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Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (12/23)
Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author:
Beta reader:
ruth0007Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 4,982 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 Twelve - The Casting Call
Several times the next day, Sherlock took out his phone with the intention of texting John. Silly things, nothing important, just thoughts he had or observations he made. Not that Sherlock's thoughts and observations were ever unimportant, but it hadn't escaped him that, in the larger scheme of things, it didn't really matter whether or not John was aware of them. That didn't stop him from wanting to share them.
The compulsive reaching for his mobile was just one of the many things he recognised as signs of a nascent addiction in his behaviour. His thoughts constantly returned to John, so much so that he caught himself imagining John beside him more than once. Nothing else could hold his interest; he abandoned the experiment with the cow eyeballs halfway through.
Walking with Gladstone, he found himself retracing the path to the shopping district where he'd run into John - had it only been two weeks ago? Alarmed at how quickly and thoroughly John had taken over his brain, he forced himself to clamp down on his impulses. He didn't need to hear John's exclamations in order to know that he - Sherlock - was clever. He wouldn't go mad if he went twenty-four hours without seeing the way John's eyes crinkled when he smiled. He was perfectly capable of purchasing a cup of coffee without considering what kind John would like - he'd never actually seen John drink coffee, although he'd smelt it on his breath, so he knew that he did drink it; it was unconscionable, however, that Sherlock had no idea how he took it - No! It was irrelevant. Completely, utterly, of no consequence whatsoever.
He put his phone back in his pocket and kept walking.
On Monday morning, he put on and tossed aside two shirts (the green silk blend was too obvious, the black one made him look too pale) and was about to discard the third (the cream herringbone, unimaginative) before he caught his eye in the mirror and snarled. He finished buttoning it up with as much violence as it was possible to button a shirt up with, and pointedly did not rearrange the errant curl sticking out awkwardly over his right ear. It was horrid, positively hateful, how his every move had unconsciously become a play to gain John's favour.
By the time he arrived at the school, he noted in his reflection in the glass door that his hair had somehow righted itself during the journey. His stomach unclenched just a tiny bit.
Only to leap up into his chest when he entered the teachers' lounge to find John already there. He had his back to the door and was leaning against a table, talking to Molly Hooper. She looked earnest and gentle and had a kind smile on her face, not the skittish, slightly dazed one she usually wore around Sherlock. This one said she was comfortable with John, that she liked him, and Sherlock didn't like that one bit. Sherlock should have kissed him when he had the chance. Now there was nothing stopping John from chatting up Molly. Sherlock should have recalled that aspect of the third date, too: if nothing happened by then, it was time to cut one's losses.
Molly spotted Sherlock first, and when she did, she became … less fluttery and pink than usual. In fact, she looked almost smug, flicking her eyes back to John and murmuring something that caused him to turn toward Sherlock with a pleased smile that only became deeper when Sherlock approached. Not completely given up yet, then. Sherlock felt a bit smug at that himself. John's ears turned red and he shoved his hands into his pocket as he straightened up. Sherlock also didn't miss the fact that John gave him a toe-to-head once-over and darted his tongue out to swipe across his lower lip before speaking.
"Morning, Sherlock," John said. "Molly was just saying how she'd like to help with the play."
Sherlock directed his penetrating gaze at her - missed a corner of her mouth when applying her lipstick, two-year-old blouse, skipped shaving her legs that morning. Conclusion: not currently interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with John. Or with Sherlock, for that matter. When had she given up her infantile crush? He hadn't been paying attention; not that it was of any consequence. He was rather relieved he didn't have to deal with it at the moment. But what reason could she possibly have to offer help with the play, then?
"Why?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. Not that he expected her to tell the truth, but he might be able to discern her true motive from her answer.
"Well, it's a lot of work, isn't it?" Molly said. "And I thought it would be fun." That seemed... entirely sincere.
Sherlock looked at John with a pained expression. "What have you been telling her?"
John huffed out an amused breath. "It is going to be a lot of work, Sherlock. It's not done with learning the songs. There are the costumes, the sets-"
"Details," Sherlock scoffed.
"Important details. Details that won't do themselves," John said.
Sherlock's mood turned suddenly sour. He saw what was going on. John was bringing Molly in on the project because he didn't want to be put in an awkward position like Saturday night again. He wanted Molly there as some kind of chaperone.
