On the second day of Sherlockmas: Deck the Floor with Boughs of Holly, for thirdbird_fic
Author: thesmallhobbit
Title: Deck the Floor with Boughs of Holly
A gift for: thirdbird_fic
Characters/Pairing: John Watson/Greg Lestrade; Sherlock Holmes; Mrs Hudson
Category: Slash
Rating: PG
Warnings: No warnings apply
Summary: Finding holly leaves all over the floor was only the first of the trials John Watson would face that day.
Author's Notes: many thanks to my beta notluvulongtime and her abundant supply of commas. Third Bird, I do hope you like this.
John Watson staggered downstairs holding onto the banister, because on this dull December morning it was not yet light, and the bulb had gone; not just gone in the sense that it had blown, but gone because Sherlock had taken it for some as yet undisclosed reason. Feeling immensely satisfied that he had safely negotiated the stairs, he stepped down onto the floor and swore as something pricked his bare foot. After placing his other foot down, the second swear word turned into a bellow.
“Sherlock, what the hell have you been doing?”
Sherlock opened the kitchen door and the light from inside was sufficient to illuminate a heavy sprinkling of holly leaves across the floor.
“Is it clear in there?” John asked, indicating the kitchen with a nod of his head.
“Yes, were you planning on making some tea?”
“Why, is the milk all gone?”
“No, but if you’re making it I can get on with what I’m doing.”
John sighed and carefully made his way across to the safety of the kitchen.
He had made the tea and was just getting two mugs out when he heard the front door shut and the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He found a third mug as Greg Lestrade came into the flat.
“Morning, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson says to ask you if you have seen her Christmas wreath.” There was a pause as Greg clearly took in the surroundings. “What are you doing?”
“Clearly I am in the process of establishing the train of events to that case Dimmock was asking you about.”
“Clearly. Well don’t let me stop you.”
John called out, “I’m in the kitchen. It’s the best place to be.”
Greg joined him and gratefully accepted the mug of tea John passed him.
“I can’t stay long. We’re picking up a suspect on the far side of Regent’s Park in about three-quarters of an hour, so I thought I’d call in to see you on my way.”
“Can I get you anything to eat?” John asked, before calling out, “Sherlock, your tea’s on the table.”
“No, but a hug and a kiss wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Coming right up!”
John pulled Greg’s head towards his and they began to kiss.
Sherlock came in to retrieve his tea.
“You could have brought my tea to me if you were going to indulge in this behaviour,” he muttered.
“Wasn’t risking it in view of the state of the carpet,” mumbled John.
A few minutes later Greg reluctantly disengaged himself, downed his tea and said goodbye, calling out as he left that he would phone John later if he was free at lunchtime.
By the time John had drunk a second mug of tea and eaten some toast, the carpet was sporting a collection of red and white berries and there was what looked suspiciously like ribbon adorning the coffee table in irregular bows.
“Sherlock, if you don’t get this lot cleared up by this afternoon, I shall go and stay with Greg. It’s becoming practically impossible to cross the floor.”
“Don’t exaggerate John. And I thought you said his heating wasn’t working properly.”
“At least it’s easy to put an extra jumper on to cope with the cold; tiptoeing through what looks like a massacre in a florist’s shop every time I want to get from the kitchen to the stairs is going to start annoying me really quickly.”
“It’s not causing me a problem.”
“It wouldn’t, would it? Look, just pass me my laptop; I’m taking it upstairs with me.”
***
John spent the next couple of hours catching up on his emails, trying to think of a suitable blog title for a post that involved copious amounts of festive greenery and finding a suitable Christmas present for Greg. He had finally decided on buying him some new motorcycle gloves and was comparing prices when his phone rang.
“Hello!”
“It’s Sergeant Donovan.”
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing really. Well, nothing too serious.”
“Tell me!”
“We’d gone to make an arrest, when the bloke’s brother took exception to us and pushed the boss down a flight of stairs. He’s got a broken arm and is very shaken up. The hospital doesn’t think he’s concussed but they wanted to keep him in for a few hours to be sure. He’s insisting on discharging himself and demanding that we drive him back to the Yard.”
