Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (7/23)

[swissmarg]

banner by frodosweetstuff

Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 5,867
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 Seven - The Mayor's Invitation

When Sherlock arrived at the school the next morning, it was with something to look forward to for an unprecedented second day in a row. John was already in the teachers' lounge - now that he knew where it was - talking to Stamford and Molly Hooper. He had a mug in his hand, no doubt the local swill. His face lit up when he saw Sherlock, and he excused himself to go over and say hello.

"Really enjoyed myself last night," John said, as Sherlock sorted through the notices in his inbox.

"Mm, yes," Sherlock agreed. He tried to ignore the pleasant clenching in his stomach and willed his heart to slow back down.

John, unhelpfully, leaned in a bit. Sherlock could smell him now, the slight hint of coffee on his breath. He steeled himself not to show any reaction, instead keeping his focus on an incredibly useless memo regarding an upcoming visit from the nit nurse.

John went on in a low voice, "Although, we didn't actually get around to …" Sherlock's eyes snapped to John's. That tone of voice went straight down the little-used pathway that had been reasserting its presence with a vengeance the past couple of days. Sherlock prepared himself for John to say something suggestive, but instead he gave Sherlock a significant look and mouthed, 'Mycroft'. Sherlock snorted at the utter diametrical opposition of the two notions, and at himself for having jumped to such a fantastically wrong conclusion. It was a good thing that John - well, everyone, really - was so unobservant.

John continued in a more normal voice, "If you don't have any plans for lunch, maybe we could-"

Sherlock tossed the notice into the bin. He would actually quite like to spend the lunch hour with John, although he had no intention of using the time discussing the Mycroft situation. He'd come up with something to appease John quickly, and then they could have a pleasant time talking about... Sherlock was surprised to realise he didn't really care what they talked about (as long as it wasn't Mycroft). He was certain that he would enjoy sharing his thoughts with John on any topic.

"No Sausage Sizzlers," Sherlock warned.

John laughed. "No, think I got that. Although they weren't half bad. I saw a place a couple streets over, near the park. Speedy's? Sounds awful, I know, but they have what look like some quite nice soups."

"I know it," Sherlock said. "Yes, let's."

John's face broke into a wide smile. "Great."

Sherlock couldn't help returning it.

Sherlock had decided to set aside time every day to work on the play with the class, since they only had four weeks from the coming Friday until the performance. The first step, before they could begin learning the songs, was to take stock of what the children were going to be able to contribute. So for that morning, auditions were on the agenda, as he told John on their way to the classroom.

"Auditions, really?" John said, sounding sceptical. "Don't you think that'll make the kids nervous? I mean, they're in the show whether they're any good or not."

"None of them will be any good, that's not the point," Sherlock said. "The point is to see who is less than atrocious."

"How about you call it a 'talent showcase'?" John suggested. "They can each do whatever they think they're best at - singing, dancing, juggling, magic tricks."

"Why don't we just let them burp God Save the Queen and have done?"

John laughed. "If any of them can burp God Save the Queen, they can be the opening act."

Sherlock was so pleased at having made John laugh that he told the class they were having a talent showcase.

It turned out that no one could actually burp God Save the Queen, although Ollie could make his armpit squeak, Saffron could turn her eyelids inside-out, and Jade could hold her breath for a minute and a half. In terms of actual, useful skills, there were six children who could dance without looking like they had worms in their pants and nine who could both carry a tune and sing loud enough to be heard past the front row. Although whether one would want to hear full-throated yelling about a 'teenage dirtbag' was another question. Sherlock would have made the boy stop, if the display hadn't reduced John to ducking under the table to hide his laughter. No matter. It was going to be a disaster regardless of what they did, but at least they would have something to work with.

John went out to the playground with the class for break time, while Sherlock went back to set up the classroom for the next lesson. On the way, he ran into Mrs Hudson in the hall.

"There you are, Sherlock," she trilled. "I haven't had a chance to tell you what a wonderful thing you've done for the school, getting your brother to come in and make a film."

"I had very little to do with it," he said carefully.

"Oh now, I'm sure that's not true. Something big like this, must have been one of those elaborate plans of yours."

