Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (5/23)

[swissmarg]

banner by frodosweetstuff

Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 5,309
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 Five - The Big Announcement

By next morning, Sherlock had been able to put all thought of his reckless braggadocio out of his mind. According to everything he'd been able to find out, Moriarty's current ambition went no further than securing corporate sponsorship for his production, and the concommitant entree into the 'right people's' consciousness. For all Sherlock cared, he could have at it. He wasn't about to get in a pissing match over money or influence. In fact, he might just set Moriarty up with Mycroft. It would serve both of them right.

Thus mollified, he'd finished composing the melody for one of the songs for the play. It was more difficult than he'd thought it would be to come up with something that was both singable and appealing. He still had to complete the lyrics, but hopefully they would be able to start learning it this week. He grudgingly admitted he was finding this project slightly more engaging than he'd expected.

He picked up his briefcase and set out for the school. For the first time he could recall, he was actually - if not exactly looking forward to the day, then at least not resigned to it being unutterably dreary. And if he was honest with himself, the highlight was going to be seeing John again. Sherlock wondered whether he'd be back to using the cane, what disruptive activity he would instigate today, and certainly the least important of all, what his reaction would be to Sherlock's composition.

When he arrived at the school, there were several unfamiliar vehicles parked outside. One obviously belonged to a photographer, another to a local reporter and a third to a member of the mayor's staff. It was only barely conceivable that the school was receiving an award; more likely some superficial improvement such as a new set of monkey bars, and Lestrade was being made to serve as a prop for a photo op. Inside, rather than finding the halls echoing with the sounds of pupils in their classrooms and the teachers holed up in the lounge until the last possible moment, there was a concentrated drone coming from the direction of the assembly hall and teachers hurrying down the corridor to get there. So, the entire student body was being held hostage to the political maneouvring. Sherlock made a beeline in the opposite direction.

"Well done, Sherlock," Stamford said in passing with a broad grin and a clap on the arm. Molly Hooper, who was with him, gave Sherlock an eager thumbs-up.

Sherlock really had no idea what they meant, unless they were congratulating him on missing the ghastly summons. He ignored them and continued on his way. With everyone was in the assembly hall, he was going to enjoy a few minutes' peace with his coffee. It wasn't as if he needed to be there. Lestrade would call him on it later, but by then he'd have finished his coffee and done checking the comments on his website; perhaps there would be some this morning.

He never made it to the lounge.

"Sherlock, there you are!" Lestrade, looking more harried than usual, was coming down the hall with a man (local newspaper reporter, two children, diabetic) at his heels. The head teacher quickly made introductions, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was being pulled toward the assembly hall with Lestrade blathering something about Sherlock being able to explain things better than he could, and everyone waiting for them. While Sherlock had no doubt that he could explain any subject better than Lestrade, it would be helpful to know which subject it was before beginning.

Everyone, indeed, was waiting for them. The entire school was turned out, the children sitting in rows on the ground and the teachers arrayed around the sides of the room. More alarming, however, was the phalanx of press reps and minor civic officials standing at the back of the room holding microphones, cameras, notebooks and tablet computers.

Sherlock made an attempt to sneak off to the side where the other teachers were standing, but Lestrade had a firm grip on his arm and pulled him to the front. A deafening cheer went up from the pupils. Sherlock grimaced and hoped this was all a very bad dream. He still had absolutely no idea what was going on. Was he being given some sort of award? He couldn't for the life of him imagine anyone being daft enough to give him an award of any kind related to his presence at this school. He didn't need to wonder for long, for as Lestrade introduced him and began speaking, it dawned on him in horror what was actually happening.

