Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (6/23)

[swissmarg]

banner by frodosweetstuff

Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 2,600
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 Six - The Italian Place

This was a mistake. He should call it off, Sherlock thought as he stood in front of the mirror and adjusted the sit of his jacket. He didn't even know what this was supposed to be. A strategy session to hoodwink Mycroft? A working dinner to discuss the script? Should he bring his laptop? Or had he unwittingly set himself up for one of those excruciating social encounters in which two individuals assess each other for compatibility, with an eye toward the possibility of engaging in sexual acts? He didn't know which of those options he dreaded - definitely dreaded - most.

Sherlock grimaced at himself in the mirror and checked his teeth. He wondered if he should have shaved again, but he didn't have time now and- What was he thinking? He wasn't trying to impress John. In fact, he shouldn't even have changed his clothes. That was sending the wrong signal. Not that he wasn't, in fact, quite possibly attracted to John, but he wasn't going to act on it and John wasn't to know, and it did - not - matter.

But again, he didn't have time to change back unless he wanted to be late, and John wouldn't notice his attire anyway. One last glance in the mirror, and he went downstairs.

In the living room, he woke up his laptop and shot off an email to himself, attaching the notes he'd made for the play so that he could pull them up on his mobile if John should ask. And, as a final precaution, he called Gladstone and attached the lead to his collar. Angelo wouldn't mind, and he could use the dog as an excuse if things became unbearable.

John was already waiting outside the restaurant when Sherlock arrived. His face broke into a wide smile when he saw Sherlock. He'd obviously showered and shaved within the last hour, and his teeth had been recently cleaned. There were many possible explanations - aside from the obvious - for his thorough hygiene, Sherlock told himself. He might have been to the gym earlier, or been moving to a new flat, or spilled something foul, or been vomited on. It was difficult, in the face of John's honest, open regard, to stick to his resolution not to respond with a ridiculous grin of his own.

"Hiya," John said, shaking Sherlock's hand warmly. Sherlock wished he'd thought to take his gloves off first. "And you too, Gladstone." John held out his hand for Gladstone to snuffle at. The dog clearly recognised him, and bumped against his fingers for a scratch behind the ears.

"I wasn't sure if this was the right place," John said, glancing behind him at the picture window decorated with holly and boughs.

"Did you think I would have sent you the wrong address?" Sherlock had meant to be a sharp reproach, but it came out more as gentle teasing.

"No, no, it's just... bit fancier than I expected. But it's great, really," he assured Sherlock. "Looking forward to it. Shall we?" He was speaking slightly faster than normal, betraying his nervousness.

All of a sudden, Sherlock wanted this evening to go well, even if he had absolutely no idea how to accomplish it. There was a bit of an awkward moment as they both reached for the door, complicated by Gladstone lurching forward at the smell of food. In the end, John held the door so that Sherlock could steer Gladstone inside.

Billy showed them to a table tucked into the window niche. It was intimate, yet allowed them to see both the street and the rest of the guests. Sherlock got Gladstone situated out of the way under the table and took off his coat, tossing it over the bench beside him. When he sat down, he caught John staring.

Sherlock frowned and looked down at himself. Did he have a stain?

"You look... very smart," John said, laughing a bit to camouflage what Sherlock identified as embarrassment. The compliment caused a flutter in Sherlock's stomach, which was completely ridiculous. "I should have worn a tie," John added sheepishly. In fact, John had also changed his clothes and now had on a neat brown blazer (favourite piece) and a blue-and-white striped shirt (new). He looked perfectly nice, perfectly John.

"Nonsense, I'm not wearing one either," Sherlock said irritably, to cover his discomfort at his own reaction. "There's no dress code here, you're fine."

Angelo came over, holding two menus. "Sherlock, it's been too long," he said fondly. He peeked under the table. "And Gladstone, my furry hero!" Gladstone thumped his tail against the floor and gave him a doggy grin.

Sherlock made the introductions. "John, this is Angelo; Angelo, John."

"You come here often, then?" John asked Sherlock.

"Not often enough," Angelo answered for him. "I'm beginning to think you don't like my cooking," he teased.

"Simply not enough opportunity," Sherlock excused himself.

Angelo laid the menus in front of them. "Tonight, anything you want, on the house, for you and your date."

