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The Adventure of the Dashboard Box
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Chapter 6: Cinderella
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John was walking in the night through the woods, already regretting his stubbornness. It wasn't as if he needed his laptop absolutely, but the idiotic couple had annoyed him to no end and Sherlock hadn't helped either. Now that he thought about it, they would be stuck in the same room for the whole night... He groaned. Sherlock would definitely make him sleep on the floor, again – just like he'd done during the Speckled Blond case. Twat.
Finally, John got to the clearing where the car was parked, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was still cold and windy, and although the anorak protected him from the rain, it certainly wasn't very warm. He opened the car from some distance off by pressing the button on the keychain remote, and he was almost there when he heard footsteps rushing towards him from behind. Surprised, he turned, and saw a tall silhouette in the woods, running towards him.
"Sherlock?"
His friend shouted something, but he was still too far for John to hear him.
"What?" he called out.
"Get away from the car!" came the urgent reply. The doctor frowned.
"What? But why?"
"John!"
"Fine, let me just get my laptop."
He was about to open the door and was already leaning in when Sherlock literally jumped on him and dragged him away from the car – and the laptop – so quickly John had no idea what was happening and. He was utterly lost in confusion.
"Sherlock, what–"
As they drew into the woods he was interrupted by Sherlock tripping him and slamming his back against the hard earth. Pinning him against the ground, he enveloped John with his coat and body. John blinked, blushed and babbled:
"Sherlock, what the hell are you–"
BANG. The explosion made the smaller man freeze on the spot. Sherlock pressed him further into the ground in such a harsh and unprotective manner that it took John a few seconds to figure out what his friend was doing.
"Sherlock, move!" he ordered, trying to squirm his way out of the iron embrace.
But the consulting detective completely ignored him, and John only managed to tilt his head out to the side. His eyes widened, filling with horror at what he saw beyond the trees. The clearing was now lit with the macabre glow of deadly fire.
"The... the car! It exploded!" he stuttered, completely shocked.
"And nearly with you, too!" Sherlock growled angrily. "Are you stupid? I told you to get away from it!"
"How was I supposed to know there was a bomb in it?!" John protested. But then he saw the tension in his flatmate's gaze and looked away sheepishly. "I'm sorry."
Breathless, they watched with some fascination as the flames devoured the car. Suddenly John jumped to his feet as realization hit him.
"Sherlock, we're in the woods!"
"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock muttered as he stood up as well.
"I mean, we have to call the fire brigade. This is serious!"
"Then let's head back."
John nodded curtly and marched very close to Sherlock as they went back to the cottage.
"Sherlock? What just happened? Someone doesn't want us poking our noses here, obviously."
"Yes. And they have a very good consultant," Sherlock confirmed grimly.
John shook his head to dispel the sense of unease that was filling his chest.
"How did you know?" he asked after a while.
"Little Red Riding Hood," his partner answered simply. John tilted his head to the side.
"What?"
"The fairy tale, John."
"I know the fairy tale! But what does that have to do with anything?"
"The red anorak. It didn't belong to anyone in the house. I'm not even sure the fairy tales book is theirs, now."
John blanched.
"You mean Moriarty actually left it there?" he whispered, unable to repress a shiver. That man really creeped him out.
"Him, or someone else at his order," Sherlock asserted, his brow furrowed.
"But Little Red Riding Hood doesn't end up blown up!" John remarked as he noticed his hands were still quivering. Of course, Sherlock noticed it too. And averted his gaze.
"But you were traumatized with bombs and explosions. It was just a more effective way."
"I wasn't traumatized!" John defended himself, evidently displeased at the statement.
"You were wrapped in Semtex, John."
"I've been to war."
"You went on a vacation for a couple of weeks in New Zealand after the Pool," Sherlock reminded him.
"I had just been almost blown up!" John protested.
"Exactly."
The doctor sighed, but didn't make any further comment.
They arrived at the house where Sherlock called the fire crews (as an anonymous informant, because he didn't want to have to deal with emergency personnel now) while John explained to Hatty and Francis that they'd have to share the car in the morning.
"Oh God..." Hatty murmured, terrified. "Do you think it's the murderer who is trying to get rid of you?"
"I think it is rather someone trying to convey a message," Sherlock answered in John's place darkly, putting a blanket on his colleague's shoulders. John blinked.
"What are you doing?"
"Giving you a blanket."
"But I'm not cold."
"You're in shock."
"I'm not in shock!"
Francis and Hatty stared pointedly. John grumbled something incomprehensible as he walked to the room, hiding his embarrassment. Sherlock, completely oblivious to the situation, followed in silence. The young couple exchanged a perplexed look, and then shrugged.
