Hi, welcome to my Christmas story. In my timeline, Reichenbach Falls never happened and the boys are preparing to celebrate their second Christmas. The two friends are a little more emotional than in my S/J friendship story, Do you even care? but its Christmas, so I am taking some liberties. We start off with a bit of a quarrel but end in warm fuzzies, presents and tasty things to eat.
The wonderful christmas story photo is from the bakerstreetbabes website.
Happy Holidays!
Chapter 1– I don't have a death wish
The steady hiss, hiss noise mingled with a jingle of bells, steadily pulled John from a dreamless sleep.
Slowly he opened his eyes and frowned, reflexively pulling up his blanket to hide the scars he had received during the war, quite forgetting that he was wearing his pyjamas.
'Sherlock, what are you doing?' the man grunted in an exasperated manner.
During the night it would appear that the detective had moved into the armchair in the doctor's room, and turned it into a cozy rat's nest. Scientific journals, three opened bags of skittles, one box of peppermints and a few empty cups of tea all littered the floor. In the chair itself, Sherlock's mobile was propped up against the Union Jack pillow, where it belted out a lively Christmas tune from its tiny but powerful speakers. However, at the moment, the detective was kneeling infront of John's dresser.
'I'm cleaning,' Sherlock answered as he held aloft his rag and can of furniture polish. 'Aren't you going to get up?'
John groaned and hid his face in his pillow, 'We got in at four this morning. Why would I want to get up now? Why are you already up and dressed for the day? Just go away. Please! Find some way of amusing yourself in another room.'
'I think you better get up now,' Sherlock insisted, as he walked over and tugged the man's blanket away.
'Why?' John whined, starting to feel fuzzy in the head again, as he curled up into a little ball to preserve the warmth of the sheets as best as he could.
'Because for you, 36 hours is quite a long time to go without eating.'
What?
What did he say?!
John rolled over and squinted at the pale light coming through the window. It was hard to determine what time of day it was as the snow pelted hard against the pane.
'Mrs. Hudson made you a beef broth,' Sherlock murmured as his flat mate propped himself up, and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he had slept through an entire day.
Absently, the doctor stared at the man's back as he walked away, before glancing across at where he had placed his sleeping pills on the bedside table.
The little bottle was missing.
'Oh no,' he muttered.
John hadn't meant for Sherlock to see that and the doctor's heart sank as he instinctively knew a lecture was coming. The bottle may have been unlabelled, but Sherlock was an accomplished chemist and he most likely had broken down its contents. John slumped down and covered his face with his pillow.
Sure enough the detective returned, tray of food in one hand, missing bottle of sleeping pills in the other.
Silently, Sherlock placed the tray across his lap before folding his slender frame into the armchair with a stern look.
'What do you have to say for yourself?' the detective asked as he placed his fingertips together and regarded him with an anxious but angry stare.
John dug into his broth, famished beyond belief. 'Sherlock, I appreciate your concern but you have the wrong idea.'
'Do I?' he said scornfully. 'You polished off a quarter bottle of cough syrup and then you sneak away to your room to take a sleeping pill. Don't tell me it's not, because I tested it in my lab! I was this close to scooping you up and running all the way to Bart's.'
John's eyebrows raised in surprise. One of Sherlock's little personal quirks involved hospitals visits, in that he never visited. The detective had no problem staying the whole day in the morgue with Molly, but for some reason he flatly refused to go into a hospital for any sort of medical treatment.
'When I am dead you can take to me the hospital,' Sherlock had said comfortingly on one memorable occasion, when John had to practically move the entire contents of an emergency room to the flat, inorder to treat one of Sherlock's injuries.
John rolled his eyes at the man seated beside him, 'you are not seriously about to give me a lecture on drug use, are you?'
'Why? Do you need a lecture in drug use?' Sherlock replied sharply.
'Not from you,' John muttered under his breath as he shovelled in his soup.
'What?'
'I am sorry I worried you,' John replied. 'I was trying to decide which medication to take. I didn't take them together! Please Sherlock; give me some credit that I know my profession. I wouldn't have mixed those two drugs …not unless I had a death wish.'
From the way the detective's eyes widened slightly, John deduced that this shocking thought had crossed the man's mind.