Sherlock's eyes darted to John, who in turn was looking apprehensively at Sherlock. They both laughed, but John only protested the first part of the statement, saying they couldn't possibly.

Sherlock felt warmth flooding his chest and face. It was both pleasant and confusing. John was okay with this being called a date - possibly even had come with that very expectation. John wanted to be here, with Sherlock. Not because he had to, for work, but because he - beyond all reason - saw something appealing about Sherlock. Perhaps it was merely physical; Sherlock had often been approached in his clubbing days based on his outward appearance. However, most people didn't last more than a minute or two once Sherlock began to talk. John had been exposed to Sherlock for two days now, had been the target of his deductions, insults, and anger, and yet here he was, pleased at Angelo's description and relieved at Sherlock's acceptance of it. It didn't make sense.

"I insist," Angelo was saying, in answer to John's objection to not paying. "This man saved my restaurant from burning down. It's the least I can do."

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"It was Gladstone." Sherlock pointed under the table.

"The dog couldn't have called the fire department, or told me who set the fire!" Angelo said.

"Now this I have to hear," John said with a grin.

"I'll have Billy bring a bowl of water for your dog while you decide. Oh, and a candle!" He stepped away for a moment and came back with a tea light in a small glass, which he set on the table. "More romantic," he said with a wink, before leaving to tend to the kitchen.

Sherlock busied himself with the menu. A date was one thing; Sherlock was just beginning to get his head wrapped around the concept. But talk of romance made him distinctly uncomfortable. The thought of having to sit through an hour or more of some inane courting rituals was enough to make him want to run screaming from the premises. Even the prospect of discovering more about John couldn't make it any more attractive.

John, however, didn't seem fazed by Angelo's insinuation. In fact, he didn't react to it at all. Instead, he leaned forward with his elbows on the table and prompted, "So, the story?"

Sherlock, wary lest Angelo do something even worse like summon a musician to serenade them, rushed through the report of how Gladstone's nose had led to Sherlock discovering a fire that had been set in the rear service entrance. He'd caught it before too much damage was done, and found evidence which the arson investigators overlooked that led directly to Angelo's ex-partner.

John was gratifyingly appreciative of Sherlock's observations, and eager to hear more about his methods, drawing Sherlock out and encouraging further details. Angelo left them alone, and Sherlock began to relax a bit. By the time Billy came to take their orders, Sherlock was well into his thoughts on the brain's hierarchy of priorities in information processing. Their drinks arrived next, and things improved steadily from there. The conversation easily ranged over a variety of topics. John's overlapping fields of medicine and the military meant that he was broadly conversant in many areas that interested Sherlock, and attentive and curious about those subjects in which he had little experience. He wasn't only receptive, however. Sherlock was fascinated to hear stories from John's medical school years, for example - particularly the anatomy and pathology practicals.

As the dishes and refills came and went, and there were no probing questions about his personal life or his past, uncomfortable detours into anything resembling relationship talk, or any attempts to initiate physical contact, Sherlock relaxed and found himself truly engaging with John in a way he had rarely, if ever, experienced. John didn't always agree with him, but he also didn't react with disgust or suggest that Sherlock was abnormal.

They were finishing their coffee before Sherlock thought to check his watch again and found, to his surprise, that two and a half hours had passed.

"Maybe we'd best be making a move," John suggested. "Gladstone could probably do with a walk by now."

Sherlock had completely forgotten the dog. He looked under the table, only to see him stretched out on his side, sound asleep, with his head resting on one of John's feet. As if sensing his master's attention, Gladstone perked up and yawned, and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

John was getting his wallet out.

"Put that away," Sherlock told him sternly. "Angelo will be insulted if you try to pay."

"The food may have been free, but not the service. That's for Billy." John took out a note and slipped it under his glass. "Besides, I don't like the idea of not paying my share. You took care of the dinner, so let me at least get the tip."

"I didn't actually pay for it," Sherlock said.

"It's the principle," John said firmly, and that was that.

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled and got up to put on his coat.

They said a quick good-bye to Angelo, and stepped out onto the street. Gladstone turned immediately toward home, but Sherlock paused, suddenly uncertain. Was their 'date' over (if in fact that's what it was)? Should he try to extend the evening? He wouldn't necessarily mind spending more time with John, but what did one do? Go to a bar? The prospect was unappealing. Sherlock didn't frequent bars or clubs since he'd gotten clean, and at any rate, an invitation to join him for drinks in an even more intimate environment would be pushing things too far in exactly the direction Sherlock hoped to avoid. And asking John back to his house even more so.