Sherlock carried an armchair into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. John arched an eyebrow.
"Sherlock, there isn't much room on the floor already; if you take a chair it's going to be hard for me to sleep th–"
"You're taking the bed," Sherlock cut him off.
"What?" John asked, certain that he hadn't heard correctly.
"I'm not going to sleep. And you're in shock."
"I'm not in–"
"Hush."
"Hush? Sherlock, you can't just–"
But Sherlock was already putting the chair on the left side of the bed, where the bedside lamp stood on a small wooden table. He took the book of fairy tales, and started reading for himself, ignoring his friend. John shook his head, but was too grateful for the bed to complain about anything else.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said before lying down and falling asleep almost instantly.
Sherlock didn't answer, but kept his eyes on his sleeping flatmate for a few pensive minutes before resuming his reading.
¤ oOo ¤
"I can't go down like this," John deadpanned.
Sherlock, who naturally looked gorgeous in his suit, rolled his eyes.
"You're fine. Come on!"
"Why did we even change so early? It's not even five!" the doctor continued, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the mirror of his room's wardrobe.
"Because we'll be too busy to change later. Arthur Holder is using our kitchen to bake his speciality chocolate cake – he's been doing it every Christmas as long as I can remember."
"...And?"
Sherlock shook his head in annoyance, and simply walked out of the room, leaving his friend there.
"Sherlock! Wait!"
John groaned, glanced at the mirror, groaned again, and followed. Sherlock was already going down the stairs, still texting – John hadn't seen him without his phone since morning.
"Who are you texting?" he asked, curiosity filling his voice. Sherlock hadn't received so many texts since Irene Adler's.
"People for tonight's show."
"There is going to be a show?" John said with wonder. Sherlock sent him a quick look before resuming his text. A small, crooked smile graced his lips.
"Oh yes."
"John! Sherlock! Here you are. Dear God, you spend more time dressing up than a woman," Mrs. Holmes remarked as she met them down the stairs.
"It's John," Sherlock commented without looking up from his phone.
His flatmate turned crimson and exclaimed with indignation:
"That's not true!"
"All right, all right," she cut in, her tone assuaging. Then she stared at her son. "Sherlock. I just learnt you have blown up the car again."
"Again?" John repeated dumbly.
"It wasn't me this time," Sherlock grumbled.
"Put that phone down and look at me when I'm speaking to you!"
He complied grumpily, and John couldn't repress a chuckle: the first time he'd met Sherlock, he'd already seen him as a twelve-year-old brat, and Lestrade's "drug bust" had only confirmed this impression. But right now, as he stood sulking before his mother, he truly looked juvenile. Incredibly endearing, too.
"What happened?"
"Someone tried to blow John up."
"John?" she inquired, arching an eyebrow.
"Me?!" John said at the same time.
Sherlock looked at them both as if they were idiots.
"Yes, that's what I just said."
"Wait, wait – why would they want to kill me especially?"
"Who got kidnapped last time?" Sherlock retorted.
"And whose fault do you think it was?"
At this, Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he fell quiet. John regretted his words instantly.
"Sorry, that's not what I–"
"I'll go and see Mrs. Holder, then. She's in the little parlour, right?"
Mrs. Holmes nodded discreetly, and off Sherlock went, before John could say anything more.
"Wait, Sherl–"
"Would you like some tea, John?" she interrupted, holding him back with a very graceful but iron grip.
"I'm an idiot," John murmured, more for himself than to her.
"Oh, don't worry about it, dear. Most people are."
He smiled wistfully at the familiar remark and quietly followed her to the kitchen.
"Oh, Dr. Watson! All dressed up already?" Arthur said as they entered the room. He was wearing an apron and a chef's hat, and seemed to be preparing a snow white icing.
"Let's not talk about it, please," John sighed as he went to the kettle to boil some tea. The cooks seemed to be busy enough already without having to prepare tea for early guests. When he turned, he realized Mrs. Holmes had disappeared from the room.
Well, at least I won't have to go through the talk about her son or anything of the like, he mused.
"So, you're taking a little rest tonight, aren't you?" Arthur asked, apparently trying to make small talk.
"A rest?"
"I mean, a break from the investigation."
"Oh." That was a rather strange question. "I guess, yes."
They fell silent.
"It's very kind of you to attend – and even to prepare that cake – after your loss," John said sincerely. Arthur gave him a sad smile.
"Alex was very fond of Christmas. He was always so excited... Rather clueless as to the presents! He always asked me for advice. But you know, the whole Christmas spirit? He loved it."
"You gave him advice about what he should buy for presents?"
