Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (19/23)

[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: 3,762 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 Nineteen: The Blackwood Nativity

Sherlock didn't try to contact John again. He destroyed the paper cup (shredded, dissolved in sulfuric acid, then burned the residue) he'd kept from when they shared the tea at Speedy's. He deleted the list of clinics and wished he could delete the image of John silhouetted against the bathroom light when he came, naked, to Sherlock's bed. In fact, it was so bad he had to sleep on the couch. Which, in the event, turned out not to involve sleeping as much as trying not to think about John hovering over him right there, asking to take him to bed.

The kitchen was tainted by the echo of John and him laughing over takeaway. The desk by the memory of working on the songs together. Even the upstairs bathroom had the medicine cabinet he'd taken the lotion out of, and the downstairs one the bathtub-cum-murder scene. He might have to move house entirely. Which, given he no longer had the means to pay his mortgage, might end up not being a wholly voluntary decision.

Sherlock didn't do much more than go through the motions at school. He avoided the teachers' lounge completely. Mrs Hudson waited for him outside his classroom one day and forced a homemade Victoria sponge on him, not saying anything more than, "You're a good person, Sherlock Holmes, and don't you forget it." He may have eaten most of it in the course of repeatedly playing Saint-Saens' Concerto No. 3 in the wee hours.

The children were sullen and listless. For all that John had gone on about how much they supposedly wanted to please Sherlock and make him happy, they were doing a bang-up job of achieving just the opposite. Sherlock was glad he was going to be shot of them in a couple of weeks, and he rather thought the feeling was mutual.

%%%%%%

Friday night was the Blackwood School's Nativity. Sherlock wasn't planning on going, but somehow his evening walk with Gladstone took him in that direction, and shortly after seven they were standing in front of the pink stone structure. Sherlock left the dog tied to a tree and went inside. The posters on the doors and plastering the halls advertised 'James Moriarty's Herod: A Christmas Tale'. Appropriate. Moriarty always had fancied himself some sort of monarch.

The play had already started when Sherlock slipped into the darkened auditorium. It was nothing like the play he and John had been working on. In fact, it was as if Moriarty had gone to great lengths to make his show diametrically opposed to the Baker Street one in every conceivable way. Whereas their play was full of light and sparkle, Moriarty's was dark and shadowy. The simple, upbeat songs of their Nativity were in stark contrast to the dirge-like chants and atonal meanderings Moriarty's students presented. Instead of angels, stars, and young lovers, there were black-masked warriors and ghostly, skeletal apparitions.

Sherlock was, frankly, enchanted. Here was the work of a mind worthy of note. Moriarty had clearly written his own music as well; the deceptive calm of some passages followed hard on by shrieks of cacophony had Moriarty's particular flavour of disturbed written all over them. Sherlock couldn't help but feel that this was Moriarty's personal challenge to him, and that his response would have been found wanting, if it had ever been staged. Even in its original form, before John's input, Sherlock's play was candy floss to Moriarty's tequila. A butter knife to his surgical steel scalpel. And now, it was just so much mush.

The climax came when Herod ordered the killing of the Hebrew infants. Sherlock watched in abject fascination (the rest of the audience in wordless horror) as a specially prepared doll was torn literally limb from limb, spilling great gushes of blood over the stage, the children, and the first row of the audience. Screams erupted. It looked as if the evening was going to end in chaos until a sudden, sharp sound pierced the tumult. It repeated, over and over. Finally, it coalesced into the crack of a single pair of hands clapping.

Parents and children alike turned to see a man slowly stand up somewhere in the middle of the third row, clapping loudly and steadily. It was Moran. He stared down the looks of disbelief and disgust and clapped even more forcefully until, hesitantly, a few others began to join in. Soon the entire audience was applauding. Moran gestured for them to stand. Sherlock could only admire the choreography of this as well, for it was certainly planned down to the minutest detail, including the exact decibel level the applause should reach. He wondered whether the whole thing was, in fact, being staged for him. Moriarty had to have known he'd be there. It almost made him want to speak to him in person afterwards, but that was certainly what Moriarty wanted. No matter how Sherlock might try to hide his true opinion, Moriarty would know he'd won this round. Without his input, though, it was a win by default only. A hollow victory.

The funny thing was, Sherlock had thought John's collaborations had improved the play. Not the individual songs, perhaps. He still cringed inwardly at some of the lyrics, and the loss of the starkly beautiful plainsong solo for the Annunciation still chafed. Then there was the fact that John had made the whole thing into a trite love story and watered down the majesty and pageantry in order to be inclusive. So, really, Sherlock wondered now how he ever could have thought the play was better with John's input. Because he distinctly recalled thinking it was. Base sentiment was all it was. Hormones. Chemistry. By no objective measure was the play better for John's influence.

