Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (14/23)

[swissmarg]

banner by frodosweetstuff

Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta readers: ruth0007 and dioscureantwins (yay new team member!)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 6,649 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 Fourteen - The Mayor's Reception

The next morning, Sherlock put on the dark green shirt and took extra care shaving. He packed the video camera he'd bought for a time-lapse study of the spread of damp. And when he stopped at Speedy's for his morning coffee, he bought an extra cup - black, no sugar. An educated guess, but he'd be sure to get it right next time. He'd left fifteen minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch John before he made himself any of the instant stuff at the school.

Sherlock only had to wait a minute or two before John arrived in the teachers' lounge. Sherlock smiled from where he was sitting and held up the cardboard cup.

"Still hot, if you'd like."

"This is a surprise," John said as he settled back against the table beside Sherlock. He took the cup and pulled up the plastic lid, sniffed and took a tentative sip, then nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, but to what do I owe this?"

Sherlock was prepared for the question. "Purely humanitarian motives," he assured him. "Instant coffee is a crime against humanity."

John chuckled, and there were those crinkles around his eyes. Sherlock had been wrong. He definitely could not go twenty-four hours without seeing those again. "Beats what they used to pass off as coffee in the army," John said. He took another sip of the drink Sherlock had brought him. "This is nice too, though. Is it all right if I just..." He gestured at the counter where the tea and coffee things were kept.

Sherlock shrugged his indifference, but observed keenly how John added a portion of creamer from the supply of little plastic pots. Noted. He wasn't fooled by the casual manner in which John referred to his army experience. It was a huge sign of trust for him to mention it at all.

Behind him, Molly Hooper came in. She dumped her things on the couch by the wall before going over to make herself a cup of tea next to John.

"Hi, John; Sherlock," she added over her shoulder. (Brief glance at Sherlock, warm smile for John, but hands loosely in the pockets of her baggy skirt - not tempted to touch him - and dried toothpaste drip on the bottom of her blouse: didn't double-check her appearance in the mirror before leaving the house.)

John came back and took up his position again - this time closer to Sherlock, leaving room for Molly to join their little group. "Sherlock brought a camera to record the kids this morning," he told her. "When do you think you can spare half an hour?"

Sherlock tuned out of the discussion of schedules, mostly because it was dull but also because John had just done something rather surprising: he'd trusted completely that Sherlock would do what he said he would. Most people would have asked first whether he had the camera, both implying that his memory was faulty (this wouldn't even have been an insult: most people's were) and recalling Sherlock's outburst from the day before, when he'd said that filming the children would be a waste of time. But John had taken Sherlock at his word. Sherlock had said he'd bring a camera, and John had displayed complete and utter confidence in the truth of that fact. It was a small thing, nothing to get sentimental about, yet Sherlock found himself doing just that.

Sitting there watching John - relaxed and purposeful, the skin around his eyes betraying his still restless nights, clasping his firm, capable hand around the cup of coffee Sherlock had brought him, smiling briefly at Sherlock in reaction to something Molly said (he smiled back, not even knowing why) - Sherlock felt a brief, profound peace. It didn't last longer than a few seconds before Sally Donovan came in, speaking in that strident manner Sherlock found so grating, but it was long enough for Sherlock to capture a snapshot of the moment and entrust it to his most secure vault. It wasn't a memory for framing and putting on display; it was one to be tucked carefully between the leaves of an old-fashioned album with an embossed leather cover, and taken out only in quiet moments when he could immerse himself in the emotions it elicited - even if he wasn't sure yet what they were.

%%%%%%

John had arranged for Molly to meet them in the assembly hall while her class took a spelling test (she'd asked Mrs Hudson to cover for her). Sherlock showed Molly how to work the camera, and John played the keyboard while Sherlock conducted. John said they had to do Joseph and Mary's song, as it was the one with the greatest emotional impact. It was also the one that would come over best without dancing or props. Just the words and the music. They had all the boys sing Joseph's part, and all the girls sing Mary's. They still hadn't decided which children would play the parts. They'd already cast the best boy singers as the wise men and Gabriel, and John was clearly pained at having to disappoint the vast majority of the children by choosing only two. If it came down to it, they could simply draw straws; all the children knew the song by heart after those bloody auditions.

And, Sherlock had to admit, they were doing a passable job with it now. At least they all knew the words, and the tune was generally recognisable, even though he could hear one or two voices wandering off on their own at times. No, definitely not in Blackwood's league. But they didn't have to be. Sherlock was seized by a sudden proprietary pride toward these children. They were trying, all of them doing their best, because they wanted to please ... well, John, mostly, but also him.

