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It doesn’t usually snow in London at Christmas. Very, very rarely has it ever, John recalls from childhood memories, seldom waking up to see white flakes drifting down on Holland Park. And even in Blackheath, when he was older, all there ever was were icy roads at the beginning of February, marking out a hellish commute to Barts from the other end of the city.
But here it is, finally, in Christmas 2010; snowing in Baker Street for the first time in his life. He hasn’t had much of a habit of being in this part of town at New Year, but he supposes things are different now.
Up on the first floor above a sandwich shop, there’s a front room with a fireplace, piles of clutter and an enigmatic, ridiculous man, formal on all occasions, playing the violin to pass the time.
If it wasn’t for Sherlock Holmes, perhaps John might’ve been living in Redbridge somewhere, out in the sticks in zone 6. There might have even been a faceless commuter town with his name on it, nestled somewhere just beyond the green belt. But before the thought can hold any kind of weight on his conscience, he pushes it to the back of his mind. It doesn’t matter what his army pension can or can’t afford, what his life might have been like. Old acquaintances should be forgot at this time of year, or so the old songs say. Strolling along the snowy London street, he doesn’t really feel like sparing a thought to the Barts lot, or college friends he hasn’t seen in decades, because this is home now.
Marylebone, in all its glory - taxi cabs passing left and right, Underground signs pulsing brightly in the distance. The Christmas lights are up along Oxford Street, and along the Georgian terraces, the shops are packed with shoppers, spilling out onto the pavement.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen NW1 look so pretty. Coated white, glistening, in the last week of the year. Good old central London town, it’s snowing for the first winter since Dickens’ time.
With garlands out on the railings, colourful lights flickering from windows on the Marylebone Road, it really does feel like the world might be different now.
Better. Brighter.
Letting himself in through the front door next to Speedy’s Café, John lets out a small smile at the thought of celebrating Christmas with Sherlock Holmes. The man might not understand sentiment, or seek joy in the changing of the seasons, but the cold-hearted genius has a soft side, it’s unmistakable sometimes. All John has to do is find it. Without a case to solve, and a fair share of creature comforts, this week might be quite peaceful in the scheme of things.
Certainly, the sound of the violin wafting down the stairs tells John that Sherlock’s already given in to the slowness of late December, he’s not complaining at the television, or shooting guns at the wall - he’s just playing, because he can, because he likes it, because there’s an old song going round and round in his head.
Taking the stairs two at a time, John gets closer to the door of their living room, following the hallway just long enough to recognise the tune; the bow edge sliding over the fingerboard.
Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind;
Should old acquaintance be forgot, for days of -
“Sherlock?”
In through the door of the front room, he stands and looks at the man framed by the window, back turned, staring out at the street.
“You were a while.”
Those four words leave a sense of loneliness in the room that John can’t quite describe, an almost emptiness echoing around the coffee table and back to the flickering fire. It’s almost as if Sherlock’s been counting the seconds since he heard the door slam, watching John from the window as he made his way towards the Marylebone Road, disappearing down into the tube station stairwell.
“…Yes, well. Errands.” John holds up a snow-covered shopping bag. It’s one hell of a of night to stock upon groceries. “…How are you getting on?”
“I’m composing.” Sherlock flicks his bow over his shoulder to prove a point.
“…Auld Lang Syne?”
And there it is, briefly, one of Sherlock Holmes’ little smiles, escaping his lips. Still facing the window, John hears it the tone of his voice, the approving, curl of his response in the winter evening.
“Naturally. It’s a little-known secret.”
“Of course it is.” Shaking his head in disbelief, John deposits the shopping in their chemistry-cluttered kitchen. Coming to sit by the fire, he sinks into his warn-out armchair, perusing through a stack of letters left on the side table. Bills, mostly, waiting to be paid, a late Christmas card from Mike Stanford, and finally, at the end of the pile, a new address notice, signed Harry Watson.
“Looks like Harry’s sorted herself out.” John announces casually, as if Sherlock ever bothers to listen to this sort of thing. “Got her own place after months of sofa crashing.” He flips over the back of the envelope. “…In Reading. Maybe I should visit her.”
“I wouldn’t.” Sherlock’s sudden reply cuts through the stillness, the cold-hearted genius overriding everything.
“…Why not?” John wants to know. It’s like their camera-phone conversation all over again, on the very first day they met, Sherlock reading years of alcohol abuse from a couple of tiny scratches.
“Sisters can be… tricky.” He’s fishing around for the last word like it’s just evaded his lips; fingers, picking at the violin strings.
“You haven’t got a sister.”
“No, but Mycroft can be very telling.”
