Sherlock is alone in the brownstone, writing Christmas cards. It is a necessary task at this time of year, to make social noises towards his network of useful contacts. Celebrity is tiresome, yet it has its conveniences. People want him in their restaurants, their hotels. It saves a fair amount of money, and allows him to ask favours.
He scrawls, Holmes, on another square of cream cardstock. The cards are printed, Best wishes. Nothing sentimental. Wishing these near-strangers a Happy Christmas, or Fond regards, or Love, would only encourage them. And they presumably are quite familiar with his first name. Holmes strikes the mark just right. Anyway, he is not writing Sherlock, Sherlock on a hundred cards. It would take all night.
Perhaps this year he will add Mycroft to his list of contacts. he never has before. Mycroft will not be expecting it. -That would put the wind up his chef's hat.
And Captain Gregson. A card for him would be... Nice. Gregson always gives Sherlock a card. Sometimes the cards play tunes. The Captain is a humorist. But cards ate about communication, and he sees Gregson every day. No. No card. Gregson can have the hearty handshake and brusque nod like he always does. That will be more than adequate.
He might upgrade Watson, though. He is still considering that.
Hmmn. What about a card for Watson? It is completely unnecessary since they live together. They could use the power of speech to communicate should they wish to exchange Christmas greetings. Or, being partners and flatmates, the power of gruff nods at each other over the roast turkey, and sarcastic commentary on the ghastly holiday TV, as per usual.
Watson does actually give him Christmas cards. She hands one over each year, with Sherlock on the envelope in her flowing script, and gives Sherlock The Look until Sherlock opens it, even though it is obviously a Christmas card, from Watson, and could just as usefully be kept, unopened, until next year, and reused.
"That is not the point," says Watson. "The point is that you give a card every year to let the other person know that you are thinking about them."
"Well, you could re-give this one. Or re-gift as the commercials doubtless phrase it. It would save paper. And I would not be offended."
"I know. But I would."
"Our planet is wasting away, Watson, and yet society demands -"
"Sherlock. Just open the card."
He does. Inside is Watson's curvaceous handwriting, his name again, with a flourish. Sherlock. Then the printed verse about festivities in the city - rhyming painfully. Then love Joan, in a crushed scribble. Pretty standard. He puts the card on the mantel with the others.
"Maybe the one from me doesn't have to be completely hidden by the printed one from the Thai place," says Watson, folding her arms.
Sherlock shrugs.
"It does make a difference," Watson says, even though Sherlock has not voiced this thought.
"I see. So do I have to arrange them in a hierarchy of the significance of the sender?" He raises his eyebrows sardonically.
Watson actually pauses.
"You're going to tell me that people do," Sherlock says. "Please. I was merely in jest -"
"Well. You might put your girlfriend's card in a more prominent position, for example. Or your brother's," she adds, as if Sherlock is incapable of hypothetical thought.
"I don't have a girlfriend," Sherlock says.
"Well, your friends or colleagues, then. I'm just saying."
He peers at her."You are concerned that your card be displayed more prominently than cards from other people and institutions. You are jealous of The Jade Garden and Macy's."
"Yes, why do you have a card from Macy's ?"
"Regular customer," Sherlock says. Also, does Watson not remember the sock mystery?
"Who's Elizabeth?" Watson says then in a different, sharp tone, picking up another card which is obscuring her one. Its photograph is of a white mansion and a couple of squat dogs in the snow. "-Oh." She puts it back with an awed glance.
"Yes," says Sherlock. "The gilt crest rather gives it away."
Watson eyes her card, understated by comparison. Sherlock waits.
"It's not important," says Watson. "But I would put your card somewhere people could see it. That's all."
"I don't send you a card," says Sherlock.
"No, you don't."
After a pause Sherlock picks up Watson's card - which has a picture of a yellow cab crossing a snowy Queensboro Bridge - and puts it in his back trouser pocket.
"Right," says Watson. She sighs. "Do you want some tea?"
She's sighing. She needs mollification. "Watson. I am going to put your card somewhere its significance to me cannot be misinterpreted."
