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December 23, 4:03 p.m.
Oh, for F---’s SAKE! Not again!
It was the third time in a fortnight that the power had been cut, and John Watson was losing his patience. Normally, he didn’t let a little thing like this get to him. But, well, it wasn’t so much the lack of power as much as it was the strop that it put Sherlock into – and all the fallout that John then had to deal with.
In perfect timing with that thought, John heard a second litany of swearing burst from the kitchen. Sherlock had been working on a particularly fiddly chemical precipitation; John knew this because one hour ago he’d tried making pleasant conversation to learn more about the experiment, only to receive an answer so acerbically rude that John had retreated to the sitting room to save himself.
Though John did allow himself a moment of evil glee at the failure of the experiment Sherlock had been so rude about, quite honestly he was getting tired of it. Especially because the outages seemed to be affecting only 221 Baker Street; all other premises along the street appeared immune to whatever electrical issues were going on. He’d already spoken to Mrs. Hudson about it, but apparently she hadn’t time to call an electrical specialist yet.
More unintelligible muttering drifted over from the kitchen, then the tinkling smash of broken glass. Anticipating the need to leave the flat altogether before the atmosphere became uninhabitable, due either to mysterious fumes or the deadly attitude of his flatmate, John heaved a heavy sigh and put down his paper. After shoving himself up from his chair, he walked to the window, twitched the curtains aside, and looked out.
With the interior of the flat darkened, Baker Street shone in the night. Fairy lights and Christmas trees were in nearly every window. Strands of lights had been strung over bits of the walkway so that warm pinpoints of yellow-white fluttered and winked all along the street. A brief cold snap had brought a respite to London’s typical winter rain; people were bundled in heavy coats, scarves, and hats as they hurried up and down the street. Everywhere was that particular holiday bustle that comes only in December in the evening hours as people transitioned between work and home. It was lovely, this time of year; especially the way people…
A second crash, louder this time, drove all thought from John’s head – except the need to get out. He moved with speed towards his coat and the door.
“I’m off out,” John bellowed over his shoulder. “I’ll bring back something hot for tea in about an half-hour.” And without further hesitation he fairly flew down the stairs, through the door, and out onto Baker Street. Soon he was one of the many others caught up in the holiday crush.
4:35 p.m.
Precipitation experiment thoroughly bolloxed, Sherlock resigned himself to cleaning up the kitchen table enough for them to eat when John returned. Fishing their one working torch from the odds-and-ends drawer, he rummaged through the cabinets until he found the mis-matched collection of candles that John had stowed from the cut that happened a few days ago.
Before John returned, Sherlock had cleared the table, lighting several candles in an attempt to bring some illumination to the kitchen. He’d also lit the gas fire in the grate, and after unsticking his correspondence and knife from the mantle, he’d added a few lit candles there as well. The vast majority of the flat was dark as night, but at least the kitchen and sitting room would be habitable.
Sherlock was searching the flat for extra blankets when he heard John’s familiar tread. Seventeen footsteps up the stair, three more across the landing. John blew in with red cheeks and nose, the chill of the night’s air still clinging to his jacket.
John moved tentatively, Sherlock observed. After a moment’s hesitation at the threshold, John crossed to the kitchen and began unloading the carrier bags. Sherlock could see John’s eyes flicking around the room as he silently took stock of what Sherlock had done while he was out. His eyes slowed as he carefully scrutinized the surface of the table before he put down the first items.
“I’ve cleaned the glass, obviously,” Sherlock snapped. “Really, John. You do over-worry.” Honestly, Sherlock thought. He might get focused on his work but he wasn’t stupid enough to ingest glass shards due to inattention. Don’t you trust me at all? Sherlock raised his gaze to John’s face. It wasn’t mistrust there, that had been too harsh. But there was something else there. What? Ah, exasperation.
“I see that. Thank you.” John responded, a little sharply. Sherlock had the grace to feel somewhat guilty about his own razor tongue. John finished unpacking. “And for the fire. I should have seen to that before I left.”
“Hmpfh,” Sherlock managed, tamping down another curt reply. His brain whirred in speedy retorts as he stomped to the hob to turn on the flame, then fill the kettle. Do you not think me capable of any self-management? I did survive independently for years before you arrived, Doctor Watson. Well. Mostly.
