Loving Sherlock Holmes was different to anything John had experienced. Of course it would be. Sherlock Holmes was different to any person John had ever met.

He was still an insufferable git. John would come home to find him doing all sorts of disgusting things to body parts 'procured' from Bart's mortuary. He still flounced around crime scenes like he owned the place, completely disregarding the people who were actually paid to be there. He still got indecently exhilarated at the news of a particularly gruesome and mysterious murder. He still looked at John with that expression that said 'How do you manage to function with such a tiny brain?'

But he also let John in. He let John see corners of his being that perhaps nobody else in the world knew existed. He was, in fact, the most human person that John had ever known.

25 December 2012

John awoke with a start on Christmas day. At first, it was hard to tell what had roused him, as he couldn't think much past his pounding headache. However, it wasn't long before cold fingers nudged at his back again, the temperature difference making him jump.

"John."

He opened his eyes (ow, too bright) and rolled over to see Sherlock, flat on his back and with one hand pressing a pillow over his eyes. John wasn't the only one with a hangover, then. Sherlock reached his pillow-free hand out and prodded John again, seemingly not realising that the doctor was already awake. The cold fingers struck John's chest, and he yelped.

"Ah! Yes, I'm awake."

"Need aspirin."

John sighed and buried his head back in his own pillow. Berk.

"Can't you get it yourself?"

John was expecting some detailed explanation about why John was in better condition than Sherlock to go fetch the medicine (surely the detective would make something up about respective alcohol tolerance and body weight and chemistry things?), but all he got in response was a feeble "No. Please."

And when Sherlock Holmes sounds feeble, John Watson can't say no. Well, he can't say no to Sherlock most of the time anyway, but that's not the point.

John pulled himself out of bed (no nausea at least, that's good) and headed toward the kitchen to fetch the aspirin.

Memories of last night swam through his head. Christmas Eve drinks. Not the best occasion of the year, but Sherlock and John put up with it for Mrs Hudson's sake. This year she had invited some of her older friends, and some of the neighbours (Mrs Turner, and Lucy and Michelle - the 'married ones') around as well as Greg, Molly (John was surprised she came at all, given last year's bloody fiasco) and Sarah (John was relieved that he and Sarah had stayed on good terms after they broke up - she was still quite a good friend, actually). It was pleasant enough, as Sherlock seemed to have learnt from last year that he really ought to speak as little as possible when there were friends around that Mrs Hudson and John actually wanted to keep as friends. So he spent most of the evening either watching the street or talking to Greg (the only person he was trusted not to completely alienate - but that was more of a compliment to Greg than to Sherlock) and John chatted pleasantly and did the sort of rounds that a good host does.

John rummaged through the medicine cabinet to find the aspirin. He ate a few water crackers and took one himself, then popped another in a glass of water for Sherlock. On the way back to the bedroom, he stopped for the loo. He glanced at the bathroom mirror, and then did a double-take. Across one side of his neck was a deep red bruise, the intensity of which could rival the horniest of teenagers. Oh, God. That happened, didn't it?

When everybody had left last night, John and Sherlock had sat in their chairs by the fire, each with a sizable glass of Mrs Hudson's mulled wine in hand, and Sherlock telling John (rather slurred - John had the feeling Greg may have been trying to see how drunk he could get Sherlock) about the cold case that Lestrade was going to bring him on Boxing Day. Several separate disappearances from the 90s - middle aged men who vanished after returning from business trips in other countries. Different jobs, different employers, different countries - nothing apparently connecting them.

Sherlock was funny when he was drunk. Somehow, John had always thought that the detective's extraordinary brain might be somehow resistant to the effects of alcohol, but here he was, making exaggerated faces and slurring and giggling when he forgot what he was talking about - actually giggling - just like any other mere mortal. John tried to listen intently, but the gentle lull of alcohol in his veins led him to focus more on the excitement in Sherlock's eyes (what colour are they? Green? Grey? Hard to tell, nice though), the light playing off his cheekbones, the way his mouth (those full lips, that John had only recently discovered looked so perfect when they were around his cock) moved, and before long, he found himself straddling the detective and their tongues sliding against each other - albeit a bit more messily than usual. The fact that Sherlock didn't protest John's clear lack of attention to what he had been saying was definitely a testament to how much he had drunk. At some point, one of them had mumbled something about "bedroom" and tried to get up, but they were both unwilling to let go of each other's mouths for long enough to actually get there.