Together, John and Sherlock let out a little giggle into the room, clashing with the chiming of the mantle clock. Christmas dinners at the Holmes’ house must certainly have been something. The British Government and the Consulting Detective, aged 14 and 7, sitting around a table getting on each other’s nerves. John imagines they took it in turns to deduce the thought process behind stocking presents, figuring out the people who came to stay. And actually, thinking about it -
When was the last time Sherlock Holmes had any kind of Christmas?
One with friends, and mince pies, and banter, strolling around the street markets until the wind got too cold to bear?
John glances up at the man still standing by the window. He doubts he went out much during his university days, and even now, sullen in the dark night, it doesn’t look like he’s made any kind of plans at all. Is he really content just to sit around and watch the New Year ring in, not having left the flat in days?
Perhaps it’ll do some good to ask him.
John watches as Sherlock picks up his bow again, placing on the strings like a well-trained bloodhound sniffing out sent. One slight movement of his right hand and back again is the music, wafting through Baker Street, a warm contrast to the snow outside, falling thicker than ever.
For Auld Lang Syne my dear, for Auld Lang Syne;
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet;
For the sake of –
“Sherlock?”
Abrupt silence. Turning in the light of the fire, the detective lowers his violin, looking John in the eyes for the first time since he entered the room.
“Must you keep interrupting me in the middle of a line?”
“Well, I-” John starts, before he stops himself. On no account is he about to get dragged in to a debate about sight reading and composing, not where Auld Lang Syne is concerned, and certainly not where Sherlock Holmes is concerned. The man could outwit him with his wits tied behind his back; never mind what his hands were doing. “…I was just thinking.”
“A step in the right direction.” Sherlock mutters to his music stand, focused once again the stave. “About what?”
“We should do something for Christmas.”
At John’s suggestion though, the man almost looks perturbed. It’s almost as if the thought has never crossed his mind before; like it might be some new, alien way of living presented to him in the heat of the moment. Dark eyes shift between the window and the armchair, staring down his flatmate.
“…You want to what?” Sherlock’s almost treating it like blasphemy.
“We could go out somewhere.” John chooses his next words carefully. “To… y’know, look at the lights. See something at the theatre.” That’s what most people do in London at Christmas, isn’t it? West End shows and pantomimes. A stroll up Regent Street. But Sherlock Holmes only looks repulsed. John supposes he isn’t most people.
Almost to prove the point, the detective turns up his nose as the ideas present themselves.
“The Lyceum has been playing The Lion King since 1994, the theatres on the Strand are full of tourists, and do you really think,” Sherlock starts, cynicism punctuating every word, “you can persuade me to sit through an amateur-”
“Amateurs can be good.” John points out, finally pulling himself out of the chair, rubbing his hands together by the fire.
“I don't consult with amateurs.”
“For God’s sake Sherlock, I’m not thinking about crime, I’m thinking about Christmas!”
“Precisely the problem.”
Sherlock turns sharply into the room, striding back and forth with a sour look dominating his features. Violin still in one hand, John almost rolls his eyes at the sight of it. He’s going to get through the rest of this conversation whether the two of them like it or not. Sherlock Holmes has been cooped up in here for too long, and he’ll be damned if he’s just going to sit here and watch it happen.
“We should at least go out. Have a drink with Greg or something.”
“Who?”
“Greg Lestrade?” John raises his eyebrows to the roof. He has to be kidding.
“Oh, he’s not around this week.” Sherlock wafts a hand like it’s not even worth thinking about. “He’s in Sussex attempting to win over a widower. I could tell by his shirt collar.”
“…Right.” John thinks about it, and then decides he really doesn’t want to know. Asking would only give Sherlock the chance to show off, and neither of them have the time for that. The clock on the mantle reads half seven, and by the looks of things, if they want to get out of here at all, they haven’t got long to do it. “...Well, I’d still like to do something with you.”
“Why?” The two men catch each other’s eyes in the mirror.
“Because it’s Christmas!” John’s running out of reasons.
“Christmas doesn’t make a difference.” Sherlock seems adamant. “Not in the slightest.”
But John only has to raise an eyebrow at the lights around the window, the cards lining the mantlepiece. There’s a small Christmas tree in the corner of the room that wasn’t there when he’d left the flat this morning, so someone must have put it there. And if it hadn’t been the work of Mrs Hudson, then it must have been the detective himself, the same man who’s been strolling around, practicing Auld Lang Syne for hours on end. Sherlock Holmes might seem cold and bitter to the rest of the world, but John Watson knows, he’s far more sentimental than he likes to admit.
“Well, I would like to do something with you.” How many times has he said that now? Sherlock can be extremely stubborn when he wants to be. It’s most of the time by the looks of things.
“Why on earth-”
“Because you’re my friend.”
It’s the last resort, pulling that out. John knows Sherlock doesn’t like to hear it, but it’s the truth, the God-honest truth, and at a time like this, when Christmas fades into New Year and snow falls on Trafalgar Square, truth is all that matters.