Except it was theirs. Together. That was really what had made it special. And that was something that no amount of Moriarty's twisted genius could replace. Sherlock wanted to be praised for his work, yes, and to have his talents recognised. But he realised that it wasn't the approbation of the masses which truly meant anything to him (although it would have been nice). Moran's poor review five years ago had stung, but John's rejection hurt. More than he was able to admit.

Sherlock slipped back out before the lights came on. Outside, he stopped to light a cigarette before untying Gladstone. He'd broken down and bought another pack a couple of days earlier, but it was absolutely the last one. As he stood there under the tree sucking the smoke into his lungs, the parents and visitors started to trickle out of the school. Most looked bewildered. Some angry. One looked... Sherlock drew back further against the tree and flicked his cigarette away. That was John. John was here. For the briefest moment, Sherlock thought he might have come to see Moriarty, but then he wouldn't be outside so quickly, and by the looks of it setting off directly for home.

Sherlock didn't need to keep him in sight. He didn't want to catch up to him before his flat anyway. He made sure to allow enough time for John's slower pace. It looked like his leg was bothering him again.

When Sherlock and Gladstone got to John's building, the light in the third window from the left on the second floor was already on. He rang the bell, half expecting John to either not respond or tell him to piss off when he announced his name through the intercom, but the door clicked open.

Sherlock mounted the steps with trepidation. He kept Gladstone with him. John seemed to like the dog, after all. He stopped in front of John's door. This was a terrible idea. What was he even doing? He was supposed to be erasing John from his life, not rushing after him like a leaf in the wake of a passing bus. He wasn't getting another chance. Not even at just being friends. Although it wasn't 'just' friends, was it? He rather thought that was the loss he felt most keenly. He could always get another lover, if he were so inclined. However, there would never be another friend like John for him.

This was stupid. Pointless. It was just going to end in another row. Angry at himself for having given in to his impulsiveness yet again, Sherlock tugged on Gladstone's lead to go back downstairs when the door opened.

"What are you doing here?" John had only opened the door wide enough to stand in the gap. Wary, but not entirely unhappy to see him. Sherlock couldn't allow himself to hope, though. That way lay danger.

He turned back but didn't come closer. "Hello, John."

"I told you not to follow me." A warning, but also resignation.

"I didn't," Sherlock answered automatically. It was even the truth. Technically. "I would hardly take Gladstone with me if I were trying to shadow you." There, a flash of displeasure. And the damnable part was, Sherlock's first impulse was to try and fix it. "I did see you at the play," he said, "but I didn't know you were going to be there. And I didn't follow you here. I walked a different route. That's why you were able to beat me by ten minutes, despite your leg acting up again."

"And how did you know where I was-" John sighed. "Never mind. You think you're being sincere, don't you? All right, come in." He stood back to make the way clear.

That was... more than Sherlock had expected. Before he could second-guess either of them, he stepped inside with Gladstone. The single room was much as he had imagined it: bland, lifeless, and utterly unworthy of John. On one side was a neatly made narrow bed, a cheap desk with what looked like might be potentially interesting notebooks and a laptop on it, a low chest of drawers, and a lumpy armchair covered in puke-coloured plaid. Opposite that was a cooking niche with some unfortunate green wall cupboards, a sink, a hot plate, and a refrigerator that was barely big enough to hold a six-pack; a plastic table, and a couple of chairs. The floor was covered by a stained carpet worn nearly through in places. The smell of overcooked pasta and wet wool was insistent.

"You want something to drink?" John said, moving to the sink.

Sherlock stood uncertainly by the door. Had he missed something? Why was John behaving so... normally? "No," he said. "But maybe a bowl of water for Gladstone."

"Pretty disturbing, that play," John said as he ran the water.

Sherlock made a sound that could be taken as acknowledgment. He looked around more carefully. Was this some kind of trap or set-up? A hidden camera to record the scene as John pretended to be nice to him, only to pull the rug out from under him at the end? Mycroft would be the first in line to watch it, closely followed by Moriarty and half the Baker Street School staff. Scratch that; the entire staff.

John looked over his shoulder at him. "Don't tell me you liked it?"

Something told Sherlock this wasn't the moment to sing Moriarty's praises. "It had its moments."

"Moments of insanity, anyway," John muttered, turning back to the sink. He set the water on the floor and crouched down to coax Gladstone over. The dog didn't need to be asked twice. He didn't even check with Sherlock, just went straight to the bowl and started happily lapping at it.

"What did you come here for then, Sherlock? I'm not going to guess anymore." John sounded tired; resigned.

Sherlock didn't know either. Maybe the impulse had been born of some mad fantasy that this whole thing was nothing more than a misunderstanding, that John thought when Lestrade sent him away that Sherlock didn't want to see him either, that he'd somehow only been interested in John as long as he was useful for the play. That John's terse texts had been practical rather than hostile. That John had been genuinely busy all week (job interviews? Sherlock focused more purposefully on his hair, clothes, hands, but even with John's head angled down he could see that wasn't the case and felt his last straws slipping out of his grasp). But Sherlock had never really been one for mad fantasies. There could only be one reason for him to be there.

