Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (8/23)

[swissmarg]

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Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 3,138
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 Eight - The First Rehearsal

Sherlock spent the weekend composing the rest of the songs for the Nativity, walking miles upon miles with Gladstone, breaking into the email accounts of Whitehall employees, and teaching Gladstone to identify and locate various chemicals by smell. His activities led to some interesting discoveries, including the entrance to an abandoned Tube station, and a PA who was receiving kickbacks from a travel agency and a catering service for sending business their way. He was unable to get into his brother's account - Mycroft had it housed on his private server, rather than on Google as the bulk of the company's email accounts were.

Sherlock was also, through everything, unable to completely keep John Watson out of his head. It wasn't bad, necessarily. It wasn't as if he couldn't concentrate when he wanted to, but there was always a presence hovering at the edge of things: what would John's face look like when he heard Sherlock play this? Would he try and talk Sherlock out of picking this lock (or would he stand lookout)? Would he be impressed at how quickly Sherlock figured out the passwords? Sherlock found there were things he wanted to share, sights he wanted to point out, theories he wanted to discuss, or at least have a sounding board for. And maybe he also wanted to feel that hand on his back again, or have that strong, capable body - far from a wreck - walking beside him, or listen to that warm tenor voice telling a story, teasing him, laughing.

It would have been easier if John were clearly uninterested in anything other than a casual, colleagues-and-occasional-punter-night friendship. Although even that would have been far more intimate - emotionally, at any rate - than any of Sherlock's previous associations. However, despite Sherlock's lack of fluency in the unspoken language of interpersonal relationships, he recognised that John would be more than amenable to exploring further options. It was getting more and more difficult to justify not giving in. Maybe it did come down to the simple fact of him being afraid: of losing control, of the unpredictability, of being hurt.

It was all so tiresome. He'd been through all of the arguments with himself before, and he knew that the practical answer was to keep things as they were now. John had stated he wouldn't seek anything more. But the fact that he kept returning to the issue, and that every time he and John were together it became more difficult to stick to his resolution, indicated that he needed another solution.

And that solution, he decided, would be to see what happened. When undertaking a scientific experiment, it was counterproductive to terminate things at the first sign of an unwanted result. One had to allow the process to play out to its conclusion in order to analyse the outcome. It was entirely possible that an unforeseen yet highly profitable product would result. It could also be that one had to scrap the entire hypothesis, but one would still have gained valuable knowledge.

Sherlock's last - unplanned, uncontrolled - approaches to anything resembling a relationship - platonic or otherwise - lay so far in the past that he allowed that the results might no longer be valid. He was a different person now - more cautious, more knowledgable, more experienced. More sober. And maybe - it wasn't that he needed to have someone else in his life, exactly, but he'd long felt that there was space for something else, something that his job and Gladstone and his observations as an outsider didn't fill. John had said he found interacting with Sherlock exciting. Maybe that was exactly what Sherlock was missing: a little excitement.

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On Monday, Sherlock brought his violin to school again. This time, there were no surprise assemblies nor disastrous revelations, and they were able to set up for a musical session in the assembly room. John displayed an uncharacteristic reserve upon greeting Sherlock that morning, but as they unfolded the bleachers and brought out the school's rickety keyboard, and Sherlock found his tongue nearly tripping over itself in his eagerness to relate his adventures from the weekend, John's face folded into a warm smile, and he nodded and hummed and shook his head in amused disbelief and admiration. Sherlock allowed himself to bask in the attention, smiled back, even thought to ask John about his weekend. Not that he'd done anything interesting; in fact, Sherlock deleted the information moments later. The point was, though, that it felt daring, as if he were doing something forbidden. He'd always enjoyed doing forbidden things. Although this time, the only one who might be shocked at his behaviour was himself.

He recognised that he was coming dangerously close to flirting. The thought didn't disgust him. It was like trying on a part, testing himself, seeing if he could maintain the persona. Only it wasn't a sham, this was all him. John didn't know him well enough to tell the difference, which was probably a good thing, otherwise he might have felt even more foolish. He very soon found that he had a heightened awareness of his body: how his jacket pulled across his shoulders when he stretched to unlock a strut, exactly how close his fingers came to John's when they dragged the keyboard stand into position. The way his hips moved when he walked across the room.

And all the time, he was aware of John's eyes on him. John was right: it was exciting.

"You said you could manage a chord accompaniment on the keyboard?" Sherlock said as he took a copy of the first song out of his briefcase.

"It's been a while, but let me have a look." John went to the keyboard and Sherlock brought the music over.

"I've kept it fairly simple. C Major, nothing more complicated than a couple of major sevenths." He stood close to John, without quite touching, although he did let his sleeve brush John's arm when he reached over to set the pages on the music stand.

John leaned forward to peruse the notes. It took a surprising amount of willpower for Sherlock not to let his hand rest on John's back. He imagined what the rough-soft nap of the woolen jumper would feel like against his palm.

