A/N: A little festive Johnlock for you all. This is actually a lot fluffier than my usual, and was really hard to write because of that, but I can never help that little bit of angst. I also tried to be as in character as possible but I couldn't resist throwing in the odd holiday cliche. The fluff bits are almost a bit too fluffy for me, but hey, it's Christmas. As always, I don't own Sherlock, just playing in the sandbox.
Let Your Heart Be Light
"John."
The doctor looks up from the novel he is reading, and gives Sherlock a warning glare. "Don't. Do not even think about it. Just once I'd like to read something without you spoiling the ending." Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. "Relax, John. I have no interest in 'spoiling' your story. Though those mystery novels are more than tedious and the solutions unbelievably simple. A child could figure them out. Besides," blatantly ignoring the indignant look on John's face at his rather insulting comment, "why would you waste your time reading them when you practically live them for a living?"
"Because not everyone is a bloody genius like you, Sherlock. And I enjoy them." John goes back to reading before he suddenly remembers that the detective has interrupted him for a reason. "What did you want, Sherlock, if you're not planning on spoiling my book?"
"Christmas."
"Yes... care to elaborate on that?"
"I was thinking we could do something this year for Christmas."
John nearly chokes on his sip of tea. "You're serious? You, Sherlock Holmes, actually want to celebrate Christmas? Not to mention you bring up the bloody idea on Christmas Eve." Sherlock once again rolls his eyes and plops on the sofa. "I still find the concept utterly ridiculous, but now that we are in fact in a romantic relationship I assumed that you would fall under the category of those who celebrate nauseating milestones. First Christmas, yearly anniversaries. Frankly I find it more than a little saccharine but I read online that relationships require 'giving and taking'."
John sighs, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Initially he is rather miffed that Sherlock is only celebrating because he feels he has to, rather than because he wants to. But that doesn't change the fact that his partner is clearly doing something that he doesn't want to do for his sake. So he flashes a warm smile, the one which always makes Sherlock flush with pleasure. "You know you don't have to do this if you don't want to. Probably not much of anything left anyway. And we don't have to go all out. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will do more than enough for the both of us."
"Obviously. Considering she's busied herself with pointless traditions every year. This year will be even more extravagant, I'm sure." John nods in agreement. Even before he and Sherlock had finally admitted their feelings for each other, their landlady had gone overboard with the Christmas spirit, between the full course meals, holiday decorations and get togethers. The doctor chuckles to himself at the memory of that disastrous party their first holiday at Baker Street.
As if reading John's mind, Sherlock shudders. "Trust me, John. I have no desire to suffer through another Christmas party. There'll be people."
John rises and places a gentle kiss upon Sherlock's unruly curls. "Just the two of us is more than enough."
XXX
Much to Sherlock's irritation, John gets in Christmas mode almost immediately. That very evening, a handsome evergreen stands in the corner, decked with the few ornaments John has purchased from Tesco, the others having been loaned by a delighted Mrs. Hudson. "How lovely to see you boys doing Christmas! Your first one together, too," she gushes and Sherlock bites back a snarky remark at John's warning glance. The detective draws the line at their landlady's suggestion of hosting another party, but she shakes her head with a smile. "You boys aren't getting out of Christmas dinner, at least. Sherlock, you're practically skin and bones."
John smiles as the warm glow of fairy lights fill the space. The crackling of the fire and the scent of gingerbread baking below is comforting, reminds the doctor of childhood Christmases watching his mother baking. The gentle crooning of Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" can be heard from the telly, interrupted by the occasional curse as Sherlock tries in vain to wrap the few gifts he's bought. John, despite his lover's typical Grinch like behaviour, had already picked up a few things even before their impromptu Christmas plans, and are already waiting under the tree. John takes in the scene before him, and despite his best efforts, can feel the sting of tears threatening to spill. Not that long ago, he had spent Christmas in a lonely bedsit, grieving the loss of his best friend. The only comfort had been the bottom of a bottle of Scotch and the service pistol tucked nearby in his dresser. The thought crosses John's mind that Sherlock's insistence on celebrating is to make up for those horrible years following his faked suicide, where not even Mrs. Hudson's or Greg's kindness and hospitality could clear the dark thoughts. He had come very close to killing himself that first Christmas, had actually sat on his bed, gun in hand. He'd loaded and reloaded the weapon, listening to the deafening click as he loaded the bullets in the chamber. It was only the thought of Mrs. Hudson that had saved him. She'd already lost a son, and for her to grieve the only one she had left, and at Christmas no less, would be selfish.
John sighs, pushes away the horrible images. Sherlock walks in, placing his crudely wrapped packages under the tree. The sight makes John laugh and the darkness is forgotten as Sherlock pulls out his Stradivarius and plays "What Child is This." John sits in comfortable silence, sipping his tea and relishing in the beauty of it all: his detective standing before the window, eyes closed, his bow dancing upon the strings. Before long the carols are replaced by what seems to be one of Sherlock's compositions. The opening notes are melancholy, but soon the piece swells. The piece ends majestically, but John can sense a trace of hesitation in the final notes. He looks up at his lover, sees the hope (and is there fear?) in his brilliant eyes. "That was beautiful," he murmurs. Sherlock blushes and slowly retreats to their room. Initially John fears that he has said something wrong, considers heading after him. But a moment later, the detective returns with a leather bound notebook. "For you," he says as he hands the book over. Carefully John opens it, and his heart skips a beat at the sheet music inside. Each note is painstakingly copied in Sherlock's beautiful penmanship. The doctor's eyes drift up to the title of the composition, and once again he is on the verge of crying. "John," he reads in a tear choked voice. His fingers gently trace over the page. "This is... it's extraordinary."
"You are extraordinary, John Watson. In every way possible. You insist that I was your saving reality, it's you who have saved me. Before I was a frustrated, lonely, pathetic excuse of a human. And," with a silencing wave of his hand at John's protest, "while I functioned well enough in those earlier days, it was you who truly saved me. Mycroft once told me that caring was not an advantage. I shut out anyone who offered kindness: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. Sentiment was a hindrance." With an unsteady hand Sherlock reaches for John's. "I've caused you so immeasurable pain, and I know that I have no right to ask, but John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?"
John looks up, finds he can't breathe. Quickly Sherlock lets go, turns away. "Forgive me John, I'm sorry." But the doctor quickly reaches for him again, desperately grasping at trembling hands. "Just shut up a minute. Look at me. Sherlock, look at me." It's Captain Watson speaking now, and Sherlock obeys. John can see the hurt of rejection in his eyes, and immediately he leans in for a kiss. "Yes," he breathes, "of course I'll marry you." The detective relaxes, returns the kiss. "John," he murmurs into his ear. "My John." He closes his eyes, fingers running through blond hair streaked with grey, and breathes deeply. "My conductor of light," he whispers, and John feels his heart skipping a beat. "So this is why you insisted on doing Christmas," he chuckles softly, fingers entwining in dark curls. Sherlock breaks the kiss long enough to grin, one of his rare genuine smiles. "I also read that a large majority of proposals happen at Christmas. Rather cliched, in all honesty." John laughs, pulling his fiance in for another kiss. The pain and loss of the previous years slip away, and he finds himself smiling at the future. When at last he gently breaks the kiss, he smiles, eyes moist. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he whispers.