The 12 Days Of Christmas
Day 6 - 19th December, 2014
The first thing that greeted John when he woke up the next morning was the cold biting at every inch of exposed skin.
Shuddering, John pulled the covers closer around himself but that did little.
He'd told Sherlock the thing he hated most about Christmas was family but right now it was being trumped by Winter.
He slowly got out of bed, trying to savour the warmth for as along as he was able. He pulled his dressing gown from the side and wrapped it around himself, wincing when his bare feet made contact with the floor.
He crossed to the window and opened the curtains. It was still relatively dark outside despite it being 6:30 in the morning but John could still clearly see the blanket of snow covering the street outside. He sighed to himself, the snow had been a little late this year, probably owing to some planet-detroying global warming situation, but it was back now.
He turned the TV on to the catch the news before he showered, hearing the news reporter talking about chaos on the roads due to the sudden snow was enough to put anyone off of their daily commute.
But, John thought, at least it was Friday. He wasn't sure why that made him happy, because although it meant an end to his terrible week it also meant he was one day closer to his article dead line. The one that was still sat, half-finished on his laptop.
John decided to forgo his usual morning jog before he went to work so instead jumped straight into the shower and went straight to work. He realised that any decent athlete wouldn't be stopped by some snow, but then he remembered all the news stories from last year of people tripping and accidentally decapitating themselves. And knowing his luck, it would be him.
His teeth were chattering by the time he got to the office so he was especially grateful when Sarah handed him a freshly brewed and, thankfully boiling, cup of coffee.
He thanked her but still couldn't help feeling guilty, he still felt like he was leading her on a bit despite not actually doing anything.
However, the conversation still flowed normally and John was grateful for that.
"You looking forward to Sunday?" Sarah asked.
John frowned. "What's happening Sunday?"
"The Christmas party at the Met." She reminded him and John's heart sunk.
"Oh yeah, no, I'm not looking forward to Sunday. Mainly because it's a Sunday and we have to work the next day."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "You need to let loose," she told him, "have a little fun while it lasts. You're going to be man of the hour when your article gets published."
John smiled along with her but couldn't help thinking that it wasn't a case of when his article got published, it was a case of if.
Sarah turned to leave.
"Hey, Sarah," John called after her suddenly.
"Yeah?" She turned back.
John hesitated for a moment. "Just, hypothetically. What does it mean when someone acts differently around you, different to how they act around everyone else?"
Sarah frowned for a moment and John hoped she wasn't reading too much into it.
"I guess it depends on the person," she said eventually. "Do they act better or worse around you?"
It was John's turn to think. "I don't know...just more normal."
She made a sound low in her throat and walked closer to him. "You know, I had this boyfriend who acted like a big tough guy around his mates, but when he was with me he was the sweetest guy in the world."
John frowned. "So, what did you think it meant?"
Sarah shrugged. "I just thought it meant that he liked me more than anyone else."
John's face fell.
"Anyway," she said, laughing. "Apparently that wasn't the case. See you later."
John watched her retreating back.
"No," he said under his breath. "It isn't the case."
It couldn't be.
...
"To Sherlock's last day with the Metropolitan police service, and to all the years spent here!" Said Anderson, a forensics officer at the Met, raising a coffee mug, everyone else raised their mugs too.
Sherlock smiled at all of them, all gathered in the break room to say farewell to him on his official last day.
He would have been touched if they weren't saying goodbye to a complete stranger.
And also if it hadn't have been Anderson delivering the speech. God he hated Anderson.
"Thank you," he said, "thank you all. My years here wouldn't have been so special without all of you here, as well."
They all cheered him again and Sherlock felt the muscles in his cheeks begin to ache.
Someone began to speak to him and out of the corner of his eye he noticed the aforementioned forensics officer giving a sideways glance to Sally Donavon.
Sherlock resisted the temptation to roll eyes, aware that Anderson was already married.
If I ever snap and become a serial killer; you're my first victim.
"Sherlock?" The officer talking to him asked. Shaking his head as if to clear it, Sherlock glanced at the man. "Sorry, zoned out for a minute."
The officer frowned. "Oh, that's not like the observant Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled at him and in that moment he felt so tired. He generally felt tired, having to imitate a normal person, but right now he felt as if the years were weighing down on him.
