Welcome to Baker Street

58. Christmas in Baker Street

Three weeks later. 24 December.

Back to... No, not really back to how things were before. That would be impossible. And not even back to normal, because there is no such thing at 221 Baker Street.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Giulia's words are barely audible over the joyful racket coming from the living room. She walks along the narrow corridor and knocks on the door of his bedroom. No answer at all. She sighs and pushes the door open to reveal the detective sitting in a corner of his bed, his back turned to the threshold.

"Here you are. What are you doing holed up in your room on Christmas Eve? Come on, join us. We're playing a board game with the help of some glasses of wine." She giggles at his back; he hasn't even turned around to face her.

"It's fun. Come with me," she says cheerfully, stretching out a hand towards him.

He turns slightly and looks at her over his shoulder, mumbling, "No, thank you. I'd rather stay here."

"Okay, I got it. You don't like celebrations with happy and slightly drunk people." She flops down onto the mattress next to him.

He doesn't even lift his gaze on her when he talks back.

"Let's just say that social interactions aren't my cup of tea. And alcohol only numbs my capabilities and slows down my mental process: why would I even want to drink it?"

Giulia sighs heavily. She doesn't have a comeback for that and is quite tipsy herself, which doesn't help to come up with a witty reply. She knew all along that he would never follow her.

"I understand. Since we exchanged gifts while you were busy wallowing in isolation, I thought I could just bring mine here to you. Merry Christmas," she says softly, handing him a package draped in a crooked ribbon: she is not good at wrapping, that's evident.

Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment and frowns at the object in his hands.

"You bought me a present? It really wasn't necessary." He raises his eyes on her and furrows his brow, ill-at-ease. "I didn't buy you anything."

"Don't worry: I didn't expect you to." She shrugs nonchalantly.

"And I didn't expect you to spend the Christmas holidays here and not with your family—" he retorts, but his words fade in his mouth as he suddenly realises: What a colossal, disrespectful, obnoxious imbecile! Only two weeks before, she told him about the sorrowful passing of her father, and now he rubs salt in the wounds. His mouth works too fast—faster than his conscience, at least.

He apologises clumsily, "Sorry, I wasn't thinking—"

"That'd be a first," she cuts him short with a pinch of sour sarcasm. She gives him a hard look and stares down, fidgeting with her hands while the room sinks into silence. Then she stands up, and her expression changes dramatically.

"Look, I don't want to be sad on Christmas Eve. So now, please, open the packet," she urges him like an excited toddler.

Sherlock peers at her smiling face, trying to spot the crack in the facade, but she doesn't flinch. She is insanely strong. How can she pull herself together so gracefully?

He unwraps the package and grimaces.

"Oh, it's a book: how original."

"It's Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. It's a pirate story," she underlines, glaring at his lukewarm reaction. She doesn't remember how or when, but at some point, over the past months, she learned that when he was a child, he was obsessed with pirates. She has scrupulously stored that piece of information to tailor the perfect gift for him. She knows Sherlock isn't the most exuberant person in the world, but she was hoping for a slightly more enthusiastic response.