Disclaimer for entire story: This is a work of Fanfiction using characters from the world of BBC's Sherlock. I do not own this world or its characters. Rather, they are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

It was Christmas yet the noises that emitted from 221B Baker Street were anything but festive. There was an absence of Christmas carols, mulled wine, and fruit cake; instead, there was an abundance of curses, insults, crashing, and banging.

John Watson, doctor and former military man, was throwing pillows, shoes, books, and anything else he could get his hands on at the curly brunette head of his flatmate, one Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. The latter was sprawled out on the couch, reading the newspaper and seemingly oblivious to his flatmate's outrage.

"You are unbelievable. Bloody unbelievable. That is the last time I let you make me a drink. And here I thought you were being nice, for once. But no, it's all just for a bloody experiment. And on Christmas Eve of all days!" the doctor was screaming.

Sherlock's gaze lifted from his newspaper for a fraction of a second. "Oh, don't be so sentimental, John. Christmas is a ridiculous holiday. Where do I even begin? People are encouraged to spend exorbitant amounts of money in the idiotic belief that material goods will buy them love and happiness. Children are told that reindeers can fly and that a man who never dies travels through the air to every single house in the entire world within a matter of hours. And all to celebrate the birth of a fiction. There is no higher being. There is no heaven. When people die, they are either buried in the ground or their remains are burned. So you see? Christmas is absurd." Sherlock scowled for a second before continuing on. "Besides, it was not just some bloody experiment, John. It helped us capture a serial killer." This was said in a very matter-of-fact tone. "Each of the victims was physically capable: one professional athlete, one firefighter, and one construction worker. That means strong, muscular, and more than able to put up a fight if necessary. However, a quick look at the bodies showed that there was no struggle when they were murdered. And yet, they were not shot. No, they were physically attacked. So why no struggle? Where was the connection? At each crime scene, there was a half empty glass of tea. Conclusion. The killer put something in their morning cups of tea to render them physically weak and vulnerable. It was quite clear, but I had to make sure that I was correct." And then the detective's blue eyes were once again immersed in his reading.

"So yesterday morning you drugged my tea!" John said, face red with irritation.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, eyes still glued to his paper. "And, of course, my thoughts were correct and from there it was quite easy to find our murderer. Who was been all over the London news lately? One surgeon, Dr. William Scottsden. Why has he been in the papers? Because of his discovery of a drug that can induce temporary paralysis. Why is this important? Because he believes that inducing temporary paralysis may be beneficial in performing certain surgeries. Dr. Scottsden is the murderer. Case closed." Then Sherlock's voice became annoyed. "You were there for the entire case, John, why are you making me repeat things you should already know?"

But Sherlock's irritation soon turned to surprise when John tore the newspaper out of the detective's hand and pinned the dark-haired man down on the couch. "YOU DRUGGED ME WITH SOMETHING THAT MADE ME COMPLETELY HELPLESS, YOU GIANT GIT! COMPLETELY HELPLESS! I WAS LYING ON THE BLOODY FLOOR UNABLE TO MOVE FOR TWO WHOLE HOURS! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU? SOMEONE COULD HAVE BROKEN IN AND I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME, SHERLOCK? HOW COULD YOU? WOULD YOU EVEN CARE IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ME? OR ARE YOU SO HEARTLESS THAT I AM NOTHING MORE THAN A PIECE IN YOUR GAME?"

Sherlock's face had been utterly calm for the majority of John's tirade but the detective's eyes flashed an intense blue at John's last words. John immediately shut his mouth, slightly embarrassed by his outburst, running a shaky hand through his dusty blonde hair. And that was when the doctor became achingly aware of the fact that he and his flatmate were mere inches apart. He could feel Sherlock's small, steady breaths against his face; could see the flecks of gold and green within the blue orbs of Sherlock's eyes; noticed when Sherlock's gaze travelled down to John's lips for a millisecond. That's when John's ears began to burn red and he cleared his throat as he climbed off of the detective's slender form.

There was another uneasy moment of silence before Sherlock spoke. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I was here the entire time. I wouldn't have let anyone hurt you." Sherlock's voice was deep and thoughtful, and John could feel the detective's intense gaze still on him.

"Right. Except for you, Sherlock, you don't seem to have a problem with hurting me," John muttered, covering the space between the couch and the stairs in mere seconds. His ears continued to burn as he went up the stairs and into his room.

John would have spent the rest of the day sulking. But soon, the sound of violin strings danced up the stairs and greeted him in a soothing embrace. As he listened, he could not help but smile. He moved to his bedroom window and turned his Christmas lights on, allowing the colours of the lights to blend with the music in a comfortable warmth.

Sherlock was playing Carol of the Bells.

Carol of the Bells was John's favourite Christmas song.

Did you know that every time you review this piece, Benedict Cumberbatch smiles? Well, he does...it's true...so, you know, you should review. :)

Thanks for reading! Will have an update to you soon.