Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,200
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. The film mentioned is "The Muppets' Christmas Carol".
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
John knows that life with Sherlock Holmes is not what anyone would likely call safe or anywhere close. After all, the danger is what drew him into this in the first place. He knows that it shouldn't affect him like this to hear that someone is targeting them, but he can't help but feel cold at the thought.
The memory of Sherlock's twisted body in the back of the crumpled taxi is still fresh in his mind, and the thought that it might happen again chills him to the bone. He never, never wants to see Sherlock so still again, never wants to feel so helpless...
And yet this is what Sherlock Holmes is. John can't deny the warmth he feels at seeing the familiar energy in his flatmate's eyes or the sense of purpose he feels himself at what he can almost, if he tries hard enough, fool himself is just another normal case. But he will not rest easy while he knows Sherlock is in such immediate danger.
'Oh, stop fretting, John!' Sherlock exclaims, having noticed before John himself even realised that the doctor's eyes are darting suspiciously around every corner as they exit the hospital. Several days - filled with loud and irritable complaints from Sherlock - have passed since he woke, and he has finally been discharged. His speech is almost entirely normal now. John pretends not to notice the trouble he has doing his shirt buttons up, or that he stumbles on the way out and has to concentrate very hard on where he puts his feet. John does, however, resolve to somehow force Sherlock to take things slowly.
'I am not fretting,' John answers reproachfully; Sherlock rolls his eyes.
'I'm in no more danger now than I was before this happened. Simply because we are now aware of the threat, doesn't make it any more real or fabricated than it has always been.'
Days of trawling through the lists of released criminals and unsolved cases provided by Lestrade has given them nothing more than names to put to the growing number of suspects. Neither Sherlock nor anyone else has been able to narrow the field of inquiry any further as yet. It is to Sherlock both endlessly frustrating and endlessly fascinating, and to John a constant assault on his already frayed nerves. Having spent even more time at the hospital now Sherlock is conscious than he had before he woke up, John's neck tingles as though they are being watched even just walking across the car park.
'I'm worried about you,' John replies. 'I think that's a perfectly legitimate reaction, don't you? Given that we now know someone wants you dead.'
'Someone always wants me dead,' Sherlock says dismissively, 'it's just more specific this time.' He pronounces 'specific' with great care, but John can see the faintest brightening of Sherlock's eyes which betrays his relief at getting it right.
'Well, forgive me for being concerned. You're genuinely not bothered by this at all, are you?' John's question sounds disbelieving and hopeful at the same time. He wants Sherlock to reply that of course he is unsettled by it, though he knows such a response is never going to be provided.
'Is being bothered by it going to help? Will it make me focus, or is it a distraction I could really do without?' Sherlock asks; his voice is sharp.
'No,' John answers reluctantly. 'But -'
'Then I'll leave the molly coddling to you,'
'I am not molly coddling! I just seem to be the only one out of the two of us who actually gives a damn whether you live or die!' Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. John huffs an impatient sigh, raking a hand through his hair in his frustration, then pauses and frowns, suddenly thoughtful as an odd realisation hits him. 'If you're so unconcerned by all this,' he begins slowly, 'why are we walking?'
'What?'
'Why are we walking?' He repeats, 'why haven't we got a cab yet?' If John didn't know better, he would say that for a moment - just a moment - Sherlock looks disconcerted, before his imperious mask is firmly back in place.
'I need the exercise,' he replies mechanically. 'I've been shut inside for the best part of two months. I need to regain my muscle strength.'
'Bull,' says John immediately, though medically he agrees. 'The only type of exercise you care about is mental, and you can do that just as well sitting down.'
'Fine,' Sherlock accedes, smirking, 'you need the exercise.' At this, John can't help but laugh, and he gives Sherlock a playful shove while Sherlock tries to smother his own smile with little success. It's a wonder, John thinks, how easily a single word passed between the pair of them is capable of breaking all the tension of the preceding conversation. They enjoy several paces of companionable silence before John breaks it again, trying a different tactic this time.
'If I'm not allowed to be concerned for your safety,' he says; Sherlock looks around curiously at the suddenly much more contemplative tone of John's voice. 'Can I at least be concerned for my own?'
'I'm sorry?' Sherlock asks, frowning,
'You won't let me worry about you. Fine; what about myself? I'm in as much danger as you are if I end up caught in the crossfire.'
'You needn't worry about that,' says Sherlock, with absolute certainty where before there was only impatient indifference.
'The crash is enough proof of it,' John presses, misinterpreting Sherlock's tone. 'Whoever they are, they don't care if anyone else gets in the way -'
'I said, you needn't worry about it,' Sherlock repeats more firmly, turning his eyes to John with frightening intensity. He looks positively dangerous. 'They aren't going to get to you.'
Sherlock is unsure of the exact reasons for his own reluctance to travel by taxi. He only knows that, though it is highly unlikely a similar attempt will be made and in all probability he and John would actually be far safer in a car, the thought of getting into another cab makes him distinctly...uncomfortable.