Sherlock was about to add something to that end, but the set of John’s spine as he turned to the cabinets for plates and cutlery put it to rest. Another time, perhaps.
The two sat down and began forking food from paper containers onto their plates. As they settled down to the serious business of tea, quiet took over the flat. Soon, the festive sounds of people on the street drifted up and in and were the soundtrack to their evening.
5:56 p.m.
Tea was done and cleared, dishes in the sink waiting for the lights to return. John sat in his chair, which he’d pulled as close to the grate as he dared. He soaked in the warmth between bouts of staring into middle distance and trying to determine what Sherlock was doing given the thunderous thumps and crashes coming from his bedroom. Sinking into the comfort of the evening, John slowly began to type out a draft for his blog.
Sometime later, how long John wasn’t quite sure, he surfaced from his reverie to find Sherlock looming right over top of him. His lanky body was shoved against the back of the chair, bent in an impossible arc as his body curved over John’s head so Sherlock could stare at his screen.
This was a new one, but John attempted to ignore it – usually the most expedient method for Sherlock to leave off his most annoying-but-unconscious actions. Over the next five minutes John managed to stump out a few more words. Sherlock’s looming presence – and the good possibility that his center of gravity must surely be straining at this point – was simply not conducive to concentration. OK. Evasive manoeuvres, Level 2: Gentle redirection.
“Yes?” John offered. Good. Tone of voice controlled, curious.
Sherlock grunted and shifted. John smiled inwardly at his suave reminder to Sherlock that personal space was personal for a reason. But as Sherlock lunged, then grabbed for John’s laptop, John quickly reconsidered his success.
A brief scuffle ensued with flailing hands and grunts of irritation and disproval from more than one participant. Sherlock may have been inadvertently backhanded during the scuffle, a proceeding which John couldn’t bring himself to be too concerned about. Finally, strangely winded, Sherlock bounded back a step and John found that he had somehow managed to retain possession of his computer.
Screw Level 2. John thought. That was ridiculous. “WHAT,” he blurt out, “is the problem, Sherlock?”
Sherlock stood, stony for a moment, glaring and still breathing a bit heavy. Finally he spoke. “My laptop is dead.”
“Ah.” Realization hit John. His flatmate was a madman. And a wanker. “Well that’s too bad. But you can’t have mine.”
“John. I need it.”
“No, Sherlock.” John eyed him warily, waiting for another lunge.
“I can’t locate my emergency power source.” At least John now knew the reason for the earlier tornado in Sherlock’s room. “And if I cannot continue my experiment, then I must use this time to track down information.”
“Well. Use your phone then, detective.”
“It’s too limiting.” Sherlock started pacing, then whirled sharply upon John. “Give me your laptop. You’re only working on that ridiculous blog. Let me get some real work done.” Sherlock held out his hand, imperious. Confident.
Nothing could have irritated John more.
“Bugger that, Sherlock. You’ll have to find another way.” John typed a bit more, just to prove that he could. “If it’s so critical, why don’t you go down to the pub and work there.”
“Impossible,” Sherlock bit out.
John raised an eyebrow at this. Sherlock huffed an exasperated breath and spoke on, as if teaching a toddler. “Too much distraction, John. Too much input. I need to focus, to work. Not to have my mind sent off in a million directions.” Sherlock paused. John could see the gears working in his mind. This was not a good sign.
Worry crept into a tiny fissure of John’s resolve. When Sherlock came round the front of John’s chair again, he was wearing his best smile. The shamming one. The one that always meant John wasn’t going to get his way. Bugger.
Sherlock leaned down and waved his phone in John’s face. “Mobile hotspot, John.”
John blinked, nonplussed. “And?”
“Come now, let’s share. You can continue typing your boring story on one side of the screen, and I can use my phone to research from a window on the other.” Sherlock straightened, pulling on the bottom hem of his jacket, obviously satisfied he’d made an airtight case for logic.
“No. Christ, Sherlock. Do you ever listen?” John stared stonily ahead.