His boast about Mycroft coming to film the Nativity. Someone - Moriarty, it had to be - was calling his bluff. The whole school had been informed. They all expected a crew from Whitehall Studios to come and film the play. And, subsequently, produce a feature film and make them all famous. This was not happening. He was being set up for a spectacular fall. The children looked so excited, the majority of the teachers impressed. Not that he cared what these people thought of him. It would be an embarrassment to Mycroft as well, which turned out not actually to be as appealing as he'd thought such a situation might be. There was nothing for it, though. If he spun it right, he could turn the tables on Moriarty, land the ball back in his court. Lestrade was turning the floor over to him. Sherlock already had the first sentence of his dementi on the tip of his tongue.

And then he saw John. He was standing in the back corner, behind the clicking cameras and the bobbing microphones. He was smiling and giving Sherlock a subtle thumbs-up over his folded arms. And he looked … proud? Of Sherlock? And... no, it couldn't be. Sheepish.

Sherlock's mouth froze on the words he was about to say ... misunderstanding... esteemed colleague... It hadn't been Moriarty at all. It had been John. How exactly- But he must have overheard the conversation. Of course. That explained his behaviour afterwards, on the way back to the school. He hadn't wanted to admit he'd overheard a conversation not meant for his ears. Yet he'd obviously gone and done just that, to someone in a position to blow the whole thing wide open. Sherlock's head was a whirl of conflicting emotions and impulses. He couldn't deal with this now. He needed to get out of here, needed to think! But everyone was waiting for him to say something. For lack of a better idea, he began with what he'd been planning to say a moment ago.

"There's been a misunderstanding." He clenched his fists and stared at a spot on the ground. "Yesterday, I was-" He looked up to glare at John. "I was having a private conversation with an esteemed colleague-" He stopped short of naming Moriarty. John's expression had fallen further, from embarrassment to guilt, possibly even dismay.

Sherlock was angry at him; very angry. John had jumped to conclusions, gone behind Sherlock's back, interfered once again in things he had no business being involved in. Along with the anger was the even more painful feeling of betrayal. He had thought he could like this man, had dared to hope for practically the first time in his adult life that he might have a connection with someone, and now this had happened. Logically, this should have made John into someone Sherlock actively disliked, other examples being Nigel Anderson and Sally Donovan. But it hadn't. Nor had John shifted into the category of mildly annoying but not worth getting worked up over, like Stamford and Molly Hooper. He was still solidly sat in his own slot; Sherlock was startled to realise he had already started constructing a separate antechamber for John in his mind palace over the past two days, and that construction had not been halted.

"I was having a private conversation yesterday, as I said, with a colleague of mine, and …" Sherlock could not bring himself to do it. If he told the truth, he would look foolish, yes; Lestrade would be embarrassed (but not egregiously so; he'd had to cover Sherlock for worse than this), and Moriarty would be gleeful. All unfortunate but bearable outcomes. But the one who would really suffer was John. Sherlock had made the larger mistake and John the smaller one, but John was the one with a greater sense of honour and justice. He would be mortified. Oh, Sherlock would keep his name out of it here; he could still make it look like Moriarty was at fault. But that wouldn't matter to John. He would feel guilty all the same. And Sherlock simply couldn't do that to him like this. He deserved at least the decency of having the truth told to him in private. And so Sherlock made the decision to allow the sham to continue just a short while longer.

Sherlock looked out, directly into the cameras, and continued. "… and somehow," he said, "it seems the cat's gotten out of the bag. I regret... that someone has seen fit to turn this into such a circus."

The hall was completely silent. John swallowed uncomfortably, but he didn't look away. Even in his discomfiture, even as he began to realise his mistake, he was trying to be there for Sherlock, to encourage him and give him moral support.

"I despise spectacles." Sherlock's mouth twisted into a sour smile. "But it looks like we're going to have to get used to spectacles."

At those words, another great cheer arose. Sherlock fixed on John. He looked relieved and came forward to shake Sherlock's hand.

"I'm sorry about all this," John leaned in to say over the din. "I didn't mean for it to get quite this big-"

Sherlock cut him off. "Outside, now," he hissed, pulling away abruptly and turning on his heel. Once again, he didn't stop to see whether John would follow.