No. No, he tells himself, it's merely that he finds it much easier to observe his surroundings as closely as necessary when travelling at his own speed. That is all. And it is refreshing to breathe air that, while not exactly what anyone might call fresh, is at least lacking in the strong tang of disinfectant that soaks through the hospital. And he does need to practice his now frustratingly questionable coordination. He doesn't miss the instinctive movement of John's arm when he stumbles, extended as though to catch him but quickly drawn back. Never has he felt more confined in his own body.
But the simple fact of being able to see more than just four plain, white walls before him is unbelievably freeing. He really feels awake for the first time since opening his eyes.
John's words hold true, he knows. Whoever is behind the 'accident', they will probably make another attempt before too long now that Sherlock is awake and functioning once more - but what form will the attempt take? Will they try to make it look like another accident, and assume the closeness of events will be put down to coincidence? Or will they make a more obvious effort, now that their aim is known? Will they become more careful, or throw caution to the winds? Will they want to be certain this time, and therefore make a much more specific attempt? Or are they still not concerned with harming anyone who might stand in their way?
They were not afraid last time, Sherlock thinks. The possibility of killing the taxi driver was nothing to them. The possibility of killing John...Sherlock's chest is tight when he thinks of this, his breathing suddenly restricted. While John is with Sherlock, he is in danger. This has always been the case; Sherlock knows the truth of his own admonishment to John. Things are no different now than they were before, only that they know...which should, by rights, make them safer…if they are aware, if they are alert...
So why does he feel sick now, when he considers it? He knows how close he came to death himself. He does not need John to tell him that. And if they had changed places? If John had been sat where he himself was? If John were the one who had been so severely injured, and Sherlock escaped with scratches in comparison?
But he didn't, that hasn't happened, and Sherlock is not one to dwell on what-ifs - so why won't the thought leave him alone? It has happened and it is over, there is no way of changing it and whether or not it might have been different means nothing. John is safe - or as safe as he can be at the moment.
However, there is the inescapably real chance of it happening again, of there being a different outcome this time.
Moriarty, Sherlock thinks...even if he is not involved, the name sends a chill down his spine that is part excitement, part fear; not for himself, but for John.
And if not Moriarty, then who? The list of possibilities is a long one. Even with the help of both Mycroft's people and his own connections with the Homeless Network, their sights can only reach so far. There is still a chance the culprit could slip any net they cast out, especially with so little to go on.
'I need -' begins Sherlock after a long silence,
'No,' John interrupts, 'no case. Not yet.'
'John, this is happening now! Whoever this is, isn't going to wait around for you to get over your stupid little fears, I need to work!' Sherlock snaps, but John shakes his head.
'No,' he repeats calmly, 'we have more important things to do. You're not getting anywhere on this case at the moment, and you can't do anything more until you get some news, so forget it.'
'I thought you wanted this over? I can hardly find them if you insist on keeping me from doing anything productive -'
'I never said you couldn't do anything productive, I just said you couldn't work on the case. Of course I want it over, as soon as possible, but you're supposed to be resting. You need to give yourself time to recover.'
'From what?' Sherlock exclaims, maddened by the perfectly cool tone of John's voice,
'You are kidding, right?'
'I have been bed-ridden for over six weeks; I've had quite enough rest to be going on with.'
Their argument continues until they reach the flat, when Sherlock is finally silenced by Mrs Hudson throwing her arms around him with delight and beaming tearfully. He winces as he pats her on the back with his injured left arm.
'Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you're back, it's not been the same around here without you - much too quiet!' She laughs and wipes her eyes, shaking her head and scolding her own silliness, 'you just keep yourself out of trouble for a few days at least, okay? I can't be doing with all this worry! And poor John...' She pauses meaningfully. 'Well, it's just a blessing you're okay.'
Sherlock's smile is genuine, his countenance softening as he listens to Mrs Hudson's fussing. He sees John slip upstairs while she talks, and keeps half an eye watching over her shoulder in curiosity.
'...and is it true?' she asks, 'was it really deliberate? The scoundrels! Why, if I ever meet one of them then -'
What exactly Mrs Hudson would do if she met anyone who dared harm either of her eccentric tenants, Sherlock doesn't find out. He does suppress a smile at how formidable she manages to look for such a small woman as she makes the threat, though. The interruption comes as John reappears behind her, Sherlock's laptop and mobile in hand.
'Hide these, if you would, Mrs Hudson,' he passes them to her with a pointed look towards Sherlock, 'wherever you like. Just make sure he can't find them - easily, at least.'
'What am I supposed to do without those?' Sherlock asks indignantly, as Mrs Hudson gives a knowing smile and leaves with the items.
'I told you,' John says, 'no work today.'
'And what exactly am I meant to do instead?'
John spreads his arms, gesturing to the empty walls around them. 'In case you'd forgotten,' he replies, smiling as Sherlock's face drops in realisation of his plan, 'it's Christmas Eve. I think this place could do with looking a little more festive, don't you?'
Five cardboard boxes are filling the space in the middle of the floor in John and Sherlock's living room. Sherlock eyes them with utter contempt, distaste written into every detail of his expression. Mrs Hudson looks on with delight and John's smile is caught between a kind of relieved contentment and undeniable amusement at Sherlock's discomfort.
