Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (4/23)

[swissmarg]

banner by frodosweetstuff

Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 3,452
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 Four - The Christmas Tree Lot

When Sherlock arrived at school the next morning, the scene was even more chaotic than it had been the previous day. The children were flinging pieces of folded paper back and forth across the room at each other, and the noise level had to be heard to be believed. John, of course, was in the middle of it, giving as good as he was getting and looking like he was having the time of his life. As soon as he spotted Sherlock in the doorway, he took aim. Sherlock dodged, and the folded paper sailed harmlessly past his ear. Sherlock went into the hall to retrieve it. An aeroplane. He quashed the childish impulse to shoot it back.

"Quiet. Quiet!" Sherlock shouted as he entered. "Everyone sit down!"

The frenzy subsided and the pupils shuffled around, taking their seats. John shared a conspiratorial look with some of the children near him and threw one more aeroplane, hitting a boy smack in the back of the head. The class broke out in laughter.

"Mr Watson!" Sherlock barked.

John faced him and stood at parade rest, but his eyes were dancing with laughter. Sherlock had the oddest longing to do something that would encourage the laughter to bubble over into sound.

Rather than acting on it, he snapped, "If you are going to give instruction in classroom mischief, the least you can do is make sure to impart the first principles of aerodynamics." Sherlock snatched up a scrap of paper that bore a greater resemblance to a tri-cornered hat than anything capable of flight and tossed it on his desk in disgust. "And this? What's this?" He picked up a piece of paper that had been crumpled into a vaguely spherical shape. "You'd need a ballista for this type of projectile. Really, for someone who's supposed to have been in the army, I'm very disappointed."

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the children, who giggled back.

Sherlock couldn't let him get away with insubordination, but he wasn't really angry. He had planned on having the children create decorations for the classroom and the school Christmas tree anyway, which Lestrade was forcing him to pick up later that day.

"So you want to play with paper?" he asked in a dangerous tone. He was speaking to the class as a whole, but he kept his focus on John. "Fine. Your task this morning is to create seasonal decorations out of paper, without using adhesives or scissors. Folding only. I want to see recognisable shapes and sharp lines. Extra points for creativity. And, after you have made at least one decoration and had it approved by either myself or Mr Watson, those who want to may make one aeroplane. We will go into the assembly hall during the last fifteen minutes and have a contest to see whose flies the furthest. Anyone who wants to learn something about aerodynamics and improve their chances of winning may come to my desk when you are ready. The rest of you may work quietly at your tables. You may begin."

There was an eager scramble for paper. The expression on John's face said 'not bad, Holmes'. Sherlock had to remind himself of his resolution not to react. He didn't need - or want - anyone's approval, much less that of an unqualified layperson who had been foisted on him as some kind of minder. He was the professional here. He sat down at his desk to design his own aeroplane. He wasn't about to let John Watson beat him.

John beat him. It must have been the throw. Sherlock's plane had the advantage in terms of design, but John either had more strength in his arm or a better throwing technique. They launched their planes from the back of the stage. The majority of the pupils' attempts didn't even reach the main floor of the room. Sherlock's glided smoothly through the air - the dihedral providing greater lateral stability, as he had planned - and touched down gently just short of the far wall. John's, on the other hand, sailed right out the door, to the rousing cheers of the class. Even his aim was impeccable.

John accepted the accolades with a big grin and high fives from the children before they scrambled around, retrieving their aeroplanes just as the bell rang for lunch. John turned to Sherlock. "What do I win?" he teased.

Sherlock was put out over the defeat. "You get to miss lunch to collect the Christmas tree for the school," he said as he jumped down off the stage.

John climbed down more carefully behind him. "Are you going too?"

"I have to. You're not insured to drive the van."

"That's a good prize then."

Sherlock's stomach did a funny and completely unnecessary twisting thing. He turned to look at John, but he was picking up a couple of stray aeroplanes that no one had claimed. He hadn't sounded sarcastic.

Sherlock stopped at the teachers' lounge to get his coat and scarf.

Nigel Anderson was there unpacking his lunch at a table with Sally Donovan. A few other teachers were trickling in as well.

"How's that Nativity coming on then, Holmes?" Anderson asked.

"Swimmingly," Sherlock replied stiffly.

"We can look forward to a five-star review then, can we?" Anderson exchanged a look with Donovan.

"It's going to be brilliant," John said as he came in. "People are going to be talking about this one for years."

