John Watson's Twelve Days of Christmas (2/?)
Title - John Watson's Twelve Days of Christmas (2/?)
Author -earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - It's the holiday season. John Watson needs money. Sherlock Holmes needs something else.
Chapter 1
Sherlock couriered over-delivered by a somewhat dubious-looking messenger-what could only be called a dossier. It had an address scrawled on the first page in hurried, abrupt handwriting. 221B Baker Street. And then, underneath that, 23 Dec., noon. John assumed that was the date and time that he was supposed to meet Sherlock.
The rest of the dossier was a list of facts, but the sort of facts one might give one’s doctor or potential employer. Things like height and weight and eye color. (Blue, that read, but John disagreed with that assessment. John had blue eyes; Sherlock had what-the-hell-color-is-that eyes.) Sherlock’s birthday was apparently January 6, which explained why his mother insisted he stay through that date. His middle name was Basil, and there was an incomplete sketch of his schooling and employment history. Eton, a scattering of Cambridge, a couple of notes of odd jobs here and there (bee-keeping, laboratory technician, judo instructor). None of the jobs seemed to last more than a couple of weeks, judging by the dates next to them, and there were huge gaps with no employment or schooling at all, nothing, just blankness on the paper. The last few years were covered by something called “consulting detective.” John had no idea what that meant.
John wondered if he was supposed to give Sherlock a copy of his own resume, then decided that Sherlock already seemed to know more about him than he’d ever wanted him to, so there was no need to give him more information. Instead, John turned his attention to worrying about what he ought to pack for this mad trip he’d decided to take. He thought of Sherlock’s bespoke suit in the flat that day. He had nothing that could come close to that. He packed his one sorry, dejected tie and settled for a bunch of vaguely festive jumpers that would hopefully be considered acceptable attire. He had no way to contact Sherlock to ask otherwise, other than to just show up at 221B Baker Street, and that seemed like an insane thing to do. (John acknowledged that his judgment on what may and may not be insane was apparently impaired at the moment, though.)
He heard nothing from Sherlock beyond the dossier, and John began to wonder if he’d made the whole thing up in some kind of stress-induced hysteria. But he still made his way to 221B Baker Street at the appointed time on the twenty-third of December. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. 221 Baker Street was right next to a café, and John rang the bell for “B,” and the door was opened by an older woman dressed in purple who gave him such a delighted look that John wracked his brain to recall if he’d met her before.
“Oh, look at you!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you lovely?”
“Er,” said John. “Hello?” he offered.
“Sherlock has been keeping you such a secret. But then, he always does when it comes to the boyfriends. Do you know, you’re the first one I’ve ever even got the chance to meet!”
“Oh,” said John, trying not to sound as confused as he felt, because surely his “boyfriend” should have mentioned this woman to him. It couldn’t be Sherlock’s mother, they were going to Sherlock’s mother’s. So that meant she must be… John’s thoughts trailed off into helplessness.
“He hasn’t mentioned me,” concluded the woman. “That’s so like him.” There was the sound of quick steps descending stairs, and the woman turned and said, disapprovingly, “Sherlock. Didn’t you-”
“Hello, John,” said Sherlock, sweeping past the woman, pulling on gloves, and kissing John’s cheek in such a flurry that John barely registered the flutter of it before it was gone and he tried to react the way a normal boyfriend would react. Sherlock turned back to the woman, saying, “Dr. John Watson.” And then, to John, “This is Mrs. Hudson. My landlady.”
“Ah,” said John, and shook Mrs. Hudson’s hand, then decided to kiss it, which made her blush and look flustered. “Lovely to meet you. You must be a saint to put up with him.”
It was a shot in the dark, but John thought it a fairly safe bet that Sherlock was a terrible tenant. It might not be that hard, John decided, to pretend to be the boyfriend of a man who apparently didn’t tell anyone about anything as a matter of course. Mrs. Hudson confirmed this by saying in reply, “No more than you,” beaming as she said it.
“Must be off,” Sherlock cut in, and then leaned past John to give Mrs. Hudson’s cheek a kiss.
“Have a lovely Christmas, boys,” said Mrs. Hudson.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, politely, as Sherlock dashed away.
“So nice to meet you,” gushed Mrs. Hudson.
