Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (10/23)

[swissmarg]

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Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 2,581 words
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 Ten - The Christmas Bazaar

The Blackwood School was a Victorian monstrosity of pink stone, a Romanesque throwback with arches and towers and leaded windows. It screamed old-school posh, and was exactly the kind of place Sherlock had grown up hating for all that it represented.

It figured that Moriarty would have chosen to base himself here. He'd suffered dearly under the prejudice that came with having his name, accent, and upbringing. The upper echelons of musical society were closed to someone like him, unless he had the kind of talent that only came along once a century, and Moriarty, for all that he was an accomplished musician, didn't.

Sherlock supposed, though, that at a school like Blackwood, Moriarty would have plenty of opportunity to rub elbows with patrons of the arts, flatter them by promoting their no doubt talentless offspring, and set up favours to be called in at a later date. He must have quite the network set up for himself by now. Sherlock imaged that, like himself, Moriarty would be leaving his teaching position soon. It was as if their lives were being kept in lock-step by an invisible arm. Except that Sherlock's next stage was looking more and more as if it were going to be a big step down, and Moriarty's no doubt several rungs up.

Sherlock slipped in amongst the crowd of parents and children - most in the maroon-and-gold school uniform - milling around the stalls that had been set up on the floor of the auditorium. Hand-dipped candles, etched glass baubles, straw angels, hand-knitted mufflers and tie-dyed scarves attested to the manual talents and creativity of the student body. Then there were more professionally produced wares, such as carved wooden crêches and fair-trade woollen ponchos and tasseled hats. And finally, the foodstuffs, ranging from homemade biscuits and fruitcakes to freeze-dried apples, candied ginger, and gourmet chocolates.

Sherlock paused in front of a stall selling a selection of aromatic teas and exotic coffees, considering whether to purchase a bag for John - if he made it a Christmas present, it wouldn't be too naff - before he caught himself. He never bought Christmas presents. Aside from those for his mother and Mycroft, but they were expected on pain of death or, worse, emotional blackmail, and were always the same: a bottle of perfume for Mummy and a tie for Mycroft, which he always exchanged.

But it was less than a month to Christmas, and if, by some miracle, he and John were still on speaking terms by then, it would probably be appropriate for him to give John a present. He didn't normally care about being appropriate; he'd never given Lestrade anything, even though he was on the head teacher's gift list every year. But even if they decided not to be anything more than friends, Sherlock found to his surprise that he actually wanted to give John something. He wanted to make John smile, wanted to let him know that he valued his companionship, without the tedious business of forming words and sentences about it. He would have to give it more thought, though, at another time. For one thing, it wouldn't do at all to buy a Christmas present for John on Moriarty's territory.

It was nearly seven o'clock, time for the showcase to begin. Sherlock moved toward the stage, keeping to the edge of the room. He didn't doubt that Moriarty had long since spotted him, but he wasn't planning on staying for the entire performance. He would need to leave before the end if he wanted to avoid his rival cornering him afterwards to gloat.

At the stroke of seven, the red curtains on the stage parted just enough to allow Moriarty, dressed to the nines in a new gray suit (Westwood), to pass through. The crowd surged forward, children shuffling between the adults to get a better view. Moriarty stood in humble posture with his hands clasped in front of him, a self-deprecating smile pasted onto his face. The clamour of conversation lessened to a buzz, and finally to nothing at all. He had obviously trained them well. Finally, when the silence had been stretched to its outer limit, Moriarty threw his arms out and began speaking.

"Hello, everybody! I'd like to welcome you to our annual Christmas bazaar at the Blackwood School. As you know, Christmas is a time for giving, a time for charity and valuing those people less fortunate than ourselves. So in that spirit, I'd like to recognise my very good friend from the Baker Street School, who will be directing their own quaint little version of the Nativity and is here to pick up some tips on just how the job is done. Mr Sherlock Holmes!" He made a grand gesture in Sherlock's direction, his expression all teeth and sharp eyes.

