Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Mr Holmes!”

Sherlock froze, turning back at the sound of his name. He shuffled towards the front desk, hands clutching a pile of books.  

Mr Maddens shot him a small smile as he gestured towards a seat. Sherlock sat down obligingly, settling his books on his lap.

“Mr Holmes – Sherlock, is it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Would you mind doing me a favour?” Mr Maddens rubbed his forehead, letting out a deep sigh. “I have a student who isn’t doing very well at chemistry so far, and I was wondering whether you’d be willing to tutor him for a while.”

Sherlock blinked a few times.

“Just till he comes to grips with the work,” Mr Maddens added quickly, evidently sensing that Sherlock was about to politely refuse.

Sherlock frowned. Why did Mr Maddens seem so hesitant asking Sherlock to tutor someone? The person he was to tutor had to be an idiot – was it the boy that usually sat at the back corner of the classroom? He was failing and there had yet been attempts to get him to improve. Sherlock abhorred idiots, and couldn’t stand the rest of the student population.

“What about this…” Mr Maddens pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “For extra credit. I’ll also let you use the lab for longer hours after school for the rest of the term.”

Sherlock considered the proposal. Extra time in the laboratory would enable him to catalogue more experiments each day. Whomever he had to tutor had better get to grips with chemistry quick – his free time after school to do experiments would be diminished if the idiot took all his time tutoring.

“I’ll take the deal,” Sherlock decided, having weighed the pros and cons.

Mr Maddens gave a sigh of relief. Taking a piece of scrap paper from the chaos of his table, Mr Maddens scribbled down a name, and pushed it across the table.

“I’ll have him meet you at lunchtime at the library.”

Sherlock pocketed the paper, not before taking a quick note at the name on the paper:

John Watson

***

The shrill screech of the bell reminded Sherlock of the meeting he had upcoming. He made his way down the stairs, past the gaggle of students crowding into the refectory and into the library.

He walked past a number of bookshelves, running his fingers along the books. Only the soft padding of his shoes could be heard as he ventured deeper into the heart of the library.

A creak of the chair had Sherlock glance to the right. A beam of sunlight cut through the dusty air, to befall upon a golden haired boy. He was slumped in the chair, tapping his foot as he twirled his pen. Sherlock watched as the boy took a derisive glance at his watch.

This was the person Sherlock was supposed to tutor. There was no doubt about that. He was clearly waiting for someone, and his body language screamed that he didn’t want to be here.

Sherlock went to take a seat opposite him, scanning the books that the boy, John, had brought, before coming to rest on the boy.

Slicked back hair, a leather jacket hanging onto his broad shoulders, black jeans, John looked every bit a greaser. It was no wonder that Mr Maddens had hesitated in getting Sherlock to tutor him. Sherlock shifted, heart beating faster as he realised that John had spotted him.

John gave Sherlock a look over, then shifted his chair a minuscule degree to face Sherlock. Then, John took a lollipop he had been sucking on out, giving a last, obscene twirl of the tongue around the tip of the lollipop, before lifting his eyebrows.

“You Sherlock Holmes? The nerd Maddens got to tutor me?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, giving a scornful sniff, though his cheeks betrayed him, flushing a light pink.

“Interested in science, yes.” Sherlock’s hands were steepled under his chin.

“You take the three sciences and maths, though you don’t seem to be doing well at it. It’s because of…” Dark eyes flickered to the stains on John’s trousers. “Your sister’s drinking. An alcoholic, I’d presume.”

John’s mouth parted slightly.

 “It’s stopping you studying, as much as you try to work hard,” Sherlock continued on his train of thought. “You want to be a… doctor.” Sherlock realised, taken aback by his deduction.

“That was brilliant,” John gave him a crooked grin. “How did you do that?”

“Simple. Judging by the splatters on your jeans and textbooks, it was some kind of alcoholic drink. A name is written on one of your textbooks, and with the same last name, it’s likely to be one of your family members.”

John moved to examine the tiny droplets that covered his textbooks with renewed interest.

