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The door opens, and John Watson embraces the warm air that immediately hits him with a relieved groan. The pub he enters is far enough from campus to not be too crowded on a Friday evening, but it still attracts a young crowd of people. It is early, and the bartender doesn’t seem to be busy. Only a few students are seated around the large table in the middle of the room. A small lone Christmas Tree is standing in one corner, otherwise, the pub is thankfully free from decorations.
John hangs up his wet jacket on the coat racket and chooses a small table in one of the darker corners of the room. Before sitting down, he moves the chairs, so the other chair is standing opposite of him. Quiet music is playing, no Christmas songs yet. An old paper of the Daily Mail is lying on the table, the headline saying something about a new serial killer in London. John quickly throws the garbage away.
His phone buzzes. A new message from their group chat appears:
Good luck with your date, John! MH
John smiles and likes the message. Molly is always the person who cheers everyone - everyone, that is Mike Stamford, Stella Hopkins, Molly Hooper, Sarah Sawyer, and him - on, while staying single herself.
Yeah, don’t eff it up, Johnny! SS
Sarah wants to work as a pediatrician, so she never uses the f-word.
“Good evening, do you want anything to drink?” The server asks, a handsome man with dark brown hair and a purple earring.
“No, thank you. I’m waiting for my date.“ John says. Finally, after months, he decided to enter the dating market again. Mary Morstan, a fellow medical student from his semester, had broken up with him in June.
“I'm so sorry, John.” She had said, and John’s stomach still turns when he remembers her words. “But I met someone new.“ The someone had turned out to be a guy from one of John’s classes. Football star, taller than a bloody Christmas Tree, but otherwise not very smart.
So, not only had John had to deal with his volunteer work at the clinic, preparing for his last oral exam of the semester, no, but he also had to lie in bed for days, staring at the ceiling and listening to Taylor Swift’s breakup songs. This is also one of the two things John still has left from his and Mary’s 14-month-long relationship - a very healthy obsession with Taylor Swift and approximately 50 leftover hair ties in his bathroom closet. He should really throw them out.
The reason why he is now frequenting this pub, which is aptly called ‚"A New Beginning", is his friend Mike. Mike also studies medicine, although he is one year above John. Not only does this give Mike an advantage when it comes to fellowships, but it also gives him an edge of wisdom when it comes to relationship advice.
“You have to move on, John. All this moping for months is not healthy.“ Mike had urged him last week during lunch in the cafeteria.
“I’m just not sure if I’m ready yet.“ John answered, fiddling with his phone. Last night, in another nightmarish fit of “I am going to die alone“, John had downloaded Tinder. He turned his phone and showed the screen to Mike. His friend grimaced, but together they worked themselves through both men and women, occasionally swiping right.
“She looks nice.“ Mike had said, pointing at a girl with short black hair. “And she even likes dogs.“ John had swiped, and the magic words “You’ve got a match!“ brightened up his screen.
The two had chatted for a while, and after John determined that she wasn’t a secret serial killer, he asked her out on a date the next Friday.
John glances at his phone (no new messages) and the door. The door opens, and John half rises already, but it’s also two giggling girls, nearly falling through over each other. John slumps back down and turns his phone on again.
Hey, I’m waiting for you at the bar. Looking forward to meeting you! JW
He turns the phone off to save battery and waits. The door opens a couple more times, and two more tables are filled with happy and laughing students. John notices that the waiter is staring at him, so he finally orders himself a beer. His date is now twenty minutes late. At this point, it’s painfully obvious that she isn’t coming. He has completely forgotten how terrible it is to be stood up on a date.
He decides to wait for another ten minutes, just enough to finish his beer, when his phone suddenly buzzes. John nearly drops it while fishing it out of his pocket. It’s from an unknown number.
Hope to see u again tn! x
John frowns.
Who is this?
Mark, from the party rem?
John rarely goes to parties, and he definitely has never met someone named Mark. He types back.
Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.
Oh c’mn, i thught we had sth going on??
This Mark was growing more and more unsympathetic.
Nope, I’m pretty sure I’ve never met you.
That bastard must have given me the wrng nmb!
John decides to end this unfruitful conversation and blocks Mark. Mark is probably one of the guys who don’t notice when to stop. Whoever had the misfortune to meet him must have given him a random number to finally get rid of him. Apparently, it worked.
Shaking his head, he finishes the rest of his beer. At least this terrible evening has turned a bit more entertaining.
3 days later…
It’s Monday again, and John really hates Mondays. He has a full working day from 8 am to 6 pm, and the commute takes another thirty minutes until he is finally in his room. The flat he shares with Mike is in a very dodgy end of London, but it was the only place they could afford. They've got a small hallway, where they somehow fitted in an old green sofa. The kitchen is criminally small. Only two people can be in there at the same time. Their fridge is chronically empty and the sink is always full with soaking plates and glasses.
