Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (20/23)
Nov. 15th, 2013 08:16 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: 5,306 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 Twenty: The Final Preparations
On Monday morning, the classroom was buzzing with excited chatter and snatches of song when Sherlock arrived. He took great pains to impress on the children that the fact they were going forward with the play was a surprise for Lestrade and the rest of the teachers, and they were under no circumstances to breathe a word of it to any of them. What Lestrade didn't know wouldn't hurt him (or Sherlock).
After the final bell rang, Sherlock arranged to meet Molly and the children at the bus stop around the corner, and they all rode together for the five stops to the cathedral. By the time they got off, Sherlock's ears were ringing. It didn't help once they got to the flagstone square that had once been the nave of the bombed-out cathedral, where the children's enthusiastic shouts and laughter were multiplied by the empty-windowed Gothic walls enclosing the area. Sherlock vowed to take a taxi the rest of the week, leaving the remainder of the ferrying to Molly.
John was waiting, as he said he would be, along with some technicians who were doing the preliminary set-up for lights and sound. He took aside the four boys who were playing the wise men, to work on their choreography, while Sherlock and Molly ran through the staging for Gabriel's song with the rest of the class. The children were very excited about the stage set up in the former apse in front of the skeleton tower and spire, not to mention poking at the cables and other equipment, and it was all the three teachers could do to keep them more or less on task.
By the end of the rehearsal, no less than three shoving matches had broken out, one girl had lost a shoe and was in tears, and another girl's mother had to be rung to pick her up early because she had stomach-ache. Everyone was exhausted and at the end of their nerves. And Sherlock hadn't exchanged more than a couple of words with John, and those had been brief and strictly related to the play. Truly, a spectacular failure as his bright ideas went.
When John and Molly herded the children over to the street side of the square to meet the parents, Sherlock hung back in a dark corner by the stage. He should really leave. There was no reason to stay. John had said 'just for the play'. He couldn't have made it any clearer.
Sherlock tapped a cigarette out of the pack he'd picked up that morning (this was really the last one) and lit it. It wasn't late, but it was dark due to the season. No one would see him this far back. Not that Sherlock cared whether John - scratch that, anyone - whether anyone saw him smoking. John disliked cigarettes, wouldn't like to kiss him- Anyone! He wouldn't want to kiss anyone who'd been smoking. (Damn it, had to stop doing that.) Such speculations had nothing to do with Sherlock anymore. The point was that Sherlock wasn't standing here pining and stealing a few more minutes of watching John when he could be on his way home. Not at all hoping John would come back to make sure everything was cleaned up, and happen to see Sherlock (cigarette finished by then) and get that hopeful look (really must delete that), just waiting for Sherlock to suggest they do something together so he could say yes.
John was looking for a job (shoulders cramped from being hunched over a small laptop computer for several hours). He was already moving on with his life, trying to put the unseemly episode with Sherlock behind him. He wasn't going to discuss it with him. Nothing to discuss. They'd never had any sort of agreement, never made any promises, never even come close to it. Sherlock was going to have a new job too. New idiots to deal with. He had no idea where, of course, or doing what, but the idiots were certain. And none of them would be John Watson.
The last child gone, John and Molly stood at the edge of the square under a low-emission street light, too far away for Sherlock to hear them. John had his hands in his pockets and his head down. Molly was speaking to him (trying to catch his eye, hand on his lower arm to keep him from leaving: something he doesn't want to hear).
Sherlock took one last deep draw of his cigarette and held the smoke in, milking it for the last few micrograms of nicotine. The tip glowed bright orange. Molly looked over John's shoulder, back toward the stage area. Right at Sherlock. Annoyed at himself, he dropped the butt and ground it out with the toe of his shoe, swivelling around at the same time to leave.
He was almost at the street on the far side of the square when he heard John call his name. He should keep going. It was petty, but John had ignored his texts all weekend and Sherlock wanted him to see how it felt. He probably just wanted to tell Sherlock something about the play, anyway, and Sherlock really didn't want to hear it. His traitorous feet, however, shuddered to a halt.
"Sherlock!" John's uneven (familiar, comforting) gait sounded on the bricks behind him.
Sherlock turned halfway, still intending to continue on his way (flee). "I don't really have time, John."
"No, I know." John stopped further away than even standard politeness would require. "I just erm..." He looked around, pulled his bottom lip in, let it go again. "Play's shaping up nicely," he offered (stalling for time). "It was a good idea to keep going with it. The kids are excited."