Sherlock had always thought the standards he aimed for were high, certainly, but not unattainable. Now he thought back to what he'd said about there not being anything worth filming, about the children being useless, and he realised that he'd never actually expected any of these children to reach the measure he'd set. Not for the play, not for their schoolwork, not for their social interactions, not for anything. Self-fulfilling prophecy. He'd judged them by the same standards he held himself to, and found them similarly lacking. If not even he could succeed in his own eyes, how could they?

"...And yet there's something behind those eyes,
A fire that flickers but never lies …"

Sherlock glanced over at John. He was mouthing along the words to help the children. Sherlock wondered what John saw in his eyes. Did he see the truth, Sherlock's doubts and fears, and his curiosity about something he'd never had before? Maybe the words meant that John knew there was something good and worthwhile underneath the lies that Sherlock told - and lived. Or maybe it was just a silly song about two people who had never really existed. Characters and figments.

"Could I love him?
Could she love me ?
We can't rush into what is meant to be..."

John's focus was on the children, but it didn't appear that he was actively avoiding looking at Sherlock anymore. Maybe he'd successfully compartmentalised the thoughts and feelings that had caused him to write those words in the first place.

Sherlock didn't believe in 'meant to be', not in the sense of fate, anyway. He did believe in the immutability of physical laws. Some things were unavoidable. To every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. Atoms decayed. People died. And you could in fact rush just about anything, in Sherlock's experience. Catalysts facilitated reactions. Money talked.

Sherlock didn't like the suggestion that there was anything inevitable about a relationship developing between him and John. That felt too much like being told what to do. He could walk away from it at any time; so could John. So many things could go wrong, and there was only one way for things to go right. The odds were against them. Yet there was something that felt naggingly right about the formulation 'meant to be': it did seem like there was a pull between them, something that was holding the connection between them together, if only by a thread.

Sherlock had surely committed enough sins so far that any normal person would have bid him good riddance weeks ago. And John, in his own way, was equally closed and by any standard measure a less than appealing prospect; he'd said it himself - unemployed and unemployable, emotionally unstable, physically damaged. Seen from that angle, maybe they were both just that desperate. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to see John like that. No, there was more to it. It wasn't just his opinion. John was true, John was loyal, John was generous, John was funny and insightful. And there was something that lit up between them, something that Sherlock now recognised was quite possibly the most important and best thing he'd ever been part of.

As if he could sense what Sherlock was thinking, John turned his head just enough that their eyes met.

"One look and we're forever.
One look and it's like we've always known..."

A delicious, shivery prickle bloomed out from Sherlock's abdomen. His mouth went dry and it felt like his heart was in his throat. He realised that he had always known. Since that morning when he'd walked into the classroom and, within the space of a few minutes, experienced surprise, curiosity, and not a small amount of discomfort, Sherlock had known that allowing John Watson into his life would lead him to places he'd never been before, and had no desire to be. Because he hadn't known what was there. His first instinct had been one of self-protection: drive the intruder away. But for some reason, he hadn't followed through. He'd let John stay. A desire for data had been the initial factor, certainly: data about John, about what lay hidden behind those gently creased eyes and the transient limp. He had barely begun to scratch the surface there, and every day - every hour, it seemed - found him ensnared more inextricably.

But... forever? Forever was a concept Sherlock had no use for. An abstraction that was only meaningful to theologians, theoretical physicists, and romantics. None of whom Sherlock felt any particular affinity to. If there was one thing Sherlock had experience in, it was the ephemeral nature of mankind. Nothing lasted forever. It was foolish to imagine it would.

The music had ended. Sherlock had lost track, his arms still held aloft and tracking the beat automatically. No one noticed. John was praising the children; Molly was fiddling with the camera. Sherlock stepped back and drifted toward the door.

It was just a stupid song. Irrelevant. Immaterial.

%%%%%

Sherlock stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the Lord Mayor's mansion, watching the evening traffic crawl past in the street in front of him. It was dark already, although it was only just after six. The streets were festooned with Christmas lights in unnatural green and red tones. Shoppers in puffy coats mixed with office workers across the street, pushing their way through to their buses. Every once in a while a black cab or private car would stop at the kerb and disgorge individuals or small groups of people in evening wear, who then flowed past him up the stairs.

