Chapter 10
"Merry Christmas!" John stuffed a Christmas paper hat onto Sherlock's head, already drunk. Sherlock figured it would be at least an hour or two before he was dragging John to his bed.
As soon as he went off, drink in hand to wish others a Merry Christmas, Sherlock ripped off the hat. He loathed the Christmas tradition.
Only when Lestrade, John, Molly and some of John's other friends shouted at him did Sherlock finally abandon his corner of solace. As a result, 10 minutes later Molly was dabbing at his jacket, apologising for the fifth time for spilling her drink on him, blushing furiously. It had conveniently been around the time a drunken John decided to inform everyone of Sherlock and Irene's exploits recently, particularly that bloody chess game. Sherlock immediately excused himself as all eyes turned on him, slid on his coat and scarf and walked out into the cold winter night.
The streets were deserted apart from a few drunks stumbling over the curb.
Sherlock sighed. He knew, he hoped that everyone took his bad mood for boredom. He needed a distraction to prevent him from thinking any more about Irene. Even the four patches lined up on his forearm weren't helping. She's definitely more that a four patch problem.
The text made him jump, sliding off the pavement. A woman's moan. No. He corrected himself. The Woman's moan. This caused most of the drunks to laugh but Sherlock ignored them.
Mantelpiece-IA
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He read it again. The last time he'd read that text, Irene had been "dead". Her sad expression last night. Did it mean something more? He knew whatever was on the mantelpiece wasn't her phone, so what was it?
He began walking again. Baker Street was close by. When he got to the door he cursed. His pockets were empty. John had been in such a rush to get to the party, he hadn't had time to grab anything except his scarf and coat. His key was sitting in his room somewhere. Sherlock grumbled. He doubted Mrs Hudson would take kindly to a broken down door. Again. He looked round. Speedy's café was closed for Christmas.
Sherlock had another thought. Surely he could. Irene seemed to manages just fine.
He looked up at the window, about 3 metres above him. The one that opened into the kitchen. The glass was still broken from when he had shot it (some unfortunate business involving a jar of sugar, a fire victim and a pair of scissors at St Barts had made them ban Sherlock from experimenting there. Sherlock had been more than mildly annoyed.) Sherlock wheeled round one of Mrs Hudson's bins so it was parallel to the windows. He clambered onto the bin and reached up for the small groove above the first window. Slowly he raised one leg up, onto the top of the window, his arm, reaching up for the ledge of the second window. When he was confident it would support his weight he stood up, on the window hanging off the other. The kitchen window was out of his reach but there was a hook visible, used for locking the window. He couldn't grab the hook with his hands but he could use something else. Leaning into the wall as much as he could, Sherlock unravelled his scarf from around his neck and tied a knot in it until it resembled a child's attempt at a noose. He knew he was going to have to let go of the window to fling the scarf around the window hook and if he missed…
He steadied himself, then taking a deep breath and leaning back, he let go of the window ledge.
John was finally on his way home, whistling cheerfully whilst he attempted to drunkenly manoeuvre the streets of London, getting lost twice. Eventually he found Baker Street. Being as drunk as he was, his hearing was mostly buzzing but it didn't block out a recognisable groan.
"John…?" another groan.
"..help"
John looked up, and burst out laughing. A pair of legs were hanging out of the second floor window, flailing around in the air.
"Er…What the hell are you doing Sherlock?" he grinned up at the legs.
The legs answered angrily and breathless "What…does…it *groan* look…like? I'm trying to get…into the flat!"
John laughed again. He opened the front door and walked up to their flat, purposefully taking his time, also his drunken brain didn't allow him to walk quickly.
When he got to the kitchen he saw Sherlock sprawled across the sink, his scarf ripped, his cheek and hands bleeding and the rest of him still hanging out the window for a confused old woman to see.
"Need a hand?" John chuckled at his expense as his hand drifted towards his camera phone. Now I can make him look like an idiot. Brilliant. Before his hand got there-
"Just help me in now!"
Trying to keep a straight face, John grabbed his arms and dragged his flailing body into the flat, tearing his trousers and earning him another dirty look from Sherlock.
"Hey I helped you!" John held up his hands defensively as Sherlock straightened up and pulled a piece of glass out of his face, glowering at John.
"If you wanted to get home so bad why didn't you used your key?"
Instead of answering, Sherlock reached into John's pocket and threw his own key out the window he'd just entered, then ignoring John's protests, walked over to the mantelpiece he'd suffered so much to get to.
There was, like before, a package in wrapping paper as red as Irene's lipstick, tied up with some of the rope she'd used to tie him up. The package was bigger and flatter than the last and Sherlock unwrapped it carefully, curious but anxious.
He needn't have worried. Beneath the wrapping paper was a pristine, expensive looking chess board. It was clearly brand new, still shiny and polished. Instead of the traditional black and white the board was creamy and dark red. The blood red colour had almost become a signature colour of Irene's and he could see why it had appealed to her. He looked around for the pieces. There weren't any. Clearly intentional but why? Had she hidden them? Disguised them? Sherlock did a quick scan of the flat. Nothing.
"What's that?" John had finally returned from rescuing his key. Something in the back of his mind made Sherlock cover up the present. He didn't want to share this with anyone. John least of all.
Before he could reply there was a knock at the front door. Quick and loud. Something official.
John went down to see who it was whilst Sherlock carefully hid the chess board under his bed. Was it some sign of affection? Or was she teasing him. Forcing him to remember that night. Yes that sounded like Irene.
Before he had time to register the lipstick mark on a piece of card where a messae should have been written, John called up to him.
"Sherlock! You've got a case if you want it! A murder! But Lestrade understands if you can't make it!"
Can't make it? Why wouldn't he want to-oh right. Yes, of course. Christmas.
Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, making sure to remember his key this time. As he made his way downstairs, John started moving back to the flat.
"Not coming?" Sherlock arched his eyebrow.
"Can't this time. Don't think my hangover would help your deductions and I've got to er..call Mary… Wish her a Merry Christmas you know…"
Sherlock just smirked, opening the door to the crisp night air and stepping outside.
"What's the case?"
"A strangle victim. No forced entry. In their thirties. A woman."
Sherlock froze, trying to comprehend what he had just heard. A woman.