Hi! I'm trying to get these out quickly as I feel it's a little odd for a Christmas fic to be taking this long… Maybe my mind set a deadline for Christmas 2011? Unfortunately, evil people (my family and friends) are trying to make me socialise with other human beings, something which I do not enjoy. Who needs people? Yes, I am aware of how sad that sounded.
Anyway, I've gone off topic. I just wanted to show all you amazing Benedict Cumberbatch fan girls a very cute clip that I was introduced to by another fic. Unfortunately I can't remember the name of the author otherwise I'd credit them, but if you're reading this, mystery author, YOU ARE AMAZING. Ok, so type "The Last Enemy Bloopers" into You Tube. I think it's the first one- AT AROUND 2:12 YOU WILL MELT INTO A PUDDLE OF GOO ON THE FLOOR.
*ahem*
I'll let you get on, shall I?
December 6th
9:00am
Sherlock glanced at the large clock in the foyer of the Savoy. Nine o'clock… If the service of the prestigious hotel was as good as they claimed, someone would be along to meet them soon. Sure enough, a silver haired man in an expensive designer suit appeared so quickly it was as if he had appeared from thin air.
"Good morning gentlemen," He said, his voice a deep drawl that reminded Sherlock horribly of Moriarty. "How may I help you?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Me and my colleagues need to talk to the manager of the hotel in connection with a possible felony."
"I am the manager," the man said, his voice a little stiffer. "Darren Andrews. May I ask what this is about?"
"We believe there is a crime planned here tonight. A murder, to be precise."
Andrews gasped. "I hardly think that someone would chose this hotel for a murder. It's hardly quiet."
"This murderer wants to be caught, Mr Andrews," Sherlock said abruptly, stopping Lestrade from speaking. "Can we see your reservation list for the River Restaurant this evening?"
Andrews came back a few minutes later holding a long list, looking disgruntled. "We're full tonight, completely booked up."
"Why?" asked Sherlock.
"Well, we have a guest chef. Anton Gregoretski- he's a Michelin Star chef, and is cooking here tonight."
"May I ask what the name of tonight's special event is?"
"Repas au Clair du Lune," he said smoothly. "Roughly translated, it means-"
"Meals in the Moonlight," Sherlock interrupted, looking gravely at his companions. "Thank you for your co-operation." He turned to John and Lestrade. "Clearly Moriarty has planned this well."
"So the victim could be anyone on this list?" asked John.
"Yes. And there are a good one hundred and fifty people booked as dining here tonight."
Lestrade sighed. "Well, we'll have to check them all. This is going to take a while."
"That's what coffee is for, Lestrade. Call us when you've checked them all.
"Don't help us, we're fine on our own," Lestrade muttered sarcastically, as John and Sherlock disappeared with a twirl of a Belstaff coat.
11:30am
"John, where the hell are you taking me?" said Sherlock irritably, scanning the streets.
"It's a surprise."
"A surprise?" Sherlock hated surprises. They were all too often unwelcome surprises.
"Yes. Now shut up and look over there," He pointed at a large car park. Sherlock groaned. Lined up on the grey tarmac were rows and rows of Christmas trees.
"Christmas trees?" he whined. "But… I'm allergic to pine needles!" He invented madly.
"No you're not."
"I could be for all you know."
"I checked with Mycroft."
Sherlock flushed red with annoyance. "Have you been having any more secret conversations with my darling brother?"
John grinned. "Be quiet and help me pick a tree."
With all the enthusiasm of a child, John walked quickly down the aisles of trees, eyes lit up with wonder. Sherlock chuckled to himself. At least getting a damn tree would make John happy.
"What about this one?" John called over to him. It was certainly huge, a good seven feet tall and extremely wide.
Sherlock sighed. "John, there is no way in hell we'd fit that in our living room."
John glanced back at the tree. "Perhaps you're right. I've always been the same, picking huge Christmas trees. Luckily I've never been left alone to buy one before."
"Maybe you've got some sort of complex?" Sherlock smirked, continuing down the row.
"Taking on too big a challenge? Maybe," John grinned. "I live with you, don't I?"