At least he was able to decorate his room nicely. He still has that poster of Robin Williams in his prime, and all his old Superhero comics fit nicely next to his Doctor Who and Star Wars DVDs. Another poster of Daniel Craig from Casino Royale (the scene where Craig steps out of the water while only wearing light blue speedos did something to John) is hanging on the door of his wardrobe. His textbooks and notes are laying wherever he last dropped them, and his old notebook is waiting for him on his work desk.
Due to his work, he gets his first chance to scroll through his phone while wolfing down his heated leftovers from the weekend. There are 142 messages in their group chat, and John absently clicks through them. Apparently, Sarah had a row with the self-checkout machine in Tesco and had to share every second. He has two more messages from his group partner about their project for a course they both hate. John decides to save those for tomorrow. He notices another message from an unknown number and clicks on it.
Hi, want to meet for a coffee later?
John furrows his brow. He answers:
Sorry, only just saw your message. Who is this?
The answer arrives as soon as he finishes washing up the dishes.
Tom, from the party on Saturday, :) Remember?
No, John doesn’t remember. After being left alone in the bar, he spent the rest of his weekend laying in bed, watching Vikings on Netflix and drinking three litres of mulled wine.
Sorry, you must have got the wrong number.
This Tom must be nicer than Mark because he sends a quick apology and then doesn’t write again. John goes to his room (quietly, because Mike is studying) and plugs in his phone. Being mistaken for another person two times this close together is certainly weird. Too tired to muse about this any longer, he puts on his favourite studying playlist and resigns himself to his homework.
4 days later
“We should do this more often.“ Molly announces happily. She is watching the popcorn explode in the microwave, while John stirs their mulled wine on her small stove. They had started the tradition of watching trashy movies in December during their first winter semester, but recently, it got harder to find a date that works for everyone. Today, only John, Molly, and Sarah had found time.
Molly’s flat is very heavily-decorated, which immediately tells you a lot about its owner. She has photos of her black cat Toby hanging everywhere, and on the door to the bathroom sticks a giant Glee poster. Molly swears that she is just being ironic, but John isn’t so sure. On her desk is usually at least one knitting project, and one of her bedroom walls is painted pink.
The bell rings, and Molly runs to let Sarah in from the cold.
“It’s ghastly outside!“ Sarah shivers, pulling her shoes off. “Hi, John!“
John returns the greeting and gets out another mug.
“So, what film do we want to watch?“ He asks the two girls.
“There is another Lindsay Lohan film on Netflix.“ Sarah says.
“From where do I know Lindsay Lohan again?“ Molly asks.
“She is the main character in Mean Girls. The film where they dress up as sexy Santa's and dance on stage in their school.“ Sarah answers, and the two women giggle.
John pours the hot chocolate into mugs, and together they all settle on Molly’s couch.
“Honestly, as feminists, we should really boycott these movies.“ Sarah says.
“Yeah, we should draw the curtains so no one can witness our sins.“ Molly says and laughs.
“Shush!“ John says, and the film starts.
They had just reached the part where the main character and the presumed love interest bump into each other and Lindsay Lohan’s outfit are ruined when John’s phone buzzes.
Where r u?
looking for you everywhere
u should know that i am not a patient person
hello????
John groans. Great, another one, and this person sounds possibly deranged. Sarah notices his reaction and stops the film.
“What’s wrong?“ She asks.
John shows his phone to the two women. “This is the third time in one week that I am harassed by random strangers. They’ve always got the wrong number.“
Sarah snorts: “Sounds like someone has been giving your phone number out to get rid of unpleasant people.“
John stares at her, surprised: “Really, people actually do that?“
Sarah shrugs: “I’ve heard from a couple of friends that they always have this phone number to give out, in case a guy won’t leave them alone.“
“That’s actually pretty smart. But whoever this person is must have given out my number to multiple people now. I wish they would pick another number.“
“Nothing you can do about it, John. Best to just block the number immediately. This problem will be solved on its own.“ Molly tells him, sipping from her mug. Her cheeks are already a bit pink from the mulled wine.
“Yes, you are probably right.“ John mumbles, more to himself than to her. He blocks the rude guy and tries to focus on the film again. John really hopes that the person who is giving out his number is somewhere safe out there.
7 days later
In the last week, John didn’t receive any more mysterious messages. He hopes that it will stay that way. He is busy enough with shopping for Christmas and trying to finish all his work assignments. Molly invited him to another Christmas film night, again at her flat. She is the only one of their friends who doesn’t have any flatmates they could annoy, so they usually meet at her place.
Molly opens the door while a big smile. She is already wearing her red-and-white blinking Santa Claus hat. John has chosen one of his favourite Christmas jumpers. It makes him look like a gay lumberjack.
