The 12 Days Of Christmas
A/N: I know this update is a little later than promised but there was a family issue that required immediate attention, sorry for the delay guys. x
Day 10 - 23rd December, 2014
Sarah had the latest issue of the 'Westminster Herald' opened to the double page spread, reading John's readily printed article eagerly.
John walked past her and spied what she was reading. John felt his cheeks go hot and attempted to sneak past her but it was to no avail.
"John!" She called out.
John looked to see her beckoning him over to her, smiling widely.
John walked over to her, smiling awkwardly. "You've seen it then." He stated.
"Everyone in the office has read it, it's amazing." She told him earnestly.
"Thanks." Said John, wishing he could be in any other place right now but Sarah wasn't prepared to let him leave.
"I thought you were cutting it pretty close, but apparently it worked, this is probably the best thing you've ever written, and so honest..."
"Thank you." Said John again, a little louder. "I should really..."
"John!"
Oh great.
John turned to see Gregson striding over to him, clutching a copy of the newspaper in his hand. "Congratulations, this is exactly what I was hoping for when I put you on this, and to come up with it only in a week."
A night.
"Thanks," John repeated sullenly.
Gregson grinned. "Look at him, shy as anything." He grasped John's shoulder before walking away again. Sarah shot him an amused look.
"Don't." Said John, attempting to move away again.
"So...what are you doing over Christmas?" She asked innocently, in an attempt to get him to stay.
"Err..." Began John, searching his mind for plans that had been so prominent in his mind before. "I've got to host this get together for my family on Christmas day." He finally said.
Sarah nodded. "That sounds like fun." She said sarcastically and John raised his eyebrows in agreement.
"If you're not doing anything on boxing day, maybe we could grab a drink?" She asked tentatively, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
John was tempted to lie and say he had plans, but then at the same time he was tempted to placate her and just go along with it.
He certainly didn't expect the response that came out of his mouth.
"You know, Sarah, normally I would love too. But I just got out of something and..." He felt himself tear up unexpectedly.
"Oh, God!" Exclaimed Sarah, putting a hand on his shoulder. "John...Tell me what happened."
"It's stupid." He said, trying to laugh at himself but his voice cracked halfway through. He tried to wipe the tears away with his hand.
Sarah quickly reached across her desk and passed him a pack of tissues. John accepted one gratefully, angry at himself for this idiotic display of emotion, but most of all he was angry at the sympathy on Sarah's face. He felt that searing guilt all over again.
"We barely knew each other," he continued, when he'd calmed sufficiently. "But I felt like I knew him better than anyone else, better than I'd known anyone else. But now I'll never see him again."
Sarah froze for a moment, the cogs of her brain working. "You're talking about Sherlock." She said after a moment, it wasn't a question.
John closed his eyes.
"Yes." He admitted quietly, what was the point in hiding it?
John wasn't sure what he was expecting, abuse, maybe? Surprise?
"I wish you would have told me. I could have been there for you."
John turned to her immediately. "What? You're not mad?"
She looked questioningly at him. "Why would I be mad? I'm upset, I don't want to see you like this. Especially at Christmas."
John felt like a gigantic fool. He'd unknowingly judged Sarah. He'd put her down as work colleague who had a kind of thing for him and nothing more. He'd never seen that she might actually be a good friend to him, an ally.
"To be honest, I thought something was wrong, I tried to get you to talk but you didn't, I figured it was really personal."
She had, John could see it clearly now, she had tried to talk to him. He'd just misconstrued it as interest.
He looked up at her and returned her smile. "Thanks for being such a great friend, I'm sorry I acted like such a dick."
"That's what friends are for," she grinned slightly before pulling him into a hug.
John felt a little better.
…
Lestrade walked into Sherlock's office to see Sherlock looking up expectantly at him. However, his face immediately fell and he looked back down at his laptop.
"You expecting someone else?" Lestrade asked.
"No." Answered Sherlock glumly after a pause.
Lestrade's brow furrowed slightly. Something was bothering Sherlock, he could tell, especially because he should have been brimming with excitement.