"He was a very busy man. Often away from home. He was a mildly eccentric person, too. He loved his wife and children very much, but was quite ignorant when it came to their tastes and preferences."
"I see."
John was adding milk to his tea when suddenly something popped into his mind. He frowned in puzzlement, then went to sit at the table next to Arthur and went on casually:
"So, did you help him with the presents this year?"
Arthur laughed.
"Are you interrogating me, Dr. Watson?" he teased.
"No, no! I was just wondering."
The elder Holder shook his head regretfully.
"I didn't have the time, this year. He didn't have the time..."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be. You're doing everything you can to help sort out this tragedy. We are very thankful."
John watched with amazement as Arthur took a cake out of the oven. It was huge, and it seemed to be only the base of a very large pyramidal structure – all in chocolate.
"This is incredible."
"Thank you," Arthur replied with a smile. "It's my Christmas special."
"I've never seen such a gigantic cake."
"It's because each piece is already addressed to a guest. See those little sugar decorations there? Each of them has been engraved in golden letters with somebody's name. Yours is there, too."
John gaped, dumbfounded. Now he found it more ridiculous than impressive.
"Everyone's names. All in sugar?"
"All in sugar," Arthur confirmed. "I always have some blank ones for unexpected guests, though. You know, just in case."
He winked, but John missed it because one of the names had caught his eye.
"What the... He's coming?!"
Arthur took a look at the name and beamed.
"Oh yes! Isn't it wonderful? Quite rare to have the both of them."
"Sorry, I have to go," John blurted before dashing out of the kitchen. I have to tell Sherlock before he makes a scene. It took him about ten minutes to find the little parlour, and he would've remained lost in the corridor if it had not been for one of the maids, who was kind enough to stop in her tracks and ask what he was looking for.
John pushed the door open and was about to say hello to Mrs. Holder when he saw the two other guests in the room. He froze.
"John, such a pleasure to see you. Very fitting, the suit," Mycroft greeted without even turning to the door, showing John only the back of his head. There were no mirrors in the room.
"Oh, John, is it? Funny seeing you dressed like this, ha ha!"
John had to fight very hard with himself not to run away. He gave a forced smile.
"Hello, Sam. Funny, indeed."
The old man chuckled.
"And Mycroft. What are you doing here?" he asked, not even bothering with the perfunctory politeness. Mycroft smirked.
"I was told that something fun was going to happen this year," he said. Then, with a sweet, sweet smile that made John shiver, he added: "And how often do I get to see my little brother at Christmas?"
Sherlock groaned and finally John spotted him, standing by the window – sulking. John smiled in relief.
...and jumped in surprise as a camera flash blinded his sight.
"What–"
"That was such a lovely expression you had there, dear, I just had to take it," Mrs. Holmes explained. John blinked and wondered where in the world she had been standing for him not to notice her presence.
"By the other window. But you were so fixed on that one you didn't see me," she told him with a little smile. John sent Sherlock a lost look, but the idiot was still brooding, and the only friendly gaze he met his eyes was Mycroft's.
"Mummy does love to take pictures at Christmas. She spends the whole evening taking shots of everyone and then shares them online."
What am I doing here? John wondered, wishing he had never accepted an invitation with so many devious motives. They don't even want me here; Sherlock's the only one they were trying to get to come!
"That's not true, dear. You are quite welcome."
This time, John's eyes on Sherlock were so desperate that he must have felt them. Sherlock turned to glare at his mother.
"Stop teasing him. He hates it even when I do it."
"Yes, of course, everybody does, Sherly! And don't you glower at me."
Sherlock sighed sullenly and returned his attention to the window. John took the chance to walk over to him while the others resumed their discussion.
"I'm very glad you've decided to attend this year too, despite the tragic events that have affected your family," Sam told Mrs. Holder, who nodded back tentatively.
John couldn't believe this was the same man he'd met at the fitness centre. His hair was tied back and he was so well-dressed he looked like one of those aristocrats from the nineteenth century. Which, on second thought, might not be very normal even for such occasions.
"Definitely not normal," Sherlock confirmed in a low voice. John looked up to him and they exchanged a cheeky grin.
"You should have told me your mother was just like you."
"She's not. She's like Mycroft."
"But all of you can read minds. And what is that guy doing here?" he added in a whisper, indicating Sam. Sherlock shrugged.
"Old friend of the family."
"You knew."
"What?"
"That he was going to that damned fitness centre too. You knew I would meet him."
"...and what if I did?"
"You keep manipulating me!" he exclaimed. Mycroft looked up from his cup of tea, arching an eyebrow. John looked away, and Sherlock scowled.
"Keep your voice down!"
