The 12 Days Of Christmas
Day 5 - 18th December, 2014
John's laptop was sat open at his desk, the screen at half-light from the amount of time John hadn't touched the keyboard.
He was staring intently at his half-finished article, fully aware that if he had just stayed in the office last night then he would have had it finished by now.
But how was he supposed to finish it now? How was he supposed to finish an article about a man he didn't even fully understand himself?
For the most part, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be exactly the kind of man John had always thought him to be: arrogant, conceited, self-absorbed.
But John couldn't help feeling like there was something deeper to him, some part of himself he was hiding for a reason John couldn't figure out.
He was a journalist, he couldn't help noticing these things, and he knew he couldn't just write an article based on a lie despite how little time he had to complete it. It wasn't his style and he wouldn't forgive himself for it, especially if he got a promotion out of it.
John watched sullenly as his laptop screen went black.
…
Sherlock was bent over the morgue-table that was holding the dead woman, now identified as Eileen Bailey. As promised, Molly had finished the post mortem and was currently reading the results out to him.
"So I found a high level of tetanus in her blood, that's what killed her. She probably stabbed herself with a needle whilst walking or might have even just scraped herself on some infected brambles, it's happened before."
Sherlock straightened up and frowned. "I don't think so," he admitted, "the wound is too deep and too clean for her to have gotten accidentally, and why would she be in field?"
Molly shrugged. "I don't know. No one just injects themselves with tetanus, Sherlock. It's going down as accidental death."
Every fibre in Sherlock's body was shouting WRONG, his frown deepened.
"You know, maybe you should be focusing more on leaving than on this, I'm sure you've got a lot to do."
Sherlock smiled slightly. "It's not really my style." He admitted.
She smiled back. "Yeah."
They looked at each other for a few moments until Molly suddenly moved away, shrugging off her lab coat.
"I'm going to head out for a bit, I'm sorely low on all my Christmas shopping." She informed him.
"Okay, see you in a bit." He said, going back to Eileen Bailey.
Sherlock felt Molly hesitate by the door, as if expecting him to say more. After a moment, she left and Sherlock still hadn't taken his mind off of the body.
The more he thought on it, the more it occurred to him that it must be hard to lose someone this way, especially at Christmas. And especially if the death did turn out to be a murder as he was very much suspecting it was.
He supposed he should really be concentrating on leaving, it was the big thing of the hour and he really just wished he could get it over and done with.
Sighing to himself, Sherlock checked his watch. He supposed he had some time to head to the high street.
Stepping out into the frosty air, Sherlock was forced to button his coat against the cold.
It was already dark out despite the fact it wasn't that late in the day. Sherlock hated Winter.
He looked around himself for a moment, wondering exactly where people went to buy luggage.
…
John sorely wished he hadn't left his Christmas shopping so late. He did this every year, he put everything off and then a week to Christmas he would start freaking out. He always assumed he would have learnt by the next year but he never did.
He wouldn't have minded if Christmas shopping was easy, he hadn't even begun to buy in the food and drink he'd need for the Christmas party he was supposedly hosting on Christmas day, but he couldn't think about that right now. His current dilemma was Harry. What on Earth was he supposed to get his sister for Christmas? She had never been particularly blokey or girly so he couldn't go for classic smellies or chocolates, not that he liked giving impersonal gifts like that anyway.
John walked into a superstore, hoping that the vast array of items would give him more inspiration.
John had just happened to be passing the home section when he spotted Sherlock Holmes, bent over examining various suitcases like he would examine a crime scene.
Sherlock looked up just in time that he caught John's eye before he could turn away and then the pair were staring at each other.
Even though neither particularly wanted to speak to the other, common society dictated that now they must.
Cursing himself, John walked forward, trying to think of anything he could say that wouldn't make the awkward situation they were in any worse.
"I cannot believe you still haven't packed yet." He said when he reached the suitcases, hyper-aware that Sherlock was still staring at him.
"I...umm," began Sherlock, a little shocked at the sudden appearance of John Watson. "I was, I've just been a little preoccupied with this mysterious death of a woman..." Sherlock quickly found himself and realised he was doing it again. Not only was he releasing classified information to a citizen, a journalist, he also happened to be being too damn open with John Watson again.
