AN: Yeah, I get that it's not Christmas, far from it. Not even the appropriate time to use the old 'Christmas in July' thing. I mean, who's ever heard of Christmas in March? I have my excuses, though! I was going over a few old stories that I wrote for my friends, and I found this little trinket with a whole bunch of other Christmas stories. It still seems decent, which is weird because I always hate my old stories - shh just enjoy it. Or hate me for writing it. I'm pretty sure with this story they walk hand in hand. Anyway, this was written pre-Series 2, so the Christmas scene in Scandal in Belgravia is irrelevant.
Christmas. It was bloody Christmas. Alright, that was a lie. It was Christmas, in only a few hours. Winter was rather dreary this year, with hardly any snow, but a lack of snow wasn't going to stop this bloke from keeping up the holiday spirit. He absolutely adored Christmas. It was something that he couldn't put his finger on, but there was a contagious giddiness about the thought of Christmas. Whether it was the decorations, the presents, sitting by the fireplace late at night (even though he knew there was no such thing as Santa) the idea of it filled his chest with warmth - like hot chocolate after a walk in the snow.
Oh god, hot chocolate. He couldn't help the groan that escaped at the thought of it. Oh, if only it was socially acceptable to drink hot chocolate all year round. He shifted the bag in his arms as he fumbled for the keys in his pocket, and unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street. The scraping of china and the murmur of TV proved Mrs. Hudson s presence in her flat. He had half a mind to drop in and offer her a cuppa, but quickly decided against it. No doubt the eccentric man upstairs was more entertaining than Mrs. Hudson's gossip.
He trudged up the seventeen steps (alright, he had counted on a very, very bored day), and swept into the flat.
"Hello?" he called into the room, seeing it completely flatmate-free. His eyes flickered over to the stairs that led upstairs, as if the mad man would magically appear with a dramatic flick of his wrist.
"In here," that familiar voice called from the kitchen. He followed it, to see the man digging through the fridge.
"Do we have anything edible in here that isn't human flesh?" John grumbled.
"I picked up groceries," Sherlock said shortly, placing the paper bag in his arms on the only clean part of the table.
John, walking over to Sherlock's side to peek into the bag, bumped into the table's edge. A choicy list of curses trailed from his mouth. Sherlock stood as still as a statue as the swears subsided, and John hobbled to his side.
"Is that tinsel?" the doctor finally managed to say. Sherlock just barely avoided flinching. It was that 'bloody-hell-Sherlock-does-normal-things?' voice.
The consulting detective turned to John, drinking in information. John was speechless, his mouth gaping in a rather silly way. He was surprised about Sherlock doing groceries. No, something far more than that. The prolonged stares at the decorations proved something. Something about decorations - something about Christmas itself. Now, what was John's opinion on Christmas? Sherlock couldn't be quite sure, not enough data on the opinion - wait, John was clenching his fists. Oh, John was angry! Angry about Sherlock buying Christmas decorations. Angry about Christmas.
John doesn't like Christmas.
"How could you hate Christmas?" Sherlock blurted out. John looked back at him, still surprised.
"What?"
"It's Christmas for heavens sake, how could you possibly hate it?"
John shrugged. He bloody shrugged. "Er, I'm sorry? It's just not my thing,"
"It doesn't belong to anyone, John. It's a publically celebrated holiday,"
"You know what I mean. I just think the idea of Christmas is-" John hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Too commercialized. I mean, I can't even walk down to the pub to grab a pint without Christmas being shoved down my throat."
John's hands were clasped in front of him. It meant he was being honest, but still hiding the truth. Why so defensive, my dear Watson? Sherlock mused to himself. John was certainly telling the truth, but there was more to it.
Search hard drive: John's Christmas past. No results found.
