Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (11/23)

[swissmarg]

banner by frodosweetstuff

Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: ruth0007
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 4,627 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 Eleven - The Third Date

Sherlock maintained his rightous indignation at John's presumption throughout the rest of the evening and well into Saturday. On Saturday afternoon, when he saw someone in the park who resembled John from a distance, his resolve wavered. Not that he changed his mind about the basic point: John had no right judging how Sherlock conducted his business, or why, or with whom. But, strangely, Sherlock found that didn't entirely prevent him from wanting to conduct his business with John. It was an unfamiliar situation: he was angry at John for having tried to get inside his head - no, if he was honest, for being inside his head - but he still liked him. More than that. He still thought John was worthy of his time.

The problem was, John might not think that of Sherlock any more. Sherlock was aware that he'd driven John away several times now. One of these times would be the last. This wasn't supposed to be an experiment in how much abuse John could take. It was supposed to show Sherlock whether he wanted to get close to another person, whether the overall positives outweighed the negatives. Clearly, he thought they still did, because he had his phone out and was composing a text.

Walking with Gladstone. Speedy's in an hour? -SH

He sent it before he could second-guess himself. He honestly wasn't sure how John would react this time. For all John's talk of letting Sherlock take the lead, he might have gotten fed up with Sherlock's changeability. Sherlock was fed up with it himself. The constant back and forth was draining, both mentally and emotionally. He was fairly certain he hadn't expended this much energy on a problem since he'd had to decide what to do with himself when he got out of rehab.

Several minutes later, John hadn't responded yet. Sherlock turned Gladstone around to head home. He might not have seen the text, of course. He could be someplace loud and not have heard the message alert. Or he might be sleeping. He probably catnapped during the day to make up for his disturbed nocturnal sleep patterns. Or - the highest probability, given the speed with which he had replied to previous text messages - he could have decided not to subject himself to Sherlock's temper again.

A good ten minutes later, Sherlock had begun gnashing his teeth at himself when his phone buzzed.

Text from John Watson

ok see u there

Sherlock was so pleased he didn't even mind the twinge of excitement in his belly. Although he did grumble at the shorthand. He changed course at the next intersection and picked up his pace. He had no thought of what he would say, or what they would do. He was simply - and disconcertingly - happy that John was still willing to meet him.

When he got to the cafe, John was already there with a cup in front of him. He was freshly shaven, so he'd been at home when he'd received Sherlock's text. He'd taken a cab, though, so he hadn't left immediately. In fact, he must have taken the extra time - and calculated in the extra expense - to appear clean and looking well. Sherlock sat down across the table from him, trying not to smile too broadly.

"Not going to have anything?" John asked.

"Hm? Oh - no, I don't... Not thirsty," Sherlock blathered, then wished he did have something, if only to occupy his hands. He rubbed them together.

"Well here, at least have some of mine to warm you up. You look chilled through." John slid his drink toward Sherlock.

Startled, Sherlock picked up the cup. The heat seeping through the stiff paper went directly to his heart. John, being as generous and thoughtful as ever - yet there was something reserved about him today, a guardedness to the way he was holding himself with his shoulders curved slightly inward and his hands in his lap. Sherlock lifted the edge of the plastic lid and took a sip, not even checking what the contents were. He grimaced involuntarily at the first taste.

"God, no sugar?" He held the cup away from himself and eyed it with disgust. Not only that, it was tea when he'd been expecting coffee.

John chuckled and picked up a packet from the dispenser on the table. "How many?"

"Two." Sherlock watched as John doctored the tea, took a sip to taste, and handed it back, making a face himself.

"How can you stand it like that? It'd rot my teeth."

Sherlock shrugged and drank the tea. For some reason, it tasted especially good now, its warmth spreading through his chest and settling comfortably in his stomach.

"Where's Gladstone?" John asked.

Sherlock gestured toward the door. "Had to leave him outside. Most places don't allow dogs."

"Oh yeah, of course. Better not stay too long then. So, what did you want to see me for?" John leaned his elbows on the table.