"Look, you don't have to be here," Lestrade told him, "it's your last day. You can go spend it with your family or something."
Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to protest but shut it again. How many times had John told him he should go and see his family in case he regretted it?
Thinking about John pulled on Sherlock's stomach but he quickly banished the feeling away, burying it deep inside of himself.
"I guess I could go and see them." He decided unenthusiastically. He supposed it would take his mind off of...other things.
He stood immediately, startling Lestrade. "Yeah, alright, I'll be..." Sherlock suddenly spied a wad of paper in Lestrade's hand, angled outwards as if he were trying to hand it to him.
"What are you holding?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade held out the newspaper for Sherlock to see, the words 'WESTMINSTER HERALD' screamed out at him from the top of the page.
The same pull in his stomach returned immediately and Sherlock tried again to discard it, but he couldn't.
"Oh, it's the article. It just came through this morning, it's really good. Thought you might want to see it."
Sherlock forced a smile onto his face. "Oh, thank you." He reached out mechanically and took the newspaper from Lestrade.
Lestrade smiled at him. "Have a safe flight, call me when you get there."
"Yes, Sir." Sherlock replied, with genuine sincerity in his voice.
Lestrade left the room, feeling himself suddenly overcome with emotion. Sherlock had never called him 'Sir' before.
As soon as Lestrade left the room, Sherlock's smile melted away. He moved to the side of the office to retrieve his coat and put it on slowly.
He clutched at his abdomen for a moment, legs weakening. He felt like he was so full he was going to be sick but at exactly the same time like he was so empty he was going to collapse.
He straightened himself up and took his hand away from himself, quickly stuffing the newspaper into his coat pocket. He didn't want to read what John had wrote about him, especially after last night because Sherlock knew he would deserve every word.
…
Sherlock parked his car outside of his parents home and took one long, deep breath with his hands clasping the steering wheel until he hopped out of the vehicle.
He knocked on the door a couple of times but there was no answer, he tried the handle and the door was open.
The minute Sherlock was inside the house he heard raised voices coming from the kitchen. Frowning, Sherlock walked slowly down the hallway and opened the door to see his mother in an argument with his brother.
Sherlock wasn't expecting Mycroft to be there, that made things a little more awkward.
Sherlock's mum stopped shouting when she saw him in the doorway.
"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, voice a mixture of happiness and surprise.
Mycroft turned around to face his brother. "Sherlock? What are you doing here?"
"Why are you fighting?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his brothers question.
"Oh, nothing dear." His mother informed him, "we were squabbling about the Christmas crackers. Come and give your mother a hug."
Still a little suspicious, Sherlock advanced forward and let his mother hug him, putting his arms around her a little stiffly.
When they broke apart, she put a hand on his cheek. "You get more handsome every time I see you."
"Where's Dad?" Sherlock asked, craning his head to see if he could see his father.
"He popped out to the shops," Mycroft informed him, "he didn't tell us why."
"Oh," said Sherlock, disappointed. His father was the only sane member of this family.
"Let's go and sit in the front room," his mother suggested, "I'll get us some drinks."
Sherlock and Mycroft were ushered into the front room whilst their mother fussed around with the kettle in the kitchen and Sherlock suddenly felt like a child again.
He sat down on the couch and Mycroft sat opposite, accidentally alone together.
"I thought your flight left on the 21st." Said Mycroft.
Sherlock grinned humourlessly. "I thought you knew everything."
Mycroft grinned back but it looked more like a sneer. "Yes, you delayed your flight for one dead body. That seems awfully kind of you, Sherlock."
"What can I say? I'm in the Christmas spirit."
Sherlock's mother then walked in with a tray of drinks and sat down in his dad's armchair opposite the sofa.
"You know, Sherlock. I was actually afraid you were going to leave without saying goodbye." She said.
Well, you could have picked up the phone. Sherlock bit back the retort and smiled at her. "Yes, well. I had some free time so I thought I'd come by. I'm following some advice from a...friend."
