Part II
They couldn’t get into the taxi fast enough. The snowfall had picked up until they could barely see across the road, the air much colder than John expected.
He wondered if this idea had been foolhardy, after all.
“Harrods,” Sherlock ordered the driver.
John shivered.
Sherlock sent him a look. “We’ll have everything delivered, John. Mrs. Hudson told me she was not going out today. It’s much too cold. If we don’t find what we want at Harrods, we’ll go to Liberty’s to finish off.”
He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to argue. He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, rubbing it, but futilely.
The taxi dropped them off at Harrods just as the cab had gotten warm. Sherlock took his elbow, escorting him into the huge store, where its glory truly shined.
John smiled to himself. He seldom shopped at Harrods. Truth be told, he couldn’t afford it. He was more a Marks and Spencer man, but he had to admit M and S paled in comparison to the magnificence that was Harrods. It’s claim that it was the largest department store in Europe had never been contested.
His body slowly warming, John soon trailed after Sherlock, knowing full well that his friend had a PLAN. When they were on a case or a mission, Sherlock always had a PLAN and in John’s considered opinion, it was best not to argue with him when he had a plan. They walked from department to department, as Sherlock chose gifts for Mycroft, for Mrs. Hudson, for Molly, and for Lestrade.
It went like clockwork, as if Sherlock had known he’d suggest the idea all along.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks after the last place. “John, would you mind going to the sweets section to buy chocolates for my homeless network?”
John stared at him. Sherlock was really getting into the holiday spirit, wasn’t he? Maybe he should be alarmed. He peered at his forehead. It was red. Or, at least a little pink, like his cheeks. Was he just flushed? “Sherlock, this isn’t at all like you. Are you sure you feel alright?”
“I know it isn’t.” Sherlock smirked. “Everyone will be shocked, amazed, flummoxed and will not know how to respond to this new side of me. It’s best to always keep them guessing. Now go on, John, and pick some nice boxes of chocolates for the boys, if you please. If you do it, it’ll make less of a fuss.”
“True. We can’t have that. Wait here. I won’t be long.” John left, shaking his head at Sherlock’s generosity on the one hand, and pettiness on the other.
~
Sherlock watched his retreating figure for but a moment, then took himself to the men’s department. There he chose a smart, long woolen coat, a cashmere scarf, and leather gloves for John, who’d come to his flat dead broke.
“Please wrap them and have them delivered to 221B Baker Street. As a matter of fact,” he said, handing the clerk his Harrods’ shopping bags, “I’ll just leave all these with you.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Please have them wrapped and delivered this afternoon, as well. Just email me with the description of your wrapping paper choices and what is in each box.”
The sales clerk didn’t bat an eye. He’d been here before with similar orders. “We’ll be happy to do it for you.”
Sherlock, now satisfied that everything was taken care of, went to the sweets department and found John trying to choose between several boxes of chocolate.
John held them up, but struggled to show him the third, which wobbled and fell to the ground with a clatter.
Sherlock picked it up, then took the others from John, adding to his pile two more boxes. “Get them all, John. Stop fussing.” He made an expansive gesture to the clerk and she nodded. “Have all of them delivered to 221B Baker Street.” He handed over his credit card. “Please wrap them nicely and indicate what kind of candy is in each box.”
John looked at him, his mouth open as if to speak.
Sherlock closed it with one finger. “Don’t argue,” he said. “It will be a waste time. I’ve made up my mind, and I won’t do this again if we’re stuck here.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you.”
The clerk returned his card. “Is this your last stop for the day? They’re calling for several more inches.”
“It is,” Sherlock said. “Come on, John, it’s time for lunch. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. Eating here to save time.”
“Good idea. Remember I have to shop too, Sherlock, but not…not here.” He lowered his voice as they walked out, as if he’d just noticed more people had come to shop. “I can’t afford to buy anything here, or at Liberty’s, either. We’ll go to Marks and Spencer’s and to a good bookstore. And a place that has a good selection of spirits,” he said, sending Sherlock a stern lock. “And no arguments from you, Sherlock. If you don’t want to accompany me, I’ll shop myself,” he added.