Sherlock went straight into room 221B and stood with his back to the door and his hands braced on his desk until he heard the door close quietly behind him.

"You had no right," Sherlock burst out. "No right at all!"

"No, you're right, and I'm sorry," John said. He was coming closer. Sherlock fought the urge to move aside, but John stopped a few feet away. Sherlock identified John's tactic of leaving himself room to maneouvre, keeping his adversary's – Sherlock's - entire body and feet in sight.

"You have no idea what you've done, do you?" Sherlock could feel the nervous energy building in him. He needed something, his bones were getting too big for his skin. There was a pile of folders near his hand, worksheets waiting to be marked. He swept them off the desk, causing them to scatter satisfyingly all over the floor, then whipped around. Part of it was a genuine release, part of it calculated to impress on John how deeply he had hurt and disappointed Sherlock.

Startled, John took a step back, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "I didn't know Greg would go to the press with it. I didn't think he'd tell anyone," John protested.

"Yes, that's it exactly: you didn't think!" Sherlock threw his hands up and started to pace. "You didn't think that maybe there was a reason I told our rival school's music director something about the production that you didn't know, that Lestrade didn't know- Did you consider for even a moment why it might be that no one else knew about this?"

"I figured- I mean, I thought you were keeping it secret, like a surprise."

Sherlock stopped in front of John, stepping in closer than he knew was polite. A mistake, he realised immediately. He could see the fine lines around John's eyes, the patch of stubble he'd missed on the corner of his jaw, but mostly he could feel the other man's body heat and smell his deodorant mixed with his own scent rising out of the collar of his shirt. Sherlock's heart rate was already elevated from the recent events, but he was now keenly aware of the throbbing in his chest and that unwanted - definitely unwanted - tingle in his stomach. It was not only inconvenient, it was directly detrimental to his position.

He harnessed the additional annoyance at himself for not being in control of his body to fuel his response: "The reason no one else knew about it is because there is nothing to know!" he shouted and stepped away again, trying to project displeasure rather than discomfiture.

John, to his credit, didn't back away, although he did falter. "There's- Sorry, what does that mean?"

"It means that it was all a lie!" Sherlock thundered. He wanted to know what it would take to make this man show some sort of normal reaction to Sherlock's provocations.

And there it was: although the stricken, sickened look on John's face wasn't one that Sherlock particularly relished.

"Oh God, it wasn't," John said faintly.

"Now do you see?"

John licked his lips and looked up at the ceiling, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "The kids..." Then he shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "Stupid, stupid..."

Although Sherlock could only agree, at the same time he had the unnatural impulse to reassure John. Guilt wasn't productive in this instance, and even though Sherlock was still hurt by what John had done - now compounded by the knowledge that he and Lestrade had discussed Sherlock's personal life - seeing John suffer for it didn't give him any satisfaction. Odd.

Finally, John lowered his hand. "Why?" he asked, sounding weary.

"He was goading me," Sherlock muttered. "I- Yes, I know it was stupid," he admitted, unable to look John in the eye. "Schoolyard oneupmanship. But nothing would have come of it," he insisted. At least nothing like this. "Moriarty would have found the truth out rather quickly - in fact, I'd be surprised if he didn't know by last night that there was nothing to it. Although I'd like to have seen his face when he read about it in tomorrow's paper." Sherlock's mood lifted slightly at the thought. It would never happen, though: Sherlock would send John back to quietly inform Lestrade of his mistake. Leave Lestrade to deal with calling everyone back to retract the story. If he was the one who had taken this public, then it was his mess to clean up anyway.

"Today's paper," John corrected him carefully.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "Today's- But we've only just had the assembly, today's paper came out hours ago."

John winced. "It was in the headlines this morning. And the local news. Don't you watch breakfast telly?"

"Not if I can help it." He didn't even eat breakfast. Sherlock's train of thought was derailed by the revelation. The news was already out. Lestrade must have been very busy last night. Moriarty would be frantically trying to pull in confirmations or denials. Sherlock took a small degree of pleasure in the thought of him wasting his morning.