Sherlock tugged at the sleeves of his suit jacket under his coat. This was such a bad idea. Not meeting John. That was fine. More than fine, really. It was the entire farce with the play. They should have put a stop to it long ago. But John had such faith in it; in them. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't possibly see it ending any way other than in a gigantic fireball. Hopefully not literally. Although he shouldn't be surprised. Still, he was going along with it, and he would continue to until either John put a stop to it or disaster struck.

A figure wearing an olive, fur-trimmed parka was approaching along the pavement. Sherlock recognised him by the barely noticeable tenderness in his gait, slightly exaggerated by what must be new shoes. Sherlock's stomach fluttered as the broad face came into focus. John was smiling, having spotted him too.

"Haven't been waiting long, I hope," John said once he was in speaking distance. His hair was slicked down and combed back. Sherlock thought he looked very, very good.

"Not a problem," Sherlock assured him as he tried not to stare too hard. "Shall we?" He led the way up the stairs and into the coat room. John's presence at his back weighed heavier than Pandora's box.

"It's hired, all right," John told Sherlock as he handed over his parka to the attendant, revealing his black suit and tie. His tone of voice dared Sherlock to make fun.

The thought hadn't even crossed Sherlock's mind, though, because John in that suit was making his blood run hotter and his brain run slower. The ensemble made his body look tight and compact while emphasising the strength in his shoulders and chest. Sherlock was already trying to come up with scenarios for getting the jacket off so he could have a look at John's arse: a spill, a tear, someone being chilly, John needing to perform CPR - how could he induce a heart attack in someone with the tools currently at his disposal?

Sherlock became aware he was staring, and John was starting to show signs of uncertainty. Sherlock looked away and down. "Not the shoes, though," he noted. He could see now that they were John's army dress shoes; not new, but so rarely worn they were still stiff and unfamiliar to his feet.

"Yeah, just about the only useful bit I got out of the service." John looked around at the crowd (locating exits, mapping routes of egress) while Sherlock turned in his own coat. John's hands were clenched in his trouser pockets (increased stress level).

When he pivoted back to Sherlock, his eyes reflected his appreciation of Sherlock's attire, although the lines of his face didn't relax completely. "Wow."

Sherlock's fingers drifted self-consciously to the middle button of his suit jacket. He wasn't used to genuine compliments. "Thank you," he said stiffly. "You-" He gestured vaguely at John. "They did a decent job."

"They'd better have, price I paid," John muttered dryly, and Sherlock was once again acutely grateful to John for having the knack of steering away from emotionally uncomfortable areas.

As they moved toward the reception area, Sherlock let John walk in front; he hoped having a friend rather than a roomful of strangers at his back would ease his discomfort. There was a bottleneck at the double doors leading into the main hall. As the crowd became thicker, Sherlock kept a space open behind John, and touched him lightly on the back to let him know he was there. John looked back over his shoulder, thinking Sherlock wanted his attention, but Sherlock just smiled reassuringly and nodded that he should press on.

Once inside, the throng dispersed, most heading first toward the long table where white-jacketed servers were setting out rows of champagne flutes. John touched Sherlock on the elbow. "I'll just get us one?" he suggested.

Sherlock nodded. Maybe if he could get John to raise his arms up high enough, he considered as he watched the other man walk away, his jacket would -

"Sebastian Moran," a voice announced beside him. Sherlock turned toward it. A man with a buzz cut and piercing, pale eyes was holding out his hand (smoker, heavy drinker but not an alcoholic, has a child but doesn't live with the mother).

Sherlock took it. "Hello." Pointless to give his name; the man knew who he was.

"Daily Telegraph." Moran squeezed his hand more firmly than could be considered socially acceptable before dropping it.

"I know who you are."

Moran acknowledged that with a thin smile. He looked out at the crowd and put his hands in his pockets. His lips twitched. (At least half an hour since his last cigarette.) "Excited?"

Sherlock was tiring of him already. "About?"

Moran shook his head and looked at the ground. Apparently the feeling was mutual. "Whitehall?" he said, as if it were obvious, which it was.

"Oh, that," Sherlock said. "Not really, no." That was, at least, the honest-to-God truth.

"Mycroft Holmes. Not a coincidence, is it?"

Really, the man was more tedious than a month of staff meetings. Although he did sound as if he were bored by his own questions, Sherlock had to give him that.

"You're going to have to do better than that," Sherlock said.

"Strictly off the record."

"There's no such thing."

That got another twitch of the lips in acknowledgment. "I've been asking around. No one at the studio seems to know anything. Any idea why that might be?"

