Mankind Should Be Our Business, chp. 3
Sherlock expects the next spirit to surprise him, which is how he manages to keep from flinching when a tall, ginger-haired man appears on his sofa between one blink and the next. His hair clashes with his absolutely appalling Christmas jumper. It is worse than any jumper John has ever owned, which is saying quite a bit. The spirit grins at Sherlock and props his feet on the coffee table.
“My last ‘guest’ introduced herself as the Ghost of Christmas Past. I assume, then, that would make you the Ghost of Christmas Present?”
The ghost fishes a flask out of his trousers, toasts Sherlock, and takes a long swallow. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes, although I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. My brothers mentioned that you were clever.”
“Fans of mine, are they?”
“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. But then, it seems as if you return the sentiment. I can’t remember the last time you let Christmas into your home. Even that rather adorable doctor couldn’t persuade you.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. “And just what should I be welcoming about Christmas? Apart from the fact that drunkenness coupled with enforced familial interaction regularly results in cases for me to solve?”
At that, the spirit rises to his feet. “Let’s just go take a look, shall we?” The flask is handed off to Sherlock, who sniffs it gingerly. Cloves and anise, tea, the warmth of mulled wine, a nip of cinnamon... He realizes, quite suddenly, that he feels good. Flicking a glance at the spirit, who nods, Sherlock takes a small sip. Then one that’s not quite so small. And another. It’s possible that he’s grinning quite uncontrollably now and actually swaying a bit, but he can’t find it in him to care.
The spirit laughs, claps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and spins him around-
: : :
The spinning’s made him dizzy, so it’s a moment or two before he opens his eyes and sees Lestrade, standing atop a desk, wearing tinsel in his hair and clutching a half-empty bottle. It’s the Yard Christmas party. Of course it is; but the fact that he’s here at this ridiculous affair after all doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should.
“Oi! You lot! Quiet down, I need to make a toast! Where’s John? John Watson, where've you gone off to?"
Sherlock hears a familiar laugh as John is tugged to the center of the room. It's the laugh he normally saves for Sherlock's more outlandish endeavors; it says, "I have no idea what's going on here, but I'll go along with it anyway, provided that you don't humiliate us too badly." It always makes Sherlock’s lips quirk, just for a moment, and tonight he finds himself giving in to the smile. It gets bigger as he watches John clamber onto the desk next to Lestrade and give the crowd a little wave.
He looks John over and realizes that, while he's a little flushed (a combination of embarrassment and alcohol), he has not been... overly-friendly... with any of the women at the party this evening. The knowledge only amplifies the warm, practically cheerful feeling that's buzzing away in Sherlock's stomach, courtesy of the spirit's flask. He wonders a little, though, at John’s apparent lack of success- after all, he does look quite... acceptable... in those trousers. Excessive alcohol consumption must be blinding the women of the Met this evening.
A sweater-clad elbow pokes him none-too-gently. "You might want to pay attention to what they’re actually saying, yeah?”
Lestrade, waving both arms now, continues to speak. "I think we all know that we owe John here an enormous debt! Someone has to make sure that evidence doesn’t walk away and that deductions get explained to us poor sods, and I’m damn grateful that it doesn’t have to be me! So let’s have a drink to John Watson, quite possibly the only person in the world who could tolerate living, day-in and day-out, with Sherlock bloody Holmes!"
There are a few cheers at this, and Sherlock himself is inclined to agree with the statement. None of his previous flatmates have lasted anywhere near as long as John. Secretly, he's a little bit glad of the fact- John’s presence is infinitely preferable.
"In fact," Lestrade continues enthusiastically, "I think you might be rubbing off on him just a bit, John. Just the other day Sherlock told me that I was 'not entirely an imbecile,' after all."
"As if anything could turn that poncy arsehole into a real boy," shouts someone from the back of the room.
John's eyes narrow at this, and Lestrade points his (now-empty) bottle at the speaker. "Oi, watch it. It's certainly true that Sherlock can be a miserable, smug git on, well, every occasion. He's a bit of an egomaniacal bastard, in fact, and god knows it’s impossible to try and work with him.”
Sherlock frowns. The pleasant, floaty feeling he’s been enjoying is starting to recede. It seems as if the effects of the spirit’s drink must wear off quickly.
“But somewhere under that ridiculously posh exterior is a good man. He’s saved my life before, and John’s, and even a few of yours on occasion, and don’t any of you forget it.”
The room is quiet for a moment as Lestrade climbs down off the desk and pulls John after him. He slings an arm around John’s shoulders and walks him into the DI’s office as the sounds of the party start again.
