Sherlock is alone at the cluttered desk in his flat, writing Christmas cards. He has a list - his network of useful contacts. He despises his celebrity, despairs of it, yet it is useful. People want him in their restaurants, their hotels. It saves a great deal of money. And favours are his for the asking. Hence the cards.
He scrawls, S Holmes on another fold of cream cardstock with an embossed red poinsettia wreath on the front. Ha. Wreath. Rather appropriate given his line of work. And not a bloody deerstalker. Best wishes. No sense getting too personal. Especially when so many of his best contacts, in terms of the favours in their power to donate, are female. Also, he is not writing from Sherlock, from Sherlock on a hundred cards. Far too intimate. And it would take forever.
He prefers people not to use his first name. It is too - tabloid.
Exceptions are real people like John and Mrs Hudson. And, grudgingly, family.
Funny. He has never sent Mycroft a card. Why would he? Maybe this is the year. That would put the wind up him.
And Mrs Hudson. A card for her would be... Nice. She always gives Sherlock a card. Sometimes the cards play tunes. -But he sees Mrs Hudson every day. At Christmas he will definitely see her. No. No card. She can have the hug and kiss like she always does. That will be fine.
He might upgrade John, though. He is still considering that.
Yes. what about a card for John? It is singularly unnecessary since they live together. They could use the power of speech to communicate should they wish to exchange Christmas greetings. Or, being men who are best friends, they could use the power of gruff nods and, in Sherlock's case, the power of sarcastic violin-playing, as per usual.
John does actually give him Christmas cards. Hands one over each year, with Sherlock on the envelope in John's neat, special-effort print. Then John stands with folded arms and gives Sherlock The Look until Sherlock opens it, even though it is obviously a Christmas card, from John, and could just as usefully be kept, unopened, until next year, and reused.
"That's not the point," says John, later that night as he waits for Sherlock to tear open the envelope. "The point is that you give a card every year to let the other person know that you're thinking of them."
"Well, you could re-give this one," says Sherlock. "I don't mind."
"I know. But I would."
Lip-curling disdain is called for. "This is one of those human being things, isn't it."
"Sherlock. Just open the card."
He does. Inside is John's private handwriting, about as illegible as his professional doctor's handwriting, but without any prescription attached. Sherlock. Then the printed verse about decking halls and being jolly. Then love John, in a crushed scribble. Pretty standard. He puts the card on the mantel with the others.
"Maybe the one from me needn't be completely hidden by the printed one from the Chinese," says John.
Sherlock shrugs.
"It does make a difference," John says, even though Sherlock has not voiced this thought.
"Oh god, do I have to arrange them in a hierarchy of the significance of the sender?"
John actually pauses.
"People do," Sherlock says in disbelief. "They do, don't they?"
"Well. You might put your girlfriend's card in a more prominent position, for example. Or boyfriend," John adds, as if Sherlock is incapable of hypothetical imagination.
"I haven't got a boyfriend," Sherlock says.
"Well, your friends or family then. I'm just saying."
Sherlock inspects John a little more closely. He is giving off an atmosphere. Christmas does this to other people. It raises their expectations. It gives them ideas they should not have. It invariably disappoints. More reasons why Christmas is debilitating, even dangerous. "You care that your card should be displayed more prominently than cards from other people. You are jealous of The Jade Garden and Marks and Spencer."
"Yes, why have you got a card from Marks and Spencer's?"
"Regular customer," Sherlock says. Does John not buy socks?
John surveys the crammed mantelpiece, Sherlock's concession to Christmas decoration. John has put the cards he has received - four of them - in the kitchen by the kettle. "I can't believe Anderson sends you a card."
"He didn't," says Sherlock. "I took it out of his pocket when he was being snide about my lack of social aptitude."
John looks inside the card and guffaws. "That's not nice."
The card reads, to Sally, with all my love.
"He's not nice," says Sherlock. This is the truth and rather a charitable version of it: John's mellowing influence.
"Who's Elizabeth?" says John in a different, sharp tone, picking up another card which is obscuring his one. Its photograph is of a white mansion in snow. "-Oh." He puts it back with a reverent glance.
"Yes," says Sherlock. "The crest rather gives it away." He makes no move to rearrange the cards. The hierarchy is in his head, not on this wooden shelf two feet above a gas fire. It is a straightforward hierarchy. Everyone, then, above them, John.