Alright then, Sherlock could easily fill that in. What did he know about John's family? Drunk lesbian sister. Both parents, living in Bath. Father was mentioned once, relating Harry's drinking problem to him ("She gets it from bloody Dad!") Strong dislike for alcoholics. (Irrelevant. Sherlock knew that already. Delete from file.) Perhaps a shot in the dark, but the father wasn't always a drunk, considering John's parental skills (recorded by John's observed communication with children: healthy by normal standards).
Think now, Sherlock, the detective encouraged himself. What triggers alcoholism? Peer pressure, severe childhood trauma, perceived support (in general, of course) as lacking. Hm, perhaps the latter. Maybe a tragic accident? Tragic enough to trigger alcoholism in both father and daughter. How did the mother respond to this-
"Sherlock, stop."
Sherlock blinked in surprise. Had he been standing there staring at John stupidly for a good long time? It wouldn't be the first time-
"Look, I can see those gears in your head working, but just stop, alright?" John sighed, running his hand over his face. "It was kind of you to do this though, really. You probably did this for me, but it's honestly not a big deal. We don't need to have Christmas,"
"Why not?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Before John could move, the detective snatched up the grocery bag, holding it close to his chest in a rather protective way.
And oh. Oh. It clicked in his head. Sherlock's mouth fell open slightly, shocked, "John, I-"
"I don't want to talk about it," John said, shoving past Sherlock to head towards. Walking away, physically discouraging Sherlock from continuing the conversation.
"John-"
"Just shut up, Sherlock," John snapped, not even turning to face him. John immediately stiffened, regretting his outburst. His hands curled and uncurled at his side.
Slowly, Sherlock placed the bag down again. It took three steps to get where John stood, close enough that he could just raise a hand and press it assuringly against the doctor's shoulder. He didn't. He was at an utter loss as to what to say.
"John-"
Then John swung around, his fist making contact with Sherlock's face with a sickening crack. Sherlock staggered back, his hand clutching his cheek in surprise.
"What part of stop it, Sherlock don't you understand? I don't bloody well like Christmas, so you leave it be!"
"It isn't the bloody holiday's fault that your mother died!"
And then there it was, all out there. John immediately moved to punch the consulting detective again, but Sherlock was waiting for it. He blocked the action, and locked both of John s arms.
"You let go of me now, Sherlock," John warned, the old Afghanistan soldier s flame dancing in his eyes.
"You promise not to hit me?"
John was quiet for a long time, trying to regain control of his emotion.
"I won't hit you," he finally said, and Sherlock let go.
John stepped back, keeping a safe distance away from Sherlock, still trying to keep a calm, steady breath.
"How did it happen?" Sherlock asked curiously, although he managed to disguise his voice as sympathetic. And he was, but he couldn't deny that a part of him was just genuinely curious for the physological reasons.
"Drunk driver. She was coming home from work. Bloody holiday fever happened, that's what happened," John spat venomously. He sighed, and murmured an inaudible apology to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded, rolling back on his heels. John's frustration was easily predictable, and it hardly fazed the detective. Carefully, like approaching a rabid dog, Sherlock stepped closer to John, reaching a hand to John's good shoulder. John flinched away at first, but let Sherlock's hand get a steady grip as he came near.
"John," Sherlock said again, speakly softly, "It's all fine."
John swallowed nervously, tears pricking in his eyes.
"If you don't want to," Sherlock continued, "we don't have to have Christmas." He paused, thinking over what he was about to speak before saying, "But, I think your mother would have like it,"
John spoke, his voice quiet and croaky, "I was only 8 when she died. Harry was 12. God, Mum loved Christmas," The doctor squeezed his eyes shut, and he crumpled into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, gently letting the smaller man collapse to his knees. John curled up into Sherlock s body, his body wracked with years worth of buried grief. The worst part about watching John cry was that he was a silent crier. He didn't yell out or sniff obnoxiously. The only sign of his mourning was his shaking shoulders.
"It's fine, John. It's okay," Sherlock murmured. He hushed the doctor, stroking his hair.
They stayed that way until the midnight chimes struck, and Christmas morning greeted them.