Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (21/23)

[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: 3,242 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 21: The Baker Street Nativity

When Sherlock arrived backstage with Gladstone an hour before the show began, it was with mixed feelings. The last few days had gone well, in his opinion. Following the movie (which had been predictably mundane, but more than sufficiently compensated by John's company) they'd spent time together every evening following rehearsal: on Wednesday they'd had dinner at a stand-up diner around the corner from the cathedral square, and on Thursday they'd walked down to the ice rink near the river and stood at the railing, sharing a bag of roasted chestnuts while Sherlock deduced the skaters and John laughed at their antics.

Neither of them had mentioned that afternoon at Whitehall, or the police, or the bank account, or anything else that had happened, although Sherlock felt John's eyes on him a few times, the weight of unanswered questions behind them. Was he supposed to say something? Things were going well enough now. He didn't want to ruin it all again by bringing up past unpleasantness. If John wanted to know something, he should ask directly.

On the other hand, they also hadn't kissed or even touched beyond bumping elbows. It wasn't that Sherlock wanted nothing to do with John if they were no longer physically intimate, but he still felt a strong physical pull, and the carefully controlled way John moved and held his body around Sherlock said that John wasn't insensible to the attraction, either. Yet there was undeniably a barrier between them, and Sherlock didn't know if it was one that John had erected to protect himself, or if it was one that John needed Sherlock to break down.

They also hadn't said anything about what would happen after the play, when they no longer had the common denominator of the school to structure their interactions. Sherlock knew John was actively looking for another job, a real job that would utilise his professional skills, and without Sherlock's input it was very likely going to mean John moving away or at the very least not having unlimited amounts of time to spend with Sherlock. Maintaining any sort of contact under those circumstances would mean making a concerted effort, something John might not be willing to do for the meagre return (especially given the still undefined nature of whatever this was they were doing). And Sherlock, for his part, wasn't interested in being someone's booty call.

Which all boiled down to this perhaps being the last time he and John might see each other.

The backstage area was simmering just below the level of pandemonium. Children were running around half in costume, tripping over their own sashes, mothers chasing after them with safety pins in their mouths. Molly was drawing beards on anyone who stood still for longer than three seconds and shouting about not trampling the scenery. Technicians were still unspooling and hooking up what looked to be miles of cables and standing in everyone's way.

The children knew Gladstone, and as soon as they spotted him, they broke away from their minders and came over to play with him. Sherlock turned him over to Ollie for the time being so that he could look around for John.

Before he got very far, though, one of Gladstone's fans ran after him and tugged on his jacket. "I'm nervous, I've forgotten everything, and I don't want to do it," she announced with a convincing pout.

Sherlock fixed her with a hard look. "Yes, well, that makes two of us. But if I can stick it out, so can you. I've even been fired and I'm still here... God knows why," he added in an undertone, putting his hands on his hips and looking over the child's head to see Molly approaching.

"Oh, good, you're here!" Molly trilled. "There's some sort of mix-up with the wigs, can you just-" She somehow managed to insert a grease pencil into Sherlock's hand. "- finish putting beards on the Nazarenes while I sort it? Emma, where's your halo?" She took the little girl's hand without waiting for an answer.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, but Molly was already hurrying away.

"Somewhere..." she called back unhelpfully.

Well, at least he knew John was here. That was a start.

Sherlock turned around, trying to find someplace to put the make-up, only to find himself face to face with a rather perturbed head teacher (hasn't had sex in over a month, heartburn from cheap fried food, needs a new contact lens prescription).

"What the bloody hell is this?" Lestrade's face was that particular shade of red it only developed when Sherlock was involved.

"Wife still making you sleep on the sofa?" Sherlock said coolly. "And I should think that obvious. Here, make yourself useful as long as you're here." Sherlock stuffed the pencil into the breast pocket of Lestrade's jacket and stepped around him.

