Author Notes: Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays to everyone and a good start into 2016! =)
Please accept this sweet, fluffy, a little angsty Christmas themed story as a gift to you all (alright, it's a little sappy as well^^) and I hope you can all enjoy the last week of the year! *hugs and cookies to everyone*
Let Love reign Us all
Christmas Eve.
Sherlock smiled as he wandered into the living-room and his gaze fell on the crooked Christmas tree, that had invaded 221B a couple of weeks ago. Not even all the colorful and mixed ornaments and a depressed looking angel on top of the tree made up for all the needles that it had already lost. If anything, the fairy lights underlined the crooked growth of the trunk and the bent branches even more. Still, in Sherlock`s eyes the tree was perfect as it was.
His point of view had nothing to do with stumbling over his holiday spirit in a dark corner of his Mind Palace. No, Sherlock was still of the opinion that Christmas was an invention of a religion that had needed a celebration to replace a pagan holiday - which one, he had deleted years ago. Not that the masses cared much about the real reason for their holiday - even though the churches would be filled to the brim tonight - as long as they had a reason to buy useless gifts and played into the hands of the sweets and toys industry.
All in all, an utterly useless holiday, on which everyone pretended that they cared about their family, only to get drunk on mulled wine and eggnog to survive the holy celebration. Even the criminal classes appeared to get in the spirit of Christmas. Sherlock couldn`t remember ever working an interesting case over the holiday, that didn`t include drunk knife fights and the usual burglary. He refused to think of The Woman in the context of interesting cases at Christmas. This train of thought would involuntarily lead him back to Moriarty and... Sherlock didn't want to go back there. Not, when the whole mess with the criminal mastermind and his organization lay firmly behind him after two years of excessive work. Instead, Sherlock focused on the terrible green and red ornaments, which John had insisted belonged on every Christmas tree. That, Sherlock admitted with a grin, was the real reason why he loved the sight of the abused fir, because it was John's work and everything that his friend did, was at least worth a note on one of the walls of his Mind Palace.
The thought should have bothered him - Sherlock never allowed another human being so much room in his life let alone in his mind - but it didn't. John was an exception to every one of Sherlock's rules and he was... happy about it. Happy, that John was back in his life and had forgiven Sherlock for faking his own death. Happy for the chance to have John's friendship back. Happy, that they were living together at Baker Street once more. Happy for spending Christmas Eve with his best friend. Happy for bringing their relationship to the next level.
Because certainly, the shared kisses last night - desperate and laced with passion - indicated that they were moving on from just friends to something more.
Sherlock wiped the sappy smile from his face as soon as he noticed the upturn of his lips, lest John got a reason to tease him about it. By the way, where was John?
Sherlock's gaze swept through the living-room, scanning it for clues as to the whereabouts of his friend. The flames in the fireplace were burning low, which indicated that John had been up to start a fire, but hadn't taken the time to stoke it. Strange. John usually wasn't that careless, when it came to open fires, especially not, when he was aware that Sherlock was sleeping. They had only wrapped up a big case - smugglers that were specialized in exotic animals - last night and Sherlock had slept the better part of the day away. In fact, it was past six in the evening by now and the bells of various churches had called families to the Christmas mass already, which had woken Sherlock up in the first place. Maybe, John had counted on that, since the fire couldn't have been unsupervised for longer than forty-five minutes - fifty at the most. Still, this level of irresponsibility was out of place for his friend.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he wandered from the living-room to the entrance hall and noticed that John's parka was missing from the coat rack. His boots weren't to be found either, which led to the conclusion that John had ventured outside. And he had done so in a haste, Sherlock added to his observations as he recalled the half eaten sandwich in the kitchen and the cold cup of tea on the counter. John only abandoned his meal in case of an emergency. Maybe, his sister had indulged in too much wine once more, Sherlock mused as he fetched his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown and leaned against the mantle of the fireplace.
Where are you? - SH
He had just hit the send button when a text alert sounded from the kitchen. With a starting trepidation, Sherlock went after the sound and found John's phone sitting next to the plate with the half eaten sandwich. Before, Sherlock could recall why it was considered a Bit Not Good, he had already hacked in John's phone and checked his last ingoing messages and calls. They weren't from Harry or the surgery... or even Mycroft. A cold lump settled in the pit of Sherlock's stomach as he read the messages from a Jenny, of whom John had never spoken before.
I was happy to see you again and the little one was as well. (21th November)
You are getting along so well. It warms my heart to see you two play together. (26th November)
If you visit any more often, you might consider moving in with us right away. (4th December)
I am looking forward to Christmas and my little boy is eager for the celebration, too. (12th December)
Just wanted to let you know that your plans for Christmas morning sound lovely. You are the most considerate boyfriend I know. (19th December)
Sherlock almost stopped reading at this point, as his heart cramped painfully in his chest and the words blurred in front of him. Still, he forced himself to finish the job he had begun, although it felt like twisting a knife between his sixth and seventh rib.