“Can’t you stop him?”
“We’ve tried. The only reason he’s not driving himself is because his arm is in plaster. I was wondering?”
“Go on.”
“Could we drive him round to you and then you can take charge of him?”
“Won’t he work out what you’re doing?”
“Yes, but he’s unlikely to get out of a moving vehicle.”
“Okay. The flat’s not really suitable for visitors at the moment, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
About fifteen minutes later John received a text that said simply .
He ran down the stairs to be at the side of the road when the car pulled up. Sitting on the back seat was an extremely grumpy looking detective inspector. John opened the door.
“I don’t know what they think they’re playing at; I need to get back to the office.”
“Sergeant Donovan can cope perfectly well for a few hours and you are in no fit condition to go back to work.”
Greg tried to glare at John, but was met by an even more forceful version. Reluctantly he climbed out.
John shut the door, calling out as he did so: “Thank you. I’ll take care of him.”
Then turning to Greg, he said, “You can go straight up to my room. I’ve cleared a path through the jungle from the front door to the stairs so you have no excuse.”
“You are not sending me to bed!”
“Not as such, but my bed is the only safe place to sit down without being attacked by greenery from the whole of Marylebone.”
Greg’s grunt implied that he didn’t entirely believe him, but nevertheless he headed up the stairs. John paused to make them both some coffee and a sandwich and then followed him up. By the time he got there, he found Greg lying on the bed.
“I wasn’t sure if you were hungry. Don’t feel obliged to eat anything if you’re not,” he said.
Greg half sat up, drank the coffee and ate most of his sandwich.
“Actually,” he said, “would you mind if I lay down for a bit? I think all the adrenalin’s finally worn off.”
“Be my guest. It won’t hurt you to get some sleep.”
Half an hour later, Greg was soundly asleep. John wasn’t surprised; he knew that the current case had been taking its toll and now that Greg had stopped, albeit briefly, his body was taking advantage of the enforced rest. He wrote a note telling him that he had gone to the surgery and would be back in about four hours.
***
John was grabbing a quick five-minute break between patients when he noticed he had a missed call from Mrs Hudson. Since she rarely phoned him, he rang her back.
“What’s the problem, Mrs Hudson?”
“I’m awfully sorry, but I had to lock the inspector in my bedroom.”
“Why? What happened? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m in my sitting room enjoying a nice cup of tea and a mince pie. I’ve made a batch, so you can have some when you get back.”
“What about Greg?”
“It’s okay. He’s asleep. I checked on him a few minutes ago.”
“You’d better tell me what happened.”
“A while after you’d gone out, I heard rather unsteady footsteps on the stairs. I went to have a look - last time was when Sherlock was trying to smuggle those dead pheasants out.”
“I remember that. He’d been denying any knowledge of the smell for days.”
“Precisely. Anyway, for once it wasn’t Sherlock, but the Inspector, looking very much the worse for wear. I asked him where he was going and he said he was heading back to work. He didn’t look as if he’d manage to get there safely, so I thought I would have to do something. I asked him if, before he went, he could spare a minute to remove a spider from my bedroom.”
“Hang on, it’s the spiders that are afraid of you.”
“I know that dear, but he’s such a gentleman that he was very unlikely to refuse. I stood by the doorway and pointed at the far corner of the room. He had to get down on his hands and knees and I was sorry when I saw him wince, but better a little pain now than a lot later. I slipped through the doorway and locked the door. After a couple of minutes he called out that he couldn’t see anything, but then he found the door wouldn’t open. I said that the door catch sometimes slipped and I would go and get help and in the meantime I didn’t mind if he sat on my bed.”
“Mrs Hudson, you’re a marvel. Is he still locked in?”
“No. I left the door unlocked when I checked on him.”
“I’d send him a text to tell him to phone me, but I don’t want to wake him up.”
“That’s alright; I took his phone when I went in - it’s here with me.”
