Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (3/23)

[swissmarg]

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Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 2,602
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: Fusion with Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong?

See chapter 1 for more extended notes, disclaimers, and acknowledgments.

Chapter note: As should be clear by now, Sherlock doesn't live at 221B Baker Street. In the movie, the character of Paul Maddens (the teacher) lived in a semi-detached house on a mundane residential street, so I've stuck with that.

Chapter Three - The Evening Stroll

Sherlock didn't like Christmas. He didn't like any holiday celebrations, really, with their crowds and forced cheer and familial obligations. Christmas was the worst, though, the one that he was least likely to be able to avoid spending at least part of with his family. As if he had any need to have his nose rubbed in Mycroft's successes whilst everyone reminded him how he had squandered his talents and royally bollixed up his life. At least he wasn't beholden to any of them. That had been his main reason for becoming a teacher: a steady income with minimal effort on his part. It was true that it took up a large portion of most days, time that he would prefer to dedicate to other pursuits, but at least the holiday breaks were generous.

And so while the bright lights and plastic decorations that were beginning to crop up in the windows of the houses on his street didn't overtly interfere with his existence, he nevertheless found himself invariably worked up to a palpable level of aggression by the time he arrived at the door to his brownstone. Which made him doubly gratified to be greeted by an enthusiastic bundle of knee-high, shaggy, gray dog when he went inside.

Gladstone had originally belonged to Mycroft. His brother brought the dog along on his first visit after Sherlock was released from rehab, and Sherlock had immediately felt a righteous anger on the animal's behalf when he saw how Mycroft kept Gladstone at a distance, refusing to allow the friendly, playful puppy anywhere near his Savile Row trousers.

The next time he saw Gladstone was a month later, on Christmas at Mummy's house. Mycroft spent the entire afternoon sitting in the library on the phone, while Gladstone lay glumly under a chair, gnawing on a rawhide toy. Sherlock finally had enough of the dog's sad eyes, and took him for a run around the grounds when he went out for a cigarette. He never brought him back. Oh, Mycroft had ordered Sherlock to return the dog, but it was telling that he'd never made a serious effort to reclaim him.

Sherlock felt a certain kinship with Gladstone now: both abandoned and betrayed by someone who was supposed to be there for them and support them. It was no coincidence that it was the same person. Sherlock paid a skinny kid, Wiggins, a friend of a friend from his drug days, to take Gladstone out for a good, long walk during the day, but the early mornings and evenings were his.

He hooked Gladstone's lead to his collar and they set out. They didn't have a set route; Sherlock enjoyed exploring new neighbourhoods, finding narrow alleyways and cutting through courtyards that most people didn't even notice as they bustled past on their business. He was building up a mental map of the city bar none, and Gladstone was no slouch, either. They often played a game, after walking for an hour in a new direction, where Sherlock would say, 'Home, Gladstone,' and allow the dog to take the lead. He unerringly found the way back, sometimes on an even more direct route than they had followed on their way out.

Sherlock used the time on their walks to clear his head of the deadwood of the day, formulate new experiments for phenomena he deemed worth investigating, and hone his observational skills. He had always been good at watching and listening, hovering on the edges of social interactions, making connections that other people were too wrapped up in their emotions to see. Rather than being distracted by the plush softness of that woman's lips, he noticed the puffiness of her cheeks and the raspy quality of her voice that signaled her frequent self-induced vomiting. Instead of losing himself in raptures over the firmness of that man's arse, he noticed the oily skin and thickly haired arms that revealed his use of steroids.

And so he watched the strangers on his walks, saw their infidelities in their clothes and their financial dishonesties in their bags and briefcases, their children in their hairstyles and their hobbies in their fingernails. He saw, above all, that he wanted no part of any of that life. He didn't know yet what he did want, but he kept tucking data away in his mind palace, knowing that one day, it would all come together.

Tonight, he found his feet bringing him into a popular shopping district. It wasn't even December yet, but the street was lined with coloured lights, and people were caught up in the excitement of their first holiday purchases, rushing from one shop to the next with their arms full of bags and parcels. He considered turning down another street, but instead decided to set himself the challenge of keeping his focus despite the many distractions, both from the noise and crowds, and from his own internal responses to the same. He counted two people making purchases with stolen credit cards - one 'borrowed' from her parents - a band of three pickpockets, six women and two men buying items they could ill afford, eighteen tourists from a total of seven countries, two illegal immigrants from Viet Nam, and he was trying to decide whether to add the man with the eyeliner to his running tally of (so far three) vegans when he spotted a newly familiar sandy head weaving through the pedestrians. The accompanying rush, a mixture of interest and anticipation, blindsided him and made him temporarily unable to recall why he wanted to avoid the man in the first place. In any case, John had already spotted him.