Lestrade looked down at his pocket as if Sherlock had just deposited the remains of his last experiment there. "I am not going to miss you doing that," he muttered, then whipped around before Sherlock could get away. "What- No, stop, Sherlock. Get back here." He grabbed at Sherlock's arm to hold him in place. "What do you think you're doing? I just had a phone call telling me this was all happening. I cancelled this show and I cannot believe you are-" He had to let go of Sherlock as a herd of angels plowed through between them. "You are sacked!" he shouted over the general furore. "You know you are sacked-"

"Yes, I'm already sacked, there's not really much else you can do," Sherlock pointed out. Why Lestrade insisted on this tedious exchange of obvious facts when Sherlock really had better things to-

"There he is- Greg!"

Sherlock turned at the sound of John's voice to see him coming over with the mayor in tow. John flashed a grin at Sherlock as he steered the mayor to Lestrade and made sure they shook hands. Sherlock didn't think he would ever completely get used to the little leap his heart made when he saw John after they'd been apart for several hours. But then maybe he would never know.

"Thank you, Mr Lestrade, this is absolutely marvellous! Well done, sir, well done." The mayor pumped Lestrade's hand energetically.

Lestrade's face morphed into an uncertain smile. "Thank you?"

John clapped a hand to Lestrade's shoulder. "Er... I wonder if you wouldn't mind taking over, Greg, we have a few things that need sorting back here..." He gently ushered Lestrade and the mayor back out toward the public square.

The mayor waved to everyone and boomed, "Break a leg, kids, break a leg!" As he strode off, he rubbed his hands and said to Lestrade, "This is going to be sensational. This whole town will be so proud..."

Lestrade shot Sherlock a dirty look behind the mayor's back and mouthed, 'You owe me … again!', but he accompanied the mayor out of the backstage area.

Once they were gone, Sherlock and John exchanged a look and burst out laughing.

"Oh, God!" John chuckled. "I can't believe we're getting away with this."

"Was there ever any doubt?" Sherlock said, smirking.

John shook his head, still smiling too. "It's not done yet. I don't even want to think of the number of things that could go wrong."

"Then don't. Don't, John. And I won't either." Sherlock's breath caught as he realised what he was really saying. His fear of failure, of doing something that would drive John away, made it a foregone conclusion. It provided him a pre-made excuse, and it also softened the disappointment because it gave him the minor compensatory satisfaction of having been right about something. But what if he expected things to go right? Or at least left open the honest possibility? Dangerous.

John hesitated, apparently having picked up on the undertone. But before he could say anything, Molly's voice called John's name, piercing the little bubble of solitude that seemed to have formed around them. Sherlock cursed her heartily, along with everything else around them that was warring for their attention tonight.

John looked torn, unable to take his eyes away from Sherlock's. "After," he said finally, sounding breathless. "After the play, we can... we can talk then."

Sherlock's heart beat in his throat. He could only nod. That was good, he told himself. John wasn't going to take him aside and tell him he never wanted to see him again. The way he'd looked at him just now... He wasn't going to walk away from this. Sherlock clung to that thought as he watched John follow Molly to deal with whatever last-minute crisis needed fixing.

In order not to be called on to do anything himself, he set out in search of Gladstone. He needed a cigarette, and taking the dog for a walk was the perfect excuse.

%%%%%%

"Ladies and gentlemen, mums and dads!"

Out on the stage, the mayor was calling the audience to order. Sherlock was standing in the wings, John and Molly nearby lining the children up for the first number. Sherlock had secured Gladstone in an out-of-the-way corner to wait out the half hour the play should take.

As the buzzing from the crowd died down, the mayor continued: "I just want to take a minute to thank you all for all the effort and time and everything that you've put into the show, but ladies and gentlemen, if I had to single any one person out for their effort, for their time, their diligence, and their enthusiasm, it would have to be Mr Gregory Lestrade, better known to you as the head teacher of the Baker Street School. Come on, come and take a bow, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Lestrade, come on, come on..." He beckoned toward the square below the stage, where Lestrade was standing off to one side in the front row.

