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Giving the present one last good shake, John put it back beneath the Christmas tree. I’ve got him! No way Sherlock’s going to guess what this one is.
Rising from his knees, John couldn’t help but feel a bit chuffed. This was their first Christmas together, and he’d done his damnedest to not only choose a gift that reflected how he felt about Sherlock (impossible, but hopefully I got close) but one that Sherlock wouldn’t take one look at the color of the bow and know exactly what was inside: a slip of paper telling Sherlock, after the event, the gift John had arranged for him—a murder mystery.
John stood for several moments, soaking in the stillness of the night, the fairy lights that bathed the room with a soft glow, and then he padded quietly back to the bedroom. Slowly lifting the covers and slipping underneath, John lay watching Sherlock’s sleeping face, wondering how he’d ever gotten so lucky.
~~**~~
“Come back to bed, John.” Sherlock’s whine died as his face sank into the pillow.
“I would think you would notice I am in bed, Sherlock.”
“You know what I mean.” Sherlock snaked an arm out from under the covers and blindly found John’s arm, tugging it to him. “Put the paper down and come back to bed bed. I need you.”
“It’s almost eleven. I know you’re bored—”
“It’s been a dreadful holiday season.” Sighing dramatically, Sherlock flopped onto his back and covered his bare chest with the duvet. “In the whole of London, there hasn’t been a serial murderer in weeks. I need to file a complaint.”
John chuckled. “Just who would you complain to? And why in the world would you complain that there’s not been—” John snapped the paper straight. “Hold on, here’s something about a serial—”
“Serial?! We have a serial murderer! Ha!” As if a coiled spring being released, Sherlock sprang upright, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and grabbed his dressing gown.
“Oh, wait. Sorry.” John nosed closer to the page. “Serial Christmas tree theft.” Beside John, the bed dipped as Sherlock wilted back onto it, his dressing gown pooling around him.
“Dull.”
“Besides, I thought Lestrade put you on suspension. Oh. John Lewis have their wool jumpers on sale.” Strictly speaking, John didn’t need a jumper, but he couldn’t have helped but notice that it was already Christmas Eve, and there was not yet a present under the tree for him. True, they hadn’t expressly talked about gift giving, and it seemed a bit churlish to suggest to Sherlock that he pick one up, but still… It wouldn’t hurt to put a few hints out there.
“So, what did you get Mycroft for Christmas? Your parents?” John turned the page, the paper crinkling in protest.
“Buy gifts? Why would I do that?”
“Erm, to let them know you’re thinking about them? To show them you care about them?”
“Social constructs, John—Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day. I can give gifts any time of year; I don’t have to wait for the one of the days demanded by commercial entities striving to boost their bottom line.”
“And do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Give people presents, ‘any time of the year’?” John couldn’t think of one time in the eleven months they’d been together that Sherlock had presented him with any kind of gift. Again, not that he really cared, but it was the principal of the thing. Isn’t that what people in love do? Love? Hell, we don’t even say it. I wonder… John shook the thought from his head. He does love me. He just has other, well, Sherlock ways of showing it.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
This time turning the page merely for effect—he knew exactly what he was looking for and where it was—John spied the article he had planted, no easy feat with a major city publication. “Hmmm.”
“What?” Sherlock rolled toward John and brushed his fingers along the top of John’s thigh, drifting toward his groin.
John bit at the inside of his lip. I must not let him distract me. “There is a serial murderer on the loose!”
“Do tell!” Sherlock grabbed for the paper.
“Today,” John read, with a well-aimed elbow blocking Sherlock’s efforts to take the paper, “a second—”
“Second? Didn’t even hear about the first,” Sherlock sniffed, burrowing in and trying to read over John’s shoulder.
“It wouldn’t be a serial murder then, would it, if there were only one.”
“You do have a point there.”
“Shall I finish? Or do you want to continue debating whether it’s actually a series of murders?” John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face where it perched on his shoulder, but with Sherlock’s breath warming his cheek, his firm body pressing up against him, John was losing focus.
“Go on. Go on.”
Shoring himself against his craving for Sherlock, John went on. “A second elf—”
“Elf? Did you say elf?”
“Would you let me finish the bloody article?”
“If you please,” Sherlock said as if John was the one who kept interrupting.
“In the early hours of Thursday morning, the body of a second elf was found in Kew Gardens. He is believed to have been stabbed to death—”
“Elves are real?”
Is he serious? “Erm, no. People dress up as elves at Christmas, just like Santa or Mrs. Claus.”
“Then how—”
“Just let me keep reading, okay?” John felt a ping of regret that he’d started this whole thing; it was getting more complicated than he’d intended. Shut up, Watson. If it makes Sherlock happy, it’s well worth it. “J.W. Krupper, 35, of Brixton, was last seen alive playing one of five elves at a Santa Grotto. This is the second stabbing within a week of a person playing an elf. A Scotland Yard spokesperson stated there is no reason to believe the murders are related.”