Sherlock inclined his head, as if this answer were only a prelude to victory. Which it likely was. But he didn’t need to know that. So John stonewalled. Sherlock could pout all he wanted, but he was keeping his computer.
But, instead of skulking away to have his predicable strop, Sherlock spun and flung himself onto the arm of John’s chair, draping himself like a lead apron over the back, and most of John, in the process.
Lovely, thought John. This is fully workable. Brilliant win there, Watson. John huffed another deep sigh and pulled up the resolve he needed to type on.
6:42 p.m.
It took 23 long minutes of Sherlock fidgeting and flopping about and pointy elbows to the neck before John gave in. Longer than he’d anticipated, he had to grudgingly give credit to John for that.
Finally, in a burst of profanity that was creative even by John’s artistic standards, John launched from his seat and crossed to the couch so they could both sit.
“I don’t need another reason to schedule a Chiropractic, Sherlock!” John blurted out as he slammed himself down onto the leather cushions. “And, there are rules. No surfing of sites that will crash my laptop. And if you are going to click, you warn me – VERBALLY – first, and then put the clicker right back where it was. I don’t want to have to type everything twice.”
“Fine, John.” Sherlock spoke softly. “Of course.” Oh, right there. He could see the pulse on John’s neck really throb. It was so easy, pushing John’s buttons. Ridiculous, really. But truly, why was John acting as if Sherlock was being so unreasonable? This whole thing with the computer, it was nonsensical. He needed to work; John had the laptop, Sherlock the Internet. This was pure, symbiotic efficiency.
Logic.
Sense.
Reason.
Obvious.
Sherlock strolled over to the couch and wedged himself into the tight space to John’s right. A manoeuvre which earned him a growled “bugger!,” but John had shifted over anyway. Sherlock tried not to appear too triumphant at the victory, but it was a near thing. Couldn’t John see how rational it was? How it was the best option? This way, their predominant arms would both be free. If he sat in the middle space that John clearly intended for him, they would be sitting too closely to work efficiently Why didn’t John see and use these types of simple logic and reasoning? It appeared that more physical cues were in order.
7:31 p.m.
John had almost managed to concentrate again. Sherlock had been surprisingly compliant with the rules about mouse management, to the point where typing really hadn’t been much of a problem at all.
But, during the last few minutes, John had noticed Sherlock leaning perceptibly closer. And closer yet. Now the lanky git was crammed up against his side so tightly that his right arm had been all but immobilized.
“Sherlock…” John began. But, as usual, Sherlock was already a step ahead and had read his mind.
“Cold, John.” And, shockingly, John felt Sherlock snuggle into his side. Heat crawled right up John’s spine and seemed to settle at the tops of his ears. This turn of events was… unexpected.
“Go put on a jumper.” John offered. This man was infuriating.
“Don’t have one,” Sherlock mumbled as he continued to click through pages of information about… whatever it was, John couldn’t parse the equations. Regardless, he knew this statement to be untrue. Sherlock had at least one jumper – cashmere, of course, but it would be something at least. John assumed that Sherlock simply meant ‘don’t have one here in my hand and can’t be arsed to go get it and put it on…’ Okay then, change in tactics.
“Would you like to borrow one of mine?”
“No.” A pause. “Thank you. I’m quite fine as is, though a bit chilled.” Another pause. “It will pass.”
John huffed in disagreement, but let it go. The man was an adult.
They continued on, John typing, Sherlock poking about the web, for another thirty minutes before an alarming series of beeps sounded from the laptop. John commandeered the mouse to check the battery status. The battery monitor showed an alarmingly red bar hovering below 5%.
“Well that’s it for now,” chirped John, saving his blog post. “Do you want me to book mark these,” he waved a generic hand at Sherlock’s open web pages, “or send them to you. Or… whatever?”
Sherlock considered. “No. I have what I need. For now.”
John shut the lid and slid the laptop onto the coffee table. As he settled back into the couch, no longer occupied with the blog, he also noticed the chill that had seeped into the room over the past few hours.
“Back to the fire, then,” he offered. Not waiting for Sherlock’s reply, he heaved himself up and over to his chair. Which, he was thankful to note, was warm and welcoming. He flopped down, ready for an evening of staring into the flames and letting his mind drift. Perhaps with a glass of something.