“Cheer up and have another drink, there’s a good lad. You know, I think that Lestrade fellow might actually like you.” The spirit elbows Sherlock again, prompting him to take the flask.
Lestrade’s comments about him are more than a little... puzzling. Why would he bother? It’s true that Sherlock would rather work with Lestrade than any of the other idiots that NSY employs. The man is, occasionally, very nearly clever, and is willing to accept Sherlock’s deductions as fact, which is more important. However, it isn’t as if Sherlock has ever considered him a friend. He can’t imagine a situation in which he’d care enough to speak up for or defend Lestrade.
“Didn’t I tell you to drink up? The party’s not over yet, and I expect you’ll need the fortification.” At the spirit’s incessant nudging, Sherlock takes another swallow from the flask. He’s reminded, suddenly, of the first time that John listened to one of his deductions and called Sherlock brilliant. He chases the feeling unabashedly, drinking until the spirit reaches over and pulls the flask away from Sherlock’s mouth.
“That’s enough, I should think. Too much more and you’ll be floating on the ceiling.” With that, the spirit steers Sherlock across the room and up to the door of Lestrade’s office. Sherlock presses his ear to the door but can only hear the indistinct rumble of voices. He’s just turning, a questioning look on his face, when the spirit places both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him through the door. Sherlock stumbles, reaches out to catch himself, and ends up half-sprawled across one of Lestrade’s office chairs. The spirit walks calmly through the door and doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.
Sherlock pulls himself together rapidly, turning his attention to the other occupants of the room. Lestrade sits behind his desk, both feet kicked up on its surface, while John sits opposite, arms crossed, legs spread wide, head tipped back. The look on Lestrade’s face is one that Sherlock recognizes from a hundred crime scenes; it’s pity. It’s stronger than just the “bad luck living with a madman” expression from earlier.
“No luck convincing Himself to come with you tonight, then?”
Sherlock’s brows knit. Lestrade can’t have honestly expected that he’d be willing to come to this party. In all the years they’ve worked together, this is the first Christmas he’s even been asked to come. Sherlock blames this year’s invitation on John’s remarkable affability.
John heaves a sigh and doesn’t lift his head. “You know, I actually thought I had? I brought it up three times without him blowing me off, then tonight he calls it ‘idiotic sentiment’ and refuses to leave the bloody flat.”
“What a wanker. Did you say anything about-” Lestrade awkwardly waves a hand in John’s direction.
“God, no. Can you imagine, after all that? No, I just left.”
“Well, you’re going to have to sometime; just last week at the pub you swore you were going to man up and tell him the truth.”
Sherlock realizes that he’s leaning forward into John’s space, fists clenched and white-knuckled. What has John been hiding from him? He would have noticed if something was wrong, wouldn’t he? He pays far too much attention to John as it is; he would have caught the signs of illness. Unless it were something internal, something potentially asymptomatic... Suddenly his mind is racing with anything that it could possibly be, analyzing everything he’s noted about John over the last few months for any sort of discrepancy.
The spirit, standing behind him, rests a hand on his shoulder and leans down to whisper in his ear. “Calm down, lad. I wager you’ll want to catch this next bit.”
John finally leans forward and looks at Lestrade. “You know, Greg, maybe it’s better if I don’t. I can’t even convince him to come to a sodding Christmas party with me. You should have seen the look on his face- nothing but contempt for all of us ‘plebeian morons.’ If I tell him that I’m in love with him, he’ll probably toss me out of the flat for good.”
Sherlock is frozen. There’s a mad, buzzing sensation in his chest, the likes of which he hasn’t experienced since he got clean. Love? He’s aware that John likes him, that he considers them friends, but this? People admire Sherlock, respect his work, find him attractive, even, but they don’t love him. And John, of all people- John, who’s seen his messes and his moods, knows his history, who Sherlock has left behind at crime scenes and interrupted on dates... Why on Earth would John choose to fall in love with him?
He sits there, stunned, as Lestrade professes his sympathies once again and then drags John out into the party for another drink. The spirit props himself on an empty corner of the desk and eyes Sherlock carefully.
“So, big head full of all those brains and you didn’t see this one coming, hmm? I suppose people can surprise even you.”
This earns the spirit a glare. That’s just it- people don’t surprise him. It took the likes of Moriarty to catch him off guard the last time. How has he not seen this? Either John is far more clever than Sherlock’s given him credit for, or Sherlock has made a mistake somewhere. Twisted data to suit his theories, rather than making real, unbiased observations.
“This is what happens when you pay attention to the facts and ignore the people behind them, Holmes. You miss things. You make mistakes. If you’ve missed this, what else might you have missed?”
