Hi! I know i've currently got another fic on the go but it's nearing Christmas and I wanted to get a Christmassy Sherlock fic done and celebrate it in their ~unique way. I just have a thing for Sherlock and John at Christmas i think, and Christmas itself, come to think of it.
Anyway, enjoy, and a very Merry Christmas to you all :)
All credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Godtiss.

And yes, the title is a watered down quote from A Christmas Carol, partly because I love Charles Dickens and also because its Christmas!

There was a smash, a crash and a curse, which was the first thing that alerted John Watson that something out of the ordinary (or as out of the ordinary as things could get in the flat) was going on downstairs. He jerked awake, leaping from his bed and flinging a jumper on over his bare torso. Streaking from the room, he took the stairs two at a time and almost skidded into the living room he shared with his flatmate. The sight before him confused and confounded him and he stood wide eyed at the scene, lost for words.

Said flatmate, the mysterious and unpredictable Sherlock Holmes, was standing, well...everywhere, completely covered in Christmas lights and decorations, the wires tangled around his lean, thin body comically. Needles from the tree beside him were sticking out of his hair messily, but he seemed oblivious to it all, instead his eyes darted over the tree as if trying to work out what was wrong with it (apart from that it was mostly bare and that everything was on his person).
When John said he was standing everywhere, he really meant that Sherlock had managed to launch decorations everywhere around the flat, so much so that he must of been running backwards and forwards, scattering ribbons and tinsel and baubles wherever he went. There was barely a single space on the floor or surfaces that wasn't covered but garish coloured Christmas paraphernalia.

The man in question looked extremely ruffled, but also exceedingly jumpy and wired. John suspected a caffeine overdose and rolled his eyes. Sherlock's movements were erratic and careless. He examined the baubles and Christmas ribbons and tossed them aside with probably no clue as to where they were going. John had to fight not to laugh when he picked up a small toy Santa that immediately started to sing and wriggle about in his thin hands, causing him to jump and drop it like he'd just been burned with it, a look of disgust on his face. He hadn't noticed the Doctor yet, and John took the opportunity to sigh and pass a hand over his face wearily, glancing at the clock. Seven thirty am, on a cold, foggy, misty December morning.

"Sherlock what are you doing?" he asked finally.
The taller man jumped (again) and turned round quickly, seeking the body to match the voice to. His eyes widened when he saw the blonde haired man.
"Ah, John!" he cried, picking his way quickly and recklessly (John heard a few tree decorations crunch and smash under his feet) across the floor and clapping a hand to the man's shoulder. "I found the tree!"
"I can see that," the doctor said suspiciously. "Look, how many cups of coffee have you drunk in the last six hours?-"
"Irrelevant!" the detective boomed, interrupting, jumping back across the room to stand next to the tree. "Christmas, John! That's what it's all about!"
There was a pause in which a stray bit of tinsel fell limply on one side from the ceiling.
"Okay...can I ask a question?"
"Please do!"
"Have you gone completely, raving mad?"
The detective frowned. "You don't like it?" He sounded almost heartbroken.
"Yes, yes of course I like it!" John said quickly. "But...it's everywhere!"
"I know," Sherlock said proudly, his chest seeming to puff out. "I did it all myself."
"I guessed."
John picked his way across the carpet and joined the jittery younger man.
"Don't you think maybe you should get some rest..." he said gently, laying a guiding hand on the man's arm and attempting to steer him in the direction of his bedroom. Before he could, however, he was jerked off with a yell of "No! I must finish before 6.30, otherwise John will wake up and the surprise will be ruined!"
The doctor, who had fallen backwards into a pile of multicoloured tinsel, righted himself with a groan.
"I'm already awake you daft bugger! It's seven forty now!"
The detective turned and looked at him as if he was seeing him for the first time that day.
"John? What are you doing here? Oh no, don't look!" he cried loudly, spreading his arms out in a wild attempt at covering the very sorry looking tree. John imagined that if it could talk, it would be muttering sadly to itself and asking itself why it couldn't have just gone to a nice family of five instead of a madman and his long suffering flatmate. Oh, he thought suddenly, he must be very tired, he was thinking about talking trees now. This was bad.
John stared at him blankly for a second.
"What are you talking about, you complete idiot?" he cried, throwing his arms in the air.
"John this may or may not have something to do with the sixteen cups of coffee I had last night..." Sherlock said, eyes wide.
The smaller man slapped a hand to his head.
"How is it possible to drink sixteen cups of coffee in about seven and a half hours?" he exclaimed.
"Seemingly, very likely," the younger man replied. "My dear Watson, I seem to be losing control of my..." and then without another word, the world's only and greatest consulting detective slumped to the floor, snoring loudly, crushing about half of the baubles underneath him.

John sighed loudly, looking around the room. This would take him ages to clear up and put away properly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something falling outside the window.
He looked out and smiled suddenly. Thick, great flakes of snow were falling and covering the pavement.
"Well what do you know," he laughed quietly. "It's snowing. We might get a White Christmas after all this year, Sherlock."
He didn't expect an answer, but he jumped out of his skin when he got one.
"Snow? I must investigate, John! Moriarty could be behind it, or even Mycroft!"
He turned round just in time to see Sherlock run out of the flat door and down the stairs, heard him yank open the front door.

It took him all of three seconds to remember that Sherlock was dressed only in his black trousers and shoes.
"Damnit Sherlock!" he cried and raced after him, slamming the door after himself so the cold wouldn't get in while he was out.

It was another two seconds before the lopsided Christmas tree crashed to the floor and another hour before John returned with a cold, shivering Sherlock, out of breath and quietly freezing.
"John," Sherlock said, quietly, (John suspected he was starting to come down off of the caffeine rush) wrapped in a blanket and still shivering.
"Yes?" John sighed.
"Merry Christmas."
John smiled fondly.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock, you daft sod."