The thought was just flittering out of his mind when Sherlock nudged his shoulder. John turned to see him holding a tumbler with a few fingers of amber liquid. John perked up. A quick sniff told him that this was likely a splash from Sherlock’s stash (purloined from Mycroft, no doubt). Sherlock might be an arse at times, but he also knew how to placate.
John sipped his whiskey while Sherlock stood beside him. The fire glowing behind the grate and sending out warm waves of delicious heat. The night had been frustrating, but perhaps it could end on a milder note. John exhaled a contented breath and sunk a little lower into the comfort of his chair. A quiet night in. Just what he needed.
And it was. For about two minutes. Until Sherlock stepped between John and the fire, wedged his way between John’s legs, and then slid down the front of the chair until he was sitting on the floor.
"Sherlock…” John heard his voice go shaky. He couldn’t help it. What in the hell was going on with his flatmate tonight? And why was he suddenly incapable of completing his sentences?
“As I noted, John. Cold.”
John was briefly too surprised to respond, but after a moment he managed, “And you can’t find anywhere else to sit?”
Sherlock, whose back was against the chair, remained silent as he stared into the fire. Now and again he would take a small sip from his glass.
John, apparently, would have to wait Sherlock out. That was okay with him, it wouldn’t be the first time. He was a world-class waiter. He knew this about himself, prided himself on it. And better yet, Sherlock knew it. John’s patience could outlast the Sphinx, he could certainly outwait his flatmate on this.
So John waited. And he drank. It was excellent whiskey.
Long minutes ticked by. The heat from the fire and the liquor was working its magic, and John was lulled into a sleepy haze.
8:36 p.m.
John woke from a loud horn blast from the street below. As his sleepy mind cleared, he realized that Sherlock had his hand wrapped around John’s ankle, fingers making slow circles against the denim.
John felt himself tense uncontrollably, though he tried to fight it. Oh fuck. Did he notice?
The fingers stopped briefly. Shit. Of course he noticed. He’s Sherlock. John tamped down on his rising panic, and found that, as he did and said nothing, the motion resumed. John tried craning his neck to see Sherlock’s face. But all he could manage was a view of the top of that black mop of curls. Not much to read.
John sat motionless, wondering what to do next. Sherlock’s behavior had been strange – even for him – all night. It was more difficult than usual to get a handle on the situation. That said, John had to admit to himself that things had been shifting between the two of them. Subtle changes, including a graduation to complete ease with one another and a surprising increase in the level of consideration with which Sherlock treated John. No, things definitely weren’t the same as they were even a few months ago.
Most of the time these changes were fine. The two of them carried on. But sometimes, like tonight, the tension erupted in bizarre ways. Such as caresses on his leg. John wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to do about it. Or, more importantly, what he should do.
In the moments he sat pondering, the words of a carol drifted up from Baker Street. At first the song was hard to make out but soon the tune became distinct. God Rest You Merry Gentlemen. Rest? Ha. No chance of that tonight. Let nothing you dismay – well, that was the joke, wasn’t it. Living with Sherlock sometimes felt like nothing but..
Comfort and joy. Well. That was something to think about, wasn’t it.
Comfort. Joy. Sherlock. John. Sharing an insane life here on Baker Street. Yes, it might be crazy. Yes, it might be fraught with annoyance. But when he was honest with himself, this life they’d come to lead was one that gave him great joy and brought an atypical comfort – one that he’d never expected or even imagined could be his.
Somehow he and Sherlock… Well. They had managed to find each other. And help each other. And make it work. It wasn’t usual and it wasn’t typical, but it was theirs. John knew he needed it. He knew it with a strength of certainty that he could say about few other things.
So as the carolers wandered off, the sounds of their carol growing softer in the night, John reached out his free hand to brush the curls that gathered at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
It was a light touch, but even so, John could feel the heat bloom from Sherlock’s skin as he leaned millimetres back into John’s tentative hand. John felt something hot grow right in the center of his gut and…
“Ooo-hoo!” John jumped out of his skin as the unmistakable call of their landlady floated across the flat. As John’s eyes focused, he could make out Mrs. Hudson in the shadow of their doorway, holding a lumpy Tesco bag.