“What idiots. Two identical victims and the murders aren’t related?” Sherlock flung himself from bed and rushed to the closet, his eyes alight with excitement. “Get your clothes on, John! We have an elf murderer to catch.”
John stifled his grin at Sherlock uttering such a bizarre statement in earnest. He knew that at some point, Sherlock would realize it was all staged, but he didn’t want to give it away. Not just yet.
~~**~~
“Fuck no. Just…no.” One glance at the suit Sherlock had brought home from the rental shop was enough for John. Crossing his arms, he fixed his gaze on the wall. “Not doing it. Nope.”
“Come, John. Pouting doesn’t suit you.”
“No, that’s your area.” John glared at Sherlock.
“I would look ridiculous in an elf suit; I’m too tall.”
“But being too thin doesn’t stop you from putting on a Santa suit.” Grabbing a pillow and plopping it against Sherlock’s flat middle, John buttoned the Santa jacket around it and buckled the belt. “There, better.”
“John, please put it on. See, you have me begging now. You know I don’t beg.”
“Tell me one good reason I should.” John refrained from pointing out that he was, in fact, putting the suit on at that very moment. Not that it meant he condoned this part of Sherlock’s plan.
“Lestrade’s still miffed about the boat incident, won’t let me near anything associated with one of their cases.” Sherlock started buttoning the elf coat. “He somehow even managed to brainwash Molly into denying me access to the morgue. And when I texted him about these murders, he laughed and told me to call him if one of the reindeer gets hijacked.”
“Can’t say I blame Greg for being, uhm, miffed about a hundred thousand pounds worth of damage. But what does that have to do with me dressing as an elf?”
“Because, John, if I don’t have access to the crimes that have already occurred, we must embed ourselves and catch the killer. In the act.” Sherlock snugged a hat onto John’s head, its bell jangling a tinny, arhythmic tune.
“Right. Nothing says undercover like a bright red and green costume with bells dangling off my head and feet.” John shot a quick glance at the mirror and looked just as quickly away. Christ, I look ridiculous.
“As you well know, John, or you should by now anyway, it’s about hiding in plain sight, blending in with the surroundings.” Sherlock stepped back to examine his handiwork. And pulling a candy cane from seemingly out of nowhere, he draped it from one of John’s pockets. “Perfect,” he beamed, pecking John’s nose with a kiss and moving south toward John’s lips.
“Nope,” John said, leaning away. “I’m not staying in this thing any longer than I have to.”
“Well, then, off we go to the Santa Grotto at the Knightshire Grande Hotel,” Sherlock said, grabbing their coats. “I’ve calculated that will be the killer’s next stop. He’s working his way toward Royal Albert Hall; it’s where the big event will be this evening.”
“Wait. How do you know that? Where he’s headed.” John struggled to get his coat on over the bulky elf suit.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me, it isn’t.”
“The killer is working his way east. Alphabetically.”
“And you figured that out after just two murders, did you.”
“Of course, I did. And John? You’ll be needing this.”
Looking down, John saw that Sherlock was holding out his gun.
~~**~~
“So, what are we looking for then?” Santa hair tickling his nose, John whispered into Sherlock’s ear. He needn’t have been so careful. With the cavernous lobby of the old hotel brimming with noisy, rambunctious children and harried adults trying to pretend this was all good fun, it would have been difficult to hear a bomb drop.
“Anything suspicious, John. Anything out of the ordinary.” From where he perched on the Santa chair, Sherlock watched the crowd. Scanning it. Every few seconds, his eyes lingering on something that captured his attention, no doubt assessing its threat factor.
John rolled his eyes. “Great, thanks. That narrows it down.”
“It’s going to be a parent, or at least someone posing as a parent; a person without a child would stand out, call attention to themselves.” Sherlock hoisted a child off his lap and onto the floor, the next child already being shepherded his way. “The elves themselves are going to be hypervigilant—they’re well aware one of them is a target—which means the killer will be careful to look friendly, non-threatening. Else they’ll be unable to get near pull a knife without being seen, let alone stab someone.”
“Why do you think they’re doing it? I mean, why an elf?” Caught up in the chase, John momentarily forgot there was no murderer.
Sherlock shifted his gaze to John, the intensity of his eyes pronounced against the snow-white hair and beard. John struggled to breathe.
“I suppose for the usual reasons, John. Love, hate, money, power. Boredom. The motive is rarely interesting. It’s the methods that intrigue me, the lengths people will go to to get what they want.”
