After a particularly bad row in early December, John and Sherlock weren't speaking to each other.
According to Sherlock, there was only so much "Christmas Cheer," a person could be expected to endure before crossing their threshold and having to throw in the towel, and after a week of listening to his flatmate putting about, humming his pointless jingles and placing innumerable 'decorative' atrocities about 221B, he'd had enough.
John didn't appreciate it, stating that there was nothing wrong with getting into the holiday spirit and trying to spruce up the flat up a bit.
As such, Sherlock opted to stay home and experiment, ignoring every case Greg threw in his direction. He claimed that nothing was worthy of his attentions, even when they all knew that over duration of these last weeks, Greg had rarely sent anything less than an eight. No matter the case, Sherlock would pretend to speed read through any file presented to him and promptly throw it back at Lestrade, usually ending up with paper all around whichever room they were presently occupying with a,
"Really, Gareth, you should know better than to send me a three!"
Over the last two weeks, since their argument over breakfast, Sherlock had invested himself in destroying every bit of the holiday that he could. John's seasonal jumpers went up in flames, baubles 'spontaneously combusted,' tinsel had been 'accidentally' doused in pig's blood, and the tree went for a mysterious walk out the window. John had even come home on one occasion to find his Christmas CD's smashed to bits with a hammer. Sherlock hadn't even tried to cover that one, continuing to smash them in front of John, who said nothing So while Sherlock sat through his black moods and retreated into "work."
John retreated into his at the medical centre in kind.
Since he was still avoiding his flatmate, John had opted to spend Christmas Eve at the clinic, looking after patients.
John had just finished placing a Mickey Mouse band aid on a laceration on a young patient when his phone start to ring. Only having just recently personalised his ringtones on a whim, meant he was slightly startled when Skyfall had begun to play. And though he'd never say it out loud, he honestly thought that Daniel Craig was a bit nice on the eyes.
Hang on just a mo.. The James Bond ringtone meant…
"Shit."
The boy's mother gasps in affront and covers her four-year-old son's ears as John utters a few more expletives. He picks up his mobile from his desk and presses the answer button, making his excuses the elderly woman.
"I'm sorry, Elliot. Mrs Johnson. It's an emergency."
Mrs Johnson promptly picks up her grandson and exits his office in a huff, muttering something about men and their inexcusable use of inappropriate language around small children.
"Always a pleasure, Mrs Johnson," John breathes.
He shakes his head and puts the phone to his ear, and asks,
"What has he done now?"
The reply came swiftly, indicating just how urgent the situation was deemed by the other man.
"I think, Doctor Watson, this is one you'll want to see for yourself."
John sighed. The Holmes' Brothers and their games were exhausting at times.
"Where is he?"
"Regent's Park. Do hurry. Little brother can make such a fool of himself at times."
"I'll be right over."
John could hear Mycroft's hesitation and asked after the reason why.
"What is it, Mycroft?"
"Just, tread carefully Doctor Warson,"
Mycroft replied, "I'm not sure Sherlock's feeling quite himself this evening."
John heard Sherlock long before he ever saw him. After he requested that the cabbie keep the meter running, he exited the taxi and took out his phone to text his flatmate. He turned up his collar and hugged his jacket closer to him to protect against the wind that was blowing harshly, and zipped it up, ensuring his chest was covered.
It turns out that he needn't have bothered; Sherlock's baritone emanated from the trees along the lake's edge, where John found his flatmate, of all things, with his back turned to him and swinging upside down from a tree. He swung thrice and brought himself back up, standing on the branch with his arms out, balancing and taking steps as though he were a tightrope walker, three forward, spinning round and going back the other way. It wasn't until John reached Sherlock that he actually realised that Sherlock was singing.
"Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro qua Figaro la, Figaro su, Figaro giu, Figaro su, Figaro giu.
Pronto prontissimo son come il fumine. Sono il factotum della citta.
Della citta, della citta, della citta, della citta!"