Sherlock smiled. "I can't say it's healthy but I wouldn't have it any other way."
1:30pm
John had taken a good hour to choose a tree, insisting that he needed to find 'the perfect one'. Despite Sherlock's continued protestations that he was never going to find his dream tree, he had carried on until he found one that he deemed up to his high standards. Of course, they then had to lug it all the way back to Baker Street, as no cab would take them for fear of pine needles covering the pack seat. They had finally arrived back at the flat, bitterly cold and their muscles aching.
"How are we going to get this up the stairs?" John panted.
"Well, you grab that end and I'll take this end, and just sort of guide me inside will you? As I'll be walking backwards, I don't particularly want to bump into anything," said Sherlock, still trying to catch his breath.
"Ok," They picked up the tree, and Sherlock began to walk slowly up the stairs. "Steady," said John. "Right a little. Yeah, that's good. Wait, left. Left a bit more. Right again. Yeah, that's fine. Keep goi- Oh shit." There was a bang. Sherlock hit his head of the doorframe. Hard.
"FUCK!" Sherlock yelled, dropping the tree and clutching the back of his head. He glanced at his fingers- they were stained crimson with his own blood.
"Are you alright?" John asked.
"No. I'm bleeding."
"Oh, bloody hell. I'm sorry Sherlock."
"It's fine John," Sherlock sighed. "Don't worry about it."
"It's my fault though! Let me get you fixed up." They abandoned the tree, and John ushered Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock sat on a chair, still cursing under his breath. That had hurt. John grabbed his first aid kit. "This will sting a little, Sherlock."
"Aah," he hissed through gritted teeth, his breath hitched. John dabbed carefully at the small wound, wiping away the blood. Sherlock jolted at the feel of John's fingers in his hair. He prayed that John had thought he was wincing from the pain. John's movements slowed, he seemed to be hesitating. Carefully, he applied an antiseptic balm, smoothing it gently over the wound. It was almost like he was stroking it. Just as Sherlock was beginning to enjoy the sensation, John removed his hand from his head. "Does that feel any better?"
"… Yeah, thank you."
"Good. Help me with the tree." They both grabbed the tree and, with a great deal of effort, managed to haul it into position. John stood back and gazed at it, his face full of pride. "It's beautiful," he exhaled deeply, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. "It's like it was made for the room!"
Sherlock snorted, and John frowned at him. "Ok, ok, whatever!" Sherlock cried, smirking a little at the look on John's face. "So what do we do now?"
"Lights," John hurtled up the stairs and came back shortly afterwards with a large cardboard box. "Untangle these will you?" He shoved the box at Sherlock.
"I don't see the point in this," Sherlock grumbled, fiddling with the wires and scowling.
"It makes it look pretty," John said by way of an explanation.
"Right. Ok. This doesn't look too hard,"
2:00pm
"Such a menial task is beneath me!" Sherlock shouted, hurling the still tangled mass of wires across the room at John's back.
"Or you can't do it?" said John, his eyebrow raised.
"I could if I wanted to!" Sherlock sniffed petulantly. "You do it."
John sniggered, and within minutes had the lights strung delicately around the tree. He admired his handiwork, then turned to Sherlock. "So?" he asked. "What do you think?"
Sherlock looked at the tree. "It's… nice."
"Liar," said John.
"What? No!"
"Oh yes you are. You taught me, remember? You tilted your head to the side. That means you're lying."
"Oh…" said Sherlock, oddly proud of John in that moment. "Well… Maybe once you've put the tinsel on."
They draped the tinsel artfully around the tree, laughing about what Mycroft would say if he saw them now. John passed Sherlock various baubles to hang on the tree, humming some Christmas tune Sherlock didn't recognise.
"What's that song called?"
"All I want for Christmas is You," he said with a smile.
Sherlock blushed. "Sounds good." He muttered.
John continued to pass him decorations until there was no more room on the tree. Despite himself, Sherlock looked at the tree and… it warmed his heart a little. It did make a difference in the room. Everything was warmer and nicer with it present, the gently twinkling lights making beautiful patterns on the walls. The way it glistened in the half light of the cloudy winter's day reminded him of John's eyes.