“The fact that you take the sciences indicates that you enjoy it, and would like a degree related to it, but there is an additional book, not prescribed to our syllabus on anatomy. Thus, a doctor.”

John shifted to fully face Sherlock, shooting him a genuine smile. It lit up his face, transforming him into a cheeky little boy.

“Why the lollipop though?” Sherlock stared at the swirling pink candy John was holding.

“This?” John popped it back into his mouth. “Don’t want to smoke, y’know. Not good for you. But I have to keep the image up.”

John shrugged.

“Wouldn’t be good to be hypocritical git if I’m preaching about how bad smoking is.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, having nothing to say to that. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Should we start with this book?” Sherlock took the book at the top of the pile, and set in gently in front of John. He ran his fingers across the pages, before flipping it open.

John leaned forward to better see the book, cocking his head at Sherlock.

“Right. Better get started.”

John’s eyes glimmered a startlingly clear blue, before turning his gaze back towards to book.

Time to start work.

***

Sherlock wandered around the library, finding it somewhat empty. The fairy lights bedecked the bookshelves, casting a cheery glow into the surroundings. As he walked into the centre, he noted a huge tree towering over the bookshelves nearby, adorned with tinsel, ornaments and handmade little items that students had crafted.

He took a deep breath, a whiff of fresh pinecone drifting into his sinuses. The merry tinkling of a bell warmed the air as he brushed past, peering at the table where John usually stayed at.

Hunched over a notebook, John’s brows were scrunched together as he worked. The area was in chaotic harmony: leather jacket strewn across the table, bag carelessly tossed onto a chair beside him, stationary scattered within reach.

At times like this, Sherlock wondered how John could be mistaken for being intimidating. Others saw his leather jacket, slicked back hair, shades, and stayed away, giving him a wide berth. Sherlock saw the John, the little boy John with his lollipop, he saw the kind hearted youth that wanted to be a doctor, he saw the John that cared for Sherlock, a friend of his.

Sherlock flushed.

He ruffled his hair, took a deep breath and walked over to sit next to John.

John, sensing that someone was next to him, looked up, smiling as Sherlock came into view. He then moved to sweep the scattered stationary on the table to his side, shooting Sherlock a sheepish smile.

Shrugging, it was evident to Sherlock that John was wondering why he was in the library.

“Bored.”

John rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to the thick textbook in front of him. John was certainly used to Sherlock’s complaints and often acquiesced to helping Sherlock on his experiments. Of course, Sherlock thought, he had to do most of the work.

Sherlock leaned back on the chair, watching time go by as John went through one textbook at a time, the stack of books piling up swiftly. Observation was a rapid way of assimilating a person’s personality and quirks. It was good practice, watching John work – at least that was what he told himself as a few hours skipped by.

As the shadows lengthened throughout the afternoon, and the light streaming in through the window grew dim, John was studiously working. If the rest of the mindless student population had found learning as interesting as John did, they would be somewhat more interesting than at present.

Eyebrows drawing closer when confused, and back straightening as John realised that he understood something, Sherlock found it oddly endearing. At that thought, he shifted in his seat.

At last, John’s pen ceased its journey across the page, and was returned home to rest with its fellow pens. John closed his notebook with a deep sigh of breath.

“Did you want something?” John asked, turning to Sherlock as he stuffed the rest of his items back into his bag.

“Bored.”

John shot Sherlock a look that suggested that he knew that wasn’t the entire truth.

“Coming to watch me work on Christmas eve was more interesting than–” John waved his hand around vaguely. “–Planning your next experiment?”

It was then that Sherlock was reminded of the tedious fact that Mrs Hudson had insisted that he invite John to Christmas dinner. Mummy had put the idea into Mrs Hudson’s head since mummy and daddy were going on an urgent business trip, and hadn’t wanted the Holmes boys to be lonely. Sherlock did not imagine that she would have anticipated that Sherlock would actually ask a friend over, he was known not to like human interaction after all.  