"Come back."

John shook his head, watching Gladstone sniff around the water bowl, hoping for something to eat. "I can't."

Sherlock scoffed, because really, if John was going to insist on his little position of moral superiority, he was at least going to have to own up to it. Plus, Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that John had let him in for a reason, as if he were allowing Sherlock the chance to give him something: a password, a secret handshake, a thumb drive with an algorithm that would magically rewrite the past week. "You patently can," he retorted. "If I'm still allowed to walk freely on the school grounds then certainly no one's going to stop you. Unless you mean you don't have bus fare-"

"Stop it," John said sharply without looking up at Sherlock. "That's exactly what I'm talking about."

Sherlock was startled into silence. It seemed incredible that this was about money, in the end. "John, really, if it's simply a matter of a couple of pounds, I'd be happy to-"

"Damn the bus fare!" John snapped. Gladstone, at his feet, flinched away. "Not you, Gladstone, sorry," John said more gently and patted the dog on the back. He stood up and stepped away, toward the other side of the room. Which also took him farther away from Sherlock. "Right. Erm..." He leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. And his ankles. The body language was certainly clear enough. "What do you mean with 'come back'?" John asked. "To the school, you mean? Why should I? There's no more play."

Sherlock knew whatever he said next was crucial. He couldn't afford another misstep. John wasn't staying away because the play had been cancelled. That much was glaringly obvious. He was staying away because of Sherlock. Ergo he wasn't going to come back for any reason relating to Sherlock. But he would come back for the play. The conclusion was therefore also obvious.

"There could be," Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows. Sceptical. "What, did Greg change his mind?"

"He doesn't have to. We can do the play anyway," Sherlock said recklessly.

"Just you and me? We need the kids, and for that we need Greg's permission. Not that I expect you understand the concept. In addition to the fact that we haven't any place to put it on, costumes, lights, sound... Unless you've gotten your brother on board after all?" He was clearly aiming for scathing sarcasm, but he landed somewhere in the vicinity of not daring to hope. It might just be close enough.

"The city will be happy to let us use the cathedral ruins as planned. They won't have any other events booked in at such short notice. Likewise with the sponsors. They only get publicity if the play goes on, and that's all they care about. As for the children, I should think their parents would be happy to see them perform, regardless of Lestrade's opinion." It all seemed so self-explanatory when stated like that.

"You're talking about going behind Greg's back."

"This was never his project, John. It was ours."

"And the children's."

"Yes, fine, and the children's," Sherlock agreed with an irritable gesture.

John pressed his lips together, thought about it. "This is against my better judgment, you know that," he said finally.

Sherlock mentally clenched his fist in victory. Aloud, he said solemnly, "Yes."

"It's just for the play," John cautioned. "Just to give those kids something for all their hard work."

"Yes, understood," Sherlock said quickly. He would agree to anything, any reason John wanted to fabricate for himself. All that mattered was that Sherlock had another chance.

John shook his head, as if he couldn't believe he was agreeing to this. "Right then, let's do it."

"Get your coat then."

"Why, where are we going?" John asked, but he was already moving toward the coat hooks on the wall by the door.

"We have an appointment with the Lord Mayor."

%%%%%%

They didn't so much have an appointment as they had brass balls. Mostly Sherlock's. A quick check of the online city events calendar showed the city orchestra was giving a Christmas concert. The mayor was certain to be in attendance.

"Sherlock, this is never going to work," John hissed, distributing deprecating and apologetic smiles as they made their way through the black-tie crowd. They'd waited until the interval, when it would be easiest to approach the mayor.

"Right this way, doctor," Sherlock said importantly, for the benefit of the usher (two children before she turned twenty, trying to get off the dole, shiftless boyfriend, asthma) trailing nervously after them. They'd bluffed their way past the ticket box with the story that John had been summoned for a medical emergency. Sherlock's presence wasn't really explained, but no one questioned it. "Ah, there she is," Sherlock announced, craning his head over the masses as if he'd spotted the patient. "Oh dear," he fretted, turning around to the hapless young woman with the most sincere look of worry he could muster. "Someone should be in front to meet the ambulance when it arrives."

"I can do that," the usher offered, breathless with the potential for excitement.

"Excellent, just direct them round to the service entrance. I think we'd best avoid a scene if at all possible."

The usher hurried off. Sherlock looked at John triumphantly.

"You haven't really rung for an ambulance, have you?" John asked, but there was a flash of humour in his eyes.

Sherlock smiled back. "No. But we will need to be quick. She's about to tell the manager, and he's not so easily hoodwinked."