“Nonsense, John. Of course I’ll go with you. It was my idea to do our Christmas shopping today.”
They settled in at Harrods’ food court where both of them dined on pork pies, chips and tea. Happily replete with good food, they left the store, hailed another taxi, and took themselves to Westminster and M&S for John’s shopping.
When he finished, spending his complete budget, Sherlock quietly surmised, John’s shoulders dropped in relief. “It was a good idea, you know.”
“What?” Sherlock asked.
“To get our shopping all done in one day.”
“I do have my moments.”
They stepped out of Marks and Spencer to a London covered with white powdery snow, more falling, and not a taxi in sight.
“Blimey, it’s beastly weather,” John muttered, sticking his hand out.
Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes searching but for a moment, until they settled on the phone now in his hand. He pulled them both back into the shopping center, then typed a quick message to his brother. “I’ll text Mycroft.”
“A taxi will do.”
“Not in this,” Sherlock clipped. He hit send. “There.”
A minute passed. John leaned forward on the balls of his feet, dancing in place to keep warm. “Maybe he’s at a party?”
“Unlikely.” He paused. “Too early.”
“Government mission?”
Sherlock shook his head. “He’s on holiday.”
“Already? He never goes on holiday.”
“Never is a tad harsh.”
“How could he?” John smiled. “He’s always watching out for you.”
Sherlock frowned. He knew Mycroft worried about him and watched out for him, but he refused to acknowledge it.
“Apparently he felt the need for one, and this is a quiet time at the Ministry.”
“Ah…” John shivered.
Even in the entryway of M & S it was very cold. John wrapped his scarf more closely around him, tighter than what was necessary, Sherlock observed, and stuck his gloved hands in his pockets.
“You were right,” John said.
“To which point are you referring?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve made at least six so far.”
“The coat. I should have enough money from my next army pension check to buy a heavier one, at a a thrift shop, or a car boot or ju—”
“—jumble sale?” Sherlock said along with him.
John nodded, his jaw clenched to keep it from chattering.
“Well,” Sherlock began, “I’m sure there will be one your size, if not more. Here’s my dear brother’s limousine, John. Come on.” He grabbed John’s elbow and guided him out the door to the snowy sidewalk. The back door of the limo opened, and Sherlock pushed John in, then jumped in himself.
Mycroft was reclining against the plush leather upholstery, totally at ease dressed in a heavy black wool coat, black gloves, and a Russian style hat. His always present assistant, Anthea, wrapped in a plush fur coat, was in the corner of the car seat. As usual, she was typing on her phone.
“I hope that’s faux,” John whispered to Sherlock as they took their seats.
Sherlock gave Anthea and her coat a cursory glance. “I imagine it is,” he whispered back, noting John’s relief. “She donates anonymously to animal shelters every Christmas.”
“Anonymously?” John echoed.
Sherlock shrugged. He wouldn’t apologize for knowing everyone’s business when it came so easily to him.
“Mycroft,” John said cordially in greeting, snuggling into the warm seat with a heartfelt sigh.
“John.” Mycroft inclined his head courteously.
“Thank you for coming to get us, Mycroft. It’s beastly cold!”
“Not at all, John. Happy to do it.” He handed John a wool car blanket.
John took it with a grateful smile and draped it over himself, and under its length, gave Sherlock a gentle kick.
Sherlock glared at him. “Yes, Mycroft, Thank you for the ride.”
“What, if I may ask, brought you out in this beastly weather?” Mycroft pressed the car intercom. “Bates, 221B Baker Street.”
“Yes, guv.”
“We had some shopping to do, if you must know, Mycroft.”
“I must, Sherlock, since you interrupted Anthea and I having our tea in front of a warm fire so we could come for you.”
“We were shopping for the gift exchange for our Christmas party.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You and John are having a Christmas party?”
“Our first annual,” John answered, a full smile sliding into place despite Sherlock’s subsequent long sigh. “You’re invited, of course, Mycroft.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said petulantly, which earned him another not so gentle kick.