One of the boxes, the smallest, is John's. It contains only trinkets, but all are new, bought within the last three days in fact, in preparation for Sherlock's homecoming. The other four are courtesy of Mrs Hudson, and the largest holds a rather threadbare looking artificial Christmas tree, waiting forlornly to be assembled. An assortment of decorations both old and new spill from the final three; glittering red baubles, tangles of knotted fairy lights, and coils of tinsel which are already shedding strips of coloured foil onto the floor that will not be removed for many weeks to come.
These are mostly spares and leftovers from Mrs Hudson's extensive collection of Christmas decorations, all gladly donated to John's eager, and Sherlock's petulantly reluctant, use.
'This is what you want me doing instead of work?' Sherlock asks scornfully, nudging the box closest to him with his toe. 'What's the point?'
'It's called fun, Sherlock. As in, real fun, not chasing-serial-killers-through-the-streets fun, or cracking-your-head-open-on-the-ice fun, or meeting-bombers-at-empty-swimming-pools without - telling - me fun. Now help me with the tree.'
The plastic tree is evidently ancient. Three separate hollow metal tubes make up the trunk, which proves almost impossible to satisfactorily fit together so they don't topple and come apart at the slightest touch. It is a little wonky by the time it's finished, but it will do.
The branches are bedraggled and thin, colour coded bands twisted around the hooks to ascertain their position on the trunk. Sherlock insists on sorting them into piles of increasing size so that they might work from the base upwards while affixing them to the trunk without having to hunt through a small mound of them in search of the right one.
Spreading out the little wire twigs to make the branches wider turns out to take much longer than John had anticipated. Sherlock, though still bemoaning the loss of his phone and laptop, pays attention to minute detail with a focus normally reserved for scenes of horrific murders. Every branch must have its twigs spread evenly. There must not be any bare patches on the tree; it must rise uniformly and not have gaps or branches of the wrong size anywhere.
'If I'm to be forced into this, then I will do it properly,' is his excuse. John and Mrs Hudson share an amused smile, for which Sherlock 'accidentally' misses John's hand when throwing him the next completed branch, and catches him full in the face with the bushy part.
'Sherlock, be careful!' John exclaims, 'what if that had been the sharp end?'
'I have excellent aim,' Sherlock replies.
'Right,' says John, 'right.' He says nothing more, putting the branch on the trunk without another word, but his tone clearly states this isn't over.
'Last one dear,' Mrs Hudson calls, handing John the final branch, which he slots into place.
Next come the decorations for the tree. John, with a smirk, sets Sherlock the task of untangling the fairy lights. He sets himself to putting the baubles up - as mismatched and uneven as possible, quietly singing along to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as it plays in the background. He makes no attempt whatsoever to hide his amusement at Sherlock's increasing irritation with the knotted wires. His excuse - which is partly true - is that the exercise will help Sherlock improve his fine motor function. Sherlock spends the whole time muttering murderously under his breath and casting icy glares in John's direction.
Over an hour later John steps back from the tree and surveys it with his hands on his hips. The tinsel - that which is not currently stuck in Sherlock's hair after John's 'slip' with the box as he lifted it over the seated detective - is rather worn and pathetic-looking; ruffled and faded over time. The baubles have no discernible theme; they feature everything from plain red, gold and green, to tiny skiing Santa Clauses and clear plastic stars tipped with silver glitter. The lights are not, despite Sherlock's best efforts, spread evenly, as doing so proved impossible. Several bulbs are not working.
It is crooked, tired looking and entirely imperfect.
And yet, for some reason, it is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. It's not quite right, not quite as it should be; far from unblemished, completely mismatched and at odds with itself.
It will fit right in at Baker Street.
'It's missing something...' Mrs Hudson interrupts his thoughts, tapping her foot and peering at the tree.
'Isn't there supposed to be a topper of some sort?' Sherlock replies, still doing his best to look displeased with the situation, but seeming far more at ease than he pretends to be.
'There wasn't one,' says John. 'I looked through the boxes, there's nothing -'
'Oh!' Mrs Hudson exclaims suddenly, clapping her hands over her mouth with excitement. 'Oh, yes, that would be perfect - that would really finish it off...it'll properly belong then...' and she dashes off out of the room, leaving both Sherlock and John frowning after her in confusion.
'What's she doing?' John asks automatically.
'I have no idea -'
'Here!' She comes rushing back in, brandishing a shoebox with a thick layer of dust over the top. She pushes it at Sherlock, who opens it dubiously.
'What is it?' John steps forwards, glancing between Sherlock's face, which is unreadable, though his raised eyebrows indicate some surprise, and Mrs Hudson.
'A tree topper,' she tells him, 'consider it a Christmas present - but I don't want to see it lying around after the decorations are down! It goes straight back away!'
'What -?' John begins, utterly bewildered, 'Sherlock, what is it?'
'You're right,' Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson, with a small but uncharacteristically warm smile. 'This just finishes it off.'
And from the box, he pulls the confiscated skull, and perches it at the very top of the tree.
'Well I, frankly, do not,' Sherlock announces suddenly and loudly, draining his glass and glaring at the CD player.
'Do not what?' John asks,
'Wish it could be Christmas every day,' is Sherlock's contemptuous reply over the music that John immediately turns up, grinning mischievously. 'Must you have that thing playing constantly?'