The four words slip out of his mouth and he almost sees Sherlock falter, the sentiment eating away at sociopathic tendencies. But then, there’s an almost shudder, a stuttered reply.
“…I don’t have friends.” The cold genius, cutting through it all again.
“Maybe not.” John nods impassively. “But I do.”
He’s got his college mates and his Barts lot, and, of course…
Turning from the mirror, he catches Sherlock’s eye properly, drinking in the man who’s standing limply in the middle of the room. It’s almost as if he’s being told new information for the very first time, suddenly aware of new truths that he doesn’t really know what to do with.
John has no idea how Sherlock walks around this city, being so perceptive of some things whilst being so blind to others. Of course, of course, John considers him a friend. It’s obvious to everyone who’s ever met them, be it for mere moments or for weeks on end. He’s never got on with a flatmate so well before. He suspects he never will again.
And finally, after all that, after all the bargaining and the back and forth, Sherlock gives in. Laying the violin to rest, he’s pulling at the lapels on his jacket, straightening them out, looking like he’s getting ready to leave. Casting John a hopeful, if not wary, look.
“…We’re going out then? What would you like to do?”
John doesn’t imagine Sherlock is one for Christmas shopping, or ice skating. Or even having coffee in a café. Their conversation about the theatre is proof enough of that. Unlike most, he spends his free time falling headfirst into other people’s crimes, getting a high from the puzzle solving. It’s hardly Scrabble, and it’s certainly not Saturday night telly. But John only has to think about it.
“You could show me Sherlock Holmes’ London?”
Everyone has a different one. Guilty pleasure tourist traps, childhood museums, landmarks visited with a smile. Little churchyard squares and favourite stops on the tube line. Nine million different versions of this city exist in the minds of the people that live here, and he imagines Sherlock’s is one of the very best.
But, almost to be extraordinarily stubborn, the man himself doesn’t look too convinced. “Oh, you wouldn’t like it much.” A waft of the hand. He seems doubtful at the thought of it.
“I like what I’ve seen of it so far.” John points out. Sherlock Holmes’ London may be made up of backstreets and tram tunnels, bolt holes and underground lairs, but sometimes, if he’s very lucky, they can find themselves in Regent’s Park, or the clock face behind Big Ben. Strolling across Chelsea Bridge with a view to the east, coat collars turned up against the wind.
And there it is, once again, a small smile escaping Sherlock’s lips. John wonders if he’s ever had anyone tell him that before, that they’ve liked something he’s said, or simply accepted him for who he is.
The worst thing is, he doubts it.
He watches as the man pulls on his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck, and in no time at all they’re out, standing in the street, letting the cold numb their cheeks, watching the traffic turn left off Baker Street.
“Anywhere in particular?” Sherlock nods over to the entrance to the tube, heels turning in the snow to face the Marylebone Road.
“Entirely your choice.” John replies, sticking his hands in his pockets. It might snow all night if they’re lucky. “Give me the grand tour.”
Sherlock seems to like that suggestion.
Starting off on their journey, he takes John on a winter stroll through Lisson Grove, passing along the streets and through passageways no one else seems to notice. Certainly, John has never really been one for clocking side roads or secret doorways but now, with Sherlock Holmes at his side, it’s like the whole city is mapped out in front of him, twisting this way and that, barrelling down Mayfair into St James’s Park and out onto the other side of the river. The roads built by craftsmen centuries ago seem to shine like gateways, all the way from Barts to the Vauxhall Arches, gleaming in the dying the night. The snow falls on medieval walkways and Roman temples, and John’s pretty sure that he’s never even seen some of the places Sherlock’s pointing out, even though he must have walked through these squares hundreds of times before.
Without his friend here, how long would it have taken him to stoop down and get a glimpse of the London Stone, sitting duly on Cannon Street? How long would it have taken him to notice the scratches on the walls and the Blitz damage and the battlefield, stretching out in all directions? Hiding in plain sight are the gutter-ways and the city’s oldest churches, the tallest arches and the park benches, just waiting for someone new to come along.
In the Crypt of St Bartholomew the Great there’s a tomb for a courtier, candles flickering, and a carol service in progress. Since the 12th century, it’s been standing here, presiding over the alleyways and Smithfield Meat Market, a mere five-minute walk from the hospital. John doesn’t think he’s ever even noticed it.
Turning along the snow-covered main road, Sherlock’s stepping lightly, gesturing to buildings and open spaces, the evening clawing in on all sides. Halfway along Newgate Street, it occurs to John that he’s being shown all the places that Sherlock likes to walk when he’s not on a case, drinking in the city, feeling the beating heart between changing traffic lights and tourist traps. Countless bridges spanning the ancient river, there are plenty of places to go at Christmas, but is Christmas really what Sherlock Holmes is thinking about?