John massaged his temples, grumbling.
"Why am I here, again?"
"Because you were stupid enough to believe I would willingly attend a Christmas party at the family house."
"...Right." He sighed. Then, as realization dawned on him, he tilted his head to the side unwittingly. "Wait... Are you saying you didn't actually tell her anything?"
Sherlock arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Tell what? To whom?"
"Your mother."
"Your stream of thoughts will never cease to amaze me," Sherlock drawled, sarcasm lacing his voice.
"But you didn't, did you? About me needing clothes for the fitness centre, or the keys to the little cottage."
"Of course I am still capable of such small guesses," Mrs. Holmes suddenly chimed in, making John jolt. He hadn't been aware she'd been standing right behind him.
"Would you like some tea?" she offered.
"But I just had some in the kitch–" He stopped in mid-sentence as he understood she'd brought him there only so he could speak to Arthur. His eyes widened and he stepped back with horror.
"Oh, don't give me that look, Dr. Watson. You look like a frightened puppy," she said before turning back to her other guests.
"Frightened puppy?" John repeated in shock. Shrimp, and now frightened puppy? Damn them! I'm out of here.
"Oh no you're not," Sherlock whispered, grabbing his arm. "I will need you tonight."
Such a sentence from Sherlock had the power to make John freeze on the spot. He stared, astonished.
"You are going to need me?"
"You're repeating yourself a lot today."
"Every day."
"Yes, every day."
An amused smile flashed across their faces, mirroring each other.
"What will you need me for?"
"For the dance."
"What?"
¤ oOo ¤
"Why am I doing this?"
"You're doing fine," Sherlock reassured him as they kept waltzing.
"But why!" John protested.
Sherlock frowned.
"I told you. I especially hate the Christmas ball because Mummy always tries to find me a wife. She wants me married."
"But why do I have to dance with you?"
"So everyone will assume I'm gay and leave me alone."
"But they'll assume I am gay too!" John growled furiously, even though he was still dancing, and even leading in what seemed a quite enthusiastic manner – but in fact only betrayed his annoyance.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Fine. If you find a woman you like, I will come with you and explain that you only danced with me because I forced you to."
"That's even worse!"
John was very glad when the music came to an end, and he fled to the buffet before Sherlock could drag him into another one.
"What's wrong with him?" Sherlock wondered aloud.
"He probably feels out of place," Mycroft replied, coming out from nowhere. Sherlock glared.
"I feel out of place," he retorted.
"Is that why you wanted him to dance with you?"
Sherlock did not answer, but his face darkened visibly.
"Mummy told me about the car," Mycroft added off-handedly. "You believe someone is coming for him?"
"I don't 'believe'," Sherlock snarled before walking away. Mycroft shook his head patronizingly.
"Oh, hello, Dr. Watson," Hatty said as she came up to the buffet next to John. He turned to her and smiled tiredly.
"Hello, Miss Doran. You don't seem to be having a good time." Obviously, he berated himself.
"I'm scared," she whispered. "Francis hasn't been answering his texts at all since I left him at his flat."
She was trembling, and John felt a wave of pity for he, even if he failed to approve of her behaviour towards her official boyfriend. Suddenly John noticed Robert Holder walking to them, his brow furrowed. He glared and took Hatty's hand possessively, as if John could have possibly been hitting on her. Well, that one is crazy too, the doctor mused.
"Hello, Mr. Holder."
"Call me Robert. I hate that name anyway."
"All right, Robert."
"If you'll excuse us."
And that quickly they were gone, Robert dragging Hatty away. John stared in bewilderment, then sighed. He definitely felt out of place.
"Hello, there. You don't look as though you're having much fun."
John turned to the unfamiliar voice and saw a tall man, almost as tall as Sherlock, dark-haired, but with tanned skin. He was wearing a military uniform. Colonel, John thought. Automatically, he started to give a military salute, then blushed as he realized what he was doing. The man smiled complacently.
"I knew it. Soldier, is it?"
"Captain, sir," John replied sharply.
"Oh, two military men, then!" a woman exclaimed, joining the conversation with two of her friends. They were all very pretty and very richly dressed.
"Iraq?" the stranger inquired.
"Afghanistan," John replied.
"Me too! Funny we've never met. Then again, I didn't deal much with officers."
"Captain."
"Right, captain. And you are?"
"John Watson."
"Pleasure to meet you, John. Since you're not in uniform, there's no need to be so formal. I am Colonel Sebastian Moran. But you can just call me colonel."
And that's not formal? John gave him a stiff smile.
"Yes, why aren't you wearing your uniform?" one of the women asked, tilting her head to the side elegantly.