'It's Christmas, Sherlock! You're awake, it's Christmas Eve, and I'm happy. I'm allowed to be happy. You should try it sometime; it might be good for you,'
'It's not technically Christmas for another three hours,'
'Oh, shut up,' John grins and flicks the white bobble on his Santa hat out of his face. The room is thoroughly decorated now; it's evening and the brightly coloured fairy lights twinkle and glitter in the dimly lit room. He and Sherlock are drinking homemade eggnog - or at least, the closest approximation to it that they have been able to concoct. John has the distinct feeling that were he to open the curtains, he would see snow falling outside. Even the skull, peering menacingly down from the top of the tree, manages to look festive.
Christmas has come to 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock has come to 221b Baker Street.
John is content, at least for now.
'I haven't got you a present,' says Sherlock abruptly. He doesn't know why this bothers him, but it does, in an odd sort of way he isn't completely familiar with. It's the 'done' thing, isn't it? To buy gifts for people at Christmas? Sherlock is never certain who he is supposed to bother with at this time of year, and who he is not expected to make any sort of effort for; he usually simply ignores the holiday. It serves no purpose to him. But...John has gone and made everything different hasn't he? Sherlock isn't sure whether he resents this or not.
'I haven't really got you one, either,' John admits casually, 'it's been a bit complicated, hasn't it?'
Sherlock lets out a half-laugh of agreement.
'Although...'
'What?' Sherlock's voice is guarded and wary now, recognising John's tone.
'Well,' John continues, 'I haven't forgotten our deal yet, you know.'
'Our deal?' Sherlock asks, genuinely nonplussed, 'What deal? You mean the one where you force me to -'
'To take a break like everyone else does every once in a while, especially after being in unconscious for six weeks? No, not that one, but it still counts. I'm talking about the film deal.'
Sherlock frowns, 'film deal?'
'I said, when we got back to the flat, we would watch a film, and you were forbidden from guessing the ending - out loud, anyway. When we left Angelo's.'
Sherlock opens his mouth, looking very much as though he is about to object, then closes it again. By all accounts, this should be unimaginably frustrating, sitting here with no work, nothing to entertain him save for pointless seasonal traditions he has never had any interest in. He could always find a way around John's restrictions, it really wouldn't be difficult. He's already narrowed down the list of potential hiding places for his phone and laptop to just three...but he supposes it's not all that bad.
He has at least found another pastime while he waits for the ban on work to be lifted; John watching is turning out to be surprisingly fascinating.
Every time a new song starts John's expression changes; sometimes delight, sometimes amusement, sometimes nostalgia. Sometimes he sings along. Often he forgets the words, and carries on anyway. The arrival of the carol singers, switching on the lights; the four failed attempts at making eggnog...each brought a unique and undeniably John-ish look onto the doctor's face, which Sherlock is careful to catalogue and store away.
He wants - needs - to memorise exactly where the creases appear around his eyes, the precise curve of his mouth when he smiles, the particular twinkle of his eyes. He wants to know what it would feel like to kiss the little grooves on John's forehead when he frowns. He wants to test whether the eggnog makes his lips taste different. He wants more information. He wants to see John smiling again.
This more than anything, he assumes, is probably why rather than the vehement protest he means to voice, he instead eventually finds himself saying 'I get to choose the film.'
John shakes his head, 'oh no. I get to choose the film...'
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock is watching the television with eyebrows raised so high they are in danger of disappearing altogether. He is caught between astonishment at the sheer ridiculous stupidity of some people, and a sort of amused disbelief that John could actually like this film. It's...it's...
'John, is that supposed to be a frog? Singing?'
'Yes,' John replies simply, his thumb absently rubbing Sherlock's shoulder where his arm is draped across. 'Shut up and watch the film.'
For once, Sherlock obediently falls silent. He grows more and more incredulous and restless as time goes on, until he cannot remain quiet any longer; despairing, bemused and struggling to comprehend how this could be considered entertainment.
'How on Earth would a pig and a frog manage to procreate?'
'Sherlock, I really, really don't want to think about it. Shut up.'
Several more moments of undisguised bemusement, then 'are we expected to believe that -?'
'Sherlock,'
'But John, how are they -?'
'It not 'a pig and a frog', it's Miss Piggy and Kermit. Tell me you've heard of the Muppets?' Sherlock's silence is his answer, and John rolls his eyes. 'I should have known...' he sighs, as though lamenting a great loss, then adds briskly, 'anyway, they're not even the Muppets at the moment; they're Mr and Mrs Cratchet. So just watch the film.'
'Who are -?'
'Shut -' John twists in his seat, puts one hand behind Sherlock's head and kisses him, hard. '-Up. And watch the film.'
When midnight strikes, the entire flat is silent.
The film has finished and the room is lit faintly by the blue glow of the empty screen, coupled with the still glittering and flashing fairy lights.
John was right; snow is indeed falling heavily outside, great fat flakes drifting lazily past the windows in the darkness, though neither inhabitant is awake to see them.
Both are still on the sofa leaning against one another; sound asleep as somewhere in the distance Big Ben chimes in December twenty fifth.