Something with my mother has come up, you will have to reschedule your plans. (23th December)
I have tried to call you, but you don`t answer your phone. Please, let me know if you can make it at Christmas Eve. (24th December, 10 am)
There were ten missed calls, the last one dated back a couple of hours, until John had picked up his phone an hour ago and - considering all the evidence - hurried out of the flat to go to his... girlfriend.
Sherlock dropped the phone on the table and only noticed that he had moved to the couch, when he was curled into a tight ball, with his face pressed into the cushions.
John had a girlfriend!
The thought shouldn't be as unsettling or startling as it was. John had had a lot of girlfriends, since he had moved in with him. Even Sherlock had lost count of the numerous women, his friend had bedded - or at least tried to - but he had been aware of every one of them, when they had been actual. Not that he had bothered with memorizing their names, but John had never been able to hide one of them from Sherlock... until now.
A strangled breath was torn from his throat and Sherlock grabbed the cushions, in need of something to hold onto. He couldn't allow his emotions to rule his mind. It was important to analyze the data he had gathered from the text messages and John's absence to arrive at a plausible conclusion. At least, that was what Sherlock told himself, when he closed his eyes and went through every written text in his Mind Palace. Every word this woman had written to John sent a stab of pain through Sherlock's chest, until it felt like someone had inserted hot iron between his ribs. It was torture and the puzzle wasn't complicated enough to distract Sherlock from his misery. He doubted that even Anderson would have come to the wrong conclusion if confronted with the evidence. Fact was, Jenny was John's girlfriend and had been for at least a month. She had a child - little boy, around two to four years old - and was a single parent. John and the boy got along very well - no surprise here, John was good with children - and she was already planning for their future.
Sherlock bit down hard in one of the cushions to stop an undignified sound from escaping his lips as he imagined what it would mean for him, if the woman's plans came true. John would move in with her and her son. They would get married and John would want children of his own - or at least, one child. Sherlock would only get to see him on special occasions - birthdays, if he got invited - since the weekends would be reserved for John's new family. They would drift apart, until they wouldn't be more than former flatmates to each other. His heart fluttered distressed in his ribcage and Sherlock tore his mind away from the dark images, it had just produced and which were much too realistic for his liking.
It didn't have to come to that, Sherlock tried to reassure himself. John could still find Jenny too clingy and break it off with her. They didn't know each other for that long, so there was no reason to panic. His heart rate slowed down a little as this logic penetrated his mind and made breathing easier... at least for a few seconds, until Sherlock recalled the moment that had given him hope for John's and his own future.
The kiss!
Sherlock swallowed against a lump in his throat as the images from only sixteen hours ago flickered through his mind.
"You are mad," John scolded Sherlock, but there was laughter instead of annoyance in his voice as he closed the door of the flat behind them and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. "How could you be so sure that the smugglers wouldn't know that the snakes, you let loose in the warehouse, weren't venomous?"
A low chuckle fell from Sherlock's lips as he leaned against the counter and watched John retrieve two mugs from the cupboard. He was still dizzy with the rush of adrenalin, that came with a chase through London and a dance at the knife's edge for the better part of an hour. The smugglers had been clever - almost brilliant - and Sherlock had needed days to figure out their routes and how they smuggled the animals - mostly snakes and saurian - to England. In the end though, it had been a disappointment to figure out that they used an abandoned warehouse as their headquarters - so pedestrian. If they hadn't managed to surround John and him, while they had investigated the warehouse - without Lestrade's knowledge - and threatened to kill them, the case would have turned out rather boring. As it was, Sherlock had gotten the opportunity to break a terrarium with a thrown shoe and watched in fascination as the smugglers had scrambled away from the aggressive snakes. "They were venomous - and deadly so - and I was certain - at least to 95% - that the smugglers were aware of it."
The kettle hit the sink with a thud, when John turned sharply towards Sherlock, his eyes filled with disbelief. "You broke a terrarium to let venomous snakes loose, although it was highly likely that they would attack us... Especially you, since you were much closer to them than I?!"
A grin pulled at Sherlock's lips, when he nodded. It was one of the best parts of the case. The thrill and the knowledge that one small miscalculation could mean the end - although he had been sure to 91% that the snakes wouldn't come his way.
"You utterly, mad wanker!"
The smile slipped from Sherlock's face, when John grabbed his shirt and dragged him around, only to push him back against the fridge. Obviously, he had made a grave miscalculation and John was only inches away from punching Sherlock for the risks he had taken tonight. John had done so before after all, when Sherlock had appeared in 221B, after he had been dead for two years. Sherlock only hoped that John would offer him an ice bag afterwards, instead of throwing him out of the flat like he had done back then. Sherlock didn't fancy sleeping in Mycroft's guest room for another couple of months.