"Greg was already reaching for the phone when I left his office," John said. "Look, you have to understand, I only wanted to ask who Mycroft was. I heard the last bit of your conversation, and I was- I know it was wrong of me. I couldn't really help overhearing, but I should have asked you rather than going behind your back. I'm sorry about that, and I wanted to ask, it's just- I'm aware of my position here. I know you don't want me here, that you see my presence as an intrusion. God, really, you made it all up?" he asked abruptly, as if he still couldn't believe it.

"I'm not going to change my answer just because your brain is too slow to grasp reality."

"Oy, there's no need to get personal."

"That's not personal, everyone's slow," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Except you, of course."

"Obviously."

John snorted with real amusement. Then he shook his head. "God, this is horrible. The kids are going to be so disappointed."

"Life is a series of disappointments. I doubt this is even the first one that any of them have experienced."

"You're an absolute Mary Poppins, you know that?"

"Who?"

"Mary Poppins." John gaped. "Don't tell me you don't know who Mary Poppins is? Magical nanny, has a bottomless carpetbag, flies with an umbrella?"

"A figure in a children's story?" Sherlock surmised, then waved the notion away when John confirmed it. "Dull." Sherlock couldn't fathom why John would be comparing him to such a character. From the description, she sounded more like Mycroft, if you ignored the 'magic' bit and read 'stomach' for carpetbag. And he did always have an umbrella over his arm; Sherlock didn't doubt he took it on aeroplanes with him as well.

"I would love to know how you ended up as a primary school teacher," John said, with some degree of wonder.

Sherlock stiffened at the suggestion; the answer went too deep, stirred up too many sins and failures.

John must have picked up on Sherlock's reaction, because he immediately backtracked, "Sorry, that's probably too- No, I actually think turnabout's fair play. You know all about me because of that-" John waved his hand in Sherlock's general direction. "-deduction thing you do, but I hardly know anything about you."

"Which is as it should be," Sherlock said coolly. "You don't need to know anything more about me. You're my classroom assistant, not my- Not anything else."

John paused at that, holding Sherlock's eye, searching for- what? There wasn't anything more. What else would they be? Not friends. Sherlock didn't do friends. He stood his ground, refusing to validate the impulse to step forward again, to touch John somewhere - anywhere - his elbow, his wrist, anything to give lie to his words and reinforce this odd connection.

But John looked away then, licked his lips, and said, "Yeah, no, you're right. I'm not anything. I don't need to know anything about you, but maybe I'd like to." He met Sherlock's gaze again. Sherlock couldn't look away. Sherlock wasn't just imagining this, was he? John wasn't just interesting. He was interested. He was interested in Sherlock, personally, aside from anything having to do with the school or the play.

This was new territory, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with it. Oh, people (both men and women) had come on to him before, propositioned him, made their interest known, but they had always been so unbearably obvious and dull that Sherlock hadn't even needed to consider any option other than rapid and decisive retreat. But John was different. Sherlock found he actually wanted to know John better. He wasn't certain yet whether John was proposing anything other than being friends, but Sherlock had never had one of those as an adult either: someone to exchange thoughts with in an unstructured environment; someone whose company one enjoyed because of who they were, not what they could do; someone who... What else did friends do? Sherlock didn't know. But he was curious now, and he had the feeling that discovering those things with John would be a worthy use of his time.

"Maybe," John went on, his demeanour tense, "if I hadn't been so considerate of not intruding on your privacy, if I'd felt comfortable talking to you directly, none of this would have happened." Then he smiled, if a bit tightly, but even that diffused some of the tension in the air. "If we're to work together, it would be nice to know something about each other."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. He was genuinely confused. He was also apprehensive and defensive at the thought of sharing personal details with anyone, but coupled with that was a tentative curiosity about doing so, with John.

"I don't know why, that's just how it works!" John answered in exasperation. "It makes the time you spend together more pleasant, gives you something to talk about, helps you understand where the other bloke's coming from."

