Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (17/23)

[swissmarg]

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Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author: swissmarg
Beta readers: ruth0007 and dioscureantwins
Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 6,087 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 Seventeen - The Studio Head

Sherlock wanted to touch John. Constantly. As he sat in the corner drinking his morning coffee and watched John chatting cheerfully with Molly on the other side of the teachers' lounge by the tea things, he feared the sign over his head not only now announced that he and John had shagged, but something a great deal more emotionally compromising.

John had left early that morning so he could go home and change. Sherlock wondered whether John would consider it precipitous if Sherlock suggested he simply move his things over to Sherlock's house. He couldn't have much, not more than a couple of suitcases and boxes. They could probably fit everything into a taxi. They could do it that afternoon. He'd said 'long-term relationship' (not directly in relation to Sherlock, true, but the subtext had been there). He didn't mind the blood and the mud (not much, anyway). And if Sherlock offered to charge him less than John's current flat cost, he'd really have no reason to refuse. Sherlock would have let him live there for free, of course, but he knew John wouldn't stand for that. He took out his mobile to look up John's landlord and send off an enquiry.

"Good morning." John pulled up a chair in front of Sherlock and sat down with a big, slightly sheepish grin. Sherlock was just able to stop himself from leaning in for a kiss.

"Hm," he grunted instead, still texting away. Of course they'd already exchanged the obligatory morning greetings earlier, in bed, followed by not nearly enough touching and kissing accompanied by mutual unspoken wonder that the other one was still there. Sherlock's chest tingled at the memory.

"Anything special on for the class today?" John nudged Sherlock's knee with his finger.

Sherlock had to look twice at the address of John's landlord to confirm whether it was Clarendon Management or Clarenden. This was absolutely unacceptable. He jerked his knee away.

John retracted his hand and sat back. "Sorry."

Sherlock had a flutter of annoyance at John's misinterpretation. "Distracting," he explained briefly without looking up from his mobile.

"Sorry," John said again, but this time, there was a grin behind the word.

Sherlock did look at John this time, raising an eyebrow. "You're not."

"Not really, no," he agreed smugly.

And God, how Sherlock wanted to kiss that look off his face. He scowled and punched out his message on the screen with more force than necessary. This, he realised with a flare of disgust, was precisely why workplace romances were always said to be a poor idea. Not because of the potential for distraction from work - although it really was unsporting of John to interfere with Sherlock's attempt to pave the way for their imminent cohabitation - but because there were stupid things like codes of conduct and Lestrade's bloody 'keep it professional' and the fact that even though at a certain level Sherlock wanted everyone to know that John Watson had deemed him, Sherlock Holmes, worthy not only of his time and attention but also of his affection, a much larger part of him felt this was too important and private to either be publicly flaunted or opened up for general comment. Even Lestrade's comment yesterday in which he took credit for introducing them chafed. As if Lestrade had anything to do with what went on between himself and John.

"-Sherlock?"

Sherlock became aware that John must have been trying to get his attention for a while. He hit 'send' on his message. "What?" he said irritably. He wondered if it wouldn't perhaps be faster to just call the landlord directly, posing as a potential tenant.

"Letters to Father Christmas," John (apparently) repeated.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, not really paying attention. The bell rang then anyway, and it was time to go to the classroom.

%%%%%%

It turned out that John had meant allowing the children to indulge their materialistic fantasies of a Christmas morning filled with mind-numbing electronics, ill-conceived gender-conformist bits of toxic plastic, unhealthy mass-produced confections that barely deserved to be called edible, and anything else the consumption- and profit-driven socio-industrial complex was advertising this year. Sherlock refused point-blank to have anything to do with the assignment, and left the lot for John to deal with and sort through over lunch. He may have made a bit of extra fuss to ensure that John didn't interrupt him while he checked his messages and made some calls. One lunch break without John was a fair sacrifice in order to ensure having him around every evening in future.

However, Clarenden Management hadn't responded to his email, and it turned out they took lunch breaks too. Rather than wait until the afternoon to ring them, Sherlock decided to resort to the brute force method, although it would be a bit trickier from his phone. He was just getting set up to hack into John's bank account to check his monthly debits when John wandered into 221A with a stack of papers in his hand.

"Sherlock..." he started, looking down at the sheets, which Sherlock recognised as the children's wish lists.