"It was mostly John's doing, to be honest." Which was entirely true, and he didn't even need to feel guilty for saying it.

"Oh yes, Dr Watson!" Mrs Hudson cried, diverted - thankfully - onto a tangent. "How are the two of you getting on then? Thick as thieves, or so I hear. It looks like you've made yourself a friend."

Sherlock eyed Mrs Hudson suspiciously, but she seemed to be entirely sincere. Sherlock made a vague sound of acknowledgement.

Mrs Hudson leaned in to speak in a stage whisper: "Between you and me, he probably saved your job as well."

"That was rather the point, I gather," Sherlock said shortly. He didn't like the reminder that John wasn't actually here for his benefit, but to keep him in line.

"Now dear, don't you go getting yourself into a tizzy," she said, patting his arm. "You know I've never felt this place is the right fit for you. But after what you did to little Sebastian..." She clicked her tongue. "Although he was a proper little devil, wasn't he?"

Sherlock's patience was wearing thin, his good mood after spending the last hour in John's company fading. "Mrs Hudson, do you have an actual point?"

"All I'm saying is this whole movie business goes to show what a good influence Dr Watson has been on you. Such a nice young man. The governors are very pleased."

"And we'll all be able to sleep better knowing that, I'm sure."

"Yes, well, there was some concern, you know, about giving him the position: no previous experience, bit of a dodgy profile. But that's all water under the bridge now," Mrs Hudson said in satisfaction.

"Mm, yes," Sherlock agreed, but this was news to him. He'd been under the impression that John Watson came with a guaranteed stamp of approval. It had never occurred to him that he wasn't the first one to consider John's physical and mental history to be potential marks against him. He bristled now at the suggestion. John would never endanger the children, or do or say anything inappropriate or harmful. And of course this put the entire kerfluffle over the movie in a new light. If it came out that it was all fake, that John had been the one to bring it to Lestrade, and that he had continued to perpetrate the lie even after Sherlock told him the truth, there might well be consequences for him, beyond losing his position at the school.

There was only one thing to be done, obviously: Sherlock would have to go to Lestrade on his own and come clean, tell him that John knew nothing and that Sherlock was the one stringing everyone along for his own oblique reasons. No one would dig any deeper for a motivation; they would readily accept that Sherlock was just that cruel and perverse.

There wasn't time for Sherlock to see Lestrade before lunch, and Sherlock wanted to have one last unspoilt hour with John anyway. He knew this would be the last straw, and he would be out on his ear once he confessed. And that would be the end of his association with John.

Sherlock tried to put such melancholy thoughts out of his head when the bell rang for lunch. John was waiting for him at the door with an expectant, happy smile. He couldn't help clapping John's shoulder once, though, as they went out, knowing that this would be his last and only chance to touch him, even as casually as that. It was the type of thing that Lestrade regularly did to Sherlock, and he was certain John wouldn't think twice about it.

He was surprised, then, to feel John's hand return the gesture on his back, and even more surprised when it lingered there for the span of an entire stride. The gentle pressure was like an anchor, a touchstone drawing his energy and focus into it. Sherlock sensed a hesitation when John finally let his hand drop away, as if he wanted to maintain the contact but was insecure about what the reaction to it would be. The only thing Sherlock couldn't tell was whether John was worried about what Sherlock thought, or what others would think. Sherlock wasn't sure himself how he felt about it.

He briefly - very briefly - entertained the notion that he might continue to associate with John even after he was fired, but immediately rejected it. All of his objections to greater intimacy would still remain, and in addition he would be without a job, without an income, disgraced, and unemployable in the only field he was qualified and certified for. Hardly a good catch.

At lunch, Sherlock's indecision only grew, however. Speedy's did good business during the midday rush, and it was crowded enough that Sherlock and John kept being jostled against each other as they stood in the queue to place their orders. By the third time, Sherlock was becoming so warm he had to remove his scarf.

When they finally got their food, the only seating available was at a table that was already occupied by an older gentleman. A brief glance at him told Sherlock that he'd been married for over thirty years, avoided his wife whenever possible but didn't have a mistress, went hiking in Scotland regularly, and suffered from eczema exacerbated by an allergy to strawberries. The man gave them a sour look, clearly taking them for a couple but not being particularly bothered by that fact; he just wanted to finish his coffee in peace. Still, he didn't object when John asked if they could share the table.

