The 12 Days Of Christmas
Day 11 - 24th December, 2014
Christmas Eve
John pulled a tray out of the oven and hissed at the heat seeping in through his oven gloves.
"It kind of negates the point of oven gloves." He murmured to himself, putting the tray down atop a wooden chopping board.
He gazed forlornly at all of the food left on the side for him to cook and prepare, he wished he could rope Sherlock into helping him like he had proposed, he was sure the detective would be good at that sort of thing.
He looked at his phone sitting on the side, wondering if he should call Sherlock before his flight, he wasn't sure how Sherlock felt about him anymore, especially after the other night.
He shook his head, there was no point in any of this, nothing would come from it.
He looked away from his phone and turned back to the food.
The door bell went and John immediately ran to it, hoping that Sherlock would be on the other side for some magical reason, but when he opened it he saw Sarah smiling at him and holding two shopping bags.
"Morning." She said.
"Morning," John replied, moving aside so she could walk through.
He forgot that Sarah had offered to help him get things ready for the next day, he watched her put things away in the kitchen and walked slowly back to her, realising he was going to have a harder time getting over Sherlock Holmes than he had thought.
Sarah smiled at him as she handed him a can of energy drink. "You'll need this." She said.
He grinned at her as he thanked her, glad at least he had a friend around.
…
Sherlock began the drive to Bristol Airport, the journey was going to take around 2 and a half hours, so Sherlock suspected he would be at the airport at around 9pm, and with the flight leaving at 10:30pm that wasn't so bad. He'd just get a coffee and some food to pass the time or something.
Normally, he would have pulled out some paperwork or case files but there were no more cases in England, it was a spooky feeling.
He looked out at the snow on the road illuminated by his headlights. He didn't like driving on the snow in the dark, you always heard about people losing control on the roads in winter, especially in London and especially in his job. The amount of paper work he'd had to sign for car accidents in this last month alone.
He supposed there was little point in worrying about it, the snow would be worse in America.
Sherlock felt the melancholy overwhelm him when he drove out of London.
He loved London, he adored London. He couldn't deny the massive part of him that didn't want to leave.
And the bore it was going to be to get to know his new home in New York in the way he knew this city.
Once he was out of the city, he looked forlornly at the disappearing lights in his wing mirror.
He turned the radio on, anything to try and distract himself, except almost every station was blaring out Christmas music that only served to bring back painful memories, somehow more painful than leaving his beloved city.
Sighing to himself, Sherlock turned off the radio and drove on in silence, the soft hum of the engine was the only sound that accompanied him.
…
When Sherlock arrived at the airport at the earlier time of 8:35pm, he spent a few minutes lazily driving around the car holding area to find a spot. They'd offered him a car in his new job but he had refused and decided to bring his own instead. It would cost a little more and probably wouldn't be as nice as the company car he'd get in his new agency, but at least it was his, and it would be a little bit of home.
Sherlock shook his head to himself. You've got to stop thinking like that, this is going to be the opportunity of a life time.
Despite the fact he didn't want to move away so far, Sherlock had remembered having a good feeling about this job move, that was why he'd accepted the job in the first place.
But for a while, the last couple of weeks at least, he'd been looking at the whole thing with nothing but apprehension.
He parked the car and gave the key to the man, that was about as far as Sherlock's interest in the entire affair went, and he walked into the airport, pulling his scarf tighter around himself.
Sherlock grabbed a coffee and looked vaguely at the selection of sandwiches on offer before leaving it and walking to the departure lounge.
He sat down in the near empty lounge and perused the duty free catalogue for literally no reason whatsoever.
Sherlock despised being bored, and with no gun to shoot and no smiley face to shoot at, there was little else to do than read ridiculous airport magazines.
At 10:16pm precisely, however, the tanoy rang out with the information that Sherlock's flight had been delayed by two hours due to a snow storm brewing over the English channel.