John turned, finding Sherlock standing by the open door of the black car that had been idling on the street and that John had paid no attention to. Apparently it was their ride. John supposed he should stop being surprised at the little indications of Sherlock’s level of wealth-as if the essentially jobless job history hadn’t been evidence enough-and slid into the car. Sherlock followed him, and the car glided into motion immediately.
John looked at Sherlock, who was gazing out the window and seemed disinclined to speak. Well, thought John. This was awkward. They certainly didn’t seem like a happy couple at the moment.
“I wish you’d stop calling me a doctor,” John said, finally.
“You are a doctor,” Sherlock replied, brusquely.
“No, I’m not.”
“They haven’t revoked your license, and you still hold your medical degree. Hence, you are a doctor. I see you’re back to the cane.”
“Because I have a limp, Sherlock,” said John, stubbornly.
Sherlock made a skeptical, dismissive noise. “Did you receive the information I sent you?”
“Yeah,” said John, shortly, because Sherlock was irritating.
“I trust you memorized it? What’s my middle name?”
“It’s Basil,” said John. “But what was the point of sending me all that stuff?”
Sherlock turned to him for the first time, looking surprised. “We’re dating. We have to know things about each other.”
“Middle names? That’s what you’re worried about us not knowing? What about, I don’t know, favorite movies? What’s your favorite movie? I’m very partial to James Bond films. What do you think about those?”
Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment, then said, “I don’t watch movies,” as if John had asked him if he danced on the ceiling.
“Okay,” John considered. “Well. Favorite food, then? You have to eat, right?”
Sherlock stared at him, still looking blank.
“No favorite food,” John concluded. “Favorite color at least? Mine is red.”
Sherlock drew his eyebrows together and looked at John as if he were an amazing curiosity.
“Fine,” sighed John. “When your mother asks me what we talk about, I’ll just tell her we spend all of our time shagging.”
Sherlock frowned briefly and went back to looking out the window, and John settled in for what was apparently going to be an uncomfortably silent trip to Northumberland. Then Sherlock abruptly shifted in his seat to look straight at John. “Is that what people talk about? People who are dating?”
John looked at him in confusion. “In my experience. What do you usually talk about with the people you’re dating?”
Sherlock didn’t deign to answer that question. Sherlock went back to looking out the window, and after John had once again decided he wasn’t going to say anything, he ventured, into the quiet of the car, “I quite like tea.”
“Do you?” said John, because he supposed it was something.
Sherlock had turned away from the window, although he wasn’t looking at John so much as staring into space. He looked thoughtful. “Yes. Tea.”
“Good to know. I like tea as well. There you go. Something in common.”
Sherlock looked at him then. “You know we’re not actually dating.”
“I am aware of that, but it would be easier to keep the fiction up if we could come up with some reasons why we would spend time with each other.”
“You are not entirely an idiot,” suggested Sherlock. “So there’s that.”
“Thank you,” responded John, dryly. “High praise coming from my fake boyfriend.”
Sherlock shrugged. “We spend time together because we like each other. Isn’t that how it goes, this dating business?”
John decided he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this conversation. He decided that, if pressed, he would say he was fascinated by Sherlock’s cleverness, and he would leave it to Sherlock to come up with something he liked about John. So John changed the subject. “How did we meet?”
Sherlock cocked his head at him. “You know how we met.”
“Are you going to tell your mother that we met while you were undercover and I was working as a Christmas elf? Won’t it be suspicious that we met just recently and you’re already taking me home for Christmas?”
Sherlock considered. “Why would people care how we met?”
“Have you ever done this before?” John asked.
“Brought home a fake boyfriend for Christmas?”
“No, brought home a boyfriend, for any reason whatsoever.”
“No,” said Sherlock, with the air of Why would I ever have done something so ridiculous?
“I have. Let me tell you: They’re going to want to know how we met.”
Sherlock sighed heavily. “We’ll say you treated me for something. I get in lots of scrapes, they’d find that believable.”
“I am not a doctor,” John reminded him, between gritted teeth.
“You’re a surgeon-”
“I was a surgeon.”
“You were an excellent surgeon, I read all about it. A very good, very talented surgeon.”
“Right. Who now has permanent nerve damage-”
“That has to do with your hands, not your brain. You still have a surgeon’s brain.”
“I am not a doctor. Don’t tell your mother I’m a doctor.”