Sherlock knew he shouldn't, but the words were out before he could rein them in: "Piss off."

Moran laughed outright. "Jim said you were boring, but I'm beginning to think he just wanted to keep you to himself."

"Hello, who's this then?" John asked with deceptive mildness. Sherlock hadn't even noticed him coming back with the drinks. He accepted one of the glasses and took a big sip.

"Sebastian Moran, Daily Telegraph," Moran said, reaching across Sherlock to shake John's hand.

"Moriarty's muscle," Sherlock remarked almost before he'd finished swallowing.

"I do all right, thanks," Moran said easily. "And you are?"

"John Watson."

"Dr Watson's assisting with the play," Sherlock volunteered before the questions got too personal.

"So there is a play at least," Moran fished.

"Of course there's a play," John said. "This would all be a bit pointless if there weren't."

"There are those who say it doesn't make much difference, not with Holmes in charge."

"Sorry, but what exactly is that supposed to mean?" John asked in that calm, dangerous way that gave Sherlock a little shiver of joy.

"Ah, John," Sherlock interjected soberly, "I'm afraid you don't have the full story. You see, Mr Moran here wrote a nice little review of my first effort."

"And by 'nice', you mean..."

"I believe the headline was, 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph' and it went on from 'calamity' through 'abysmal' to 'appalling'."

"Oh come on, it was appalling," Moran said.

"Do you even hear yourself?" John asked incredulously, rounding on him. "This is a kids' Nativity pageant. All other issues aside, how do you imagine those kids felt when they saw something like that printed about them in a newspaper for all their mates to see?"

It was a novel angle, Sherlock had to admit, one he'd never even considered (which said rather a lot about his sympathies right there), but John was going to have to dig deeper to touch Moran.

Moran shrugged. "That's the risk they take, going to a school like Baker Street."

John's face took on such an interesting expression that Sherlock was soundly disappointed when an outburst of applause around them cut off what was sure to have been a superlative response. They all turned toward the front of the room, where the mayor was standing with a microphone in hand.

Once the noise had died down, he began: "Ladies and gentlemen, first of all, thank you for your attendance and your support. Before I go any further, I'd like to ask Mr Sherlock Holmes to come forward." He waved toward Sherlock, and the audience turned and craned their necks.

Moran grinned at him. "Looks like they're even providing the rope."

No, Sherlock was fairly certain he'd done that himself. He moved forward through the parting crowd, barely registering John following close behind him. When he got to the front, the mayor shook his hand (golfer, cigar aficionado, two cats, homophobe) and indicated that Sherlock should stand next to him. John took a position in the front row of spectators, his arms crossed over his chest.

"We're here tonight to publicly acknowledge and thank Mr Holmes and the Baker Street School for the incredible opportunity which they are affording our wonderful city." The mayor paused for the expected applause. "Now, in honour of this occasion and much against the council's wishes, the mayor's parlour has overruled the council, and would like to offer the cathedral ruins as a venue for your show."

Moran was right after all: there was the rope. There was more applause. Sherlock put a smile on and shook the mayor's hand. John was clapping as well, but there was an odd look mixed in with his obvious pleasure at the announcement. As if Sherlock weren't reacting as he should. Sherlock tried to appear more genuinely thrilled. John still didn't look entirely satisfied. No matter; as long as the mayor and everyone else were.

The mayor said a few more words about opportunities and civic pride, and then Sherlock was handed off to an aide, who guided him down into the waiting pit of business leaders, press representatives, and civic officials. Sherlock shook what hands he could and was probably ruder than necessary on his run through the gamut, but it wasn't as if it mattered. He was seriously considering the heart attack plan after all as a diversion to make his escape when John suddenly appeared beside him.

"It's nearly seven, Sherlock, we're going to have to get going if we want to make that-"

Sherlock could quite literally have kissed him right there. "Yes, right, that meeting about the-" Sherlock agreed briskly.

"-the plans," John supplied. "And this news about the new venue-"

"We'll have to re-think everything."

Their eyes met, and there was that connection again, that sense of having a common purpose, even if they weren't exactly on the same plane, because Sherlock was sure that John was just trying to help without quite understanding why. But that was all right, that was fine, that was more than anyone ever did. And it wasn't a case of John just being some kind of sycophant or assistant; it was the fact that they were better together, that they complemented each other in ways Sherlock had never considered before - and John probably wasn't even aware of.

