Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (9/23)

[swissmarg]

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Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 3,608
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 Nine - The Field Trip

"I've arranged a field trip this afternoon," John informed Sherlock when he entered the teachers' lounge on Thursday morning. John was looking particularly well: he was sporting a fresh haircut and a new jumper, obviously bought with the help of a woman. He'd also cut himself shaving, so he must have either been nervous or in a hurry, although not because he was running late from oversleeping. Possible distraction during his morning routine? It all added up to him having a girlfriend (a one-night stand wouldn't have helped him shop for a jumper) whom he'd spent the previous night with, but the underlying tension in his body spoke against that conclusion. That and the fact that John wasn't the type to play the field behind someone's back, and Sherlock was certain that the dinner, at least, had been a date. He comforted himself with that, as he found the idea of John having a girlfriend was not one he particularly wanted to dwell on.

"No, this afternoon we're working with the Cuisenaire rods," Sherlock answered curtly. He sat down to drink his coffee, deliberately choosing a chair that wasn't near any other seats.

John leaned back against the table next to him and crossed his arms. "It's all cleared with Greg and the hospital. We're taking the bus and going to visit the maternity unit."

Sherlock made a face. "Why in God's name would we do that?"

"Did you know that over half the class have never even been in the same room with a newborn baby?"

"I don't believe I have either, and there's a reason for that."

John's mouth twitched up in the start of a smile. "The central point of the Nativity is the awe and magic of that moment when everyone sees the baby for the first time. How are they supposed to give convincing performances if they've never experienced what that's like?"

"It's called pretending. It's what every child in every Nativity up and down the country does every year."

"Yes, well, we're going to go a bit method this year."

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Sherlock had no choice, really, but to go along with it. His resolution not to allow John to interfere with things not related to the play had long since fallen by the wayside. The most bothersome part of it was that they were actually getting ahead of schedule according to Sherlock's strictly regimented syllabus. It wasn't simply a matter of having someone available to work individually with the slower pupils. John's presence had also worked wonders for discipline and cooperation amongst the children. They genuinely liked John and wanted to please him.

Sherlock had never before seen the point of making oneself popular; all that mattered to him was material competence. He wasn't there to play with the children or befriend them; he was there to impart knowledge, even if it meant stuffing it into their little underdeveloped brains by force. If by shouting and making threats, he garnered little sympathy, he had always supposed that he more than made up for it by demanding excellence, unlike his softer colleagues, whom he had always viewed with undisguised disdain.

One more area in which John Watson was turning Sherlock's long-held convictions inside-out.

He pointedly, however, did not hold anyone's hand, help count the children at any point in the journey, nor did he slow his pace to accommodate the parade of small feet trailing after him. This field trip was John's idea; let him deal with the logistics.

As they approached the hospital and Sherlock saw which one it was, though, he faltered. John couldn't have known this was where Sherlock had been brought when he'd OD'd the second time, a week after his father died. Not that there was any connection between the two incidents. That had been the last straw that sent him to the rehab centre. Might Lestrade have known? Unlikely. He glanced behind him, where John was bringing up the rear of their - no, of John'slittle troop, chanting a marching song and snapping his fingers at Jade and Bob, the perennial stragglers, in a playful yet firm manner. He didn't have any idea that this place held bad memories for Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't realise he was still hanging back until all of the children were already inside and John paused at the automatic door.

"Coming?" John asked, giving him a bemused look.

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake. He was being ridiculous. All of that was over and done with. It was a vagary of the human mind to replay emotions when returning with the site of their genesis. This, here, today, had nothing to do with what had happened back then.

"Yes, fine. Let's get this over with." He pushed past John and went to the reception desk, where a hospital volunteer (divorced, no children, Pilates, pair of Siamese cats, lost someone close to her to cancer) was on hand to greet them. She gravitated immediately to John, and Sherlock drifted to the periphery of the group and tuned out the woman's overly effusive spiel.