"Why don't I just bow out completely then?" Sherlock said icily. "I've done my part with the music. Or at least I had before I let you scribble all over it."
John's expression hardened. Sherlock knew he'd gone too far, but he wasn't about to take it back.
"No one's trying to-" John started to say, angry and defensive, but Molly jumped up with a look teetering between dismay and conciliation.
"Oh, I don't want to get in the way," she trilled, several notes higher than was normal for her, and that was saying something. "You just tell me what to do, contacting parents, organising costumes, whatever. You'll never even know I'm there."
The bell rang for the start of classes. Sherlock became aware of the frozen tableau of teachers paused in their morning preparations around them. John was standing there with the corners of his mouth turned down, but it was more hurt than disapproval. It was only now that Sherlock really looked at him: used a new razor that morning, same shirt and jacket he wore to Angelo's (freshly laundered), detoured to the bathroom to comb his hair before coming into the break room. Sherlock took a step back, nearly stumbling against a chair, and had to catch at the back of it to maintain his balance.
"Typical Holmes," Nigel Anderson's sarcastic voice sounded from somewhere off to the side. It wasn't directed at him, exactly, but no one else was making a sound, so it was obvious he was meant to hear it. "Fobbing off all the real work when it comes down to it."
"I don't-" he muttered, not even sure himself what he was trying to say. He didn't care about the stupid play! If John and Molly wanted to take it over, that was fine with him. More than fine. He couldn't have arranged things better if he'd tried. Now he wouldn't have to deal with rehearsals or Moriarty or any of the headaches surrounding the supposed filming.
He somehow made it to the door, cognisant at some level of everyone watching him, but not really seeing them, and escaped down the hall to his classroom.
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Sherlock was quietly aware of John slipping in and out during the morning lesson, always taking two of the children with him. So he was carrying on with those ridiculous auditions for Joseph and Mary. Sherlock was well shot of the whole thing. He'd only started it because Lestrade had forced him to. They didn't actually need Sherlock at this point.
He set a task for the children to work on in small groups and walked around slowly, checking on their progress. He was bent over to answer a question when a scuffle broke out at another table. The other children quickly erupted in shouts and screeches.
Sherlock strode over to them and shouted, "Stop it! Alfie, Ollie, step back this instant!" He reached in and pried the two boys apart.
The one boy, Ollie, shrugged Sherlock's hand off and tugged his jumper down, while Alfie sniffled and straightened out his glasses.
"What in the world is going on?" Sherlock thundered.
Ollie spoke first, struggling to keep his breathing even. "He said I'd be a rubbish Joseph and I'll never make it in the school play and if I do I'll let the school down." He couldn't raise his eyes higher than the middle of Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock was of a good mind to send both boys down to John and let him straighten them out. This bloody play was nothing but trouble! Lestrade couldn't have been any more wrong when he'd said it would take the pressure off and improve his relationship with the children.
Sherlock turned to glare at the second boy. "Alfie, who put you in charge of casting decisions?"
"No one, but he hit me," he mumbled stupidly.
Sherlock ignored the accusation. "It's not down to you who's going to be rubbish, or good, or who's going to let the school down," he hissed. "As far as I'm concerned, you've just let the school down, and so have you." Sherlock pointed at Ollie. "You both think you'd make a good Joseph, is that right?"
"Yes, Mr Holmes," both boys mumbled.
"Fine. We'll see who'll make a good Joseph." He snapped his fingers at the rest of the children, who were watching the proceedings with round eyes. "I need a Mary to sacrifice up as well. Any takers? Jade?"
She looked around nervously, and not seeing anyone else volunteering in her place, stood up and came forward, giving both boys a wide berth.
"Off we go then. Let's see what Mr Watson makes of you." He herded the three toward the door. "Not a peep from the rest of you until I get back, or there will be lines," he warned, before stepping out into the hall.
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In the assembly hall, John was standing at the keyboard, with an easel pad facing the stage beside him. Although he couldn't see the front, Sherlock had no doubt the song lyrics were written on it, from the way Preeti and Bob were leaning forward to peer down at it as they struggled to get through the unfamiliar song. Sherlock cringed at how off-tune they were.