“What am I going to tell her, then? I can’t tell her you’re a Christmas elf. Shall I just tell her you’re a kept man?”
It was an unavoidably good point, and John hated it. He hated that he didn’t know what to tell people about himself anymore. It was frustrating in a way that made him feel helpless. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Fine. Tell her I used to be a doctor.”
“We’ll stick with the truth. An army doctor, injured in the war, just sent back home, in the process of determining what next to do. I happened to run into you after a scuffle with a suspect. In a park, perhaps.”
“Regents Park,” said John. “You were bleeding from a nasty gash in your forehead and I insisted on ducking you into the nearest café to clean you up to make sure you didn’t need stitches.”
“I didn’t need stitches,” said Sherlock.
“No,” agreed John. “But you did buy me a cup of coffee out of gratitude. And that’s how we met.”
“Good story.” Sherlock looked admiring of John’s fictionalization skills.
“Yes, well,” said John. “Maybe I should be a writer for my next career.”
***
It was dark by the time they reached their destination. It wasn’t late, but the early winter night gave the impression that it was. John had to confess that he hadn’t really noticed the passage of time. He had asked Sherlock what a consulting detective was and been treated to a series of fascinating vignettes about cases Sherlock had had, and that had made the afternoon fly by. Sherlock was the strangest person John had ever met, and John had always had a weakness for things that other people might find incomprehensible. Harry called this recklessness but John just called it natural curiosity. Harry would probably call what John was currently doing reckless, but, while John was driving toward an unknown house to play at being someone’s boyfriend, Harry was drinking herself to death, so maybe they needed to recalibrate the definition of the word “reckless.”
The house the car stopped at wasn’t quite a palace, but it was still ten times bigger than anywhere John had ever lived, and John tried not to feel hopelessly outclassed about the whole thing, as he followed behind Sherlock. He wondered if he should take Sherlock’s hand, make sure he was playing the role properly, but Sherlock didn’t seem like someone who would be demonstrably affectionate in public, so John decided to just follow his lead.
The front door opened before they reached it, and someone said, very formally, “Master Sherlock. How very good to see you again.”
“Merry Christmas, Harrison,” said Sherlock, casually. “Where is everyone?”
“The drawing room,” answered the person called Harrison, now openly gaping at John, who had followed Sherlock into the house.
John barely had time to smile at Harrison and to get the impression of a huge and richly decorated front hall before Sherlock grabbed his hand-ah, demonstrably affectionate after all?-and dragged him into a side room. The room was very large and very red and dominated by an enormous Christmas tree in front of the window and garlands of holly and ivy on every free surface, and there was a woman sitting in a chair by the fire and a man standing by the fireplace, elbow on the mantel. The man and the woman had been conversing but when Sherlock walked into the room, John in tow, they both stopped, looked up, and then fixed on John with expressions of bafflement.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said to the man by the fire. “Made it out of London so quickly? Is the planet going to keep turning without you in your office? Hello, Mother.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss over the cheek of the woman in the chair. “Merry Christmas.”
The woman in the chair-Sherlock’s mother-never even looked at Sherlock. She was still staring at John. She was an attractive woman, not as old as John had been expecting, with gray eyes and thick, dark hair that hinted at a wave, not as violent as Sherlock’s unruly curls. She said, eyes fixed on John, “Sherlock…”
“This is Dr. John Watson,” said Sherlock, and John heard the pride with which he delivered the introduction and wished, with a sudden pang that surprised him, that it were pride at having Dr. John Watson as a boyfriend to show off and not just pride at having won this contest with his mother. It would have been nice to be showed off by a boyfriend like a prize trophy, John had to admit.
“Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” John said, deciding to play his role as well as he could, since he was being well-compensated for it. “Merry Christmas. Thank you so much for having me to stay.”
Mrs. Holmes blinked at him, astonished.
“And this is my brother, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, nudging John a bit in the direction of the man by the fireplace.
A brother, thought John. It would have been nice to have some forewarning about that. “Pleased to meet you,” John said, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Sherlock’s told me so much about you.”
“No, I haven’t,” interjected Sherlock. “John’s just being polite. I haven’t mentioned you at all.”
“It’s true,” agreed John. “He actually hasn’t.”
Sherlock’s brother, much like Sherlock’s mother, just stared.
