Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Thirty Two

John walked down the landing of 221B Baker Street, shaking away the Christmas Eve cold that had numbed the end of his nose. He stood in the doorway of the flat, crossing his arms and looking into the living room as if it were a scene from a Christmas film; a crackling fire, glittering tinsel and the scent of brandy in the air as everyone sat back watching Sherlock play his violin. He smiled as he watched Vaughan playing his own violin at his father's feet, his nose scrunched with focus as he ran the bow back and forth across the plastic strings.

The song came to an end. Mary and Margaux applauded enthusiastically while Mrs Hudson relaxed into the couch with a smile, cradling a glass of sherry.

"Oh do another one, Sherlock, please," she said.

"Perhaps later."

Margaux glanced over her shoulder. "John!" She shouted as she rushed off into the kitchen. "Now everyone's here, we can finally toast," she continued, returning with a tray of champagne flutes.

"Sorry, what are we toasting to?" asked John as he took off his jacket and perched on the arm of Mary's chair.

"Sherlock got discharged from the hospital today," said Mary. "He's officially recovered. No more check-ups."

"And just in time for Christmas," said Mrs Hudson excitedly. "Oh Sherlock, I must say when you got shot, I thought you really were going to die–"

Margaux coughed loudly, nodding towards Vaughan who sat on the floor listening intently to her every word.

"Die..." Mrs Hudson panicked. "Die-nosaurs!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can someone hide the sherry from this woman."

They each took a glass and raised them to Sherlock with a smile as he stood stoically near the window. He nodded, reluctantly accepting their toast.

The evening slowed to an end. John and Mary said their goodbyes and left together quietly, like two strangers walking parallel to one another in the street. Mrs Hudson finished her drink before standing up and planting a drunken kiss on Sherlock's cheek. He grimaced and walked her to the door, listening to make sure she got into her own flat successfully. Margaux walked up behind him, placing a hand on his arm.

"He wants you to put him to bed," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "If I must," he said before wandering back inside the flat.

III

He pulled the bedroom door closed, leaving it open just a sliver. As he walked down the hall, his ears became fixed on a sound coming from the living room. It grew louder as he wandered into the kitchen, finally catching a glimpse of the source. Margaux. Humming a Christmas song to herself as she sat cross-legged on the floor wrapping Vaughan's presents. He emerged slowly through the archway, listening keenly to the soft melody escaping her barely parted lips. She looked up at him.

"What?" She asked as she cut another piece of shiny foiled paper.

"I've never heard you sing before," he replied.

"I've never had the urge to break into song in front of you before. Why? Did you hate it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "On the contrary, it was rather pleasant."

"Wow. Maybe I should call Scotland Yard, tell them I've changed my mind about the job and try to make it as a pop star instead."

"This is why I don't pay you compliments."

"Sorry," she laughed. "Did you have much trouble getting him to sleep?"

"He went on about Father Christmas for a while. Honestly, the naivety to believe that one man could possibly visit 8 billion people over a 3,958-mile radius in one night. And on a sleigh pulled by magic reindeer. Ridiculous."