Somehow they made it out without being waylaid. Sherlock saw Moran talking to the mayor, but there wasn't anything he could do about that now. In fact, it might work out to their benefit if Moran told him something that caused him to rescind his offer.

Outside, the streets were still busy. Sherlock's head was buzzing and he needed to get away from all the noise, aural and otherwise. He set off toward the nearby riverside park.

"You want to tell me what that was all about back there?" John asked, puffing a bit in the cold air as he tried to keep up.

"The cathedral ruins, John." Sherlock dodged a gaggle of sixth-form girls (going to the cinema, one meeting a boy her parents don't approve of, one with marijuana in her handbag and a crush on the one with the fringe). God! Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and nearly stepped in front of a car.

"Jesus, Sherlock, slow down!" John jerked him back and held him in place by the arm. "What about the cathedral ruins?"

Sherlock pulled away and continued across the street. "Didn't you notice in there, all those people?" he tossed back through his teeth.

"What, you mean the ones I just blew off and lied to their faces? The ones who are bending over backwards to make this the best Nativity the city's ever seen? Those people?"

"Oh please, even you can't be that naïve. And by the way, 'the meeting about the plans'? Not really indictable."

"You looked like you could use some help," John said defensively, but Sherlock could hear the grin in his voice. "Next time let's agree on a signal. I could pull a fire alarm or something."

Sherlock laughed without humour and veered off the main road toward the river. "I actually did that once, in the middle of an end-of-term exam."

"You? Not that I'd put a prank like that past you, but you don't seem the type to need to go to such lengths. I'd have thought you could sit any exam with your eyes closed."

"I could. I was already finished and had turned in the paper but they wouldn't let me leave until the end of the time." Sherlock turned around to grin at John, who promptly cracked up.

"Your poor teachers. Turnabout's fair play now then, I guess. Although I don't think any of our kids could put anything past you."

Sherlock didn't fail to hear the plural possessive. Part of him wanted to correct it, since it was still his class, and whatever shortcomings the pupils had, he felt a certain proprietary possessiveness toward them. Yet there was something dangerously attractive about allowing John to share in that. His influence on the children was indisputable. He might not be teaching them about nouns and multiplication, but Sherlock wasn't unaware of the way they looked to him first now for justice in their playground disputes, for comfort over a paper cut, and for moral guidance on how much unruliness was allowable and even encouraged in their search for individuality. All areas in which Sherlock was on shaky ground himself. Just as with the music he'd written, it was harder than he wanted to admit to relinquish complete control, but he knew that it was the right thing to do, and that the final result would be better for it.

In the end, all he said was, "Not yet, although Alfie has a certain potential."

"He's a clever one," John agreed.

They had reached the river walk now. It was quieter here, with only the occasional pedestrian or couple passing by. Sherlock leaned against the railing to look down at the river, tamed here between the brick walls of a man-made canal. The water itself was black, barely visible, but it reflected and refracted the lamps in thousands of white spots that broke against each other and merged and broke apart again. John stood next to him, his elbows propped on top of the railing. The air wasn't quite cold enough to see their breath, but there was a nippiness that made Sherlock's ears and nose tingle.

"The cathedral ruins," John said finally, just as the silence had become comfortable. "Something about that's wrong for you."

Sherlock watched a light reflection bash itself repeatedly against the brick wall on the other side. "The whole thing's wrong, John. There is no movie."

"I don't think there needs to be anymore. This has enough momentum on its own."

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. "You don't seem to understand that the bigger this gets, the closer we get to actual fraud, if we haven't already gone over that line. Those people in there tonight, those are corporate sponsors who are giving money and services-" It wasn't that he particularly cared about defrauding anyone. It was the messiness of having to give explanations and quite possibly deal with legal repercussions he didn't want. And most of all John being involved in a mess, because that would obviously be the end of their pleasant association.

But John apparently didn't see it that way. "We need money!" he insisted. "We need lights, maybe a little smoke machine..."

"You should get out," Sherlock said flatly. "Walk away. You don't need to get dragged down with me."

"Jesus, how often do I have to tell you? I want to do this. Neither of us is going to get dragged down. And I can't just-" John modulated his voice, brought it down lower, as if he were telling Sherlock a confidence. "I mean, I have a lot invested in this. It means something. You know?" John nudged Sherlock with his elbow and left it there, just touching Sherlock's arm, a single point of contact.

Sherlock turned to look at him. He did. He knew what John was saying. It was the reason Sherlock didn't want to give it up either, why he couldn't tell Lestrade, why he didn't want Molly Hooper to help even though John was right: they needed her. And it was exactly the reason why he hated so much what the mayor had done. Because this would spell the end. It had to.