“You think of everything. In which case I’ll see you both after work.”
***
When John got back to Baker Street, he was greeted by Mrs Hudson who called him into her flat.
“I’ve spoken to Sergeant Donovan. It was just as well I’d moved the inspector’s phone as it would have woken him up.”
“What did she want? She knew he was injured.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. He’d sent her a text to say he was coming in and when he didn’t turn up she was worried and phoned to see if he was okay.”
“You didn’t tell her you’d locked him in your bedroom?”
“Good heavens, what do you take me for? Besides which, I’d have had to explain about the spider and I don’t want her thinking I’m an arachnophobe.”
They heard movement from the bedroom and shortly afterwards, Greg emerged.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs Hudson, I don’t know what happened.”
“No need to apologise, inspector. I’m glad to see you’ve got some more colour in your face.”
All three of them looked up at the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from 221B.
“That can’t be Sherlock,” John said.
“Very probably not,” agreed Mrs Hudson, “but in case it is, I suggest you both have a cup of tea here before you go up.”
They drank their tea and ventured upstairs only when the hoovering appeared to have finished. As anticipated, it was not Sherlock, but someone who was probably part of his homeless network, who was putting the vacuum back in the cupboard.
Another was tying up a black bag and saying, “We’ve got what we could find. Can’t guarantee there won’t still be bits around though.”
Sherlock nodded his thanks and the two ‘cleaners’ picked up a number of bags and departed with them.
“I hope you paid them for their work,” John said.
“No. But they should make quite a bit reselling all the greenery. They’ll be okay.”
“Right. I’m going to cook dinner and then you can tell us about the case, Sherlock. I presume you’ve solved it since we are no longer invaded by greenery. And before you start making noises about going back to your cold flat tonight, Greg, you’re staying here. I can sleep on the sofa.”
“Er,” said Sherlock, removing yet another holly leaf from under the cushions.
“We do both fit in your bed,” Greg said. “And it’s possible I might need comforting in the night.”
“And as a good doctor, I should always take the best care of my patient.” John nodded his agreement.
Title: Deck the Floor with Boughs of Holly
A gift for: thirdbird_fic
Characters/Pairing: John Watson/Greg Lestrade; Sherlock Holmes; Mrs Hudson
Category: Slash
Rating: PG
Warnings: No warnings apply
Summary: Finding holly leaves all over the floor was only the first of the trials John Watson would face that day.
Author's Notes: many thanks to my beta notluvulongtime and her abundant supply of commas. Third Bird, I do hope you like this.
John Watson staggered downstairs holding onto the banister, because on this dull December morning it was not yet light, and the bulb had gone; not just gone in the sense that it had blown, but gone because Sherlock had taken it for some as yet undisclosed reason. Feeling immensely satisfied that he had safely negotiated the stairs, he stepped down onto the floor and swore as something pricked his bare foot. After placing his other foot down, the second swear word turned into a bellow.
“Sherlock, what the hell have you been doing?”
Sherlock opened the kitchen door and the light from inside was sufficient to illuminate a heavy sprinkling of holly leaves across the floor.
“Is it clear in there?” John asked, indicating the kitchen with a nod of his head.
“Yes, were you planning on making some tea?”
“Why, is the milk all gone?”
“No, but if you’re making it I can get on with what I’m doing.”
John sighed and carefully made his way across to the safety of the kitchen.
He had made the tea and was just getting two mugs out when he heard the front door shut and the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He found a third mug as Greg Lestrade came into the flat.
“Morning, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson says to ask you if you have seen her Christmas wreath.” There was a pause as Greg clearly took in the surroundings. “What are you doing?”
“Clearly I am in the process of establishing the train of events to that case Dimmock was asking you about.”
“Clearly. Well don’t let me stop you.”
John called out, “I’m in the kitchen. It’s the best place to be.”
Greg joined him and gratefully accepted the mug of tea John passed him.
“I can’t stay long. We’re picking up a suspect on the far side of Regent’s Park in about three-quarters of an hour, so I thought I’d call in to see you on my way.”