“I hope you don’t mind that I invited someone else. I thought it would be more fun this way since all the others had to cancel.“ Molly explains why John hangs up his jacket.
“Sure, no problem. The more, the merrier, right?“ He asks.
“Right.“ Molly says. She tugs her hair behind her ear and wrings her hands. Molly is definitely nervous about something, but why?
“Anything I have to know about this mysterious person?“ He asks her, amused.
Molly blushes: „Well, I met him during my internship at the morgue in the summer. I kinda had a crush on him for a while.“
John interrupts her: “You mean I will finally meet Mr. Mysterious? Exciting!“ Their friendship circle had dubbed Molly’s crush Mr. Mysterious because apparently, he looked like a bloody ghost (tall, skinny, pale) and always carried a long black coat around. Yes, even in summer.
“Just promise to be patient, all right? He is a bit, well. Aloof. Can be quite rude, actually.“ Molly wrings her hands.
„He wasn’t rude to you though, was he?“ John asks, worried. He knows that Molly is sometimes too nice for her own good.
“No, not really. We cleared that up pretty fast. He told me he is not interested in women and would rather focus on cutting up the rotten pig cadavers now.“
“Charming.“ John deadpans.
“Anyway, he knows an awful lot about corpses, chemistry, and murder, which tends to turn most people off. He always seems a bit lonely, so I invited him.“ She says this in a big rush, nearly falling over her words.
John wrinkles his brow. Is Molly’s crush really gone? She still seems nervous around the guy.
The bell rings and they both flinched.
“I’ll get it!“ Molly says quickly, and in walks, the most beautiful man John has ever seen.
Ever since he noticed his bisexuality (he came to the conclusion when he watched The Mummy and fell in love with both Rachel Weiss and Brendan Fraser) five years ago, John has noticed a lot of men. Handsome men. Striking men. Men who are two heads taller than him. Men who are smaller than him (yes, those exist too). Men who work out once a year. Men who work out every day for two hours. Smart men. Men who couldn’t even boil water. Funny men. Boring men. Awkward men. Successful men, who are starting their own company at twenty (paid by their parents). Men who have changed their major thrice already. Men who love cars. Men who love wine. Men who prefer dogs to cats. Men who prefer cats to dogs, but pretend otherwise. Men who flirt easily with other men. Men who treat women badly. Men who treat their partners like they are the sun. Shy men. Lonely men. Famous men (he once saw David Tennant at a pub quiz).
The point John is trying to make here, is that he has met a lot of different men, both bad and good. But this man, who just walked into Molly’s flat, wearing a black coat, and gloves and is swiping snow out of his curly hair. Oh, this man takes the cake.
John blinks. And blinks again. And then he takes the offered hand and shakes it: "I’m John Watson.“
"Sherlock Holmes.“ The man, who now has a name, smiles. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes first appear icy blue, then, with a flash of light, they turn into a light green. His dark curls frame his pale skin perfectly. He is taller than John, and also quite skinny.
John has learned in English class, that men are commonly referred to as “handsome“ in literature, and that women are usually called “beautiful“. However, “handsome“ really doesn’t describe this man adequately. There should be a third adjective for creatures like him, but there isn’t and John isn’t a poet. So “beautiful“ will have to suffice.
“Molly has told me a lot about you.“ John says and immediately regrets it. Sherlock looks mortified.
“She said you like corpses.“ He adds, and oh god, that’s even worse. Now Sherlock is going to think that John thinks that Sherlock is someone who likes corpses a tad too much.
“Uhm, well. We met at the morgue. I’m studying criminology.“ Sherlock says, and now that he has finally said more than a few syllables, John notices it.
His voice.
Oh, god.
His voice tastes like honey.
No wonder, Molly fell head over heels in love with this guy.
“That’s cool.“ John hears himself say. His voice sounds squeaky. „So, do you want to join the police?“
Sherlock snorts: “Definitely not. The police are, at its best, terrifyingly incompetent, and, at its worst, a danger to civilians. I want to become a consulting detective.“
John has never heard of that job before. It definitely doesn’t come up on these quizzes they hand out at school, to help you with your future. John’s quiz had said: car mechanic.
“What is a consulting detective?“ He asks.
“It means whenever a client needs help, or when the police are out of ideas, they come to me. And I would consult them.“ Sherlock explains.
“You must be superb at it, then.“ John has regained his composure a little bit and has remembered how most people interact. Compliments always bring you far.