All his thoughts were interrupted, when instead of a fist, lips connected with Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock froze for the better part of five seconds, before his body reacted to the sensation of John's lips on his and he returned the kiss. A kiss, Sherlock had imagined numerous times. A near death situation had featured more often than not, when he had allowed himself to indulge in his fantasies. Nevertheless, the initial desperation of John's kiss was the only similarity between fantasy and reality. For all his genius, Sherlock couldn't have imagined the scratch of John's stubble against his skin, when his friend angled his head to the side and sucked on Sherlock's lower lip. It would have also been impossible to calculate that John would deepen the kiss after exactly twenty seconds by forcing his tongue between Sherlock's lips and making love to Sherlock's mouth with his tongue.
At this point, Sherlock gave up on analyzing the kiss and allowed his body to take completely over his mind. It was the right decision to make as Sherlock was able to let go of every disturbing sensation, which wasn't caused by John's hands on his hips - when had they moved? - or his mouth against Sherlock's.
In the end, Sherlock couldn't even recall how long their kiss lasted, until John drew back with a last peck to Sherlock's jaw. "Never endanger your life like this, again. Promise me. I wouldn't be able to bear losing you again."
Fierce blue eyes bore into Sherlock's and he almost gave John his word. It was hard not to give into his friend's demand, after he had just snogged Sherlock to an inch of his life, but he managed to shake his head at the request. "I can't promise you that I'll always choose the least dangerous route. It's not who I am, but... I will try to minimize the mortal danger to both of us, if possible."
As promises went, this was a lame one, at least in Sherlock's eyes, but it was the only one, he could give without having to fear that he would break it in a matter of weeks. He was just about to explain his reasoning to John, when his friend nodded in understanding at him. "That's good enough for me, as long as you keep me at your side and don't rush headlong into danger on your own."
"Fine."
"Good." With that, John went back to preparing their tea, while Sherlock tried - unsuccessfully - to wipe the silly grin from his face that was a direct result of their mind blowing kiss, which had been even better than the confrontation with the smugglers.
And obviously, it had also been a one-off.
A bitter laugh was swallowed by the cushions as Sherlock scolded himself for how blind and stupid he had been. Of course, John would never kiss him, because he returned Sherlock's feelings in any way. His friend had made it clear numerous times that he wasn't interested in men - or didn't admit it to himself - and therefore would never see Sherlock as a potential partner. Sherlock should have recognized the kiss for what it was: An adrenalin fueled action on John's part to ascertain that Sherlock was still alive and unharmed. Affection had certainly played a role in it, but not to the amount, Sherlock would have liked. John either regretted the kiss by now - likely, since he had rushed off to his girlfriend's without leaving a note - or he didn't think it was of any importance - also likely, for the same reasons.
Sherlock would have to act like the kiss hadn't meant anything to him, like his world hadn't become brighter when John's lips had touched his and that he hadn't recalled the kiss over and over again in his mind, until he had fallen asleep. It sounded impossible, but if he deleted it... No, Sherlock shook his head against the armrest of the couch. He couldn't delete this kiss. It was the only kiss, he would ever receive from John and he couldn't bring himself to let go of it. No matter how much the memory of it was going to hurt Sherlock for the days and weeks - probably months - to come, he would cherish this one moment for the rest of his life.
Pathetic, Mycroft's voice echoed through his Mind Palace, but Sherlock ignored him like he always did and turned on his back to glance at the forlorn looking Christmas tree. His chest constricted painfully, when Sherlock recalled how he had imagined John and him spending Christmas Eve together by the fireplace, with view of the tree and sharing stories over eggnog and scotch.
Sherlock sighed quietly as he let go of that fantasy and instead replaced it with the cold reality. He would spend Christmas Eve alone at 221B, with only his violin for company. Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's and Lestrade and Molly were on a holiday - destination deleted - so that there was no one, Sherlock could spend the holiday with. Alright, Mycroft was in London and he would welcome his brother in his home, but Sherlock would rather go back to Siberia than to spend a whole evening at his brother's cold home. Still, a Christmas spent alone at Baker Street, wasn't the worst way, Sherlock had ever passed the holiday. At least, John had intended to spend the evening with Sherlock - the potato salad and the sausages in the fridge proved it - until something - or rather, someone - more important had come up. He hadn't led Sherlock on like Victor, all these years ago.
Seven in the evening, an hour too late for their date.
Sherlock frowned at the clock on the wall and then glanced at the set table. The soup - spicy chicken - had gone cold by now and would have to be re-heated. The roast was still in the oven and should remain warm for another hour, without getting dry, if Sherlock kept the temperature low. The tiramisu was the only thing that wasn't in any danger of getting bad, as it was stored in the fridge for the time being. Still, if Victor didn't come over soon, they wouldn't have the time to fully enjoy the dinner, Sherlock had prepared for his friend - boyfriend, if the kisses, touches and sex were anything to go by.