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,200
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. The film mentioned is "The Muppets' Christmas Carol".
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
John knows that life with Sherlock Holmes is not what anyone would likely call safe or anywhere close. After all, the danger is what drew him into this in the first place. He knows that it shouldn't affect him like this to hear that someone is targeting them, but he can't help but feel cold at the thought.
The memory of Sherlock's twisted body in the back of the crumpled taxi is still fresh in his mind, and the thought that it might happen again chills him to the bone. He never, never wants to see Sherlock so still again, never wants to feel so helpless...
And yet this is what Sherlock Holmes is. John can't deny the warmth he feels at seeing the familiar energy in his flatmate's eyes or the sense of purpose he feels himself at what he can almost, if he tries hard enough, fool himself is just another normal case. But he will not rest easy while he knows Sherlock is in such immediate danger.
'Oh, stop fretting, John!' Sherlock exclaims, having noticed before John himself even realised that the doctor's eyes are darting suspiciously around every corner as they exit the hospital. Several days - filled with loud and irritable complaints from Sherlock - have passed since he woke, and he has finally been discharged. His speech is almost entirely normal now. John pretends not to notice the trouble he has doing his shirt buttons up, or that he stumbles on the way out and has to concentrate very hard on where he puts his feet. John does, however, resolve to somehow force Sherlock to take things slowly.
'I am not fretting,' John answers reproachfully; Sherlock rolls his eyes.
'I'm in no more danger now than I was before this happened. Simply because we are now aware of the threat, doesn't make it any more real or fabricated than it has always been.'
Days of trawling through the lists of released criminals and unsolved cases provided by Lestrade has given them nothing more than names to put to the growing number of suspects. Neither Sherlock nor anyone else has been able to narrow the field of inquiry any further as yet. It is to Sherlock both endlessly frustrating and endlessly fascinating, and to John a constant assault on his already frayed nerves. Having spent even more time at the hospital now Sherlock is conscious than he had before he woke up, John's neck tingles as though they are being watched even just walking across the car park.
'I'm worried about you,' John replies. 'I think that's a perfectly legitimate reaction, don't you? Given that we now know someone wants you dead.'
'Someone always wants me dead,' Sherlock says dismissively, 'it's just more specific this time.' He pronounces 'specific' with great care, but John can see the faintest brightening of Sherlock's eyes which betrays his relief at getting it right.
'Well, forgive me for being concerned. You're genuinely not bothered by this at all, are you?' John's question sounds disbelieving and hopeful at the same time. He wants Sherlock to reply that of course he is unsettled by it, though he knows such a response is never going to be provided.
'Is being bothered by it going to help? Will it make me focus, or is it a distraction I could really do without?' Sherlock asks; his voice is sharp.
'No,' John answers reluctantly. 'But -'
'Then I'll leave the molly coddling to you,'
'I am not molly coddling! I just seem to be the only one out of the two of us who actually gives a damn whether you live or die!' Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. John huffs an impatient sigh, raking a hand through his hair in his frustration, then pauses and frowns, suddenly thoughtful as an odd realisation hits him. 'If you're so unconcerned by all this,' he begins slowly, 'why are we walking?'
'What?'
'Why are we walking?' He repeats, 'why haven't we got a cab yet?' If John didn't know better, he would say that for a moment - just a moment - Sherlock looks disconcerted, before his imperious mask is firmly back in place.
'I need the exercise,' he replies mechanically. 'I've been shut inside for the best part of two months. I need to regain my muscle strength.'
'Bull,' says John immediately, though medically he agrees. 'The only type of exercise you care about is mental, and you can do that just as well sitting down.'
'Fine,' Sherlock accedes, smirking, 'you need the exercise.' At this, John can't help but laugh, and he gives Sherlock a playful shove while Sherlock tries to smother his own smile with little success. It's a wonder, John thinks, how easily a single word passed between the pair of them is capable of breaking all the tension of the preceding conversation. They enjoy several paces of companionable silence before John breaks it again, trying a different tactic this time.
'If I'm not allowed to be concerned for your safety,' he says; Sherlock looks around curiously at the suddenly much more contemplative tone of John's voice. 'Can I at least be concerned for my own?'
'I'm sorry?' Sherlock asks, frowning,
'You won't let me worry about you. Fine; what about myself? I'm in as much danger as you are if I end up caught in the crossfire.'
'You needn't worry about that,' says Sherlock, with absolute certainty where before there was only impatient indifference.
'The crash is enough proof of it,' John presses, misinterpreting Sherlock's tone. 'Whoever they are, they don't care if anyone else gets in the way -'
'I said, you needn't worry about it,' Sherlock repeats more firmly, turning his eyes to John with frightening intensity. He looks positively dangerous. 'They aren't going to get to you.'
Sherlock is unsure of the exact reasons for his own reluctance to travel by taxi. He only knows that, though it is highly unlikely a similar attempt will be made and in all probability he and John would actually be far safer in a car, the thought of getting into another cab makes him distinctly...uncomfortable.