"Fine, if that's all-" Sherlock said, impatient.
"No, it's..." John straightened his back (talking himself into something) and pulled something out of his pocket: a piece of paper. He cleared his throat. "The last song," he said, unfolding the paper (carefully: something important).
"I'm not re-writing any of the songs," Sherlock told him pointedly. "You'll have to make do with what we have. It would be hopeless to try and teach the children a new song this late anyway."
"No, you're right. You're right. We never did touch the last song, though. The manger scene."
"I know which song you mean."
John grimaced, almost a smile. "Yeah. It's nice, works fine. It's a really good song. I just thought..." John held the paper out to him. When Sherlock didn't reach for it right away, John stepped closer.
Sherlock turned his head to look at the paper from where he was. He couldn't make it out exactly in the dim light, but judging by the arrangement and pattern of the words on the page, it was a poem; song lyrics. John shook the sheet, as if Sherlock might not have noticed it otherwise.
"And?" Sherlock asked archly.
"It wouldn't take much. Just a few adjustments to the rhythm. We don't have to use it if you don't..." John lowered his hand, glanced at Sherlock's face and away again almost immediately. He folded the paper up again. "Never mind. You're right, it's fine the way it is. We don't have time for a new-"
"Give it to me." Sherlock stuck his hand out. He was curious, that was all. It was certain to be more drivel about cool towns and sparkly stars and being blinded by love.
"We really don't have to use it," John repeated. "It's just something I came up with over the week-end, once I knew we were going forward with the show. It sort of... wrote itself." He handed Sherlock the folded-up paper as if afraid it would spontaneously combust.
"I'll have a look," Sherlock said, trying to sound curt, as he slipped the paper into his coat. He fancied he could feel the residual warmth from it having been in John's pocket. The notion made a sharp and entirely unwelcome sort of longing flare up somewhere behind his ribs.
John regarded him warily, as if unsure whether Sherlock were sincere or not. After a bit, he seemed to decide in his favour, and nodded. "All right. I'll see you tomorrow then. Same bat time, same bat place?"
An attempt at humour, judging by the facial and vocal cues, but Sherlock was, as usual, at sea. It must be another one of those cultural references Sherlock had never bothered to pick up, or if he had, he'd deleted it as unimportant.
"You never watched Batman, did you," John said with a mixture of amusement and resignation. "Oh come on," he added at the look on Sherlock's face, "tell me you've at least heard of Batman?"
"I don't follow sport, John, you know that."
John laughed, and Sherlock very nearly had to leave right then because that wasn't a sound he'd thought he'd hear again. And he wanted to hear it, he wanted to share it and be included in it, but he couldn't because he'd done something that John didn't approve of (so many rules, so many useless rules!) and John had unilaterally decided to take his laughter and his limp and his casual profanity and the little lines around his eyes and bugger off out of Sherlock's life.
"No, not-" John was saying through his laughter, "Jesus, we have to..." He trailed off as he realised what he was about to say, the amusement falling away and being replaced by sadness. "My God." He shook his head. "What are we doing?"
Panic rose in Sherlock's throat. He wasn't ready, not now, not like this. He'd prepared what he was going to say, the things he would show John, but he'd deleted it all along with the list of clinics and any hopes he'd foolishly allowed to take up residence in his mind (heart). But John was offering, he was giving Sherlock another chance. To do what? Explain? He couldn't explain: he didn't even really know what had gone wrong.
John was still talking, oblivious to Sherlock's state of inner turmoil. "I'm not actually angry at you, you know," he said quietly. "I was, but now I think I'm more confused than anything. I don't know how to make any of this right again-"
"I have to go," Sherlock blurted out, taking a step backward. No matter what he said or did, he was just going to end up alienating John further.
John flinched, as if Sherlock had lashed out at him. "Right," he said tightly, burying his hands once more in his pockets. "No, that's- It's fine."
It wasn't fine at all, but Sherlock didn't know what else to do. His entire experience with making people do what he wanted them to involved lying, threats of blackmail, and bribery. And none of those was going to help him here. What did normal people do in situations like this? Beg? Cry? What would Mrs Hudson do? Or (he shuddered) Lestrade? The answer was obvious: they wouldn't have got themselves in this deep in the first place.
"And you can-" John waved his hand around in Sherlock's general direction and started to back away. "Forget about that song. Seriously, bin it." (Embarrassed: Sherlock's curiosity was doubly piqued.) "'Night," he said gruffly and walked quickly across the square without looking back.