“We’re going to get freshened up before dinner,” Sherlock announced, and just like that tugged John out of the room and up an enormous flight of stairs and then into a bedroom, where Sherlock closed the door and collapsed on the bed and rolled around, giggling. “That was fantastic,” he said. “You were fantastic.”
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” said John, watching Sherlock roll around in mirth.
“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock pointed out, and that made John giggle, and then he found himself laughing, too, until he was collapsed on the bed beside Sherlock.
The bed was very comfortable, and the bedspread was some sort of impossibly soft blue satin, and the ceiling over their head was painted with cherubs, all of whom seemed to have suffered terrible wounds and were dripping blood and gore.
“Did you redecorate?” asked John, looking up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, beside him.
“You’re not a very good artist, are you?”
Sherlock giggled again. He had a delightful laugh, and John wondered if he indulged it much. Up until that point, John had never had an impression that there was anything in light-hearted in Sherlock. But now he seemed playful and content and much younger than John had initially thought. John knew how young Sherlock was, of course, and there was an age difference between them, but it had not seemed so large when Sherlock had been grave and serious. Now it seemed a lifetime. John wondered if he had ever been so young, before war, and found it hard to remember.
“You could have mentioned that you have a brother,” said John, finally, when Sherlock had settled into contented silence next to him.
“He’s not important,” said Sherlock, and sat up. “You’ve time for a shower before dinner. If you wanted?”
John thought it would be nice to have a little time to himself, without the dizzying confusion of Sherlock and his family, so he said, “Yes. Thank you,” and Sherlock showed him to an en-suite and set him up with towels. John took a slightly longer shower than usual, delaying the moment when he would have to go back out and play his role. When he emerged, Sherlock was sitting at the room’s desk, clattering away on a laptop.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I think so. How do I look?”
“Fine,” said Sherlock.
“You didn’t even look.”
“You look fine.”
My God, thought John, we sound exactly like a real couple, and he walked over and dug through his luggage until he produced the bottle of wine he’d brought.
“What’s that?” asked Sherlock.
“Wine for your mother.”
“For what?”
“It’s a hostess gift. I thought it would be polite.”
Sherlock looked suspicious. “Would a boyfriend do that?”
“A good boyfriend would, yes,” said John, stubbornly, and tucked the wine under his arm. “Let’s go.”
The dining room could probably have sat thirty, easily, but the table was set for four, clustered up at the end where the fireplace was. Sherlock’s mother and brother were already there, and they rose as Sherlock and John entered the room.
“Forgive us,” said Sherlock’s mother, frowning at Sherlock. “Sherlock didn’t bother to tell us he was bringing a guest. I am Violet Holmes. Welcome to our home.” She extended a graceful hand.
Because it had been such a hit with Mrs. Hudson, John kissed the hand and then presented her with the wine with a little flourish.
“Oh,” she said, looking genuinely pleased. “How kind of you. Thank you.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you to have me to your home.” John paused. “Even if Sherlock didn’t bother to give you a choice in the matter.”
“Well, you know how Sherlock is,” she laughed, gaily. “Please, have a seat. John, if you don’t mind, we’ll have your wine with dinner tonight. It should pair quite nicely with the menu.”
John was a little embarrassed, since it wasn’t like it was the world’s finest wine, but he didn’t want to insult what was really a very nice gesture, so he said, “Of course,” as he sat down, and Sherlock’s mother gestured for Harrison to come over and take the bottle of wine.
“He has manners,” remarked Mycroft. “However did you manage that, Sherlock?”
Sherlock didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard the comment, and John found himself awkwardly caught, wondering if he should come to Sherlock’s defense and uncertain how to do it.
Mycroft saved him from making a decision by saying, “So. Doctor Watson. Captain Watson. Of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Mycroft gestured to their surroundings upon saying “Northumberland.”
John had thought it was funny to find himself in Northumberland, but he was more concerned that John had never talked about his military background, not to Mycroft, not to Sherlock. “How did you-”
“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “Mycroft will have gathered all there is to know about you already. Quite satisfied that he isn’t going to make off with the family silver in the night?”
Mycroft said nothing, although his eyes seemed meaningful on Sherlock’s face, but John tried in vain to read the expression in them.
“So,” interjected Sherlock’s mother, gaily, “how did you two meet?”