Lestrade looked unhappy at being singled out, but as the applause from the parents and other spectators swelled, he saw he didn't have any choice, and made his way up onto the stage with an attempt at good grace. When he reached the microphone, the mayor shook his hand, expertly turning the two of them to pose for the camera that subsequently flashed: Moran, Sherlock saw.

He'd forgotten about him and Moriarty. Stupid! Of course they would be here. His pulse increased as he scanned the crowd. And there he was: right behind Moran, the dapper Irishman was standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed critically as he watched Lestrade. He turned just then, catching Sherlock looking at him. He winked and his mouth curled into a triumphant smirk. Sherlock deliberately looked away. What was he up to?

Lestrade ruffled his hair sheepishly as he reached for the microphone. "Wow. Good evening. Thank you, thanks everyone, Mayor, it's - Well, I don't really think I deserve all this, but I'll accept it on behalf of everyone who worked to get us here tonight. We're used to the school hall, we don't have all this …" He gestured around the square. "-around us, normally, for the play. And the mums and dads who've been before to see our Nativity play know that," he said with a lopsided smile, "you know, things can go a little bit wrong with the little ones, so don't ex-"

He stopped, put his hands on his hips and looked down, and paused for a moment. Then he lifted his head again and continued, more sombrely: "I was going to say, don't expect too much, but I shouldn't have said that. Bad on me. Nobody ever expects enough of the children at Baker Street. Everyone expects them to go down the drain. But I wanted to change that, back when I started at the school, and pretty soon I figured out that meant expecting a lot of the teachers too.

"I know I've made mistakes along the way, and maybe I did expect too much, or the wrong things, of certain people, but seeing this all come together here, tonight, beyond - honestly, beyond all my wildest expectations - makes me think that maybe I wasn't so wrong after all.

"I've not seen the play, I don't know what's going to happen in a few minutes. But I do know that each and every one of these children is amazing and I'm proud of them and of everyone who came together to make this possible tonight."

"Hear, hear!" the mayor chimed in behind him as the applause began.

Sherlock felt something on his bicep. He looked down to see John standing beside him, his hand just slipping away from where he'd squeezed Sherlock's arm. Sherlock shivered involuntarily and tried to catch his eye, to see what he'd meant, but John had already turned around to signal to the children waiting behind him.

"Hope you enjoy it," Lestrade's voice said from out on the stage, and then John sent the children out into the spotlight.

The show began.

%%%%%

The first two numbers went off without a hitch. Oh, a couple of the children, stage-struck, forgot the words to the songs, Isabelle's wig kept sliding down over her eyes, and most of the boys made faces when their partners kissed them at the end of Mary and Joseph's song, eliciting a wave of chuckles from the parents. But really, things were going remarkably well. Too well.

Sherlock watched Moriarty, still trying to figure out what his purpose was in being there. His expression was impassive, inscrutable; if anything, he was displaying signs of impatience, looking around from time to time and even checking his watch. As if he were expecting someone. Or something. But everyone was here - Sherlock, John, Lestrade... Moran, beside Moriarty, was calm, taking the occasional note and looking - dare Sherlock even think it - mildly entertained. But what else could it be? A direct interference would violate the first unspoken rule of the competition between them, namely that any success or failure was judged on the basis of their own efforts (or errors). Giving the opponent rope was allowed. Kicking the chair out from under him wasn't.

The next scene was a big one, involving T.J. as the angel Gabriel being lowered from the tower on wires. Showy. A crowd-pleaser and sure to generate big points if it went well. If anything were going to go wrong - if Moriarty had sabotaged something after all - this would be the one.

Sherlock watched tensely as the figure in white floated down toward the earth, sharing in the general relief when the boy's feet touched ground and the children broke into a toe-tapping gospel-rock'n'roll fusion. John had made a good call with that. After the first two more laid-back songs, this was a good point to jack up the energy level and get the audience involved.