Smile on his lips, coat collar turned up, it’s more likely he’s thinking of home, in this metropolis; the daunting miles a mere façade of the small pleasures everyone gets from a stroll around old London town. After tonight, John thinks he should do it more often.
In through the crumbling walls of St Dunstan in the East, there’s a bombed-out church garden coated in snow, lights hanging from the railings. The tolling of the bells is a long way off, but still Sherlock stops to admire the arches, the sanctuary and solitude of hallowed ground in the middle of such a bustling city. Sherlock Holmes’ London, the little flat above the sandwich shop, the churchyards in midwinter, there’s something very special about all of it.
And even when John thinks they’re stopping for a rest in the Viaduct Tavern, all Sherlock wants to do is show him the silence of the Newgate Prison cells, buried in the beer cellar, locked away, ghostly and hidden. The walls drip with condensation, the cells carved into the passageways, and thinking about it, this is the equivalent of the British Museum for a man who consoles himself with crime, the prized jewel that’s just too far out of his reach. Oh, how he imagines Sherlock Holmes longs to converse with the souls of this place, the old Londoners, caught in their own time, caught in the crux of crimes that have long since faded into the pages of history.
Given what John knows about the detective in the funny hat, his criminal complex, his pirate tendencies; it’s of little surprise that Sherlock takes him next to Pickering Place, a little courtyard off St James’ Street.
To John, it just looks like one of the numerous Georgian squares in the city, one which someone could walk through and never find their way back to. But to Sherlock Holmes, it’s something entirely different.
Looking around at the closed doorways, Christmas wreaths hanging down, the glint of the streetlight reveals the history of it, and, running a hand down the snowy ironwork –
“The site of the last duel in England.” Sherlock announces proudly, as if he was part of it, swishing his coat tails this way and that, pretending to draw out a sword or an old gun from a holster. “In a Mayfair alleyway. Not quite as illustrious as I’d like.”
To him, everything is improved with a touch of the dramatic, and John suspects that, given his way, the last duel in England would’ve taken place in the cloisters of an ancient monastery overlooking the Thames, or in the bell tower of St Paul’s Cathedral, just for good measure. There would have been blood and guts and devils and angels, and one man in the middle of it all, presiding over the scene in a deerstalker hat.
Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have been the hero or the villain in the last duel in England, not on any count. John knows him too well. If anything, he’d have chosen to be the umpire, directing the fight. And he would have loved it.
Later, skulking around the cellars of the Ministry of Defence, it’s clear that Sherlock enjoys the middle ground, the grey area between black and white; flittering between cold-hearted genius and a small amount of sentiment whenever his heart desires. He plays soothing music to the moon outside the upstairs window, and he’ll put a Christmas tree in the front room even if he chooses not to remember the names of the friends he’s had for years.
In all of his flaws, Sherlock Holmes is the most complex, wonderful man that John Watson has ever met.
The snowy night is drawing to a close, and as the time nears quarter to ten, Sherlock leads John through the back streets in Temple. Past another ancient church built by the Medieval knights of the city, out onto the Embankment, flooded with light, flooded with snowflakes, the taxi cabs are crawling through the sleet.
Looking over the river, the bridges and the buildings glisten with the winter cold, the London Eye lit up against the darkness of the night. It’s ready to take centre stage on Friday when thousands of people flock here to celebrate New Year, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to be interested in the thought of it.
Instead, he pulls John through a small archway to the right, coat billowing out, and, up a well-concealed flight of stairs, the two of them find themselves standing high above the busy scene, along the east balustrade of Somerset House.
Christmas tree in the middle of the concealed courtyard, the ice skaters are pirouetting around the square, lost in time, blurring with the string lights and the old columns of Kings College.
Sherlock Holmes stares down at it all, unmoving, brown furrowed, as if the sight is completely alien to him. The spectre, watching from a window, passing through like a ghost. But then, when the world is least expecting it -
“…Merry Christmas, John.”
The detective in the funny hat, wishing his friend the compliments of the season.
Momentarily caught off guard, John stares at the man standing next to him, looking down now with an odd sort of longing; at the dancing, at the festivity, the friendship, blossoming out of this old house on the corner of the Strand.
John smiles at the thought of it. “I thought Christmas didn’t make a difference?”
That’s what Sherlock Holmes had said, standing by the fireplace in their cluttered flat, waving away suggestions of Christmas drinks and theatre shows. It had been a mere three hours ago, and -
“It doesn’t.”
“No?”
“No.” Sherlock eyes him briefly, but he can’t help a smile form on his lips, like a child finally letting out a confession. John suspects what Sherlock really wants to say is maybe it does, just this once, but he’s too proud to say it.
John shakes his head in disbelief, running a hand down the outer railing.
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock."
He suspects the end of this year is going to be a good one.