"That's your project, John. I don't want anything to do with it. You know I dislike repeating myself," Sherlock said. He tilted his phone so John couldn't see the screen with the bank information displayed.

"You should take a look at these." John laid the letters on the table.

"'Dear Father Christmas, I want a smart phone', 'Dear Father Christmas, give me loads of sweets'," Sherlock recited in a high-pitched, mocking voice.

"Yeah, it's more Playstations and Polly Pockets, but noted," John said with a funny little smile. He tapped the letters. "Read them, go ahead."

Sherlock glared a bit, but short of getting up and walking out, the fastest way to get rid of John would be to appease him. He pulled the pile toward him and stuffed his phone into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Dear Father Chrismas, I'm so scarred of not doing the play properly so please coud you make my Chrismas wish come true and make everyone love us in the play. P.S. Make me be Mary. Love Saffron

Dear Santa. Please send me loads of stuff. And suprises. I want to be happy. And see more of my Mum. Because she never spends any time with me. And please let me be Joseph. She's never seen me do a school play befor. Thank you very much. From Ollie.

"Yes, all right, you've made your point," Sherlock said, pushing the rest of the letters back toward John. "They all want to be Mary and Joseph, well done, your plan will make everyone happy."

John frowned and tilted his head to look at the letters on the table, as if checking on their content. "That's not- I mean, we knew that before. That's not the point here. Keep reading."

Sherlock flipped the pile around again with a great show of impatience and grabbed the next couple of sheets.

Dear Santa Please Please let my Chrismas wish come true Id really Love for everyone in the World to be happy even Mr Holmes Please help Mr Holmes find a Freind thank you very much From Emma

Dear father Christmas, please make my teacher happy because he seems really sad. He does'nt even like Christmas so please help him find his smile. Love, Isabelle.

Sherlock's heart froze. He laid the letters carefully back on top of the pile and stayed like that, one hand resting on the tabletop, not looking up. This was how it began. And ended. He'd let down his defences, exposed himself, let John see him - not everything, but it was enough.

"I didn't take you to be cruel," he said in a low voice.

"What the hell- Sherlock!" John exploded. "After last night, do you really imagine I'd- Jesus Christ, this isn't..." John braced both arms on the table and leaned in, speaking forcefully. "These kids care about you. That's what I'm trying to show you, after our talk yesterday. They're doing this play for their mums and their dads and for you." He pushed himself back up, hard, and ran a hand through his hair. (Upset, wants to hit something.)

Ah yes, the analogy of the custodial parent. Sherlock hadn't thought the point that important, had considered the topic closed. It was possible (obvious, now) he'd leapt to the wrong conclusion (but that's what happened when one let one's emotions get the upper hand). It didn't actually matter which one of them, if either, was better liked or more respected. They both had their strengths and weaknesses but they tended to pick up each other's slack. He'd thought that was clear to John. But maybe John hadn't thought it was clear to him. And now Sherlock was on the wrong footing again.

"If they actually wanted to make me happy, they'd use proper punctuation," Sherlock pointed out, the weak attempt at humour intended to be an apology of sorts.

John laughed, but it didn't abate his anger (hurt?). "I'm sorry, I thought... I don't know what I thought." He gathered up the children's notes. Sherlock was going to lose him. He could see it in the set of his jaw, in the sudden, worrying grey tone in his face.

"I'll do it." The words fell out before he'd considered what they would entail.

John paused, already halfway turned to go. He focused somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's cheek, not quite meeting his eye. "Sorry? You'll do what?" It was truly almost pathetic how eager John was to forgive. Sherlock thought he might possibly be able to live with it.

"I'll go see Mycroft." Distasteful, but apparently his last resort.

That brought John's eyes up the rest of the way. "You're going to ask your brother to film the play?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Didn't he just say that? "He's going to say no," he warned.

"Why go then?" John shot back immediately.

Because you want me to, Sherlock thought. Plain and simple. And with that thought, he knew he was done for. This was what he'd been fighting against his entire life: doing things simply because someone else wanted him to. Eat your Brussels sprouts. We share our toys. You're really overdue for a haircut. You can't possibly mean to wear that. Well, if it must be music then at least the Royal College. Stop this, Sherlock, you're upsetting Mummy.

