A/N: Well, I know it's just barely Halloween season, but I wrote this fic a few weeks ago, I felt very inspired by a few beautiful works of Christmas-themed Sherlock art on deviantArt. This maybe the first chapter of a few, I have a few other ideas, but I have to get them as rounded and crisp as this one turned out. They may be Christmas-themed as well, or just drabbles that I think of in the future. Read, review, let me know if you want other chapters, Christmas-themed or otherwise, I could always use some ideas. Enjoy!
The Spirit of the Season
It was December 23rd and John had neglected to buy a tree. With their latest case over with and having some time off from the hospital, he felt lazy and unproductive, this induced his lack of effort in preparing for Christmas, but would never extinguish his Christmas spirit.
He went out and bought a fake, meter tall tree, knowing Sherlock would forget to water it and Sherlock would complain about the sap and the smell. John lugged it home to Baker Street, awkwardly shuffling for his keys in his jacket pocket, trying not to drop the tree; he didn't want to put it down because off how hard the wind was blowing and he didn't want it damaged.
The moment he inserted the key, the door swung open, Sherlock standing with a question in his eyes.
"What is that?"
"A tree, what else?" John quipped, coming out a bit harsher than intended. Sherlock stood there for what seemed like ages, lips pursed, before finally side stepping and aiding John with the tree.
They put it in the living room and stared at the blank branches for a moment.
"Where do you keep the ornaments?" John asked, catching his breath. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, staring at John again.
John was baffled. "C'mon, come on. You're pulling my leg, Holmes! You don't have any ornaments? Don't you celebrate Christmas?"
At this point, Sherlock had sat down in his arm chair and was typing away on his laptop, probably working on his website or something, clearly not interested.
"I'm not really a religious man…" His eyes flashed up a moment and darted back to the screen.
"Well, neither am I, Sherlock, but I celebrate Christmas. You know, peace on Earth, goodwill towards your fellow man, all that? It's just good for people, to put away their problems for a day and think of others."
Sherlock didn't respond, but he could have. He could have argued with John for hours over what he'd just proposed, but he didn't. He just worked at his computer, trying not to get himself in a tizzy.
John threw his arms up in disbelief and zipped his coat back up, venturing back out into the blustery streets of London for tinsel and other decorations.
December 24th, Christmas Eve, John had decorated the tree very nicely the night before; red and green balls and stars evenly dispersed along the branches, a single strand of popcorn and cranberries wrapped with keen precision, spiraling down the tree, and an angel perched atop the short tree, white and pristine, like a China doll.
Other then the tree, John had taken it upon himself to get a few other things. He had gotten a few St. Nicks and snowmen for the mantle and a tree skirt for presents, though there wouldn't be too many to display, John figured.
John stepped into the living room after just coming back from lunch with Mary and her parents, admiring his work as he took off his coat and hung it up.
"Holmes, I'm home!" He cheerfully called. Moments later, Sherlock descended the stairs, dressed in a fairly dapper charcoal suit, with a plum colored vest, picking up his violin as he crossed the living room.
As he tuned it, he glanced over at John, who was staring in awe. His ears and neck were growing warm and his stomach was fluttering; he nearly fainted at how beautiful Sherlock looked. He was just about to compliment the detective when the moment was ruined by Sherlock's look of disgust and the question that followed.
"What are you wearing?" John looked down; he was wearing a new jumper, red and green with the words Ho! Ho! Ho! stretched across the chest.
"Oh, it's new, Mary got if for me. What's wrong with it?" He pulled at it, his chin resting on his chest as he looked down, lips pouting a bit.
Sherlock shook his head and smirked, "It's fine, it's just… fine, John." He tucked the now tuned violin under his chin and began to play "O! Come All Ye Faithful," his eyes closing as he fell into the rhythm.
John was touched; he felt his stomach begin to turn again. Sherlock was genuinely making a gesture to make this an enjoyable holiday for him. Maybe he wasn't such a humbug after all; he might just have that Christmas spirit, which reminded him. He stepped around Sherlock, who was swaying about as he played, and grabbed one of the three boxes under the tree. One for John, from John, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one—the one he picked up—for Sherlock, in bright blue and white shining paper.
"Happy Christmas, Sherlock." He held out the perfectly wrapped box. Sherlock cracked an eye and stopped playing. As he lowered the instrument to his side, he looked puzzled.
"Why did you get me a gift?" He sounded offended, which confused John thoroughly, whose optimism for Holmes' newfound holiday spirit was diminishing by the second.
"Because it's Christmas. It's what you do. Buy gifts—"
"I never understood the idea of buying gifts; if I want something, I just buy it. I don't wait for the holidays to roll around." He closed his eyes and was raising his violin back to his chin, but John reached out with his free and pushed it back down.
"It's not just about buying yourself gifts, it's also about taking the time to find something others would like or—or can't afford. It's thinking about others, giving, not just taking." John was growing flustered with Sherlock's cynicism and declining respect for the spirit of the season.
