Sherlock Holmes was not a Grinch. At least he didn't consider himself to be one (not completely). Despite his grumbles he had never gone as far as to attempt to ruin Christmas (although some landladies might argue differently). He did however agree with Dr. Seuss, that it was an overly commercial and slightly ridiculous holiday filled with frivolous and nonsensical traditions. To make matters worse it seemed to start earlier and earlier each year, with Christmas things appearing everywhere the moment the leaves started to change colour. He'd seen plastic snow men in September for heaven's sake.
If Sherlock had his way people would do little more than visit family, forget to go to church, eat too many mince pies and turkey dinners, feel guilty and then go outside and play in the snow until cold and unwell (giving you an excuse to spend the rest of the holiday in bed). Unfortunately for Sherlock however, John was incredibly fond of the holiday, spending hours and hours planning the perfect Christmas and making a gigantic feast.
And since Sherlock was incredibly fond of John, he had to pout and put up with Christmas, all its silly expensive glittery trimmings.
Sherlock had of course been resigned to this yearly undertaking, even before he had purchased a ring for John and signed the paperwork which united them in matrimonial bliss. In order to keep that bliss, and John happy, Sherlock allow himself to be dragged around various noisy, crowded shops for hours on end searching for gifts with very little protest. Being the noble wonderful husband he was, Sherlock also assisted in the decorating of the flat; putting mistletoe, tinsel and holly in all the places John was too short to reach. Hell he even pretended to eat the sprouts he was served at Christmas dinner.
Sherlock was proud to say he did all of that (and a little more) each year simply to make John smile.
Because at the end of a Christmas day, no matter what had happened, John would smile up at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling lovingly. And then they would help themselves to a small glass of brandy and curl up together beside the fireplace in John's chair.
Besides it was only really after the beloved little addition to their family that Sherlock begun to truly dislike Christmas.
Little Rupert was adorable, the perfect child for the detective and a doctor. He was an energetic yet sweet child who at the age of four and a bit was still fond of pretending to be a puppy and chasing Sherlock around the living room. Little Rupert was of course blameless, it was not he who had made the season horrible for Sherlock. No. You see when adopting their deaf little blonde cherub, Sherlock had simply failed to foresee that John's love of Christmas would multiply and grow to the point that John insisted Christmas was perfect for all of them.
And perfect according to John, meant piles of presents and food, buying a real Christmas tree and dragging it home on the tube, and visiting a shopping centre Santa Claus, and numerous things Sherlock was pretty sure John or some clever marketing person had made up to make his life more difficult.
Of all the activities the one Sherlock hated most was the Christmas photo. To him posing for a family photo to turn into a Christmas card was highly embarrassing and strange, partly as Sherlock couldn't remember ever being sent a similar Christmas card, but mostly because he was made to wear a silly jumper and his deer hat.
In fact when he thought about it, Christmas cards were Sherlock's least favourite thing about Christmas. Sherlock didn't understand the point of sending cards to people he didn't like or speak to regularly. It was especially bothersome as he tended to delete their names, addresses and connection. People read John's blog didn't they? So why bother sending vaguely Christmassy non-religious cards with letters informing old school pals and army buddies about the crimes they'd solved that year and personal information about their little family. Sherlock was just thankful that Rupert was still too young to be in a school play.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead, leaning back against the sofa a glass of whisky in his hand. Christmas was just awful he decided staring around the room at the mass of Christmas tasks left to do this year. A pile of amazon parcels sat behind John's chair waiting to be wrapped and hidden away. While a mountain of unopened Christmas cards lay on the coffee table, besides a similar mound headed for the post box. The Christmas garland sat by the door along with a box of holly and mistletoe that were waiting to be hung up, adding to the glittery Christmas cheer that had spread across the flat from the start of December.
Sherlock sipped at his drink savouring his momentary peace. John had decided to go buy the Christmas tree by himself, aware that Sherlock would be more of a hindrance than a help with regards to carrying the tree home. Rupert meanwhile was downstairs making gingerbread people with Mrs Hudson, much to the little boy's delight. Sherlock finished his drink and closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them again someone was tugging at his shirt. His eyes blinked open slowly and he smiled softly. Rupert appeared in front of him, wearing a small pair of antlers on his head and a little red plastic nose, presumably a gift from Mrs Hudson. He held out an oddly shaped gingerbread thing to Sherlock and rubbed his belly, indicating it was for Sherlock to eat. Sherlock nodded picking Rupert up into his arms and sitting him on his lap. He took the gingerbread and bit into the sweet treat. He smiled again and gave Rupert a soppy kiss on the cheek.
Maybe Christmas wasn't quite so terrible after all he thought holding his little reindeer close.
I started writing this before Christmas but never quite got around to finishing it. Still it's not January yet so this counts right?