Sherlock hadn't actually come up with an excuse for having asked John to meet him. He'd simply wanted to see him, but he could hardly say that. He certainly wasn't going to bring up Moriarty or filming the play. But, it occurred to him, there was something …

"I was..." Sherlock began, trying to think of a way of putting it so that John would feel needed without making it sound as if Sherlock actually needed any help. "Well, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea if you took a look at the rest of the songs. For the play. One or the other might do with some tweaking."

John brightened visibly. "Oh, right! Yes, I'd be happy to. Do you have them here?"

Of course Sherlock didn't have any of the music with him. It was all back at his house. It seemed a waste of time to go there first, then to the school. There was no reason they couldn't look over the music at his house together. He could sit at the desk, and John could sit on the couch-- No, they both had to be able to see the score. John could sit at the desk, and Sherlock could stand behind him. Or they could both sit on the couch--

John was still waiting for a response from Sherlock. He forced himself to tear his mind away from the image of him and John together on the couch, their elbows touching as they passed the sheets back and forth...

"Actually, I have everything at my house," Sherlock said. "If you wouldn't mind, we could-"

"Oh, no, absolutely," John agreed before Sherlock had even finished his sentence. He pushed his chair back so fast the legs skidded on the floor, then hesitated. "Did you want to finish your tea first?"

"No, quite all right," Sherlock said, ducking his head to hide his smile at John's eagerness. "It's yours anyway."

Sherlock straightened his face out and held the cup out to John, who leaned over to tip it toward himself for a quick sip while still letting Sherlock hold it.

"You can have the rest," John said as he stood and zipped up his jacket.

Sherlock waited until John had his back to him, heading for the door, then turned the cup and put the spot John had drunk from against his lips. He ran his tongue over the crimp of the rim. It was impossible to taste anything other than the sugary residue of the tea. John turned to him, holding the door open. Sherlock quickly downed the rest of the tea and stuffed the cup surreptitiously into one of the generous outer pockets of his coat.

%%%%%%

As they turned down Sherlock's street, he was beset by a sudden bout of nerves. It occurred to him that he'd never actually had anyone over for a social call. He ran through a mental inventory of what was lying about, and whether John might be frightened, disgusted, or alarmed by any of it. He probably should have cleaned the loo... Well, there was nothing he could do now. This might turn out to be a short visit.

"This is quite nice," John said, though, as they walked in, despite the piles of books and papers on the chairs and the odd assortment of bric-a-brac crowding most other surfaces. "Live alone, do you?"

"Yes." Sherlock frowned. He'd thought that was obvious. He unclasped Gladstone's lead, then draped his coat over a chair. "Just, anywhere," he said to John, who was looking around fruitlessly for a place to hang his own jacket. "Make yourself at home, I'll be right there." He headed to the kitchen first to make sure Gladstone had fresh water in his bowl, then went to retrieve the sheet music.

When he returned to the living room, John was inspecting the skull on the mantelpiece.

"That's real," he said in a tone of bemusement.

"Mm, old friend," Sherlock said, fiddling with his music stand.

"Oh, right..." John pointed at the animal skull hanging on the wall between the windows. "And that's Gladstone's mate then?"

Sherlock chuckled. He shouldn't have worried about John finding his living quarters odd. After all, John had never once suggested that anything about Sherlock was odd. In fact, he seemed to be fascinated by all those things that others found so off-putting.

"What is it, a bull?" John asked.

"Bison, actually."

"And the headphones?"

"He has to have something to amuse him all day."

That got a full-bodied laugh. Sherlock met his eyes and couldn't help responding in kind. So this, this was what it was like to have a friend, someone who understood you and accepted you and even liked you, despite everything. Or maybe because of it? It was... nice.

John sat down at the desk while Sherlock set up his music stand so they could see each other. Sherlock didn't have a keyboard, but they found an app for Sherlock's touchscreen tablet so John could at least play a little.

It didn't take much to turn the plainsong solo Sherlock had written for the Annunciation into a rollicking gospel song that would involve all the children. Simply shifting the star of Bethlehem song from a minor into a major key and pepping up beat turned it into a foot-tapper. They had the most trouble re-working the song of the three wise men: Sherlock had no qualms arguing that the lyrics John suggested were the worst kind of teenage drivel and hyperbole. He felt he'd compromised more than enough, and was not about to allow his name to be attached to something that said, 'She's blinding me with love, she's my saviour from above'.