"A friend." Mycroft echoed sarcastically. "One of your work colleagues, only too eager to offer the great Sherlock Holmes advice."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother, he knew it was an empty threat. If Mycroft really wanted the world to know that Sherlock was in fact a shy, cynical workaholic rather than a confident, sexy top detective then he would have said something by now.
"And you followed said advice." Mycroft continued. "What has gotten into you?"
Sherlock prayed he would stop talking about John, the aching feeling in his stomach still hadn't left him. But what was he supposed to do? He'd messed up. He'd actually found something possibly more important than being a detective and he'd only managed on turning it against him.
John wanted him to go, he supposed at least this way he was giving John what he wanted no matter how much it hurt him.
"I'm acting strangely?" Sherlock scoffed, changing the subject. "What about you, since when do you do family visits?"
"Boys, please don't fight." Sherlock's mother pleaded. Sherlock was just about to open his mouth to say it was a bit rich coming from her when the door opened and his Dad entered holding a large box of Christmas crackers.
"Sherlock!" His dad exclaimed delightedly. "You're here."
"Yeah, I'm here." He said, standing up and walking over to his Dad, instantly hugging him.
He actually felt himself get a little emotional for the first time since he'd gotten there when his Dad hugged him back, the pain in his stomach lessened slightly.
When they broke apart, the moisture in his fathers eyes was matched by his own.
Sherlock looked down to see the box of crackers his father was holding. "Why do you have crackers?" He asked.
"Because those two wouldn't stop fighting about them." He gestured behind Sherlock to the rest of his family.
Sherlock swivelled to look at them, neither Mycroft nor his mother were looking at him.
"Wait, you mean you really were fighting over crackers?"
Sherlock's mother caught his eye and he could swear he saw her grinning at him.
The next few hours passed in relative comfort after the awkwardness seemed to melt away with the cracker issue.
Sherlock felt like he was a teenager again celebrating Christmas with his entire family. Except when Sherlock was a teenager, it was more likely he was up in his room doing chemistry experiments rather than actually interacting with anyone.
As he prepared to leave, his mother hugged him for longer than he was expecting, when she pulled away she had tears in her eyes.
"You call me as soon as you get there, you hear me, William?"
Sherlock smiled despite the use of his first name. "Yes, Mum." He said.
His father shook his hand warmly and then he and his wife both retreated into the house.
Sherlock wondered when he would next see them.
"So, America, then?" Mycroft commented.
"That's right."
"Never thought I'd see the day."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
The pair laughed slightly.
"You'll be a success in New York," Mycroft told him seriously after he'd sobered up. "I know you will."
Taken aback by the show of affection, Sherlock laughed again. "Touch wood." He said.
Mycroft's brow furrowed. ""Touch wood"? I didn't realise you'd turned superstitious."
"I'm not," Sherlock said slowly, realising what he had said.
The knot in his stomach returned.
…
Sherlock couldn't help feeling like he'd accomplished something when he opened the door to 221B that evening.
He tossed his coat to the side and walked into the sitting room, immediately stopping as he saw what was waiting for him in there.
The tree. The Christmas tree he'd put up on Sunday to surprise John.
He'd never see it.
Walking straight past the offending object, Sherlock walked into his bedroom and stripped quickly, crawling dejectedly into his bed and wrapping the covers around himself.
Generally, Sherlock's beliefs were steeped in fact and reality and he threw aside any notions of fate or consequence, but there were times when he couldn't help thinking that his life was ruled by a poetic irony.
He had so many friends in his life here and yet he had never felt more alone, he had waited years to get an opportunity like America but the minute it had presented itself he had resented it with everything he had, he avoided his family because of the horrific arguments they had and found them quibbling over crackers.
He'd changed everything about himself when he joined the Met. to appear less of a dick, yet all he'd done was become a bigger one.
He shivered, his bed noticeably cold after sleeping next to someone for the first time.
The top detective, surrounded by friends and family and loving the holidays.
It was all a lie, it had always been a lie.
Sherlock had never stopped being the consulting detective, alone at Christmas.