Sherlock took the seat next to the wall, after observing that John was taking stock of all possible entrances and exits and concluding that he would be more comfortable with one side open. John set his tray next to Sherlock's, and scooted his chair over so close (ostensibly to keep out of the aisle) that he was half in Sherlock's space. The contact was compounded by the fact that Sherlock was on John's left, so their elbows were constantly bumping as they begain to eat. Already on edge and with a heightened physical awareness from the earlier jostling, Sherlock was torn between 'two can play at this' and squeezing even more tightly against the wall.

He had already appeased John on the way to the restaurant by saying he would call Mycroft as soon as he got home that night. He had no intention of doing so, of course, but it wouldn't matter by then. The point was that he was now left with nothing say to distract him from the gentle pressure of John's knee against his, the inescapable consciousness of his solid physicality mere centimeters away. All of it exacerbated by the knowledge that he would never be this close to John again. This was his last chance to collect data: how far away he could feel John's body heat, how long John's eyelashes were, exactly what path his hairline described at the nape of his neck, the pitch of his voice when he cleared his throat before speaking...

John, on the other hand, appeared completely unperturbed, and started nattering on about the various acts the children had put on earlier. He even went so far as to mimic some of them, giggling around his food. Sherlock was going to say something scathing about having been there as well because he needed John to be quiet, he needed him to just sit and be and let Sherlock soak him in without adding more input, more nuances and expressions and why had Sherlock never noticed the little scar on the corner of his jaw before? It predated his time in the army, but was it an injury inflicted by another party, or was it an accident-

He interrupted his own train of thought as the realisation came to him of just what John was doing. He wasn't really talking about the children. As he had done in the van the other day, he was trying to put Sherlock at ease, make him laugh. He'd picked up on Sherlock's agitation. This was one of those 'what friends do' sort of situations. He was recalling a shared experience, one that he had enjoyed. True, it had only happened that morning, but they didn't have a large repertoire of common memories to draw on. So when John elbowed him lightly, seeking confirmation that Sherlock was paying attention, Sherlock smiled back and agreed that T.J. hadn't been completely pants at dancing, and bumped his knee against John's. That was rewarded with John trying to hide his smile in a spoonful of soup.

The man across from them left after just a few minutes. John remarked quietly that he hoped they hadn't driven him away.

"No, he had to get back to the ophthalmologist," Sherlock explained.

John paused and laid his spoon down, turning to Sherlock. He didn't even need to ask; his expectant look said it all.

"His eyes, obviously," Sherlock said, gesturing at his own. "They were dilated. The doctor must have put the drops in about thirty minutes ago, then sent him out to wait for them to take effect. The surgery's just around the corner." Sherlock jerked his head toward the door. "I expect he preferred to sit here than in the waiting room. It's not as if he could pass the time reading anything."

John shook his head as he picked his spoon up again. "I don't think I'll ever get over that," he said.

A glow of warm satisfaction floated through Sherlock at John's words. He went on to explain the rest of what he'd observed about the man. John listened, occasionally interjecting a 'How could you possibly' or 'Brilliant'. By the time he was finished, John had his elbow resting on the table, his body half turned to face Sherlock, and a faint smile on his face.

"You're wasted, you know," John said.

Sherlock had a momentary flash of panicky indignation that Lestrade would have talked to John about his past, until John continued, "You should be on the telly, or … I don't know, something important. That's a real talent you've got."

Sherlock was relieved that John wasn't referring to drugs, but his indignation didn't decrease by much. The suggestion that he should be doing something else with his life came uncomfortably close to what Mycroft and many others - including Moriarty - had been telling him for years. It was fun to impress John, but he would not stand for one more person in his life thinking they knew better than he what he should be doing.

"I'm not some … side-show freak to be paraded around for people's entertainment," he spit out.

"Hey, no," John said firmly. "Not what I meant. And who said you're a freak? Is that what people have said to you? The other teachers?"

