John woke first. During all their years of having this tradition, that was a first. He looked down onto the sleeping genius next to him and gently traced his beautiful cheekbones with a fingertip. No matter how many mornings he got to wake up with him, usually being the last to wake, though, his husband's beauty always stunned him.

He continued to tenderly trace a hand over Sherlock's face as he thought about their time together. Their years as roommates and partners in crime-fighting. The two black holes of years after the fall, when he felt alone like never before, the start of their more intimate relationship, their two years of engagement and now, six months of marriage. And hopefully, sixty years or so more to come. Okay, maybe not sixty. Forty, maybe. John snorted for himself. He wasn't twenty-five anymore, after all.

There was something magical about this day, the doctor pondered further, in their so very, very special morning cuddle tradition, even though it wasn't half as rare an experience these days. Sherlock had gotten much, much better especially during the past two years, and most cuddles these days were pretty unrestricted, if not entirely, but he could still not imagine giving the tradition up. It was still special. Christmas magic, maybe, but he had looked forward to this morning for weeks. He probably always would.

Deciding that as Sherlock had made him breakfast in bed this day for the past two years, it ought to be his turn this time, John rose - for once not restrained by a detective who was either sleeping on him or feeling clingy - and padded into the kitchen.

He wondered when Sherlock had actually gone to bed last night. Not only was he still sleeping now, at - he peeked at the clock in the corner - nine am, John had heard his violin at three in the morning, and what seemed like half the refrigerator was taken up by newly baked goods, not that Sherlock would admit to anyone but him that he was actually the baker.

Whenever anyone else saw baked goods in their kitchen, Sherlock blamed Mrs Hudson, and if that didn't work, John. Nobody doubted him, and even the former soldier admitted to himself that that was was more believable anyway, as he pulled out a skillet to scramble some eggs, and turned on the owen to put in the chocolate cake which had a note on it that said it needed 20 minutes in the owen, and was best eaten warm. He couldn't help but smile at his husband's frankly amusing level of planning.

It was about thirty minutes later when John returned to bed (having first dubblechecked that the owen and stove were both indeed off), and a very sleepy Sherlock Holmes, with a well-laden tray and a big smile. "Morning" muttered the detective, rubbing his eyes and looking pretty much adorable.

"Hi there" John whispered, crawling back into bed, careful with the tray, and pulled three gifts - one of them the now obligatory book on bees - up into the bed as well, seeing how Sherlock had already done so, even though he looked like he wasn't even conscious. Obviously, he was. Or at least enough so to know today's date, which would not have been so ironic if he hadn't been so blatantly unaware of that fact at least three hundred days a year.

John started this year, unpacking yet another jumper (he tended to wear them out) and while they took turns also opened a sonata - written specially for himself - two sets of cufflinks, a key to the Holmes estate ("as you are family now, according to mother. You were family before too, wasn't she paying attention?") and a new jacket.

He had gotten Sherlock his fourth book on bees, a new scarf and... a cat, to be picked up after their cuddle from where it had spent the night with Mrs Hudson. Gladstone was a Belgian Blue of two years of age whom Sherlock had fallen madly in love with when they came across him during a case, and much as John found his husband's emotional inaptness amusing, he also found the detective's unability to express his feelings deeply heartbreaking on this occasion. So he did it for him. Needless to say, Sherlock pretended to sulk but was really quite over the moon about it, and that was enough for John.

There was not a trace of tension this time in Sherlock's body as John started nuzzling his neck, letting his hands gently cup the muscles in his lovers shoulders, just enjoying the feeling of having him there with him, safe and sound.

John smiled at Sherlock gently nuzzling his hair with his long musician's fingers, giving a soft humm of approval. The first year or two of these cuddle-sessions, Sherlock had been far too preoccupied with trying to keep himself calm at the excess of contact to do much touching of his own, but just as John always knew he would, Sherlock had steadily come a long way.

Sherlock knew it too, though he granted that he had a bit to go still, mostly with other people, (he wasn't as sure he wanted to, when it came to them) but there were few things John was not allowed to do these days, even outside of their yearly extra-special cuddles, even though the genius was genius enough to know that there was a few, and that John no doubt was well aware of every single one. He hoped that his very own doctor would always be as kind about it as he had been all these years.

It was afternoon when they finally were up and had collected their cat, and John found himself amused. Gladstone and Sherlock were lying on the couch together, the cat lazily flicking his tail and the detective doing much the same motion with a foot, both looking about as bored as the other, and together making up a wonderfully sweet domestic scene.

Chuckling for himself, John went about making a bit of food for all of them, smiling for himself all the while, and humming, as he had taken to doing the last few years. They had quite a collection of Christmas cakes and cookies, thanks to the difficult-to-foresee baking efforts of the detective, so all that John had to do was the actual food.

John was joined after an hour or so by the soft tunes of Christmas music, played skillfully on a violin by someone who was clearly more than mastering the art, and by a loudly mewling cat at his feet, a sound made by someone who was clearly hungry.

Putting down a bowl of catfood and one of milk to the cat, John chuckled for himself and then by the sound of it went back to whatever he was doing in the kitchen, Sherlock concluded, playing all John's favourite Christmas songs on his violin. It was a bit inane, and honestly quite dull, but he knew it would make John smile, and that's what mattered, after all. Always.

I had to do this, what with the Sherlock/John Christmas cuddling theme going on. Funny thing is that I wrote this pairing as an experiment and it just got so popular - thank you all for that by the way. This is the only story that's actually timed after the last chapter of "A Portrait of a Genius"!

The stories go "Portrait of a Genius", "A Johnlock Christmas", "Loving a Genius" and "My Sherlock". The timeline however goes "A Johnlock Christmas - Prologue", "Portrait of a Genius - not including last chapter", "A Johnlock Christmas", "Loving a Genius", "Portrait of a Genius - the last chapter" and "My Sherlock".

I know, the timeline is a little bit messy. Sorry about that. It started as one story only - I guess it is the power of good reviews that made it into a quadrology! I very much hope you have all very much enjoyed it, as this is the last one! ("Loving a Genius" is completed now, too.)

All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners, and no parts of the series mean any copyright infringement. It is written for entertainment only and not for any profit. Happy Christmas, everyone! :D

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