Chapter Text
It was late afternoon, a week before Christmas when John and Sherlock left Baker Street to go to Scotland Yard. They needed more details about a series of robberies happening around London during the last several weeks, the investigation leading to a person with a solid alibi. At his wits’ end, Lestrade finally asked Sherlock, who was sure he would solve the mystery the moment he saw the evidence with his own eyes and, frankly, so was John.
On their walk, Sherlock stopped by a young man in dirty clothes; ripped jeans with a dark-green hooded jacket. He handed Sherlock a note and was given cash in return. Two 20 pound notes, John noticed.
Sherlock quickly read the note, nodded and then, from the other coat pocket, handed him a folded note of his own.
“What was that?” John asked as they continued walking.
“Just exchanging information. I need to keep on top of what is going on in London at all times. Do keep up, John.”
“Right.” John nodded, falling into step with his friend. Their pace matched and John had the oddest feeling that Sherlock had adjusted his own long-legged strides to John’s at some point during their early crime-solving escapades. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it made him smile nonetheless.
They made their way into Scotland Yard and after Sherlock took one look at the evidence, then at the suspect, he declared the man was innocent and his sister was the culprit. A detailed explanation of his deduction ensued, making several of the police staff shake their heads in disbelief. A clap on the back from Lestrade and a promise of drinks at Baker Street on Boxing day later, and they were on their way.
The moment they left, Sherlock hailed a cab and let John in first. Flattered, John scooted to the side, but instead of getting in, Sherlock closed the door and tapped the roof of the car twice.
Miffed at being left, John reasoned that Sherlock must have been in need of the space and silence to think over the facts of the case. At home, John treated himself to hot tea by the fireplace on a cold, December afternoon.
-
The next evening, when Sherlock's phone beeped once, he stood up abruptly. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he whirled out the door.
“Going somewhere?” John asked from the desk, where he’d been typing a blog entry, only to realise Sherlock had already left. No “Be back later”, no “Let's go, John”. Nothing.
John waited for him to return for hours but eventually fell asleep in his chair.
-
The following evening, John managed to ask the question before Sherlock left.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No,” Sherlock replied quickly, wrapping a blue scarf around his long neck.
“Is it a case?”
“Not really.”
And just like that, Sherlock was out the door.
John scratched his brow, then stood up to look through the window. Sherlock's coat swirled as he headed west.
Jacket in hand, John dashed out of the flat, deciding there was something fishy afoot with the detective’s behaviour.
Running along the street, John managed to spot the tall figure with bouncing curls. John blended in with the crowd. Silently and covertly, he followed his flatmate. He saw Sherlock place a wad of money into a cup held by a middle-aged woman. Her clothes were ragged and she had an old checkered bag on wheels, possibly holding her most prized possessions.
John continued walking until someone grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Sir, any change would do, please.”
John turned to see the same woman Sherlock had just handed money to.
“But he just--”
“Please sir,” she repeated, offering him a sweet smile, even if her teeth were in poor condition.
John turned to where Sherlock had gone, then back to her.
“Oh, all right,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He didn’t carry a lot of cash but a fiver and some change always lingered in his wallet. He put it all in her cup.
“Merry Christmas, Doctor,” she said, nodding.
“Merry Christmas,” John muttered, his mind and his legs already following Sherlock.
He ran for at least half a mile before he gave up. Sherlock had been gone the moment he took his eyes off of him. With a sigh of disappointment, he called off his pursuit.
John Watson was no bloodhound, of that he was certain.
On his way back home, John saw a small, white van and a long line of homeless people leading up to it on the other side of the street. The people giving out hot meals on a chilly, December evening wore yellow hi-viz vests over red jackets, and they had kind smiles to offer to the people they were serving.
John stopped for a moment, overwhelmed by just how lucky he was, despite all the ups and downs he’d gone through in life. He was a doctor and he was helping people, he told himself, but maybe he could help more?
With that thought in mind, he went back to his warm flat, where he was met by the smell of Mrs Hudson’s freshly-baked scones.
-
This time, John was ready.
His shoes were on, his jacket was at hand and he was only pretending to type on his laptop. In truth, he was waiting for Sherlock to leave again, so he could follow him immediately.
As the detective’s habit had been for the entirety of the week, he left at 7pm without asking John to go with him.
With determination, John followed. Tenacious in his pursuit, John didn’t let any homeless person, cute dog or a nosy neighbour steer him off his path. His plan worked until Sherlock hailed a cab, leaving John to look around for another taxi, which never came.
-
It was Christmas eve and all that was on John’s mind was Sherlock’s unusual behaviour as of late. He was sure Sherlock was purposefully not allowing John to follow him, which meant that he was hiding something. The sensible thing to do would be to let the grown-arse man keep his secrets. Sherlock Holmes, however, was not just any man.
Oh God, was he getting a seven per cent solution? What if he was deep into it and John had been too blind to notice?
As the thoughts crossed John’s mind, he looked at the tall figure of his best friend. Sherlock was playing the violin, filling the room with a beautiful melody John was vaguely familiar with. Facing the window, Sherlock was surrounded by the fairy lights John had put around the sill and along the inside of the sitting room. He seemed calm, yet lost in thought.
“Are you using again?” The question was out of John’s mouth before he analysed the consequences of voicing his thoughts.
The strings of the violin screeched off-tune as the music stopped abruptly.