He only meant to shoo his three charges inside and head back to the classroom, but he couldn't help being ever so slightly curious about what John had ended up doing to the song, the one they hadn't got to on Saturday. He caught the door before it fell all the way shut and listened. The tune was, as John had said, the same one Sherlock had composed. Rather than leaving it as a duet in two-part harmony, though, he'd simplified it into one voice that the children took turns singing in alternating lines.
"He's not my type..."
"She's not too bad..."
"Not the most gorgeous I've ever had..."
So he had turned it into some sort of trite love ballad. Awful. Jade, Alfie, and Ollie crept forward, catching John's attention.
Without stopping playing, he gave them a quizzical look and mouthed, 'What?'
The three children shrugged and gestured behind them at Sherlock, who was still standing with one foot out the door. He could hardly leave now without it looking like he was running away. When John saw Sherlock, his body betrayed his surprise and he flubbed the next chord. He quickly looked back at the children and sang along softly to encourage them:
"I'll grow to love her..."
"It might work out..."
"I never knew what it was all about..."
Sherlock could leave now. He'd heard enough. John wasn't watching him, he could just let the door fall shut and... Oh, but wait. That was interesting. John wasn't simply not watching him. John was actively avoiding looking at him. Afraid he would betray himself, afraid Sherlock would see something. What was Sherlock not meant to see?
"And yet there's something behind those eyes..."
"A fire that flickers but never lies..."
"Could I love him?..."
"Could she love me?..."
And then together: "We can't rush into what is meant to be..."
Sherlock experienced a numb, plummeting sensation. John hadn't... Good God, he had. Sherlock stepped back out into the hall before he did something stupid himself. John Watson had written him a bloody love song. And was going to put it on before the entire school. And - Mycroft willing - the world. Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh or set fire to the school in the hopes of obliterating all traces that such a thing as that song had ever existed. Sherlock leaned back against the wall and huffed something at the ceiling. Laughter it was then. The arson would have been a bit difficult to explain away.
The door opened. Sherlock jerked away from the wall. He hadn't thought John would come after him. But it was just Preeti and Bob. The door swung shut behind them. Sherlock told himself he wasn't disappointed as he stalked wordlessly back to the classroom, the two children following.
Sherlock was distracted for the rest of the morning. He was writing on the board with his back to the room when John delivered the trio back to the class. He made sure to keep writing until John left with the next pair.
Whatever had possessed John to do such a thing? After the first shock faded, Sherlock was able to consider the situation with a bit of distance. Had he misinterpreted it? John had wanted to sprinkle the play liberally with hearts and roses from the start. He hadn't been thinking of Sherlock when he'd come up with his 'girl meets boy' line for the opening song. Maybe this was just part of the larger theme he'd already set up. His reaction to Sherlock hearing the words in the assembly hall could be due to apprehension that Sherlock would make fun of the song, or of him. But Sherlock had made fun of every set of lyrics John had written. John's reactions up to now had ranged from patient to defensive and amused. What was different about this particular song? The more Sherlock considered it, the more he was convinced that his first interpretation was correct: John had put something of himself into those words.
Maybe he hadn't meant them as a message to Sherlock, directly - and of course no one in the audience would ever suppose that the song could be about anything or anyone other than Joseph and Mary. Maybe John had simply written what he felt, without consciously imagining himself and Sherlock in the roles. He'd clearly realised at some point, though, that what he'd written said more than he wanted to reveal. He might possibly be hoping that Sherlock was as spectacularly ignorant as the population at large, and would never make the connection. Sherlock was happy to play along. At the same time, something in him preened and secretly hoarded the words.
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John appeared in the doorway of the classroom a couple of minutes after morning classes ended.
"Lunch?" he asked.
Sherlock looked up from where he was sorting completed worksheets into the children's individual work binders. He couldn't read anything in John other than calm and a bit of weariness. No lingering tension or anxiety regarding the song, or anything else. So he was going to play it that way. Sherlock felt himself relax perceptibly in return. He took a deep breath and let it out. God help him, he didn't want to want this, but he wasn't ready to give it up yet.
"Yes," he said finally. "Give me a minute?"
John wandered in and sat down on one of the child-sized desks. "Listen, about Molly..."