“Mrs Hudson had me come to ask you if you wanted to join us for Christmas dinner,” Sherlock answered, trying not to sound too hopeful as he invited John over, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

“That’s…” John’s eyes flickered to his watch. “Tomorrow, right?”

“It’s Christmas dinner.”

“Right.”

John ran his hand through his hair, biting his lip in thought.

“There isn’t any dress code, is there?”

“No.”

There was a pause, before Sherlock added, “You won’t need your motorcycle though – Mycroft will probably send a car over. Meddling idiot.” The last sentence was muttered under his breath as he saw John raise an eyebrow.

“Okay.” The chair scraped back as John stood up, the two of them making their way out of the library. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.”

John smiled.

***

Sherlock was sitting by the windowsill, hand playing with his collar. The lonely driveway was within sight, without a single car driving along it. John had not arrived yet, and Sherlock was only accompanied by the whistling of the wind as it slipped through the cracks and crevices of the house.

The sun had just set in the afternoon, and even at present, Sherlock shivered as his breath ghosted on the window, leaving a misty trail in its wake. Only a few lampposts illuminated the road, leaving the rest of it untouched, consumed with darkness.

Thus, Sherlock noticed easily, in the late afternoon, that a car had appeared at a distance, steadily making its way over. Sherlock glanced at the grandfather clock snugly concealed beside a bookshelf. John was late, though earlier than Sherlock had calculated for John to arrive.

When the car was suitably close by, Sherlock slipped his feet into his slippers, and tugged on an ugly Christmas sweater that Mrs Hudson had knitted him this year. Despite being soft and warm, Sherlock did not see himself wearing it again – it was a great example of a truly appalling fashion sense.

As he slipped down to the ground floor, he listened for sounds from the front door. He timed it perfectly so that when the butler went to swing the door open, he just happened to be passing by.

“Sherlock!” John called, slipping off his shoes.

Sherlock made his way over to John, not at all surprised to see the familiar leather jacket.

“Pretty warm in here.” John unwrapped his scarf, and shrugged off his jacket to reveal a hideous Christmas jumper, not unlike Sherlock’s. “Sorry I’m late, took quite a while before I could find this jumper.”

“You put that thing on, on your own violation?” Sherlock blurted out, as he waved at the butler to take John’s jacket.

John shrugged.

“It’s Christmas,” he said, by a way of explanation. “And it’s comfy.”

A servant bumbled past with an armful of boxes. John peered around, wondering what was going on.

“The… decorations aren’t up yet,” Sherlock mumbled, trying to steer John up the stairs. John didn’t have to see the tree before it was presentable.

John ignored the hand pushing at him, and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, dragging him over to what looked like an impressive tree.

Standing at just under two floor in height, it was the main attraction in the room. Servants were popping the baubles on, and wrapping fairy lights and tinsel around the tree.

“You have the servants do the decorating?” John asked, eyes wide open in disbelief.

“Of course.” Sherlock frowned. “I have experiments to do upstairs. In fact, there’s one that you have to–”

“We’re helping decorate.”

John’s voice invited no disagreement, and he pushed Sherlock over to a box of decorations, moving it closer to the tree, and leaning down to pick up a few. Sherlock stood, stock still, watching John pop a few ornaments onto the branches closest to him. Was he supposed to do the same? It was going to be a dreadful waste of time.

He sighed.

John glared at him, picked up the box of decorations and shook all of them out above Sherlock’s head, ruffling his curls are they fell to the floor. John laughed, throwing his arm over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“You know, you’d make a good Christmas tree, all stoic and sturdy like that.” John stood back, thoughtfully, before breaking into a wide grin again.

Sherlock was not amused.

Still, he dutifully picked up an ornament and placed it onto a low hanging branch, the bauble glittering in the light. Another bauble appeared in front of him, John placing it in his hands. He could just feel the residual heat from John’s fingers, warming the bauble.

“See,” John nudged Sherlock. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

John ruffled his hair, and they set about putting more decorations onto the tree. To Sherlock’s surprise, they did have fun putting up the Christmas tree. After a while, Sherlock could see his intellect draining, and threw a bauble at John’s head. He was bored.