John had his head turned toward Sherlock too, and now his whole upper arm was pressed against Sherlock's - one of them must have leaned in, or maybe both of them had. John's nostrils were flaring (increased respiration). His eyes flicked down to Sherlock's mouth and back up again. Sherlock wanted to. He wanted to so badly he already knew what John would taste like, but there would be no going back. They could stay as they were now - Sherlock didn't think John would ever push for more, and it was good like this, better than Sherlock ever thought he could have or deserved - or they could push the plunger in, and it would be good, so good it might just ruin both of them. But maybe it didn't matter anymore. Not if they were one corporate sponsor's phone call away from being shut down.

"You can count on me," John said, low but firm. "You know that, right? Not just for the play, but it doesn't have to be anything more complicated than that."

Except that was wrong, because surely even John could see how complicated it was already. How the strands of their actions and motivations, their desires and fears, were already nearly hopelessly entangled. Looked at that way, it almost did seem inevitable. Meant to be. Sherlock tilted his head just a few millimetres more, finding his brain orchestrating illogical responses in his amygdala to the bags under John's eyes and the greying hair at his temples: tenderness, affection, base possessiveness.

"John..." Sherlock said, his voice reduced to barely a whisper. The anticipation was similar to the second time he'd injected a syringe full of cocaine solution into his arm. The first time he'd merely been curious; the second time he'd known what it would do.

"Yeah," John said quietly, with assurance.

"Is it all right..." he asked, solely to convince himself that he was committing to the action and not out of any sense that permission might be a good thing to gain.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's perfect."

John looked so calm; Sherlock wished he were that calm, but he was a wreck. This was ridiculous, just a kiss, billions of idiots did this every day with scarcely a thought. Once and it would be over. Once was all he was going to get anyway, before he did something stupid and ruined everything, as he surely would. He leaned down and brushed his lips over John's. The flood of endorphins was nearly overwhelming - due more, however, to the relief at finally giving vent to all the emotional and physical turmoil he'd put himself through over the past few weeks than to the fleeting stimulation of his nerve endings.

He kissed John again, more firmly, finding his footing so to speak - it had been years since he'd done this, after all - and he discovered he'd been wrong: he hadn't known John would taste like this, like the champagne from the reception over traces of toothpaste - must have brushed his teeth just before leaving his flat: had he anticipated (hoped for) this? - but most of all like laughter and secrets and promises made in the dark.

Somehow they had manoeuvred to face each other now, Sherlock with his hands on John's shoulders and John with his anchoring Sherlock's hips. John was letting Sherlock lead, but he was by no means passive. He leaned into every touch on his body, chased every caress of his mouth, pulled Sherlock closer and let Sherlock know through every response and breath how much he was enjoying the attention, as well as how important it was to him that Sherlock felt treasured and desired.

Sherlock, for his part, was immersed in the sensations bombarding his body and his metaphorical heart. He'd known, logically, that John wanted this - he'd been the object of physical desire and lust before, and even given in to it when it suited his whims and purposes - but at some level he'd never truly believed that John didn't just want this from Sherlock, but for him. This wasn't about taking physical pleasure, it was about sharing something and demonstrating something, and, Sherlock realised with a heart-stopping jolt, it was about communicating something. No words were spoken, no sounds at all other than the soft whispers of breath against each other's skin and into each other's mouths, the moist-slick pops of their lips and tongues meeting and parting, and the heavy rustle of their clothing. Yet Sherlock understood, he perceived every syllable of what John was telling him: You are important; I am privileged to have you in my life; you make me happy and I want to make you happy.

Sherlock's awareness of their surroundings had receded so completely that he startled when a voice called out, "Get a room!" followed by hoots and snickers. He lifted his head, half in a daze, and saw a group of four teenagers in jeans and hoodies - at least one of them certainly gay himself - jostling each other and pointing and laughing as they walked away down the path. Well, he'd certainly had worse directed at him. And, to be honest, they were lucky it wasn't a different type of group that happened to pass by.

Sherlock looked back down at John, but he was on the verge of laughter himself. John took a step back and put his hands in the pockets of his parka.

"Feel like I'm nineteen again," John said wryly. Sherlock didn't. Nineteen had been rather bad. "Maybe we should get going," John suggested, nodding back toward the main road. The risk of drawing unpleasant attention was unspoken but understood by both. Another very real complication which Sherlock had never cared much about in his younger, more reckless years. And which he preferred not to think about now. Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, too, and together they walked quietly out of the park, maintaining a small gap between them.