Sherlock kept shuffling papers and flipping binders open and shut, which John took as permission to continue.
"If you don't want her to help, it's fine. I just thought it would be useful. No reason we can't handle it alone, though."
Sherlock stacked the folders and tapped them sharply against the desk to straighten them. "It's fine," he said. He got up and picked up his suit jacket from the back of his chair. "If you want to bring her in, as I said I'll-"
John had stood as well, and stepped forward to lay a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Hey, no," he said, gently but firmly. "It's not like that. She's not replacing you, or me. I think we've worked well together so far. Remarkably well." His eyes caught Sherlock's and held them, searching, even challenging.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, with everything unspoken those eyes were saying. All of a sudden, he didn't want to spend a loud, cheap lunch hour being jostled in Speedy's. They'd still have to be back in time for afternoon classes, of course, but... Sherlock took out his mobile and scrolled through his contacts until he found the number he wanted.
"Ethiopian all right?" he asked as he composed his text.
"Sorry?"
"For lunch," Sherlock said impatiently, having forgot that John couldn't actually read his mind.
"Wh- yeah, fine, I suppose," John spluttered.
"Excellent." He pushed the 'send' button and headed for the door, confident that his request would receive a positive answer. "It's a bit of a walk, but it would likely take just as long to find a cab in this area. Leg looks good, by the way."
"Yeah, so, thanks," John said as he hurried to catch up. "Yours, um... yours too." Sherlock could hear the grin behind him.
%%%%%%
John put up a bit of a protest when he realised they were opening the kitchen just for him and Sherlock (tiresome, if predictable), but the hospitality of Yosef and his wife Gelila was so genuine and irrefutable that he gave in even more quickly than at Angelo's.
"All right, let's have the story then," John said once a bowl of square, puffy crackers, two glasses, and two bottles of sparkling water (direct import from Ethiopia, according to the label) were set between them.
Sherlock shrugged and popped a couple of crackers in his mouth before answering. "I was able to get him off a drugs charge."
John made an interested sound. When Sherlock didn't elaborate, he prompted, "Was Gladstone involved too?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Before his time." He looked around for their host. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea.
Conventional wisdom on relationships, he knew, said that he should 'open up' and 'trust' John. But he honestly didn't see how telling him about his past as a drug user could have any possible bearing on what they were to each other now. He was clean, both mentally and physically. If anything, it would be one more reason for John to dislike him. Or was it meant as some sort of litmus test? To see whether John still wanted to be his friend even knowing all the mistakes he'd made, all the failures he'd undergone? At any rate, he personally had no need to test John in that manner. In fact, it made more sense to present as bleached and whitewashed a picture as possible in order to entice John to stick around. Sherlock was bound to make enough mistakes in the present time without the need for bringing up the past as well.
John munched on the snacks, eyeing Sherlock shrewdly, then said, "You ever do a favour for someone who owns a Tex-Mex place? Because I think I could go for a burrito next time. Cover all the continents." He grinned, and Sherlock was momentarily overcome by his generosity in changing a subject he was so obviously curious about.
Sherlock recovered quickly and shook his head. "Although I did once help out a Pakistani cab driver whose wife does an excellent kebap. I'm sure she could be persuaded. That would be the sub-continent ticked."
Now it was John's turn to shake his head, although he was still grinning. "You are not getting some poor woman to cook for me. This is bad enough." He gestured around the empty dining room with his water glass. "Although, do you know," he said, now placing his glass carefully back on the table. "I haven't had proper kebap since I got back." It was said lightly, but there was a weight to the words that had Sherlock scrutinising him.
"Afghanistan, you mean."
John nodded. He rotated his glass slowly around where it stood.
"You never talk about it," Sherlock said.
John kept turning the glass, apparently mesmerised by the motion. "Not much to say."
It was obviously a lie. Or rather, it was obvious that many things had happened there, things that John didn't want to talk about. So, technically a truth.
John seemed to come to a decision, or rather, was now ready to follow through with the decision he'd made when he brought up the topic in the first place. He let go of the glass and lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's - jaw set, shoulders hunched slightly, hands clasped tightly on the table in front of him. "What do you want to know?"