Settling into a rhythm as children cycled through to Santa, the next hour passed uneventfully, and John basked in Sherlock’s obvious pleasure as Sherlock keenly recorded and cataloged every movement, every sound around him, cross-indexing and weighing them against each other. Fine-tuning them until he would identify the killer. This was Sherlock’s present, the thrill of the hunt; there was nothing Sherlock enjoyed more. Well, maybe except for examining the victim’s corpse itself.
“You’re wrong, you know.”
Sherlock’s voice startled John; he hadn’t realized he’d been staring at Sherlock. Not that staring at Sherlock is out of the ordinary, John mused. “And what am I wrong about this time?”
“That the thrill of the chase is what excites me most.” Sherlock looked at him so intently that John had to look away. It wouldn’t do to sport a rock-hard cock with all these kids around.
John cleared his throat. “Right. See anyone interesting out there?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that, thankfully, Sherlock took the bait and looked away.
“Don’t look just yet, but for a few minutes now, I’ve had my eyes on a man who’s now second in line, the ginger. He has two kids with him, teens from the looks of it; too old to need dad to come with them and too old to visit Santa. Keep your eye on him.”
Stepping down to help the next child onto Santa’s lap, John thought he saw something just inside the man’s coat, at his wrist, that glinted. No doubt it was the metal of a watch or a bracelet, but in that instant, John decided to go for it. All afternoon, he’d been of half a mind to tell Sherlock he’d seen something threatening. Doing so would create added intrigue for Sherlock; if there was no threat, fictional or otherwise, then Sherlock wouldn’t get the full effect of his Christmas gift.
But just as John was about to tell Sherlock what he’d seen, the dad moved ahead of his boys, getting close enough to Sherlock to say something John couldn’t quite hear.
What’s going on?
Sherlock stood, telling the next family in the queue that it was time for a break, their murmurs of disappointment reaching John as he watched Sherlock put out the sign that said Santa was going on a break; he needed to feed the reindeer.
“Sherlock…” Starting to ask Sherlock what was going on, John fumbled, the fog clearing from his brain as he realized that what he had seen in the man’s jacket had truly been a knife. One now being held to Sherlock’s side, pushing into the plush velvet of the suit.
John reached for his gun.
Sherlock found John’s gaze just long enough to shake his head and glance quickly at the attentive children watching Santa leave. Not in front of the children.
His hand itching for his gun, John knotted it into a fist. What the fuck? What the actual fuck? This was all supposed to be a lark; it wasn’t supposed to get Sherlock killed. He followed at a distance as the man herded Sherlock out of the store, onto the pavement. A half-block down to a narrow alley. And as they walked, Sherlock shed his costume, de-Santa-ing himself so that by the time they reached the alley, no one found him interesting enough to follow.
One more time, Sherlock’s eyes found John’s, and Sherlock nodded.
The ginger-haired man was quick.
By the time John pulled his holstered gun from under his costume, the man had pushed Sherlock up against a wall and held his knife at Sherlock’s jugular. In a menacing growl, grinding out, “This is for my sister.”
But John was quicker.
His bullet penetrated the man’s chest, a bloom of blood darkening the pale olive shirt visible when the man’s jacket parted as he hit the ground.
John sprinted the few feet to Sherlock, his heart beating hard. “Are you all right?”
Sherlock crouched over the man lying on the ground, two fingers at his carotid. “Fine, John. Just fine. He’s had better days, though,” he said, standing. “We need to get out of here.”
“But, shouldn’t we—” John tried to get another glimpse at the man to see if some medical assistance might be required (didn’t I see him take a breath?), but Sherlock was insistent, dragging him toward the main road.
“Dead, John. I made sure,” Sherlock said, flagging a passing taxi. “Lestrade will prevent me from joining any case ever again if he knows I was involved in this. But if it will ease your mind, after turning off my mobile’s ID, I’ll text emergency services to retrieve the body.”
John sank into the cab’s seat and stared out the window at the streets heavy with holiday shoppers. He couldn’t say he had any compunction about killing a man about to hurt Sherlock, but to leave his body lying in an alley unsettled him. And rolling his head over so he could see Sherlock, he smiled as Sherlock thumbed the message into his mobile. Clearly, Sherlock felt the same.
“Who was that guy, then? And what was that about a sister?”
Still working on his smartphone, Sherlock shrugged. “An old case. Nothing to concern yourself about.”
~~**~~
“Well, that was invigorating.” Giving his hair a last brisk rub with a towel, John walked into the sitting room. His breath caught as Sherlock came into view, his long, slim body silhouetted against the front window. And to think I nearly lost him today. The bastard who’d held the knife on Sherlock had actually nicked him, drawing blood. (“Just a few drops, John.”) If John had known at the time, he would have gladly gone back and killed the motherfucker again.
Sherlock spun around. “John! You should have asked me to join you.”