When they reached the street with the lights and heavier traffic, they stopped.

"My bus stop's-" John jerked his head back up the road.

"You could come back with me," Sherlock blurted out before John could say anything else. He didn't want the evening to end yet. He quite wanted to kiss John some more. A lot more.

John smiled, but there was a wince at the end. "There is literally nothing in the world I want to do more than that, but I think we should take it slow. It's been - I mean, Christ, you have no idea how long I wanted to do that-" John nudged his chin toward the park.

"Actually, I-"

"Okay, never mind, I'm sure you do." John pursed his lips, both amused and embarrassed. "I just think slow's been good so far. It's- We both have a lot to think about, yeah?" Sherlock's face must have betrayed something, because John rushed to assure him, "Not that I've changed my mind. I mean, that was- I'm going to be kicking myself when I get home for not going with you, but I don't want to mess this up. We should do this right. There are things we should probably talk about. Definitely. Talk about. And things we might need, and-" John looked away and shrugged his shoulders up to his ears and laughed at himself. "Fuck, I'm turning into a cross between a blushing teen and the health and hygiene bloke in fourth year."

"I should hope not," Sherlock said with something bordering on genuine horror. "Ours weighed about twenty stone and had the most appalling Brummie accent you'd ever care to hear."

John chuckled. "Something to aim for, then." His eyes twinkled playfully before taking on a more serious cast. "Really though, you understand. I want us both to be sure, and not to rush into things in the heat of the moment and regret it later."

Which meant Sherlock, because John's certainty regarding his intentions had been obvious for quite a while now. In a way, Sherlock resented that John didn't trust that he was an adult who knew his own mind, but at the same time he had to admit the knot in his stomach had loosened just a bit at John's temporary rejection. He hadn't really been planning to kiss John tonight (although he'd thought about it quite a bit at odd moments over the past few days), and he certainly hadn't been planning to invite him back to his house to have sex. It wasn't that he was apprehensive about any of the potential physical acts (within reason, and John hadn't given any indication that he habitually engaged in anything outside the mainstream); but it would perhaps be polite to at least provide clean sheets and get rid of the river mud experiment, which wasn't as interesting as he'd hoped and smelled admittedly rather foul.

"Yes, fine, I understand," Sherlock said grudgingly. "Although I'm also not going to change my mind," he had to add with a bit of a glare.

John grinned. "That's... yeah, good. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Unless one of us dies horribly under the wheels of a bus."

John huffed out a small laugh, but there was something strained in the way he said, "God, don't even joke about something like that."

Sherlock nodded, feeling wrong-footed (likely lost someone in a vehicular incident, why hadn't he figured that out earlier?). "Right, well. Good night, then." He wasn't sure what the protocol was at this point. Did one still shake hands with one's potential almost-lover? He took his hand out of his coat pocket to offer it anyway, but John bypassed it and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, leaned up and kissed him briefly on the mouth before echoing, "Good night, Sherlock."

Ah. The goodnight kiss then. Sherlock hoped John didn't expect to greet each other similarly in school the next morning. It wasn't that he was a prude, and he certainly didn't care about offending the sensibilities of any staff members, parents, or children who might see them, but he was not going to open himself up to the endless, smug remarks such a display was certain to engender from Lestrade, Stamford, and the like. Still, they weren't at the school now, and although he was aware of the potential for drawing unwanted attention, somehow the busy street seemed more anonymous and forgiving a venue than the semi-private park, so he followed John's lips to return the gesture, lingering just a moment longer for emphasis.

"Good night, John," Sherlock said again before stepping back demonstratively and raising an eyebrow. "You could still change your mind?"

John shook his head, grinning and pointing at him. "You bastard." He took a step away as well, toward the bus stop. "And we still have to discuss how we're going to stage the play in the ruins. Don't think you've distracted me that thoroughly."

"Damn," Sherlock said in mock chagrin.

John raised a hand as he started to walk away. "Good night. Give Gladstone a scratch from me."

"Oh, so you'll scratch my dog's itch but not mine," Sherlock called after him.

John rolled his eyes, turned, and disappeared amongst the other pedestrians.

%%%%%%

Go to chapter 15

Comments

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

” Sherlock had said he'd bring a camera, and John had displayed complete and utter confidence in the truth of that fact. It was a small thing, nothing to get sentimental about, yet Sherlock found himself doing just that.”