John appeared to be having a similar difficulty. He was looking around at the passersby, with his hands buried in his pockets.

"Well, I-" Sherlock began. "Thank you. I mean... I'm going this way, if you-" They could at least walk together, if their paths took them in the same direction.

"Oh, yes?" John looked down the street. "I mean, no, actually, I live-" John waved vaguely to the left. "But I could- I mean, it's a nice evening, I don't mind-"

"No, no, don't worry," Sherlock said quickly. "I don't want to keep you."

"Yeah, no, not on a school night," John teased good-naturedly, but Sherlock could tell he was a bit disappointed. Should he have let John walk with him? But that would only have meant an even longer walk back for John, and Sherlock wasn't sure how reliable his leg was. There was always the possibility of sharing a taxi, but it would have been a bit silly for the five-minute drive to Sherlock's house, and then there would be an argument over who should pay, and there would be awkwardness again over whether Sherlock should invite John in. To say nothing of the fact that not every taxi driver was willing to take a dog. No, it was better to end things here, on a good note.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?" John held out his hand.

Sherlock took it, this time feeling the warm, solid grip against his skin. The contact seemed to travel right up his arm and into his chest, where it gave his heart a little jolt. Sherlock pressed John's hand firmly, once, twice, envisioned all in a flash sliding his hand further up, along the inside of John's wrist, inside his sleeve, feeling the hairs on his arm- He let go. His heart continued to jump. He found he was watching John's mouth.

"Yes, goodnight," Sherlock said and turned abruptly. Before he could consider how it must look, he was already walking away, giving Gladstone the order to lead them home. He wasn't certain he would find it on his own, given the state his mind was in.

%%%%%

The walk, as always, did Sherlock good. There was something about the physical action of moving swiftly through the streets that steered his thoughts into orderly paths. It also helped not to have John so distractingly close by. On the one hand, Sherlock was irritated that he was falling prey to so many utterly predictable behaviours around John: the desire to impress, becoming alternately overly talkative and tongue-tied, not to mention the mortifying physical signals such as an inability to maintain steady eye contact, a near constant desire to smile, elevated heart rate and respiration and, yes, diversion of blood flow to the genitals. On the other hand, he had to admit that the experience was generally pleasurable. Simply thinking about it resulted in a rewarding bloom of pleasure hormones.

However, he was wary of the lure of fleeting physical stimuli. It had taken him four months in a closed facility and a further eight as an outpatient to truly feel in control of his body and mind again. He knew how messy and hurtful relationships were. He only needed to look as far as his own family for proof of that. Momentary pleasures such as a sexual or chemical high weren't worth the loss of control and the pain that inevitably followed, sooner or later.

And if one thing was certain, it was that John wouldn't be around forever. He'd probably only stay on at the school until the play was done. He would certainly have found more gainful employment by then, especially if his leg continued to show improvement. He wouldn't want to be an underpaid classroom assistant when he could be doing something where he actually used his skills. And then he and Sherlock would part ways, and this whole silly infatuation would fade away, and all Sherlock would be left with would be another confirmation of the wisdom of his decision not to get involved with other people.

That didn't mean he wouldn't talk to John, though, or that he would try to avoid him. That would be impossible, anyway, if they were forced to work together for the next few weeks. He liked John, and John - against all reason - appeared to like him. He would simply keep things platonic and civil, like their dinner that evening. Sherlock saw no reason why they shouldn't repeat the encounter. In another restaurant. Angelo's well-intentioned hints certainly wouldn't help the cause. They might even meet at Sherlock's house. Friends went to each other's houses, certainly, without any need for intimate contact. Yes, this could very well work.

Sherlock was so pleased with himself that he didn't even scold Gladstone for jumping onto the bed while he was doing some reading at bedtime. The warm, solid weight on his leg was pleasant, and as he finally drifted off to sleep sometime after midnight, it was with the fancied comfort of a good friend breathing deeply beside him.

%%%%%%

Go to chapter 7

Comments

[swissmarg]

Thanks again for your thoughtful comments. I love seeing 'readalong' reactions.
And on the last point, I thought it was important that Sherlock and John have a friendship, first and foremost. Any other relationship is going to fail without that.