“I mean…of course you’re invited, Mycroft, Anthea too, if she’d like to come.”
“No,” Anthea said decidedly, not lifting her eyes from the phone. “I’m going to Italy where it’s warm.”
“Excellent choice,” John told her. “ Would you like some company?”
“No.”
John sighed, gaze wandering out the window, although he could see nothing. “I’ll never be warm again.”
Sherlock tapped the face of his watch with a single finger. “Winter in London is long, miserable and—”
“—horribly long,” John added.
“When is this Christmas gathering?” Mycroft asked. “So I can put it in my diary?” He pulled out a gold pen, opened his leather bound diary, and looked expectantly at Sherlock.
“8 pm on Christmas Eve.”
Mycroft wrote the time. “You say there will be a gift exchange? Who will be present at these revels?”
“Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, you, and, of course, John and I.”
Mycroft scrawled down the names. “I will be pleased to attend, and I will come prepared with appropriate gifts for the exchange.”
John beamed at him. “Excellent, Mycroft. There will be, I promise, some excellent food choices and good company, and I plan to decorate the living room so it will look festive.”
“Decorate?” Sherlock asked. “You never mentioned that, John.”
“I took it for granted. It’s rather a given, Sherlock.”
“It’s rather a nuisance,” Sherlock muttered.
“You can’t have a festive Christmas party without Christmas decorations of some sort.”
“That’s very true, John,” Mycroft agreed.
Sherlock bit his tongue. It would do no good to antagonize either of them, although he could raise at least a dozen refuting arguments.
Anthea raised her head from the phone. “I’ll send you some gold Christmas balls and greenery before I leave, Dr. Watson.”
“That’s very kind of you, Anthea,” John said.
“Not at all. I have no use for them since I won’t be here.” She went back to her typing.
John looked at Sherlock. “Hmmm. That reminds me of someone I know.”
Sherlock lifted his chin, his eyes fixed elsewhere. “I have no idea what you mean.”
John grinned.
The limousine drew up to 221B. “Ah, here we are,” Mycroft said.
The address could barely be seen with the swirling snow blowing, wind now battering the door.
John made no move to leave.
“Here we are,” Sherlock commented needlessly. “I suppose we shouldn’t wait any longer, John.”
John sighed and handed the wool blanket back to Mycroft with obvious reluctance. “Thanks again, Mycroft. See you on Christmas Eve. Goodbye, Anthea. Have a great holiday,” he told her with his usual courtesy.
She waved a negligible hand at him. “Goodbye, Dr. Watson.”
“Goodbye, Mycroft.”
Sherlock opened the car door, John followed him out, and the limousine drew away. Sherlock unlocked the front door, John entering first, steps quick.
John practically threw off his coat before shaking it out. Snow scattered everywhere, Sherlock stepping back just in time to avoid most of it.
“Although I’m grateful for the shopping trip—and your brother—I never thought we’d get back,” John mumbled. “I’m taking a hot bath, then making tea.”
“Oh, there you are,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, hustling in with a warm smile that drew them both to her.
Sherlock thought he’d even try John’s tea again, if it was piping hot. Perhaps the scalding of his tongue would tame the sweetness of the tea.
“You’re both needed at the station,” she said. “Oh, and I heard some of the roads have been closed. You’ll have to take a detour.”
John froze. A chill swept down Sherlock’s back, creeping deep into his bones. The spell was broken.
“We’re both needed at the station,” John echoed. “I’m not sure…” His voice faded into nothing. He stared down at his wilted coat.
It was pitiful looking, Sherlock had to agree. And he couldn’t have that on his conscience. He wanted to sleep at night, not stay awake considering hideous decorations for his flat.
“You stay here. I’ll say you’re under the weather.” Sherlock spun on his heel and strode for the door and barricade against the storm. He lifted a hand to shield his face. This next case better be worth the trouble. “Blimey.”
-tbc-
Part III will be posted tomorrow night. Thank you for reading!
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