Nothing had ever worked. Not pretty smiles, not cross finger-waving, not tears, not threats, and certainly not being cut off from any means of support and told to fend for himself. Until now. Until a worn (resilient), unassuming (steadfast), discarded (loyal), little (great) man appeared and told him he was extraordinary, and gorgeous, and brilliant, and meant every word of it.

"Do I really need to justify myself in this?" Sherlock retorted, letting his discomfort at his surrender come out in his tone.

John held up his hands, a bitter gesture. "No, no. By all means."

"Will you..." Now Sherlock was the one unable to look John in the eye. "It would be useful if you accompanied me," he said stiffly.

John took a moment to answer, a moment during which Sherlock could all but hear his pride warring with his sense of loyalty and honour. Finally, he answered, "After everything you've told me about your brother, I can't possibly turn down a chance like that." John paused when he got to the door. "And you know," he said, his tone now softer, as he looked down at his hand on the handle, "the kids aren't the only ones who want you to be happy. But sometimes you make it bloody difficult."

%%%%%%

By the time the afternoon lessons began, John seemed to have put the lunchtime incident behind him, although he was perhaps a bit quieter and more reserved than usual. But at least he was looking at Sherlock and speaking civilly and even smiling from time to time. While the children gave their book reports, Sherlock kept himself occupied planning the best way to approach Mycroft.

It was probably enough that he agreed to try, but it would be even better if they were actually successful. Better for John's opinion of Sherlock, that is. Sherlock had insisted all along that Mycroft would never send a crew to film the Nativity, but maybe he could play into that to turn the tables. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was counting on him saying no. But if Sherlock could make Mycroft think he cared more about being right than about the play, Mycroft was just contrary enough to try and pull the rug out from under Sherlock's feet and make him look foolish in front of John by agreeing to film the play after all. Sherlock didn't personally care whether Whitehall got involved, but it would certainly be the easier solution, with the bonus of making John happy. Yes, Sherlock would have to eat a little crow in private, but on the other hand he could do quite a bit of crowing publicly in front of Moriarty, Moran, and the 'I-told-you-so-ers' on the school staff. And if, on the other hand, Mycroft stuck to his guns and made his excuses, Sherlock wouldn't be any worse off than he was now.

He was almost looking forward to the visit by the time the bell rang at the end of the school day. It had been a long time since he'd last locked wits with his brother, much less in front of an audience he wanted to impress.

Sherlock was nagging the last few stragglers to clean up their workspace when he had an idea for the perfect final touch to their visit to Whitehall: children. Mycroft hated children. The only silver lining to family gatherings was seeing Mycroft's face when Mummy asked when she could expect grandchildren. Sherlock was never asked (he didn't want to examine the reasons for that). But if Sherlock brought a couple of his pupils along to Mycroft's expensively decorated office, forced him to make polite faces at them, maybe even threatened to let them sing - or dance - the entire project would be a victory no matter what other outcome. Yes, a stroke of genius.

Practicalities first, however. "Which of you is free this afternoon to go on a little trip to Whitehall?" Sherlock asked the handful of children still left in the room. The rest were already out with John in the hall putting on their coats and boots.

Six eager hands shot into the air.

"Saffron and Liam." Sherlock pointed at the lucky pair. The girl had two left feet (and was, incidentally, no mean dissembler), and the boy had a perpetual head cold. Perfect.

%%%%%%

Sherlock sprang for a hackney cab for the four of them to take them out to the studio complex. He was still basking in John's approval, having presented the children as the perfect way to guilt Mycroft into saying yes.

"Who could say no to a face like this?" he'd asked, cueing Saffron to put on her sweet-as-an-angel look, the same one she'd used earlier that week when Ollie sat on a piece of chewed gum. Liam gave John a gap-toothed grin and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. John handed him a tissue and leaned over his head to mutter to Sherlock, "You're a manipulative bastard."

Sherlock rather agreed. And the way John's breath had warmed his neck and the crinkles around John's eyes had betrayed his not-so-secret amusement were their own rewards.

"And you're sure it's all right?" John asked as they got into the cab. He and Sherlock took the forward-facing back seats while the children climbed happily into the jump seats. "I mean we can't just take them-"

"Do give me some credit, John," Sherlock said. "I checked, it's all fine." They wouldn't need to be home for hours yet.