This was still new and exciting and John still couldn't quite believe that this was what they were now - they were partners. 'Course, everything was exactly as it had been - they went out and solved cases and ran about London and bickered over social diplomacy and who had to do the shopping this week and Sherlock was a right royal git and John was the patron saint of patience, but it was also more. They shared a bed and they kissed and they did things that John had never thought they would do.

Too hungry for each other to wait to get to the bedroom, they decided to settle for the floor in the middle of the living room. Sherlock was enthusiastically sucking on John's neck and clumsily trying to unbutton John's trousers when, too late, they heard a set of footsteps just outside the door. A latch clicking, the creak of hinges, Molly Hooper's voice saying something about she forgot her scarf and just came back to grab it, and they were frozen (Sherlock's teeth still on John's throat), neither thinking fast enough, and then there was Molly and she was frozen in the doorway and looking mortified. Bugger.

"Oh! Sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll come back another time, um -" she managed to blurt out before turning and practically running out the door.

Sherlock's eyes stayed on the doorway where Molly had been standing, and he frowned as though thinking hard.

"That's a not-good thing, isn' it?"

Despite his mortification (that wasn't how he had envisaged coming out - it'd only been two weeks since that first surprising kiss, and he still wasn't really sure he was ready to tell people that John Not Gay Watson had kind of only been Not Gay to protect himself from the disappointment of Sherlock's disinterest), John was too addled by alcohol and lust to think about it now. He did, at least, ensure they got back to the bedroom before continuing.

He returned to the bedroom with a bucket, some crackers, and glass of aspirin water in hand. He placed the bucket next to Sherlock's side of the bed and gently nudged the detective.

"Merry Christmas."

"I'm not sure that it is." Sherlock didn't move except for holding out his hand.

"Eat these first, it'll stop it irritating your stomach." He waited patiently while Sherlock ate the crackers before holding out the aspirin water.

"You actually have to sit up to drink it, you know." he gently pulled the pillow away from Sherlock's face and helped him sit up. Sherlock's eyes remained squeezed shut, his brow furrowed. "And if you're going to be sick, aim for the bucket. Don't fancy cleaning up your vomit."

Sherlock took a sip of the aspirin water before replying.

"Already did before you woke up. Made it to the toilet in time." He took another sip, although this one was more of a gulp. He made a face at the taste.

"Why do people willingly do this to themselves?"

John chuckled and got back into bed again. He checked the clock - 9 am. They wouldn't need to be out of bed until midday for Mrs Hudson's Christmas lunch. When Sherlock had finished his aspirin and laid back down, John pulled him over so that the detective's back was to him. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and over his scalp - rhythmic, soothing motions. Sherlock hummed lowly, like a cat purring, and leaned a little into the touch.

"My mother used to do this. I suffered migraines as a child. This always helped."

John smiled. There were these little surprising things that had been coming out lately. Things that Sherlock would never have shared with him if they had remained just friends and flatmates.

"What's she like, your mum?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a while. John was thinking he may have fallen back asleep, but then Sherlock shifted a little.

"Like Mrs Hudson, but fatter, and a mathematical genius."

John snorted. That was a bizarre image.

"What?" Sherlock sounded offended.

"I just can't imagine it," John chuckled. "Guess I'll have to meet her sometime. What about your father?"

"Pleasant, but completely average."

"Oh - not a rocket scientist or something, then?"

"No. He is an excellent cobbler, though." John detected a hint of humour through Sherlock's hangover-strained voice.

"And yours?"

"My parents?"

"Mm."

"Both very ordinary. They're accountants - met at university. Nothing particularly exciting."

"Do you get on with them?"

It was funny, hearing Sherlock ask questions like that outside the context of a case. He didn't usually give a rat's ass about anyone's familial relationships unless it pertained directly to a brutal murder.

