Don't Skip Out on Christmas

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his knees. He placed his chin on his kneecaps and stared towards the under cabinets, and tried to ignore the buzzing of activity in the front part of the flat.

He didn't care one way or the other for the holidays. Especially Christmas. He knew the reason for the season, disagreed with it - all of it - but he knew that it was... important, he thought bitterly, to John, at least.

He just wished that John had... gone somewhere else and not dragged the festivities to their flat. He wished that mentally, of course. John got tetchy if Sherlock started to complain about already pre-set upon celebrations.

Outwardly, he was trying to give off the air that he didn't care about all of the hustle and bustle, because this was a once a year thing, and, according to John, tradition. Not that Sherlock cared about such things, but... John did.

He sighed through his nose, his breath ruffling his hair.

The party was a little out-of-hand, though; Sherlock was grateful and a little smug that he had already picked up all of his important belongings ("You're going to regret it, John, as soon as something gets broken or beer gets spilled on it.") So, after maintaining him until the bored deductions of their guests had taken over, Sherlock had silently turned away from the drunken chorus of We Wish You a Merry Christmas and ghosted from the sitting room.

He'd ended up shutting himself in the bathroom. It was one of those places where people didn't usually disturb you and Sherlock had a feeling that if he'd gone back to his bedroom, someone would have drunkenly dogged his footsteps to pull him back into the fray.

Also, it was his not so subtle hint to the idiots in his sitting room: if they wanted to use the loo, they'd just have to leave.

Sherlock would have found it more humorous if he hadn't a headache pulsing underneath his temples. He would take some paracetamol for it, if he weren't sure that it wouldn't help.

He closed his eyes and shifted, leaning comfortably back against the wall. It had gone half eight. Surely they would leave soon.

He was about to contemplate sneaking into his room briefly for a book to page through - John had taken his phone earlier ("No cases, Sherlock, not today.") - when the bathroom door suddenly opened.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, irritation spiking in jagged rise and fall action. "Excuse-" he started, but then stopped when he saw it was only John, carrying two paper cups of drink. "People generally knock," Sherlock continued, as his proverbial hackles fell back down. He pressed his back more firmly against the wall to remind him it was there; John smelled of booze, sweat, perfume, and jumpers. (John was drinking, third drink, one of John's old rugby mates had a body odour problem, John had snogged one of the women under the mistletoe, John was wearing a Christmas jumper that had recently been washed.) The Christmas music that trickled in through the open door made Sherlock want to cringe. There was too happening for him to try and rationalise, but his brain insisted anyway.

John closed the door.

"Yeah, but I knew it was you in here and I'm pretty sure we haven't knocked for years. Here." John handed down a paper cup - atrocious, with Christmas trees and tinsel on it - to him. "Tea."

"Oh." Sherlock took it, warming his fingers around the flimsy paper. "Thank you." He contemplated the hideous pattern on the cup and the horrendous pattern on John's jumper before taking a sip of the tea. It was hot, but that wasn't the reason for the way that it burned the entire way down his throat, expanding out into his chest to settle low in his stomach.

He pulled the cup away, licking his lips. Once focussed on it, it was an easy deduction. "Scotch?" he asked, sniffing at the beverage slightly.

John laughed quietly, leaning against the cabinet. "It takes the edge off, at least."

"Huh." Sherlock resumed sipping at his tea, spiked tea nonetheless.

"I saw you slip off," John commented after a moment.

"No, you didn't. You were in the stairwell wishing farewells and happy holidays to the man with the lesbian daughter," Sherlock replied crisply.

John smiled wryly. "Okay, I didn't actually see you leave, but I know your tells. I knew you'd bow out sooner than later."

Sherlock wondered if he was really that obvious. He had been fairly certain that no one had even noticed his departure. Either that, or they assumed he was either violently ill or passed out from his extended stay in the toilet.

"It's gotten a little under control," John said, glancing at the door. "I've never really been good at telling people no, so it's dragged on longer than I thought." He looked back at Sherlock. "Sorry."

Sherlock raised his shoulders in a small shrug. "It's fine. It's... Christmas, after all." He took a slightly larger drink of his tea.

"Yeah, but I didn't mean for them to stick around all night. You don't like it."