Saffron whispered something to Liam and they both broke out in giggles. Sherlock tried to ignore them, but they kept looking at him, then at John, then giggling. Tedious.

"What is it?" Sherlock finally demanded.

"Jade..." Saffron could barely contain herself. "Jade said her brother saw you kissing!" As soon as the words were out, she looked wide-eyed from Sherlock to John, apparently surprised at her own cheek. Liam slapped both hands over his face.

There was silence for a moment. John didn't move. Saffron held her breath. Sherlock considered what the brother might have seen: there had been that group of youths who passed them in the riverside park. And there had been plenty of people around on the main street by the bus stop after that.

John was the one who finally spoke. "Did she?" he said mildly. "You should know better than to spread gossip."

John's approach might have been the more politic one, but it cut a bit too close to a denial. "She's right," Sherlock said.

Liam dropped his hands and gaped. Saffron tittered. John turned toward him.

"Yes, I kissed John. Mr Watson," Sherlock clarified, meeting Saffron's eye. Her giggles subsided.

"Sherlock..." John said softly.

"There's nothing wrong with it, John. Unless you think there is?" Sherlock turned to look at him. He knew John was comfortable with his sexuality - with the two of them being together - when they were alone, but now Sherlock recalled the way he'd immediately stepped away and wiped his mouth when Lestrade walked in on them and the careful space he'd maintained between them walking out of the park. Sherlock was fairly certain it was due to wanting to avoid trouble rather than any suppressed shame, however. And John's response seemed to confirm that.

"No..." John said, shaking his head slowly. "No." His smile grew until he had to look away out the window.

Sherlock smiled too and wished they were alone. Later.

%%%%%%

In the event, it was embarrassingly easy to gain an audience. Sherlock had barely announced his name before a dark-haired, Blackberry-wielding assistant (yoga, tinted contacts, trying to get pregnant) appeared and ushered them down a plushly carpeted hallway, texting continuously and admonishing them that Mr Holmes had a very tight schedule but just happened to have a few minutes free before he was due in a conference call.

"Sherlock! How kind of you to drop in." Mycroft came around his pretentiously large desk to greet them. "And you've brought the family, how lovely. Dr Watson, I presume?" He shook John's hand. The sight of John's hand in Mycroft's was disturbing.

"Yes, I'm ah..." John chanced a look at Sherlock, but Sherlock frowned and gave his head a tiny negative shake. That was Mycroft's little dig, telling Sherlock he knew what was going on and being disapproving at the same time. Sherlock looked around furiously for something to shoot back with, but Mycroft was good at hiding things and it had been too long since they'd seen each other. Oh, Sherlock could read lots of things in his clothing, the arrangement of his desk, the art on the walls, but it was harder to tell which of those things Mycroft didn't want him to see, and which he hoped he would.

But wait... No personal pictures, the crack about the family, the continued focus on John, the - yes, the resignation around his mouth, the barely perceptible straightening of his shoulders as if reminding himself to buck up - Mycroft was jealous. Not of John specifically (Mycroft preferred women, when he was in the mood, which wasn't often), but of the fact that Sherlock had someone in his life. Could he see so much in just a few seconds? Did he see more than Sherlock, in fact? Because not even Sherlock was sure what he and John had, what they were to each other. Was it truly something to engender envy in his brother? Sherlock forced himself to keep his eyes on Mycroft. There was no telling what else he might give away if he looked at John right now.

"I'm Sherlock's classroom assistant at the school," John said, managing not to make it sound as if he were either correcting Mycroft or taking offense at his jest. "And these two are Saffron and Liam, two of our pupils."

"Charming." Mycroft regarded them with a pinched little smile before returning his attention quickly to John. "Can I offer you anything? Something to drink, perhaps?" he asked as he herded everyone into chairs his assistant produced out of nowhere.

"No," Sherlock said at the same time as John said, "Thank you, that would be lovely." John gave Sherlock a funny look, which Sherlock returned.

Sherlock made sure he ended up seated next to John, and adjusted his chair so they were angled toward each other and within easy reach. Sherlock caught Mycroft measuring the distance from Sherlock's hand to John's knee. Liam and Saffron ended up on the far side of John, closer to Mycroft. Perfect.

Mycroft's assistant took John's request for fizzy drinks for the children and a cup of tea for himself. Sherlock waved her off. He wasn't planning on staying long enough to take tea. Although giving the children something sticky and spillable was perhaps not such a bad idea.