So he'd read the same brief on trust and openness as Sherlock had. The fact that he was offering, despite his obvious discomfort, meant a great deal to Sherlock. It meant that John was willing to give something up for Sherlock, that he was seeking more than a physical connection. It was actually quite sobering and indicated a degree of commitment that Sherlock wasn't entirely certain he wanted. Of course he wanted to know everything. But that would entail a certain degree of reciprocation - in fact, that was probably John's primary motivation: I'll show you mine if you show me yours. In the end, the only fair answer he could give was, "Only what you want to tell me."
John nodded. Sherlock could see the relief in his posture, but when he spoke, his voice was even and neutral. "That's fair. Same goes for you. Whatever you want to tell me, and the rest... doesn't matter."
And that, perhaps, solidified whatever connection they had even more than a messy confession would have.
Their hosts came back with flat breads and a tray bearing an assortment of pureed vegetables and meat sauces, and Sherlock and John happily turned their attention to the delicious food. Unfortunately, they didn't have time for the coffee that was such an integral part of the meal, but they promised to return another day for the full experience.
It occurred to Sherlock as they walked back to the school that they were amassing quite a list of future activities to undertake together: a second visit to the Ethiopian restaurant, getting together for takeout again, watching one of those popular movies that John kept mentioning... and of course the mayor's reception in two days. It was a seductive thought: that John would continue to be a part of his life long enough to realise all those plans. The term was progressing apace. It was already December. The play was less than three weeks away. Sherlock couldn't afford to think about what would come after that. Based on previous experiences, something was bound to happen in the mean time (the blame for which, like as not, falling squarely at his own feet) that would put an end to any predictions - he daren't call them hopes - he might have made at this point.
John stayed with the class in the afternoon, helping with the lessons where he could. When the bell rang at the end of the day, he stopped by Sherlock's desk before going out to help the children with their coats.
"You have a bit of time this afternoon to go over the casting?" he asked.
"You can do whatever you want, John, as I said-"
John laughed incredulously. "No, Sherlock, Jesus, I thought that was all settled. This is our project, yours and mine. I'm not doing it without you. I would really, really like to have your input on this. Please."
It was a novel feeling, having someone want to work with him without an ulterior motive. Just because they were... well, friends, he supposed, he had to own up to that at least, and because John valued Sherlock's competence and abilities. Not that he wanted to take advantage of them for his own gain, but simply that he recognised something good in Sherlock and wanted to share this experience with him.
"All right," Sherlock agreed. He suspected there was very little, if anything, he would be able to say no to when it came to John.
%%%%%%
"How about this," John said twenty minutes later, when they had all of their notes and materials spread across the table. "The three wise men, I'm thinking..." He slid around the photographs of the pupils that they'd taken from the pinup board in the hall until he'd separated out a group of five. "I can see any of this lot here, but we've got to whittle it down."
Sherlock pointed to one of the photographs. "T.J.'s the best singer, you should include him."
"Yeah, no, you're right, but..." John tapped the picture. "T.J. would make an excellent Gabriel. That song was practically written with him in mind."
"Yes, you would know."
John fell quiet. Sherlock thought he should probably apologise, but the words simply wouldn't come. After a few moments, John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and asked, "Look, does that really bother you? That we changed your songs? I would never have done it if I didn't think you agreed."
Yes, it actually did bother him, but he saw the sense in it. The songs were better now, at least for the purpose they were going to be used for.
"No, you were right about it," Sherlock said. "They weren't written with the play or the children in mind."
"What then?"
Sherlock's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Selfishness and hubris, I suppose."
"You're very talented. I mean, I know I'm not a professional, but I think you're very good."
"John, you eat cold pizza for breakfast," Sherlock deadpanned.
It took John a moment, but he got there eventually. "Are you saying I'm culturally illiterate?"
"Your words."
John giggled and pushed the pictures on the table around some more. "All right, T.J. as Gabriel. We've still got to lose one of these."
Sherlock pointed at one of the pictures. "Good dancer. Zach is a good dancer."
John nodded and made a note. "He's a great dancer. Zach should definitely be in." He looked down at the photos. "What about Matt?"
Sherlock made a face. "That hair."
John peered at the picture more closely. "What's wrong with his hair?"
"Just look at it. He's done that..." Sherlock swirled his fingers around near his own head. "Spiky thing."