"It's not important," says John. "But I would put your card somewhere people could see it. That's all."
"I don't send you a card," says Sherlock.
"No, you don't."
After a pause Sherlock picks up John's card - which has a picture of a robin sitting on a snowy red pillar box - and puts it in his jacket pocket.
"Right," says John, seeing this. He sighs."Cup of tea then?"
Honestly, he is never happy. "John. I am going to put your card somewhere its significance to me cannot be misinterpreted." Not immediately, though. And all the way through tea, through slumping in their chairs full of total blowout Imperial Banquet for Two, through the parts of the festive DVD Sherlock does not tune out, (it is a tie as to which is more mindless, the running around hilariously misunderstanding the situation, or the talking) through one beer for him and two more for John, through it all Sherlock knows that John is watching him. Wondering about the card.
"Bed, I think," John says at last, stretching and getting up from his chair.
"All right."
"You turning in?"
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Maybe in a bit."
John gives him a bit of a smile. Fond tolerance. He knows damn well that Sherlock resents sleep. Christmas Eve is actually a good night for crime. Sherlock will be up scanning for puzzles to keep him going through the dead period of the festive season.
"Night then," says John.
"Night."
The clock chimes.
John comes over and holds out his hand. "Merry Christmas."
Sherlock looks at the hand. He rolls his eyes.
"Indulge me," says John firmly.
Sherlock stands. There is a way he could ensure lack of boredom over the next few days. The upgrade he has been thinking about. Of course, the result might mostly consist of outrage and fury. But he thinks not. He takes John's hand. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. He uses John's hand to pull him in close until their chests bump. Then he wraps his arms around John - shoulder level, nothing too startling - and gives him a hard hug. Manly - John dislikes soppiness almost as much as Sherlock does. There. Success. Upgrade part one complete.
John returns the hug with plenty of back slapping - patting away the demons of innuendo in case someone should burst in, witness two friends embracing at midnight on Christmas Eve, and try to make something of it.
So, butch manliness aplenty. Sherlock smacks John across the shoulder-blades a few times in reciprocation. Good, he and John are on the same page. Time for a new chapter?
He is still thinking about it - there is a lot to be said for the status quo - when John pulls away, nodding furiously and saying, "Yes, well, absolutely," in reply to nothing. Sherlock is amused, is about to be sarcastic and is forming a suitably laconic sentence when John adds, "On the other hand, what the hell," and grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and kisses him, twice, once on each cheek.
Warm lips, graze of stubble against Sherlock's meticulously smooth chin, hot breath darting into his ear and firm fingers exerting expert pressure through the Savile Row fabric.
Sherlock blinks.
John gives him an upwards nod. "Night then." He picks up his book and swaggers with extreme nonchalance towards the hall, and the stairs up to his bedroom, far far away.
"John. Wait."
John turns in the doorway.
Sherlock opens his lips at half speed. The sarcasm has gone along with most other words. "Why did you do that?" His brain whirs. "There's no mistletoe." It is banned, since last year's revolting incident with Donovan.
John chuckles. "I don't need mistletoe."
"Don't you? You don't. Oh. That's right. You don't."
Sherlock is standing by his chair with his heart racing along the motorway and his brain lying winded on the kerb half a mile behind.
"Sure?" John asks, head on one side.
Sherlock nods. Of course he's sure. He has been sure for about three years. He'd thought it was John who wasn't sure.
John taps his book. "Well, night. See you in the morning. Try to sleep." That smile again, a bit more of it this time as if it has been trying to get out all evening. John disappears upstairs, which is not what Sherlock was expecting but which is definitely the optimum outcome for the moment, given the shock, and Sherlock weaves through the kitchen and into his bedroom.
He closes the door, which is standard practice, but which now seems like it might mean something. No, it doesn't. It is fine. John can turn a door handle if he wants to. Not that he will. Probably. -Probabilities have been dramatically adjusted in the last five minutes.
Sherlock glances around. The room is as soothingly sterile as ever. He slips his hand inside his jacket and draws out John's card. Now he looks at it again, it strikes him that last year's one was not signed with a kiss. Oh.
Boredom appears to have been successfully diverted.
He stands the card on his bedside cabinet, and begins unbuttoning his shirt.