"Well now, this is certainly a surprise," Mycroft said in a way that even John must understand to mean it was anything but. "I do believe this is the first time you've graced us with your presence here, Sherlock." (Meaning: you must be very desperate indeed.) A poor start, as it meant Mycroft knew he held all the cards. Well, Sherlock would just have to make him believe he didn't care what Mycroft did.

"Don't try to be subtle, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled. "We both know why I'm here."

"Do we?" Mycroft asked politely.

"Very well, if you insist," Sherlock sighed in his most put-upon voice. "Dear brother Mycroft, please will you make a movie out of our Nativity," Sherlock sing-songed. Then he modulated his pitch to mimic Mycroft's more nasal tone: "So sorry, can't spare the time, perhaps next year."

"It would only mean a couple of hours," John interjected, but not without first casting an irritated glance in Sherlock's direction. It was then that Sherlock saw the flaw in his plan. He had depended on John having faith in his assessment of Mycroft's character and the futility of the visit. Presenting an argument in favour of the filming was like exposing a jugular to Mycroft's instinct for blood.

"To capture the raw footage, perhaps," Mycroft said, failing to keep the condescension off his face. "But after that comes the editing, the mixing. All with equipment that's already been allocated to other projects."

"It's really a very unique Nativity," John continued, undeterred.

Mycroft sighed and not-so-surreptitiously checked his watch. "It happens every year, in every school up and down the country. What's so special about this one?"

"A good question," John said briskly. "Here's an even better answer." John leaned over and whispered to the children, "One, two, three, four..."

%%%%%%

"They're not coming, are they?" Saffron asked in a small voice once they were in the cab back to the school. It was dark already, and both of the children's energy was flagging. Time to get them back before tears erupted.

"Well spotted," Sherlock said. "What was it that tipped you off? Being escorted off the premises by security?" He had to hand it to Mycroft for not pulling any punches on account of the children.

"Sherlock!" John scolded. "No," he said to Saffron, more gently. "No, I don't think they are."

"Is it our fault?" Liam's lip was already trembling.

"No! Not at all," John assured him. "No, it's... adult things like money and prior commitments."

"Although they could have sung a bit better," Sherlock mentioned.

"Sherlock!" John said sharply. "Not helping."

"I'd say I told you so..."

"Yes, right, thank you, got it," John grumbled. "It was worth a shot."

Well, perhaps. It had been a long shot at best. Sherlock wondered if things might have gone differently had he let John in on his plan. Probably not. John was a terrible liar. But at least they were no worse off than before. In fact, they could now (mostly) honestly tell Lestrade and the sponsors that the deal had fallen through. These things happened.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket, annoyed. Lestrade. Stupid. The man knew he never took a call. And four messages. Tedious. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Whatever it was could wait until tomorrow. He hadn't been able to get the information about John's rent either, and now it was the weekend. He'd wanted John to stay over again tonight, but he really needed to use his computer at home to get a proper look at John's bank account, and that would obviously be better to do without him around. He was considering whether it was worth the risk of sneaking back downstairs once John was asleep when the blue flashing lights of a police car ahead caught his attention.

They were almost at the school, and in fact... as the cab pulled up across the street, Sherlock saw the police car was in front of the school, and there was Lestrade, talking to a uniformed officer, while several other people stood around them, including Molly Hooper.

"What's going on?" Saffron asked, leaning over to press her nose against the window for a better look.

"I don't know," John said, "but let's just wait a moment while Mr Holmes checks it out." John nodded Sherlock toward the door.

As soon as Sherlock stepped out of the cab, the entire group with Lestrade lunged across the street toward him.

"Sherlock, there you are!" "We've been trying to-" "Why haven't you been answering-" "Do you know where John is?" "When did you last see-"

As the situation became clear despite everyone talking at once, Sherlock despaired of the general intelligence of humanity. Obviously the children were fine. They'd been with him and John the entire time. It wasn't even six o'clock, and the children hadn't missed any lessons or appointments. When he was their age, as long as he was present for at least one meal a day and at bedtime, no one much cared where or how he spent his time. If the police had been summoned every time he took longer than an hour getting home from school, they might as well have assigned an officer permanently to the Holmes household.

