for amanda: merry christmas, love.
"We don't have a tree."
The statement, on its own, is completely innocuous, as well as truthful; it is December twenty-third and they do not, in fact, have a tree.
That's all good and fine, except they never have a tree.
Never in the years that the two of them have been living in 221B have they ever gone out and sought an evergreen for their living room, lights and decorations and all. It had never even come up in conversation. Not once. He wasn't even sure that Mrs. Hudson went through the effort of putting up a tree, though she did hang several festive wreathes from every door, including their own.
John folds down the top of his newspaper and steals a look at Sherlock, all perched up in his chair and reading a different newspaper. He hadn't even bothered to look up from his reading and John was starting to entertain the idea that Sherlock hadn't spoken at all when Sherlock's eyes flick over to find his own in a questioning way.
John meets his gaze. "You're right," he says. "We don't have a tree."
Choosing a tree in the Watson household had always been something of an ordeal. When he was little the family had all gone out together to seek the perfect specimen: something rich and green with fluffy branches and supple needles. Deciding on a tree was always an trial; his mum wanted something modest, not too tall, not too difficult to get in the door, something that wouldn't shed too much, his dad wanted bulk, and he and Harry just wanted anything, really.
When he was about twelve they switched over to a faux tree and, well, that was that.
Decorating it, however––that never changed, be it a real or fake tree. His mum would haul box after box of sparkling ornaments from the attic and start to arrange them in the most aesthetically pleasing style, starting from the top and working downward. He and Harry were only able to help once they were a bit older, past the stage in infanthood where everything appeared to be edible. The tree, from his angle, was marvelous, with ornaments clumped together and tinsel tangled among them. What the tree looked like from over the height of three feet was haphazard, but endearing, his mother's coherent theme of anything gilded and glittering ended roughly two feet from the end of the tree, where the children had taken over the decorating.
In the days preceding Christmas, he and his sister would lie in the space under the tree designated for gifts and look up through the branches. It was like they were in their own world, a world strewn with electric lights and precariously places toys on strings, a world that smelled heavily of pine. But it was their world.
John blinks back the sudden, but not unwelcome, flood of memories. He passively wonders what Christmastime in the Holmes household was like when Sherlock and Mycroft were children. Did the two of them argue over which one of them got to help string the lights or place the star atop the tree? Where there arguments over who got to hang which ornament where?
The image brings a faint smile to John's face and Sherlock gives him a probing look. "We don't have a tree," John repeats, back to the present. "Is that a problem?"
Sherlock preens and shakes out his newspaper. "It was just an observation," he says, an edge just brusque enough that John knows it isn't nothing.
He sighs. Of course.
"Do you want a tree?" he asks in a thoroughly indulgent tone. Better get this over with.
Sherlock says nothing. He raises the paper up to hide his face more fully.
John attempts to maintain a straight face. "Because we can get one, you know. If you want one. A tree, that is."
The newspaper slowly lowers.
Three-and-a-half hours later, a six-foot evergreen stands tall and proud in the living room of 221B Baker Street.
It's not quite the grandiose image of John's childhood, but it'll do. Sherlock looks pleased with it, at any rate.
There hadn't been too many trees left for their perusal, two days before Christmas, and Sherlock had started to look uncomfortable the moment they started to shop, like he had actually made a grave mistake. The trees that had been left were a little on the thin and stunted side, a bit bowed, passed over weeks ago for their more thriving cousins. Neither of them had even entrained the idea of getting a fake tree. If they were going to do this, they were going to do this right.
The tree they chose was tall and green, and if the bristles were thinning, that could be fixed with a bit of well-placed tinsel.
They had to purchase all their decorating supplies at Tesco, too, since it wasn't like either of them had secret stocks of Christmas decorations lying about the flat. Just a few meager, beaten boxes of cheap ornaments remained at the store and they had taken as much as they could carry, bickering the entire time.
"This is plenty!" John had exclaimed in anguish, arms full, as Sherlock went to retrieve perhaps the store's final box.