Sherlock was aware that most people didn't go too so much trouble at Christmas Eve, but Victor and he would both return to their families tomorrow. They were forced to spend the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve at their family's homes, therefore today was the only chance they had got to celebrate. At least, that had been the plan, when Sherlock had invited Victor over to his flat, although it didn't appear like they would celebrate any time tonight.
Half past seven.
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the surface of the table and finally went to the phone to call Victor. Maybe, he had just forgotten the time or his flatmate had held him up. Said flatmate - a Michael or Daniel, Sherlock wasn't sure - answered his call after ten seconds.
"Hi, I would like to speak with Victor Trevor, if he is at home." Sherlock forced his voice to be polite, after he had introduced himself to the young man. It wouldn't help his case, if he angered him. As it was, politeness didn't get Sherlock any farther either, at least not in regards to his original plan, which included getting Victor to his flat as fast as possible.
"Sorry, mate, but Vic is at his family's home. Big celebration with his fiancée and her family. Hot chick, by the way, Vic has to show you a picture, when he gets back, although that won't be until next year. Can you imagine how big the wedding his going to be, when the espousal is already..."
Sherlock hung up on the young man, not interested in any more details about Victor's betrayal. And it was betrayal, right? They had kissed and slept together for seven months. That had to mean that they were a couple or... didn't it? Sherlock's hand shook, when he ran it through his hair. He had never been in a relationship before - hadn't even kissed someone before Victor - but he was sure that kissing, sex and a mutual liking of each other indicated that they were in a relationship. At least, Sherlock had been sure until now. Until, he had learned that Victor was going to marry for the sake of his family - there couldn't be any other reason - without telling Sherlock about it. Had Victor only wanted to spare his feelings or... had he merely seen Sherlock as a friend with benefits? Or was he even less important in Victor's eyes and his friend had only used him as a... fuck body?
The thought hurt like a knife to the back - Sherlock knew what he was talking about - only without any option of numbing the pain. There was nothing to stop the images of Victor and him replaying in his head over and over again, until Sherlock didn't know if he had only imagined the tender looks and gentle touches of his friend. If Victor's smile had merely been faked to bed Sherlock, in order to satisfy his needs, until he had to marry... Stop! Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples to stop his mind from showing him how little he meant to Victor. It was of no use, memories and analyzes kept flashing through his head in high speed, until Sherlock stumbled to his bedroom and retrieved the hidden emergency kit from his wardrobe.
Heroine not cocaine, Sherlock decided as he checked the two small bottles and prepared his fix. He needed his mind to calm down, to numb the pain and forget everything about Victor, at least for a few hours. It was heavenly, when the drug hit his bloodstream and Sherlock sank down in a heavy fog of numbness and relief.
He had almost died that night.
Sherlock pressed his lips in a tight line as his hand tightened unconsciously around his left arm, into which he had injected the almost lethal dose of heroine. If Mycroft hadn't come over to check on Sherlock, the Christmas Eve of 1999 would have been the day of Sherlock's death. A shudder went through his body at the memory of waking up in a hospital room, hooked to numerous machines and the worried faces of his parents and Mycroft above him. He never overdosed again, although it took longer to get completely clean. In fact, Sherlock only managed it, after he came to live with John.
John, his friend, who wasn't here this evening, who was celebrating Christmas with his girlfriend and her little son, without even thinking of Sherlock, alone at Baker Street and... Stop it!
This Christmas Eve, although alone and hopeless at his flat, was a vast improvement to the Christmas a couple of years ago - and probably also to last year's Christmas, although Sherlock didn't remember much about that one, as he had been delirious from a high fever at that time. If he had to choose, Sherlock would rather spend every Christmas alone at 221B than alone in a dirty motel room, without knowing if he was every going to see John or London again.
The bedframe cracked in protest, when Sherlock sat down on the mattress. He doubted that he would manage to sleep on it, although it was cleaner than the carpet to his feet, which still didn't mean much. His eyes swept through the small and disgusting room, as his mind supplied him with the information of how many couplings had taken place on various pieces of furniture in the last couple of months - fifty-seven - and how often someone had vomited on the carpet in that time - thirty-four.
Goosebumps rose all over his body at the discovery, but he didn't have a choice but to stay in this room. Sherlock was lucky that he didn't have to sleep in the streets - again - but had the luxury of a roof over his head and a closed door between himself and the rest of the world. It was all he would get for Christmas this year.
Christmas.
Yes, it was Christmas Eve, although it was easy to miss in this part of Berlin. Most people, in this part of the city, weren't interested in celebrating the holiday. In fact, Sherlock was quite certain that the chances for witnessing a knife fight were higher than that his thoughts would be interrupted by badly sang carols.