"Never mind," Sherlock muttered. He pushed his soup away. Everything was suddenly too close. Why was John still sitting next to him? The other side of the table was free now. He should have moved immediately when the other man left, but he hadn't. He'd stayed there - here - sharing Sherlock's space, comfortable, not crowding or taking advantage, just sitting and listening and … and being sympathetic, for heaven's sake. It was unexpected and inconvenient, and Sherlock wanted him both to go away and never to leave.

"Sherlock." John put his hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock should want to shake it off, pull his arm away, but there was that unspeakable connection again, that feeling of rightness. He was so unsettled by it that he didn't move.

"It doesn't matter what anyone says," John went on. "You're not a freak. Bit of a dick, maybe." He grinned, and the tension broke.

Sherlock snorted. "It's not my fault if people can't handle the truth."

"You have a greater responsibility than we can possibly fathom, is that it?" It could have been a serious accusation, but John said it with a smile playing around his mouth. He must be referring to something, but Sherlock couldn't think what.

"What? No, I-"

John relented. "It's from A Few Good Men."

The look on Sherlock's face only grew more oblique.

"Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson? 'You can't handle the truth'? Tell me you've at least heard of Top Gun? Never mind," he said, shaking his head good-naturedly when Sherlock still failed to react. "No Mary Poppins and no Tom Cruise movies. One of these nights I'm going to sit you down with a few DVDs and we're going to cram popular culture."

"That sounds tortuous." And disconcertingly appealing. But he wouldn't have to make the decision one way or the other now.

All too soon, it was time to return to the school. It didn't seem real that this was the last time he and John would see each other. In a couple of hours, Sherlock would talk to Lestrade, and then he would be asked to gather his belongings and not come back. That part would actually be a relief. It was the other part, the impending separation, that was uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable, in fact. It simply felt wrong, like two people leaving three sets of footprints. It niggled at Sherlock, sat heavy in his stomach. He hoped he'd get over it quickly. He certainly didn't want to have to deal with emotional fallout over this. That would defeat the purpose entirely.

John, oblivious to impending events, kept up a steady stream of innocuous and occasionally amusing comments as they walked back. His gait was still slightly off-kilter (leg still giving him twinges), and he was walking close enough that every now and then his arm or shoulder would bump against Sherlock, apparently without his notice. The casual contact, so matter-of-fact and familiar, combined with the pressures of the upcoming confession and his unresolved emotional turmoil over John proved to be too much for Sherlock's self-control.

"Do you mind," Sherlock snapped, shoving John's arm away the next time it brushed his. "Maybe you should consider using your cane again, if you're so unsteady on your feet." He strode ahead into the building, leaving John gaping on the pavement.

"Yeah, just a bit of a dick," he heard faintly just before the door closed behind him.

%%%%%%

Afternoon lessons were a nightmare. Sherlock was well aware he was presenting the material too fast and skipping vital steps, but he was in a race now to get to the end of the day, when he could talk to Lestrade. It didn't help any to see John watching him from where he was sitting with one of the groups, not saying anything, his expression becoming grimmer and grimmer, his jaw hardening more and more. Sherlock finally resorted to telling the children to get out their reading books and work silently for the remaining half hour.

John glared daggers at him, but got up and moved slowly around the room, leaning over to give encouragement and words of explanation. Sherlock, for his part, retreated to his desk and went through the drawers, sorting out anything he might like to take with him.

When the bell finally rang, Sherlock pushed through the waist-high throng and out into the hall. He heard John calling out to him, but he didn't bother answering. There was no danger of John following; he would stay and help the children unstick their zips and find their hats and wipe their noses, and by the time the last one was out the door, Sherlock would be safely out of reach.

It was a good thing Sherlock had been so quick off the mark, as Lestrade was just coming out of his office, pulling on his trenchcoat, obviously on his way to meet his wife for mediation.

"Sherlock, good man," he said as soon as he saw Sherlock. He beckoned even as he kept walking toward the door. Sherlock changed course to follow. "The phone's been ringing off the hook," Lestrade said. "Word's got out about Whitehall coming, and all the parents are ringing, wanting to know all the details."

"I don't have any details, there aren't any details-" Sherlock said, frustrated. Lestrade was in no frame of mind to listen. He was already focussed on how to make himself look good to the mediator while still hoping his wife would come back.