“I am. For example, I know that you are studying to become a doctor and that you most likely want to join the army. Probably because a close family member was in the army too. Also, you have a brother who got recently divorced.“
John knows that he is gaping like a fish, but he can’t help it: “How could you possibly know that?“
“For one, you and Molly are good friends, so it’s likely that you work in similar fields. I noticed that your hands are dry, so you use hand disinfectant a lot. You also just recently left a place where you wore a face mask for hours. You still have marks behind your ears from the tight strings. Molly has also mentioned to me that you work long shifts. This all screams a student working in a hospital. You are wearing someone’s dog tags under your shirt, I can see the necklace. It must be someone very close to you to give you their dog tags. Parents are most likely. You idolize that person, otherwise, you wouldn’t be wearing them. You hold yourself straight, your hair is cut short, and you work out at least three times a week. Furthermore, you are already preparing yourself for army training.“
Sherlock finally stops to take a breather. He looks at John. It is strange. Sherlock has said all of this with the utmost confidence, but now he is biting his lip. Waiting for John’s reaction.
“How could you possibly know about the divorce?“ John finally crooks out.
Sherlock points at John’s jacket, which is already hanging next to Molly’s purple coat: “Your jacket. It looks a bit too expensive for a student, so it must have been a used gift. It’s already fraying at the edges, so its previous owner didn’t take good care of it. I’ve noticed that the etiquette says „From Clara to Harry xxx“. The kisses imply a romantic relationship, the jacket was a gift from Harry’s wife to Clara. She left him, so he gave the jacket to you. People are sentimental when it comes to stuff like that.“
A few seconds pass by, then…
“Brilliant!“ John gasps.
„Really?“ Sherlock is surprised. “That’s not what people usually say.“
“What do people usually say?“
“Piss off.“
The two men laugh, and John decides that he wants to listen to that laugh a hundred times more.
“You did get one thing wrong, though.“ John says.
Sherlock looks annoyed.
“Harry is short for Harriet.“
Sherlock groans: “Of course, Harry is your sister! There is always something.“
Molly suddenly reappears: “You boys can move up into the living room, you know.“ You don’t have to keep standing in my cold hallway.“
“Of course.“ John says quickly, and they all settle on Molly’s couch. John has never noticed before how small it is. Sherlock is practically sitting on top of him. Molly hands them all a mug filled with steaming mulled wine.
“All right, we have enough popcorn for five movies, and more wine is waiting on the stove.“ Molly fiddles with the remote. “What do we want to watch?“ She asks while scrolling through the millions of Christmas movies on Netflix.
“They all look the same.“ Sherlock complains. “It’s always a straight couple with red and green colours.“
“I know, isn’t it dreadful?“ John says cheerfully.
“Since Sherlock is a newbie, how about we start him off easy and watch The Christmas Prince trilogy?“ Molly says.
“There is a full trilogy filled with Christmas Princes?“ Sherlock asks.
„Only one prince. Three Christmases.“ Molly starts the first film.
It takes about five seconds into the film for Sherlock to voice his first complaint: "That’s not New York City. This has been filmed in Chicago.“
“Shush” Molly says.
Ten seconds later, Sherlock found something new: „You can tell that this film was written by Americans by the horrible faked European countries. Aldovia is clearly just a cheap copy of Genovia.“
Molly’s head whips around: “Have you seen The Princess Diaries?“
"Of course. My Mom loves Julie Andrews.“
„Sure. It definitely wasn’t because of Chris Pine’s handsome blue eyes.“
"You guessed correctly.“
Now it’s John’s turn to shush them.
The female main character turns out to be a cunning journalist.
“Did you ever notice that the women in these films only have three acceptable jobs?“ John asks them. “They are either journalists, teachers, or just rich brats.“
Molly grabs some popcorn: “Rich brats, who get converted into loving mothers and wives through the power of Christmas!“ She tries to throw popcorn into her mouth and misses.
The journalist gets the mission to travel to the European country of Aldovia, which is apparently somewhere with mountains and lots of snow. There, she starts to follow Prince Richard around, heir to the throne and apparently, a party goer and womanizer.
“He isn’t even that handsome.“ Sherlock complains.
“The men in these movies all look the same.“ John says, who can feel the buzz of the mulled wine setting in.
The journalist manages to gain employment in the castle by pretending to be the young princess's tutor. She proceeds to get closer to the royal family, and especially Prince Richard. To remind the audience that she is a professional journalist, she reads her hilarious notes out loud.
“I bet the evil guy who wants to become King will find her notes and out her scheme.“ Sherlock announces.
“Yeah, probably.“
Molly has to go to the bathroom, so they stop the film for a moment.
“Are you impressed so far?“ John asks Sherlock.
“I’m very impressed. It is interesting how accurate the American view of European countries and monarchies is.“ Sherlock answers.
“You should know that I’ve got a very good sarcasm detector.“
“Good for you.“
The two both take a sip from their mugs.
“So, are you working on anything at the moment? A case, I mean.“ John clarifies.
Sherlock nods: “I do, actually. Did you hear about the man who drugs his young victims in bars, takes them somewhere, and then cuts them into pieces?“
John has to swallow a gag: “I did, actually.“ He vaguely remembers reading about the guy The Daily Mail called „Santa Knife“ on the tube.
