Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (18/23)
Nov. 8th, 2013 08:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmarg
Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007 and Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 3,356 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 Eighteen - The Week After
The police pulled them aside for interviews - separately - as soon as they stepped out of Lestrade's office. It was easy to convince the officer that it was a case of poor judgment rather than malicious intent, but when they finally let Sherlock go, John had already left. While it was obvious where he'd gone and with whom (pub, Stamford - clearly the 'space' he needed was away from Sherlock, not humanity in general) Sherlock opted not to shadow him. Instead, he went home, got Gladstone, and set off for a long walk and a think. His time would be utilised more efficiently coming up with a plan for what to do next than dwelling on the look on John's face when he'd left Lestrade's office.
First things first. As John would now be alert to any remote logins to his bank account and Sherlock wouldn't be able to get in touch with anyone from Clarenden before Monday, he sent a text to Wiggins asking him to task someone with chatting up some of the tenants in John's building and getting the rent figures from them. That would hopefully be sorted within 24 hours.
Next was the problem of what to tell John about him nosing around in his finances. He couldn't tell him the truth - that he wanted to make sure he was undercutting John's current rent - as that would defeat the entire purpose. He could come close, though, saying he'd wanted to see how much John was earning from his pension and the school, so that he could figure out how much he would need to make to match or hopefully exceed his current income.
Because aside from losing the job at the school, it was time for John to get back into his chosen field. He couldn't do surgery with his current physical limitations, but surely he could pick up some locum hours at a general clinic somewhere. One with a social agenda would likely appeal to him best, Sherlock decided as he brought up a list of medical facilities within a half-hour of the house; it wouldn't do to waste time that John could be spending with him, on a long commute.
Of course he would have preferred John not have an outside job at all to divide his attention, but if Sherlock didn't find him one tailor-made to his own specifications, John was likely to go out and find his own, maybe even in another city, and that wouldn't do at all. No, a minimum number of irregular hours should satisfy John's need to feel that he was a self-sufficient, useful member of society, and provide enough variety for him not to be bored or understimulated, yet sufficiently close to supply Sherlock’s needs of having John around as much as possible.
He'd have to look over the list more carefully when he got home, see if he had contacts anywhere and take a closer look at their staffing policies, but it was a good start.
Then there was the question of his own employment. It was less urgent than the issues involving John, but he would eventually have to find another source of income. And not in the educational field. He could probably get by for food and clothing for a little while by calling in favours, but he needed cash for the house and utilities. If only someone would pay him to squirt blood at walls, deduce people's secrets, and find the quickest route on foot from the power station to the war memorial. What a tender world that would be.
%%%%%%
Sherlock held off until Saturday afternoon before texting John.
Busy? -SH
John didn't reply immediately, so Sherlock set the phone aside and tried to concentrate on identifying lipstick brands from the paper cups he'd collected from the bin at Speedy's. After fifteen minutes of watching the phone out of the corner of his eye, he gave up and called for Gladstone.
There was absolutely nothing to be concerned about, he told himself as he hooked on the dog's lead and set off down the street. At least the rain was holding off. If only the last image he had of John wasn't with his shoulders hunched over and his face averted, being escorted away by a uniformed officer. Sherlock wished now that he'd gone out and hunted him down at the pub after all. Even if he'd only seen him from afar, at least he wouldn't have looked so empty.
But everything was going to be back to normal now. Sherlock had his plans in place. He hadn't heard back from Wiggins, but he was confident he would before the day was out. With John out of work, he was even more likely to appreciate the offer of cheap housing. And on that same note, Sherlock had narrowed the list of job opportunities for John down to a clinic in a low-income area and two group practices, one specialising in rehabilitation following traumatic injuries and the other catering largely to the South Asian immigrant population. John would be a valuable addition to the staff at any of them, and more importantly, the social-minded aspects of each would appeal to him.
He and Gladstone ended up at the park near the school. It had a large field, so Sherlock sat on a bench and took Gladstone off the lead so he could run a bit. The sky still didn't look very promising, and there weren't many other people around. He checked his phone. Still no messages.