It didn't matter in the end, Sherlock had only come to Germany to take care of one of the bosses of Moriarty's network. The job should be completed, before the new year rolled around, so that he was free to continue his mission in Sweden. Still, Sherlock couldn't help himself but imagine what John was doing right now. It was eight o'clock in Germany, which meant that it was seven pm in England. At that time last year, Sherlock had played the violin for his friends and then... Irene Adler had crashed their celebration with her supposed death.
Sherlock gritted his teeth as he recalled how The Woman had ruined the first and - probably last - Christmas he had ever gotten to spend with John. His friend, who was still grieving for him - according to Mycroft - and who would probably spend Christmas with Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street. They had probably started dinner by now, during which they would share tales about last year and John would get the eggnog, when the conversation became too emotional and... No, Sherlock couldn`t think of them now. If he started to imagine their flat - his home - in detail and John in his armchair and... No, he had to stop it, if he didn't want to drive himself insane.
Insane with longing for London, his home... John.
Sherlock fished a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket - not his favorite one, but it kept him warm - and lit the first one. He couldn't risk getting drunk, since it wasn't unlikely that his enemies would come after him tonight, but the smoke that filled his lungs stilled a longing for other, illegal substances in him. If he couldn't risk alcohol, cocaine would be even more foolish. Besides, Sherlock didn't want to come back to John, only to have his friend find out that he had become a junkie - again.
If he ever came back. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply from the cigarette. He couldn't start to doubt that he would see John again, if he did... he would be killed in a matter of days. If nothing else, Sherlock had to succeed to keep John save. Only when all of Moriarty's men were dead or imprisoned, his friend would be out of danger.
Sherlock held on this thought as the screams of drunkards reached his room and the bell of a big church heralded the next mass. The memory of John`s smile and the promise to protect him with his life were everything Sherlock had as he chain smoked his cigarettes in a dirty motel room, while everyone else was free to celebrate Christmas with their loved ones, without endangering their lives in the process.
Yes, that had definitely been Sherlock's worst Christmas Eve. Worse even than 1989, when Mycroft had broken Sherlock's new pirate ship, by sitting down on it. A low chuckle escaped his lips, as he remembered the scales of wood, their Mummy had had to retrieve from Mycroft's fat ass afterwards. It had almost made up for the disappointment and tears on Sherlock's part.
He grinned at the memory and turned around towards their armchairs. "John," he started, only to remember that his friend wasn't there. That he was alone in the flat, with the dying embers in the fireplace and the cold that drifted through the windows and sent chills through Sherlock's body. He should get up and change into something warmer than his pajamas and dressing gown or at least, he should turn up the heat, but... he didn't see any point in it. What did it matter if he wasn't warm, when there was no one to scold him for lying in the cold flat for hours?
OOO
Steps on the stairs.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side as the sound jerked him out of his Mind Palace. In the years away, he had trained himself to emerge from his Mind Palace at the slightest disturbance to prevent himself from getting slaughtered while he conducted a new plan to destroy Moriarty's organization. It wouldn't have been necessary this time, since Sherlock doubted that John had come home to kill him, although he was aware that his friend had come very close to strangling him a few times, since they had moved in together. Nevertheless, that left the question, why John had come back to Baker Street, when he had obviously planned to spend the evening with his girlfriend.
Sherlock kept his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest, while he listened to John's movements, as he went from the front door to the living-room, without taking of his boots or his jacket. Therefore, John didn't plan on staying with him. He had only come back, because...
"Where is my damned phone?!"
Ah yes, of course, Sherlock's lips curved into the sad imitation of a smile as he realised that John had merely come back for his phone. Otherwise, he would have addressed Sherlock already, instead of searching quietly - or as quietly as possible with his boots on - for his phone in the living-room. Therefore, John suspected that Sherlock was still in his Mind Palace and hadn't even noticed his arrival and John didn't want to alert him to his presence, because... he didn't want Sherlock to bother him and ruin his evening.
Sherlock inhaled carefully through his nose to prevent any traitorous sounds from emerging. If John didn't want him, then... Sherlock wouldn't force his company on his friend. He had put John through enough and if a stupid girlfriend was what he needed, then Sherlock wouldn't stand in his way... not anymore. He had given up his right to interfere with John's amours, when he had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's and Sherlock wouldn't risk losing John again by forcing himself between his friend and a potential partner. After all, it was obvious now, in who's favor John would make a decision... and that person wasn't Sherlock.
"Woof, woof!"
"Shh, it's fine little one, we don't want to disturb... Well, why not?" Sherlock frowned at the unexpected sound - a dog?! - and was even more confused by John's cryptic words. He still managed to keep completely still, when his friend stepped closer to the couch, leaned forwards and... put something fluffy on Sherlock's chest. Fluffy and moving and breathing, that was... Sherlock's eyes snapped open as something wet and warm touched his stapled fingers and he came face to face with innocent puppy eyes.