“Well, basically, I’m frequenting the busiest bars in town every weekend and wait for the guy to strike again.“
“Sounds really dangerous.“ John says, worried. He remembers how he immediately noticed Sherlock’s skinny frame. How did Sherlock think he could win over a serial killer?
Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly: “I’ve got someone from Scotland Yard on speed dial.“
“Christ, and you’re what, 22 years old?“
Sherlock grins: “21 years. I skipped third grade. And I’m perfectly safe - the most annoying thing about it is all the guys who try to flirt with me. I have to find out if they are just idiots or murderers, so I have to flirt back.”
Great, so every weekend, Sherlock is surrounded by probably good-looking men who throw themselves at him. John has known this guy for one hour, and he is already getting jealous.
“Yeah, that sounds awful. I’m taking a break from that fun stuff right now.”
“Oh, because you just got over a long-term relationship? Molly told me.”
“Yeah, she broke up with me. Hang on, why would Molly tell you this?”
“I don’t know.”
Molly returns and falls back on the couch. “Ready?” She asks briskly and turns the film back on. John has a sudden substance that Molly has cooked up a scheme. Why else would she buy all that alcohol, sit them on her tiny sofa and invite Sherlock?
Four hours and two and a half movies later, their evening is coming to an end. They finished three bottles of mulled wine, and everything is a lot warmer and cozier now. Molly has fallen asleep somewhere in the last hour.
“I told you: in the sequel they would get married, and in the third film she would get pregnant,” Sherlock says, with a light slur in his voice.
“You’re a genius,” John says.
“I know.” Sherlock answers and his head drops on John’s shoulder. John’s hand suddenly becomes independent, and he starts stroking Sherlock's curls. They are very soft.
“You know if you ever needed help while working… Like, I don’t know. Getting rid of any awful flirters, you can text me.” John says, hardly believing his own bravery, and takes out his phone.
“Good idea.” Sherlock agrees, and doesn’t John have the best ideas sometimes?
He waits for Sherlock to open his contact app, then spells out his phone number.
“Is that really your phone number?” Sherlock asks, suddenly sitting up. John misses his body weight immediately.
“Yes.” He says, confused. “Why are you asking?”
Sherlock stares at him for a second, his face unreadable. Then he swings his legs up.
“Nothing. I really have to go now, though.” He is already in the hallway, fumbling with his shoelaces.
“Oh,” John says, still confused. Why is Sherlock so spooked all of a sudden?
“Bye!” The mysterious stranger calls out, and the door slams closed after him. Molly wakes up with a loud final snore.
“Did you make him run away?” She asks John, aghast. “I thought everything was going well?”
“I don’t know…” John whispers, staring at the door. Disappointment weighs heavy on him.
Two weeks later…
John hasn’t heard from Sherlock. No messages, no phone calls, no snaps, no Instagram messages, no BeReals. He still doesn’t know why Sherlock had left so suddenly.
It was the last day before the Christmas holidays, so John allowed himself one last hour of studying.
He is alone in his flat. Mike is out with Sarah. He doesn’t have to pack either - he doesn’t have the strength to deal with Harry’s mood post-divorce, and he isn’t in good standing with his parents either. So, John Watson will stay in his flat and spend Christmas on his own.
He hasn’t told any of his friends. They would worry about him, possibly invite him, and John cannot cope with that. After all, it’s only a few days. He can cook something nice for himself and consume as many sweets as he wants.
With a sigh, he closes his laptop. That’s it. His Christmas holidays are starting now. If only he had someone to share it with.
On cue, his phone rings. He snatches it from his bed. He has three unread messages from an unknown number:
told you i would find you
once i see someone pretty i never give them up
it’s my turn now to play
John’s stomach sinks. He hasn’t received these strange numbers in a while, but now they are back and still as unsettling as before. He clicks on the number and finds out it’s actually not a new one - it’s the same person who texted him before, the third person. Furthermore, he clearly hasn’t got any nicer.
Who is this??
u know who i am
No?!
i know you sherlock holmes. and there is no where to run now
John’s heart stops.
Everything falls into place.
“That bastard,” John whispers. Of all the random numbers in the world, Sherlock has chosen John’s number to give out to men who might be serial killers. And evidently, Sherlock has found his murderer.
“Jesus Christ,” John whispers again and jumps up from the bed. He reads through the messages again, sick with worry. This guy has found Sherlock and intends to hurt him, and Sherlock doesn’t have any warning.
John’s hands are perfectly steady as he dials Molly’s number
“Hi, John!” She says cheerily.
“Molly, do you know at what bar Sherlock is right now?” John says, stumbling over his words.
“Uhm, let me think for a second,” Molly says. John has to force himself not to scream in frustration.
While he waits, he grabs his bag and puts in his first aid kit (every medical student receives one as a gift in their first week).