"How is that even possible?" Sherlock demanded, tapping his bow on the paper where John was scribbling his lyrics. "You can't actually blind someone with love."

"It's metaphorical," John said. He was at the point where he was gritting his teeth. "It refers to the light of the star standing for God's love."

"Oh, portents and shofarim are beyond year threes, but they have no problem with religious metaphor."

John tossed his pen down and leaned back to scrub both hands over his face. "You know what? I'm hungry." He dropped his hands to the table and looked up at Sherlock. "Are you hungry?"

"No, and it's barely-" Sherlock caught sight of his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. He really wasn't hungry, though. Getting wrapped up in a project tended to suppress his appetite. But he could see the strain and weariness on John's face and in his shoulders. A break would probably do him good. And Sherlock should give Gladstone his dinner, anyway.

He glanced over at the dog, who was lying on the sofa with his head on his paws, watching them with patient, liquid eyes. He perked up his ears and cracked his mouth open at the sign of attention from his master.

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, albeit grumpily. "Chinese all right?" It was closest.

"Yeah, cheers," John said with a grateful sigh. He stretched, causing his back to pop with an audible click. "Mind if I use the loo?" he asked as Sherlock pulled up the number for Hei Fung on his mobile.

Sherlock grunted an affirmative, his attention mostly on the order he was texting. After he hit 'send', he went into the kitchen with Gladstone tapping happily across the wooden floor behind him. Sherlock measured out Gladstone's kibble, and was already reaching for the wine glasses when he realised what was going on. He and John were having dinner together. Alone. At his house. With wine, apparently. He hesitated. This would be their … well, technically, their third date. He knew what common wisdom said about the third date. Despite the fact that they hadn't so much as kissed yet. Would it be less of an invitation for sexual activity if he offered beer? Not that he kept any in the house, but he could easily add it to the order. Or what would green tea mean?

Sherlock scowled in annoyance, both at society at large for coming up with stupid rules, and at himself for feeling any sort of inclination to comply. He felt like having a glass of wine with his dumplings, no sex afterwards, and that was that. He took a bottle out of the cupboard and popped it into the freezer, being careful not to disturb the ice tray with the cow eyeballs. By the time the order arrived, the rosé would be at the right temperature.

John appeared in the doorway to the kitchen a couple of minutes later. He looked … somewhere between bemused and cautious.

"So," he said, affecting a casual tone, "what'd you do with the body?" He was leaning against the door jamb and had both hands in his pockets. Sherlock wasn't reading any anxiety or fear, but there was a definite sense of nervousness, of anticipation.

Sherlock frowned. "What body?"

"The..." John jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the loo. All the-" He made a vague, sweeping gesture.

"Oh!" Sherlock said as the pieces fell into place. "You mean the-"

"-the blood stains, yes." John nodded emphatically. "Not that-" He held up both hands as if to absolve himself of any responsibility. "I mean, if you did, I'm sure you had your reasons." He was watching Sherlock carefully now, his breaths coming slightly fast and shallow.

Sherlock felt a frisson of parallel excitement. John thought that he had killed someone. Possibly. Wasn't sure yet. But he wasn't panicking. Hadn't left. He was … curious.

Sherlock moved around the kitchen island, taking slow steps toward John, made sure to keep his hands visible and maintained eye contact.

"John. What are you going to do?"

"What? Nothing, I..." He licked his lips, buying time, not moving but not taking his eyes off Sherlock for a second.

"Let's examine the evidence, then, shall we?" Sherlock suggested. "Extensive blood spattering in the bathtub, up the tiles. Any on the floor?" He could virtually see John searching his memory of the bathroom, finding the evidence he was looking for.

"No." John shook his head. "I looked down to make sure I wasn't stepping in any blood as soon as I saw the tub."

"Any in the sink? On the mirror? Anywhere else?"

John shook his head again, his confidence increasing. "No, just the bath."

"Then either I was very lucky, very tidy, or cleaned everything but the bath afterward."