He will not listen to the spirit’s condescension for a single moment longer. Sherlock stands up, whirls toward the door, only to have the spirit catch his arm and-
: : :
He’s alone in his flat. As he throws himself down on the sofa, his phone quietly rings in 3am.
Chapter 4 >
“My last ‘guest’ introduced herself as the Ghost of Christmas Past. I assume, then, that would make you the Ghost of Christmas Present?”
The ghost fishes a flask out of his trousers, toasts Sherlock, and takes a long swallow. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes, although I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. My brothers mentioned that you were clever.”
“Fans of mine, are they?”
“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. But then, it seems as if you return the sentiment. I can’t remember the last time you let Christmas into your home. Even that rather adorable doctor couldn’t persuade you.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. “And just what should I be welcoming about Christmas? Apart from the fact that drunkenness coupled with enforced familial interaction regularly results in cases for me to solve?”
At that, the spirit rises to his feet. “Let’s just go take a look, shall we?” The flask is handed off to Sherlock, who sniffs it gingerly. Cloves and anise, tea, the warmth of mulled wine, a nip of cinnamon... He realizes, quite suddenly, that he feels good. Flicking a glance at the spirit, who nods, Sherlock takes a small sip. Then one that’s not quite so small. And another. It’s possible that he’s grinning quite uncontrollably now and actually swaying a bit, but he can’t find it in him to care.
The spirit laughs, claps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and spins him around-
: : :
The spinning’s made him dizzy, so it’s a moment or two before he opens his eyes and sees Lestrade, standing atop a desk, wearing tinsel in his hair and clutching a half-empty bottle. It’s the Yard Christmas party. Of course it is; but the fact that he’s here at this ridiculous affair after all doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should.
“Oi! You lot! Quiet down, I need to make a toast! Where’s John? John Watson, where've you gone off to?"
Sherlock hears a familiar laugh as John is tugged to the center of the room. It's the laugh he normally saves for Sherlock's more outlandish endeavors; it says, "I have no idea what's going on here, but I'll go along with it anyway, provided that you don't humiliate us too badly." It always makes Sherlock’s lips quirk, just for a moment, and tonight he finds himself giving in to the smile. It gets bigger as he watches John clamber onto the desk next to Lestrade and give the crowd a little wave.
He looks John over and realizes that, while he's a little flushed (a combination of embarrassment and alcohol), he has not been... overly-friendly... with any of the women at the party this evening. The knowledge only amplifies the warm, practically cheerful feeling that's buzzing away in Sherlock's stomach, courtesy of the spirit's flask. He wonders a little, though, at John’s apparent lack of success- after all, he does look quite... acceptable... in those trousers. Excessive alcohol consumption must be blinding the women of the Met this evening.
A sweater-clad elbow pokes him none-too-gently. "You might want to pay attention to what they’re actually saying, yeah?”
Lestrade, waving both arms now, continues to speak. "I think we all know that we owe John here an enormous debt! Someone has to make sure that evidence doesn’t walk away and that deductions get explained to us poor sods, and I’m damn grateful that it doesn’t have to be me! So let’s have a drink to John Watson, quite possibly the only person in the world who could tolerate living, day-in and day-out, with Sherlock bloody Holmes!"
There are a few cheers at this, and Sherlock himself is inclined to agree with the statement. None of his previous flatmates have lasted anywhere near as long as John. Secretly, he's a little bit glad of the fact- John’s presence is infinitely preferable.
"In fact," Lestrade continues enthusiastically, "I think you might be rubbing off on him just a bit, John. Just the other day Sherlock told me that I was 'not entirely an imbecile,' after all."
"As if anything could turn that poncy arsehole into a real boy," shouts someone from the back of the room.
John's eyes narrow at this, and Lestrade points his (now-empty) bottle at the speaker. "Oi, watch it. It's certainly true that Sherlock can be a miserable, smug git on, well, every occasion. He's a bit of an egomaniacal bastard, in fact, and god knows it’s impossible to try and work with him.”
Sherlock frowns. The pleasant, floaty feeling he’s been enjoying is starting to recede. It seems as if the effects of the spirit’s drink must wear off quickly.
“But somewhere under that ridiculously posh exterior is a good man. He’s saved my life before, and John’s, and even a few of yours on occasion, and don’t any of you forget it.”
The room is quiet for a moment as Lestrade climbs down off the desk and pulls John after him. He slings an arm around John’s shoulders and walks him into the DI’s office as the sounds of the party start again.
“Cheer up and have another drink, there’s a good lad. You know, I think that Lestrade fellow might actually like you.” The spirit elbows Sherlock again, prompting him to take the flask.