“I remember! It’s the Boar’s head.” Molly announces triumphantly.
“Thanks!” John shouts and hangs up. The Boar’s head is thankfully not too far away, but it would still take him fifteen minutes with the Tube, or ten minutes with a bus. London’s famous red buses are rarely reliable.
This time, of all days, John is lucky. Just as he runs out of his flat, a bus arrives around the corner.
He shows his student ID and forces himself to sit down. His phone doesn’t show any more messages, and John discovers that silence is worse than words. The bus fights itself through the late London traffic, and John watches the stations pass by.
Once I’m a doctor, I will always take a cab to the crime scenes, he thinks.
After twelve minutes, the bus finally stops, and John takes the last meters to the Boar’s head (such a fitting name) in a sprint.
The bar is crowded, with people laughing and drinking everywhere. John quickly scans the room, but it’s too dark and loud to focus on any particular person.
Come on, John urges himself. Come on. You know him. Blue jumper, dark jeans, black sneakers, soft curls, warm hands.
There! John sees him, walking through the second exit (of course this dreadful place has a second exit). However, John’s relief doesn’t last long. Sherlock walks slowly, haltingly, stumbling. And he is dragged away by another man, someone whose face John cannot make out.
Shit.
John starts to follow them, but it’s difficult. Everyone in this place is apparently conspiring against John, because they keep stepping in his way, bumping into him, and shoving him. John shoves back.
“Sorry!” He calls out when he nearly runs over a bartender, who is carrying several glasses on his tablet. The other man shoots him an angry look.
After ages, he finally reaches the door and yanks it open.
No one is there. Heart racing, he looks to his left, to his right.
Still, no one is there.
No, this can’t be the end. It was only just the beginning.
He starts running again, choosing the left street on a whim. Surely the murderer cannot have come far. With the way Sherlock was acting, he must have been drugged. Maybe the murderer spiked his drink with something.
Suddenly, he hears a moan to his right and stops. An empty and narrow street opens up to him, filled with rubbish bags and old furniture.
The man and now that is a little bit lighter, John can actually see him, is taller. Even taller than Sherlock. He is wearing jeans, trainers, and a green jumper. He doesn’t look at all like Santa Claus. The Daily Mail will be disappointed.
More importantly, he is holding a knife in his left hand, and that knife is pointed at Sherlock. Sherlock is slumped on the ground, his head hanging low. His back is against the brick wall of a building, and he doesn’t appear like a man who can fight for his life right now.
The murderer hasn’t noticed John yet, which allows John to creep a little bit closer.
“You thought you were so clever. But look at you! You are still a child.” The murderer taunts him, waving his knife around. “It’s good that I got to practice on others because you are going to be my masterpiece.”
He kneels down next to Sherlock, who is shaking lightly. With the tip of his knife, the murderer lifts Sherlock’s face.
“Pretty boy.” He whispers and then cuts a long, bloody line into Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock gasps in pain, which means that he is conscious at least.
John very much wants to shove this monster away, beat the crap out of him, and then tend to Sherlock. The obvious problem: he may jog in the evening, swim in the summer, and lift weights every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but apart from some school yard struggles, he has never actually fought someone. He expected the army to remedy that. He definitely didn’t expect to learn it in a grimy street, just four days before Christmas.
Good thing that John was always a quick learner.
“I just want to get the first taste.” The murderer whispers, and then he leans forward and licks the cut on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock whimpers in terror.
That’s the moment John had ever waited for, a small distraction. He runs forward and pounces on the murderer. The murderer shouts in surprise as he falls to the ground, and the knife slips away.
“Fuck!” The murderer shouts and kicks John in the stomach. John groans and rolls away, which allows his opponent to get up again and grab his knife. He looms over the hunched Sherlock again, knife raised high in the air.
“No!” John screams, and this time, he jumps up and wraps his arms around the guy’s neck. He starts choking him. The murderer drops the knife and tries to force John’s arms away from his neck, but John doesn’t budge. This man wants to maim Sherlock, so John is going to hurt him. The world works in such simple ways.
“This is the police! Raise your arms in the air!” Someone suddenly shouts. The murderer stops struggling. A policeman and a policewoman are standing only a few meters away, and both their guns are pointed at them. John lets the murderer go.
“On your knees, and raise your arms, so I can see them!” The policewoman repeats, and the murderer obeys. She takes out her handcuffs.
John doesn’t wait for permission and slips away to Sherlock. Up close, the cut looks really nasty. Sherlock gasps again when John probes again.
“Are you okay?” John demands, his hands running over Sherlock’s pale and sweaty face.
“Called the police when I saw him.” Sherlock mumbles.
“That’s good. You really caught him, Sherlock.” John says. Sherlock is still shaking, and his pupils are blown.
“Is he all right?” The policeman asks, looking down at them. Now that all the lights from the cars are shining around them, John can make him out better. He must be around five years older than him, and he already has a couple of grey streaks in his brown hair.
