallest of tasks.

'My last ward didn't "displease" me.' How could he? thought Sherlock. I never saw him. 'He died.'

'Died?'

'Of natural causes,' Sherlock reassured the man who had so recently been shot. 'He was a family ward I inherited when I came of age. I've never had any other but him. He grew old, got sick, and died at nearly ninety years old.'

'Oh,' said John, quietly. 'So when he expired, you got me?'

Sherlock had often used that word himself: expire. And not too long ago. He'd said it of Barnaby. Now, though, hearing it from John's lips, it sounded wrong. Cruel, even.

'He passed. Comfortably. The way most people hope to leave this world.'

Sort of. Most people wanted to leave the world surrounded by family and loved ones. Sherlock, his host, hadn't given a damn.

John was rubbing a thumb across the face of his new watch. 'Will your brother replace me, Mr Holmes?'

'No.' He set his cards face down on the table. 'Mycroft had no business being here, and he has no right—legal or otherwise—to remove you. Understand? If he ever comes by again while I'm not here, feel free to tell him to piss off.'

John's eyes went wide and his jaw went taut, petrified at the very notion of saying such a thing.

'If you'd feel better about it, I'll speak to Mrs Hudson about changing the locks. That way he can't pull a stunt like that again. I want you to feel safe here, John. It is safe here. Do you believe me?'

'I believe you, sir,' said John automatically.

Sherlock sighed, having heard that knee-jerk, placating response before. 'No, you don't,' he said under his breath. He wondered how long it would be before John felt comfortable enough to be honest.

'Baker Street, sir, is much nicer than my last residence.'

The comment was unsolicited, and Sherlock held his breath, wondering if John would continue. Then:

'I like the windows and sleeping in a bed and having proper meals. Before coming here—'

It was like John had caught himself in a confession he had never meant to make, and his cheeks flushed red.

'You can say,' said Sherlock, hoping to sound kind. He meant to be kind.

'Nothing, sir. Is it my turn or yours, sir?'

Sherlock picked up a card. For a few rounds, they played in silence. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, it would be wiser, kinder, to let it go, but a large part of him wanted to make demands of John. He wanted to say, 'I can't help you if I don't know you!' And then John, reluctant or not, would follow that dominant ward-impulse and obey his host, and then tell him everything he wanted to know, confirming what he had guessed and filling in the holes to questions he had been dying to ask since December the first. So did he let John shut up, or make him speak up?

Or was there a third choice?

'John, you know the skull on the mantle?'

Unnecessarily, John turned his head to look at it. 'Yes sir.'

'Want to know something funny? I talk to it, sometimes. Well, less so since you arrived. But before then, fairly regularly.' He grinned a little, hoping John would find this amusing and not bizarre or alarming. Fortunately, though to a much lesser extent, John grinned back—more of a quirk of the lip at the corner of the mouth, but there was no unease in him, which Sherlock counted as a positive. 'For cases, mostly. When I'm trying to work something out. It helps. Talking, I mean. Talking aloud. I'm able to solve problems more easily that way.'

'Very good, sir.'

'What I'm getting at is this.' He adjusted himself forward in his seat a little. 'I want you to be happy here.'

'Sir, I—'

'Now, let me finish. I want you to be happy, and I want to help. But I know you find it . . . difficult. You find it difficult, talking about things. Things that happened. Before. With other hosts. And I just want you to know, I don't care what happened. I really don't. Only insofar as it is affecting you here, if those things continue to make you unhappy now. So should you want to talk, or need to . . . you can. Maybe it's too much to talk to someone with flesh and blood. But ol' Billy over there doesn't have either.' He smiled again, teasing. 'And he's a good listener.'

'Talk to the skull?' said John, sceptical.

'You can always talk to me,' said Sherlock. 'But if it's too hard to get those first words out, let Billy help.'

They continued again in silence, Sherlock racking up the points, even though he wasn't playing to win. If it had been Mycroft, he would have been far more ferocious, an eye single to crushing his opponent. But now, he was holding onto gin without declaring it, to see just how long it would take for John to knock or lay down. But now, John seemed distracted. He was thinking, and not about the game. His brow was furrowed and his lips were drawn down. At long last, as he absentmindedly drew another card he barely looked at, he said softly, 'They weren't all bad.'

'Pardon?'

'My past hosts, sir. They weren't all bad.'

'I didn't mean to suggest that they were. Not all of them.'

'Some of them just got dealt a bad hand.'

'What bad hand?'

'Me.'

Sherlock scowled, remembering the list of seventeen. From the time John was born to the time he reached adulthood, he had already known eight different hosts, plus the hospital he lived in for the first fourteen months of his life, a children's asylum at age seven, and a rehab farm at fourteen. What could a child possibly do that warranted such frequent abandonment? No. Sherlock had seen enough cases, dealt with enough bad hosts to know: it was never the child who was bad. Rather, it was always the host that made a child believe he was.