"Then why is there a present under the tree with your name on it, twice?" Sherlock tipped his head forward, his eyes piercing into John's very core.
"Well, I…I didn't think…" He ducked his head down, rubbing the back of his neck, mumbling, "I didn't think you'd get me anything." He looked up and shrugged, a little defeated.
Sherlock's stern visage crumbled. He sighed and smirked, "You know me so well." He put down the violin and sat down in his armchair, crossing his slender legs.
"Let's play a game, shall we?" He tucked his hands under his chin like he always does and cocked an eyebrow at John, whose defeat morphed into interest.
"If I can deduce what's in the box, I don't have to buy you a present, but if I cannot, I'll buy you whatever you want, okay?"
John grinned, feeling the atmosphere of the room return to its former warmth. Sherlock went to work, cogs turning, synapses firing, thought to thought, playing the game.
"Three weeks ago, you went out with Mary. You hesitated in telling me exactly where, so I could assume you went shopping. You were gone for approximately 4 hours. You ran to your room, trying not to show what you had, but I could judge by the sway of the bags that they weren't too heavy and that there were two of them, two different stores. You were wearing that cornflower blue jumper, and your khakis. I can't quite remember you scent upon returning." He mulled it over, then jumped up, running up the stairs to John's room, the sound of clothes being thrown about wondered down the stairs.
At the bottom, John was standing, very perplexed by the noises he was hearing. He strained to hear the sound of deep inhaling and Sherlock's mumblings. He was sniffing at the jumper as he walked back downstairs. John stepped back, letting Sherlock wondering around, smelling at the fabric, making his conclusions.
"Musty, damp, old, on a fairly new jumper, it was rainy and you went to an antique shop, perhaps a bookshop as well, you bought a…," he inhale deeply one more time, " a pocket watch and a…," he wafted the air about the jumper towards his nose, "a book…about…the mind of the serial killer." John's mouth hung wide open, eyes bugging from his head; dumbfounded.
Sherlock grinned and did a little jig as he took the box from John's hand, reeling over his victory with bounding delight.
"How… how—how did you get all that from my jumper?"
Sherlock paused his unwrapping and pulled a slip of paper from his suit pocket.
"You left the receipt in your khakis." John's amazement was shattered and fizzled out, leaving him with a sense of defeat, quite annoyed that he was tricked so easily. On top of that, he wasn't going to get a gift from Sherlock. He sat down by the tree, and began playing with the popcorn, sulking.
Sherlock finished opening the gift and thanked John for the book and pocket watch. "I have a mobile phone, you know. I don't need a pocket watch."
"I know," John said softly, "I thought you liked old things so, I got it. I even went ahead and got it cleaned and wound."
Sherlock looked up from inspecting the watch, noting those details as John said them aloud.
"You did." It was a statement, but he'd made it sound like a question for John's sake, who nodded, staring at the tree with a frown. Sherlock looked to a wall and thought for a moment. He finally set down the gifts and casually walked past the moping John, up the stairs to his room.
John was just buried in his head, brooding with frustration and annoyance, very angry about Sherlock. How could he be so selfish, tricking him into not having to buy John a gift, only caring about his own wants when he was just criticizing him for his—he was torn from his thoughts when Sherlock shoved a lump wrapped in newspaper under his nose.
"I thought you didn't buy gifts." He was skeptical, thinking it might be another trick or something, like a dead cat or human entrails.
"It was for your birthday, I guess I'll just have to buy you something else for that day." He smiled and put the lump in John's hands gingerly, his fingers sliding past the doctor's as he let go.
John slowly undid the paper around the shifting mass. When the paper fell from the gift and rolled off of John's lap, his eyes lit up. It was a scarf, quite similar to the one Sherlock owned.
"I know how much you like mine and I didn't want you stealing it anymore." John stood and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin shoulders.
"Thank you," he muttered into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock slid his arms around John and pulled him a bit closer.
"You're very welcome, John." Sherlock whispered, squeezing John tighter, rubbing his hands along the doctor's back.
John pulled his head back and rested it on Sherlock's shoulder and asked, "Sherlock, my birthday is in July. Why would I need a scarf then? Why would you wait so long to give it to me?"
Sherlock leaned into John's ear and softly said, "I lied,"
"But the newspaper, it was like an afterthought, like you just—"
"I'm not really one for wrapping presents, John." He smiled and kissed along his jaw line and cheek.
"Happy Christmas, John." John smiled, craning his neck to kiss Sherlock's lips, soft and thin. Sherlock tilted his head and deepened the kiss. As the snow fell quietly outside, John pull away and whispered back, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."
End.
A/N: Btw, the bit about John's birthday, I just used that as a plot device, not even realizing John's birthday is actually in July. Am I a genius or what? "Or what." Lol, Hope you like it, remember, R&R makes Shawn a happy boy.