The last time he'd been here, he honestly hadn't cared whether he lived or died. He hadn't purposely overdosed, but the whole business of living - getting up, washing, eating, finding some way to occupy his time, breathing - had become so utterly tedious that any escape, any alternative, had been preferable. He didn't agree with the official diagnosis they'd given him of depression. Nor had he ever been suicidal. He'd simply been bored out of his skull. That was why he'd refused the medication they'd tried to foist on him afterwards. He hadn't needed more drugs, especially not ones designed to even out his mood. He'd needed something to engage him.

The violin had helped, a bit, once the tremors had gone away. Then it had been playing head games with the doctors and therapists. That had actually been a nice challenge, seeing how many diagnoses he could accumulate. That was where he'd started to observe people, too, at the facility Mycroft had arranged for him to go to once his condition was deemed stable. Well, he'd always observed people. But it had been there, in the culture of introspection and secret-divulging, that he'd honed his skills.

He'd quickly learned how to tell who had stashes of illicit substances, which staff members were carrying on affairs, and how to use that information to get things he wanted. A cleaner from the Ukraine who was in the country illegally yielded a mobile phone. A psychiatrist who was using his office computer to view porn got him out of biweekly group therapy sessions. And deducing the identity of the patient who'd orchestrated the break-in to the dispensary earned him the privilege of a room to himself. So, all in all, the time hadn't been entirely wasted.

And since then, he'd found things to do, experiments or little games or self-appointed training missions that amused him. This thing with John was just another one. He didn't really care how it turned out, he told himself. It didn't matter that John had cooled toward him, even if he was obviously still attracted to Sherlock. It wouldn't affect his life one way or the other if he never saw John after the play. The meetings and the talks and the laughter and the meals and the arguments - the touches and the looks and the liquid-electric feelings - none of that changed anything, none of that changed him. Even if it was pleasant and he didn't mind it, wouldn't mind doing any of it again, not even the arguments; especially not the arguments, because Sherlock actually found himself listening to what John said, even when he was wrong, even when he was being stupid and obvious and not understanding, because John was listening too, actually listening to what Sherlock was saying, not judging him or pitying him. He was trying, and sometimes he was even right. And sometimes Sherlock knew that this almost wasn't a game any more, but he had to keep telling himself it was, because otherwise it would mean something when he lost.

He was pretty sure he'd already lost. John hadn't looked at him once while the woman was talking. Sherlock knew this because he hadn't taken his eyes off of him once. John was listening silently with his arms folded. And despite the fact that he was keeping his eyes on her face, he was barely moving his head: ergo, he was not interested in her. Focusing on John, Sherlock found that the memories of his earlier hospital stay lost their sharp edge. They were thin, gray, two-dimensional; John was a beacon of warm colours and compact reassurance. He might have his own secret troubles - he still wasn't sleeping well and was wary of his body betraying him - but he had the opposite effect on Sherlock, making troublesome things fade in importance or relevance.

After the pupils had been instructed in how to behave so as to cause as minimal a disruption as possible for the patients and staff, they took the lift up to the maternity unit. There, the volunteer handed them off to one of the duty nurses, and within minutes, John had somehow convinced a new mother of twins to let the class crowd around their plastic bassinets. Sherlock was careful to keep his distance. Although he was intrigued by the idea of twins, he didn't want anyone to think he was here under anything other than duress. That, and the mother had already been eyeing him nervously.

Instead, Sherlock went to stand by the observation window to the nursery. On the other side of the glass were four bassinets occupied by newborns, impossibly small. Sherlock imagined their tiny hearts pumping blood into capillaries thinner than a human hair, the incomplete connections in their brains grasping toward each other beneath the soft bones of their skulls. It was incredible that their bodies could even sustain life. Three of them were sleeping, but one wrapped in a purple blanket was squalling so hard it was audible through the glass. Sherlock wondered how the rest of them could sleep through it.

"Cute, aren't they?" John asked as he slipped into place beside Sherlock, his hands in his trouser pockets.

Sherlock thought he should probably be irritated at the sharp burst of pleasure that spiked in his chest at the knowledge that John had left the children to come and talk to him. It was silly, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

As to John's comment, Sherlock pulled a face. "How could anyone possibly be induced to wantto produce such a thing?"