“Can I get you anything to eat?” John asked, before calling out, “Sherlock, your tea’s on the table.”
“No, but a hug and a kiss wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Coming right up!”
John pulled Greg’s head towards his and they began to kiss.
Sherlock came in to retrieve his tea.
“You could have brought my tea to me if you were going to indulge in this behaviour,” he muttered.
“Wasn’t risking it in view of the state of the carpet,” mumbled John.
A few minutes later Greg reluctantly disengaged himself, downed his tea and said goodbye, calling out as he left that he would phone John later if he was free at lunchtime.
By the time John had drunk a second mug of tea and eaten some toast, the carpet was sporting a collection of red and white berries and there was what looked suspiciously like ribbon adorning the coffee table in irregular bows.
“Sherlock, if you don’t get this lot cleared up by this afternoon, I shall go and stay with Greg. It’s becoming practically impossible to cross the floor.”
“Don’t exaggerate John. And I thought you said his heating wasn’t working properly.”
“At least it’s easy to put an extra jumper on to cope with the cold; tiptoeing through what looks like a massacre in a florist’s shop every time I want to get from the kitchen to the stairs is going to start annoying me really quickly.”
“It’s not causing me a problem.”
“It wouldn’t, would it? Look, just pass me my laptop; I’m taking it upstairs with me.”
***
John spent the next couple of hours catching up on his emails, trying to think of a suitable blog title for a post that involved copious amounts of festive greenery and finding a suitable Christmas present for Greg. He had finally decided on buying him some new motorcycle gloves and was comparing prices when his phone rang.
“Hello!”
“It’s Sergeant Donovan.”
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing really. Well, nothing too serious.”
“Tell me!”
“We’d gone to make an arrest, when the bloke’s brother took exception to us and pushed the boss down a flight of stairs. He’s got a broken arm and is very shaken up. The hospital doesn’t think he’s concussed but they wanted to keep him in for a few hours to be sure. He’s insisting on discharging himself and demanding that we drive him back to the Yard.”
“Can’t you stop him?”
“We’ve tried. The only reason he’s not driving himself is because his arm is in plaster. I was wondering?”
“Go on.”
“Could we drive him round to you and then you can take charge of him?”
“Won’t he work out what you’re doing?”
“Yes, but he’s unlikely to get out of a moving vehicle.”
“Okay. The flat’s not really suitable for visitors at the moment, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
About fifteen minutes later John received a text that said simply .
He ran down the stairs to be at the side of the road when the car pulled up. Sitting on the back seat was an extremely grumpy looking detective inspector. John opened the door.
“I don’t know what they think they’re playing at; I need to get back to the office.”
“Sergeant Donovan can cope perfectly well for a few hours and you are in no fit condition to go back to work.”
Greg tried to glare at John, but was met by an even more forceful version. Reluctantly he climbed out.
John shut the door, calling out as he did so: “Thank you. I’ll take care of him.”
Then turning to Greg, he said, “You can go straight up to my room. I’ve cleared a path through the jungle from the front door to the stairs so you have no excuse.”
“You are not sending me to bed!”
“Not as such, but my bed is the only safe place to sit down without being attacked by greenery from the whole of Marylebone.”
Greg’s grunt implied that he didn’t entirely believe him, but nevertheless he headed up the stairs. John paused to make them both some coffee and a sandwich and then followed him up. By the time he got there, he found Greg lying on the bed.
“I wasn’t sure if you were hungry. Don’t feel obliged to eat anything if you’re not,” he said.
Greg half sat up, drank the coffee and ate most of his sandwich.
“Actually,” he said, “would you mind if I lay down for a bit? I think all the adrenalin’s finally worn off.”
“Be my guest. It won’t hurt you to get some sleep.”
Half an hour later, Greg was soundly asleep. John wasn’t surprised; he knew that the current case had been taking its toll and now that Greg had stopped, albeit briefly, his body was taking advantage of the enforced rest. He wrote a note telling him that he had gone to the surgery and would be back in about four hours.