No. No, he tells himself, it's merely that he finds it much easier to observe his surroundings as closely as necessary when travelling at his own speed. That is all. And it is refreshing to breathe air that, while not exactly what anyone might call fresh, is at least lacking in the strong tang of disinfectant that soaks through the hospital. And he does need to practice his now frustratingly questionable coordination. He doesn't miss the instinctive movement of John's arm when he stumbles, extended as though to catch him but quickly drawn back. Never has he felt more confined in his own body.
But the simple fact of being able to see more than just four plain, white walls before him is unbelievably freeing. He really feels awake for the first time since opening his eyes.
John's words hold true, he knows. Whoever is behind the 'accident', they will probably make another attempt before too long now that Sherlock is awake and functioning once more - but what form will the attempt take? Will they try to make it look like another accident, and assume the closeness of events will be put down to coincidence? Or will they make a more obvious effort, now that their aim is known? Will they become more careful, or throw caution to the winds? Will they want to be certain this time, and therefore make a much more specific attempt? Or are they still not concerned with harming anyone who might stand in their way?
They were not afraid last time, Sherlock thinks. The possibility of killing the taxi driver was nothing to them. The possibility of killing John...Sherlock's chest is tight when he thinks of this, his breathing suddenly restricted. While John is with Sherlock, he is in danger. This has always been the case; Sherlock knows the truth of his own admonishment to John. Things are no different now than they were before, only that they know...which should, by rights, make them safer…if they are aware, if they are alert...
So why does he feel sick now, when he considers it? He knows how close he came to death himself. He does not need John to tell him that. And if they had changed places? If John had been sat where he himself was? If John were the one who had been so severely injured, and Sherlock escaped with scratches in comparison?
But he didn't, that hasn't happened, and Sherlock is not one to dwell on what-ifs - so why won't the thought leave him alone? It has happened and it is over, there is no way of changing it and whether or not it might have been different means nothing. John is safe - or as safe as he can be at the moment.
However, there is the inescapably real chance of it happening again, of there being a different outcome this time.
Moriarty, Sherlock thinks...even if he is not involved, the name sends a chill down his spine that is part excitement, part fear; not for himself, but for John.
And if not Moriarty, then who? The list of possibilities is a long one. Even with the help of both Mycroft's people and his own connections with the Homeless Network, their sights can only reach so far. There is still a chance the culprit could slip any net they cast out, especially with so little to go on.
'I need -' begins Sherlock after a long silence,
'No,' John interrupts, 'no case. Not yet.'
'John, this is happening now! Whoever this is, isn't going to wait around for you to get over your stupid little fears, I need to work!' Sherlock snaps, but John shakes his head.
'No,' he repeats calmly, 'we have more important things to do. You're not getting anywhere on this case at the moment, and you can't do anything more until you get some news, so forget it.'
'I thought you wanted this over? I can hardly find them if you insist on keeping me from doing anything productive -'
'I never said you couldn't do anything productive, I just said you couldn't work on the case. Of course I want it over, as soon as possible, but you're supposed to be resting. You need to give yourself time to recover.'
'From what?' Sherlock exclaims, maddened by the perfectly cool tone of John's voice,
'You are kidding, right?'
'I have been bed-ridden for over six weeks; I've had quite enough rest to be going on with.'
Their argument continues until they reach the flat, when Sherlock is finally silenced by Mrs Hudson throwing her arms around him with delight and beaming tearfully. He winces as he pats her on the back with his injured left arm.
'Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you're back, it's not been the same around here without you - much too quiet!' She laughs and wipes her eyes, shaking her head and scolding her own silliness, 'you just keep yourself out of trouble for a few days at least, okay? I can't be doing with all this worry! And poor John...' She pauses meaningfully. 'Well, it's just a blessing you're okay.'
Sherlock's smile is genuine, his countenance softening as he listens to Mrs Hudson's fussing. He sees John slip upstairs while she talks, and keeps half an eye watching over her shoulder in curiosity.
'...and is it true?' she asks, 'was it really deliberate? The scoundrels! Why, if I ever meet one of them then -'
What exactly Mrs Hudson would do if she met anyone who dared harm either of her eccentric tenants, Sherlock doesn't find out. He does suppress a smile at how formidable she manages to look for such a small woman as she makes the threat, though. The interruption comes as John reappears behind her, Sherlock's laptop and mobile in hand.
'Hide these, if you would, Mrs Hudson,' he passes them to her with a pointed look towards Sherlock, 'wherever you like. Just make sure he can't find them - easily, at least.'
'What am I supposed to do without those?' Sherlock asks indignantly, as Mrs Hudson gives a knowing smile and leaves with the items.
'I told you,' John says, 'no work today.'
'And what exactly am I meant to do instead?'
John spreads his arms, gesturing to the empty walls around them. 'In case you'd forgotten,' he replies, smiling as Sherlock's face drops in realisation of his plan, 'it's Christmas Eve. I think this place could do with looking a little more festive, don't you?'
Five cardboard boxes are filling the space in the middle of the floor in John and Sherlock's living room. Sherlock eyes them with utter contempt, distaste written into every detail of his expression. Mrs Hudson looks on with delight and John's smile is caught between a kind of relieved contentment and undeniable amusement at Sherlock's discomfort.
