A/N: YES. I can assure you, I'm still alive and NO I've not given up on this thing either. I just did a lot more reading than writing lately. Sorry for that.
The title of this was probably not hard to guess after the last two stories. However, it took me an awful long time to figure out what it will be about. Well it's probably not anywhere near as spectacular as you might have anticipated. Anyways. Here it is.
And, of course, I wish all of you out there a merry and peaceful Christmas and happy holidays with your families.
Warnings: As I am, obviously, not English (not even close), so I'm not very familiar with Christmas customs in Britain. Therefore I … well sort of skipped a lot of them. Hope you like it anyways.
Bow
a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"
"Come on John, we are almost at home." Sherlock said impatiently, barely able to refrain from rolling his eyes at the doctor.
"Yes, thank you. I know that. I'm living there too you kn…" John's snippy remark was cut short, as he slipped – not for the first time today – and ungracefully fell on his bottom. Sherlock did roll his eyes this time. The tall man elegantly walked back to his friend, completely unimpressed by the current weather conditions.
The unusually cold and harsh weather in mid-December left part of the citizens giddy with the prospect of a white Christmas, while the other part was just irritated by the inconvenience the conditions brought. John definitely belonged to the latter. At least since this afternoon, when a certain dark-haired detective had dragged him out of his comfortable chair and kept him running – or sliding – on the snowy streets of London on the hunt for a petty criminal. And while – admittedly – they got hold of the man, John's patience had run out long ago. Approximately after the third time he'd fallen on his arse while trying to keep up with Sherlock, who – what else – didn't even had slipped once.
Eager to get back to their comfortable and first and foremost WARM flat, John picked himself up from the freezing ground, without accepting the helping hand of the other man. While he tried to shake the melting snow off his clothes the doctor found Sherlock looking around with a vacant expression. Knowing that look John sighed.
"Come on Sherlock. Let's get home before I'm freezing to death!", he prompted, but Sherlock stand rooted in place, staring at the illuminated streets. "Sher…"
"Look at that, John." The doctor looked around, almost automatically, but couldn't find anything alarming. He raised an eyebrow in silent question.
"What's the purpose of all these lights? I don't understand it.", Sherlock elaborated. John shrugged, but couldn't suppress a small laugh at Sherlock's genuine puzzlement.
"It's going to be Christmas in a few days, Sherlock. And these…", John pointed to the lit figures that surrounded them, hanging from the wires and houses on the street, "… are Christmas lights." Sherlock, still bearing no sign that he would move anytime soon, waved his hands dismissively.
"Ah, Christmas. Christmas is b…"
"Boring, yes, I know, Sherlock." John sighed, his breath forming little puffs of white fog.
"I don't see why people are so fond of this. It's utterly useless and a waste of effort and money." Sherlock continued.
"Yes…." John really wanted to do nothing more than go home and get a really hot shower. "Listen, maybe we could talk about the uselessness of Christmas and all that comes with it at home, where it is dry and WARM!"
"Fine.", Sherlock shrugged. "But I still don't get it." With that the detective took off in the general direction of Baker Street, leaving his loyal Blogger once again sliding and struggling behind him.
Four days later
On the morning of Christmas Eve (?), Sherlock was rapidly typing on his laptop, groaning in exasperation every now and then, when the elderly landlady announced her presence with her typical "Wooo hoo…"
"Sherlock, dear, I made some Mince Pies and thought maybe you'd like to…" The landlady stopped mid-sentence, taking in her surroundings. Despite Sherlock's obvious annoyance with holidays in general and Christmas in particular, she and John had decorated the flat nicely and even managed to get a small Christmas tree set up. Afterwards the both of them cleaned up the flat neatly. John even made the effort to rid the desk of loose papers and old case files. Yesterday everything was in order and prepared for Christmas celebrations.
At the moment though the flat and especially the desk, which Sherlock occupied, looked like a craft shop after a severe bombing. Scattered all around the flat were different kinds of ribbons, wrapping papers, rolls of tape, boxes, bags and the like. In the middle of it a red cat was happily playing around, tearing the paper to pieces, chasing after discarded ribbon rolls and hiding in the smallest of paper bags.
Shell-shocked Mrs. Hudson put the tray of Mince Pies safely away at the kitchen, before approaching Sherlock.
"Dear God, Sherlock. What are you doing?"
With another groan, the detective closed his laptop – not at all gently – and snapped at his landlady.
"I'm not DOING anything. I try to, but it won't work. Why can't people just observe!" Mrs. Hudson took a step back from the enraged detective but his anger didn't last.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It's not your fault that I hate Christmas.", Sherlock said with a deep sigh. Utter frustration was clearly visible in his features as he dropped his head into his hands and ruffled his hair.
Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a calming gesture.
"Well, dear. What is it you are TRYING to do then?", she asked.