Sherlock forced himself not to grit his teeth as the entire audience turned to look at him. Moriarty definitely knew how to push his buttons, but he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He inclined his head, then leaned back nonchalantly against the wall and indicated with a wave of his hand that Moriarty was welcome to get on with whatever it was he had to show for himself.

And he did, as it turned out, rather have something to show. The children's voices were crystal clear, their attention never wavering from the conductor. The music consisted of well-known favourites, but the arrangments were fresh and modern, showcasing both individual voices and the harmonious melding of the group. And the dancers were graceful and sure-footed. Sherlock had just decided he'd seen enough when he heard a voice beside him.

"They're very good."

Startled, Sherlock turned to see John smiling ruefully up at him. His heart jolted at the sight. He was briefly seized by the irrational notion that Moriarty had invited John as well. He didn't like that idea one bit, as it would mean that John and Moriarty had met privately at some point during the past week. But Moriarty had no idea who John was. He hadn't seen them together at the tree lot, and even if he had found out that John was helping with the play, as someone who could neither be a threat nor an asset to Moriarty, John was far beneath Moriarty's notice.

"Hello," John said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the show.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed.

"Don't worry, I didn't follow you. I'm just as surprised to see you. Well, maybe not just as. I could have figured you'd be here." He shrugged, watching the performers giving a perfectly timed rendition of 'Silver Bells', in four-part harmony. "I wanted to see who this Moriarty was. God, they're really good."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

John wrenched his eyes away from the stage to focus on Sherlock. "What, why are they good?"

Honestly, it was as if they weren't speaking the same language, Sherlock thought, at the same time as he clamped down on his traitorous body's reactions to being near John. "Why did you want to see Moriarty?"

"Oh, right. Well, seeing as he's at the root of the entire situation with the play, and you're not much for talking about things, I thought I'd try and piece it together for myself."

"But why? What possible good would come of you coming here? It's not as if anything will change. What was said was said, and at this point, anything that draws Moriarty's attention to you, or me, or the school, or the play, will only make it worse."

"Good thing you showed up, then, so he could introduce you to the entire student body and their parents," John retorted dryly.

Sherlock scowled. "I didn't anticipate that."

John snorted. "Doesn't look like Mr Moriarty got that memo."

Applause sounded around them, and up on the stage, Moriarty was bowing and introducing the last number.

"He is a good-looking bloke, though," John said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," John said, too casually. "I only mean, I can see the fascination."

Sherlock scowled intently up at the stage and didn't say anything. This was one of the reasons he'd always stayed out of personal entanglements. He had little interest in offering assurances to jealous lovers, or bolstering someone's ego with trite phrases and meaningless gifts. Still less in neglecting his own interests in order to waste time on inane, so-called 'bonding'. Either one wanted to be with someone, or one didn't. If jealousy arose, obviously the relationship was no longer delivering what one or the other party needed or wanted, and it was time to end it.

Aside from that, the whole idea of jealousy made him uncomfortable. There were those who would say (and had said) that he was jealous of Mycroft; of his position in their family, of the easy and lavish affection he received from their mother, and had received from their father. Of his accomplisments, his solid and gainful employment, the reach and depth of his influence. Of course that was all ridiculous. He didn't want any of what Mycroft had. In fact, he specifically rejected and repudiated each and every one of the above items.

Both Sherlock and John remained silent during the final song, a rendition of 'O Holy Night' that left many of the parents around them reaching into purses and pockets for tissues. Sherlock kept his arms tightly folded across his chest and stewed. The idea that he could have anything more than a professional interest in Moriarty was ludicrous. Surely anyone could see that they despised one another. Although, to be absolutely fair, John had only heard the very tail end of their earlier interaction, when Moriarty had said he'd call Sherlock. He supposed it might have looked like something more intimate. But he certainly wasn't about to start explaining things and justifying himself to John. Even if something were going on between him and Moriarty, or anyone else, that would have absolutely nothing to do with what went on between him and John. If they were actually involved in a physical relationship, the question might possibly be justified, but only from the health and hygiene angle. If it ever came down to it, he'd have to say he was in favour of monogamy, if only for the convenience of not having to constantly get oneself tested for various diseases.