'I don't have a death wish!' John yelled out incredulously, as he waved his arms around in his agitation. 'Good Gad, you drive me around the twist! Why can't I just have a normal best mate like everyone else?! Where did you get this ridiculous idea from?!'
And here they were.
Sherlock tapped his fingertips together nervously. They had come to the point more quickly than he liked. He still hasn't figured out what he was going to say. However, he took a moment to switch off the music from his mobile, as Feliz Navidad was not an appropriate accompaniment to what he was about to discuss.
'You haven't been acting like yourself John, and it is a statistical fact that people get more depressed during the holidays.'
John's jaw dropped open, 'what are you nattering on about? Yes, I am more tired than normal because I am fighting a cold and we have been working so bloody hard. Christmas apparently brings out all the lunatics in London, and just in case you didn't know, YOU'RE ONE OF THEM!'
Sherlock gave no outward reaction to being called a lunatic.
'I am not talking about how much you are sleeping. It is winter, we're all programmed to sleep longer,' he stated in his most irritating lecturer voice, 'with or without cough syrup.'
John groaned anew. Even though he was completely annoyed, it hadn't escaped his attention that judging from all the personal detritus cluttering up his immaculate room, Sherlock had been loyally watching over him, all the hours he slept. Because of that alone the doctor held on to his patience.
'Then what?' John inquired, taking a deep breath to encourage calm thoughts, 'What in my behaviour is so off?'
'It's just…' Sherlock said with an unusual amount of hesitancy for him, 'by this time last year, you had every stick of furniture in the flat polished to within an inch of its life. This year you've done nothing. John, I can't find the Christmas decorations. Where are they?'
The doctor swirled his spoon around his broth, pointedly ignoring the question.
'Did you throw them away?' Sherlock asked in a low voice.
The spoon clattered noisily against the tray as the doctor turned his head away, and a painful silence fell between the two men.
'I take it from your response, that you are have not yet forgiven me for last year's debacle?' Sherlock sneered, aggravation dripping from each syllable.
'Do you think I should forgive you?' John asked bitterly.
The detective stared at the ceiling in frustration. 'John, I didn't have a choice…'
'You had a choice,' John interrupted him in an acid voice, 'you chose to leave all the people behind that cared about you, and go chasing some mystery woman! We deserved better from you.'
Sherlock skewered him with a nasty glare, half shocked that John had so casually brought up that woman. As a rule, they never spoke about HER.
To his pristine recollection, Sherlock hadn't asked for them to break up the Christmas party. He had excused himself quite politely in his opinion. He had tried, but in the end, he was too distracted by matters of national security to be in the mood for more eggnog.
'This is tedious. I am not apologising again,' the detective snapped, feeling frazzled to know that his best mate still harboured such strong feelings about last year.
John snorted in disgust. 'Just for you information, you never apologised.'
He didn't?
Sherlock couldn't remember that part. He did remember John standing at his elbow but other than that, the New Year was a blur of memories that he would rather permanently delete.
'Well I'm sorry!' Sherlock snapped, leaning over with a scornful look that clearly indicated he wasn't particularly sorry at all. 'I am sorry I ruined your Christmas and I am sorry that I was such a bleeding disappointment to you and everyone! There, that should make you cheerful now.'
Sherlock sprang out his chair and stared out the window. His heart was pounding so hard with the ferocity of his words that he had to prop himself up with one hand on the wall.
What the bloody hell was that about? John knew he hated to be cornered verbally! How dare he talk to him like he was a three year old child?!
From the continued silence behind him, Sherlock finally concluded that his apology was being ignored. Even though he could acknowledge to himself that it was a piss poor attempt, John usually knew how to translate these things. Why did he even bother? He was no good at this at all. He was no good…
The detective reached out for his coat and scarf, 'I need to check in with Lestrade. Why don't you get some rest? I will buy you more cough syrup when I am out.'
John looked up as Sherlock walked over and held out his hands.
'Can you stand?' the detective asked awkwardly. 'I won't leave you if you can't move around on your own.'
John rolled over to the opposite side and slowly climbed to his feet, flatly refusing the man's offer of assistance. However, now that he was standing, the small man realised that he desperately needed the bathroom.
By the time he came out, Sherlock was gone.
TBC (Next chapter is up!)
