The 12 Days Of Christmas

Day 4 - 17th December, 2014

John took a sip of his pint and looked around the pub Sarah had selected. He had never been here before, it was quite large and there was an elaborately decorated Christmas tree in every corner. The sound system was blearing out Slade and John found himself bobbing his head to it. He was actually feeling quite festive tonight. It was Christmas, his article was halfway there. Things were good.

"So," began Sarah, drinking her glass of wine quite quickly. "Am I dragging you away from your girlfriend?" She asked, grinning.

John found himself cringing internally. He felt bad, mainly because Sarah was such a nice person. He didn't necessarily flirt back with her but he had no idea how he was supposed to turn her down without coming out and without lying and he refused to lie t0 her.

But then he refused to come out, as well. It wasn't like he had anything against coming out, he certainly wasn't scared of anyone's reactions he just didn't think it was anyone's business and he couldn't really see the point of telling his family until he got a boyfriend.

Which was looking like never.

"Err, no." He admitted, smiling. "Just me."

"Oh, at Christmas?" She asked rhetorically with an exaggerated frown.

"Yeah," he said, "how about you?" He asked quickly.

She shook her head. "No, just me as well."

He nodded, unsure how to respond without making it sound like he was coming onto her.

"Well, I'm sure we'll find someone."

Wrong move. She looked up to him from under her eyelashes and John felt himself go red.

It wasn't just because she was a woman and it wasn't just because she was flirting with him, he was just generally bad with people.

He should have just stayed at the office.

…

Sherlock was gathering his various notes from his desk and as he turned around to go home he found himself face to face with Irene Adler, the flirty researcher at the Metropolitan.

"Irene." He greeted politely, hoping he could get past her quickly and get home.

"Come out for a drink with us." She instructed rather than asked, much was her way. "To celebrate before you leave."

"Oh," Sherlock laughed, plastering his biggest smile on his face when in reality he was fairly tired. "I'd love to but I've got a lot of...packing...to do..."

Irene walked closer to him and Sherlock felt more like he was being stalked than approached. He had often found his mind wondering what would happen between the two of them if he hadn't been...

"I could get Molly to finish the post mortem on the dead woman for tomorrow morning." She said slowly.

Sherlock's face lit up with genuine emotion. "Seriously?"

She nodded. "Yeah, then you can have a chance to look at it before you leave, I know it's been bugging you."

"Thank you, Irene. That would mean a lot to me."

"What would really persuade me to ask her would be a little drink..."

Sherlock stood up a little straighter. "You continually impress me, Miss. Adler." He told her, letting a little of his real feelings shine through. His genuine admiration instead of his usual questionable one, he was sure she could tell the difference.

But if she did, she didn't let on, she merely smiled at him.

Sherlock exaggeratedly rolled his eyes. "Okay, one drink."

He couldn't pass up an opportunity to look at the dead woman before he left. It wasn't like him to leave a case in the middle.

…

15 minutes of being sat with Lestrade, Molly and Irene and joining in with the festive atmosphere and Sherlock was already ready to kill everyone in the pub. He was sure his tolerance was a lot lower than it used to be, he supposed he was getting too old for this kind of thing.

Lestrade began talking about the insane prices he'd spent on his present shopping and Irene joined in with her own anecdote, Molly complained that she had barely gotten anything done yet and Sherlock, who had done nothing, had nothing to say on the subject so didn't join in the conversation.

With everyone sufficiently distracted with their own conversations, he began to look around the all too festive pub, analysing things without even meaning to.

Quite by accident, he spotted the journalist, John Watson, sitting at the bar with a woman and found himself analysing him, also.

He put it down to the fact that, at heart, he was still the consulting detective he'd been before he got his job at the Met and he always deduced everything, but he knew that he had been unable to get the journalist out of his head since their interview on Monday.

Your confidence makes you sound arrogant...

No one had ever said anything like that to him before, it wasn't a response he had ever got from anyone.

He found it slightly odd that they had happened across the same pub but Sherlock Holmes had never believed in coincidences, as the universe was rarely so lazy.

He immediately deduced that the woman John was sitting with was not his wife, or even his girlfriend.

In fact, the poor man looked like he was squirming away from being flirted with. Sherlock found himself smiling, sending a sideways glance to Irene. It wasn't unlike his own situation.

He knew he should just leave him to it, he was sure John didn't want to see him again and it was none of his business, but still he found himself walking over to the pair of them, drink abandoned at the table.

John watched in shock as Sherlock Holmes seemed to appear from no where and saunter up to them, for a moment he thought he was imagining it until he watched Sarah go bright red and realised that he must have really been there.

He prayed to God that he didn't blush too as the memory of their interview swam back to him.

But, apparently, whether John looked like a tomato or not mattered not because the detective pretty much ignored John completely and monopolised Sarah's attention.

"Hi, Sherlock Holmes." He said, and John could hear that same cockiness in his voice.

"I'm...Sarah." Sarah said, voice shaking.

John felt sorry for her, something about Sherlock's attention made everyone feel like a fool, even John.

"So, what do you do, Sarah?" Sherlock asked, voice dripping with lustiness.

John found the annoyance grow within him, but the most annoying thing was just how receptive Sarah seemed to the treatment.

"Oh, I'm a journalist."

"Oh..."

John wished he could see their faces but then he supposed Sherlock's voice was infuriating him enough.

"It's a shame they didn't give you the article about me, we could have had an interview..."