John, feeling smug to already be proven correctly so early in the night, began, “Well. I was in Regents Park.”
Next Chapter
Author -earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - It's the holiday season. John Watson needs money. Sherlock Holmes needs something else.
Chapter 1
Sherlock couriered over-delivered by a somewhat dubious-looking messenger-what could only be called a dossier. It had an address scrawled on the first page in hurried, abrupt handwriting. 221B Baker Street. And then, underneath that, 23 Dec., noon. John assumed that was the date and time that he was supposed to meet Sherlock.
The rest of the dossier was a list of facts, but the sort of facts one might give one’s doctor or potential employer. Things like height and weight and eye color. (Blue, that read, but John disagreed with that assessment. John had blue eyes; Sherlock had what-the-hell-color-is-that eyes.) Sherlock’s birthday was apparently January 6, which explained why his mother insisted he stay through that date. His middle name was Basil, and there was an incomplete sketch of his schooling and employment history. Eton, a scattering of Cambridge, a couple of notes of odd jobs here and there (bee-keeping, laboratory technician, judo instructor). None of the jobs seemed to last more than a couple of weeks, judging by the dates next to them, and there were huge gaps with no employment or schooling at all, nothing, just blankness on the paper. The last few years were covered by something called “consulting detective.” John had no idea what that meant.
John wondered if he was supposed to give Sherlock a copy of his own resume, then decided that Sherlock already seemed to know more about him than he’d ever wanted him to, so there was no need to give him more information. Instead, John turned his attention to worrying about what he ought to pack for this mad trip he’d decided to take. He thought of Sherlock’s bespoke suit in the flat that day. He had nothing that could come close to that. He packed his one sorry, dejected tie and settled for a bunch of vaguely festive jumpers that would hopefully be considered acceptable attire. He had no way to contact Sherlock to ask otherwise, other than to just show up at 221B Baker Street, and that seemed like an insane thing to do. (John acknowledged that his judgment on what may and may not be insane was apparently impaired at the moment, though.)
He heard nothing from Sherlock beyond the dossier, and John began to wonder if he’d made the whole thing up in some kind of stress-induced hysteria. But he still made his way to 221B Baker Street at the appointed time on the twenty-third of December. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. 221 Baker Street was right next to a café, and John rang the bell for “B,” and the door was opened by an older woman dressed in purple who gave him such a delighted look that John wracked his brain to recall if he’d met her before.
“Oh, look at you!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you lovely?”
“Er,” said John. “Hello?” he offered.
“Sherlock has been keeping you such a secret. But then, he always does when it comes to the boyfriends. Do you know, you’re the first one I’ve ever even got the chance to meet!”
“Oh,” said John, trying not to sound as confused as he felt, because surely his “boyfriend” should have mentioned this woman to him. It couldn’t be Sherlock’s mother, they were going to Sherlock’s mother’s. So that meant she must be… John’s thoughts trailed off into helplessness.
“He hasn’t mentioned me,” concluded the woman. “That’s so like him.” There was the sound of quick steps descending stairs, and the woman turned and said, disapprovingly, “Sherlock. Didn’t you-”
“Hello, John,” said Sherlock, sweeping past the woman, pulling on gloves, and kissing John’s cheek in such a flurry that John barely registered the flutter of it before it was gone and he tried to react the way a normal boyfriend would react. Sherlock turned back to the woman, saying, “Dr. John Watson.” And then, to John, “This is Mrs. Hudson. My landlady.”
“Ah,” said John, and shook Mrs. Hudson’s hand, then decided to kiss it, which made her blush and look flustered. “Lovely to meet you. You must be a saint to put up with him.”
It was a shot in the dark, but John thought it a fairly safe bet that Sherlock was a terrible tenant. It might not be that hard, John decided, to pretend to be the boyfriend of a man who apparently didn’t tell anyone about anything as a matter of course. Mrs. Hudson confirmed this by saying in reply, “No more than you,” beaming as she said it.
“Must be off,” Sherlock cut in, and then leaned past John to give Mrs. Hudson’s cheek a kiss.
“Have a lovely Christmas, boys,” said Mrs. Hudson.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, politely, as Sherlock dashed away.
“So nice to meet you,” gushed Mrs. Hudson.