***
John was grabbing a quick five-minute break between patients when he noticed he had a missed call from Mrs Hudson. Since she rarely phoned him, he rang her back.
“What’s the problem, Mrs Hudson?”
“I’m awfully sorry, but I had to lock the inspector in my bedroom.”
“Why? What happened? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m in my sitting room enjoying a nice cup of tea and a mince pie. I’ve made a batch, so you can have some when you get back.”
“What about Greg?”
“It’s okay. He’s asleep. I checked on him a few minutes ago.”
“You’d better tell me what happened.”
“A while after you’d gone out, I heard rather unsteady footsteps on the stairs. I went to have a look - last time was when Sherlock was trying to smuggle those dead pheasants out.”
“I remember that. He’d been denying any knowledge of the smell for days.”
“Precisely. Anyway, for once it wasn’t Sherlock, but the Inspector, looking very much the worse for wear. I asked him where he was going and he said he was heading back to work. He didn’t look as if he’d manage to get there safely, so I thought I would have to do something. I asked him if, before he went, he could spare a minute to remove a spider from my bedroom.”
“Hang on, it’s the spiders that are afraid of you.”
“I know that dear, but he’s such a gentleman that he was very unlikely to refuse. I stood by the doorway and pointed at the far corner of the room. He had to get down on his hands and knees and I was sorry when I saw him wince, but better a little pain now than a lot later. I slipped through the doorway and locked the door. After a couple of minutes he called out that he couldn’t see anything, but then he found the door wouldn’t open. I said that the door catch sometimes slipped and I would go and get help and in the meantime I didn’t mind if he sat on my bed.”
“Mrs Hudson, you’re a marvel. Is he still locked in?”
“No. I left the door unlocked when I checked on him.”
“I’d send him a text to tell him to phone me, but I don’t want to wake him up.”
“That’s alright; I took his phone when I went in - it’s here with me.”
“You think of everything. In which case I’ll see you both after work.”
***
When John got back to Baker Street, he was greeted by Mrs Hudson who called him into her flat.
“I’ve spoken to Sergeant Donovan. It was just as well I’d moved the inspector’s phone as it would have woken him up.”
“What did she want? She knew he was injured.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. He’d sent her a text to say he was coming in and when he didn’t turn up she was worried and phoned to see if he was okay.”
“You didn’t tell her you’d locked him in your bedroom?”
“Good heavens, what do you take me for? Besides which, I’d have had to explain about the spider and I don’t want her thinking I’m an arachnophobe.”
They heard movement from the bedroom and shortly afterwards, Greg emerged.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs Hudson, I don’t know what happened.”
“No need to apologise, inspector. I’m glad to see you’ve got some more colour in your face.”
All three of them looked up at the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from 221B.
“That can’t be Sherlock,” John said.
“Very probably not,” agreed Mrs Hudson, “but in case it is, I suggest you both have a cup of tea here before you go up.”
They drank their tea and ventured upstairs only when the hoovering appeared to have finished. As anticipated, it was not Sherlock, but someone who was probably part of his homeless network, who was putting the vacuum back in the cupboard.
Another was tying up a black bag and saying, “We’ve got what we could find. Can’t guarantee there won’t still be bits around though.”
Sherlock nodded his thanks and the two ‘cleaners’ picked up a number of bags and departed with them.
“I hope you paid them for their work,” John said.
“No. But they should make quite a bit reselling all the greenery. They’ll be okay.”
“Right. I’m going to cook dinner and then you can tell us about the case, Sherlock. I presume you’ve solved it since we are no longer invaded by greenery. And before you start making noises about going back to your cold flat tonight, Greg, you’re staying here. I can sleep on the sofa.”
“Er,” said Sherlock, removing yet another holly leaf from under the cushions.
“We do both fit in your bed,” Greg said. “And it’s possible I might need comforting in the night.”
“And as a good doctor, I should always take the best care of my patient.” John nodded his agreement.