Fic for snarryfool: Chances Are (2/3)

[holmesticemods]

We have an early dinner at a small Italian restaurant that is over-decorated in a winter wonderland theme. A waitress (I deduce she’s the owner) comes over to seemingly take our order, but instead ends up talking ad nauseum about her blue Christmas theme light. “Well, I said to Sylvio, let’s be different. What’s the sense of being like everyone else, and then I sent Sylvio to blah, blah, blah, blah,” I tune out for a while and I watch John instead as he politely tries not to laugh at the woman’s boringly detailed story.

She finally finishes her long-winded contestation of red, white and green lights, and turns to John. “What do you think?”

“I think I’d like to order some food,” John says. “But if you have something blue on the menu, I’ll certainly choose that.”

She laughs and laughs, totally charmed by John’s wit. It’s not that funny, but regardless, I find myself smiling too.

We eat a bit of pasta: Penne with sundried tomato sauce for John, and spaghettini Al pomodoro for me. I note he’s chosen something with no garlic, which he usually loves. This is further evidence that he’s meeting person X tonight.

Neither of us finishes eating our dish, but when the owner comes back, I order a slice of blueberry pie for us to share. She doesn’t clue in, but John does, and his eyes sparkle with humour.



After we’ve eaten the pie, John pays, and we leave the Italian winter wonderland kingdom behind.

Outside, we are once again reunited with red, white, and green lights. John leads me to the Thames along the Queen’s walk where we find the Southbank Christmas Market.

There are about one hundred wooden chalet-style stalls selling holiday foods, drinks, and gifts. John seems to enjoy the atmosphere for what it is.

We walk by a booth that sells Christmas baubles and one catches John’s eye. We stop and John reaches for an ornament that has a hand painted bloodhound on it. “Perfect for our tree!”

Then he drags me into to a different stall where he convinces me to shop for Mrs Hudson. “It’ll be over and done with,” he says.


I’m fine with the idea as long as he chooses the gift and he does just that. “Just remind me to give it to her,” I say absentmindedly when he hands me a… whatever… in a gift bag.

The temperature is now starting to dip and the tips of John’s ears are red. The hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping is now in full swing. We purchase large steaming cups of mulled wine and find a bench away from the crowd to sit on.

John takes a long sip of his drink before speaking again. “This is nice, hmm? You have to admit there’s something special about the season, no?”

I sigh. “No John, there’s nothing special about a multitude of people frantically buying useless gifts for undeserving family and friends in December. The only thing peaceful about the season is when it ends.”

He gives me a look indicating he’s not buying it. “You like it,” he says.

Ironically fat, lazy snowflakes begin to fall as if trying to convince me that the holidays are indeed a magical time of the year. Thankfully, a husband and wife walk by us violently arguing about what to buy grandma this year. They are followed by a group of drunken government workers in ridiculous Santa Claus hats singing ‘Tis the Season to be Jolly…”

I give John a pointed look and he merely laughs.

There are Christmas carolers up on a stage in the distance. They are dressed in Victorian gear and I am momentarily transported back to my drug induced self-hypnosis trip back into time and the case of The Abominable Bride. I am glad that this part of my life is over; the drugs, the insanity of Culverton Smith, the game of ‘Love’ with Moriarty and all of it’s consequences.

“What are you thinking about?” John asks.

I reply with a succinct version of the truth. “The past.”

John swallows. “Talking about the past... I never—” he pauses mid-sentence, as he so often does, and continues. “I never apologized—no, not apologized—more like acknowledged. Yeah, I never acknowledged your grief when…” he stops and takes a long sip of his steaming mulled wine, and turns to look at me square in the eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened with Greg Lestrade, Sherlock.”

No. Stop. Don’t even start, please.

I want to prevent him from talking. I don’t need to hear this. I don’t want to hear this. I should’ve gone home and worked on my blood assay. I can tell John is as uncomfortable with this as I am. I can only conclude that this ‘talk’ is probably John’s weekly therapy assignment from Ella Thompson. I can clearly imagine what was said during their last therapy session as if I’d been spying on them “Oh, before you move on with someone new, John, you should communicate your feelings about everything that happened so you can find closure.”

I frown. “John, there’s no need—”

John ignores my scowl and continues. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to make sure you know that… that I know you considered him a friend too and that his deception must’ve hurt. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to notice your pain. In fact, I should’ve bloody realized years ago that something was fishy when you couldn’t even remember his first name.”

I don’t care about that John. I really don’t. There’s nothing to apologize for. Greg’s involvement with the brotherhood is of no consequence to me.

John finally stops talking and finishes his drink. But apparently my ordeal is not over. He begins another painfully awkward speech about ‘regrets’ and ‘difficult circumstances’. I tune out for most of it and instead design in my mind a spreadsheet of every excuses I’ve used in the past to get out of attending Christmas dinner so I don’t accidentally repeat one when I call my parents to inform them I will not be attending again this year.


When my attention returns to John, he is in the process of apologizing to me. “And again, I’m sorry if I’ve ever taken you for granted or if I’ve ever made you feel bad for not understanding something in a social context.”

I want to tell him ‘there’s no need for this and that neither one of us is perfect’ but somehow I find myself unable to. Instead, I make a feeble joke. “And I’m sorry the winter weather hasn’t frozen your lips together to prevent you from all this endless talking.”


He sighs, and pats me on the knee. “Okay, okay, I’m done now.”


~~~***~~~