A smile was now playing around John's mouth. "I can't say anything about how lucky you are, but you certainly aren't tidy, and judging by the state of the fixtures and the floor, that bathroom hasn't seen the business end of a mop in months. Anyway, it wouldn't make sense for you to clean up everything else but leave the tub in that state."

"Maybe I was interrupted," Sherlock suggested.

"By Gladstone wanting a walk?" John said sceptically.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I have invited you over, knowing the blood was still there?"

"I could be..." John shifted slightly to take his weight off the wall. "Maybe it's like a game for you. Taunting me with what you're capable of. What you could do to me." He took half a step closer to Sherlock, close enough that he had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. By way of flickering up over Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's heart was racing now. John was all but challenging him to... what, to kill him? Or to kiss him? "We still haven't come to what you think I did with the body," Sherlock said, pleased that his voice came out so smooth. "But go on. What else?" He leaned against the inside of the door frame, mirroring John's earlier pose.

John's face became a study in concentration as he warmed up to the game. And that was ten times more interesting and titillating than any amount of innuendo or standard flirtation he might have engaged in.

"Um... The victim was standing," John deduced - he actually deduced, the wonderful, lovely man! "Blood spatters high up on the tiles. So, conscious." His eyes searched Sherlock's for confirmation.

"Well reasoned," Sherlock conceded, "but were there any hand prints? Foot prints? Smearing?"

"I honestly didn't look that closely. Off hand, I'd say no."

"So they just stood there and let me … what? Stab them? Shoot them?" He wondered whether John would let him do things to him … Not violent things, obviously. Physically pleasurable things. Sexual things. He'd never let his mind wander in that direction at all. He'd been too busy convincing himself not to give in, not to want such things. Not even to want a friend.

Would John just stand there and let him explore, try things out? Would he be satisfied to give Sherlock the lead in that, too? Maybe at first, but Sherlock rather thought John wasn't the type who would stand someone else telling him what to do for long. It was an easy mistake to make, given his army background. But in their conversations, John had already spoken obliquely about his sometimes creative way of carrying out orders, even if he'd never own up to outright insubordination (and he had been discharged honorably, no matter what else might have happened).

"You could have surprised them," John countered, "or they might have been tied up. And, shoot, I'd say." His expression stiffened slightly - speaking from experience, then, had likely seen blood spray on walls during the war. That would have looked different, of course; the stains in Sherlock's bathroom weren't from gunshot wounds, which should (hopefully) be obvious to a specialist. But clearly the impression was close enough to trigger something in John. Sherlock would have liked to explore just what that was, but at the same time he didn't want to push John too far. At least not tonight. He decided to get down to the denouement.

"If I'd surprised them while they were standing in the bath, the water would have been on, and most of the blood would have been washed away. And I think you'll find a distinct lack of bullet holes anywhere. Either way, they couldn't have remained perfectly upright once injured. They would have either tried to get away or fallen against one of the surfaces, leaving obvious tracks and smears." Sherlock leaned in until his lips were just millimetres away from John's ear.

John was standing perfectly still. He hadn't so much as twitched when Sherlock invaded his personal space. In fact, if anything, he'd leaned forward as well. He was holding his breath. Sherlock could smell that now familiar mix of middle-class brands, scents he shouldn't find appealing - didn't, in fact, in general, with their heavy, artificial chemical aftertaste - but that he was now greedy for, in just this perfect balance of menthol and citrus and something annoyingly sweet - jasmine, perhaps; incense? - that turned on all the John receptors in his brain.

"It's chicken blood, John," he whispered.

And just like that, the tension defused. Sherlock pulled back and John huffed out an incredulous breath. "Chicken... You were butchering a chicken in your bathtub?" John's mental faculties were clearly not at their best when dealing with a physical challenge at the same time. At least Sherlock hoped this wasn't a display of John's most acute mental state.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Clearly not. I was squirting the blood at the wall to test the drip patterns."

John's face screwed up and he took a step back. "What the hell- Where do you even get enough chicken blood to do that with? No, scratch that. Why would you want to do that?"