John smiled. "I used to want one. Theoretically, I mean. I've never been in a position where it was a real possibility. And now..." He shrugged.

"What do you mean, 'and now'?" Sherlock asked. "You'd make an excellent father," he said automatically, surprised to find that, on reflection, he actually believed it.

John gave him a bemused look. "Thanks." He checked over his shoulder to make sure the class was still occupied. The mother had picked one of the twins up and was letting the children take turns touching its hands. "I'm nearly forty, not really in a position to support a family. Not to mention the, er..." He scratched the back of his neck, unconsciously revealing his discomfort with the topic. "- distinct lack of a woman in my life."

"There are other options."

"Yeah, I suppose. If I really wanted a child, but I don't. I mean, if I did have a partner" - Sherlock didn't fail to notice the gender-neutral reference - "and all the stars were aligned, I think I'd be happy about it, but I don't miss not having one, and I don't think I'll regret never having procreated in ten or twenty years. Probably be relieved, actually, not to have to deal with a teenager when I'm past the half-century mark. Never mind that though." He waved a hand in front of him as if to shoo the topic away. "How've you been?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Just haven't seen much of you this week."

Sherlock frowned down at him. "We spend six hours together in the same room every day."

John was watching a nurse adjust a soft, knitted hat that had slipped down over the face of a baby with pale brown skin. "You know what I mean." His lips twitched down and he looked away. "Sorry. I wasn't going to- Sorry," he muttered.

Sherlock turned toward John to look at him more closely. He was obviously displeased with himself, with what he'd said. Had he said something embarrassing or insulting, or - No, it was the fact that he'd touched on the topic at all. And suddenly, all in a rush, John's behaviour that week became clear. He had made his own resolution and was finding it difficult to stick to. On Friday, at the end of their lunchtime conversation, he'd said something about being like a soldier trying to keep up with a bomb technician. Sherlock had taken it to mean that he was caught up in the excitement of the sparks between them, feeling swept along by the entire situation; he'd supposed that John had reconsidered over the weekend and decided the excitement wasn't worth having to put up with Sherlock.

But now it appeared that he had meant something else, or at least something additional. John had been trying to say that he was going to follow Sherlock's lead, since Sherlock seemed to be uncomfortable with the direction things were going in, or the speed at which they were going. That was the reason behind the lack of invitations and texts, the quick good-byes at the end of the school day rather than lingering in the classroom to chat. John was still hoping for something, but it would have to be up to Sherlock to move things forward.

"Ah," Sherlock said, as the import sank in. John was making it easy for him. He could let things lie as they were. John could remain nothing more than a colleague - the only one Sherlock had ever worked in anything like harmony with, to be sure, but still just a colleague. Or Sherlock could pick up the game - and maybe something much more. Which meant that, if he wanted to see where things might lead, he was going to have to take the initiative. A completely unnecessary twinge of nerves lodged itself in his stomach. He already knew that he was going to do it. He couldn't back down from a challenge like this.

An invitation. He would need to propose an activity for them to engage in together. Had it been this difficult for John to ask him to share a meal? He made it look so casual, like an incidental thought. What should it be? Dinner? Drinks? John had said something about watching a movie. At his house? That would feel like moving too fast again.

And then the perfect opportunity occurred to him. There would be no danger of anyone shoving candles and flowers at them, they wouldn't have to converse if things went poorly, and he was going to have to go anyway; having John there might make it vaguely interesting. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes firmly on the purple-blanketed baby - who had quieted and was now sucking furiously on a dummy - as he spoke.

"Lestrade has informed me that I'm to attend a reception being hosted by the mayor's office next week in honour of our joint project with Whitehall. Further, that you should accompany me."

John blinked at Sherlock in surprise. "Sorry, the mayor's office has invited me to a reception?"

Sherlock clenched his fist. He had to remind himself that John wanted this, too. He was going to say yes. "No, a representative from the school has been invited, and I am the sacrificial lamb. You would be, for want of a better term, my plus-one."

"Your plus-one," John repeated. "So, like, your date." He was working to keep his amusement - or was it happiness? - in check.