Narrowing his eyes, John studied Sherlock’s face. The expression on it was the one Sherlock used when he feigned innocence. “What’re you up to?”
“Nothing. Just waiting for you.” Sherlock’s smile widened. It was exaggerated. And totally fake.
Hearing a shout from outside, John walked to the window. “Who’s out there?”
“No one, John.” But Sherlock waved at the window behind him as if he were trying to shoo someone away.
What was Sherlock up to? And reaching the window, John saw that, yes, someone was outside on Baker Street. It was dark outside, and the light was poor, but John could swear the man looked just like…
“That’s the guy I shot. How in the hell?” Looking out the window again, he saw the man run. “What the actual….?”
“Well…”
And there it was, the guilt on Sherlock’s face. “What do you know? What in the hell happened? I shot him, Sherlock. You said he was—”
“Not dead, obviously. Never was.” At least Sherlock had the grace to appear a little embarrassed at being caught out. “So sorry, John. I didn’t think you’d find out.”
“Right, then. Thought I’d be dull ol’ John. As always.” John shook his head, unsure if he was more irritated at Sherlock for lying to him or at himself for being such a rube.
Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder, a silent plea to stop him from walking away. “John, no. It’s not like that.”
“What’s it like then, Sherlock? Tell me.” Facing Sherlock, John clamped his jaw.
“You missed a spot when you shaved.” Sherlock pointed at his own chin to mirror the spot. “You’d better go get that before you forget.”
“Nope, not getting out of this one. Who is he, Sherlock? And why isn’t he dead? Wait. Did he even kidnap you?”
“If you must know…” Sherlock grimaced, seeming to debate how much he should divulge.
“Yes, I must. Dish, Sherlock.”
Sherlock reached for his violin, aimlessly plucking its strings a few times before facing John. “When you told me that there was a serial murderer, I knew without a doubt there was not; I have my pulse on the city, John, and would have known well before it hit the paper. Besides, not even Scotland Yard is so inept as to not connect two murders so strikingly similar.” Looking at John and seeing that wasn’t sufficient explanation, Sherlock went on. “I deducted the murder was your Christmas present to me since you know I abhor obvious sentiment, but I also know you wouldn’t be able to avoid at least some sentimental gesture.”
“You’ve got me there.” John couldn’t help but smile, quickly quelling it. Determined not to be so easily sidetracked, he said gruffly, “Still doesn’t explain the undead dead person outside our flat.”
Sherlock stalled, retrieving his bow and playing a few bars of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
“Sherlock?”
The music stopped. “Admittedly, I hadn’t bought you a present, despite your not-so-subtle hints. And I was, well, quite touched by the thought you put into your gift for me, so I devised one myself, for you. I know how much it means to you to kill people for me, John—”
“Protect you, Sherlock. I protect you. I don’t get a thrill out of killing people.”
Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock gave John a look that said Really?
John relented. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Therefore,” Sherlock continued, “I devised a scenario wherein you could, ahem, protect me. And the gentleman you saw is, indeed, the corpse.”
“But I shot him. I saw the blood.”
“Did you?”
“They were real bullets…” John sighed. “You put dummy bullets in, didn’t you. That’s why you handed me my gun.”
Moving to Sherlock, John gently took the violin and bow. And setting them aside, he took Sherlock’s hand. It was quite touching, really, what Sherlock had done for him. Surprisingly thoughtful.
Something glittery underneath the bottom boughs of the tree caught John’s eye. It was a small gift-wrapped box that hadn’t been there earlier. John picked it up, its tag labeled John. “What’s this then? You’ve already given me a gift.”
“Erm, you can save that for later. I’m not sure you’re quite in the right frame of mind.”
Noticing Sherlock squirm, John thought, Dear god, I hope it’s not a finger or some other random thing that can decompose. He sniffed the box. It doesn’t smell. Bravely carrying on, John removed the bow, ripped the paper from the box, and lifted the lid. Inside, much like he had done with his own gift to Sherlock, was a piece of paper folded into quarters. Unfolding the paper, John read what was written on it.
And read it again. This time a little slower, making sure he’d gotten each of the three words right; it was difficult to see through misting eyes.
“John. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“No, Sherlock. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Taking Sherlock into his arms, he held him tight. And pushing himself back, he reached for Sherlock’s face, kissing him softly. “I love you, too.”
Tucking the note back into its box, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the bedroom. And as they undressed, a sly smile slid onto Sherlock’s face. “I haven’t returned the costumes, yet. Don’t have to for a couple of days. Feel like—”
“Oh god, yes!” John scrambled after Sherlock, who was already running to where they'd left the costumes in the sitting room. “Dibs on Santa!” he cried, knowing it really didn't matter. He already had everything he wanted.
Sherlock.