Lestrade’s comments about him are more than a little... puzzling. Why would he bother? It’s true that Sherlock would rather work with Lestrade than any of the other idiots that NSY employs. The man is, occasionally, very nearly clever, and is willing to accept Sherlock’s deductions as fact, which is more important. However, it isn’t as if Sherlock has ever considered him a friend. He can’t imagine a situation in which he’d care enough to speak up for or defend Lestrade.
“Didn’t I tell you to drink up? The party’s not over yet, and I expect you’ll need the fortification.” At the spirit’s incessant nudging, Sherlock takes another swallow from the flask. He’s reminded, suddenly, of the first time that John listened to one of his deductions and called Sherlock brilliant. He chases the feeling unabashedly, drinking until the spirit reaches over and pulls the flask away from Sherlock’s mouth.
“That’s enough, I should think. Too much more and you’ll be floating on the ceiling.” With that, the spirit steers Sherlock across the room and up to the door of Lestrade’s office. Sherlock presses his ear to the door but can only hear the indistinct rumble of voices. He’s just turning, a questioning look on his face, when the spirit places both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him through the door. Sherlock stumbles, reaches out to catch himself, and ends up half-sprawled across one of Lestrade’s office chairs. The spirit walks calmly through the door and doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.
Sherlock pulls himself together rapidly, turning his attention to the other occupants of the room. Lestrade sits behind his desk, both feet kicked up on its surface, while John sits opposite, arms crossed, legs spread wide, head tipped back. The look on Lestrade’s face is one that Sherlock recognizes from a hundred crime scenes; it’s pity. It’s stronger than just the “bad luck living with a madman” expression from earlier.
“No luck convincing Himself to come with you tonight, then?”
Sherlock’s brows knit. Lestrade can’t have honestly expected that he’d be willing to come to this party. In all the years they’ve worked together, this is the first Christmas he’s even been asked to come. Sherlock blames this year’s invitation on John’s remarkable affability.
John heaves a sigh and doesn’t lift his head. “You know, I actually thought I had? I brought it up three times without him blowing me off, then tonight he calls it ‘idiotic sentiment’ and refuses to leave the bloody flat.”
“What a wanker. Did you say anything about-” Lestrade awkwardly waves a hand in John’s direction.
“God, no. Can you imagine, after all that? No, I just left.”
“Well, you’re going to have to sometime; just last week at the pub you swore you were going to man up and tell him the truth.”
Sherlock realizes that he’s leaning forward into John’s space, fists clenched and white-knuckled. What has John been hiding from him? He would have noticed if something was wrong, wouldn’t he? He pays far too much attention to John as it is; he would have caught the signs of illness. Unless it were something internal, something potentially asymptomatic... Suddenly his mind is racing with anything that it could possibly be, analyzing everything he’s noted about John over the last few months for any sort of discrepancy.
The spirit, standing behind him, rests a hand on his shoulder and leans down to whisper in his ear. “Calm down, lad. I wager you’ll want to catch this next bit.”
John finally leans forward and looks at Lestrade. “You know, Greg, maybe it’s better if I don’t. I can’t even convince him to come to a sodding Christmas party with me. You should have seen the look on his face- nothing but contempt for all of us ‘plebeian morons.’ If I tell him that I’m in love with him, he’ll probably toss me out of the flat for good.”
Sherlock is frozen. There’s a mad, buzzing sensation in his chest, the likes of which he hasn’t experienced since he got clean. Love? He’s aware that John likes him, that he considers them friends, but this? People admire Sherlock, respect his work, find him attractive, even, but they don’t love him. And John, of all people- John, who’s seen his messes and his moods, knows his history, who Sherlock has left behind at crime scenes and interrupted on dates... Why on Earth would John choose to fall in love with him?
He sits there, stunned, as Lestrade professes his sympathies once again and then drags John out into the party for another drink. The spirit props himself on an empty corner of the desk and eyes Sherlock carefully.
“So, big head full of all those brains and you didn’t see this one coming, hmm? I suppose people can surprise even you.”
This earns the spirit a glare. That’s just it- people don’t surprise him. It took the likes of Moriarty to catch him off guard the last time. How has he not seen this? Either John is far more clever than Sherlock’s given him credit for, or Sherlock has made a mistake somewhere. Twisted data to suit his theories, rather than making real, unbiased observations.
“This is what happens when you pay attention to the facts and ignore the people behind them, Holmes. You miss things. You make mistakes. If you’ve missed this, what else might you have missed?”
He will not listen to the spirit’s condescension for a single moment longer. Sherlock stands up, whirls toward the door, only to have the spirit catch his arm and-
: : :
He’s alone in his flat. As he throws himself down on the sofa, his phone quietly rings in 3am.
Chapter 4 >