"It looks good now, right?" John said smugly.
"Yes. I hate to admit it, but it does." His phone vibrated. God damn it. Sherlock answered the phone. "You love to interrupt me, don't you Lestrade?"
"Look," said Lestrade. "We've got the information you wanted and you're not going to like it. Get down here."
Sherlock hung up. "We've got to go."
2:45pm
"You are kidding me," Sherlock said in disbelief.
"I'm not." Lestrade passed him a pile of folders. "Five different people, all with various connections to Moriarty.
"How does he do that?" said John. "Get all his clients in one place at the same time?"
"John, he has so many that it is hardly difficult," said Sherlock bitterly.
"So what do we do?" asked Lestrade, a little desperately.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "We go undercover. Sally, book John and I rooms in the Savoy."
"Bite me, freak," she snarled.
"Sally, do as he says." Lestrade retorted. "So what, we're going to wait around in the hotel until the killer shows up, is that right?"
"Yes. John and I will pretend to be guests. Lestrade, you'll need to have police hanging around for when the killer strikes, and I suggest you ring the hotel people and explain that they'll have to find room for us in the restaurant."
"I've never gone undercover before," said John, a hint of excitement in his voice.
Sherlock smiled. "It's not as glamorous as you'd think, believe me. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have bags to pack."
4:00pm
Sherlock strode up to the counter of the Savoy hotel. "Excuse me," he said in his smooth baritone. "I have two rooms booked for Christopher Thomas and John Wilson."
"Why don't I get a new first name?" John grumbled.
"Because your name is already inconspicuous," Sherlock muttered. "Now shut up." He turned back to the receptionist, who was typing away happily on the computer in front of her.
"I'm sorry sir," she said. "But I only have one room booked for the two of you."
Sherlock blushed furiously. Damn that Sally. "There must be some mistake," he gabbled, glancing at John's open mouthed expression.
"I do apologise sir, but that's the only room we have available tonight." She leaned forward a little. "The lady on the phone said you would want to be put together sir. Don't you worry; my brother's got a guy just like Mr Wilson. Nice choice, if you don't mind me saying." She winked, making Sherlock blush more.
John cleared his throat. "That will be fine, thank you," he said, grabbing the key card and tugging Sherlock towards the lift. Sherlock tried to ignore the giggles and cried of "How cute!" from the reception desk.
Luckily, the lift was empty apart from them. "I'm so sorry John," Sherlock mumbled quickly. "I am going to kill, Sally."
"Look, it doesn't matter. So they think we're a couple. It's not like we're actually going to be sleeping in the same bed as each other."
Sherlock trembled at the thought, but disguised it as a shiver. The lift came to a halt, and they travelled down the labyrinthine corridors until they found their room. It was light and airy, well worth whatever the police had paid for it.
John shoved his bag on the bed. "Right, so what's the plan of action?"
"We'll go down to dinner at eight. From what I here, there will be courses served at 8:30, 9:30, 10:30, 11:30 and then finally at midnight there will be an opportunity to dance. Then Moriarty will strike."
"So who are the suspects?"
Sherlock pulled out a folder. "Ms Emma Jenson, at table fifteen. Mrs Tanya Willows, at table nine. Ms Jasmine Hodel, at table twenty one. Mrs Ingrid Mio, at table four. Mrs Claudia Dance, at table eleven. They all either have severe drug addictions or are in deep debt. Though they're clearly in denial if they're eating here, the prices are extortionate."
"What are we going to do?"
"We have the CCTV footage, and Lestrade's working his way in somehow. We've been put in a position where we can watch all the tables and see whether anyone approaches them. However, Sally's stupidity means that we can no longer pretend to be businessmen. I'm afraid," he tugged at his collar nervously. "We may have to imitate a couple."
John's face was a mixture of emotions that Sherlock couldn't read. "Ok."
"You're ok with that?"
"Look, I'll do whatever's necessary to save that woman. And besides, people think we're a couple anyway, it's hardly new for me. I'm going to shower, ok?"
Sherlock waited till he heard the shower switch on before collapsing back onto the comfortable bed. This was going to be a night to remember.