A/N Sherlock does not belong to me, or anyone else I am affiliated with. I don't frequent the fandom often, but have a belated Christmas present. Love, joy, and BARELY ANY TIME AT ALL UNTIL SEASON 3! Merry Christmas, friend. Hope you like this.
Twas the night before Christmas, and the sky was deep and dark. Stars shone for miles above the heavy London smog, though the citizens could not see them. In each flat—or at least a great many of them— a tall pine stood, decorated and lit. The city radiated a proud, happy light that could only try and reflect the might that was hidden above it.
In this bustling city, and hidden in the dark from all, three creatures were stirring in the dim lights of a singular flat, located pristinely on Baker Street.
A detective, proud and tall, could be seen from the window of this particular flat, draped in robe and striped pajamas, a scowl etched onto his pale face. If one dared to look closer, past the menacing form, one would see a doctor, also in his pajamas, laid out long on the couch with his eyes drifting shut, his mouth open in a monstrous yawn.
If one dared to look even closer, and perhaps more towards the floor, one would see a small cat, black in the shadows of the night, looking between her two masters with a look akin to fright.
"Bored, John." The detective lurched from the window, glaring across the room. From the kitchen, a kettle shrieked, but he chose to ignore it. John rolled his eyes and stood drearily from the couch, only to move across the room. "Dreams too dull for you, aye?" he said, not unkindly, but with enough bite to inform the detective that he'd rather be back in bed.
His hands fumbled over the kettle as the detective paced behind him. The small cat followed him into the kitchen, and sat, purring at his feet.
"Can't dream." The detective huffed from the other room. "Can't sleep." This was punctuated by a sharp slam, created by Heaven knows what hitting the floor.
"Don't do that; you'll wake Mrs. Hudson." John called, pouring himself a cup. "And anyone else who values sleep more than you do." He muttered.
John could hear Sherlock's disgruntled muttering decrease only slightly in volume, but still managed a smile. He returned to the couch, settling into the comfortable cushions and cradling his tea.
"I need my violin, John." Sherlock growled, turning to scowl at him. "Where is my violin?"
"You'll get it in the morning." John yawned. The cat looked between her masters curiously, before winding herself through the passing detective's legs. He spared her only a moment's glance.
"But why do I have to wait until morning, John, when you could give it to me now, and then go back to sleep?" Sherlock reasoned, crouching and scratching the cat behind her ear.
"It's just tradition, Sherlock." John yawned again. "You can wait a little bit longer, can't you?"
"No, I can't!" Sherlock fumed, standing up to his full height once again, while the cat ran for cover. "You don't understand, John. My brain is fuming; I can't shut it up in some insignificant little box like you can."
John cracked an eye open, and, to his disgust, a small smile began to creep across his face. "Not like the rest of us stupid humans, right?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted in annoyance. "Do keep up, John."
"I don't feel like it." John snarked back. "Wait a few hours, and you'll have your violin, and you can compose and annoy the neighbors to your heart's content."
"But that's in a few hours." Sherlock muttered, resuming his pacing. "Why wait when I could annoy them now?"
"Come off it." John chortled. "Those two boys are perfectly pleasant to you, which is more than I can say for most people."
"Yes, and they're both in love with each other and are too afraid of rejection to admit it." Sherlock clucked in mock sympathy. "The blonde's ignorant as a rock. I think he might give Anderson a run for his money."
"What, is he a fan of dinosaurs, too?" John asked, sipping his tea. The comment earned him a two second grin from his counterpart, which, given the circumstances, he counted as a win.
"Dragons, actually." Sherlock said. "They really would get on splendidly. As long as he didn't come to my bloody crime scenes and muck everything up like the rest of that lot does."
"Your crime scenes." John said, hiding laughter behind his cup. "I'm sure Greg would love to hear that."
"And Sally, too. She's say it's plausible cause to arrest me." Sherlock agreed, humor coming back into his eyes.
A moment of comfortable silence fell between the men. John sipped on his tea, and the cat leapt into his lap, pushing her nose in his face and demanding attention. "Hullo, Una, ole girl." He laughed, setting the cup to the side. She purred and licked his nose before descending to play with the buttons on his top.
Sherlock glanced over, having once again returned to brood at the window, and felt a swell of affection. "I still need my violin, John." He said, though in a tone far less demanding than it had been.
John sighed and glanced at the clock. "Two hours." He said, after a moment.
"Two hours?" the detective repeated. "That's 6am, yes." He said, looking slightly confused.
"You can open your presents in two hours," John replied. "And then you can have your violin back." A yawn consumed him once more, but he offered the detective a smile. "But you have to let me sleep, alright?"
"Fine." Sherlock said shortly, moving away from the window. "Two hours. Fine."
"Thank you." John's smile grew, if only a little, and he settled deeper into the couch. His hands caught the cat as she shifted to his belly, and she purred, licking his fingers. Finally, finally, he allowed his eyes to drift shut once again.
He thought he heard Sherlock leave the room, but paid it no mind, as he allowed himself to drift back to sleep.
XXX
Sherlock came back, not too much later, with a small wrapped present in his hands. He knew John was notorious for his quickness to fall asleep when comfortable; he had known that within the first day of living with the man. It made life all the more convenient for when Sherlock needed to escape, or when he would be playing his violin deep into the night.