Most of the anger John has pent up these last weeks dissipates as he see the pure, unadulterated and childish joy his friend is exhibiting, and without thinking, John blurts out, amazed,
"I didn't know you could sing."
Sherlock's song immediately stops as he adjusts himself so that he is crouching atop the branch facing John. As he saw John, Sherlock's face visibly lit up.
"Oh, John! Good! You're here. Did you bring my violin? Oh and close your mouth. We are not a guppy."
Shocked, John asks,
"Are you drunk?"
"Irrelevant, John. You know I loathe repeating myself. Did you bring it?"
"No, Sherlock."
"Pity."
Sherlock shifts from his sitting position, standing this time, holding the thick branch above him for support, steadies himself and jumps. John closes his eyes, not believing that this could happen again.
"No, No, No."
All he could see was the same coat flared out in much the same manner it had three years ago when he'd jumped from St Bart's. A flash of Sherlock's skull crushed on the pavement, his dead eyes staring up at nothing crossed his sights, and John began to hyperventilate.
"John?"
Sherlock asks. Just like that, Sherlock is right in front of him, stood, what for anyone else would be alarmingly close, ignoring everything John had ever said to him about personal space. And just this once, he was grateful for it. John put his arms around Sherlock's waist and buried his head in his chest.
"Don't you ever do that again."
Embarrassed, John pulls away. Hugging just simply isn't the English thing to do. Speaking of which, he'd love nothing more than a cup of tea right now, to perhaps stare into. Anything to avoid looking at his flatmate, who is currently staring at him like he'd just done something interesting.
Sherlock looks at John for a minute, scrutinizing and cataloging him and then takes a step towards the waters edge and demands that he serenade the ducks with him.
"What?" John exclaims.
"John, I know you haven't any need for an aural evaluation and yet you insist on making me repeat myself. Why do you persist in this ridiculous Anderson impersonation? Come here and sing to the ducks with me."
John is staring at Sherlock like he very suddenly grew two heads and Sherlock exhales sharply, annoyed.
"The ducks, John. Small birds. Feathered." Here Sherlock flaps his arms, imitating birds wings flapping. "Webbed feet. Enjoys swimming. Occasionally used as a Holiday dinner. Or just a regular dinner. To what end, I don't know. Turkey really is much better. And they're much more stupid. Of course, I'm really not overly fond of meats.."
Maybe it's because of what just happened, but John says yes.
"Okay."
It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. He looked a little irritated that John had interrupted, but also delighted that John had conceded. "I don't know whatever that is, that you're singing though. So, you're going to have to pick something else. And I'll hum. Not sing. We don't need me scaring off the ducks."
Sherlock grins and takes John's hand and pulls him the few steps they have to take to get to the water's edge, abruptly plonking on the damp grass and taking John down with him. John grimaces in pain as he jostles his shoulder against Sherlock, who takes no notice and demands he begin.
"Hum!"
For a moment, John deliberates, and then he begins to hum. Sherlock starts to sing along with John's humming. He'd chosen the opening to a children's film. It was dark, but given Sherlock's apparent fascination with it, it was a favourite. So, John hummed and Sherlock sung. Sherlock stopped John only twice to correct him, informing him that though his pitch wasn't too terrible, if he could just stick to his part, that would be great.
After they get through the song fully without Sherlock correcting John at all, John unsteadily picks himself up from the ground and dusts himself off.
"It's time to go now. Come home with me Sherlock."
Sherlock looks up at John from his position, still sat on the grass and protests.
"But the ducks, John."
John smiles.
"If you're still up to it tomorrow, you can give them a reprise then. It's time for them to rest. It's time for you to rest."
He didn't say it, but Sherlock could hear John's "It's time for me to rest, too."
As Sherlock got up, John tried to do some additions in his head. The fare home was already going to be tedious. John thought he might have to cut a few luxuries out of the budget this month. John turned to go and Sherlock walked ahead of him, strides long enough to leave John behind.