By now, the children's presence in the cab had been noted, and the doors were flung open and there was an outcry and hugs and tears and Sherlock began to have a very bad feeling about this entire adventure.

%%%%%%

"Explanations. Now." Lestrade paced in front of Sherlock, John and Molly in his office.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's nothing to explain. Nothing happened-"

"Nothing to explain?" Lestrade all but exploded. "You took two children out of here without permission-"

"What? Sorry, but we had permission," John broke in. "Sherlock got permission before we left."

Hearing that, hearing and seeing John's absolute conviction, Sherlock's stomach did something funny, and it wasn't the usual pleasant thing it had taken to doing around John.

"Is that so?" Lestrade's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "From who, I'd like to know, because it wasn't me and it sure as hell wasn't either of their parents."

"Whom," Sherlock muttered; "from whom." This was not going to end well. He could see that already. John had exhibited an enormous capacity for forgiveness so far, however. Not only that, he'd thrown himself whole-heartedly into backing up Sherlock's lies, and even laughed about beating up Moriarty. And if there was one thing Sherlock had learned about John it was that his reactions were rarely predictable. Maybe he wouldn't be quite as upset as Sherlock suspected he was going to be.

"For Christ's sake," Lestrade said, throwing his hands up in disgust. "You'd think you'd be a little less blasé about this kind of thing after what happened with the Bruhl twins."

"They were with us the entire time!" Sherlock cried in exasperation. Honestly, you'd think Lestrade would give him that much credit. He'd made sure that neither Liam nor Saffron had anything else on that afternoon; he'd had them back by supper time; and of course he hadn't let them out of his sight once. Not that the two children of the American ambassador had suffered any lasting injury from their brief excursion that one time, either. A bit of stomach-ache from overindulding on sweets was all, but Sherlock had nothing to do with that. He couldn't understand why everyone kept bringing it up.

"Oh, well that's a relief," Lestrade sniped. "Because it's not as if that's still abduction or anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The way some people bandied terms about for the shock value. Even the police – small-witted as they were – hadn't actually charged Sherlock with anything that time. Not that they should have; it had simply been a huge misunderstanding. As this was.

But Lestrade wasn't done yet. "And why didn't you fucking answer your phone, either of you?" He pointed back and forth between Sherlock and John.

"My um..." John cleared his throat. "My battery's down. Couldn't recharge it last night, so I had to leave it at home this morning."

Sherlock flushed inwardly at the memory of just why John didn't go home last night.

Lestrade rounded on Sherlock. "And your grand excuse?"

"You know I never answer calls," Sherlock said disdainfully.

"Texts? I sent several of those."

"I was in a meeting, I couldn't look at them."

"Sorry, could I?" John gestured at the pocket where Sherlock kept his phone.

Sherlock took it out and tossed it at John. As if he needed to prove anything.

While John clicked through screens, Lestrade turned to Molly, who had been watching the exchange wide-eyed, wringing her hands. "Did you know about this?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I didn't know about today," she swore. "About going to the studio. But I did know about-"

John looked up. "They're unread," he confirmed. Sherlock huffed. Of course they were. Did anyone honestly think he would have ignored a direct question about the children's whereabouts?

But Lestrade brushed the information aside, and focused on Molly instead. "What did you know about? What did you know?" he demanded.

Molly turned toward John and Sherlock and pleaded, "Look, we have to tell him."

"Tell me, Molly," Lestrade repeated. "What did you know?"

"Right, well..." She blew out a nervous breath of air. "Actually, the studio, um, they're not coming." She winced and checked whether anyone was going to stop her, but Lestrade had that gormless look of disbelief he was so fond of, and John was still reading through Lestrade's texts. (Really, there were only four, how slow a reader was he?)

Molly went on, "Sherlock... panicked, I think, and ... lied...a little..."

Lestrade closed his eyes. "Of course. Bloody..."

"John had nothing to do with it," Sherlock said immediately.

Lestrade opened his eyes and looked at John, almost sad. "Did you know?"

John glanced up from Sherlock's phone. "Yes. Yes, I did." But the way he said it... distracted, as if he didn't realise he was signing off on his own dismissal. Sherlock would have liked to take a closer look at him, but he had his own damage control to finish with first.

Lestrade nodded, as if he'd expected John's answer.

"He didn't know, Lestrade," Sherlock insisted. "He was just going along with what I told him."