"I don't know this one," John said. "'Nazareth'? I thought we'd be doing some carols."

Sherlock paused. He'd forgotten that he'd never discussed the play with John. John didn't know he'd decided to write all of the songs himself. All of a sudden, he was nervous. He'd done rather poorly with predicting John's reactions to things. He'd imagined all along how admiring John would be, how impressed with Sherlock's musical talents. Now he was unsure.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "I composed this one." He reached forward to adjust the sheets just as John straightened up, causing them to bump against each other.

"Sorry," they both apologised. John had turned his head toward Sherlock, and all of a sudden their faces were very close. Sherlock inhaled abruptly, getting a whiff of John's scent, a cheap mixture of SureMen, Palmolive, and Voltarol. He was torn between stepping back and leaning in. His pulse throbbed in his throat.

John flashed him a smile and licked his bottom lip as he turned away again. "You -" He cleared his throat. "I mean, you wrote the music and, and the parts and the words and everything." He nodded at the music.

Sherlock exhaled, hard enough that his breath stirred a small patch of hair behind John's ear. He had a brief vision of burying his nose in the hair there, then letting his lips ghost over the cartilaginous curve. "Yes, that's generally what composing a song means," he said shortly. He read out from the page:

"History was made in Nazareth.

Great portents abounded,

the shofarim sounded..."

John glanced at Sherlock. "It's good," he said, nodding approvingly, but his words didn't transmit the unadulterated approbation Sherlock had both hoped for and come to expect. "Do you think the words might be a bit beyond the kids?" John asked. Sherlock could tell he was trying to be nice about it, but the criticism was clear.

Sherlock drew back out of John's space completely. "They don't need to understand it, they just need to sing it."

John sighed. "All right, how does it go?" He started to poke out the melody on the keyboard. He had to keep checking back and forth between his hand and the page. He had no sense of rhythm, and it came out sounding choppy and off-beat.

"I thought you said you could play," Sherlock said. This wasn't going at all the way he'd imagined it.

"I'm better with just the chords," John said, frowning as he continued to work through the song. "Not so much moving around and it's easier with my left hand."

"Then stick to that." Sherlock went over to his violin case and took the instrument out. He'd already tuned it before leaving the house, so he only needed to make minor adjustments now before it was ready to play.

He drew the bow across the strings a few times, tightened a key, then started to play the melody of the song he'd given John. He stared at a spot on the ground as he played. He didn't want to see John's reaction now. In fact, he was rather souring on the entire prospect. Maybe they should just do the bloody carols and be done with it. When he was finished, he forced himself to look at John, more than half expecting to see blank bemusement or poorly disguised disapproval. Once again, he was proven wrong.

John didn't look surprised at all. Quite the opposite; he looked as if Sherlock had just done something which was both entirely expected and absolutely incredible. Sherlock wasn't used to anyone anticipating excellence from him. Even at the College, where one had to be very good to even achieve admission, the teachers had been on the lookout for weaknesses.

"That was brilliant," John said quietly, as if afraid to disturb the mood. "You should play. You know, just you. Forget the kids."

Sherlock swung the bow down and swished it around a bit to cover the surge of relief and pride. "The parents don't want to hear me play, they want to see little Tommy and Susie dressed in ill-fitting sacks and screeching about teenage dirtbags." His eyes met John's and they both giggled.

Just then, the door flew open and the children came in. They immediately took advantage of the large space to run and shout and generally be disruptive. Sherlock opened his mouth to yell and threaten detention, but before he could say anything, a piercing whistle came from John's lips. The children froze in surprise, then fell over themselves (in some cases literally) to follow the orders to assemble that he barked out. In short order, they were all lined up on the bleachers.

"Now you're to sit still and listen to Mr Holmes." John pointed authoritatively at Ollie, who was still snickering behind T.J.'s head.

"Yes, Mr Watson," the children mumbled. There was still a bit of jostling and whispering, but by and large their attention was at the front.

John nodded, satisfied. "All yours," he said to Sherlock and stepped back behind the keyboard.

Sherlock was impressed, and that was saying something. Not that getting the attention of a bunch of children was that spectacular an achievement, but it wasn't often that Sherlock acknowledged that someone was able to do something better than he was. At least not something relevant. He didn't have any problem admitting that the philosophy student at Speedy's prepared coffee better than he did. He didn't care to devote the time to developing his skills in that direction, not when it was much easier and more convenient to purchase his morning fix instead. But the point was that he could, if so inclined. He knew, from five years of experience teaching years one through three, that he was not capable of bringing them into line without threats or losing his temper, much less whilst simultaneously commanding both their respect and admiration. John was able to do all of that in a few seconds, and it seemed to be second nature to him. Remarkable.

"We're going to be learning quite a number of songs in a very short time, so I suggest you pay attention, Saffron Maguire." Sherlock pointed at her with his bow. She snapped her mouth shut and assumed a look of exaggerated innocence.