Molly had left already (expected things to go better between him and John). The technicians were also long gone. Sherlock was alone. He fumbled past the paper in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes and lit one. Once he had it going, he took out John's note and angled it toward the light so he could read it.
Sometime life is not all it can be
and here we are
wondering just how far this road can lead
and here we are
Then from the darkness shines a bright burning star
And who we are is changing within our hearts
One night, one moment
And everything's changed
One night, one moment
And everything's changed
Tonight is so pure and so special
We'll never feel lonely again
Cause we are standing together as friends
Oooh, and everything's changing forever
One night, one moment
Sherlock took another drag on his cigarette, squinting his eyes against the smoke, and read it through again. John was obviously trying to tell him something, but he shouldn't jump to conclusions. Especially as the last thing John had said was to bin it. He hadn't demanded it back, though. Sherlock returned the paper to his pocket. If John meant to show up tomorrow, then so did Sherlock, and he wasn't going to sit idle in the meantime.
%%%%%
When Sherlock's taxi pulled up outside the cathedral ruins the following afternoon, he felt uncertain. He disliked being uncertain. Irritatingly, it seemed he was never anything but uncertain when it came to John. And yet he hadn't given up the experiment, hadn't given him up yet. Perhaps he wasn't as unhappy as he thought he should be over unknown outcomes.
Theoretically, it seemed like a good plan, but all of his theoretically good plans had somehow come round to bite him recently. As the taxi drove away, the marquee over the cinema across the street caught his eye. The movie featured for that evening was one of those John had once expressed disbelief over regarding Sherlock's lack of familiarity with it. If he'd been the superstitious sort, he might have taken it as a good omen. As it was, he tucked the information away for a possible follow-up.
John was already there, discussing something with the technicians. He acknowledged Sherlock with a glance and a nod, but didn't come over. Sherlock presumed they were working out the details of the lighting for Mary and Joseph's song, which they were supposed to be running through that afternoon. The switching of the spotlight from one couple to the next had to be timed perfectly with the song. Sherlock took the opportunity to go to the keyboard where John had left the score and switch out the old version of the play's final song with the one he'd written up last night. It really hadn't taken many adjustments. He'd been done with it in half an hour.
He still wasn't sure whether the song meant John still wanted to be friends (or more), or whether it was just his way of saying the one night they'd spent together would remain as a fond memory, not tainted by everything that had followed. And Sherlock wasn't quite sure what his re-write meant, either: a gracious parting gift, an acceptance of John's overture toward a re-establishment of their friendship, or maybe even an attempt at an apology?
A bit difficult when he didn't know what he was supposed to be apologising for. He wasn't sorry he'd taken John along to Whitehall. It was unfair of the parents to have suspected John of any wrongdoing, of the police to have questioned him, and of Lestrade to have fired him, but Sherlock had no control over those things, and he'd told anyone who would listen that John had nothing to do with any of it. He also wasn't sorry he'd tried to access John's financial information. It wasn't as if he would have done anything with it that was detrimental to John in any way. It was simply a stupid social convention that said a person's bank balance should remain private. He wasn't sorry for showing up at John's flat after the Blackwood play (even if he had followed him, a bit); in fact, it was a direct result of that meeting that he now had this chance, if that's what it was, so he counted it as one of his better decisions.
What else was there? Maybe John had realised all those things too, after a bit of reflection (Sherlock had to make allowances, had to remember that other people were much slower to put the pieces together, as well as hopelessly enslaved to their emotional instincts), and that's what the new lyrics were supposed to mean.
Molly and the children arrived a short time later, and the rehearsal got underway. Things went more smoothly than the day before, perhaps due in part to the cocoa and doughnuts that showed up halfway through, a donation from one of the vendors who'd been granted a concession for the night of the play. Sherlock kept a close eye on the time, though, and fifteen minutes before the end, he broke off what they were doing and announced they were going to try the last song. It was probably the easiest one to stage, as it didn't involve anything more than the children standing around the manger.
Molly and the children shoved around the big wooden boxes they were using as props to simulate the shape of the stable, while John went to the keyboard and shuffled through the sheets of music. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye. When John found the song, he stood staring down at it for a long moment, then looked over at Sherlock. The expression on his face wasn't one of delight. It wasn't anger, either, though. It was that soft, quiet smile, the same one Sherlock had slipped into the leather photo album in his mind palace, and his heart swelled with the knowledge that he'd finally done something right.
