OH HEY!
I know I said I'd give writing a Mycroft POV for One Friend a go… and I AM! It's just not flowing guys…
SO due to the recent weather, and my own fears on being stranded in my uni-town :S This fic was born! I hope you like!
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Sherlock gazed listlessly at the ceiling. He hadn't moved for a good few hours now, and had been lying on the sofa, waiting. He knew there was nothing he could do until John awoke. He glanced lazily at the watch on his wrist. 6:30. John would wake up in the next half an hour, despite having turned his alarm off.
Sherlock couldn't help but notice how John was a creature of habit, and though he had regular days off from the surgery and Sherlock allowed him to stay in bed most mornings, John couldn't shake the habit of waking up early. Even as he thought this Sherlock heard the soft padding of John's footsteps, and a small grin broke over his face. He resisted shouting up to him, preferring to hear John padding along to the bathroom, his customary 8 minutes showering and padding back to his room.
He waited, almost impatiently for him to come downstairs, for him to see. There weren't many things that made Sherlock like this, and he wanted to confirm that what had happened outside was sometime out of the ordinary.
"Good morning John." Sherlock's deep voice interrupted a long yawn John had indulged in as he strolled into the front room.
"'orning 'erlock…" John gazed over to the tall man prostrate on the sofa, and the room around him. "Sherlock, why are you sat in the dark?"
Sherlock shot John a knowing smile and leapt to his feet, a manic glint in his eye as he rushed over to his colleague and steered him over to the largest of the curtained windows, before standing him still.
"John," he whispered, "is this normal?" before whipping the curtains back in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion, searching John's eyes for his reaction to the sight before him.
"Snow!" John breathed. He had never seen London covered in such a blanket. The roads weren't visible, and not a sound reached him from the usually bustling Baker Street. The snow was beautiful under the waning moonlight, the sun still not having quite risen in the increasingly bleak midwinter. And it was a worrying amount. John couldn't even see the tops of the doorways of the shops opposite their flat.
"Mrs Hudson!" John cried, running towards the front door, ignoring the fact that Sherlock watched him dash away, a smirk on his face as he heard John stop halfway down the stairs that separated the flats, and walked back into the living room, looking sheepish.
"Mrs Hudson is in Kent. With her niece for Christmas."
"Yes John."
"And has been for two days."
"Yes John." The smirk stayed on Sherlock's face as John shuffled into the kitchen to make tea, muttering about just trying to keep their landlady alive. "John!" Sherlock called after him, and smiled winningly as the blond tousled head craned round the doorway in an endearingly frustrated fashion.
"Can we go outside?"
John's eyes widened and his mouth gaped like a fish as he tried to fathom the words the man in front of him had just said.
"You can see the snow can't you Sherlock?"
"Yes John. What's your point?" He watched John as a plethora of emotions crossed his open face. "Look," Sherlock said trying to placate him, trying to get his face to stop contorting so much "I see no reason why we can't venture out into the snow John."
"No?" John squeaked. "You don't think the fact that it's taller than you might be a slight problem? That it might be a drawback that we wont be able to open the door downstairs because the snow wont let it? That it might be safer to stay inside, until it melts?"
"Safe? Boring." Sherlock said dismissively, before sweeping out of the room, into his bedroom to dress, leaving John to flop helplessly into a chair and watch the sunlight creeping into the room from the one opened curtain and await his flatmates return.
"Are you not coming John?"
Sherlock had swept back into the room, long coat wrapped around him and scarf wound around his neck, jolting John out of the light doze he had fallen into. John gave him a level look, honestly trying to understand how Sherlock could miss how dangerous going out in that snow could be.
"No, Sherlock, I'm not. But if you want to risk going out there, I'll let you." And he wrenched himself out of his chair, and turned off into the kitchen "I'm sticking the kettle on."
Sherlock made a face, and left, letting the flat door close behind him, his imperious air leaving John with a small smile as he flicked the switch on the kettle and awaited the inevitable.
He was rewarded with a phone call on his mobile less than 15 minutes later.
"John. It's very cold. And the door's frozen shut behind me." John suppressed the smug smile,
"Alright Sherlock, I'll be right down."
The door was jammed tight in it's hinges, and John had to yank as hard as he could until the door swung wide, bringing with it a mountain of snow and a shivering, wet, Sherlock. John forced the door shut again and helped his shaking flatmate back upstairs.
"Alright, what do we do now?" Sherlock was wrapped in warm blankets, and had stopped shaking, long fingers wrapped tightly around the steaming mug of tea that John had made him just before rescuing him from an icy death. John however peered over the rim of his own mug, still trying to understand how someone so intelligent had made such a simple error.