"From the butcher, he owed me as I did him a favour, and it seemed like a good idea at the time." The actual reason was that he'd needed something to distract him from going over and over the confrontation with Moriarty the night before, and the subsequent argument with John. The word 'obsession' had occurred to him, which led to memories of psychiatrists, which led to amusement over an ink blot test, during the course of whose administration he'd convinced Dr Prentiss he was a sexually frigid pyromaniac with an irrational fear of heights, which led to wondering whether creating his own personal ink blots would lead to any insights on his current situation. And the blood had just been sitting there in the refrigerator, waiting to be used...

The doorbell rang.

"That'll be the food," Sherlock said. "Would you mind? I'll get the wine out of the ice box." Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock turned and went to the refrigerator. Behind him, he vaguely registered the sound of John's voice diminishing in the direction of the front door.

"Yeah, I'll just go … pay for our dinner," it said, sounding resigned.

%%%%%%

They sat at the island in the kitchen, talking, laughing, and eating out of the same containers. John took charge of carefully rationing out the single bottle of wine (unconscious reaction to his sister's alcoholism) so that they ended up lingering over the last sip or two once the food was gone.

It had been a very enjoyable experience - surprisingly so, in Sherlock's estimation, given that they hadn't discussed much of substance at all. There hadn't been any more of that what-do-I-do-now tension, either. When their eyes had met, it was with warmth and an edge of humour, as if they each acknowledged that the other knew what he was thinking, and they both knew they were being ridiculous, but it was okay.

There was still an undercurrent of something prickly and unexplored, but Sherlock no longer felt threatened or panicked by it. It was as if, through their conversation about the blood in the loo, John had let Sherlock know that he accepted him and liked him just as he was, chicken blood and cow eyeballs and all, and that knowledge let Sherlock relax and accept John in return. It was, as John had said earlier, all very exciting.

"God, I should be going," John said when he finally looked at his watch.

"There are still two more songs, the duet for Mary and Joseph, and the last one with the scene in the stable," Sherlock reminded him. He found he didn't actually want John to leave yet. Or, perhaps, ever. That was bad. Having fun and enjoying this situation was one thing, but becoming dependent was something else altogether.

"Yeah, you know, I think the music's good for both of them," John said through a half-suppressed yawn. His mouth was slightly shiny from the grease in the food, and the sleepy way his face moved as he spoke really shouldn't give Sherlock the desire to smooth a thumb across his cheek, feel the throb of his pulse in his neck. "If it's all right with you, I'll work on them at home and have the first one at least ready for us to run through the auditions for Mary and Joseph on Monday."

"Auditions again?" Sherlock groaned with distaste. "We already know who the best singers are."

"It's not about who can sing the best, it's about chemistry. We can't put Ollie and Saffron together, for example. They're more likely to get into a spitting match than sing together."

"I am not wasting another entire morning on it."

"Fine. I'll take them two at a time in the assembly hall while you carry on with your regular lesson plan."

"Fine," Sherlock acceded, although he did slump back petulantly in his chair.

"Good." John grinned. He drained the last of his wine and stood, giving in to a full-body stretch. As he did, his jumper rode up, exposing a little triangle of lightly furred belly where the bottom of his shirt gapped open just above his belt.

A tingle of desire zinged from Sherlock's throat down to the base of his abdomen. The third date, the third date, the reptilian part of his brain reminded him. He kicked it, scowling, and got up to clear away the takeaway cartons before Gladstone could get into them. He'd already decided there would be no sex tonight, and the stupid third date rule was even more reason notto do anything. He was going to need to think things through beforehand anyway, decide what he did and didn't want out of this, and how best to get it. And how to protect those parts of himself that most needed protecting.

At the door, John pulled on his jacket, then turned to face Sherlock.

"So, I... Thanks for dinner-"

"You paid."

John grinned. "You ordered. It was a good order."

"You can order next time."

"Only if you pay."

"Done," Sherlock agreed.

There was an interminable moment then, as they stood looking at each other, when Sherlock knew that John wanted to kiss him - flexing his hand, wetting his lips, taking a breath and holding it, letting it out again - and Sherlock wanted him to, wanted to do it himself, but before he could overcome that final internal barrier to this new kind of intimacy, John stuck out his hand. Sherlock took it, both grateful and frustrated.