"Woof."
The little one nipped playfully at Sherlock's index finger and shifted his weight a little, until the puppy lay down on top of his chest and wagged his tail. Sherlock felt the movement against his bent legs, while the puppy regarded him with interest... or what passed as interest for a little dog. Sherlock looked back at him unblinking, all too aware of the warm weight on his chest. He suppressed a smile, when he passed some secret test and the puppy bedded his small head on Sherlock's folded fingers. Warm breath brushed against the sensitive skin of his hands as the puppy relaxed on top of him and Sherlock allowed himself the chance to take a closer look at his small companion, as long as the sounds indicated that John was still busy in the kitchen. In the end, it only took Sherlock one long look and a buried - but still cherished - memory of a past Christmas - almost three decades ago - to identify the puppy as a Irish Setter. The same race as Redbeard.
Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat, when the puppy rubbed his soft head against his fingers, an obvious demand for attention and petting. And Sherlock wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through the silky fur and scratch the puppy behind his ears, until he fell asleep on his chest. He still remembered how comforting Redbeard's warm weight had been, when Sherlock had cuddled up to him at night, when his overactive mind hadn't allowed him any rest. Redbeard had been his first and - for a long time - only real friend. The first one - besides his parents and to some extent Mycroft - who had accepted Sherlock, without expecting him to change. His fingers twitched as he moved them slowly - as not to startle the little one - to pet the puppy, when a triumphant scream from the kitchen made him freeze.
"Ah, there is my phone!"
Sherlock's hand fell to the side as John stepped back into the living-room and moved towards the couch. There was no doubt that his friend would take the puppy away with him. All the evidence suggested that he was a gift for John's girlfriend. It was very likely that John had picked him up from a shelter on his way to her home and then turned back to the flat, when he had realised that his phone was missing.
"Woof." The puppy nudged his left hand with his snout, but Sherlock turned his head to the side, unable to look at the little one for much longer. He would be taken away from him, after bringing back memories of his most loyal friend. Sherlock would be left alone in the cold flat once more and it would be harder than before, with the memory of the warm, fluffy weight on his chest and...
"Take him away, please." Sherlock didn't look up at John, when his friend came to stand next to the couch. He couldn't bear to see John dressed up for the celebration with his girlfriend. It would be too much. The last straw and he... Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and willed the burning moisture away that was threatening to humiliate him in front of John. Later, he promised himself as he took a shaking breath to calm down. Later, when no one was around, he could allow his sorrow to take over and wash away all his hope.
"I am sorry." John's knees cracked as he crouched down next to the couch. "I didn't think that he would upset you." Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line, but he didn`t answer. John didn't know about Redbeard - Sherlock had never told him about his dog - and there was no reason for him to assume that a little puppy would provoke an emotional response from Sherlock. "It's fine," he rasped out and hated himself for the way his voice cracked at the words.
Well done, Sherlock, he cursed himself as John grew still. Now, his friend would feel the need to comfort him and later on, he would resent Sherlock for ruining his perfect evening. He would spend even more time with his girlfriend to make up for it and in order to get away from Sherlock and then...
"I shouldn't have listened to Mycroft. I am so sorry."
Mycroft?! What had his damned brother to do with that? Sherlock clenched one hand into a fist as he entertained the thought that Mycroft was somehow to blame for John's newest girlfriend. He didn't know what his brother would gain from such a move, but if it was true and Sherlock lost John over it, then Mycroft would pay for it. Not even Mummy would be able to change Sherlock's mind about punishing his brother in that case.
An arm brushed Sherlock's side and the little puppy barked happily a second later. John was stroking him. He was stroking the little one, while he was resting on top of Sherlock and... it was too much. It was torture and he couldn't... Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer.
"John," he whispered pleadingly, when a single tear escaped his tight reign and slid down his cheek.
"Oh, Sherlock."
He almost whimpered, when a thumb whipped away the moisture on his face. John didn't have the first clue how cruel he was. How much Sherlock wanted to lean into his gentle caress, while he knew at the same time that he wasn't allowed this luxury. He didn't have the right to enjoy the innocent touch of his friend, because John didn't return his feelings and he never would.
"I don't know how to apologize. Mycroft told me about Redbeard and he made it sound like a good idea to get you a puppy for Christmas. I shouldn't have listened to him... or I should have asked you first. I didn't mean to hurt you, sweetheart."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the endearment. More tears escaped down his cheeks, but he didn't pay them any mind as he stared at John and tried to make sense of his words. The puppy... for him?! Sherlock shook his head at the unbelievable idea. He must have missed some essential part of the conversation. It didn't make sense otherwise. Why should John gift him with a puppy for Christmas? Or why, for that matter, should he even put so much thought in a gift for Sherlock? No one, who wasn't family, had ever gone to such lengths just to... make him happy. Not that many people even thought of gifting Sherlock with anything, but if they did, it was always something useless like pullovers or socks. A puppy though...