'Tell me this, then,' said Sherlock, feeling suddenly argumentative. 'Which of all those not-so-bad hosts would you be happy to return to, if extended the invitation?'

John's mouth closed up.

'That's what I thought. John, you are not a bad hand. You weren't a bad child, and I highly doubt you were a difficult adult. I'm not an idiot. You've lived here a month, and if I know anything about you by now, it's that you're good. You're a good man. There are bad hosts out there. Too many of them. But you are a good man.'

'Then . . .'

'Go on.'

'Why did none of them ever want me?'

Sherlock felt something inside of himself wrench in pain. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He wanted to do something. Stop this. Fix this. He wanted to shake John and tell him to stop thinking such illogical thoughts, or storm out the door, find Mycroft, and demand the name of John's last host, of his last host of hosts, and teach them all a fistful of lessons. Instead, he followed a strange new impulse and reached across the table, gently laying his hand on John's arm.

John's skin jumped and he jerked his hand away as though he'd been touched by fire.

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock began.

'Sir, may I be excused?' John asked. His cheeks were burning red, and once again his head was hanging, hiding the shine in his eyes.

Sherlock wanted to say no. He wanted to yell at him for calling him sir. Stop it, just stop it, now. He wanted John to throw down his cards and stomp away like a petulant, self-entitled teenager. Instead, he made his small request, and how could Sherlock say anything but:

'Of course, John. You don't need to ask.'

John placed the cards neatly on the table. He stood. Then he slowly made his way out of the room and to the stairs, the slight limp as always hindering any sort of stomping or hasty flight.

God, John, what did they do to you?


Christmas was over, and thank God. The day had been salvaged when Mrs Hudson returned to Baker Street from her sister's (she went every year, though this was the first year Sherlock wished she had stayed in London) and announced they would be having a proper Christmas dinner, puddings and all. Fortunately, she made no insistence upon the leftover crackers she'd brought back with her, not after pulling the first and making John, who wasn't looking at the time, jump clear out of his skin. But she did insist, as the night wound to its close, that Sherlock pull out his violin and regale them with carols.

Sherlock relented, and it was while twisting the fine tuner of his E string that he realised he hadn't done this for a while. Play, that is. Not since John had come to 221B, at least, despite the fact that it had been the first item on the list of his own self-description as a host and living companion.

The fire crackled, the lights were dimmed, and the fairy lights and a solitary lamp alone warmed the room. Sherlock began with the light-hearted 'Sleigh Ride,' eased into 'White Christmas,' and took Mrs Hudson's request for 'Rudolph' while trying not to cringe. But it was while on the second repetition of a sweetly melodised 'Silent Night' that he noticed John's face. Softened in the firelight's wavering glow, his expression was changed from guarded watchfulness to open, quiet awe. The lines smoothed between his brightened eyes as he watched Sherlock's fingers move on the strings. His whole body, in fact, from fidgety hands to easily wearied leg, drooped with relaxed posture. The transformation stunned him, and Sherlock regretted having waited until now to pull out the instrument.

At last, he concluded his solo concert and, to the sound of Mrs Hudson's solo applause, took a bow.

'Bravo, Sherlock!' she said happily. 'Though I do wish you had worn the antlers.'

'Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson,' he said, smiling, and cast a quick glance to John, who had not clapped, but looked on expectantly, not sure what he should do.

As midnight approached, Mrs Hudson, yawning and rubbing at her eyes like a child, announced herself well done in. She kissed Sherlock goodnight and gave him a peck on the cheek. Then she turned to John and gave him the same. He looked surprised a little astonished even, and stuttered out a clumsy goodnight in response. Then Mrs Hudson took her leave, humming 'Joy to the World' as she descended the stairs.

'If you're tired, you can go to bed,' Sherlock said to John. He didn't enjoy being so directive, but he had noticed John's habit of waiting for Sherlock to retire first before allowing himself respite for the day, unless otherwise instructed. Now, John was struggling to keep his eyes open, fighting against the yawns, and Sherlock didn't want to pretend that he himself was the least bit sleepy. So he bestowed his permission.

'Thank you, sir.'

John rose from the chair and slowly drifted toward the door Mrs Hudson had left open. For a moment, Sherlock was distracted as he twisted the screw on his bow to readjust the tightness of the horsehairs. But then he realised that John was hesitating at the door. He tried not to stare. Finally, John turned back around, and though his head was as bowed as ever it was, and he seemingly addressed his own toes, he said, shyly:

'Happy Christmas, Mr Holmes.'

Sherlock grinned, a little sadly. 'Happy Christmas, John.'

Then, as John ascended to his room, he began to play again, softly: 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.'

He didn't know that John was sitting on the top step outside his bedroom door, listening still.