There was a soft thump as the bauble hit his fluffy hair, and John froze. John picked up the bauble, turning to Sherlock and pelted a dozen decorations at him. Thus, they started the yearly tradition of the christmas ornament wars, throwing the decorations at each other, hiding behind the furniture nearby. It promptly ended when Mrs Hudson entered the room.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, surveying the mess on the floor.

The boys were laughing in hysterics as they lay on the carpet still holding a few decorations.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” John shot her a crooked grin. “We’ll clean it up, I promise.”

Sherlock heard a huff, and the sound of footsteps growing softer. He tilted his head to John, watching the amazement upon John’s face as he lifted up various ornaments to the light.

“My nose looks bigger.” John was giggling as looked as his reflection in the bauble.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Obvious, John. It’s because–”

Sherlock was cut off by a finger to his lips.

“Don’t spoil the magic, Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft, suddenly much closer than Sherlock had thought. Heat spread to Sherlock’s face, colouring it with a soft tinge of pink, stark against his pale skin.

John drew closer, pressing his side against Sherlock’s, and held the bauble to Sherlock’s eye level.

“Don’t you think it’s cool?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say, feeling the oddest urge to shift away, to put some distance between them. He knew that John’s eyes were likely to be the deep blue of the ocean, sparkling under the light.

“Of course, if we saw Mycroft in it, it’d be fitting. He does have a big nose – in the metaphorical sense, anyway.” John broke the spell of enchantment, air clearing with a dose of lightness, leaving Sherlock wondering whether he had imagined it all.

“Come on,” Sherlock felt John move to get up beside him, before offering Sherlock a hand. “We have a tree to finish decorating.”

The two of them spent the better part of the hour finishing the tree, hanging on baubles, pinecones, fairy lights, and other various decorations. By the time they had finished, it was merrily twinkling, light reflecting off the decorations to give it an extra sparkle.

After the Christmas tree, they went to do more activities – Christmas festivities. Sherlock didn’t know how he had gotten dragged into making gingerbread men with John. Mrs Hudson had announced that they were freshly baked, and they could have a try. At once, John had asked about decorating, and had roped Sherlock with him.

They were currently sitting in the kitchen – a room he hardly went into, for obvious reasons. In front of them lay an array of icing, chocolate and other sweets.

John clapped his hands in delight as a chef placed a tray of freshly baked gingerbread men in front of them. Sherlock watched John grab the nearest bag of icing, and start drawing on the features of the gingerbread man. John was meticulous in decorating it, hands steady as put put two dots for eyes, and a wide curve for the mouth. It would be good practice for being a surgeon – not the gingerbread man decorating, but any skill that required dexterity of the hands.

John must have sensed that Sherlock was looking at him, for he looked up, took another bag of icing and placed it into Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock looked down at the bag of red icing.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

John shrugged.

“Anything really. I mean you could start off with Mycroft’s hair.”

“He’d have long hair. So long that I wouldn’t have to draw his face on.”

The two of them shared a look, and started giggling uncontrollably.

By the time they had finished, they had a Mycroft with long red hair in a green and red elf costume, and several gingerbread men with strangely elongated faces – it was, according to Sherlock, to represent the rest of the student population at school, melting away in boredom – and two gingerbread men of Sherlock and John.

There was a crunch, and a moan of delight.

“These are really good,” John said, with a mouthful of crumbs. “Here.”

John stuffed a gingerbread man into Sherlock’s mouth, making him splutter. Sherlock was surprised to find that indeed, it was rather good, if not a little sweet from the sheer amount of icing they had piled on.

He finished the rest of the gingerbread man, and reached for another one.

There was a few muffled footsteps of warning before he got a slap on the hand.

“Can’t have you spoiling your appetite. We have a Christmas dinner coming up,” Mrs Hudson called, as she snatched away the tray of gingerbread men. “Don’t think I can’t see you either,” she added sternly, as John reached over to sneak one off the tray.