They looked like fools. John knew it. John knew Sherlock knew it, too. But there would be no stopping either of them now.
The half-dozen boxes are scattered about the room, some open, some not, stacked on chairs and tables. John takes a sip of his tea, watching Sherlock maneuver a string of lights around the branches. He could help, sure, but this was Sherlock's idea. Besides––he glances at Sherlock's form, bent over to secure the stand at the base of the tree––he's enjoying the view.
Sherlock straightens up, satisfied with the placement of the lights, and turns to John. "How do you want to do this?" he asks with such grave seriousness that John almost spits out his tea.
"What, the decorating?"
"Obviously."
John thinks a moment, and takes a cautious sip. His mum had a system: heavier ornaments at the bottom, where their descent would be lessened if they fell, the more fragile things toward the top, out of reach of children's grabbing hands. He thinks she had them color coded, too, but that part gets fuzzy.
He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. Let's have at it, yeah?"
They each take a box and begin the decorating process. Partway through, John catches… music, playing, very faintly from the radio, but he can't for the life of him remember who turned it on. Not that it matters. Not that he's complaining.
He strings the ornaments, focusing mainly on making sure they don't slide off the branches and onto the floor. That's about it, really. He remembers the back of the tree, too, not leaving the far side un-embellished. Sherlock, however, is focused. John can't figure out any rhyme or reason to Sherlock's own decorating technique; it's deliberate, and secretive, like everything he does.
At last, John reaches into the box, only to find it empty. He places his now-cold tea down beside it and steps back to admire their handiwork. After a few moments of fussing, Sherlock joins him.
There appears to be more ornaments on the tree than John recalls ever being on his tree as a child. The branches are bowed slightly on the ends, but the tinsel does make it appear fuller in the center. The lights are well strung, thanks to Sherlock, giving everything a gentle glow. Their decorating skills aren't going to win them any awards, but it will do. It smells nice, at any rate, and with the fire crackling along in the fireplace, John nearly feels… jolly.
He turns to Sherlock to congratulate them on a job well done, but stops. There's a far away look in Sherlock's face, his eyes reflecting the golden glowing light of both the tree and the fireplace. It looks like he's smoldering inside, burning warm and low and lost in thought. Perhaps lost in memories of Christmases long past.
John licks his lips, mouth gone dry, and swallows. He turns ever so slightly inward, ever so slightly closer.
"Sherlock?"
No response.
"Sherlock?"
He blinks, and frowns, shaking off the past. "Yes?" He looks lost for a moment, his eyes searching, but then he finds John who is not far at all.
Sherlock inclines his head slightly downward and John turns his head slightly upward and they are close, impossibly close and John can no longer hear the radio or the popping fire, he can no longer smell the scent of pine, he can only hear their breathing, he can only fee; the warmth emulating from Sherlock's body.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Happy Christmas." The last two words end quickly on an exhale and John closes the gap between them.
Their lips meet and it is a careful kiss, it is a quizzical and calculating kiss. After a tense moment Sherlock kisses back and John sighs into his mouth. Sherlock's lips are soft and taste like nothing at all. John's are chapped and taste equally of nothing, but it doesn't matter.
They break after too short a moment, but don't pull back too far, just enough to give each other space. Both their faces are flushed pink, and in Sherlock's case, so are his ears. John's heartbeat pounds in his ears and he's breathing heavily despite the brevity of their kiss.
Sherlock brings his hand up, movements a little unsure, and uses his thumb to gently cup the side of John's face. He leans forward again, speaking in his ear.
"Happy Christmas, John." He presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."
Disclaimer/AN: I don't own Sherlock. This is the first Sherlock fic I've written in 2 years. Also, I don't celebrate Christmas. I've never gone through the process of choosing a tree and decorating it and everything. Also, I don't live in the UK. Where I live if you want a tree you walk down the street and vendors sell them for like thirty bucks and you can buy ornaments literally everywhere. Does Tesco sell decorations? How does this work? My apologies for any inconsistencies.
thank you for reading, and happy holidays.