Sherlock set the bow to the strings and played the beginning of the song. The children stared at him with glazed expressions. He had serious doubts whether they even grasped the concept that they were going to have to remember the melody and sing it back. This was going to be tedious.

He spoke the words first, then played the phrase again and sang it as well, for good measure. When he indicated that they should sing it back, perhaps a third of them made an attempt, and even those trailed off somewhere between Nazareth and the shofarim.

"Oh come on," Sherlock said with an expression of disgust. "I hear half of you chanting the words to that horrid Gangnam song out on the playground, and that's not even in English!"

"To be fair, this isn't either," John piped up, pointing at the music in front of him.

Sherlock turned to him in affront, but before he could say anything, John looked to the pupils and said, "Here, try this," then sang, while accompanying himself with the keyboard set to chord mode:

"Things are really cool in Nazareth.

Our city is full of joy.

'Cause this is where girl meets boy..."

Despite the different words, it was Sherlock's melody, albeit with a syncopated, modern rhythm. Or maybe John was simply incapable of keeping simple four-four time.

John's voice was thin and scratchy, and he could barely reach the high notes, but incredibly, the children sang the phrase back, in a relatively recognisable manner.

John beamed. "That was excellent." He turned to Sherlock. "Wasn't that excellent, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock screwed his face up. "'Girl meets boy'? Is this the Nativity or some soppy, dumbed-down Romeo and Juliet?"

"I prefer to think of it as a modern take on an old classic," John responded with a grin, then stepped out into the middle of the floor and started rattling off ideas. "Right, how about this. It starts off black, and everyone's wondering: What's going on?"

"I know I'm wondering that myself." Sherlock went to sit down with the children. He was going to give John a good, solid length of rope with which to hang himself.

John went on with something about backdrops and popping out of windows and marching figures across the stage, and it was all so elaborate and far-fetched that Sherlock had really heard enough before he'd even finished describing the first scene.

"Dr Watson. John!" Sherlock interrupted. "These children will never be able to do that."

John straightened his back. "Yes, they will," he said firmly.

"No, we won't," a little voice said from somewhere behind Sherlock.

"We're useless. Everyone knows we're useless," another child chimed in.

"You're not useless," John said, as if that were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"That's what Mr Holmes always calls us."

John pressed his lips together. He only spared the briefest of glances in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock felt unfairly accused; it was true, after all. Although he knew most people viewed his voicing of such opinions with a very critical eye.

"I don't care what anyone has told you," John said. "You are not useless."

"It doesn't matter anyway," a boy in the back row said. "Anything we can do, Blackwood can do ten times better."

"Psh, Blackwood shlackwood." John waved his hand as if fanning away an unpleasant odour. "This isn't some sort of contest. I don't know who's put that into your heads," he said, glaring at Sherlock. Which was actually quite unfair, as it was Lestrade who had talked about besting Blackwood at that ill-fated assembly. "And anyway," John went on, "Blackwood's not having a movie made out of their play, are they?"

A high-pitched cheer went up from the children. Sherlock returned John's glare, with interest.

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Sherlock let John take over the song rehearsal. Quite frankly, the children did seem to catch on much more quickly with his words and the looser beat, and Sherlock was more than happy to withdraw to the corner and do some reading.

It didn't bother him as much as it probably should, John bastardising his original composition. He'd put a fair amount of effort into it, and been pleased with the result. It actually bothered him more that John was probably right: the song was too highbrow, both for the target audience and for the performers. He'd thought he was writing it with them in mind - and at some unacknowledged yet not entirely unconscious level, for John's approval - but subconsiously, he realised after John's statement earlier about the Blackwood School, he'd been writing it to compete with Moriarty.

Sherlock more than half expected that John would suggest meeting up again, if only to discuss the changes to the song, but he went off to lunch with Stamford and Molly Hooper without a word to Sherlock, and at the end of the school day, said nothing more than a friendly good-bye before going on his way.

Sherlock was most definitely not disappointed. It seemed that he had the answer to the question of what would happen if he let things take their course: nothing at all. John must have gotten fed up with Sherlock's intrusive observations, odd obsessions, and abrupt about-faces. It was clear that he still felt some degree of attraction, if the way he'd watched Sherlock earlier while setting up and his reaction to hearing Sherlock play were any indication. But he had probably, like Sherlock earlier, decided that pursuing anything personal was a bad idea.

The next couple of days passed by in much the same way. John was friendly during school, chatting and perhaps even skirting the line to flirting - Sherlock wasn't certain about that, however; he had the shameful suspicion that was only wishful thinking on his part. In any case, he didn't extend any more invitations to Sherlock. Sherlock actually found his heart leaping into his throat when his mobile chimed one evening, only to discover that it wasn't John at all, but Lestrade, asking when it would be convenient to hold a meeting with the parents to discuss the filming. He deleted the message unanswered and threw the phone down on the table in disgust.

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Go to chapter 9