Sherlock tried to take the pre-emptive route by nodding politely yet aloofly and not slowing his pace. However, John waved and came directly over. Sherlock could have kept walking, but it was likely that John would simply come after him. He stopped, indicating to Gladstone with a shake of the lead that he should remain standing. He thought he might use the dog as an excuse to end the encounter quickly, if it came to that. Before John could even open his mouth to speak, Sherlock noted that he had gone for the sausage earlier after all but hadn't had dinner yet; further, that he wasn't just being polite now. He was seeking eye contact, his expression eager but still withholding something, something that made Sherlock look more intently for its source.

"Hi, Sherlock, this is quite a surprise," John said cheerfully. "Do you live near here?" His voice was infused with genuine pleasure, and the sound caused a sympathetic thrum of contentment to echo in Sherlock.

All he said in answer to John's question, however, was "No." He didn't trust his own voice not to reveal more than he intended - or expected - if he said more at the moment.

John waited for the natural follow-up, but when Sherlock didn't deliver, he turned his attention somewhat awkwardly to Gladstone. "Who's this fellow then?" He bent down to offer his hand for the dog to sniff. "Is he yours?"

Now that seemed safe enough territory. "No, I moonlight as a dog walker," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

John scratched Gladstone behind the ears and laughed. "Could have been you were taking him out for a friend. I wouldn't have pegged you for a dog person yourself, actually."

"I don't-" Sherlock stopped himself before he could blurt out the admission, immediately questioning his motives for doing so. Why should he be ashamed of not having any friends? It was what he chose for himself, after all. People tended to react with pity at such a statement, though, and John - who was clearly never in want of friends - was certain to be no exception. "Yes, he's mine," Sherlock said shortly. "Gladstone."

"He is a friendly chap," John remarked. "It suits him."

It was true, Gladstone seemed to be taking to John as well as the children had. Now John was talking to the dog, saying ridiculous things, as if he could actually understand. Gladstone's tail was waving furiously, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he appeared to hang on John's every word. Sherlock felt an irrational stab of jealousy.

"I see your leg has improved vastly since this afternoon," Sherlock said, meaning it as a jab, although it didn't come out with nearly as much venom as he'd supposed it would.

John kept his focus on Gladstone. "Yes, funny thing," he agreed pleasantly enough. "I guess you were right about it being psychosomatic."

"You knew that already."

"Yeah, I did. Still hurt."

"And now it's gone, just like that?"

John nodded, finally looking up at Sherlock. "Seems to be," he said mildly. "For the time being, anyway." He searched Sherlock's face, then said, "You knew I'd forgotten the cane, didn't you?"

"Of course."

John continued to watch Sherlock, not saying anything for a moment. Was he waiting for some further explanation? Sherlock couldn't look away. He tried to turn his gaze into a glare.

Finally, John said, "Thanks." It sounded sincere enough.

"For what?" For someone whom Sherlock had deemed easy to read, John's thought process at the moment was frustratingly opaque.

John stood up slowly; apparently his leg wasn't completely recovered yet. "For not saying anything. I didn't realise it until I was back at the bedsit, going up the stairs, trying to figure out why it was so much easier than usual." He smiled self-consciously.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond. 'You're welcome' would imply that he had kept silent in order to help John, when in actuality he had tried to use the lapse as proof of John's instability. Sherlock was vaguely uncomfortable about that now. He didn't actually want to ridicule John or make him look bad, which was novel. He settled for a vague harrumph that could be taken as an acknowledgment.

"I guess I was so distracted by the kids and... all the excitement and everything at the end," John said.

Sherlock couldn't recall any particular excitement, unless John meant the normal chaos of the children gathering their things and leaving at the end of the day. John had gone out to help them, that was true. But then he'd come back in. And he'd forgotten about the cane much earlier. Gladstone was becoming restless, wondering whether he was allowed to sit or whether they were going to continue with their walk.

"Well, we really have to be going," Sherlock said.

John looked mildly surprised, as if he'd expected Sherlock to stay longer. "Yes, I suppose you need to get to work on the play," he said. "I could still help, if you like."

Sherlock was caught off guard by the queer yet not at all disagreeable sensation the offer elicited in his stomach. It was similar to the feeling he used to get before a recital, the pleasant anticipation of displaying his talents and the expectation of being lauded for them. Similar, but not identical.

Sherlock allowed a brief vision to play of John coming home with him, settling on the couch, laughing, taking a glass of wine from Sherlock, fingers brushing, their eyes meeting - The sensation in his stomach intensified and zinged downwards along an internal pathway that hadn't been used in a very long time. In fact, he thought he'd severed that particular connection. Impossible. He wasn't... He couldn't actually be attracted to John Watson. He was all wrong, he was- Well, look at him: shorter than average, of no great intelligence, with lines and gray hair in excess of his age, psychologically damaged, no taste in clothes. He'd joined the army, for heaven's sake. And yet...

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock became aware he was staring, and John was waiting for an answer. And he'd licked his lips.