When John got to the road, a few minutes after Sherlock, he was only slightly surprised to find one of Mycroft's cars humming quietly in the taxi's stead. John got in and sat next to Sherlock who was sitting across from Mycroft's assistant. Sherlock looked directly into the centre of the car's split screen where there appeared to be a minute wine stain. Oddly enough, Sherlock apparently felt the need to address it.
"I'm going to sing Rossini the whole way how you like that, fatty."
He turned to Mycroft's assistant whose name wasn't Anthea and pronounced animatedly that she ought to turn up all of her boss's speaker's. "He's in that ridiculous club of his isn't he? In his stuffy office, with all sorts of browns. His scotch, a hundred years old, his desks, his books, dozens of tomes the lazy prig hasn't even bothered to crack the spines. Fair enough though, eighty-three- no, eighty-nine percent of them are first editions. There are so many types of wood Oak, Mahogony, and a variety of lesser known ones. The fat one should know though that he is very probably single handedly responsible for the deforestation in the Middle East and Asia. Which is only slightly more forgivable than the monstrosities the poor trees were turned into."
For a moment, Sherlock went silent, before remembering he had committed him self to a task for this evening, and he began to sing.
"La la la la."
They entered the flat, and Sherlock stopped singing only when they reached the door to 221B, in favor of yelling obscenities about his older brother, pausing only to yell "Come along, John" as he charged into his bedroom.
When John reaches him, Sherlock is carelessly divesting himself of his clothes, continuing his earlier thoughts on the forests that Mycroft supposedly had a personal hand in destroying because he needed an entire room to announce that he was a 'very important person.'
"Maybe I should send him a stuffed orangutan."
Sherlock was saying as he threw his purple shirt on the floor. Sherlock kept talking, but John froze as he saw the state of Sherlock's arm. There was minor discoloration and bruising appeared all along Sherlock's left arm. John berated himself for not realising just how bad it was. Words that John had heard a thousand times flashed through his head, a deep baritone drawling his annoyance.
"As ever, John, you see, but you do not observe."
He should not have left Sherlock alone for so long. That much was clear. The state of the flat in these last weeks was nothing compared to the state of Sherlock's left arm.
Sherlock sat before John, on his bed, shirtless and in the process of taking off his shoes.
"John?"
John blinked rapidly, coming out of his stupor. Now was not the time to address this issue. It could be dealt with in the morning.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I had asked if you brought the matches up."
Matches?
Oh, yes.
No matter how many traditions Sherlock had snubbed and destroyed, this, their own was not to be tarnished. Whenever there was any kind of festivities, birthdays, Easter, or any of the rest of them, the rest of the world would celebrate them in the traditional manner, (John did try to get them to do both) but they would light three candles, and make a wish, taking the two to their respective beds for the candlelight to watch over them for the night, blowing them and making a second wish if they were still alight in the morning.
"Yes, I did."
Sherlock gestured to the three candles on his beside table, and John got the hint and went to light them. Sherlock got up and took the two step to his bedside table, and waited until John lifted the middle candle between them.
"Make a wish," says John. "On three."
"One, two,". Neither wait til three, blowing it out on two.
They laugh, and John picks up his candle and goes to leave. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?
"Hum. Please."
Startled by his use of the word, John took a moment before he acquiesced; and then started humming.
Sherlock shamelessly dropped his trousers and climbed into bed and closed his eyes while John hummed. John leant against the door, eyes closed with his candle in hand and hummed until he was certain that his mad detective was fast asleep; until he was snoring lightly. If told, Sherlock would pronounce that he never snored, but John knew better.
John continued to hum on his way out the door, stopping only once it was closed, and crossed the hallway into their sitting room, placing his candle on the table in the middle of it, and shook his head.
"Deliver us," indeed.
He would have to check the flat tonight; despite Sherlock's insistence on serenading them, with the water frozen over, there were in fact, no ducks at that pond.