Before he realised what had happened, the programme was over, and the curtain fell shut. Sherlock was just trying to deduce whether John was likely to bring up Moriarty again if they went somewhere for coffee - chances were high - when Moriarty himself suddenly appeared in front of him. Sherlock didn't know whether he was more irritated at John for distracting him from his plan to leave before the end, or at himself for allowing the distraction.

"Sherlock!" Moriarty gushed. "I'm so pleased you stayed. I was afraid you'd leave after the first song, when you realised there's no way you can ever top us. Oh, or was that naughty of me to say in front of your ... friend?" He turned his shark's teeth on John. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"John, this is Jim Moriarty. Dr John Watson."

"Ooh, a doctor," Moriarty all but squealed. "Charmed. So, the two of you are..." Moriarty raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"No," Sherlock said bluntly. Because they weren't, not in any measurable way. "John is a temporary volunteer at the school."

"I'm helping with the Nativity," John said, reaching over to shake Moriarty's hand.

"Of course you are. After what he came up with last time, well. Can I be frank?" He leaned in and confided to John in a stage whisper, "I was shocked they gave it to him again."

John gave him a tight smile. "Really. From what I've seen, it's going to be spectacular."

"John..." Sherlock tried to warn him off.

John ignored him and continued speaking to Moriarty. "Yes. In fact, he's written an entire original score."

Moriarty turned to Sherlock with a look of wide-eyed delight. "Why Sherlock, how marvelous! I must admit, I didn't expect that. I like it. You must be trying to impress someone."

It was closer to the truth than Sherlock felt comfortable with, but all he said was, "Just bored."

Moriarty chuckled. "Yes, I imagine you are. You should really drop by sometime. I have plans, you see. I might be able to find something for you."

"I have my own plans."

"Oh yes, right, I forgot. That movie thing. How's that working out for you? Lots of buzz going round, but, funny, no one seems to know anything."

"You've obviously been talking to the wrong people then."

"Mea culpa, in that case, and I'm very much looking forward to seeing what you come up with. You and Doctor Watson." He inclined his head toward John with a greasy smile.

A girl in Blackwood uniform appeared next to Moriarty.

"What is it?" he asked testily.

"The photographer says he's all ready, sir," she said, keeping her eyes on his shoes.

Moriarty shrugged at Sherlock apologetically. "The press. What can you do? Just a featurette for the weekend arts section. Don't feel like you have to leave, though. Stick around, we can chat some more later. Dr Watson," he said with the most consummately fake sincerity Sherlock had ever seen aside from his own, "it was an absolute pleasure." Then he withdrew, the student trailing nervously after him.

John rounded on Sherlock. "That's who you were trying to impress? That?" He pointed an accusatory finger in the direction Moriarty had gone.

"It's not what you think," Sherlock said, glaring at the idea that he might be interested in Moriarty as anything other than a rival. "I simply couldn't let him win."

"Win? Win what? This isn't a contest, Sherlock. This is supposed to be something nice, something fun for the kids. This isn't about you and him. Or maybe it is. Maybe I've been working under a false presumption all along."

"It appears you have," Sherlock said coldly.

"No," John ordered, now pointing his finger at Sherlock. "No, don't you do that. You and your mind games. I may not be clever like you, I may not be able to see the things that you see, but I see something in you. I know I do. Maybe there is more to this whole thing, maybe something happened between you and this Moriarty in the past, but whatever that was, it doesn't change the fact that at least part of you cares about this project for its own sake. You may not want to admit it, but you like those kids and want them to succeed. Some of them, anyway," he qualified.

Sherlock ignored everything he was saying about Moriarty and Sherlock's motivations because, really, it was all too tedious by this point. But it was what was behind John's little speech that rankled, and Sherlock couldn't let that go. "Oh yes, you obviously know me so well. Better than I know myself, is that it? We've known each other for barely two weeks, and you're suddenly the expert on my psyche?" he all but snarled.

John held up his hands in surrender. "No, clearly I don't know anything. This whole thing is-" He shook his head. "Sorry. I'm sorry, all right? I'll see you on Monday." He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

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