"Isn't he for... your girlfriend?" It wasn't the most pressing question on Sherlock's mind, but it appeared to be a reasonable one, until he met the confused gaze of his friend. "What girlfriend?" John sounded utterly bewildered and Sherlock frowned slightly. "I believe her name is Jenny. She wrote you to meet you today and..."
"Oh, Sherlock." John's laughter cut deeper than Donovan's mocking insults ever had and Sherlock turned his head away from his friend. He was well aware of his lack of understanding, when it came to emotions, but John had never mocked him for it. His friend had only ever scolded him, when Sherlock had done something a bit not good, instead of taunting him on a daily basis like his former schoolmates. "Just go back to her. I am sure she is waiting with dinner for you already," Sherlock snarled defensively and John's laughter died down abruptly.
"You really mean it." John sounded baffled, but he didn't fetch the puppy and march out of the flat like Sherlock had expected. Instead, his hand settled down on top of Sherlock's head and gentle fingers carded carefully through the messy curls. "Jenny isn't my girlfriend. She works at the shelter from where I have gotten the little one." The puppy yapped in confirmation. "She agreed to take him home with her and I should get him tomorrow morning, but her mother called her and she agreed to meet her for the holidays a day earlier than planned and... I had to fetch the puppy, before she left."
Sherlock angled his head in John's direction, but without looking directly at him or the soft weight on his chest. "Why did she call you a considerate boyfriend then?"
A sigh next to his ear, but John's fingers didn't stop their soothing motion on his scalp. "You should really stop reading my texts," John scolded him without any real heat. "She thought... I told her that the puppy was for you and she just assumed... Well, it wasn't the first time that people came to the conclusion that we are a couple."
"But you didn't correct her." It wasn't a question, but John replied nonetheless. "No, I didn`t."
"Why not?"
Sherlock's heart jumped against his ribcage, fueled by new hope, but he ignored it. Even if John didn't have a girlfriend - Sherlock had never felt so ashamed of a wrong deduction in his life - it didn't mean that he wanted to take his relationship with Sherlock a step farther. No matter how often John called him sweetheart, it would be stupid to speculate - and hope - without additional data.
The data was provided in the form of a chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead, followed by a quick press of lips to lips, before John moved away again. "Because I rather hoped that it could be true."
Sherlock gasped as the words pressed all the air from his lungs and he wasn't able to articulate a single thought, while he stared at the flushed face of his friend. John fidgeted nervously, where he was crouched down, but he didn't remove his hands from either Sherlock's nor the puppy's head. "Only if you want, of course. I understand that a single kiss isn't a guarantee for returned feelings, but I rather hoped that it was."
"So, you didn't just kiss me to ascertain that I was still alive?"
John blinked and then shook his head. "No, although that was one reason, but it wasn't the main one, but... Hold on!" John's eyes widened suddenly and all the color drained from his face as his mind worked something out. "You believed that I had a girlfriend and that I wanted to spend the evening with her. You thought that I only kissed you... Oh, Sherlock! I am sorry, I messed it up completely." John looked crestfallen and Sherlock couldn't stand this expression on his friend's face. Especially not, when he had finally caught up with what was going on here, which was so far away from his initial deduction that Sherlock didn't understand how he had arrived at his former conclusion. Sentiment, the voice of his brother echoed through his Mind Palace and Sherlock had to agree with Mycroft for once. He had allowed his vision to be clouded by his fear of losing John. Instead of bending the theory to fit the facts, Sherlock had bent the facts to fit his theory. Unacceptable, just like his pathetic, teary display in front of John.
"I am sorry," Sherlock echoed his friend's former words. "I shouldn't have doubted you. I know that you would never cheat on your partner and... I... You... The puppy is cute." Sherlock cringed at the stuttered nonsense that had left his mouth. Of course, the puppy was cute - all puppies were cute - but that hadn't been what Sherlock had intended to tell John. Not at all. John needed to know... Sherlock had to tell him...
"You don't have anything to apologize for. I was the one who... Wait!" Some of the sorrow melted from John's face as he met Sherlock`s gaze. "You like the puppy? You aren't upset, because he resembles Redbeard? But why did you want me to get him away from you, then?"
A sigh fell from Sherlock's lips and the puppy nipped his fingers in protest, when the movement jiggled his comfortable pillow. "No, I am not upset about it. I rather like him and I only wanted him gone, because I thought he wasn't to stay with me." John opened his mouth, probably to apologize again, but Sherlock shook his head at him. "Don't. It was a misunderstanding. We can't go in circles like that." It was true, if they kept apologizing for every little mistake, they had ever made, then they would stay in the cold living-room until New Year's Eve. Besides, Sherlock wasn't really interested in reliving his own stupidity and blindness. He had always hated making mistakes, especially when it came to John. Therefore, the only logical step was to put the last few hours behind them and focus on more important matters.