John turned, finding Sherlock standing by the open door of the black car that had been idling on the street and that John had paid no attention to. Apparently it was their ride. John supposed he should stop being surprised at the little indications of Sherlock’s level of wealth-as if the essentially jobless job history hadn’t been evidence enough-and slid into the car. Sherlock followed him, and the car glided into motion immediately.
John looked at Sherlock, who was gazing out the window and seemed disinclined to speak. Well, thought John. This was awkward. They certainly didn’t seem like a happy couple at the moment.
“I wish you’d stop calling me a doctor,” John said, finally.
“You are a doctor,” Sherlock replied, brusquely.
“No, I’m not.”
“They haven’t revoked your license, and you still hold your medical degree. Hence, you are a doctor. I see you’re back to the cane.”
“Because I have a limp, Sherlock,” said John, stubbornly.
Sherlock made a skeptical, dismissive noise. “Did you receive the information I sent you?”
“Yeah,” said John, shortly, because Sherlock was irritating.
“I trust you memorized it? What’s my middle name?”
“It’s Basil,” said John. “But what was the point of sending me all that stuff?”
Sherlock turned to him for the first time, looking surprised. “We’re dating. We have to know things about each other.”
“Middle names? That’s what you’re worried about us not knowing? What about, I don’t know, favorite movies? What’s your favorite movie? I’m very partial to James Bond films. What do you think about those?”
Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment, then said, “I don’t watch movies,” as if John had asked him if he danced on the ceiling.
“Okay,” John considered. “Well. Favorite food, then? You have to eat, right?”
Sherlock stared at him, still looking blank.
“No favorite food,” John concluded. “Favorite color at least? Mine is red.”
Sherlock drew his eyebrows together and looked at John as if he were an amazing curiosity.
“Fine,” sighed John. “When your mother asks me what we talk about, I’ll just tell her we spend all of our time shagging.”
Sherlock frowned briefly and went back to looking out the window, and John settled in for what was apparently going to be an uncomfortably silent trip to Northumberland. Then Sherlock abruptly shifted in his seat to look straight at John. “Is that what people talk about? People who are dating?”
John looked at him in confusion. “In my experience. What do you usually talk about with the people you’re dating?”
Sherlock didn’t deign to answer that question. Sherlock went back to looking out the window, and after John had once again decided he wasn’t going to say anything, he ventured, into the quiet of the car, “I quite like tea.”
“Do you?” said John, because he supposed it was something.
Sherlock had turned away from the window, although he wasn’t looking at John so much as staring into space. He looked thoughtful. “Yes. Tea.”
“Good to know. I like tea as well. There you go. Something in common.”
Sherlock looked at him then. “You know we’re not actually dating.”
“I am aware of that, but it would be easier to keep the fiction up if we could come up with some reasons why we would spend time with each other.”
“You are not entirely an idiot,” suggested Sherlock. “So there’s that.”
“Thank you,” responded John, dryly. “High praise coming from my fake boyfriend.”
Sherlock shrugged. “We spend time together because we like each other. Isn’t that how it goes, this dating business?”
John decided he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this conversation. He decided that, if pressed, he would say he was fascinated by Sherlock’s cleverness, and he would leave it to Sherlock to come up with something he liked about John. So John changed the subject. “How did we meet?”
Sherlock cocked his head at him. “You know how we met.”
“Are you going to tell your mother that we met while you were undercover and I was working as a Christmas elf? Won’t it be suspicious that we met just recently and you’re already taking me home for Christmas?”
Sherlock considered. “Why would people care how we met?”
“Have you ever done this before?” John asked.
“Brought home a fake boyfriend for Christmas?”
“No, brought home a boyfriend, for any reason whatsoever.”
“No,” said Sherlock, with the air of Why would I ever have done something so ridiculous?
“I have. Let me tell you: They’re going to want to know how we met.”
Sherlock sighed heavily. “We’ll say you treated me for something. I get in lots of scrapes, they’d find that believable.”
“I am not a doctor,” John reminded him, between gritted teeth.
“You’re a surgeon-”
“I was a surgeon.”
“You were an excellent surgeon, I read all about it. A very good, very talented surgeon.”
“Right. Who now has permanent nerve damage-”
“That has to do with your hands, not your brain. You still have a surgeon’s brain.”
“I am not a doctor. Don’t tell your mother I’m a doctor.”
“What am I going to tell her, then? I can’t tell her you’re a Christmas elf. Shall I just tell her you’re a kept man?”