One of the boxes, the smallest, is John's. It contains only trinkets, but all are new, bought within the last three days in fact, in preparation for Sherlock's homecoming. The other four are courtesy of Mrs Hudson, and the largest holds a rather threadbare looking artificial Christmas tree, waiting forlornly to be assembled. An assortment of decorations both old and new spill from the final three; glittering red baubles, tangles of knotted fairy lights, and coils of tinsel which are already shedding strips of coloured foil onto the floor that will not be removed for many weeks to come.
These are mostly spares and leftovers from Mrs Hudson's extensive collection of Christmas decorations, all gladly donated to John's eager, and Sherlock's petulantly reluctant, use.
'This is what you want me doing instead of work?' Sherlock asks scornfully, nudging the box closest to him with his toe. 'What's the point?'
'It's called fun, Sherlock. As in, real fun, not chasing-serial-killers-through-the-streets fun, or cracking-your-head-open-on-the-ice fun, or meeting-bombers-at-empty-swimming-pools without - telling - me fun. Now help me with the tree.'
The plastic tree is evidently ancient. Three separate hollow metal tubes make up the trunk, which proves almost impossible to satisfactorily fit together so they don't topple and come apart at the slightest touch. It is a little wonky by the time it's finished, but it will do.
The branches are bedraggled and thin, colour coded bands twisted around the hooks to ascertain their position on the trunk. Sherlock insists on sorting them into piles of increasing size so that they might work from the base upwards while affixing them to the trunk without having to hunt through a small mound of them in search of the right one.
Spreading out the little wire twigs to make the branches wider turns out to take much longer than John had anticipated. Sherlock, though still bemoaning the loss of his phone and laptop, pays attention to minute detail with a focus normally reserved for scenes of horrific murders. Every branch must have its twigs spread evenly. There must not be any bare patches on the tree; it must rise uniformly and not have gaps or branches of the wrong size anywhere.
'If I'm to be forced into this, then I will do it properly,' is his excuse. John and Mrs Hudson share an amused smile, for which Sherlock 'accidentally' misses John's hand when throwing him the next completed branch, and catches him full in the face with the bushy part.
'Sherlock, be careful!' John exclaims, 'what if that had been the sharp end?'
'I have excellent aim,' Sherlock replies.
'Right,' says John, 'right.' He says nothing more, putting the branch on the trunk without another word, but his tone clearly states this isn't over.
'Last one dear,' Mrs Hudson calls, handing John the final branch, which he slots into place.
Next come the decorations for the tree. John, with a smirk, sets Sherlock the task of untangling the fairy lights. He sets himself to putting the baubles up - as mismatched and uneven as possible, quietly singing along to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as it plays in the background. He makes no attempt whatsoever to hide his amusement at Sherlock's increasing irritation with the knotted wires. His excuse - which is partly true - is that the exercise will help Sherlock improve his fine motor function. Sherlock spends the whole time muttering murderously under his breath and casting icy glares in John's direction.
Over an hour later John steps back from the tree and surveys it with his hands on his hips. The tinsel - that which is not currently stuck in Sherlock's hair after John's 'slip' with the box as he lifted it over the seated detective - is rather worn and pathetic-looking; ruffled and faded over time. The baubles have no discernible theme; they feature everything from plain red, gold and green, to tiny skiing Santa Clauses and clear plastic stars tipped with silver glitter. The lights are not, despite Sherlock's best efforts, spread evenly, as doing so proved impossible. Several bulbs are not working.
It is crooked, tired looking and entirely imperfect.
And yet, for some reason, it is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. It's not quite right, not quite as it should be; far from unblemished, completely mismatched and at odds with itself.
It will fit right in at Baker Street.
'It's missing something...' Mrs Hudson interrupts his thoughts, tapping her foot and peering at the tree.
'Isn't there supposed to be a topper of some sort?' Sherlock replies, still doing his best to look displeased with the situation, but seeming far more at ease than he pretends to be.
'There wasn't one,' says John. 'I looked through the boxes, there's nothing -'
'Oh!' Mrs Hudson exclaims suddenly, clapping her hands over her mouth with excitement. 'Oh, yes, that would be perfect - that would really finish it off...it'll properly belong then...' and she dashes off out of the room, leaving both Sherlock and John frowning after her in confusion.
'What's she doing?' John asks automatically.
'I have no idea -'
'Here!' She comes rushing back in, brandishing a shoebox with a thick layer of dust over the top. She pushes it at Sherlock, who opens it dubiously.
'What is it?' John steps forwards, glancing between Sherlock's face, which is unreadable, though his raised eyebrows indicate some surprise, and Mrs Hudson.
'A tree topper,' she tells him, 'consider it a Christmas present - but I don't want to see it lying around after the decorations are down! It goes straight back away!'
'What -?' John begins, utterly bewildered, 'Sherlock, what is it?'
'You're right,' Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson, with a small but uncharacteristically warm smile. 'This just finishes it off.'
And from the box, he pulls the confiscated skull, and perches it at the very top of the tree.
'Well I, frankly, do not,' Sherlock announces suddenly and loudly, draining his glass and glaring at the CD player.
'Do not what?' John asks,
'Wish it could be Christmas every day,' is Sherlock's contemptuous reply over the music that John immediately turns up, grinning mischievously. 'Must you have that thing playing constantly?'