John walked over, still holding the music. His smile remained tentative, as if he weren't sure whether to be pleased or not. Sherlock's fingers played nervously with the lighter in his pocket.
"You re-wrote it," John said. He was standing closer than he had last night. Close enough that Sherlock could have touched him without any effort at all. He flipped the lighter around and around.
"Obviously," he said. It sounded like a term of endearment. Maybe it was.
Maybe John heard it that way, too, because his mouth quirked up and he looked back down at the music.
"I thought-" He cleared his throat. "I thought we weren't going to teach them a new song," he said, his voice low. Sherlock had to lean in a bit (to hear him better, that was all).
"They already know it," Sherlock said.
John looked up again. He was so close now. "They... How?" His entire forehead creased. Sherlock could have kissed it. Wanted to. Wanted to so much.
"We practised it all morning. Right through the break."
John looked down at the music again and put his hand over his mouth. For a terrible moment, Sherlock thought he was going to cry, but then he took his hand away, and all that came out was a little sigh.
"It's brilliant," John said. "I mean, I'm sure it's brilliant."
"It's a good song," Sherlock said. "Better now."
"Yeah," John agreed, meeting Sherlock's gaze, his smile broadening. "Yeah, I think so."
"Um, Mr Holmes? Mr Watson?" Molly's voice broke in. "We're ready?"
The children were all standing in their places, watching them. Some were giggling and whispering. John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes brimming with laughter. Sherlock smiled back, a great relief washing through him. Everything wasn't totally fine yet, but it wasn't irretrievably broken, either. He and John still seemed to be friends, and they hadn't even had to go through an awkward conversation about feelings or whatever had gone wrong before.
John held the music up and brandished it at the children. "I have it on very good authority that you can sing this while standing on your heads drinking a glass of water!" he called out to them.
An ingenious redirection on John's part, as the giggles about them spilled over into shouts and laughter at the ridiculous proposition. Sherlock watched as John went back to the keyboard. His back was straight and his leg was steady. And Sherlock meant to keep them that way.
After they demonstrated that they were, in fact, capable of learning a new song in half a day, the children were dismissed to their waiting parents. Sherlock ducked behind a tower of loudspeakers and lit a cigarette. He'd snuck one right after school, but the emotional gamut he'd run through in anticipation of John's reaction to the song had him gagging for another by now. He relaxed perceptibly as the first burn hit the back of his throat.
He was really quite pleased with the way things had gone. All he had to do now was build on John's good will, without pushing too hard. He'd decided last night that he'd rather have John as a friend only than not have him in his life at all. It was an admission of weakness, yes, but some weaknesses were worth giving in to. Having John around had made even the long hours in the classroom and preparing for this horrible play bearable, and if John's presence could work such a miracle as that, how much better would it be when he was finally free from this school and doing something he actually wanted to do? As soon as he figured out what that was.
Sherlock was only halfway through his cigarette when he heard footsteps approaching. He flicked the still-smoking butt away and feigned being occupied with his phone.
"There you are," John said.
Sherlock tapped through a couple of menus and made a questioning sound.
"Kids are all set. Molly's going to bring the costumes tomorrow for a fitting. It means we'll have less actual rehearsal time, but maybe we could split them into two groups and run through the star song and the chorus for Gabriel's song with one half while the other half's with Molly."
"Yes, fine," Sherlock agreed, not really caring how John arranged the rehearsal, and slipped his phone into his pocket.
"Okay, right." John rocked back and forth on his heels and looked around (stalling, either has something to say or is expecting something). "I guess I'll... see you tomorrow then."
It was an opening - a blatant, gaping opening - but Sherlock wasn't going to rush in too fast this time. Still, if he played it right...
"Undoubtedly," he agreed and buttoned up his coat the rest of the way. "I'm headed that way, easier to get a taxi-" He nodded toward the side of the square he'd arrived on.
"Oh yeah, I'll walk with you, bus stop's over there too."
John fell into step beside him as if they'd never walked any other way. Sherlock was taken off guard by the intensity of the longing which followed immediately on the heels of the thought. Not for physical intimacy - although that was there, too, always now, when John was near, and even when he wasn't, a constant undercurrent to his existence, but he was used to it and could generally tune it out, like white noise. He could - might have to - live without ever again tasting John's breath in his mouth, feeling his strong, sure fingers on his skin (inside him), seeing the look of steadfast wonder (there was no other word for it) on his face as he led Sherlock to completion. Sherlock already lived with numerous addictions and cravings. Sex with John Watson was no different.