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance at himself. "No," answered firmly. "No, it's fine. I won't keep you."

"I really don't-" John began, but Sherlock interrupted with a curt "Good evening" and shook the lead to signal to Gladstone that he should walk on.

Sherlock had to force himself not to turn around and check whether John was still standing there.


%%%%%

By the time he and Gladstone arrived back at the house, Sherlock had decided on a course of action regarding John Watson. He would allow him to help with the play (not that he had a choice in the matter, as Lestrade had made clear), but he would not let him interfere with school work, even if he had to accept John's presence in the classroom.

Further, and of utmost importance, Sherlock would not allow himself to be attracted to or distracted by John. There was no point. He had certainly misinterpreted John's friendly overtures, and at any rate, Sherlock had no desire for any sort of emotional or physical entanglement. Although he might, possibly, be willing to sit at the same table with John during break time and interrogate him about his past experiences. Or even, if the aforementioned interrogation yielded positive and interesting results, to engage in a more extended interview over lunch.

Sherlock poured himself a glass of wine and in an effort to overwrite the horribly sentimental scene his subconscious had conjured up earlier, stretched out over the length of the couch with his laptop. Gladstone leapt up, closely avoiding crushing an unimportant yet vulnerable part of Sherlock's anatomy, before circling one or two times and settling down curled over Sherlock's legs.

"What did you think of John then?" Sherlock asked Gladstone as he waited for his computer to boot up.

Gladstone lifted his head and gave a short bark, then let his tongue hang out and panted happily.

"Hmph," Sherlock grunted. "Pushover. His hands probably smelled of sausage."

Sherlock quickly came up with an outline for the play and began looking up appropriate Christmas carols to insert, per Lestrade's instructions. Silent Night, We Three Kings, Little Town of Bethlehem. Tedious. He'd have to sing these with the children dozens of times until the words were ingrained in their meagre little minds. He was unpleasantly reminded of past Christmases, when he had invariably been called upon to play Christmas carols on his violin for his parents and their guests. That was, until his disastrous dismissal from the Royal College. His mother (his father had died by that time - and a good thing, too, according to Mycroft, because it spared him seeing his youngest son destroying his life) hadn't cared to parade Sherlock in front of her friends after that; too great a chance of uncomfortable questions.

No. Sherlock was not going to incorporate any of those songs in this - his - Nativity. He'd do without, or write the songs himself, if it came to it. It was meant merely as a spiteful thought, but once formulated, it sparked a creative desire in Sherlock that he hadn't felt in a long time. Yes! He would compose the songs himself. He may have been too strung out to sit his exams at the conservatoire, but he'd often been praised for his improvisations.

He sprang up, dumping dog and laptop, and went to retrieve his violin. He'd just work out a couple of simple melodies tonight. Facile ones, in fact: the children would have to learn them quickly. It wasn't a great challenge, but at least it would be a more rewarding intellectual exercise than Lestrade had set him. The fact that John might be impressed both by him making the effort and by the songwriting itself didn't even factor into it. Much.

%%%%%%

End note: I've based Gladstone on the dog from the Nativity! movie, not on the bulldog he is usually depicted as in Sherlock Holmes stories. Here he is in the movie:




Go to chapter 4

Comments

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

"The fact that John might be impressed both by him making the effort and by the songwriting itself didn't even factor into it. Much."

Haha! Keep deluding yourself Sherlock!

I loved the idea of Sherlock roaming the streets, using Gladstone as a guide home; what a lovely bit of insight into his life.

"The sensation in his stomach intensified and zinged downwards along an internal pathway that hadn't been used in a very long time."

Oh good! John's getting under his skin.

[synia09.livejournal.com]

I love Sherlock's reluctant yet obvious fascination with John (not to mention his being in denial about it!). I also loved how Gladstone came to be in his life and the window on Sherlock's life (and soul) it opened for us.

[swissmarg]

Thank you!

[swissmarg]

Yes, things are progressing... ;)

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

Awwwwww, awwwwwww, awwwwwww!!!

Another great chapter and I don't know what I loved best about it, although it's possibly Gladstone and his backstory which I just loved. Mycroft's clever plotting, Sherlock finding a companion and the reversal with Gladstone being Sherlock's and not John's dog. :)

Also, this: Sherlock didn't like Christmas. I think that's one of my favourite tropes (or should I say character trait of Sherlock? :D). I can see this is going to be so much fun, especially as we get nearer to the holidays. :)))

I really like how you're writing Sherlock - I can so see him react and talk like that. "Pushover. His hands probably smelled of sausage." made me laugh out loud. :DDDDD

I'm really happy to see that Sherlock's composing for the play. And that his resolve not allow himself to be attracted to or distracted by John is working so well... *giggles*

Thank you!!

[swissmarg]

It looks like Gladstone is turning out to be a crowd pleaser. :) Thanks!