At the park with Gladstone. Come if convenient. -SH
After consideration, he decided that wasn't clear enough, and added:
If not convenient, suggest alternative. -SH
When there was no response after several minutes, Sherlock began to think John had neglected to recharge his phone again. He stood to call Gladstone back, thinking they might take the long way back past John's flat, when his message alert chimed.
Text from John Watson
not available right now sorry. will ring later
A prickly sensation crawled up Sherlock's neck. If he were really occupied, he'd have said with what.
Come over. Tonight. -SH
Text from John Watson
can't. please
The prickly sensation migrated into Sherlock's stomach and lodged itself there. This was... He forced himself to take a deep breath, in and out. John was still upset. He'd been upset with Sherlock before. It had never lasted longer than a few minutes, true, but then this was the confluence of several things at once. Sherlock needed to see him, to implement his plans. Make John see that he was making too much out of nothing.
Sherlock called sharply to Gladstone and strode purposefully with him out of the park. He needed to gather more data.
%%%%%%
John wasn't at his flat. Sherlock wished he'd taken Gladstone home first. The dog was useless on a stakeout, but he didn't want to lose the time now. He resorted to parking him a couple of blocks away in front of a supermarket. On his way back, he ducked into a coffee shop to hang his coat on the rack by the door and grab a blue wind cheater (left behind several days ago) that was wadded up on top of the shelf over the hangers. He mussed his hair thoroughly and affected a slouching gait that took a couple of inches off his height. It wasn't a great disguise, but then John wouldn't be looking for him. It should serve.
To his delight, he found the rest of a packet of cigarettes in the pocket of the borrowed jacket. He begged a light off a girl at a bus stop on the way back to John's street. God, that first drag felt good, even if he knew he'd pay for it later in cravings. It was dangerous; giving in to one craving opened the door to all the rest. He really needed it now, though. And there were only four cigarettes left, and he wasn't going to buy any more.
Now he needed someplace to watch John's flat from. It had started to drizzle in the meantime. Unfortunately, there weren't any cafes or other businesses on John's street that would allow him to see the building entrance and spend a couple of hours without arousing suspicion. The bus stop, although convenient, was also out of the question, as John was likely to return home that way.
He walked up and down the street until he found a car (elderly owner, rarely driven, not moved in at least two weeks) with the older type of manual lock. A few minutes later, he was inside, shaking back his hair and wiping the water off his face with his sleeve. All that was left to do was wait. He rationed the cigarettes, and after an hour, got out to relocate Gladstone under the awning of a restaurant.
When his text alert sounded on his way back to the car, he nearly dropped his phone in his eagerness to open the message. But it was only Wiggins reporting back with a figure that very nearly amounted to Sherlock's entire monthly mortgage payment. Ironically, he could offer to split costs evenly with John - even show him the bank papers to prove it - and still save him thousands of pounds a year.
Sherlock had finished all of the cigarettes and moved Gladstone two more times before John finally turned up (hadn't been to a pub or out walking; Stamford's?). He had a takeout bag in his hand (staying in, doesn't feel like cooking but still has an appetite). It was dark now, and even with the street lighting Sherlock wasn't close enough to see his face in detail, but judging from the way he was moving, he was tired but not angry. Maybe he was more amenable.
Waiting. -SH
John paused in front of the house to take his phone out. He checked it, then jammed it (ah, there's the anger) back into his jeans and went inside. Sherlock waited, mentally following him up to his flat (light on, second floor, third window from the left), giving him time to put his jacket away and bring the food into the kitchen. Accounted for John's abysmally slow typing. He even gave him time to use the toilet. Still no response.
Don't be ridiculous. I know you don't have anything else on. Bring the food. -SH
This time the reponse came quickly:
Text from John Watson
r u fucking following me? stop it. i mean it. turning phone off
Well, at least it was something to go on. More than the evasions he'd gotten earlier. He'd prefer to stay until the light in John's flat went out, but he needed to get Gladstone before someone reported him.