Ah, yes. Working together, of course. Perhaps that was all John was after. If they were to be forced to spend the greater portion of the day together, it stood to reason that he would want them to get on. Sherlock could appreciate the logic of such thinking. He once again felt foolish for allowing his mind to wander down sentimental paths that would never be open to him.

"Splendid," Sherlock said with his own tight smile. "You are about to discover that I don't believe in cleaning up after others. Now that you know the extent of your error, you will need to inform Lestrade."

John inhaled and exhaled once, heavily. He nodded, looking down. Then his entire body stilled. Not relaxed. It was as if he'd been electrified, set on alert. His head snapped up. His eyes were keen and alive. Sherlock couldn't help his focus once again locking on to this ordinary, extraordinary man.

"Wait," John said. "What if..." He shook a finger, as if the answer were hovering in the air in front of him and he was trying to pinpoint its location. "You could call your brother." John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock in question. "Mycroft. He is your brother, right?"

"Unfortunately..." Sherlock answered, not liking where John was going with this.

"Surely it wouldn't be a big deal for him to send down a couple of guys - They wouldn't need to make a big production out of it. Just film it, burn a nice DVD for the kids and their parents."

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? It's perfect!"

"It would involve me asking a favour of Mycroft."

"Yes...?"

"Exactly."

"Sorry, I don't-" John stopped, then started on a different tack. "If it were my sister-"

"You mean your brother," Sherlock interrupted, because although it was illogical for John not to know his own sibling's gender, there was absolutely no evidence of any siblings other than the original owner of the phone.

"Sorry, who?"

"Harry, your alcoholic brother, Harry."

"All right, now that's just spooky. How the hell did you know about Harry?"

"Your phone."

"My what? My phone?"

Sherlock pointed at the pocket John had his phone in. "It's not yours, the inscription says 'Harry Watson from Clara'. It's a recent model, a young man's gadget, not your father, then, a cousin or brother. I say brother, as it's a rather expensive gift for a cousin. The case is covered in scratches where he had trouble getting the power cable plugged in: shaky hands, either a nerve disorder or alcoholic. The second's more likely."

Sherlock felt the familiar flush of a well-made series of deductions, now enhanced by the look of frank admiration on John's face.

"That... I'm sorry, I shouldn't be surprised, I know you can do that now, but that's absolutely bloody fucking amazing. Of course, you saw my phone yesterday when I gave you my number. You got all that from holding it for, what, thirty seconds?"

"I could also tell you about the state of Harry and Clara's relationship as well as yours and Harry's," Sherlock offered.

John barked out a laugh. "No, that's quite all right, thanks. It's enough that you know how dysfunctional my family is without me having to take you through all the gory details. God, brilliant," he added. "Except Harry's my sister. Short for Harriet." He grinned at having caught Sherlock out.

"Damn, Harriet!" Sherlock chided himself, although he wasn't really bothered. He would have needed more evidence to deduce that.

If he'd taken John up on his invitation that first day, he might well have gotten it. He would have gathered much more data about John as well. He might even have learned enough to figure out what the best course of action was, regarding John. He might not have been thrown off by unfounded, emotional reactions. No. He couldn't afford to think that way. He had made the right decision. It was right to keep to himself. Alone was what he knew. Alone protected him.

"Yes, Harriet," John was saying, "and even though she and I don't get on that well, I'd get her to do this."

"And I won't," Sherlock said flatly. "You'll have to find some other way to get yourself out of this."

"Me, get myself out of this?" John asked in disbelief. "First of all, it was your lie that started this all. And this isn't about me. I don't have anything invested in this, my name isn't attached to it. The only people that will be hurt by the truth coming out are the kids, the school, Greg, and you. I'm trying to help you here. Not just you personally, but the school and the kids, who are innocents in all this. Getting your brother in would solve everything, and you're not even willing to try?"