It was an unavoidably good point, and John hated it. He hated that he didn’t know what to tell people about himself anymore. It was frustrating in a way that made him feel helpless. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Fine. Tell her I used to be a doctor.”
“We’ll stick with the truth. An army doctor, injured in the war, just sent back home, in the process of determining what next to do. I happened to run into you after a scuffle with a suspect. In a park, perhaps.”
“Regents Park,” said John. “You were bleeding from a nasty gash in your forehead and I insisted on ducking you into the nearest café to clean you up to make sure you didn’t need stitches.”
“I didn’t need stitches,” said Sherlock.
“No,” agreed John. “But you did buy me a cup of coffee out of gratitude. And that’s how we met.”
“Good story.” Sherlock looked admiring of John’s fictionalization skills.
“Yes, well,” said John. “Maybe I should be a writer for my next career.”
***
It was dark by the time they reached their destination. It wasn’t late, but the early winter night gave the impression that it was. John had to confess that he hadn’t really noticed the passage of time. He had asked Sherlock what a consulting detective was and been treated to a series of fascinating vignettes about cases Sherlock had had, and that had made the afternoon fly by. Sherlock was the strangest person John had ever met, and John had always had a weakness for things that other people might find incomprehensible. Harry called this recklessness but John just called it natural curiosity. Harry would probably call what John was currently doing reckless, but, while John was driving toward an unknown house to play at being someone’s boyfriend, Harry was drinking herself to death, so maybe they needed to recalibrate the definition of the word “reckless.”
The house the car stopped at wasn’t quite a palace, but it was still ten times bigger than anywhere John had ever lived, and John tried not to feel hopelessly outclassed about the whole thing, as he followed behind Sherlock. He wondered if he should take Sherlock’s hand, make sure he was playing the role properly, but Sherlock didn’t seem like someone who would be demonstrably affectionate in public, so John decided to just follow his lead.
The front door opened before they reached it, and someone said, very formally, “Master Sherlock. How very good to see you again.”
“Merry Christmas, Harrison,” said Sherlock, casually. “Where is everyone?”
“The drawing room,” answered the person called Harrison, now openly gaping at John, who had followed Sherlock into the house.
John barely had time to smile at Harrison and to get the impression of a huge and richly decorated front hall before Sherlock grabbed his hand-ah, demonstrably affectionate after all?-and dragged him into a side room. The room was very large and very red and dominated by an enormous Christmas tree in front of the window and garlands of holly and ivy on every free surface, and there was a woman sitting in a chair by the fire and a man standing by the fireplace, elbow on the mantel. The man and the woman had been conversing but when Sherlock walked into the room, John in tow, they both stopped, looked up, and then fixed on John with expressions of bafflement.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said to the man by the fire. “Made it out of London so quickly? Is the planet going to keep turning without you in your office? Hello, Mother.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss over the cheek of the woman in the chair. “Merry Christmas.”
The woman in the chair-Sherlock’s mother-never even looked at Sherlock. She was still staring at John. She was an attractive woman, not as old as John had been expecting, with gray eyes and thick, dark hair that hinted at a wave, not as violent as Sherlock’s unruly curls. She said, eyes fixed on John, “Sherlock…”
“This is Dr. John Watson,” said Sherlock, and John heard the pride with which he delivered the introduction and wished, with a sudden pang that surprised him, that it were pride at having Dr. John Watson as a boyfriend to show off and not just pride at having won this contest with his mother. It would have been nice to be showed off by a boyfriend like a prize trophy, John had to admit.
“Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” John said, deciding to play his role as well as he could, since he was being well-compensated for it. “Merry Christmas. Thank you so much for having me to stay.”
Mrs. Holmes blinked at him, astonished.
“And this is my brother, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, nudging John a bit in the direction of the man by the fireplace.
A brother, thought John. It would have been nice to have some forewarning about that. “Pleased to meet you,” John said, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Sherlock’s told me so much about you.”
“No, I haven’t,” interjected Sherlock. “John’s just being polite. I haven’t mentioned you at all.”
“It’s true,” agreed John. “He actually hasn’t.”
Sherlock’s brother, much like Sherlock’s mother, just stared.