“He will be. The cut has to be disinfected, but I don’t think he needs stitches. The guy drugged him.”
“Slipped in my drink. Amateur.” Sherlock mumbles. John wraps an arm around his shoulders, and together they manage to get Sherlock back to his feet.
“The ambulance is there.” The policeman points at two paramedics running toward them.
“Yeah, thanks, Gordon,” Sherlock says.
Gordon rolls his eyes: “My name is Greg, and you know it.”
Sherlock is taken to the ambulance by the paramedics and John turns to follow him, but Greg stops him.
“Can we talk for a second?”
“Of course.” John wonders if he is in trouble. He did assault a man. Could this impact his studies?
“I’m Sergeant Lestrade. I’m a friend of Sherlock’s older brother. That’s how we know each other.” Lestrade explains. “He helps us out on cases sometimes. He really shouldn’t, because he is, like, fifteen years old, but I can’t stop him. Might as well join him.”
“It’s good that Sherlock has a friend,” John says and means it.
Lestrade laughs: “Don’t let him hear that.” He grows serious again. “So, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes.”
If only John knew that.
“I’m an… acquaintance. We met two weeks ago through a shared friend. He told me about this case and what he was doing.”
“You fought a strong guy with a knife to save an acquaintance?” Lestrade asks, unconvinced.
“Eh, yes. That’s what happened.” John says, hoping this conversation would come to an end soon.
“All right,” Lestrade says. “I want both of you to call me, as soon as he’s able to. I need your statements. And don’t worry about the fight, it was obviously self-defence and quite heroic, actually. And as far as I know Mycroft, you won’t even have to appear in court for one second.” Lestrade hands him his contact details. Before John can ask him what a Mycroft is, he is gone.
John signs and pockets the card. Smashing.
Sherlock is sitting up and waiting in the ambulance for him.
“How is he?” John asks the first responder.
“The effect of the drug is slowly weaning off. He just has to sleep, he will be better in the morning. We cleaned the cut. He will have a few nasty bruises on his arm, but that’s it.”
“Good,” John says, and now he can finally be relieved.
“Do you need any medical attention, Sir?” The other paramedic asks.
“No, I’m fine.”
“For the sake of our already crowded emergency room, I would suggest you take this one home. He needs water and rest.” The paramedic announces, and John helps Sherlock out of the ambulance.
“Well, you’ve heard them,” John says. “By the way, where do you live?”
“I live alone,” Sherlock says, his voice still a bit shaky.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” John stops and looks at Sherlock. He obviously shouldn’t spend the night alone.
“We could go to my place?” John suggests and tries to remember when he last changed his sheets.
Sherlock cracks a smile: “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” John says, and oh god, why are they suddenly so polite to each other?
They manage to reach the bus station just in time to get the last bus of the night.
“Just about ten more minutes, and we’re home,” John says, and Sherlock nods. Although he just displayed confidence at the crime scene with Lestrade, he now looks completely done.
The bus rolls through the dark City of London, and John watches the Christmas decorations in the houses go by. Despite living in London for four years now, he can still enjoy the beauty of the city.
His bus stop comes up, and he manoeuvres Sherlock out of the vehicle. The younger man stumbles on their way up the stairs, and John puts an arm around his shoulders to steady him.
In the flat, John is glad that Mike is still gone. Maybe he will sleep at Sarah’s place, John thinks. He opens his room with a flourish. Since he doesn’t have to pack, he didn’t bother cleaning up the place either, and textbooks and socks are strewn everywhere.
“Sorry for the mess.” He apologizes.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock says quietly, his dropping closed.
“Come on,” John says, and guides Sherlock to his bed. Sherlock collapses into it like a fallen tree.
“So, the bathroom is the second door on the left. I’ve got a roommate, but he is apparently away for the night.” John explains and crams through his wardrobe until he finds an old shirt and a pair of sweatpants. An old boyfriend, long before Mary, had never bothered to pick them up.
“Sherlock, you have to get changed. You don’t want to fall asleep in your dirty clothes. Trust me.” John says, and Sherlock, grumbling, gets up. John hands him the clothes, and Sherlock wanders slowly to the bathroom.
Having nothing to do now, John goes to the small kitchen. He pours them both a cup of water. The paramedics told them to just sleep off the rest of the drug, so John isn’t worried about it now. He will sleep on the sofa they have stashed in the hallway for guests, and Sherlock can have his bed, of course. The thought of having Sherlock Holmes sleep in his bed sends an exciting reaction to his groin.
“Stop it!” John chastises himself. Sherlock is vulnerable right now, and the last thing John would ever do is take advantage of someone in that position.
He hears the bathroom door open again and steps into the hallway, so John decides to use the bathroom himself now. He quickly washes and brushes his teeth. What a night, he thinks while staring into the mirror. What a fucking night.