"Yeah, they're good sorts. Mum's great. Dad's always been a bit distant."

Sherlock didn't reply, but John felt him nod minutely under his fingers. Soon enough, John was drifting off to the sound of rain on the window.

Despite Sherlock's supposed disdain for Christmas ("Why do people celebrate the unconfirmed birth of a human counterpart to a nonexistent delusion by spending exorbitant amounts of money on each other?"), John thought he did a pretty good impression of someone who really didn't mind the holiday at all.

Mrs Hudson loved the smartphone that they had bought her. It was Sherlock's idea - she'd been getting by on an old Nokia for years now, and being the technophile that he is, he couldn't stand for her to be without a 3G internet connection any longer. Something he apparently hadn't foreseen, though, was her insistence on taking at least twenty 'selfies' with both of them as soon as she discovered the camera function ("Ooh, Mrs Turner's lodger told me all about this, taking pictures of yourself is very popular with all the young ones! He said I can put them on the Instagram - can I get the Instagram on this phone, Sherlock?"). John was pleasantly surprised (and slightly wary) when Sherlock handed him a gift - he'd never bothered with giving John a Christmas or birthday present before. He was even more pleasantly surprised to find it was a crime novel, the most recent one by Ian Rankin.

"Wow, thanks!" He turned to Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock seemed pleased with his reaction.

"Well, you've got the rest of D.I. Rebus' adventures, so I thought you might like the most recent. I read it yesterday - it's not bad, actually."

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson interjected, "You're not meant to read a book you've bought as a present for someone else."

Sherlock frowned.

"Why not? I was making sure it wasn't awful."

They continued their gentle bickering while the rest of the presents were unwrapped (Mrs Hudson had bestowed a positive mountain of gifts upon both of them), and John could swear Sherlock was enjoying this little scene of domesticity. He certainly was intrigued by the book John had bought for him - a collection of (apparently) the world's hardest logic puzzles. John had seen it in Foyle's and thought it was worth a try. Might keep Sherlock entertained for an afternoon.

Mrs Hudson's roast lunch rivalled any that John had ever eaten, and left both he and Sherlock in a much better condition than they had woken up in. The same could definitely be said for her Christmas pudding, of which John probably ate far too much, but it was too good to stop until he thought he might burst. At 3, Mrs Hudson turned on the Queen's message ("Oh, come on, Sherlock, it's traditional!") and made them sit in front of the telly to watch it with her. Given the excellent lunch and the generosity of her gifts, they could hardly argue (although Sherlock did try, before receiving a firm elbow to the ribs).

All in all, by the time Sherlock and John made their way back upstairs laden with presents and turkey sandwiches and slices of pudding to put in the fridge for tomorrow's meals, they were thoroughly full, exhausted, and content.

John flicked on the telly, stoked the fire and made some tea before sitting back down to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special. Bit of a silly tradition, but he liked it anyway. To his surprise, Sherlock joined him.

John wasn't really paying attention to the show. His mind wandered, contemplating the bizarre turn of events his life had taken in the last few years. One of the things that he never thought he'd get back once he left the army was that real sense of family and belonging he'd had. He was wrong. Here, in this messy flat in the middle of London, he belonged - and this mad detective and their ex-exotic-dancer landlady were his family.

About halfway through the episode, Sherlock looked over at John.

"You're thinking far too loudly for someone engrossed in a tale about poorly animated snowmen with teeth."

John chuckled.

"Mm. Just thinking."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Instead of answering (there's a big difference between thinking that sort of stuff and saying it out loud), John stood, turned the telly off and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked at John curiously, and let himself be led to the bedroom.

When Mrs Hudson came up the stairs that evening to pop some extra fruit mince pies in the fridge, she paused in the kitchen for a moment. She turned to Sherlock's room with a look of concern on her face - what's that noise? It was only when she drew closer and was about to knock on the door to check if Sherlock was alright that she realised - that sound was the whimpers not of one man, but two - and a strangled moan of "Oh my god, Sherlock-" in John's voice confirmed her realisation. With an enormous smile plastered across her face, she tiptoed out of the flat and left them to it.