"No, I know," Lestrade said. "That's what I've been telling them. Last thing we can use is a bunch of stage parents lurking around." Lestrade swung the outer door open and held it for Sherlock. "But wait for this, this is the cherry on the cake," he said as they practically ran across the school yard. "The Lord Mayor's office has rung, and they want you to go to some reception do."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, the Lord Mayor!" Lestrade said, as if that meant something. "You don't say no to the Lord Mayor."

"I can, and I will, because there's no-"

"Well, I've already accepted for you," Lestrade said. They'd reached his car. He opened the door.

"I can't go," Sherlock said. "If you'd let me-"

But Lestrade was speaking over him again: "You don't even know when it is. And you will go, if I have to drag you there myself."

"Lestrade, I can't possibly-"

"It's all arranged. A week from Wednesday, eight o'clock. Relax. Have fun. You drink a little champagne, you listen to a speech, you …" Lestrade waved his hand vaguely. "Whatever it is you do on a night out. And take John." He said the last bit quite casually as he slid behind the wheel, then flashed Sherlock a knowing smile.

Before Sherlock could possibly think of a response to that, Lestrade had pulled the door shut and driven away.

%%%%%%

By the time Sherlock got home and hooked the lead onto Gladstone's collar, the shock had passed and he was ready to get his thoughts in some semblance of order. He set out, purposely choosing a route that wouldn't take him anywhere near John's neighbourhood or any of the places he and John had been together.

This changed things. Of course it did. It had become too big to simply call off with a private word to Lestrade. Now that the mayor and City Council were involved, it was a wonder Mycroft hadn't contacted him yet.

On the other hand, no it wasn't. He was probably sitting in his soundproofed, climate-controlled, perfectly decorated office, laughing into his fist at the mess Sherlock was making of things. He wouldn't lift a finger until Sherlock came to him. And it was looking more and more like that was the only option left. Not that he would help, even if Sherlock did go crawling to him, and not just because Mycroft was spiteful and mean.

Sherlock was well aware that what he was proposing simply wasn't practical. A full-length feature film was out of the question, of course, but even a relatively low-scale recording for private distribution, such as John had suggested, would require resources that didn't exist, much less within the next month. A film production company, even such a successful one as Whitehall, ran on a tight schedule and an even tighter budget.

Sherlock might be able to hire a private videographer to film the play, but trying to pass them off as Whitehall or any other well-known production company would be tricky at best, and the Lord Mayor's office was expecting high profile publicity, big names, and concessions.

Sherlock was willing to take the fall himself, to accept responsibility for the charges of fraud which were certain to follow, but he didn't yet see a way to keep John out of it completely. The man would be stupid enough to confess his role in the entire debacle. And - a truth that Sherlock found more difficult to admit - he didn't want Lestrade to get dragged into yet another one of Sherlock's messes. Sherlock wasn't blind to how much Lestrade had done for him over the years, starting with hiring him in the first place and carrying on through defending him at every turn, both to the board and the other teachers. Sherlock didn't like to be indebted to anyone, and he was well aware that he owed Lestrade more than his fair share already.

So, it seemed that he was stuck with the rest of the term and the blasted play and John. And with somehow tricking Mycroft into coming on board. The prospect of seeing John every day was the only thing that might make everything halfway bearable. Although after the way he'd brushed John off this afternoon, Sherlock expected that he wouldn't be keen on continuing their association outside of the classroom any more.

He was more than surprised, therefore, when his mobile chimed with a text from John just as he and Gladstone turned around for the homeward leg of their walk.

Text from John Watson

fancy mtg 4 a pint?

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the pavement, nearly causing a woman pushing a pram to run into him (nanny, late to pick up the five-year-old sister from ballet class, wearing her employer's Jimmy Choos). He quickly ran through the possibilities. There weren't many, and the best candidate was that John was trying to instigate a repeat of their meeting the previous night; their 'date'. Which meant that John was either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Why would he possibly want to spend more time with Sherlock when he'd been rude upon their return from lunch and ignored him after school?