Sherlock turned to his side - carefully, as to not throw the little one off of him - and pressed his lips to John's in a brief kiss. "Your hope wasn't misplaced. I... return your feelings." If Sherlock hated John's crestfallen expression, he loved his brilliant smile. Especially, when he was the one, who had put the light in his friend's eyes.
John's lips moved, but no sound came out and Sherlock understood him perfectly well. There weren't any words to describe this moment. Special, perfect, incredible, astonishing, wonderful and fantastic came close, but were only superficial in the end. It was impossible to...
"Sherlock."
"John."
Yes, that was it. These words were all they needed and all they would ever be. Sherlock and John. Two imperfect men which could only reach towards perfection together, without ever achieving it for longer than a second, but still... Sherlock's stumbling thoughts were interrupted by the feel of lips on his mouth. They weren't soft, but chapped from the cold air and Sherlock could tell exactly, where the skin had been cut by John's incisor, when he sucked his lower lip in his mouth. John tasted of snow and London, tea and biscuits, oranges and honey... he was delicious. And Sherlock wanted to learn how John tasted everywhere. He wanted to compare the taste of John's lips to the taste of his thighs. He wanted to recognize every part of his friend with his tongue alone and...
"Eew!"
John and Sherlock broke away from each other and turned to the puppy, who had just licked across both their faces and gifted them with his most innocent look, before he went back to gnawing at Sherlock's favorite dressing gown. "That's it, you aren't allowed in my bedroom under any circumstances," Sherlock muttered acidly to the puppy, before he glanced into John's twinkling eyes and they both erupted in laughter.
They were still giggling by the time they had managed to rearrange themselves on the couch, with Sherlock's head on John's thigh and the sleepy puppy on Sherlock's chest. In half an hour they would have to get up, if they didn't want the flames to die down completely, but until then, Sherlock was content with leaning in John's gentle caresses as his friend - boyfriend? partner? - ran his fingers through his curls. The puppy yawned on his chest and snuggled closer to his neck, when Sherlock finally gave into his first impulse - which he had suppressed since he had laid eyes on the little one- and stroked his fluffy fur. Innocent eyes blinked up at him and Sherlock smiled, when he remembered that Redbeard had been just as trusting. Still, this little one wasn't Redbeard, he was: "Störtebeker."
"Mhm?" John inquired and Sherlock nodded to the puppy. "His name; Störtebeker. He was a German pirate in the 14th century. The legend says that he walked past eleven of his men, after his beheading, because the governing major promised to free every pirate Störtebeker managed to pass, after losing his head."
"So, he managed the impossible," John supplied with a chuckle. He covered Sherlock's hand, which still rested on Störtebeker`s head, with his own and squeezed it gently. "It's a fitting name. At least, considering that Störti belongs to you."
Sherlock managed to roll his eyes at the stupid nickname and beam at John's compliment at the same time. "If someone managed the impossible, it was you. I doubt that I would have been able to convince Mrs. Hudson to allow us to keep a dog."
"How...?"
"You wouldn't have given Störtebeker to me, if you hadn't gotten Mrs. Hudson's permission to keep him at the flat. Simple."
"Brilliant."
Sherlock didn't point out to John how easy it had been to come to that conclusion. Not, when he was rewarded for his intelligence with tender kisses, pressed to every part of his face, John was able to reach. Sherlock craned his neck to feel John's lips on his again and smiled, when his silent request was met with compliancy.
"I fear," Sherlock whispered, when he had gotten his breath back. "That my gift to you isn't as special as yours."
Sherlock felt John shake his head, as his friend leaned forwards and slung his arms around Sherlock's waist - carefully, as not to disturb Störtebeker - as John's lips ghosted over his forehead. "I don't care what you have bought me." John's breath tickled the sensitive flesh behind his right ear. "For two years, I only wished for you to come back from the dead and now," John's breath hitched in his throat and Sherlock squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Now, you are back. At 221B. In my arms and I... It's all I have ever wanted and I wouldn't trade this gift for anything in the world."
"I understand," Sherlock whispered back and he meant it. He wouldn't trade this time with John - feeling his warmth and knowing him safe and alive - for anything in the world either. No serial killer or chemical discovery were more important than John. As long as Sherlock had John in his life, even breathing would be worth the effort, since it meant another moment at his friend's side.
Sherlock didn't voice any of these sentiments, instead he intertwined their fingers on his chest and smiled when a tiny paw was placed on top of their hands. This, Sherlock realised, with a warm feeling in his chest, was the best Christmas he had ever experienced, because John was here to celebrate it with him.