'It's Christmas, Sherlock! You're awake, it's Christmas Eve, and I'm happy. I'm allowed to be happy. You should try it sometime; it might be good for you,'
'It's not technically Christmas for another three hours,'
'Oh, shut up,' John grins and flicks the white bobble on his Santa hat out of his face. The room is thoroughly decorated now; it's evening and the brightly coloured fairy lights twinkle and glitter in the dimly lit room. He and Sherlock are drinking homemade eggnog - or at least, the closest approximation to it that they have been able to concoct. John has the distinct feeling that were he to open the curtains, he would see snow falling outside. Even the skull, peering menacingly down from the top of the tree, manages to look festive.
Christmas has come to 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock has come to 221b Baker Street.
John is content, at least for now.
'I haven't got you a present,' says Sherlock abruptly. He doesn't know why this bothers him, but it does, in an odd sort of way he isn't completely familiar with. It's the 'done' thing, isn't it? To buy gifts for people at Christmas? Sherlock is never certain who he is supposed to bother with at this time of year, and who he is not expected to make any sort of effort for; he usually simply ignores the holiday. It serves no purpose to him. But...John has gone and made everything different hasn't he? Sherlock isn't sure whether he resents this or not.
'I haven't really got you one, either,' John admits casually, 'it's been a bit complicated, hasn't it?'
Sherlock lets out a half-laugh of agreement.
'Although...'
'What?' Sherlock's voice is guarded and wary now, recognising John's tone.
'Well,' John continues, 'I haven't forgotten our deal yet, you know.'
'Our deal?' Sherlock asks, genuinely nonplussed, 'What deal? You mean the one where you force me to -'
'To take a break like everyone else does every once in a while, especially after being in unconscious for six weeks? No, not that one, but it still counts. I'm talking about the film deal.'
Sherlock frowns, 'film deal?'
'I said, when we got back to the flat, we would watch a film, and you were forbidden from guessing the ending - out loud, anyway. When we left Angelo's.'
Sherlock opens his mouth, looking very much as though he is about to object, then closes it again. By all accounts, this should be unimaginably frustrating, sitting here with no work, nothing to entertain him save for pointless seasonal traditions he has never had any interest in. He could always find a way around John's restrictions, it really wouldn't be difficult. He's already narrowed down the list of potential hiding places for his phone and laptop to just three...but he supposes it's not all that bad.
He has at least found another pastime while he waits for the ban on work to be lifted; John watching is turning out to be surprisingly fascinating.
Every time a new song starts John's expression changes; sometimes delight, sometimes amusement, sometimes nostalgia. Sometimes he sings along. Often he forgets the words, and carries on anyway. The arrival of the carol singers, switching on the lights; the four failed attempts at making eggnog...each brought a unique and undeniably John-ish look onto the doctor's face, which Sherlock is careful to catalogue and store away.
He wants - needs - to memorise exactly where the creases appear around his eyes, the precise curve of his mouth when he smiles, the particular twinkle of his eyes. He wants to know what it would feel like to kiss the little grooves on John's forehead when he frowns. He wants to test whether the eggnog makes his lips taste different. He wants more information. He wants to see John smiling again.
This more than anything, he assumes, is probably why rather than the vehement protest he means to voice, he instead eventually finds himself saying 'I get to choose the film.'
John shakes his head, 'oh no. I get to choose the film...'
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock is watching the television with eyebrows raised so high they are in danger of disappearing altogether. He is caught between astonishment at the sheer ridiculous stupidity of some people, and a sort of amused disbelief that John could actually like this film. It's...it's...
'John, is that supposed to be a frog? Singing?'
'Yes,' John replies simply, his thumb absently rubbing Sherlock's shoulder where his arm is draped across. 'Shut up and watch the film.'
For once, Sherlock obediently falls silent. He grows more and more incredulous and restless as time goes on, until he cannot remain quiet any longer; despairing, bemused and struggling to comprehend how this could be considered entertainment.
'How on Earth would a pig and a frog manage to procreate?'
'Sherlock, I really, really don't want to think about it. Shut up.'
Several more moments of undisguised bemusement, then 'are we expected to believe that -?'
'Sherlock,'
'But John, how are they -?'
'It not 'a pig and a frog', it's Miss Piggy and Kermit. Tell me you've heard of the Muppets?' Sherlock's silence is his answer, and John rolls his eyes. 'I should have known...' he sighs, as though lamenting a great loss, then adds briskly, 'anyway, they're not even the Muppets at the moment; they're Mr and Mrs Cratchet. So just watch the film.'
'Who are -?'
'Shut -' John twists in his seat, puts one hand behind Sherlock's head and kisses him, hard. '-Up. And watch the film.'
When midnight strikes, the entire flat is silent.
The film has finished and the room is lit faintly by the blue glow of the empty screen, coupled with the still glittering and flashing fairy lights.
John was right; snow is indeed falling heavily outside, great fat flakes drifting lazily past the windows in the darkness, though neither inhabitant is awake to see them.
Both are still on the sofa leaning against one another; sound asleep as somewhere in the distance Big Ben chimes in December twenty fifth.