He doesn't take it out of his pocket, though. All the way through a total blowout Imperial Banquet For Two, through a mug of green tea and then through a shared tub of supposedly seasonal mince-pie-flavoured ice cream, Sherlock knows that Watson is watching him. Wondering about the card.
"Time for bed, I think," Watson says at last, stretching and getting up from the couch.
"Hmmn." He waves a hand vaguely in her direction, his eyes still on the muted TV.
"Are you turning in?" she asks.
Sherlock tips his head from side to side. "Maybe in a while."
Watson gives him a hint of a smile. Fond tolerance. She knows that Sherlock resents sleep. And Christmas Eve is actually a good night for crime. He will be up scanning the police frequencies for puzzles to keep him going through the dead period of the festive season.
"Night then," says Watson.
"Night."
The clock chimes twelve.
Watson glances at it, then comes back to the couch and holds out her hand. "Merry Christmas."
Sherlock looks at the hand. He rolls his eyes.
"Indulge me," Watson says firmly.
Sherlock stands up and takes her hand. There is a way he could alleviate the boredom of the next few days. Of course, the excitement might mostly consist of outrage and fury. But he thinks not.
"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," he says. He uses Watson's hand to pull her in close until their hips bump. Then he wraps his arms around Watson - shoulder level, nothing too alarming - and gives her a firm hug. Comradely. Professional. Watson dislikes soppiness almost as much as Sherlock does.
She returns the hug with a little cautious back-slapping - patting away the demons of innuendo in case someone should burst in, witness two friends embracing at midnight on Christmas Eve, and try to make something of it.
So, detached affection aplenty. Sherlock bashes Watson across the shoulderblades a few times in reciprocation. Good, they are on the same page. Time for a new chapter?
He is still thinking about it - the status quo has many benefits - when Watson pulls away, tossing her hair back and saying, "Yeah, uh," in reply to nothing. Sherlock is amused, is about to be derogatory and is forming a suitably sarcastic sentence when Watson adds, "On the other hand, what the hell," and grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and kisses him, twice, on the mouth.
Warm lips on his and her light, spicy perfume and hot breath caressing his cheek and her fingers exerting certainty and care on his shoulder blades-
Sherlock blinks.
Watson releases Sherlock, gives him a nod. "Night then." She picks up her glasses and strolls with extreme nonchalance towards the hall, and the stairs up to her bedroom, far far away.
"Watson. Wait."
She turns in the doorway.
The sarcasm has dissolved, along with most other words. "Why did you do that?" Sherlock's brain works. "There's no mistletoe." It is banned, since last year's disturbing incident with Watson and Bell.
Watson raises her eyebrows. "I don't need mistletoe."
"Don't you? Oh. You don't."
He is standing by his chair with his heart racing along the interstate and his brain lying, winded, at the on-ramp half a mile behind.
"Sure?" Watson asks, head on one side.
Sherlock nods.
She gestures with her glasses. "Well, night. See you in the morning. Try to sleep." She gives that half-smile again, a bit more of it this time, as if it has been trying to get out all evening. Then she disappears upstairs. Sherlock absorbs shock, then weaves through the kitchen and into his bedroom.
He closes the door, which is standard practice, but which now seems like it might mean something. No. It is fine. Watson can turn a door handle. Not that she will. Probably. Probabilities have been dramatically adjusted in the last five minutes.
Sherlock glances around. The room is as soothingly sterile as ever. He peels off his shirt, then his T shirt, and stands allowing the cool midnight air to flow over his skin. He slips his hand into his back pocket and draws out Watson's card. Now he looks at it, it strikes him that last year's card was not signed with a kiss. Ah.
Boredom has been successfully diverted.
He stands the card on his nightstand, the handwriting facing the pillow, and begins unbuttoning his trousers.
Author's note: This is a rewrite - not a duplication - of a story I posted earlier this week for BBC Sherlock and John. I was curious to see how much I would need to change for Elementary Sherlock, to make it sound right for his voice, yet retain the tone of the story. The answer is, a lot. BBC Sherlock has a different bond with his Watson than Elementary Sherlock. It was an interesting exercise anyway, and I hope you like the result. Comments and suggestions are welcome! Has anyone else ever tried this? - Sef