He wanted to shout in the officer's face that he wasn't perfect and maybe if this conversation weren't so damn boring he'd be paying more attention. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to talk about something other than his own greatness for once.
But he didn't do any of that, he just continued to listen politely, wondering when he had gotten so weak.
At the first opportune moment, Sherlock excused himself down to the morgue to fetch his coat which he'd left there earlier whilst chatting to Molly.
Finding the garment on a table, Sherlock folded it over his arm before catching sight of a clipboard dis guarded on the side, at the top of the form, written in Molly's neat handwriting was the name "Eileen Bailey." Sherlock had never actually found out what had happened to her, but there was no time now.
Still, it made him sad as he exited the morgue.
On his way to his office, Sherlock happened upon Lestrade in the corridor and, out of nowhere, John Watson's words echoed in his head.
Your confidence makes you arrogant...
"Greg?" Sherlock called out, stopping.
"Greg?" Asked Lestrade, walking back to him. "What's the occasion?"
Your guess is as good as mine.
Sherlock's body seemed to be working independently of his mind quite often lately, he had no idea why.
"Um, listen, Greg. I just wanted to say that...you've been a fine friend to me over the years and I'm going to sincerely miss you."
Lestrade looked confused for a moment, probably for the fact that he had subconsciously realised that Sherlock was showing him genuine affection for the first time.
"Thank you." Said Lestrade, smiling, "I don't know what to say. I'm going to miss you, too." Lestrade replied.
Sherlock blinked a few times, believing him.
…
Feeling pretty good about himself, Sherlock shrugged into his coat as he headed for the door of the Met for the final time.
The news was playing loudly in the reception on the radio as Sherlock walked through.
"In other news, a man was found dead today after apparently taking a solitary trek in the snow, Scotland yard..."
The receptionist tutted. "It's such a shame, isn't it?" She directed to Sherlock.
Sherlock turned to her and, owing to his current good mood, decided to reply with what he really thought rather than with the fake sympathetic response he would usually give.
"Actually, I think it's kind of daft to trek out in dangerous snow, they could have helped themselves."
The receptionist frowned. "What? That doesn't sound like you at all, Sherlock."
Sherlock laughed humourlessly. "Yeah." He replied before stepping out into the snow.
He realised that he needed to reel it in around other people. John Watson was wrong; no one would respect him if he spoke his mind.
Sherlock shook his head. He needed to get this damn journalist out of his mind, it was making him sloppy.
But he couldn't help but realise that maybe the reason he couldn't stop thinking about John was because he was a puzzle, but unfortunately a puzzle Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve.
One second he was calling him arrogant and subtly rolling his eyes when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking, but then the next he was inviting him out for coffee and asking him questions about his family.
No one had ever asked about his family before. No one had noticed his anxiety about America.
Why was John taking so much interest in him? Especially if he thought he was so cocky and arrogant.
What did John see in Sherlock that no one else did?
He doesn't see anything. He quickly reminded himself. He's just a journalist fishing for a story. It doesn't mean anything.
Sherlock was surprisingly saddened for a moment, he actually, just for one second, wished it wasn't true.
But it was.
…
"TGIF." John said when he entered his flat that night, immediately regretting it.
He dumped his shoulder bag onto his couch and headed for the bathroom before he did anything else.
"It should be illegal for a house to be colder than the actual snow." He murmured to himself before picking up the phone and ordering a takeaway, convincing himself that he deserved it.
The man on the phone told him he had a 40 minute waiting time and John wondered what he could do that would take 40 minutes.
Looking around the sitting room for a moment he realised what he needed to do.
Pulling various decorations from his cupboard, John began the awkward task of trying to put the Christmas tree together without it ending up upside down like last year.
So half an hour and one upside down tree later the doorbell went.
Rolling his eyes, John paid for his food and tipped the delivery guy for being early.
John ate his dinner and watched a comedy show on TV, afterwards he went back to trying to salvage his Christmas decorations.
An hour later, John looked at the finished product with pride. He looked at the star on the top and was reminded momentarily of the nativity, of being a Shepard and having his entire family crying with pride as they watched him.
He might not have liked having family at Christmas but it was the perfect time for it.
Christmas was about being together.
He smiled sadly.