Sherlock had to admire John for the attempt. He actually believed that Sherlock had a sense of honour to appeal to. It was almost enough to move Sherlock to action, purely in order not to disappoint him. However, the main problem was: "He won't do it."

"You don't know that."

"And you do?"

"No, I suppose I don't," John agreed. "But if he's any kind of decent human being, I should think he'd at least hear us out."

"There you go then, case closed."

"He can't be that bad."

"You're operating under the assumption that he'd agree to this out of the goodness of his heart. I hate to disappoint you, but the fact of the matter is, a Holmes does not have a heart."

"I don't believe that for one second." The immediacy of John's answer struck a chord in Sherlock, almost making him doubt himself. Because John was clearly talking about Sherlock, not Mycroft. He was wrong, though: Sherlock couldn't have a heart, he couldn't let himself be drawn in, to care about someone else, to count on someone else.

And so he lashed out with his best weapon: the truth. "Why," Sherlock spat, "because you thought I was trying to help you when I didn't remind you about your cane? Do you know why I did that? Because I wanted to prove you were mentally unstable! I went straight to Lestrade and used it as evidence against you."

That gave John pause. "All right, no," he said. His voice was tight and low. "I didn't know that. I wasn't actually thinking of that, either." His left fist clenched and unclenched. "I was thinking of the way you smiled at Ollie when he showed you his aeroplane, or how well-trained and -cared for your dog is, or the fact that you paid twenty pounds out of your own pocket beyond what Greg had given you, so that the kids would have the best tree on the lot. Or the way you listen to me, and watch me, like... like I'm interesting, like I'm not just an unemployable, nearly homeless, mental and physical wreck."

Sherlock felt like he'd been knocked off balance. Was that really how John saw him? But those were ludicrous examples and proved nothing. He didn't even recall smiling at Ollie. Certainly, the boy had displayed a decent grasp of the principles Sherlock had explained to him and applied them to his model; perhaps Sherlock had been satisfied that his lesson had made it through the boy's thick skull. He certainly couldn't take any responsibility for Gladstone's good-natured personality, and of course he fed and groomed the animal; he wasn't irresponsible. Paying for the tree had merely been the most expedient course to take, given how much time he'd already wasted talking to Moriarty. And John: of course he was interesting! The rest of what he'd said about himself was pure nonsense.

"You're... not any of that," Sherlock said with a frown. It felt awkward; he was supposed to be angry at John, hurting him, pushing him away. "And I'm glad Lestrade didn't listen to me."

"See?" John said quietly. "That's not what a man without a heart would say."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to John's. Had he been tricked? Manoeuvred into that answer to prove John's point? But no, there was no look of triumph there; merely a gentle sadness. It made Sherlock uncomfortable in a way he didn't want to think about.

"I'm not my brother," Sherlock said, to deflect from himself and get back to the matter at hand.

"No, you're not. But I know that at least one Holmes has a heart, and not only that, but he's bloody clever. I doubt your brother is that bad, but even if he is, we'll just use subterfuge to get him to come down and film the kids. If there's anyone who can do it, it's you."

Sherlock couldn't help a wry chuckle escaping at that. John was good. Oh, yes, he was very good. Sympathy and honour hadn't worked, and so he had moved on to Sherlock's pride in his intellect. Not only that, but pitting him against his brother. And he was right: Sherlock couldn't let that challenge go unanswered. That alone deserved a momentary victory, even if Sherlock knew that in the end, he would be proven right.

"It's not going to work," Sherlock warned him. "I'll never be put through to him. Too many people try to get past the switchboard saying they have all sorts of outlandish connections to him."

"Don't you have his private number?"

"He may have given it to me once, but I would have deleted it," Sherlock said dismissively.

John snorted. "Email?"

"Screened, same problem."

"Don't you ever- I don't know, get together for family gatherings? Birthdays?"

"Christmas," Sherlock admitted, "but that would be too late."

The bell rang, signalling the start of the next lesson. Out in the hall, the sound of high-pitched voices and small feet began to swell.