%%%%%%
Sherlock sent several texts on Sunday as well, but either John was serious about turning his phone off, or he was ignoring Sherlock. Which amounted to the same thing. He decided not to force a meeting, although it meant an extra day of this puerile posing on John's part. They'd see each other at school on Monday anyway. And then, once Sherlock was able to show John what he'd been planning, everything that happened on Friday would be forgotten. It was tedious, but Sherlock was willing to exercise that much patience until then. John (like most people) was more or less ruled by his emotions, so allowances had to be made. The benefits of John's companionship were greater than the minor inconvenience of being ignored for a day. And once John moved in, such things were much less likely to occur.
On Monday morning, Sherlock ordered two coffees at Speedy's, his usual and a second with cream (the real stuff). He'd often found that the best strategy was to act as if nothing unpleasant had transpired. John wasn't in the teachers' lounge yet when Sherlock arrived, so he sat in his usual corner and checked his messages while he waited. John still hadn't written back. Childish. Sherlock huffed and put his phone away, watching the other teachers.
There were more disapproving looks than usual, and he caught snatches of '...still doing here', '...fired', and '...a crying shame'. He glared right back. He hadn't done anything wrong and certainly didn't feel any need to tuck his tail between his legs. In fact, he'd only been trying to help the school, and look how he was repaid.
When Molly Hooper came in, she gave Sherlock a nervous smile and looked like she wanted to come over and speak to him. Instead, she grabbed the papers in her inbox and scurried back out. So much the better. Sherlock didn't feel like dealing with her this morning, especially not before he'd spoken to John. He checked his watch. Three minutes until the bell rang, and John still wasn't there. His coffee was going to be cold. Maybe he'd gone directly to the classroom, as he had on the first day. Sherlock took both cups and swept past the cold looks on his way out.
When he got to 221B, though, John was nowhere in sight. Lestrade had said two weeks' notice. But maybe John had taken it to mean immediate termination. Or had something happened to him? Surely someone would have said something. Was that what Molly had wanted to tell him? But she hadn't looked upset, as she would have if John were injured.
There was nothing to do but get on with it. Sherlock gulped down his by now lukewarm coffee, tossed John's into the bin, and went to his desk just as the bell rang.
The children wanted to know where Mr Watson was, of course. Sherlock merely handed out a reading comprehension text and sat down to check his phone again. Nothing. He ran his hands through his hair. This was intolerable. He needed a cigarette. Was this what worry felt like? This ants-under-the-skin urge to do something, to demand from Molly, Lestrade, anyone, where John was?
%%%%%%
"Mrs Hudson." Sherlock smiled his best ingratiating smile at the school secretary. It was break time, and he didn't have long. "John didn't call in sick this morning, did he?"
Mrs Hudson looked up at him from her desk, her face falling. "Oh dear. Didn't anyone tell you?" She stood up (hip still giving her trouble) and came around the desk to stand in front of him, laying a hand on his arm. Sherlock froze as his mind raced ahead: John had had an accident; he was in hospital; he was in a coma; he was dead. Mrs Hudson's next words didn't mitigate the feeling by much: "He called this morning and said he wouldn't be coming in any more," she said, squeezing Sherlock's arm gently.
This must be what normal people felt like when confronted with an obvious fact they were unable to comprehend. Because that wasn't the right answer. It couldn't be. "But there are two weeks left to the term," he said stupidly. John had to come back. This couldn't be the end.
"I suppose he thought with the play being cancelled, he wasn't needed any more. I'm sorry." She patted his arm once more and let go.
Not needed anymore. No, Sherlock didn't need him, did he. He'd never needed John. He'd done fine before him, and he'd be fine now. That wasn't the point. The point was that now he knew he wanted John. He'd allowed himself to give in to a craving. Stupid. Colossally so.
"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson said, gingerly, as if afraid he was going to do something sudden and violent.