In fact, Sherlock was so distracted by the music and the enthusiasm on the stage that he let his attention wander from Moriarty. A mistake (probably; he wasn't sure he would have been able to stop him even if he had divined his intentions earlier), for as the scenery was being switched out in preparation for the next number, Moriarty took advantage of the brief flurry of activity to quickly run up the steps and take centre stage.

He held his arms up commandingly. "Stop, stop everyone! Right, you-" He pointed at one of the helpers. "-stop moving. Stop. Stop, everyone. That'll do." He looked around and glared at anyone who wasn't frozen in place.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Beside him, John lunged forward, clearly in mind to bodily drag Moriarty off the stage.

Sherlock held him back. "Wait," he hissed. "Or do you want this to turn into another fist fight? It's probably exactly what he's hoping for." Sherlock wasn't entirely certain that was Moriarty's aim - surely he didn't think John or he would be so stupid as to repeat the same actions here in such a public arena - but he honestly had no other ideas, and he was not so secretly curious as to what Moriarty's next move might be.

Once he was satisfied that he had everyone's attention, Moriarty began: "Ladies and gentlemen; poor, deluded people," he said, shaking his head in mock pity. "I'm here to tell you that this, right here, tonight, is a LIE!" Several people flinched at the sudden outburst, and a low murmur began to run through the crowd. "You came here tonight because you thought they were making a movie. That's the only reason you're here, to rub shoulders with those Hollywood types, maybe see a celebrity or two, not to be subjected this substandard, cheese fest." He made a sweeping gesture meant to encompass the stage and everyone on or behind it. "Well, it falls upon me to tell you that no one is coming from any movie studios. No one is coming, and nobody will. That man-" He turned and pointed at Sherlock. "-is a sham. As if anyone would actually be interested in anything he came up with. Look at him. He's a failure, a nothing."

"Sherlock-" John's voice was low and beautiful with barely controlled anger. Sherlock smiled to himself. Because there was something else, something almost as interesting.

"No, John. Look." Sherlock nodded toward a dapper, besuited figured carrying an umbrella ascending the stairs leading up to the stage.

Moriarty continued his rant, oblivious. "He lied to you, and to me, and to-" He broke off, wild-eyed, when Mycroft reached him. "What-"

"Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft said, giving Moriarty an oily once-over. The pained half-smile on his face said that he found the man sadly lacking. "Head of Whitehall Studios," he added, nodding graciously to the audience. "We hadn't wanted to come out and make a big announcement like this. Children are so easily stage-struck, and reactions are so much more natural when people don't know they're being filmed. But in light of your rather cheap and disappointing display," he said with a disapproving shake of his head in Moriarty's direction, "I should like to confirm that we have in fact been recording this delightful little show from the start -" Mycroft extended his umbrella to point out several cameras that Sherlock had taken for surveillance cameras placed around the stage and the square. "-and now your performance as well," Mycroft continued, "which I doubt will make it into the final cut, but may find some other interesting uses."

"The bloody bastard," John breathed out. "Letting us think he wasn't going to come. Did you-" He frowned suspiciously at Sherlock. "You didn't know about this, did you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said under his breath. "But don't be fooled. Whatever his reasons are, it's not as a favour to you or me." Mycroft only ever did something if it served himself.

"I don't really give a damn why he's here. The point is, he is, and he's done right by those kids. And," John added, nodding at the stage, "made a nice fool out of Jim Moriarty at the same time."

Indeed, Moriarty was stalking away, his mobile at his ear and a look of impotent fury on his face as he screeched imprecations at whoever was on the other end.

Sherlock was loath to imagine what his brother would ask for in return for this.

%%%%%%

Go to chapter 22

Comments

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

I can't believe the play has actually happened after all this time!! Excellent news . . . despite Moriarty's best attempts at sabotage!

Mycroft saves the day!! But . . . "Sherlock was loath to imagine what his brother would ask for in return for this."

He has a point . . .

[swissmarg]

It did seem like we'd never get here, but now we are. I don't think Mycroft will ask anything too terrible...