"Thanks," John said as he pressed Sherlock's hand in his. "We could maybe do it again sometime?" The hope was written all over his face, but also the apprehension that Sherlock might turn him down. Stupid. Didn't he know by now that Sherlock, much as he might want to, couldn't possibly reject him?

"I'd like that," Sherlock said, pleased not only at the idea of spending more time with John, but also at the fact that he would, actually, very much like it. He couldn't think of anything else at the moment that he knew for a fact would give him pleasure. Not even the cow eyes in the freezer; like as not he'd end up getting bored with them and giving them to Gladstone to play with.

"Good." John nodded once, fighting not to smile too hard. "Good night then." He gave Sherlock's hand one final squeeze and let go.

"Good night, John."

He could still have called him back, or reached forward to put a hand on his shoulder, turn him, kiss him on the cheek at least, press his nose into John's hair - John was hesitating on the top step, maybe he was going to turn back himself - but then he didn't, he was down the steps and on the pavement, and he didn't even turn around as Sherlock stood there, watching him walk up the street until the darkness swallowed him.

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Go to chapter 12

Comments

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

I loved how you built the tension with the blood's origins, I was half wondering if Sherlock /had/ used human blood until he said. From a non murderous source of course. And I'm enjoying all that UST they have!

Two small queries, did you mean 'crib scene?' I've never heard it called creche. A creche is a child daycare centre in Britain. And is Baker St a state school? Which means the children get a free education, as oppose to a public or private school where the parents have to pay for their children to attend. It's a state school in the original movie.

[swissmarg]

Ugh, yes, thank you. I don't have a Britpicker, so I'm just relying on my own spotty knowledge of British usage. Fixed! In the original movie, I thought it was a private, parochial school as they have an in-house priest. Unless that's a standard feature of state schools? But in this story it's a private school. It says so in the second paragraph of chapter 1 (a long way back, I know). From my not necessarily exhaustive research, someone told me that the head of a private school would have more leeway in hiring than a state school would, and it would be more likely for Sherlock to be able to get hired that way, given the background I've posited for him here. Also that a state school would probably not even be able to put on a Nativity, as they could not be seen to be endorsing any religion.

Adding: Oh, and with the blood, I figured that since Molly is a teacher and can't supply Sherlock with body parts in this, Sherlock's supplier for his experiments in this is the butcher where he gets Gladstone's food. So, cow eyeballs and chicken blood as opposed to human remains. :)

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

It's got an in house priest because it's a Catholic state school. Known as faith schools in Britain, it's the same type of school I went to. (I went to St Peters) Our nativity play was not always a traditional one either!

I like the reasoning though about Sherlock getting a post through Lestrade, I doubt he'd pass the state board of education criteria! Although his CRB might have caused him some problems. That's the mandatory police check for working with children. John would have had to have taken one too.

[swissmarg]

Ah, excellent, I didn't know that state schools could also be religiously affiliated. Thanks for that. And as for his record... Mycroft, but that tidbit is only mentioned in a later chapter. ;)

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

So a quiet night in turns into a quasi-murder investigation, in John's mind anyway!! It was great seeing Sherlock almost teasing John while letting him do his own deducing!

"The hope was written all over his face, but also the apprehension that Sherlock might turn him down."

You're really keeping the 'tension' up here - will they? won't they? *grin*

A nice, gentle chapter - probably the calm before the storm, though!

[swissmarg]

Sorry for dragging it out, but ... they will eventually, yes. :) Thank you for the comment!

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

*squeeeeeeeee* Sherlock and John's tea cup... that was creepy cute! :D Praise the Belstaff for having big pockets. :)

And ooooh, that blood splatter joint deduction scene was amazing. It was half flirting, half skirting something more dangerous and it was soooo perfect for them. The only thing I didn't like was that it didn't end in a kiss - but then again, that would have shortened the fic quite I bit I guess, so it's good as it is. :)

But really, that was an absolutely amazing scene. Can't wait to read more (but will have to, as we're going away on holiday, eep!).

Thank you for this great fic!

[swissmarg]

There will be a kiss long before the end of the fic, don't worry! Just maybe not in the next chapter... Enjoy your holiday, and thank you again for your detailed comments. I love each one!