[Note: This is slightly AU I guess - it would take place the first Christmas after they became flatmates (almost a year after they met), but without Irene Adler causing trouble. This was a gift fic for the Winterlock Exchange.]
John dragged himself up the three steps to the front door of Baker Street, blowing on his numb fingers to warm them before fumbling for his keys.
Christ, but this week had been grim. To placate Sarah for all the shifts he had missed haring off after Sherlock, John had agreed to cover for almost every physician at the surgery who wanted time off for the Christmas holidays. The week had been a blur of endless hours of sniffles and rashes and sprains, ending with a marathon 12-hour shift today. If John saw one more person who had refused a flu shot earlier in the year and was now whinging about getting the flu…
Finally John managed to turn the key in the lock, practically falling in the front door. God only knew where his gloves had gone and icy slush was trickling down the back of his neck, but at least he was finally home. He shrugged out of his damp coat, stomping the ice off his boots and rolling his sore shoulder before wearily tackling the seventeen steps up to the flat. All he wanted was a hot bath, a cuppa, and perhaps a little mindless telly.
He stumped up the final few steps, opening the door to the flat and hanging his coat on the hook.
"Sherlock?"
No response, but he could hear water running in the bath. No doubt Sherlock was using up all the hot water. A cuppa first, then.
John would never admit it, but he had to appreciate Sherlock's posh taste in kettles. The illuminated glass kettle boiled in less than ninety seconds, casting a soothing blue light over the semi-darkened kitchen. John pulled his favorite RAMC mug from the cupboard, sniffing it cautiously before pouring in the water. He put the teabag in and leaned against the counter, waiting for it to steep.
A clatter from the bathroom roused him from his half-doze. He rubbed a hand over his face, yawning widely. He added a splash of milk to the tea and settled into his armchair, too tired for now to even mess with the telly. Christ, but it was good to be home with nothing ahead but a weekend of lie-ins and relaxation. Maybe he would tinker with his blog a bit. He could finally write up that case of the engineer's thumb...
His eyelids were just starting to droop again when Sherlock burst out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and posh-smelling hair product. His still-damp hair was artfully tousled, and he was wearing dark trouser pants and that ridiculously tight-fitting aubergine shirt that always made something low in John's stomach flutter a little.
"You're late," Sherlock snapped. "You're not even ready."
John leaned further back in his chair, crossing his legs and taking a sip of his tea. "Ready for what?" he asked mildly. "Because I'll tell you right now it's not happening."
Sherlock paced restlessly before turning and pinning John with those vivid aquamarine eyes. "The...thing." He made an impatient gesture at John's apparent lack of comprehension. "At Scotland Yard."
"I didn't know you had a new case on. Did you text me?" John fished his mobile out of his pocket, absently paging through his texts. "Either way, you can do your research on your own. I'm knackered. The only place I'm going tonight is into the bath now that you're finally out, and then straight into bed for about a week."
"Not a case. The...thing." John furrowed his brow uncomprehendingly and Sherlock huffed dramatically in frustration. "The...Christmas thing. You told Lestrade you were going."
John cast his memory back, dredging up a vague recollection. "The Christmas party at the Yard? Yeah, I told Greg I'd try to make it, but...you know. I was just being polite. So was he. He doesn't really care if I go or not."
"You're not going, then?" Sherlock had paced forward until he was practically standing on John's feet.
"Christ, Sherlock, relax." John's voice grew sharper as irritation started to edge out his weariness. "Listen, you go if you want to, but I've had an absolutely crap week, and it's miserable out there. I'm staying in."
Sherlock pivoted abruptly, stalking toward his room. John sighed. He sipped his tea some more, wondering if he had the energy to fix himself some dinner, ignoring the occasional bang and clatter from Sherlock's room. Since when did Sherlock have any interest in parties in any case?
As if John's thoughts had summoned him, Sherlock flounced out of his bedroom. He still wore his dark trousers, but the aubergine dress shirt had been replaced by a threadbare t-shirt and his striped dressing gown.
John watched, puzzled, as Sherlock threw himself dramatically on the sofa.
"What on earth are you in such a strop about?" John asked incredulously.
Sherlock heaved himself over onto his back in a silky billow of dressing gown. "You've been witness to my methods for a year now," he bit out sarcastically, staring at the ceiling. "Why don't you deduce it?"
John clenched his jaw, anger starting to kindle hot and low in his belly. This week had worn him down to his last nerve, and the absolute last thing he had patience for right now was Sherlock's damned dismissive attitude. "You don't think I can?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're certainly welcome to try. Watching your blundering attempts at deduction might at least afford me some entertainment this evening."
"Fine." John set his empty teacup down with a harsh clatter. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on Sherlock as he tried unsuccessfully to rein in his temper. "For one thing, you're certainly aren't interested in socializing. You can't stand other people at the best of times, let alone when they're drunk and full of holiday cheer."
Sherlock made another dismissive sound, but John was starting to warm to this. What was Sherlock after, anyway? He thought back to a few weeks ago, when Greg had invited him to the party. "His Nibs is invited too, of course," Greg had said with a jerk of his head toward Sherlock. "Not that he ever deigns to make an appearance."
"In fact, Lestrade said as much," John realized aloud. "You've been invited before, but you've never gone. So something's different this year. I would think you're bored, but you wouldn't be going just to harass Lestrade into giving you a case. You'd know that he wouldn't want to talk shop at the party."
Sherlock's expression was stony, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling.