Anderson and Donovan burst out laughing. "I'm sure they will," Donovan said once she'd recovered.

"Sorry," John said, "but what's the problem? You're not jealous, are you? Wanted to take charge of the play yourselves?"

"No, not at all," Anderson assured him. "I'm happy to leave that honour entirely to Mr Holmes." It was all too clear what he meant: that the play was going to be a disaster, and Sherlock would take all the blame.

If Sherlock had been alone, he would have let it go at that, possibly delivering one last zinger on the way out the door. It was no challenge to bait those two, and he wanted to get this errand for Lestrade over and done as quickly as possible.

But John apparently had ideas of his own. He walked over to Anderson and Donovan with the air of a commanding officer dressing down an unruly soldier.

"You know, obviously, I'm an outsider here, and I don't know what might have gone on amongst you in the past," he started, but Donovan didn't let him get any further.

"Yeah, you're right," she said. "You haven't any idea. Ask him sometime about the Bruhl twins or the Wilkes boy. That's why you're here, you know, to keep an eye out, make sure he doesn't screw up again. Because one of these days, he's going to do something so bad that not even he can get away with it. And trust me, you do not want to be there when it happens. I'd get out now if I were you. I mean, who are you anyway?"

"Me? I'm nobody," John said, so casually, so dangerously. "Yeah, I'm not anyone."

Sherlock literally had to bite his tongue at this point to stop himself from making a sound of disagreement. John was definitely someone; not the person he looked like at first glance, to be sure. Someone better.

"But it seems to me this play isn't about me, or you, or Sherlock," John went on, pointing around the room. "It's about the kids, and it's about the school, and it's about the bloody Christmas story, so unless you have something positive to say, or God forbid, want to help, I think you'd better keep quiet about it."

Something swelled in Sherlock. No one had ever stood up for him so obviously and publicly before. Not that he needed anyone to defend him, but John did it so marvelously. Whereas Sherlock relied on picking off bandages, pulling off masks and uncovering prickly truths, John had had the breathtaking inspiration to appeal to honour. So banal, so pedestrian, something that Sherlock never would have considered. And yet, look: there the adversary sat, cowed and silent. Brilliant, brilliant John.

"Right then," Sherlock said brightly. He didn't even have to fake his good mood. "That's us off then." He surveyed the room triumphantly; no one would meet his gaze, although a fair few of the other teachers were watching John. He saw admiration and perhaps even a bit of covetousness in their gazes. Sherlock smiled. John was his. "Come along, John," he said, and left without looking back to see if John was following. He must. He did.

Sherlock heard the slightly uneven footsteps behind him betraying the fact that John hadn't entirely overcome the phantom pain. Sherlock's smile grew more broad. John was turning out to be more than surprising. He was turning out to be interesting. A man who stood up not only to Sherlock, but for him.

"What you did in there," Sherlock said shyly as they got into the van. "That was rather good."

"I wondered for a minute back there whether I'd stumbled into an infant school."

Sherlock snorted in amusement.

"You don't have to worry, you know," John said, once they were underway.

"About what?"

"What they said, about the play. It's going to be brilliant."

Sherlock made a neutral sound as he piloted the van through the midday traffic.

"No, really. It is. I know you're not that enthusiastic about it, but I think it's going to be really good."

For the rest of the ride, John talked about all the ideas he had for the play, things like the angel Gabriel arriving on what he called a 'death slide' and Mary riding from Nazareth to Bethlehem on a BMX instead of a donkey. Soon, Sherlock was laughing so hard he could barely see the lane markings. There was no way they could stage something like that in the school's assembly hall, especially with no money and the performance date less than a month away. But then Sherlock knew John wasn't really suggesting they do any of those outlandish things. He was playing a game. A game with Sherlock. He was trying to make Sherlock laugh, make him feel better about or even forget the incident in the teachers' lounge. Was this what friends did? Was John Sherlock's friend? The idea was tender and fragile, and Sherlock didn't want to break it by thinking about it too much.

Sherlock smiled though, a genuine, warm smile, and he didn't mean to, but his eyes slid over and met John's, and he was startled to see his sentiment returned. Sentiment. Sherlock's heart sank, or maybe his stomach lifted. Something inside him squeezed in a pleasant/unpleasant way, at any rate. His resolution; what had happened to his resolution? Somehow it didn't seem important any more.