Sherlock sighed out loud, startling the woman who sat across from him.
Sherlock looked down at his watch, the plane wouldn't be arriving until 12:30am. Christmas day. He frowned slightly, not particularly wanting to spend most of Christmas day sat inside an aeroplane.
Or the rest of Christmas Eve sat in a departure lounge, for that matter.
He smiled slightly at himself. You used to be so cynical, what happened to you?
Sherlock glimpsed a husband and wife asleep in two chairs across the room, leaning against each other.
He closed his eyes, attempting to get a little sleep himself, after a few minutes however, he realised it wasn't going to happen and opened his eyes again.
Glancing around the boring, white room, he wished he'd brought something to read.
The next half an hour passed, giving Sherlock the increasing urge to murder someone for the amusement.
He sighed again and shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. He opened his coat and stuffed his hands into his pocket, feeling the crackling of stiff paper brush against his hand.
Confused, Sherlock pulled out the object and found himself holding the latest issue of the 'Westminster Herald', he must not have taken it out of his coat pocket from last night.
Sherlock's breath stopped for a moment as he willed himself to calm down. There was no point to any of this, he was about to start a new life, all he was doing was hurting himself over a man who didn't want to see him anyway.
He'd messed up, and now it was time to move on, for both their sakes.
With that thought in his mind, he opened the paper and began to read.
He'd never read the 'Westminster Herald' before, it seemed to be semi-political and semi-trivial but in such a way that it worked.
Sherlock skimmed over an article about some minor celebrity who'd turned on the Christmas lights and found the coverage of an incident the Met. Had dealt with a few months ago about a particularly gruesome murder in Chester. He saw Lestrade's name mentioned a few times and smiled to himself.
He turned the page and saw his own face staring back at him, he nearly jumped.
He peered down at the two-page spread dedicated to him for a second before immediately closing the paper.
He took a deep breath and admonished himself. He couldn't hide from one article for the rest of his life, it hadn't been the first time a reporter had said bad things about him.
But those reporters hadn't known him, they hadn't meant as much as...
Sherlock opened the paper again and lingered on the words 'written by John Watson' for longer than he should have.
He felt the pull in his stomach that was becoming all too familiar return and swallowed once. Knowing that if he allowed himself only one moment to truly feel all the hurt that was inside him, he might actually lose himself to it and that wasn't an option for him.
He knew he deserved every word of what John had written, there was no point in avoiding it; he began to read.
The majority of the article was the coverage of his honouring and the Q and A between Sherlock and John, Sherlock noticed immediately that John hadn't printed anything he had asked him not to print, but he supposed it was less about him and more about John's professional integrity.
Sherlock sorely wished that John were beside him now, for a majority of reasons but mainly to let him know that the quality of his writing was truly impressive.
He couldn't believe he'd known John for over a week and hadn't read a single word he'd ever written, he suddenly felt like such an arsehole, he suddenly wanted John to start being mean to him.
Sherlock continued reading, mesmerised, until he came across the final paragraph which he read slowly:
Upon meeting him, I can say that Sherlock Holmes is an intriguing man. Although somewhat trapped within his role of detective, having to make questionable choices for the greater good. He appeared to me as very reserved, very guarded and very self-sufficient and for that reason, there is only one judgement I can make, as a journalist, on Sherlock Holmes. And that is that he is a treasure. And I can only hope that New York will love him as much as England does; just the way he is.
Sherlock stared at the words for a long time. Just the way he is.
Suddenly, they became the only words that mattered. Could it possibly be true? That John still wrote these things, still cared for him that way, despite all that had happened between them? Despite all of his flaws.
He suddenly realised the reason he'd had such apprehensions about America, it was because there were things in London that were much more important than the things America could offer him.
John Watson was much more important.
He looked at the words again. Just the way he is.
He quickly stuffed the paper in his pocket again and left the departure lounge.
Well aware that when he left, he couldn't go back.