John walked over to Sherlock and laid a hand on his arm. "Don't worry," he said, looking up at Sherlock with an encouraging smile. "I know you'll figure it out. I'll help you in any way I can." He squeezed Sherlock's arm gently and let his hand drop.

"Aren't you... angry at me?" Sherlock asked, confused. By all rights, he should be. Sherlock had just spent the last twenty minutes insulting, belittling, and criticising him.

John laughed. "Yeah, maybe a little. Are you angry at me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, although there wasn't much steam behind it.

"Then I suppose we're even. Look, we probably both made mistakes. Maybe we could-"

The classroom door flew open and the children started to come in, chattering excitedly. As soon as they saw John and Sherlock, they swarmed over, shouting things about being on the telly and who was going to be Mary and whether 'Iron Man' was going to make a guest appearance, whoever – or whatever – that was.

Sherlock couldn't possibly begin to formulate any kind of coherent response, because John had been about to propose another meeting. Sherlock knew he shouldn't, but he'd never been much good at impulse control. There was no way he was going to lower himself to the level of a Sausage Sizzler, however. If they were going to do this, then properly, in a place where he could concentrate fully on eliciting every detail and nuance out of the encounter, so that he would have a chance of figuring out what he was going to do about John.

"Yes," Sherlock blurted out as John was pulled away by eager little hands. "But no sausages. I'll text you the details!"

%%%%%%

Go to chapter 6

Comments

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

*happy* Thank you for another wonderful chapter!!! :)))) The highlight for me was John getting Sherlock to actually consider getting in contact with Mycroft over the Nativity play - that was so well written and a joy to read! I'm constantly amazed by how well the characters of Sherlock and John fit into this and seemless you melded the Sherlock and the Nativity world together to make one enjoyable whole. :))) In fact, it now seems as if it was the most obvious AU to write with Sherlock and John ever... :D

[swissmarg]

And thank you for your wonderful comment, I appreciate it!

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

OMG, I just saw - one of the sentences misses a "how" and I misspelled "seamless" "seemless". *dies of shame*

[swissmarg]

Haha, don't worry, no one's counting!

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

Oh can I just say I love the movie poster! Meretricious and a happy new year, spot on! I have the urge to make another Sherlock/movie poster myself now. I've made a few for people's fics myself. :-)

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

Thank you!!! :) It was the first time I was inspired to make a manip to go with a Sherlock fic.

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

”While Sherlock had no doubt that he could explain any subject better than Lestrade, it would be helpful to know which subject it was before beginning.”

I laughed out loud at that. It’s amazing to see the super-confident Sherlock fall apart when he realises he’s hurting John.

And it was wonderful to see this phrase ~ ”He was being set up for a spectacular fall.” A great cross over if ever there was one!

Also had to giggle at ”…she sounded more like Mycroft, if you ignored the 'magic' bit and read 'stomach' for carpetbag.”

It wouldn’t do to alienate Mycroft too much – he may very well be needed!

It’s lovely to see the story progressing, and the small things about each other that they’re starting to notice.

[swissmarg]

Thanks, it's so nice to hear you're having fun with it!

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

I'm looking forward to an update now so I had better friend you to make sure I get a notification. There are so many moments in this I have seriously been grinning and laughing aloud at the dialogue, as well as picturing this as the movie! And I adore the way you've melded the two worlds together.

[swissmarg]

Thank you, yes, feel free to friend me. So tickled you're enjoying this!

[(Anonymous)]

i love how sherlock assumes that john has forgotten his sibling's gender before thinking 'maybe i made the wrong deduction' :)

this fic is just fantastic (and i havent even seen the movie). can't wait to see where it goes!

[swissmarg]

Exactly, Sherlock couldn't possibly be wrong. ;) Thanks for your comment, I appreciate it.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Oh, boy.... now they've got trouble!

[swissmarg]

... and I'm afraid it will get worse before it gets better. :o