"I think it's considered 'in'. Plus, he's a really good dancer."
"If you say so."
"What, you don't think he's a good dancer? He had that move..." John shook his shoulders.
Sherlock chuckled. "I was expressing scepticism about the hair. But yes, he's definitely a good dancer. Better than you, at any rate." He eyed him speculatively.
John sat up a little straighter. "I'll have you know I know a move or two."
Sherlock paused and gave John a very obvious look. "Oh, I'm sure you do."
"Sherlock..." John gave him a warning look and tilted his head toward the table. "The three wise men."
Sherlock sighed and pointed. "Here: Zach, Matt, and Ollie."
"What about Bob?"
"He can't carry a tune and he has no sense of rhythm. I don't know why you even included him on your shortlist."
"Because he's a firecracker. This one has fantastic potential." He picked up the little boy's picture and shook it.
"Well, then you have four wise men," Sherlock pointed out.
John's eyes widened. He pushed the pictures around until the four boys were lined up in a neat row. "Yes. Yes, exactly. We'll have four wise men. Fuck tradition, we want to have four wise men, we'll have four wise men." He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.
"You surprise me, John." Although he shouldn't be surprised at all. John had shown a willingness to dissemble and buck authority when he believed it was the loyal and humane thing to do. He clearly cared about the children and didn't want any of them to be unhappy with their role in the play.
"Good thing or bad thing?" John asked, although from the smirk on his face he wasn't too worried about which way Sherlock's opinion would swing.
"Fishing," Sherlock said as he unfolded himself up out of his chair.
John grinned up at him. "Still trying to work out which bait works."
"Oh, the bait's doing just what you want, I expect." Sherlock turned and went toward the door. "The question is whether you're going to be disappointed with your catch," he said over his shoulder.
"No," John said softly. "No, I really can't imagine I would be."
Sherlock paused at the door. John had no idea what he was saying. "Are we done here, then?" he asked. "I should get home for Gladstone."
"Yeah. Yeah, I can handle it from here." John leaned forward to gather up the papers from the table. "Oh, and Sherlock? Bring your dancing shoes tomorrow. It's time to start on the choreography. We'll see who's got moves."
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*giggle* I think we know what he means . . .
”He might possibly be hoping that Sherlock was as spectacularly ignorant as the population at large, and would never make the connection. Sherlock was happy to play along. At the same time, something in him preened and secretly hoarded the words.”
It was lovely seeing Sherlock confused – not knowing whether to believe what John was doing was for him or the school. Powers of deduction finally gone awry!!
”Not that he wanted to take advantage of them for his own gain, but simply that he recognised something good in Sherlock and wanted to share this experience with him.”
Something entirely novel for Sherlock, but he’s on the way to reciprocating, I think.
” We'll see who's got moves."” Woo hoo – looking forward to that
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By the way, I do very much appreciate your regular comments on each chapter. They make me smile. :)
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And this is such a unique story. I know that the next time I watch the film I'll be thinking of this and it will give me a happy glow . . .
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Anyway, I'm still loving the story muchly and I'm really really saddened that it will be over soon. :( As always, I find Sherlock's struggles to remain unaffected by John wonderful to read. It's sweet to see how much he cares and funny to see how he tries to tell himself he doesn't. My favourite bit from the beginning was: At the same time, something in him preened and secretly hoarded the words. - not in the least because it made me think of a dragon's hoard... ;-)
And awww, poor Sherlock being jealous of Molly and fearing the worst.
He, I loved the "continents" bit when it came to the restaurants and John's idea to have four Wise Men. :)))) Very John!
Thank you! *runs to next chapter*
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I admit I may have had Smauglock on my mind when I wrote that line about the preening and hoarding. ;)
The continents was my little dig at 'Three Continents' Watson. (But I think it was a little too obscure.)
So glad to hear you're still with us and enjoying it. :)
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Also, I know it feels not so good when someone starts commenting and then suddenly stops a few chapters in. I, at least, begin to wonder if my fic started to suck horribly and that's why they are not commenting anymore.
Heeee, I appreciate Smauglock references... :)
I thought that was lovely - I don't like to think of John's possible sexual exploits on three continents but I do like to think of his culinary tastes, especially if it has the potential to involve eating with Sherlock. :D
Thank you!