John had just settled himself on the sofa with a blanket and a pillow, when Sherlock suddenly appears before him, with a puzzled look on his face.
“Do you need anything?” John asks.
“Yeah, I need you. What are you doing here?” Sherlock says.
“Trying to sleep.”
Sherlock inspections the sofa: “This doesn’t look uncomfortable, and you have a perfect big bed next door.”
John sits up, feeling hopeful: “Well, uhm. I wanted to give you some privacy.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes: “Don’t be ridiculous.”
John follows him into his room. Sherlock glides in first. John settles in and sighs with pleasure. After all that excitement, his bed is the right place to be. Sherlock’s body heat makes the bed wonderful and warm.
“Good night,” John whispers and switches his light off.
“Good night, John.”
The next morning…
John wakes up feeling entirely content and peaceful, which is a rare moment in the life of a medical student. He slowly blinks open his eyes.
The pair has shifted overnight. John is spooning Sherlock, with both arms wrapped around the detective’s thin frame. Sherlock's head is resting under John’s chin.
“Thought you would never wake up,” Sherlock grumbles and turns around. Their noses are almost touching each other.
“How are you feeling?” John asks, his eyes roaming over the bandaged cut on Sherlock’s cheek.
“Much better,” Sherlock answers and leans forward to press his full lips to John’s mouth.
John's gasps of surprise quickly turned into pleasure. Sherlock’s lips are a bit unsure, alternating between putting too much force and then pressing too lightly, but he gets the hang of it fast.
After what feels like hours, the two break apart, breathing heavily.
“Never did that before,” Sherlock whispers.
“Really?” John asks, and presses Sherlock’s body even closer to his own. How did John get so lucky?
“I promised my family I would only kiss someone if they rescued me from a serial killer first.”
“Good boy,” John says and starts pressing kisses on Sherlock’s shoulder, finally ending with the last kiss on his hand.
“John Watson, you are a romantic.” Sherlock teases him.
“I thought all these cheesy Christmas movies would have given me away already,” John says.
The two laugh, and it suddenly feels a lot more like Christmas. The noise from Sherlock’s stomach interrupts them.
“I don’t eat while I’m on cases,” Sherlock explains.
John rolls his eyes: “You should know that as your boyfriend, I am legally required to feed you up.”
Sherlock presses a soft kiss on John’s forehead: “Then you should also know that as your boyfriend, I am legally required to drive you nuts every 48 hours.”
“Deal.”
To John’s delight, Sherlock is not only a great detective, but also a tremendous cook. Within only a few minutes, he has fresh toast on their plates, made coffee, and cooked them a delicious omelet, filled with their leftovers. John tugs into his piece with relish.
“I do have one question, though.” He asks Sherlock, who hums.
“Why did you hand out my phone number to strangers?” Sherlock chokes on his coffee and coughed. John slaps his back twice.
“The first evening I did it, this one guy kept annoying me. Dancing close to me, offering me a pint. I quickly found out that he wasn’t the murderer, but I still couldn’t get rid of him. So I just told him the first number I could think of. Afterward, I just picked the same number every time because it felt more natural.”
“What, so you’re telling me you picked my number - off all the phone numbers in the world - completely by accident? That’s a crazy coincidence.”
Sherlock shrugs: “The universe is rarely that lazy.”
John grins: “So you think our meeting was set in place by the universe?”
“Maybe.” The two eat in silence until Sherlock speaks up again.
“I noticed that you are staying here for Christmas, and I was wondering. If. You would be available to accompany my parents for the holidays? My mum has this great recipe for punch, and my dad cooks really well. I only have this annoying older brother, but we can ignore him together.” Sherlock says this in a great rush and blushes. It’s adorable.
“You are inviting me to your parents already?” John asks.
“My mother always keeps harping on me to bring someone home. She doesn’t want to spend my days alone like Mycroft is adamant to do.”
“Wait, your brother’s name is Mycroft?”
Sherlock sighs: “I usually refer to him as “pompous dickhead”, but his legal name is Mycroft.”
Another mystery was solved then.
Suddenly, John realized what all of this meant. He would not spend Christmas on his own. He was finally and truly over Mary Morstan. His friends would be thrilled and pester him with questions. And, best of all, he had a gorgeous and brilliant and amazing boyfriend.
“Want to listen to some music?” John asks and opens Spotify. To his endless mortification, the first song that plays is “Lover” by Taylor Swift.
“Oh my god.” John groans, as the lyrics:
We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January
And this is our place, we make the rules
And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear
Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?
dazzle the flat. To his surprise, Sherlock starts singing along.
Can I go where you go?
Can we always be this close forever and ever?
And ah, take me out, and take me home
You're my, my, my, my
Lover
He winks at John, and the day is filled with endless potential.