"I'd almost think that you want something from the Yard, but if you were after breaking into one of the offices this would be the worst possible time, with people everywhere. Not to mention you'd rather I didn't go in that case, because you must know by now that I woudn't stand for that."
John watched Sherlock closely, looking for any sign of a reaction to his words. He had no idea where he was going with this, but he kept thinking aloud. "The only other people who will be there will be Donovan and Anderson and the like, and there's certainly no love lost between you and them, not with how they're always calling you frea— "
It was just a flicker but there it was, a shadow flashing over Sherlock's expression, causing John's words to die off in his throat.
"Oh," he said awkwardly.
Sherlock heaved himself over again, putting his back to John. "Never mind," he growled. "Just forget it."
John felt a sudden tightness in his throat, all his irritation suddenly transmuted to a fierce, protective affection as he regarded Sherlock's disordered mop of curls and the stiffness of his spine.
"That's what's different this year," he said gently. "You have a friend." He couldn't help smiling at the realization. "You want to show me off."
Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, but there was no bite to his words.
John leaned back in his chair. With a sigh, he put both palms on the arms and levered himself up.
"C'mon," he said to Sherlock's tense back. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."
Sherlock gave no sign of having heard him as John climbed the stairs to his room, but as John made it to the top of the landing he heard the flutter of silk.
It had only taken John five minutes to change his wet socks and trousers, pulling on some dark-washed jeans instead and then buttoning himself into a fresh dress shirt. As he tucked the shirt into his jeans he eyed the wardrobe consideringly.
At the very back of the wardrobe there was a jacket — a welcome home gift from Harry who had tut-tutted over his out-of-style clothes when he returned from Afghanistan. John had never worn it. He wouldn't have hurt Harry's feelings by returning it, but it seemed ridiculously posh and a little too youthful for him.
He pulled it out now. The black leather was soft and buttery. It had the look of a motorcycle jacket, but with a hint of military styling in the shoulders and sleeves.
"Mutton dressed as lamb," John muttered but he pulled it on anyway, stepping back to look at himself in the dresser mirror. He was surprised to find that he didn't look half as ridiculous as he had expected. The black leather seemed to emphasize the gold and silver shine of his hair, deepening his eyes to a midnight blue. The slim cut of the jacket made him seem taller, somehow. In fact, he looked...just a little bit dangerous.
His exhaustion forgotten, he skimmed down the stairs. Sherlock was just shrugging into his coat and scarf. At the sound of John's approach he turned around, freezing in place momentarily, those remarkable eyes widening for just a moment before he got his expression under control.
"All ready, then?" John said jovially.
"Yes." Sherlock ran the scarf through his hands a few times before draping it around his neck. He avoided John's eyes but the corner of his mouth seemed to be turning up without his permission. "You look…" He stopped and started again. "You haven't worn that jacket before."
"No," John agreed. He pulled at the bottom of it, suddenly somewhat self-conscious again. "Does it suit?"
"Yes." Sherlock's assurance was gratifyingly fervent, and he seemed to realize it. He busied himself with his gloves, ducking his head almost shyly as he pulled the leather over his long fingers.
John smiled. Maybe it was the jacket, or maybe it was something else, but he felt a little different tonight. A little bolder than usual. He stepped forward, and Sherlock's head came up in startlement.
"One more thing," John said. He reached forward, slowly enough that Sherlock could stop him at any time. "If it's okay with you?" he asked. Sherlock's cashmere scarf was already warm from the heat of his body as John tugged on the loop, sliding it free of that endless, pale neck.
Sherlock breathed out shakily as the end of the scarf slid free and into John's left hand in a caress of silky wool.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was somewhat unsteady, his eyes wide and fixed on John uncertainly.
John reached out, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's neck just below his jawline, feeling the pulse jump. "Just here I think, yeah?" he said. He smiled, slow and sure. "Let's give them something to talk about."
He saw comprehension light Sherlock's eyes, his decadent mouth quirking in an answering smile. He cleared his throat. "By all means," he said, tilting his head back against the wall to better bare the expanse of his neck.
John stepped in that last bit closer. He leaned in, closing his eyes as his lips brushed the skin of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock smelled amazing, all wool and sandalwood and warm skin. John breathed it in for a moment, the scent mixing with the earthy smell of John's own leather jacket as John grazed his lips over the tendon in Sherlock's neck.
He let his tongue flicker out to taste, smiling at the hitch in Sherlock's breath. John savored the taste of Sherlock's skin for just a moment and then he latched on, sucking at the spot, worrying it with teeth and tongue, a low growl escaping him as Sherlock shuddered underneath his mouth.
Finally John drew back with a last reluctant huff of breath over Sherlock's damp skin. Sherlock's eyes were heavy-lidded, his cheeks flushed. John ran his thumb possessively over the mark he had made one more time, the dark pink blotch already beginning to purple against the creamy skin.
"Perfect," John said, his voice lower and rougher than he had intended. He carefully looped the scarf back around Sherlock's neck, fixing it in place. It would cover the mark if Sherlock wanted to leave it on, but somehow John doubted that he would.
John inhaled deeply, gathering his control, and stepped back. "Ready?"
Sherlock blinked once, slowly, and then straightened up. He buttoned his coat, and then those vivid aquamarine eyes flashed back to John's face, lingering with an air of consideration for a long, suspenseful moment.
"Sherlock?" John prompted.
"Yes." Sherlock seemed to rouse himself, nodding once sharply before turning and sweeping through the door. John followed, smiling to himself. He hardly noticed the cold and wet at all as he followed Sherlock down the hall and out of the front door. The night was still young, and suddenly seemed full of possibilities.