The two of them had not bothered with a tree this year, not really. There was a small one that John had brought home sitting on the edge of the fire place, decorated with small plastic bulbs that Sherlock found frivolous. He didn't mind this holiday, but the traditions were quite silly, in his opinion. Decorating a tree for a religious figure made no sense; it sounded like something a drunken man would suggest.
Regardless of this, Sherlock carefully slipped the small gift under the tree and stared after it. The only people who had ever received gifts from him had been in his immediate family, and that—best not to think about that, best to move on.
He was nervous, and in a large amount of denial about it. Having his violin back would most certainly help calm his nerves.
He looked at the clock once again. An hour and a half to go.
Dammit, John.
XXX
John woke with a small start, wincing at the sun that was streaming in through the window. The cat was still perched lovingly on his stomach, her eyes shut and whiskers quivering. Another mass had joined her, dark and curly and—
Oh.
His long limbs were splayed across the floor, but the man's head had taken refuge on John's stomach. His eyes were shut, his breathing was deep, and John did not dare to move in case he were to wake him.
A sleeping Sherlock Holmes was a gift from the gods, and it was not a gift John was about to waste.
He glanced at the clock and chuckled only a little. It was long past the two hours he had dictated, but he couldn't say he minded. He let his head fall back onto the cushions and closed his eyes, letting one hand rest near the cat, the other softly entwined in Sherlock's hair.
XXX
"John." He woke once again to a much different scene. Sherlock was standing above him, and the cat was squirming in his arms. "John." He said again, looking almost shy. "It's been more than two hours. Can I have my violin now?"
"What?" John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled himself up. "Hold on, yeah, just let me go get it."
Clumsily, he moved from the couch to the bedroom, where a few stray presents lay in wait under his bed. He pulled the violin case out, as well, and smiled to himself.
Their cat had destroyed it not too long ago, in a fit of some strange, cat versus Sherlock argument that had occurred after he tried to bathe her. It was only because of Mycroft and some finagling on John's part that the violin had been repaired at all.
He really could have given it to the man earlier, he thought, shifting the presents in his arms. Sherlock had taken to sneaking out to the orchestra after a few weeks of its disappearance to borrow the violins there, and it had driven John up the wall.
"Here you go." He said, returning and handing the case over the detective. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." He said with a smile, setting the other two wrapped presents down next to his wasted tea.
Sherlock was lost already, he could tell, stroking the case ever so lovingly. "Mycroft helped you." He said absently, opening it up to reveal the repaired violin. "Yes." John replied. "After what Una did to it, I figured it could use it."
Silence reigned in the flat, and Sherlock withdrew the bow. He looked happier than he had in a long, long time, and that alone made John's heart lift in his chest.
"Thank you." He heard, ever so softly. "No problem." John replied, coaxing him on. "Well, go on, then."
Sherlock looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I don't give concerts on demand, John. You know that."
"If I knew any better, I'd say you were teasing." John replied, grinning right back at him.
Sherlock scoffed, but set the violin carefully back into its case. "Open yours." He said, indicating roughly at the fireplace.
John followed his gesture, looking at the tree with surprise. The small gift sat contently underneath it.
"Sherlock, you didn't have to—". "And you didn't have to harass my brother into repairing this." Sherlock interrupted fiercely. "Now, open it."
His fingers moved quickly over the wrapping paper, and revealed a small box, in which was a pin. White angel wings shone back at the doctor, latched together by the sharp silver pin behind them.
"Sherlock?" John looked back at him, both pleased and confused. "Why, exactly?"
"Because I thought it fit you." Sherlock said, far too quickly. "I thought about getting you tea, of course, and there's more of that in the cupboard, but it seemed so blasé and boring. So I went around and I—I asked Molly for help—". "You went to Molly? For help?" John interrupted.
"Yes, I did, now let me finish." Sherlock said sharply. "She said that because you were a doctor, and because you have a tendency to save people even when they don't deserve it, that something like this would do." He was scowling at the floor now, embarrassed with himself.
"I believe her exact words were, 'He's like an angel, sometimes. I'm not sure what you'd do without him'". He said lamely, continuing to examine the floor.
John stood by the fireplace in something akin to either shock or awe, with warm and viable affection spilling across his face. He was across the room in a moment and had captured the skinny man in a crushing hug, all while laughing softly into his chest.
"You great, utter dork, you." He said affectionately, grinning up at the detective. "I love it. I really do. Don't be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed." Sherlock snapped softly. "But I'm glad you find it acceptable."
"Just acceptable." John laughed, rolling his eyes as he worked to pin the wings onto his pajamas. "Sherlock, it's wonderful."
A warm flush crossed Sherlock's features, and John watched him preen with pride.
"What are the other ones?" Sherlock asked, indicating the few presents left unattended on the end table.
"Just some silly things for the cat." John said. "Catnip, string, the like. I thought she deserved some little gifts, too."
Sherlock merely nodded in agreement, reaching back down to gather up his violin. John managed to find the cat, whom had made herself scarce during the opening of presents, and held her in his arms, watching as her eyes grew wide and dark at the smell of the catnip.
The sounds of Christmas carols began to fill the flat, and the two men and cat made themselves comfortable once again. Before Sherlock had finished his first song, however, he felt John put a hand on his shoulder. Much to his surprise, the doctor kissed him gently on one sharp cheekbone, before taking the cat back to the couch.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." He said, smiling bright as the sun.
Sherlock hesitated, bow floating midair, before allowing himself to smile kindly back.
"And to you as well, John."