The mayor was holding court amidst a gaggle of women all trying to pretend they weren't well past their prime. The Botox alone, if vaporised, would have been sufficient to incapacitate half the orchestra.

"Mr Holmes!" the mayor cried when Sherlock insinuated himself into the group. "This is certainly a surprise. Didn't think we'd be seeing any more of you. Shame about the Nativity, after all that."

"Yes, funny thing. I wasn't made aware until just now that there's been a massive cock-up in communication. The play is still on."

"But I was told Whitehall weren't able to make it."

Sherlock waved his objection aside. Normally, he would now make a pointed observation about the risers in the mayor's ridiculous boots and the fact that his golfing partner was letting him win, and hint that he would expose his private infidelities (at least two of the women present had definite designs on the man, which would likely dry up once they found out he was also stringing along the city treasurer and a meter maid) if he didn't show himself to be cooperative. However, taking a page out of John's book, he decided this might be a better opportunity for a carrot than a stick.

"You know how these things are," Sherlock said, affecting a tone of chummy confidentiality. "Last minute pick-ups for another project. They've sworn they absolutely will make every effort to be there on the night, but that's not what it's about, is it? It's about civic pride, showcasing the future of this city, and putting on a roaring good show!" Sherlock winked broadly at the leather-skinned women and their improbable bust lines. They in turn nodded and gazed expectantly back at the mayor.

And he, simple man that he was, laughed heartily. "The show must go on, eh?"

%%%%%%

"That," John said between gasps of laughter as they walked away from the concert hall, "was absolutely insane!"

Sherlock glowed. "It worked though, didn't it?"

"I don't see how. Nope. Oughtn't to have. Only you could have pulled that off." John was positively gleeful over it.

"You were our ticket in," Sherlock reminded him.

"You didn't need me. You'd make a perfectly passable doctor yourself."

True, but not the point. The point was that they had done it together, and successfully, and it had been fun. As they passed a Chinese restaurant, Sherlock caught a blast of warm, spicy air from the ventilator. He stopped. John didn't usually eat dinner before seven. The chances were that he hadn't had anything before the play. Gladstone (whom they'd left tied to a tree during their short visit to the mayor but retrieved immediately afterward) hung his tongue out expectantly at the scent of cooked meat.

"What?" John asked from a few feet away, wondering why Sherlock had stopped.

Sherlock reached for the door handle and inclined his head in invitation. "You haven't eaten in several hours."

All of John's enthusiasm seemed to fall away. His fists clenched at his sides before he caught himself and forced them to open. "No."

"Don't be tedious, it's not as if you have a meal waiting for you at home."

"I said just for the play, Sherlock. I'm not-" He appeared to struggle with himself, before settling on, "Not tonight, all right?"

Sherlock scowled and had to step aside to let a couple exit the restaurant (florist and a desk job of some kind, living together but only a few months, going to have sex as soon as they got home, all so obvious it made him want to scream).

John's face softened. (Regret? Guilt? Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.) "Look, I'll see you after school on Monday at the cathedral. I can start calling the parents tomorrow. I think we'll need to run through every afternoon if we're to be ready by Friday."

Sherlock nodded curtly. "Fine." This had been a stupid idea. Now he was stuck doing the play, and John was still going to disappear from his life in a week.

"Okay, well." John put his hands in his pockets (not even going to shake hands) and looked around. The pavement was empty. Only a couple of anonymous cars passed by in the road. He looked back at Sherlock. The six-and-a-half feet separating them were insurmountable. "Good night, then."

There was really nothing else to be said. "Good night," Sherlock echoed, and walked away. Only Gladstone kept looking back, as if they'd left something very important behind.

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Go to chapter twenty

Comments

[labellecreation.livejournal.com]

This is still making me nod in agreement with John. Small steps Sherlock and you'll win him back in the end <3

And oh dear gods that play. THAT PLAY!!! It reads as awful as it was watching it in the film. :-P School nativities are not the place to introduce concept art. I loved Sherlock blagging the Mayor's party with John like that!

[swissmarg]

The other school's play was really something else. I actually found the doll coming apart with the red ribbons was too much for a kids' film too. But at least it wasn't (fake?) blood like I had it here.
Thanks for your comment!

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

The bloodthirsty effort of Moriarty doesn't sound quite like a "Nativity" Play!

"There was really nothing else to be said. "Good night," Sherlock echoed, and walked away. Only Gladstone kept looking back, as if they'd left something very important behind."

As indeed they have, but they'll have to work hard to win it back. Hopefully the children, the play, Whithall and a lot of luck will do the rest!

[swissmarg]

The other school's play was pretty much right out of the movie. It was pretty inappropriate. The only change I made was that in the movie, when the doll was ripped apart, red ribbons came out to simulate the blood. It was still pretty disturbing.
Thanks for your comment!