He wasn't used to working with someone. Even back in his days as a musician, he'd preferred solos to ensemble pieces, and not simply because he wanted the attention. He found it draining to engage in give and take or compromise. Negotiation was a waste of time. He'd never found his productivity or creativity enhanced by input from others. Quite the opposite, in fact, he felt stilted and held back. But having John around was different. He felt an impetus to do better, to be better, to do interesting things, things that might garner John's admiration. Was this a weakness? He had always presumed it would be, but he didn't feel weak now. He felt excited and inspired. And having someone to back him up could be advantageous in many ways.

But he was getting ahead of himself. John was just his classroom assistant. They'd known each other for fewer than forty-eight hours. They seemed to get on well and might even be on the way to having a friendship. But people tended not to enjoy Sherlock's company for long. This was exactly why it was so important not to allow emotions to hold any sway over him. The tactic had served him well up to now.

When they arrived at the Christmas tree lot, John immediately disappeared toward the back, where he said the best trees would be. If it were up to Sherlock, they would have taken the first one they saw and been done with it, but he decided it wasn't worth the argument; John was unlikely to give up without at least having a look around.

Sherlock was comparing the consistency of the sap on two different varieties of tree when he heard a voice he'd thought was permanently part of his past.

"Well now, if it isn't Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock whirled around to face the short, well-groomed man. The scents of Molton Brown moisturiser and Penhaligon's shaving cream told him that the man was as vain and ambitious as ever."Moriarty," he said carefully.

The other man's face fell in an exaggerated manner. "Jim, please. It's always Jim for you. Wow, Sherlock. It is great to see you. I'm just-" He slapped a hand over his heart. "I'm bowled over, is what I am. Tell me you feel the same."

"I'd be hard pressed to."

Moriarty laughed, a brief, dark chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock, I'd almost forgotten how fun you are. I can't believe I let you get away. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"Here and there. I've been at the Baker Street School just gone five years now." Which Moriarty obviously knew. He was baiting Sherlock, but Sherlock had found the best way to deal with Moriarty was to let him monologue and not disagree with him, if at all possible. Eventually, he'd have stimulated his own ego enough and would wander off.

Moriarty screwed his face up in disgust. "But you're far too good for them. You were going to be someone, the next Itzhak Perlman."

"Who ever said that?"

"Everyone! I know I did. You were brilliant- what am I saying, transcendant! - and then BOOM!" An elderly couple browsing the trees nearby jumped and stared at Moriarty's outburst. "All gone, up your nose, down your veins, 'Those were the days'." Moriarty sang the last bit, leering at the couple until they scurried off, casting back scolding looks.

"And now, what?" Moriarty continued, suddenly calm again. "You're down the road there at Baker Street. That must be such a challenge!" he declared with a little shiver of excitement. "You know, I'd be more than happy to put in a word for you at Blackwood. We'd find a cosy little corner for you there, you could even give lessons to the kiddies. 'Do, re, mi...'" Moriarty mimed playing the violin as he sang. He stopped suddenly and gave Sherlock a look dripping with fake innocence. "You do still remember that bit, don't you?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Where was John? If ever he needed backup, now was the time. "It sounds vaguely familiar," he managed to say in a relatively neutral tone.

Moriarty laughed again. "Oh, Sherlock, if you aren't the most precious thing. I'm kidding, of course. Kidding! We don't have any openings. But it never hurts to keep your options open, so don't lose faith. Now." He reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flyer, which he thrust at Sherlock. "If you want to see how the other half lives - those of us who are actually competent at what we do, I mean - why don't you pop round to our Christmas bazaar? We're doing a showcase, and the talent we've got-" Moriarty made a sign with his hands like fireworks going off. "I think you might really learn a thing or two."

Sherlock took the flyer and stuffed it into his coat pocket without looking at it.

"Well?" Moriarty prompted.

"What?"

"Where's mine?"

"Where's your what?" Sherlock asked irritably. John really was taking his time with those trees!

"My invitation, silly. I showed you mine, now you show me yours. I know you're doing the Nativity again this year. Or are you worried you're heading for another minus two-star review?" Moriarty made puppy-dog eyes at Sherlock.

Moriarty was starting to get to him. "Moran's nothing more than your stooge," Sherlock snapped. "His opinion isn't important to anyone outside of your own inner circle."

"Ah, but there's the rub, isn't it? Because those are the only people who count!" Moriarty hissed. The claws were out, the fangs bared. Sherlock felt a little thrill, an echo of bygone days, at the same time as a danger signal sounded in his head.