“I brought some ice,” she paused, lifting the bag but looking unsure. “I thought maybe Sherlock might need it.” Again, a pause, “for some of his experiments,” she finally managed, trying not to look too disgusted.
John cringed at the thought of the fingers – currently holding court in the crisper – coming to room temperature. In response, he launched himself from his chair. Taking the bag, which was full to the point of bursting, he crossed to the fridge and dumped its entire contents into the drawer. As he worked the container of… bits… deep into the center of the ice, the lights snapped on. Humming and buzzing filled the flat as all the electrical and electronic things powered up and returned themselves to steady state.
What timing. A slightly crazy laugh escaped John. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock talking in the threshold of 221B.
“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but it’s a bit late to save your ice. I don’t think you’ll be wanting it back now….” He gestured widely at the drawer of fingers.
Mrs. Hudson grimaced. “Don’t worry, dear. Better safe than sorry where that’s concerned.” She fussed a bit with Sherlock’s jacket, and in response he unthankfully turned from her and sauntered back to the kitchen. With efficient movements he began gathering his equipment and transferring it to the table. Soon he was back upon his chair and focused on his work. “What’s all that, then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson queried.
Without looking up from his microscope, Sherlock mumbled, “I am trying to find an agent that will precipitate asphalt from tyre rubber, so I can determine where vehicles have been recently driving.” John tamped down on the rising irritation that Sherlock managed a response to their landlady when John himself had failed in a similar effort at the beginning of the night.
“Oh my. That sounds awfully complicated.” Mrs. Hudson fluttered over to the table to look. “Is it a long process?”
“Not terribly,” admitted Sherlock. “But it will keep me occupied for the next several hours.”
John heaved a sigh. Crunching the wet plastic Tesco bag into a tight ball, he tossed it into the bin. Right along with the tiny glimmer of hope that had sparked within him.
Right. Waiting. A specialty, was it? Well, he could manage more.
John pulled from his reverie to see the classic signs of Sherlock becoming frustrated with interruptions to his work. John tactfully extricated Mrs. Hudson from the kitchen and walked her to the door. Assuring her of their ability to make it through the night without trauma, he kissed her on the cheek and watched her make it safely down the stairs before returning to do the dishes from tea.
9:23 p.m.
Mrs. Hudson returned to her kitchen, listening to the boys’ voices come from above. Though the words were indistinct, it was always easy to pick out Sherlock’s baritone and John’s tenor. Footsteps echoed and followed John’s voice; Sherlock must still be at the kitchen table attending to his experiment.
It all was endlessly comforting; those sounds, those voices.
Mrs. Hudson puttered about, cleaning up from the visit from Mrs. Turner and her beau, Mr. Carlton. They’d come for a bit of Christmas Pudding in return for Mr. Carlton taking a look at the electrical. When they’d finished their trifle, Mrs. Turner returned home, Mr. Carlton made himself at home in the utility room, and she popped upstairs with some ice for Sherlock. Judging from how quickly the power came back on, it hadn’t taken Mr. Carlton long. Then typical to his quiet style, he returned next door without waiting for a word of thanks.
Mrs. Hudson began her nightly routine. The kettle whistled and she made a last cuppa; as it steeped, she filled her favorite hot water bottle and took a moment to tuck it between the bed sheets. She wondered if the boys had managed to warm themselves. Probably not quite yet – the flat had been quite chilly when she’d made her way upstairs.
As she made the final round of the flat, checking doors and windows, a sly smile crossed her face. Lighting a candle, she took cup in hand and made her way to bed. Deciding upon a brief detour to the laundry, Mrs. Hudson giggled a bit as she remembered the look of shock – and definitely something else – on John’s face when she’d crossed their threshold. Sherlock’s face… well, he did have a tendency toward the inscrutable, but wasn’t his skin a bit pinker than its usually-marble hue? And it was simply not decent, how they returned to work so quickly; John with his tidying and Sherlock with his microscope.
Sherlock had helped her when she needed it most. Now it was time to return the favor. With a bit of a grin, she whispered a heartfelt a joyful Happy Christmas to you, boys, and flipped off the electrical panel’s breakers one more time.