Ah yes, that was it. Sherlock resumed walking, satisfied that he'd hit upon the solution (and not the slightest bit let down that it mightn't be a purely social invitation): John wanted to talk about those incidents, find out what he'd possibly done wrong. But that was precisely the point: John had done nothing wrong. He'd simply been himself. And that was exactly what Sherlock was unable to deal with. So, yes, he did fancy meeting up with John. Which was why he couldn't. He tapped out a quick negative response without breaking stride.

There was no return text.

%%%%%%

The next day at school was pure torture. Sherlock had to physically restrain himself from getting anywhere near John, banning himself to sit behind his desk for the entirety of the morning lessons. He replied to John's greetings and comments in the briefest possible manner and kept his focus on the top of John's ear when speaking to him, in order to avoid meeting his eyes (or watching his mouth or lingering over the fine lines and creases in his face or letting his eye wander down into the space at the top of his collar, leading into the dark, warm place over his heart).

The problem was, Sherlock had mentally prepared himself not to see John any more. Seeing him again now was like a diabetic being told he had been misdiagnosed and could have all the sweets he wanted. He was afraid of bingeing, of losing control. He'd already lost control, if he was honest with himself. Over his emotions, at least. He'd take the weekend to sort things out, decide what he was going to do. He only needed to make it through to the end of the day.

At lunch time, he holed up in 221A, the speech therapy room that was annexed off the main classroom, with a pile of papers. He was afraid of what he might do if John proposed lunching together again. That was why his stomach sank - or did something funny, at any rate - when the door opened ten minutes before the end of the hour.

"Hey, what are you doing in here?" John said. "I had thought we could get lunch or something. Went with Mike and Molly instead."

Sherlock congratulated himself on having correctly predicted John's behaviour for once. "What is it? I'm quite busy," he said without looking up from the worksheets he was correcting.

"Yeah, I'd be happy to help with that," John offered as he came to stand next to the table where Sherlock was working. Sherlock didn't need to see his face to know that his tongue had darted out to wet his lower lip at the end of that statement.

"I am perfectly capable of marking year three papers without your assistance," Sherlock countered frostily.

"That's not-" John exhaled heavily through his nose and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "Look, I don't know what I've done. I thought we were- I mean, dinner the other night was good, yeah? And lunch yesterday. But ever since then, you've been avoiding me and biting my head off at every turn. Look, I'm sorry if maybe- I mean, it doesn't have to mean anything. Just mates, is all," he said, then added in a quick, low mutter, "I feel like an absolute arse saying this, please don't make me go on."

"I would gladly pay you not to," Sherlock said, feeling the heat on the back of his neck, both from embarrassment and from the suggestion that there might have been more - that there was more, and that they both knew it.

John laughed briefly. "Yeah, so, can we just, forget about whatever it is that's been eating you and go back to... whatever it was. Without the..."

Sherlock was physically squirming with emotional discomfort, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the fact that they were even having this conversation, or because John was backing off. "Yes, fine, forgotten," he snapped. Anything to make John stop talking about it. Even if it wasn't fine or forgotten.

"Good."

"Fine."

John shook his head in amusement. He pulled up a chair. Sherlock shifted instinctively back.

"So. Did you talk to Mycroft?" John asked.

The non-sequitor caused Sherlock's eyes to fly up to John's. A mistake. A set of muscles in his chest contracted at the sight. John's eyes widened slightly and he inhaled, short and abrupt, signalling that he was experiencing a similar reaction. Oh, this wasn't over at all.

"No, why would I-" Sherlock fought down his heartbeat, drew a cool mask over his face. "Oh, the play." He shook his head, ostensibly in irritation at John's forgetfulness. "No, I told you I haven't any way of contacting him."

"Bullshit," John said firmly. "You can figure out when a perfect stranger's going to the eye doctor, you can bloody well get in contact with your own brother. Did you even try leaving a message for him?"

"No!" Sherlock slammed the folder shut with the worksheets. It was nearly time for the bell to ring for classes to start and he wasn't finished yet, thanks to John's interruption.

"You know what I think?" John asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Sherlock said acidly. "You think I'm lazy, egotistical, rude, and mendacious." He pushed his chair back, preparing to stand.

John laughed. Not one of the short, tension-defusing puffs of air from before, but a full-bodied chuckle of real amusement. Sherlock was offended. That was not how people were supposed to react to his accusations.