"That's no excuse and it's also really not the point, Sherlock." Lestrade sounded weary now, his earlier anger spent or perhaps just rendered ineffective. "You were entrusted with- No, scratch that. I, I was the one who trusted you. You've been given chance after chance after chance. I've stood up for you, I've covered you, I've put my arse on the line for you. I trusted you with children, small actual lives. I thought this whole thing with the play, that it was something you'd rise to the challenge of, but it's been nothing but a slow march down to hell from start to finish, isn't that right?"

"I did warn you-"

Lestrade laughed, a bitter sound. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. You did. This one's on me, then. Because it's never your fault, is it? It's everyone else's fault for trusting you. For seeing something good in you. Well, that's the end of it now. I can't cover you this time, Sherlock. No one can. You either, John. You're both out. And the play is cancelled, obviously. Consider this your two weeks' notice. As to the police... no idea. I think there'll be some people out there who'll want to talk to you, at least. But I'm officially done. I wash my hands of you." He went to the door but deflated a bit and paused before opening it. "For what it's worth, though," he said, standing with his back to them, "I'm sorry." Still shaking his head, Lestrade left with Molly trailing after him, her head bowed.

As soon as they were alone, John held Sherlock's phone up to show him the display. "Tell me what this is," he said. His voice was very steady, very controlled.

Sherlock looked at the screen. It showed the page he'd been working on earlier, trying to access John's bank account. He'd left it open, meaning to come back to it.

"It's a web page," Sherlock said, knowing that was the wrong answer but unable to come up with a valid reason for having John's account page open that wouldn't make things even worse.

"Don't fuck with me, Sherlock," John said. He was using that same beautiful, dangerous tone he had when warning Moriarty off.

"It's... I needed information."

"From my bank account."

There was no way around it. "Yes."

"Are you going to tell me what information that might be?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, unable to say the word.

"Because it had better be a very, very good reason."

It was, oh it was, it was the best reason, but somehow Sherlock didn't think John would see it the same way. Well, he might have thought the reason behind it was good - hopefully very good - but judging by his current reaction, he probably wouldn't think much of the way Sherlock was going about doing it. And coupled with the incident with the children – which had turned out to be an unmitigated disaster, no matter how one looked at it - Sherlock thought on the whole he was probably better off not digging himself in any deeper.

"I can't. It's... not a good time right now," was all Sherlock could manage to come up with.

John nodded, turned off the mobile display, and set the phone down precisely on the edge of Lestrade's desk. "Not a good time," he repeated in a low voice. "No, no it really isn't."

"Will you... We could go somewhere. Talk or... or something."

"Yeah, I think I just need a little space right now. There's probably something here I'm just not seeing, but I don't... I'll call you, all right?" He was speaking too lightly; he should be yelling or swearing or hitting something, not this controlled politeness.

Sherlock couldn't do anything but nod because he didn't have any words. He wasn't even sure what was bothering John more, the thing with his bank account or the fact that they'd taken the kids without permission or being fired or something else altogether. Then, realising that John wasn't actually looking at him - hadn't looked at him since he'd set the phone down - he said, as calmly as he could manage, "Yes, all right."

Because it was all right, wasn't it? It wasn't 'you utter freak'. It wasn't 'get the fuck out of my life'. It was just like before: they'd say good night, go to their own homes for a few hours, and then they'd see each other again tomorrow. Monday at the latest. John would be in a better mood after some food and a rest, and by then Sherlock would have come up with a perfectly reasonable explanation for having directed his browser to John's account login page. Everything was going to be absolutely, perfectly fine. It had to be.

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Go to chapter 18

Comments

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

”Until a worn (resilient), unassuming (steadfast), discarded (loyal), little (great) man appeared and told him he was extraordinary, and gorgeous, and brilliant, and meant every word of it.”

Oh what a beautiful, loving thought; John would love to know that’s how Sherlock sees him . . .

”Everything was going to be absolutely, perfectly fine. It had to be.”

Well, I admire his optimism, but he’s still so clueless sometimes – about everything!!

[swissmarg]

Thank you, that first one seems to be a popular line. :) With the second, I don't think he's optimistic at all. He's in denial. He knows that all his lies and attempts at manipulation have caught up to him and that things will absolutely not go back to normal tomorrow.