No, the longing was deeper and more problematic than that. It was for the ephemeral twosomeness he'd always been excluded from, or at most, stood on the edge of, sneering at it with the self-righteousness of a tourist belittling native customs he didn't understand. He had vehemently never wanted to have any part of it, had based his entire self-image and existence on the supremacy and superiority of his individuality and separateness. The idea of forming a connection with another human being that went beyond the practical or, occasionally, the curiosity-quenching, was anathema. And so the fact that he now found himself wanting to share part of himself - to share large parts of his life, in blatant terms - was not a notion that sat comfortably with him. Not least because the success of such a venture was not something he had much control over. It depended almost entirely on the man beside him, a man he'd already disappointed and hurt, even if unintentionally.
The next move was going to be tricky for exactly that reason. John might have softened his attitude toward Sherlock, but he probably hadn't forgotten his 'just for the play' edict, and there was also the whole 'he hasn't trained me' issue. John was alert to attempts at manipulation, and although Sherlock fully intended to manipulate him, he had to do it in such a way that John didn't catch on.
The cinema was perhaps not the best choice for such a delicate approach, given the associations most people had with dating and movies, but on the other hand it was convenient, and if the details he'd looked up on Wikipedia were correct, it was the kind of film that two non-romantically involved friends might go see together.
When they got to the edge of the square, Sherlock suggested he'd have a better chance of hailing a taxi from in front of the cinema across the street.
"Hah!" John exclaimed, looking up at the lit-up marquee as they crossed over. "That brings back memories."
Sherlock gave him a questioning look.
" 'Alien', remember? That drawing of Josh's reminded me of it?"
Sherlock allowed his expression to clear, as if the memory had just fallen into place. Of course he recalled the incident and the conversation. Just as he recalled every conversation and every moment he and John had shared.
Having established the context, John went on: "The first time I saw it was at a sleepover a couple years after it came out. I can't have been more than about ten. I'm not even sure my mate's parents knew he'd got his hands on the video, looking back now. Scared the living shit out of all of us. I don't think any of us slept that night," he finished with a wry chuckle.
Sherlock was pleased at the confirmation of his assessment of the company in which the movie was typically viewed. His next words were critical. He couldn't appear too interested, but not entirely dismissive either. "It sounds laborious. A thirty-year-old horror movie?" He moved to step out to the kerb.
John went with him (was he planning on getting into the taxi as well? Another host of possibilities opened up, but the original plan had a higher probability of success.) "It holds up incredibly well, actually. You'd be surprised."
Sherlock made a sceptical face.
"No, really, it's not just plasticine models and lasers. It's very psychological."
A taxi almost stopped, and Sherlock hadn't even raised his hand. He took a step back, hopefully making it look as if he were trying to find a safer position from which to observe the traffic. John was going to have to arrive at the point quickly.
And there it was: John looked back at the entrance to the theatre. Weighed the possibility. Squinted (trying to see how many days it would still be playing). Time for the last push.
"Well, it's right there," Sherlock said briskly. "You can tell me tomorrow if it's all you remember." He took his gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on.
John's attention snapped back to Sherlock. "Yeah, you could-" His tongue darted out to moisten his lower lip (Sherlock crowed: a dead giveaway). "Why don't you come too?" he said, the words tumbling over each other. "You know, just for... Fill in some of that general knowledge you seem to be missing. If you don't have anything else on." John pressed his lips together as if immediately regretting the offer.
Sherlock paused with his second glove halfway on and gave John a deep, mustering look. John held his gaze. There was determination, but also a fragility Sherlock had never noticed in him before. John had always embodied certitude, action, and both physical and moral strength to Sherlock, but there was also the side to him that said he was nobody, that called himself a wreck, that didn't think he brought anything of substance to the table. And, come to think of it, who - despite all his positive qualities - hadn't had any serious relationships in something like fifteen years. (Not that Sherlock's life was exactly a measuring stick for such things.)
John hadn't always had such low self-esteem as he did now, though. That had come with his injury and discharge. From the few anecdotes and tidbits John had shared over the past few weeks, Sherlock had pieced together a picture of a confident, competent, capable man who had his purpose in life torn out by the bullet that nearly ended his physical existence as well. No, there must have been something else that sent him from one assignation to the next, since that behaviour was well-established long before his injury: not seeking merely physical satisfaction, but a connection.