"The head of Whitehall Studios doesn't count?" Sherlock asked. It was out of his mouth before he even considered what he was doing. But it had the desired effect. Moriarty's eye gleamed sharply for an instant before he covered with a look of apparent disinterest.

"Do tell, how's Big Brother? Done quite well for himself, as I hear. At least there's one son the family can be proud of. I doubt he has much interest in a piddling Nativity, much less the Baker Street version."

"As a matter of fact, he does." Sherlock couldn't have said what was making him continue, other than the mad desire to make James Moriarty eat humble pie. Moriarty would know it was all a lie by this time tomorrow, but Sherlock didn't much care what Moriarty thought of him. What he did care about was putting the same look on Moriarty's face that John had put on Anderson's, humiliating him like he was doing his best to do to Sherlock. It was petty, but it would feel good, and it would make Moriarty go away. An appeal to honour wouldn't work here. Moriarty had no honour or sense of shame. What he craved was fame and influence, and what he had was a narcissist complex. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was a rival getting one up on him. And so Sherlock aimed, thrust, and delivered his fatal blow: "He's coming down with a crew to film us. They're making a feature film out of it. I'm surprised you didn't know, with your connections." The last word dripped with derision.

Moriarty burst out laughing, but Sherlock knew his words had struck home. "A feature? About a primary school Nativity?"

"The studio was looking for something light and heartwarming. I wasn't privy to their discussions. Mycroft approached me."

"Oh, this is delicious. I really must insist that you tell me all about it." Moriarty took his mobile out of his pocket and ran his thumb over it, as if he'd just received a text. "Later, though. I'm already running late." He started walking away, backwards. "I'll call you," he said in a stage whisper before disappearing behind a Douglas fir.

"Who was that?" John was standing at Sherlock's elbow, his combat-ready stance projecting protection rather than aggression. Sherlock had the illogical desire to call Moriarty back, just to make sure he saw it.

"That was Moriarty," Sherlock said darkly, watching the spot he had disappeared from. His blood was still thrumming with the encounter.

"And that means...?"

"James Moriarty. He's the music director at the Blackwood School. No one important." He shook it off, turned his full focus to John. "Did you find a tree?"

John relaxed. "Yeah, think I did. Come on back here, I'll show you."

%%%%%

The tree John had in mind was a monstrosity that would never fit in the entryway of the school, but Sherlock thought that was appropriate payback to Lestrade for sending him on this errand in the first place. Let him deal with where to put it. He let John and the lot attendant wrestle the tree into the back of the van (Sherlock wasn't about to get sap all over his leather gloves), and drove back to the school. The whole way, John was giving him funny looks, as if he wanted to ask something but kept holding back. Sherlock almost snapped at him to be out with it, but he was wary of it being another invitation to have a Sausage Sizzler. He suspected that he would say yes this time, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that yet. He still needed to sort out where exactly John might fit into his life.

But he had more pressing matters at the moment. When they arrived at the school, Sherlock tossed the keys to John and left him to deal with the tree, while he went to do a bit of research. He hadn't seen the last of Moriarty, of that he was certain.

%%%%%%

Go to chapter 5

Comments

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

OMG, I'm loving Sherlock even more after this chapter (and am very much in love with John's steady regard for Sherlock) - it's so great to see how he turns the paper plane thing into a good lesson. :)))

And ooooh, the showdown with Moriarty was wonderful, too. I like how he's as mercurial as he's in the show.

Was this what friends did? Was John Sherlock's friend? The idea was tender and fragile, and Sherlock didn't want to break it by thinking about it too much.
Oh Sherlock.

Thank you! Still enjoying this immensely! :)

[swissmarg]

I had so much fun writing Moriarty. I'm happy you liked him here too. Thank you!

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

” Something swelled in Sherlock. No one had ever stood up for him so obviously and publicly before. Not that he needed anyone to defend him, but John did it so marvelously.”

And so it begins . . .

I loved the aerodynamics lesson – only Sherlock could make something like that out of paper aeroplanes!

”Whitehall Studios” Brilliant name! *grin*

[swissmarg]

Thank you!

[synia09.livejournal.com]

I love everything about this chapter, the lesson, Sherlock's resolve crumbling, John being his awesome self and Moriarty's appearance. I'm really enjoying reading this story and look forward to every chapter. :)

[swissmarg]

Thank you!

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Grr. I don't like this version of Moriarty any more than I like the original. Which is a good thing, but still, grrrrrr....

[swissmarg]

I had fun writing him. ;)