"It doesn't matter. It's pointless anyway.", Sherlock answered, not very convincingly. Clearly, whatever it was did matter; otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have made such a fuss, but obviously he was not willing to fill his landlady in.
"Well, if you don't want to tell me, that's fine Sherlock. If I'm not the right person for this maybe John could help." Sherlock didn't answer but shook his head. "Where is he, actually?" Mrs. Hudson asked. As far as she knew the 'boys' were supposed to come to dinner that night.
"Nursery. Had to take an extra shift. Will be back at six.", came the short reply.
"I see… well I'll leave you to it then I guess and I'll see you around eight." With that Mrs. Hudson attempted to leave the flat, but was held back as Sherlock grabbed her arm carefully.
"Mrs. Hudson?", the detective asked innocently, looking like an utterly lost boy.
"What is it dear?"
"How do I tie a bow?", he asked barely audible. Confused Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock.
"What do you mean a bow?"
Sherlock sighed. "A BOW, Mrs. Hudson. For a …", he paused, looking uncertain. "… for a present.", he finally spat out, as if the word alone caused him severe pain.
"Oh…" Mrs. Hudson mouthed surprised, but wisely enough chose not to pry any further.
"There are hundreds of descriptions and tutorials on the net, but somehow I find it impossible to do it. How can something so mundane be that hard?"
The landlady smiled kindly and took the detectives hand.
"Would you like me to show you, love?"
Without a moment's hesitation Sherlock repeated the words John had said to him all this time ago.
"Oh, god yes!"
Later that evening
"Well, well. That was nice, wasn't it Sherlock.", John asked, stretching out on his chair and patting his well filled tummy.
"Mhm…", was the only reply the doctor got, before the detective picked up his violin and started to tune it. With the help of Mrs. Hudson Sherlock had managed to accomplish his goal and cleaned up the flat again before John had returned from the nursery.
They had their dinner and even Sherlock had to admit it was quite nice. Now it was well after midnight, when the detective started to play an alluring, gentle melody on his violin. One John had never heard before, which wasn't too surprising.
Contently John listened to Sherlock's play, and was about to doze off, until a quiet, retching sound brought him back to reality. Sherlock, equally startled, stopped the playing and turned to look at John, confused. The doctor shrugged, indicating that he wasn't the source of the noise. Which left only one inhabitant. Soon both of them were looking around the flat in search for the red-coated cat. Sherlock found her first, sitting under the Christmas tree and gagging on something that was most definitely not a hairball.
"No, no, no, noooo….", Sherlock yelled. "You stupid cat…." He tried to get hold of the animal, but of course Ginger was a lot faster and made a beeline for the open door of the flat.
John got closer to his friend who had knelt on the floor, muttering "stupid, stupid.." all over again.
"Oh come on Sherlock. It's not unusual for cats to throw up every now and then. They have to get rid of the hair somehow. It's not the end of the world." Sherlock shook his head. Not interested in the small, dark blue puddle the cat left he clutched something to his chest.
"She ate it, John. She… just ate it… How could she do that?"
Only now John took a closer look at what Ginger left behind and wrinkled his nose slightly in disgust.
"What is that?", he asked after a minute.
"The bow, John. It is the bow.", Sherlock answered looking sad. John didn't understand.
"Bow? What bow?"
"The bow from…", Sherlock paused, looking down at his lap. John followed the eyes of his friend and saw a present lying in Sherlock's hands, neatly wrapped and well … obviously missing a bow.
"That's a present.", John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's habit of stating the obvious.
"Who gave it to you?", John asked confused, but not without a small smile in his face.
Sherlock sighed. "Nobody gave it to ME, John. I'm giving it to YOU." The detective held out the present to John, without daring to look him in the eyes.
"YOU got a present for ME?", John asked stupidly, unable to believe what he just heard.
"Well if you don't want it, I…", Sherlock muttered, unusually self-conscious.
"No, no. I mean. Yes, of course. I DO want it. 'course…" Carefully John took the present out of Sherlock's hands and looked at it in utter amazement. He still couldn't believe that Sherlock bloody Holmes bought HIM a Christmas present.
"Merry Christmas, John." Sherlock said, raising from the floor and walking to his bedroom without another word.
Still a bit shocked John examined the rectangular box in his hand. Taped on the wrapping paper was a small card.
For John. The world's second consulting detective, doctor, soldier, blogger and most loyal friend. Merry Christmas. SH
Carefully John unwrapped the present, not entirely able to ignore the tears that burned in his eyes. He opened the box, finding yet another piece of paper. 'For the cold and atrocious London winters.' , it said. Curious John peeled away the thin paper which covered the actual present. Inside the box the doctor found a scarf and a pair of gloves, knitted out of incredibly soft, dark blue wool and without doubt amazingly warm.
Holding the soft items in his hands John allowed a single tear to escape his eyes, simultaneously a small, giddy smile showed on his face.
"Christmas is boring, hm?", he murmured. "I don't think so."