TITLE: Dear Sherlock
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ Oh Christmas Tree
RATING: T (language)
A/N:This is my first Sherlock Christmas fic and my second Sherlock fic, so, go easy on me! This is just an idea that popped into my head and then went an entirely different direction as I continued. It won't be anything too long, just a few chapters, all tied up at the end with a nice, pretty bow.
Chapter One: Oh Christmas Tree
"John, this ridiculous," Sherlock sighed as he shoved his gloved hands into his pockets almost petulantly.
"No one said you had to come," John huffed right back, an annoying smile smearing his face.
"When my flatmate is on a quest to bring a monstrosity such as this into our flat, then, yes, I need to be present."
"It's not a monstrosity," John rolled his eyes. "It's a Christmas tree."
Sherlock's face contorted at the name at the outrage's proper title as though a bee had stung him square on the nose.
"You do realize that it will never fit up the stairs," Sherlock calculatingly eyed the choices of the dreaded Christmas symbol that surrounded them.
"Yes it will," John almost sing-songed back.
John was happy. Too happy. Of course Sherlock preferred to see his friend in good spirits, especially after the cloud of depression that had hung over him the past few weeks, but this was simply maddening.
"You didn't mind Mrs. Hudson putting up decorations before," John pointed out as he tilted his head to examine a particular pine.
"It was tolerated," Sherlock mumbled morosely, "and completely different. Even if you do manage to get it up the stairs, which I won't be helping you with, where do you purpose it go? Hmm?"
"We can move some of the furniture," John replied cheerfully.
"You can move furniture," Sherlock corrected. "And not my chair, or the couch - or my violin stand."
"I can move the table and the tree can go right between the windows," John supplied swiftly.
"But I use that desk to work on the computer for cases," Sherlock was nearly whining now.
"No, you use that desk to work on my computer," John corrected. "Besides, I use the table more than you. You can't sit still for more than ten seconds when you're on a case, unless you're thinking, which you do while pacing or sitting in that bloody chair for hours on end without even flinching - which I won't move." He added at Sherlock's slacking jaw and sharpened glare. "You rarely use the laptop when not on a case, and almost anytime you need to, you make me do it anyway. I think we can both survive for a few weeks with the desk someplace else. It will still be in the flat."
Sherlock made a disapproving noise through his nose and decided to switch tactics.
"John, I hope you know that Christmas is a foolish and sentimental holiday that has evolved into little more than a time for disgusting greed and annoyingly dreadful films and specials on the telly."
"Well, glad you've got the spirit," John's sarcasm was dripping, but the grin lighting his features failed to even flicker from his face.
"You never wanted a tree before," Sherlock was suddenly curious. "Why this year? Why now?"
Finally.
John's smile faltered. Sherlock's lips twitched upward in pride. When John made no notion of responding, Sherlock fixed his detective's eyes and brain on one John Watson.
"Leave it, Sherlock," John warned, feeling his friend's penetrating gaze and sensing the impending deduction.
"You've never made a fuss about Christmas before," Sherlock continued. "You obviously enjoy the holiday with the extra pound you gain and the way you fondly will glance out the window at night to look at the lights. Yet you yourself have never been one to initiate anything like this. Sure, that Christmas party our first year in the flat together was your unpleasant doing, but that was most obviously to please Mrs. Hudson, impress your then girlfriend and show Molly and Lestrade kindness as neither of them had anyone else to spend their holiday time with – and Lestrade's wife doesn't count. The gathering was for others, not you. And yet this year you've organized a party without provocation, already completed your holiday shopping three weeks ago, voluntarily helped Mrs. Hudson decorate, and are now insisting on keeping a filthy live tree in the middle of our flat. I'd say Christmas has gotten personal for you, John."
"Because a live tree is worse than the rubbish you fill the flat with with your bloody experiments."
John was trying to keep some of the sarcasm and nonchalance in his tone, but was failing miserably. For the self-proclaimed world's only consulting detective and observational genius, Sherlock Holmes was somehow completely unaware of John's skydiving mood. That, or he was simply ignoring it.
"My experiments are useful, purposeful," Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "What good is a Christmas tree for save a bad back and an eyesore?"
"I'll be the one carrying it," John countered, "and you can go about the flat with your eyes closed for all I care."
John stopped suddenly, bringing his fingers up to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose.
"You know what? You're right."
Sherlock would have been pleased with himself had John's features not turned so drastically dark.
"You are absolutely right," John nodded and then shook his head. "What am I doing? Sod this. Forget this. Forget Christmas. Just," he paused, shaking his head, "forget it."
Without saying anything more, John stalked off towards the road, his military career seeping into his suddenly straightened posture. Sherlock studied his friend as he left, taking in the stiff army man's back - and the once wounded man's lingering limp - before following him.
John's psychosomatic limp had not made an appearance since after Sherlock plummeted off the roof of St. Bart's. And it promptly disappeared when the detective had reemerged into the doctor's life. His always curious mind was spinning and pushing gears into motion, almost excited for the new challenge. But the other part of him - the part Sherlock oftentimes refused to admit he possessed - his heart, was feeling something else entirely at his friend's pain.
John was mentally cursing his blasted leg as he stormed off. Why did it have to choose now to rear its infuriating and embarrassing head? The ghost injury had returned when Sherlock - left. The lack of adventure, the lack of life, in John's existence seemed to spur it forward. Just as getting himself shot in Afghanistan had been horribly traumatic, so did watching his best friend take a dive off of a building. Whenever his mind would wander back to that day, to those images, the limp would readily resurface.
And he certainly couldn't help but be reminded of those memories now.
Not a single word was spoken as the pair made their way back to Baker Street. John nearly slammed the door in his flatmate's face as he entered and bounded up the steps.
Sherlock was tempted to say something about the limp and how it was clearly in his head if he could sprint of stairs so fast, but he was still trying to catch up – and run that thought through the John-filter he used when speaking his mind aloud.
By the time Sherlock reached their door, half of the decorations John and Mrs. Hudson had put up were scattered on the floor and all thoughts of the limp were promptly pushed away.
John savagely tore the garland off of the fireplace and ruefully ripped the lights from the mantle. He was heading for the muti-colored lit windows when Sherlock cleared his throat.
"I don't think Mrs. Hudson will be pleased," the self-proclaimed sociopath called out cautiously.
"Oh," John threw his hands up, "you thinking of someone else for a change! I'm shocked. Look! It's your chair. Your couch. Your bloody violin stand. Your desk. Your damn flat. I thought you would like it. No holiday cheer. No fake smiles. No happy lights or ugly tree. No Christmas. We can all go back to being brooding and miserable, just the way you like it. I'll cancel the party too. Can't have a Christmas party without Christmas. No nog. No sweets. No unthinkable holiday rubbish on the telly. Nothing. Sounds perfectly lovely to me, how about you, Sherlock? Just the Christmas you'd want. No Christmas. No. Because people can't be happy. You said it yourself when we first met. That first case. You heard about the new murder and called it Christmas. You were so damned excited about a woman being dead. Should I go out and find a nice, good serial killer for you? Will that put you in the holiday spirit?"
"John -"
"Don't, Sherlock," John's rant was now over and his chest was practically heaving as he lifted a warning hand. "Just, don't."
John was already past his flatmate and out the door before Sherlock could process his friend's words and actions.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock whirled around and glared down the stairs.
"Out."
John didn't even spare him a glance before the doctor finished descending the steps and was outside.