Sherlock squirmed, wishing he had something in his hands to fiddle with. If he was going to be teased, he really would call it off. "No, like the person who will field all the unavoidable questions and lie through their teeth to keep this farce going until it can blow up even more spectacularly in our faces than it would if we simply ended it now."

John grinned. "All right. Just as long as it's clear, then, yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'd be happy to accompany you. Very happy." He snuck a glance at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, then looked at the babies again, beaming.

Sherlock couldn't help a rather large smile expanding across his face as well.

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Later, on his evening walk with Gladstone, Sherlock began to regret that he'd asked John to attend the reception with him. Not because he didn't want to him there, but because it was a whole six days away, and he wanted to see him before then, outside of school. He fingered his phone in his pocket, playing with the idea of texting John. He didn't know what to say, but it seemed altogether too long until he'd see him in the morning.

His hand was cupping the phone in his pocket when he felt the buzz of an incoming text against his fingertips.

Text from John Watson

what to wear to mayors reception

Sherlock grinned. Not even the fact that John still hadn't found the shift key could dampen his delight at the fact that John was feeling the same thing he was. It also confirmed that he had been correct in his assessment that John had been holding back to give Sherlock the chance to set the pace. Now that he'd made the opening move, John was able to respond in kind. Sherlock entered his reply without breaking stride:

Clothes would be preferable. -SH

He hit 'send' a fraction of a second before realising how suggestive that might sound. It was only another fraction of a second until his brain helpfully provided a visual proposal of John not following the advice. Of course, it was nearly a complete flight of fancy aside from the general outline and supposition of standard anatomical completeness, but Sherlock nearly stepped off the kerb into moving traffic. Only Gladstone stopping short held him back.

While they waited for the signal to change, Sherlock snuck past his mind palace's incinerator and stashed the unbidden image in a hermetically sealed suspension capsule down in the sub-basement. Perhaps he would have occasion to make a comparison at some point to the original, or at least parts thereof. Other residents of the sub-basement, phantoms of people he'd never seen but whose appearances he had posited, included radio hosts, authors, and the occasional relative or partner of an acquaintance: he'd been pleased to be proven largely correct on Lestrade's wife when she'd come to pick him up from school one afternoon; he'd been completely off base with Stamford's then-fiancée, Mary, who - far from being an eleven-and-a-half stone blonde with tinted contacts - was a compact, understated woman with Northeast Indian roots.

His phone, still in his hand, buzzed again.

Text from John Watson

haha no really black tie?

Sherlock sighed at the lack of capitalisation and punctuation, but he was relieved that John had chosen not to drag the conversation down to the level of crass innuendo.

Ask Lestrade. He's the one who foisted this on us. -SH

Text from John Watson

ok

Sherlock was about to stash his phone back in his pocket when it buzzed again.

Text from John Watson

goodnight sherlock

The swooping sensation in his stomach surely indicated that it was time to turn toward home for dinner. Sherlock smiled.

Good night John. -SH

As he slipped his phone into the outer pocket of his coat, his fingers brushed against a paper. He pulled it out and found it was the flyer for the Blackwood School's Christmas bazaar and musical showcase, which was scheduled for the following evening. He was about to toss it into the next bin, but something stayed his hand. He knew he shouldn't care, but he couldn't help being curious about what Moriarty was up to. The rivalry between them ran deep. Before they'd both been dismissed from the Royal College of Music, they'd been scheduled to go head to head in the conservatory's year-end competition. Sherlock continued to feel a deep dissatisfaction at the unsettled score between them. It was like playing a concerto and stopping four bars before the end.

It was true that there was no official contest between Baker Street and Blackwood for the best Nativity, no prizes awarded, no panel of judges, but when Moriarty's production had been lauded in the press five years earlier and Sherlock's panned, it had felt like playing the next bar of the concerto, only to find that his part was in a completely different key, and the entire orchestra had screeched to a halt to stare at him.

Intellectually, he knew that whatever Moriarty and the Blackwood School did, had nothing to do with him. At a gut level, though, he needed this. He needed to show that whatever Moriarty could do, he could do at least as well. And in order to do that, he needed to know what Moriarty was doing.

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