John jumped, a startled rabbit, and rubbed his nose self consciously.

The two of them were then shooed out of the kitchen, for the chefs to commence with cooking their Christmas dinner. Sherlock took the opportunity to show John his new experiments, and the data gathered from the previous ones.

John sat in an armchair, in Sherlock’s room, flicking through his lab book. From what Sherlock gathered, he was rather impressed. Sherlock felt the oddest urge to leap up in the air as he saw John finally look up with a smile.

“Pretty impressive.” John went to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, making him duck after a second.

“Humph.”

Sherlock crossed his arms, settling for a pout, though inside he was bursting with pride. John had said that he was impressive! Well, his work was, but that was irrelevant. Those were just semantics.

The room was cozy with warmth: a soft orange glow of the lamp, the wooly jumpers and stockings, the air of peacefulness pervading the room. It was a nice Christmas, he reflected. For once, another person to share it with, bringing that extra zing to the day. Even if he had to go through the motions of a typical Christmas in a typical household.

By his calculations, Mrs Hudson would soon come up to fetch them for Christmas dinner. Like every year, they would be gathered as a family to eat, which meant that Mycroft would be here. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It would be a good time to practice his pea catapulting skills.

Sure enough, footsteps could be heard, getting louder and louder as they advanced down the corridor. Mrs Hudson peered in, looking for the two boys.

A few minutes later had them dwarfed by the dining table, which stretched out across the dining room. Mycroft certainly didn’t do anything by halves, and indeed the room was decked out in tinsel, cheery baubles and mistletoe.

Their food was brought over by servants in green and red, with forced cheeriness. At the corner of his eye, John could see Mycroft tucking in, cutting the meats into bite-sized pieces with impeccable manners – as was expected. John bit his lip as he reached over to pick up his fork and knife.

Christmas dinner at home was a mix of boisterous laughter, playful teasing and scrumptious home made food. Mrs Watson had insisted it was a time of family reunion and had dragged her two children into helping prepare the house for Christmas day. John was used to frumpy, hand knitted jumpers forced upon his head early in the morning, squirming and protesting as he grudgingly put it on. Those times were remembered with fondness – a stark contrast to the reserved air that hung around.

There was a prickling around his neck, an uncomfortable awareness that the servants, lined up in military stiffness behind them were observing him, watching his every move to assist him if needed. He shifted in his chair.

John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock. It was no wonder that Sherlock didn’t like Christmas dinners. Sherlock met his gaze, and a spark of mischief was lit. The corner of John’s lips lifted up, as Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and launched a stream of peas onto Mycroft’s plate with deadly accuracy.

“I mastered the intricacies of a catapult when I was seven,” Sherlock whispered in undertone.

Like that, the aura of reservation dispersed as John let out a pelt of laughter. The two boys were clutching their sides, giggling, as Mycroft looked bemusedly at them. He looked down at his plate. He seemed to have eaten less than he thought and gave a mental shrug as he lifted another forkful to his lips.

John finished his plate, later reaching forward to snag a minced pie from the pile at the centre of the table. He bit into it, closing his eyes as the sugary goodness exploded in his mouth. It was as though an abundance of fireworks had gone off. In fact, he paused, slowing his masticating, he seemed to be hearing the sound of actual fireworks.

He opened his eyes, turning to the window, silently noting that the lights had dimmed in the house. Fireworks were dancing in the air. The multitude of lights painted the sky in temporary colour, each second a different picture. It was an explosion of light as each firework went off, the start and end of its life as it made its mark on the sky.

“Beautiful,” John breathed, head tilted up, face washed with the faint glow from the fireworks.

“Ostentatious,” Sherlock shot a glance at Mycroft.

“Practice before New Year’s.”

“Of course it is.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He nudged John.

“You should be able to list the chemicals in the fireworks, judging by the colour.”

John, half laughing and half groaning, put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Just admire the view, will you?”

John leaned closer, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s.

“Merry Christmas.”