"So what? I agreed you could have them over." Even if I didn't actually want them to come over, he added, mentally.

"Begrudgingly," John agreed. "But you still don't like it."

Sherlock sighed heavily in lieu of a response.

"Are you feeling alright?" John asked, after another moment of silence.

Sherlock looked up to find John looking at him intently, with a look that Sherlock could only say was akin to the look that must be on his face when he was searching for clues. It was John's 'doctor' face, as Sherlock had taken to calling it.

"I'm fine," he said absently.

"You have a headache," John retorted. "Which is like 'an island of tiny, exploding bombs blowing up your mind palace', if I remember you saying correctly."

Sherlock made a face.

"Pain lines," John pointed out, crouching down next to him. "And your eyes get all vacant whenever you've got a headache. I've lived with you long enough to figure things out. I have to because you never open your mouth about anything." He reached out, pushing his hand under Sherlock's bangs to press it against his forehead.

"It's just a tension headache," Sherlock muttered. He didn't fight John; he knew better. Like John said, he'd been living with him long enough to figure things out.

"A tension headache?" John removed his hand, scrutinising him.

"From stress." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and swallowed another mouthful of tea-scotch.

"Oh." John looked at him for another second before sliding down the wall to sit next to him.

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head towards him. "What are you doing?"

"Come on. Surely you can figure it out." John smiled lazily. "I'm sitting on the bathroom floor? It's fairly obvious."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I meant, what are you doing sitting on the bathroom floor, you're going to miss out on your festivities."

John shrugged.

Confusion flickered through his emotional wires now, crossing with the barely contained irritation and exhaustion from lack of sleep. "This is your party. You said you wanted to spend Christmas with your friends. They're out there."

"You're my best friend, mate." John gulped back the last of his drink. "You're take up a big portion of that friend thing."

It was a term that Sherlock would never get used to hearing. He'd only heard it two or three times now in all of their... friendship. It never failed to send a sharp shot of cold shock through his veins. Simultaneously cold and hot, actually, because it never failed to make his ears feel vaguely warm right at the very tops, either.

He didn't know if the feeling was good or bad, but he preferred it when John didn't say it. Their relationship had been always been built on the things they never said, anyway. Thankfully, John rarely expressed verbal undue sentiment towards him and Sherlock was quite fine with it. Tea in the morning when he woke up and the occasional biscuit left near his microscope was more than enough.

"... You're drunk," Sherlock muttered, turning his head away.

"I am not!" John protested.

Sherlock reached over to swipe John's empty cup, sniffing at it. "Straight brandy, John, you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," John grabbed at the paper cup. "I pace myself. If I were drunk, I wouldn't be sat in a bathroom with you on Christmas Eve."

"Oh, well, pity you're not that far gone, then," Sherlock replied automatically.

When they looked at each other, Sherlock felt himself smile immediately as John did. For some strange reason, he felt the inane urge to giggle. For perfectly sound reasons, he did not. John laughed softly as he looked away though, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder slightly. He didn't seem to realise it. Sherlock reaffirmed that John was at least tipsy. He also reaffirmed that he had recently washed his jumper, and that he had changed shampoos as well gained a pound and a half.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"It's not Christmas yet," Sherlock said.

"Can't you just say it back?" John grumbled, bumping his shoulder into his.

"It's not Christmas," Sherlock said, sipping at his tea. "I'm not going to say it more than necessary. I'm not drunk enough to do that yet," he added. "Spreading holiday cheer... not really my area."

John chuckled. "Scrooge."

"I actually understand that reference," Sherlock said quickly, looking around at John. "Christmas Carol. Right?" It was John's fault. John liked the classics and the classics were on the telly endlessly this time of year.

"There's hope for you yet, Sherlock Holmes."

"Hmm..."

Sherlock hid his smile by taking another drink of his tea.

I meant to post this over the actual Christmas holidays, but I had a crazy holidays: spending a lot of time hiding in another room like Sherlock, actually, which is what prompted this.

So, Happy belated Christmas, you guys! I love that you guys follow my fanfic, shower it with love in your favs and reviews, and I'm uber grateful to have this lovely fandom to fall back into at any given notice.

I do not own Sherlock, A Christmas Carol, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, or anything else referenced.

Happy Holidays!