“We’re going to get freshened up before dinner,” Sherlock announced, and just like that tugged John out of the room and up an enormous flight of stairs and then into a bedroom, where Sherlock closed the door and collapsed on the bed and rolled around, giggling. “That was fantastic,” he said. “You were fantastic.”
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” said John, watching Sherlock roll around in mirth.
“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock pointed out, and that made John giggle, and then he found himself laughing, too, until he was collapsed on the bed beside Sherlock.
The bed was very comfortable, and the bedspread was some sort of impossibly soft blue satin, and the ceiling over their head was painted with cherubs, all of whom seemed to have suffered terrible wounds and were dripping blood and gore.
“Did you redecorate?” asked John, looking up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, beside him.
“You’re not a very good artist, are you?”
Sherlock giggled again. He had a delightful laugh, and John wondered if he indulged it much. Up until that point, John had never had an impression that there was anything in light-hearted in Sherlock. But now he seemed playful and content and much younger than John had initially thought. John knew how young Sherlock was, of course, and there was an age difference between them, but it had not seemed so large when Sherlock had been grave and serious. Now it seemed a lifetime. John wondered if he had ever been so young, before war, and found it hard to remember.
“You could have mentioned that you have a brother,” said John, finally, when Sherlock had settled into contented silence next to him.
“He’s not important,” said Sherlock, and sat up. “You’ve time for a shower before dinner. If you wanted?”
John thought it would be nice to have a little time to himself, without the dizzying confusion of Sherlock and his family, so he said, “Yes. Thank you,” and Sherlock showed him to an en-suite and set him up with towels. John took a slightly longer shower than usual, delaying the moment when he would have to go back out and play his role. When he emerged, Sherlock was sitting at the room’s desk, clattering away on a laptop.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I think so. How do I look?”
“Fine,” said Sherlock.
“You didn’t even look.”
“You look fine.”
My God, thought John, we sound exactly like a real couple, and he walked over and dug through his luggage until he produced the bottle of wine he’d brought.
“What’s that?” asked Sherlock.
“Wine for your mother.”
“For what?”
“It’s a hostess gift. I thought it would be polite.”
Sherlock looked suspicious. “Would a boyfriend do that?”
“A good boyfriend would, yes,” said John, stubbornly, and tucked the wine under his arm. “Let’s go.”
The dining room could probably have sat thirty, easily, but the table was set for four, clustered up at the end where the fireplace was. Sherlock’s mother and brother were already there, and they rose as Sherlock and John entered the room.
“Forgive us,” said Sherlock’s mother, frowning at Sherlock. “Sherlock didn’t bother to tell us he was bringing a guest. I am Violet Holmes. Welcome to our home.” She extended a graceful hand.
Because it had been such a hit with Mrs. Hudson, John kissed the hand and then presented her with the wine with a little flourish.
“Oh,” she said, looking genuinely pleased. “How kind of you. Thank you.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you to have me to your home.” John paused. “Even if Sherlock didn’t bother to give you a choice in the matter.”
“Well, you know how Sherlock is,” she laughed, gaily. “Please, have a seat. John, if you don’t mind, we’ll have your wine with dinner tonight. It should pair quite nicely with the menu.”
John was a little embarrassed, since it wasn’t like it was the world’s finest wine, but he didn’t want to insult what was really a very nice gesture, so he said, “Of course,” as he sat down, and Sherlock’s mother gestured for Harrison to come over and take the bottle of wine.
“He has manners,” remarked Mycroft. “However did you manage that, Sherlock?”
Sherlock didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard the comment, and John found himself awkwardly caught, wondering if he should come to Sherlock’s defense and uncertain how to do it.
Mycroft saved him from making a decision by saying, “So. Doctor Watson. Captain Watson. Of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Mycroft gestured to their surroundings upon saying “Northumberland.”
John had thought it was funny to find himself in Northumberland, but he was more concerned that John had never talked about his military background, not to Mycroft, not to Sherlock. “How did you-”
“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “Mycroft will have gathered all there is to know about you already. Quite satisfied that he isn’t going to make off with the family silver in the night?”
Mycroft said nothing, although his eyes seemed meaningful on Sherlock’s face, but John tried in vain to read the expression in them.
“So,” interjected Sherlock’s mother, gaily, “how did you two meet?”
John, feeling smug to already be proven correctly so early in the night, began, “Well. I was in Regents Park.”
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