"Oh God. Mendacious?" John spluttered. "You are the only person alive today who would actually come out and use that word in casual conversation. And no. I mean yes, to some of it anyway, but that's not what I was going to say. I think you-" He emphasised his point by jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction. "-are frightened."

"Frightened?" Sherlock rose from his chair, and this time he couldn't do anything about his pulse racing out of his control. Because John had hit the nail on the head - inadvertently, to be sure; Sherlock knew he meant something else - afraid of reverting to the role of the kid brother, afraid of being indebted, afraid of rejection: yes, yes, yes. The most frightening thing of all was how accurate John was with his deduction.

"Yes, you're absolutely right, John, I'm frightened," Sherlock said. His voice rose as he prowled around in the tiny room, gesturing wildly with both hands. "I'm frightened of you," he said, whirling around to point an accusatory finger at John, "because I've never met one of you before. I'm terrified every time I'm around you because I don't know what you, or I, are going to do." He caught John's eye and held it, as if by pinning his gaze he could gain some measure of control over the other man, or at least divine what his next move would be.

If he'd been a puppet master, he would have made John get up and leave, that being the quickest and easiest way to end this situation. If he'd been a soothsayer, he would have supposed John would say something comforting or reasonable or even humorous.

In fact, John neither left nor said anything of the sort. Rather, he looked startled and said, "I don't know either. It's ... " And then a smile slowly snuck onto his face, as if he were just realising it at that moment. "… exciting."

Exciting? This stampede of sensations running rampant through his body, this blizzard of images screaming for attention before his mind's eye, this explosion of possibilities opening new paths all around him? This was sensory overload, a tidal wave overturning all of his coping mechanisms, a klaxon sounding impending disaster.

Or maybe it was just the bell signalling the end of the lunch period.

They stayed like that for an interminable moment, until the ringing was no more than an echo in Sherlock's ears.

John stood up and put his hands in his pockets. "You know, in the army we had a saying: 'If you see a bomb technician running, try to keep up with him.'" He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "I'm just going to try to keep up."

%%%%%%

Go to chapter 8

Comments

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

So so much love for this fic. I LOVE how you write all the characters. Keeping them so recognisable.

[swissmarg]

Thanks!

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

Hee! The nit nurse . . . I’d forgotten about her!!

”He was surprised, then, to feel John's hand return the gesture on his back, and even more surprised when it lingered there for the span of an entire stride. The gentle pressure was like an anchor, a touchstone drawing his energy and focus into it.”

What a beautiful moment between them; Sherlock’s obviously so unused to the kindness of touch.

”One of these nights I'm going to sit you down with a few DVDs and we're going to cram popular culture."”

Oh! you quoted from one of my all-time favourites! But as we know it would be no good trying to get Sherlock to watch films like that – he’d solve all the mysteries in the first five (or less) minutes!

” He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "I'm just going to try to keep up."”

It’s odd seeing Sherlock so discombobulated – usually he’s so very much in control it’s frightening, but this makes it all more interesting, and I’m wondering just how John’s going to make him see it’s all fine.

I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this story – something quite unique and very surprising.

[swissmarg]

I hope that Sherlock's uncertainty isn't off-putting. Since we've never seen him in a relationship it's hard to know how he'd react, but I think the point is just as you said, he wants to remain in control and he's finding that difficult. Thank you for your thoughtful comment!

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

Oh no, not offputting at all. One of the things I enjoy most about fan fiction is different authors' takes on Sherlock entering a relationship; this is wonderful!

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

"Although, we didn't actually get around to …"
Ahahahahahaaha, I think this is my favourite paragraphs of this chapter. I love how Sherlock's mind goes in the completely wrong direction. :DDDD

For the rest of the chapter I was feeling for poor Sherlock - and then for poor John, once Sherlock started acting all ghastly.

And this was pure genius:
"I'm frightened of you," he said, whirling around to point an accusatory finger at John, "because I've never met one of you before.
John definitely is one of a kind, so no wonder Sherlock is all confused.

I'm still having so much fun with this fic! Thank you so much!

[swissmarg]

And thank you for your enthusiastic comments. :)

[swissmarg]

Thanks, I'm very flattered. :)