"Sherlock? Have you ever seen snow before?" John remembered assuming that the Holmes family were based on some sort of wealth, and as such had thought that he would be used to acres of his family's land covered with swathes of snow annually. At the sight of Sherlock squirming however he had reconsidered this.
"Yes, of course I have John." He said sharply, scowling at his friend and sipping again at his tea, avoiding his gaze. John simply waited. If Sherlock was going to tell him, he would. And he didn't have long to wait.
"It snowed every year where I lived as a child. But I-" He stopped abruptly, shrugging off the blanket and pacing, having left his tea half drunk on the low table, spilling a little on the littered surface. He began again. "It snowed every year, and I was never let outside. I had to watch as children ran, and played and built things. And it always looked like fun. Like I was missing out on the most exciting thing in the world." He paused, keeping his eyes away from John's as he paced, reliving his childhood. "And I'd wake up in the morning, being told that I could go outside now…to find slush, and mud. And I'd return inside, longing for what I never had. And now-" He looked out of the windows longingly. "It was an experiment John. Nothing more." His sudden monotone cutting off any further questioning.
"Fair enough" John said carefully, not wanting to pry any further than he already had. Racking his brains for something they could do John turned back Sherlock staring out of the window, and scanned the bare flat. "Sherlock?"
The incoherent noise from the window alerted John that he had Sherlock's attention.
"It's December isn't it?"
"Yes John."
"Why don't we decorate for Christmas?"
Sherlock shot him a derisive look. "What?" The look continued. "What Sherlock?"
"John. I don't decorate for Christmas. I don't see the point."
"Oh."
Sherlock saw his friend's face fall, and a pang of guilt thrummed through him.
"Usually. I don't decorate usually. We could…I suppose…if you wanted to."
The grin that spread across John's face was worth giving up his tradition of holiday-non-involvement.
"I'll go and whip out my decorations!" John grinned, and bounded off to his room.
Two hours later, the two of them stood back and admired the haphazard attempt at festive decoration that surrounded them. The fake tree standing in the far corner sparkled with lopsided tinsel and fairy lights; baubles reflected the light in the dim flat, glittering; Sherlock's skull was adored with a tiny Father Christmas hat, and lights were strung around the walls, the soft white glow emanating from them eclipsed by the ever strengthening sunlight. A sense of pride swelled in their chests as they surveyed the flat.
"Well…I like it."
"Really Sherlock?"
"Yes John, I really do."
John smiled, and sat back his chair, looking out at the softly falling snow. Sherlock lounged on the sofa, arm draped casually over the edge, gazing at what his home had become. They were happy to sit there in companionable silence for a while, neither thinking to distract the other from their private thoughts. Until a niggling something irked at Sherlock.
"John?"
"Hmm?"
"What do you usually do at Christmas?"
John glanced over at consulting detective, and knew how difficult it must have been to ask.
"Well. When I was younger we would be sent to bed early Christmas eve, having been allowed to open one present beforehand. Harry would always find the largest present she could, and would nearly always strop when she wasn't allowed to play with it before bed. We go to bed, each year we'd promise to stay up as late as we could," John chuckled and Sherlock turned his head to look at him "to see if we could catch Father Christmas leaving us presents. We never managed it. I'd always wake to Harry shouting from downstairs to me, practically dragging our parents out of bed at some ungodly hour. All because of some flour scattered on the floor and the footprints in it. That and the presents he left us of course." John stopped, remembering the simpler times, before his family because so complicated that he barely saw what was left of it. "We'd rush through opening presents, would get dressed and wait for Nana to come over. And we'd have Christmas dinner. Well-" he stopped again "it hasn't been like that for a while now. Now I'm lucky if Harry wants to even see me around the holidays." He heaved a sigh and drained what was left of his very cold tea. "Another drink Sherlock?"
"Please."
It occurred to Sherlock that John hadn't said what he was doing for Christmas this year, had concentrated on what he used to do for Christmas. Another pang in his chest caused Sherlock to wonder how long John hadn't had a proper family Christmas for. He went home dutifully every year and sat through Christmas with Mycroft and Mummy and whoever she had decided to invite. John didn't even have a grudging, awkward dinner that he sat through for the sake of others. How many years had it been so?
Sherlock resolved to begin a new tradition, far from the sibling rivalry and awkward silences their previous Christmases. They would have Christmas here, the two of them…and probably Mrs. Hudson…and Sarah if John wanted her to come…oh and Lestrade…if he had to. With this new resolve Sherlock strode into the kitchen
"John?"
"Yes Sherlock?"
"Merry Christmas."
So there we go. This IS IS IS a one-shot…Unless I inexplicably change my mind…Which probably wont happen…
Let me know if you like it! I think they may have gotten a tiny dash OOC character near the end, but it's just a bit of fluff after all :D
Wayoming
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