Sherlock frowned down at her. He understood perfectly. It was like the conservatory, and this job, and everything he ever invested even the slightest bit of himself in. It occurred to him that he didn't actually know whether it was the bank account or the unauthorised field trip with the children that had done him in. Possibly it was simply the accumulated burden of everything else on top of Sherlock's difficult personality.
"No... Yes. Yes, it's fine," he said, drawing himself up smartly, because if there was one thing he didn't want, it was anyone's pity or sympathy. "That's right. No play, no need for an assistant. I should have realised."
"Are you going to be all right, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, her concern written all over her face. "I know the two of you had become close."
"We weren't close," Sherlock scoffed. "He was simply another member of staff. It doesn't matter." He waved a hand as if dismissing all of the past month. Had it only been a month? Even better. What was a month to the rest of his life? Nothing lasting only a month had ever impacted his life before. This was no different.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, equal parts sympathy and disappointment.
Sherlock shot her a look and left, throwing the door shut behind him.
%%%%%%
"Will Mr Watson be here this afternoon?" Saffron asked at the end of the morning lessons.
"No, he will not," Sherlock said shortly.
Ollie looked up from pulling his lunch bag out of his backpack. "But he was going to teach me and the lads the choreography for the three wise men," he protested.
"Four!" Bob chirped.
Ollie rolled his eyes and gave Sherlock a look as if to say, 'You and I both know the only reason he's in.' Sherlock almost smiled in sympathy, but he did know the reason Bob was one of the wise men, and it was because John had seen something in the awkward runt of the litter. Maybe even something of himself.
"Mr Watson will not be back this afternoon, or ever, for that matter." It turned out that was surprisingly difficult to say, which didn't make any sense. It was simply a fact. No different than saying there were two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco, or Anderson was an idiot.
There was a small chorus of disbelief in response to his statement.
"And as for the play..." Sherlock looked around. All of the children were paused in their preparations for lunch, watching him with big eyes. Again, they were only facts, but it took an immense effort to form the words. "Something has changed. I let you believe that Whitehall Studios were coming to make a movie out of the play, but it turns out they aren't. In fact, they never were. I lied about it, and I let that lie grow, and multiply, and turn into lots of other little lies. And now I've been found out, and we are not actually being allowed to do the show. There will be no Nativity at all."
"Can't we do the show anyway? We don't care about the movie," T.J. said.
"No, Mr Lestrade is not going to let us do the show."
"Please, please, please, Mr Holmes," Bob begged, "can't we still do the Nativity, please?"
"It's not up to me." And even if it were, there couldn't be a show without John. It was unthinkable. Sherlock may have written the music and Molly organised the costumes and the sets along with the parents, but the play was the realisation of John's vision.
"If Mr Watson were here, we'd still be doing the play," T.J. said sullenly.
"Well, he's not," Sherlock snapped, "and in fact," he added, feeling spiteful over the fact that the children seemed much more concerned over the play than John's absence, "as a result of all of this, not only will Mr Watson not be here anymore, but I shan't be here next term either. This will be my last term. I won't be coming back."
Now some of the children began to cry. Wonderful. Just like what happened with Sebastian Wilkes, and everyone knew how well that had gone over. At least they couldn't do anything worse than fire him. Although the loss of his job, his position, and his security was a minor slap on the wrist, as it transpired. The loss of John was the much more hurtful and effective punishment.
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no subject
Date: 2013-11-09 03:18 am (UTC)So, I guess you could say John's bailed before he was pushed! :-P
But in all seriousness. I'm first glad John hasn't excused Sherlock's intrusive snooping and second I actually at this point hope that John comes back only for the children. Sherlock hasn't exactly done anything to inspire much trust him now, and while I know his heart is in the right place, I'm with John needing time to trust him again.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-09 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-09 11:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-09 09:16 pm (UTC)But I'm quite glad John hasn't responded immediately to Sherlock's texts - Sherlock is being unusually annoying (if there is such a thing!).
I'm really sad for the children, who obviously miss Mr Watson dreadfully, but I'm counting on Sherlock to "do" something, and in as much a humane way as possible!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-10 06:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-10 03:08 pm (UTC)