"I'm very busy." He quickly clarified by walking away.
Again shocked by Sherlock's very sudden change of attitude, John's brain swam for a moment until everything came back into focus again.
"Wait!" He called, jogging after the detective. Sherlock stopped and turned to him, expression unreadable.
"If you're not too busy, I thought we could grab a coffee?"
Sherlock frowned deeply, immediately caught of guard by the sudden, random request. "Why would you want to grab coffee with me?" He asked, his tone wasn't accusing it was simply very, very confused.
John wasn't sure why, however, people never stopped flirting with him.
Accept you're not flirting with him, he reminded himself, you happen to be a very irritating journalist who insults him every time you see him.
John had no idea how he was supposed to respond to Sherlock's question. How could he tell him that he wanted to spend more time with him because he wanted to figure out exactly who the man in front of him was? And not so he could print it, so he could put his mind at ease.
"I...need more for my article." He lied quickly, brain giving him the idea. "Our last interview was cut a little...short."
Sherlock stared at him for the longest time with that same deductive gaze he'd given him on the first night they'd met, however, just like then, his features softened. "Okay, then." He said slowly.
…
John nursed the warm coffee in front of him, tugging off his gloves. He spied Sherlock's leather gloves, he couldn't imagine they would be very warm.
He could see that the tip of Sherlock's pale nose was reddening at the cold.
"I hope I don't get a cold." John said suddenly, voicing the first thing that came into his head. He tapped the side of the wooden table twice. "Touch wood." He said quickly.
Sherlock internally rolled his eyes, he wanted to tell John that touching wood was a ridiculous superstition and he really was above it, but he decided that having a go at someone who was writing an article about him probably wasn't the cleverest idea he'd ever had.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed instead. "I don't generally catch colds."
"Touch wood." Said John, inclining his head towards the table.
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need to, it's ridiculous."
John simply stared at Sherlock.
After a moment, Sherlock sighed to himself and quickly tapped the table with the pad of his finger once. John smiled before hiding it quickly.
The pair sat in silence for a moment, John busied himself with his coffee, wishing he took sugar so he had time to think of something to say.
"So..." Began Sherlock finally, causing John to look up. "How are your...Christmas plans coming along?"
John blinked a couple of times. Sherlock talking about Christmas? He really must have felt awkward.
"Fine." He nodded. "Yeah, fine. I'm leaving things pretty late this year, though."
Sherlock nodded, unsure with how to respond.
They fell into silence again.
"One thing I don't like about Christmas," John said, "is family. I mean, I love my family but I hate having them all pushed in together, getting pissed...it's embarrassing."
Sherlock gave him a hint of a smile. "It makes me glad I'm not close with mine, I don't have to go through that."
"Have you said goodbye to them yet?"
"No."
John blinked a few times. "Well, maybe you should." He said boldly. "I'll expect you'll come to regret it if you don't see them in a long time."
Sherlock looked across the small table at him and John mentally prepared himself for the smart-arse response he was about to receive.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Sherlock agreed, visibly deflating.
John was taken aback.
"They're not happy about me going," Sherlock continued. "They want me to stay."
John spoke tentatively, fully aware that anything he said could trigger one of Sherlock's mood changes.
"Can you stay?" He asked. "I mean, if you wanted to, do you still have your job?"
Sherlock nodded minutely. "Yes. But like I said before, it would look bad if I passed up such an opportunity."
It was exactly what he had before, but not the way he had said it. Before he'd seemed so confident like moving to America was the be all and end all but now, he said it like an actor tiredly repeating a line for the 100th time to an unhappy director.
"Don't take this the wrong way or anything," John began slowly, looking sympathetic. "But it really doesn't sound like you want to go."
"There may be an element of truth to that." Sherlock admitted quietly after a moment.
He cast his eyes to John's and blinked a couple of times. "Don't print that?" He asked lightly and John found himself taken aback by the innocence of the question.
He shook his head. "I wont." He assured him with a small smile.
Sherlock smiled tentatively in return, hearing every voice in his head telling him that he couldn't trust John Watson despite the fact that his gut told him he could. He could hear every voice telling him to leave, telling him to run.
He stayed.