"He must have wanted to inaugurate that suit!" Colonel Moran exclaimed with a rather condescending laugh. "It's new, isn't it?"
"It is," John replied, his mood darkening by the second.
"I understand. But you really should consider a uniform, next time – if there is one. Women love it," he added with a self-important wink. The three others giggled, and the first one exclaimed:
"Oh, Colonel, you think so little of us! We are not so impressionable, you know."
"Really?" Sebastian insisted with a teasing smile. The woman pursed her lips imperiously.
"You are horrible."
"Then why don't you entertain yourself with our little friend here? I am sure he'll be much more refreshing than I," he told her, bowing mockingly.
John's fists tightened imperceptibly. Little friend? What the... Did the man even realize how insulting he was being?
"Oh yes, you're right. What was your name again?"
"Not worth remembering," John mumbled as he walked away.
"Oh. What is wrong with him?" she said disappointedly.
"Probably something with the food. Not accustomed to such rich fare, perhaps?" Sebastian suggested. They all broke into laughter.
I am not staying one more second in this house, John thought as he fled the immense reception room and made his way through the various boudoirs and parlours and whatnot. Stupid classy names for stupid classy rooms.
"John!"
John recognized Sherlock's voice, but didn't turn back.
"John, wait! Where are you going?"
Sherlock caught his arm but the ex-soldier pushed him back none too gently.
"Enough! I've had enough."
He dashed out of the last crowded room, Sherlock still rushing after him.
"John, you can't go out!" he called, triggering surprised glances at them.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, isn't it? I don't think we've met."
"No time," Sherlock growled, pushing the stranger away. But the man grabbed his arm forcefully, making the consulting detective halt in surprise. Just as soon as Sherlock did so, though, he relaxed his grip, and held out a friendly hand to shake his.
"So pleased to meet you. I am Colonel Moran."
"I really couldn't care less," Sherlock replied coldly before brushing past the offered hand and resuming his chase.
Sebastian Moran smiled thinly.
"You should," he murmured.
His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket and he took a look at the text.
No shooting, Seb. I said just humiliate the pet.
The colonel sighed. "I know. But this is boring."
"Oh, colonel!"
He turned with a perfectly composed, charming smile.
"Oh, hello, Mrs. Jones. It's been so long!"
¤ oOo ¤
"John! John?" Sherlock called as he knocked on the door to his friend's room.
He didn't wait for him to answer and pushed it open. John was bare-chested and already changing.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting rid of these clothes that are not mine and should never have been."
"But what are you going to wear?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Sherlock replied, disbelieving.
"I'm not going back to the party, Sherlock!" John exploded, exasperated that everyone seemed to be considering him a complete moron. "Of course I'm not going to walk in there naked!"
"Well, to be fair, you'd make quite an impression," Sherlock said, repressing a chuckle. John glared.
"Funny doesn't suit you. I've told you already."
He averted his gaze and pull on a jumper. Sherlock took his arm.
"Look, John, put on whatever you want. I don't care," he pressed. "But you can't leave this house. Actually, you can't be out of my sight."
"Excuse me?"
"You're being targeted!"
"By everybody's mockery? Yes, Sherlock, I noticed that," John retorted bitterly.
Sherlock shook his head and grabbed John's shoulders, making him start.
"No, John! By Moriarty!"
"Moriarty?" John froze. "He's here?"
"I don't think so. But–"
"Aren't you being a bit paranoid? Nothing is going happen to me, Sherlock. I'm not important enough."
"Stop it, just stop it, will you?" Sherlock snapped. John stared in shock. "You're being stupid! Just... don't leave my side, all right? … Please?"
At that word, John gaped. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in irritation.
"I don't have time to deal with this now! Not with the..." He froze, his eye catching a light at the window. He ran to it and looked out. There was a police car.
"It's there already," he murmured. "Come on, John, we have to go back now!"
"What?! Wait, I–"
"Forget the suit! Hurry."
He grabbed John's arm and dragged him back to the reception room, ignoring the puzzled looks at John wearing Paul Smith trousers with a jumper.
"Sherlock..." he groaned, mortified. But suddenly the main door to the dancing hall was slammed open and everyone's attention switched from John to the latest arrivals. A short, plump man wearing a police uniform stood in the doorway. He was accompanied by two officers holding a handcuffed young man securely.
"Francis!" Hatty cried out, running to him, obviously forgetting all about her surroundings. Or not giving a damn. John suddenly found her more likeable.
"I'm sorry to interrupt such a cheerful event," the first man said. "But this is an affair of the utmost importance. I must speak to Mr. and Mrs. Holder right away."
TBC
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~o~