Oh that was lovely – probably the first time it’s ever happened to Sherlock in his adult life; how nice it was John!

”…but it was long enough for Sherlock to capture a snapshot of the moment and entrust it to his most secure vault”

Awww, fancy Sherlock getting sentimental . . .

”… and, within the space of a few minutes, experienced surprise, curiosity, and not a small amount of discomfort, Sherlock had known that allowing John Watson into his life would lead him to places he'd never been before, and had no desire to be. Because he hadn't known what was there.”

Ah now they’re getting somewhere – at least Sherlock is actually acknowledging what he’s feeling and realising that such a thing can be very good.

” John's face took on such an interesting expression that Sherlock was soundly disappointed when an outburst of applause around them cut off what was sure to have been a superlative response.”

*grin* yes, that would have been nice to hear (!) but it’s great that John can keep on surprising Sherlock.

” Yet Sherlock understood, he perceived every syllable of what John was telling him: You are important; I am privileged to have you in my life; you make me happy and I want to make you happy.”

Absolutely beautiful – what a lovely, lovely scene you wrote for them; I felt all sorts of happy at that. And . . . in taking their time, we get to enjoy the progression, too.

What at perfectly happy chapter.

[swissmarg]

Aw thank you! *snuggles comment hard*

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

Everything captured perfectly! The dialogue the emotion the tone the setting and that kiss!

[swissmarg]

Cool, thank you!

[xcausetolive.livejournal.com]

You know, I've been reading and impatiently waiting for updates of this beautiful story since the very beginning, and I think I haven't left one single comment... I feel terribly bad for that. I just wanted to let you know that I completely love this! I mean, the connection you've made between Sherlock and Nativity is p e r f e c t. And this chapter in particular was-- just-- *stupid smile* extremely lovely and cute and everything! Keep up the good work :D!

[swissmarg]

Thank you for checking in, I'm so happy you're enjoying this. I was also surprised at how well the fusion worked. More fun to come!

[withoutxaber.livejournal.com]

I honestly don't understand how you can be so talented with words and still be able to keep these wonderful characters true to how they are in Doyle's books and the various television programs.

I have been following this story since you first posted it and I apologise for not writing a comment beforehand.

I really adore the way that Sherlock and John interact, it's very natural and so how it would be in real life. Unlike a large amount of the JohnLock fanfictions out there, you haven't made either man overly feminine, you have kept their characters and I just love that so bloody much.

I also love the pacing of this.

The fact that you haven't made them jump straight into bed with one another is a breath of fresh air to be perfectly honest and the first kiss was just %ᵕ‿‿ᵕ% it was a darling little moment and I could picture it so clearly in my head.

I'm rambling haha

This is wonderful and I look forward to the next chapter :)

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

[swissmarg]

Thank you for such a lovely comment! I'm really happy the pace works for you. I did worry it was a bit slow, but I wanted to establish their friendship and other stuff first. :)

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, the kiss!!!!!! *happyhappyhappyhappy* Absolutely perfect. I loved how you contrasted John and his calmness and surety and Sherlock's mild panic - loved the description of him being a wreck (and that was before the kiss!). And I loved how Sherlock realized it was more about nerve endings and a lot of about communicating. :) *melts* It's such a beautiful moment and I love how we get glimpses of Sherlock's past and how different simiar experiences used to be for him. And I so adore John for his steadfastness and his openness.

Loved the "Get a room" and ahahahahah, Oh, so you'll scratch my dog's itch but not mine," Sherlock called after him. You're evil!!! :P

Thank you!! This chapter made me very happy. I really need to tuck the memory of their first kiss and the goodnight kiss away safely to take out when we get to the less happy chapters ahead. *nervous*

Anyway, still enjoying this story so very much!

[swissmarg]

It's like Christmas getting all these comments at once. :D

Yeah, I made Sherlock and John wait a long time for that kiss, I figured it couldn't just be a little peck. ;)

Some more fun ahead before the real angst sets in...

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

:))))) Unfortunately I have to work now, so that was the last one for now but I plan to catch up with the rest later today. :)

Talking of Christmas, are you by any chance going to write anything Johnlocky for Christmas???

[swissmarg]

The last chapter of this fic takes place on Christmas. :)

[frodosweetstuff.livejournal.com]

Yay!!! Looking forward to it! (Will there be a dreaded Christmas dinner???)

[swissmarg]

I don't want to give away anything more. It won't be long now though. :)