"No, John, I am not." Sherlock murmured from behind his newspaper.
John looked up from where he was hanging Christmas decorations on the plastic tree and singing along to the festive songs on the radio as he did so.
"What?" He asked, confused.
Sherlock sighed and folded his paper onto his lap. "No, I am not hanging up my stockings on my wall, as you just asked me. Firstly because I do not even own one pair of stockings, secondly because the idea of hanging long socks on a wall is simply preposterous and thirdly because…" he paused, trying to think of something sarcastic to end his rant with, "it makes dreadful holes in the walls." He finished, smiling as his head twitching slightly as it always did when he finished making a point. Instead of waiting for John's reaction he picked up his paper and continued reading, pretending he wasn't interested.
John laughed. "It's just a Christmas song, Sherlock. And anyway, what do you care about putting holes in our walls?" He said, thrusting an arm out in gesture to the yellow smiley face almost completely obliterated by bullet holes.
Sherlock ignoring him, John sighed and went back to singing along to the radio quietly.
"To the fairest he get's sober for a day…so here it is, Merry Christmas…everybody's having fun…"
Sherlock chuckled and muttered something under his breath.
"What now?" John asked, irritated.
"It's just…sounds like your sister, that's all. Although, I doubt she'll be sober for Christmas, not with her divorce papers coming through." Sherlock replied from behind his newspaper.
John threw the plastic bauble onto the floor in a rage. "Right. That's it." He muttered angrily, striding across to Sherlock and grabbing his paper off of him. Sherlock froze, keeping his hands in the position they had been holding the paper in, and slowly rolled his eyes upwards, eyebrows raised, as he looked at John. "Is this that so called Christmas Spirit you keep insisting I'm supposed to have, John dear? Because, quite frankly, it doesn't seem all too enjoyable to me."
"Shut up. That was below the belt, that jibe at my sister, and you know it." He snapped.
Sherlock sniffed as he stood up. "You don't normally complain when I go down there." He murmured.
John bit his lip, trying not to smile. "You're such a scrooge, Sherly. It's the festive season. Stop grumbling and try and have fun. Or do high-functioning sociopaths not understand 'fun'?"
Sherlock glared at him. "We're celebrating the birth of a fictional character, John. You weren't like this for Harry Potter's birthday. Well," he paused, remembering John's insistence of them cosplaying all day – and night – last July 31st. He, of course, was Snape, due to his apparently unrehearsed impressions of Alan Rickman when he had been forced to watch the films with John, and his natural lack of interest with everything.
Smiling slightly, he wandered into the kitchen and inspected one of his experiments. "Anyway, is Harry coming to dinner tomorrow or not? I need to know."
John frowned. "What does it matter to you? I'm not letting you cook." He answered, noticing Sherlock eyeing up the turkey and trimmings, obviously working out if there was enough, which of course there would be, even if they invited Mycroft and Lestrade as well as Mrs Hudson and Molly, and Harry if she would return his calls, because Sherlock only picked at the meat and pushed his vegetables around the plate like a toddler.
Sherlock looked up, pouting slightly.
"Why not? Cooking's just practical science." He whined.
John sighed, smiling. "Exactly, Sherlock. You'd make it into a science experiment, you'd lace the turkey with cyanide and record how long it takes us to realise you poisoned us…" He trailed off as he saw Sherlock's expression drop. He was hurt. Actually hurt by John's words. "Oh, I'm sorry darling." He cooed, pulling the thin consulting detective into a tight hug.
"Alright…John…I…can't really…breathe well….when you…squeeze me ….so tight…." He gasped. John dropped his arms and brushed the creases out of his purple shirt.
"Okay, compromise. We cook together?" He offered, smiling. Sherlock paused for a moment, then nodded. John smiled and grabbed his hand, pulling him over to the sofa. He switched the TV on and listened intently to the weather forecast.
"John, you know that's just a load of-"
"Ssh, Sherlock, they're talking about snow!" He murmured in excitement, pressing one hand against Sherlock's mouth and the other grasping his hand, squeezing it.