John suddenly heard the loud scraping of a bar stool on the floor and Sarah was stood, face red.

"Um, I should go," she said, "really. Um. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. John..." With that, she walked out of the pub quickly.

John stared after her for a moment, unsure what had just happened.

John turned to Sherlock, ready to question him on what he had obviously missed until he saw Sherlock was already looking at him, sporting a small smile.

Sherlock's attention made everyone feel like a fool...

"Did you just intimidate her to get me off the hook?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded at him and John's eyes widened.

"Wha...how did you know what was going on?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John suddenly remembered his words from the other day.

"Oh, I get it. Nothing gets passed you." Sherlock smiled again, like he didn't trust his voice. John frowned internally, that wasn't like the uber-confident man who'd just flirted furiously with his colleague.

"T...thanks." John said a little tentatively after a moment, unsure of what else he should say. Why would Sherlock do that? It was a little uncouth but the whole reason was to help him out of an awkward situation.

Why would he even want to help him after the way he'd insulted him the other day?

"You're welcome." Sherlock replied, voice so significantly deeper and yet softer than John had previously heard that he was unsure if it actually belonged to the same person.

What was going on?

The pair lapsed into silence, Sherlock was aware that now was the time normal people would bid farewell and go back to their own friends but for some reason he wasn't moving.

John could feel the tension too. Deciding to try and break it, he said, "so, what are you doing here if you don't like Christmas?" He asked, vaguely gesturing to the elaborately decorated pub with the loud Christmas music.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? I love Christmas, I told you so."

John raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm a journalist, Mr. Holmes, some stuff doesn't get passed me either."

Annoyingly defeated, Sherlock sighed. "My colleagues dragged me out. They think I love Christmas, I'm just making sure they have a good time."

John frowned. "Why don't you just tell them the truth?"

Sherlock froze for a second until he immediately turned on his heel and stalked away from John, closing his eyes and cursing himself for being so open.

John was taken aback by Sherlock's sudden action and sat back down again, now without a drinking partner.

Then, as he thought about the encounter, he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. What happened to that cocky, arrogant man from all the press conferences and the conversation with Sarah? Why had he suddenly seemed so normal when he was talking to John? He'd seemed shy, even. Kind, even.

Shaking his head, John drained his glass and headed out into the cold night air, making sure to keep his head down so he didn't make eye contact with Sherlock as he left.

Sherlock watched John leave, eyes purposefully down to avoid him, he was sure. Sherlock shook his head to himself, he shouldn't have gone over there, now he just felt guilty.

Get a grip, idiot. He admonished himself. You can't risk your whole reputation for one man who doesn't even like you. Who doesn't even fake -like you.

"So, Irene," he began, before he could talk himself out of it. "What are your Christmas plans?"

Irene turned to him, smile fixed in place.

"Well..." She began, and Sherlock prepared himself for a long night.

…

And a long night it had been.

Sherlock let his head hit the back of the closed door of 221B as he sighed loudly to himself.

He dreaded taking his phone out of his pocket to check the time, he had certainly been out later than he had wanted.

Rubbing his eyes to fight off the fatigue, Sherlock ascended the stairs to his flat and dumped his coat and scarf on his chair before walking towards his bedroom door.

"Sherlock, I've brought you some food!" He heard Mrs. Hudson call out from the stairs.

Sherlock turned on his heel to see Mrs. Hudson walk into the room holding a tray. He rolled his eyes.

"No thanks," he said, "I'm knackered, I'm just going to sleep."

"Sherlock," she admonished, putting the tray on the coffee table and busying herself with with hanging up Sherlock's coat. "When was the last time you ate?" Her voice held conviction, because she knew about Sherlock's eating habits. Or lack thereof.

"Err..." Sherlock cast his mind back to his surprisingly bleak last couple of days. "Err, yesterday, I think."

She shook her head. "You need to eat, Love. Otherwise you'll get sick, you know you will. Then you'll be useless at your job."

He tilted his head to the side, cursing how much Mrs. Hudson knew him.

"Okay, fine." He yielded, walking to the coffee table. Mrs. Hudson hid a smile as she watched him plonk himself down on his chair and uncover the tray of tea and sandwiches she'd prepared.

She did worry about Sherlock sometimes. He was so phenomenally clever that sometimes he forgot the little things, like Einstein...and with all the energy he put into being cheery at work...

"Thank you." Sherlock said suddenly from his chair.

She walked over to him and sat in the seat opposite, not entirely sure why there was even one there.

"You're welcome." She replied. "So," she continued after a moment as Sherlock ate. "Why were you out so late?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Irene Adler dragged me out for a farewell drink, and..." he momentarily thought about telling her about what he'd done for John Watson but decided against it. "And it was really tedious."

Mrs. Hudson grinned. "I've always wondered if anything would happen between you and Irene."

Sherlock grimaced, eating a bit of sandwich. "I doubt it," he said, mouth full. "Doesn't matter anyway, with America and everything."

"Yeah..."

Sherlock heard her trail off and fell silent.

"I am going to miss you, you know." She said lightly after a moment.

Sherlock subtly glanced up to her and saw she had tears peaking at the corners of her eyes. He suddenly felt extremely guilty, and strangely alone.

"I hope you find someone out there who'll force you to eat and drink every other week." She laughed, but Sherlock could tell that she was concealing the pain of losing him.

He laughed back, feeling just as hurt.