And suddenly, all the pieces slotted into place. Sherlock could picture it easily now: there had been a girlfriend, someone he was committed to. Either she'd left him, driving him to join the army, or - more likely, as Sherlock couldn't imagine anyone leaving John once they had him - he'd always planned on joining the army, and something had happened when he was away. Maybe she'd died (was that what had made him react sensitively to Sherlock's joke about being hit by a bus?) or done something stupid like having sex with someone else during the long months of John's absence. (Just because John had loved her didn't mean she wasn't an idiot.) Either way: John - heartbroken. Unable to allow himself to feel so strongly about anyone, at first in reaction to his grief, a protective mechanism, it had later become an ingrained pattern of behaviour. As soon as he felt himself being pulled in too far, he would withdraw. Possibly there had even been one or two lovers during his army years whom he had cared for more deeply, but they would have transferred away after a short time, or been killed (alternative explanation for the aversion to accidents involving large vehicles). Reinforcement of pattern behaviour. Sherlock rather thought John could sing a song to Mycroft about the advantages - or lack thereof - of caring.
And then along Sherlock had come, and they'd found a connection. A strong one. There was no denying it now. Maybe John had fought it too, as hard as Sherlock had, and for many of the same reasons. They were both afraid it was too good to be true, that something would rip them apart, and in doing so would rip their hearts out too. The only difference was, John expected the disturbance to come from outside - a bus, a bullet, a transfer order, another lover - while Sherlock had known all along he would be the cause. And the worst part was, Sherlock was going to end up doing it again. Even if he could somehow manage to patch things up here and now, the next metaphorical bus was just around the corner. A social cue missed, a boundary overstepped, a confidence betrayed, a foible exposed.
John was still standing beside him, waiting for an answer. Sherlock knew, he just knew, he was going to do something John would never be able to forgive. He had no idea what, and he wouldn't until after it happened. It would be kinder to let John go, to bury the experiences of the past few weeks deep in a vault somewhere and return to his previous course. But Sherlock Holmes wasn't a kind man.
"Do you know," he said slowly, pulling his gloves back off, "I think I will."
%%%%%%
Chapter note: Here's a picture of the ruins of St. Michael's Cathedral in Coventry, which served as the venue for the play in the movie: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Coventry_Cathedral_ruins.jpg
However, I have purposely avoided naming the city in which this fic is set, because I wanted Sherlock fans to be able to imagine it all taking place in London. Unfortunately, there is no similar bombed-out cathedral shell in London, so you will just have to chalk this one up to artistic license.
%%%%%%
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 12:45 pm (UTC)I had a sudden audio in my head of Sherlock saying
Yes and if I wanted poetry I'd read John's song lyrics to his boyfriend...
Either way: John - heartbroken. Oh clever, you worked in Paul Madden's reasoning into John as well and it works!
You made me go and buy Nativity on DVD, I've seen the film before of course but don't know why I never owned it as it's awesome.
I also decided this needed a fic rec on Tumblr. :-)
http://alabellecreation.tumblr.com/post/67050885670/so-too-early-for-a-johnlock-christmas-fic-rec
I want to make another manip too.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 12:52 pm (UTC)Manips are, of course, always treasured!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 01:52 pm (UTC)”He'd decided last night that he'd rather have John as a friend only than not have him in his life at all. It was an admission of weakness, yes, but some weaknesses were worth giving in to.”
What a fantastic chapter of discovery. And although it’s mostly seen from Sherlock’s point of view, there’s still enough of John’s hesitancy-cum-determination to make us want to bang their heads together!
Sherlock’s thoughts are always a little sad, even though he would never think them so. When I read something like this ~
”It was for the ephemeral twosomeness he'd always been excluded from, or at most, stood on the edge of, sneering at it with the self-righteousness of a tourist belittling native customs he didn't understand.”
~ it reminds me of the scene at Barts with Molly saying “you look sad when you think he can’t see you”.
”They were both afraid it was too good to be true, that something would rip them apart, and in doing so would rip their hearts out too.”
However, by the end of this chapter, Sherlock IS admitting that perhaps not always sticking to social niceties might not be a good thing. Which leads me to believe that perhaps they’ll both admit that a little compromise wouldn’t hurt . . .
no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 02:20 pm (UTC)I think John needs to learn to trust Sherlock, and Sherlock needs to learn that emotions and friendship can't be gained through trickery and manipulation. As we only really see Sherlock's view in this, it's sometimes easy to forget that they are both pretty dysfunctional, when it comes down to it.