AN: It's taken two days, but here we are! The end of the line! Ha ha. I hope you enjoy this one as well. Happy Christmas!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, everything would be Johnlock, nothing would hurt, and Season 3 would have aired 2 years ago.
221b Baker Street had a steady stream of people flowing into it. Sherlock had protested the arrangement of Mrs. Hudson's annual Christmas party being moved downstairs to his and John's flat greatly, but John, with a well-aimed kick at the ankle, had silenced his objections - at least for a while. And he did care for Mrs. Hudson. He'd tried to sneak out, too, but John had caught the edges of his coat turning around the corner and called him back. Sherlock, with a loud and exaggerated sigh, and turned and returned to the flat at his husband's call.
The stockings were hung over the fireplace with care. The coffee table that the pair often propped their feet up on was covered in a neat white table cloth. The kitchen table, too, was covered with cloth. It was laden with dishes of cooking, made by Mrs. Hudson and the stream of guests entering the flat. The coffee table, however, was covered with little bowls of Christmas candies and a few glass bottles of champagne. One of the bottles had already disappeared. John was mildly worried for a while, concerned. Sherlock could not hold his liquor, and that was that.
The flat - once again to Sherlock's disapproval - was decorated. Strings of silver tinsel hung on the mantle place, around Sherlock's skull which had been allowed to remain where it was, and on top of and around doors. Strings of lights ran around the walls, which John had mild difficulty putting up. Sherlock, amused, had stayed to watch the shorter man struggle with them, not offering his help. A few random Santa Clauses and a reindeer or two were set about the flat, on tables and such. The Holmeses' Christmas tree - an about 3-foot little thing - resided in the corner of the living room. It. too, was decorated in white flashing lights, silver tinsel, and ornaments. If you would look, you would even see a skeleton hanging in the middle.
Sherlock's choice.
Most of the decorations were donated, as they didn't own many, by Mrs. Hudson, and even a few from Lestrade, digging them out of a box hidden in his attic.
"Sherlock, be polite," John H. Holmes commented through gritted, kicking his husband's ankle again when he opened his mouth to speak as Anderson - newly divorced - and Donovan entered the flat. "We're having a nice party today, 'Lock," he added. "I will not having you embarrassing anyone with your deductions, at least for the first hour. Happy Christmas," he added at the pair/ Sherlock slouched, grumbling slightly under his breath. "And don't bother saying they were having an affair before Anderson was divorced, we all know that."
A few more familiars from the Scotland Yard, invited at either Mrs. Hudson's and John's request, entered in the next few minutes. John had practically glue Sherlock to the floor to keep him by his side at the door, greeting the guests at the party. It was only the fact that Sherlock and John were married that kept Sherlock there. "May I please go John?" Sherlock said, turning his eyes on John as Mycroft's black limo appeared. "Please, John." Sherlock looked oddly pleading, an expression he didn't often have. He had made a promise to John to not embarrass anyone in at least the first hour, and the hour was only 15 minutes over.
And his brother had just showed up. With Lestrade. No, he couldn't do it. His resolve was crumpling quickly at all the ammo he was handing, with a sign on it begging him to speak, enticing his words. 'Come on, Sherlock,' they whispered 'Come on, you know you want to.'
Maybe he had a bit to much champagne already.
Maybe a bit.
His nerves were all ready frayed, what with their special package arriving later tonight. He rocked back and forth on his heels quickly, his eyes wide with pleading. "Please," he whispered. John wanted to laugh so bad, but he bit his lip, but his mirth reached his eyes. "You can go to the bathroom," John said finally, begging himself not to laugh. He saw Sherlock physically twitch at John's improper grammar. "May," John corrected. "You may go to the bathroom. I will give you 4 minutes." Relief filled Sherlock's eyes and as soon as his lips had framed the words thank you, he was out of there, disappearing into the house. John turned back to the door with a smile.
Mycroft, with, yes, Lestrade next to him, approached the house. Mycroft's ever-present umbrella was in his right hand. John flashed a smile at the pair. He was getting better at his deductions, and had himself noticed a few things about his guests. Deductions John could see screamed out at him, but he held his tongue with a smile. Sherlock had made it very obvious what he knew Mycroft and Lestrade were getting up too. "Hello, John," Lestrade greeted. "Hello. Happy Christmas," John said to the pair, gesturing into the house.
Exactly 4 minutes later, Sherlock returned, a pinkish patch peeking out from under his right sleeve, the slight smell of champagne on his breath.
ooooOoOoOoooo
The party was going fine for the guests. Great, even. There was a lot of great food, and it was generally a good time. The party was even going good for John. Until Sherlock returned from having disappeared into their room. Before that time, you would have seen a slightly mad-looking man with a mop of black curls never leaving the short blonde man's side as he mulled around talking to his friends. You also would have seen said detective swallowing a few drinks every now and then, casting a few glances out the window.
One of one-and-a-half consulting detectives in the world returned, having been gone for exactly half an hour. Upon seeing hims emerge from their room, clearly drunk, John - the 'half' a consulting detective - took a step back. "Sherlock," he said warningly. "Are you drunk?" Sherlock staggered through the living room with a drunken laugh. He added sarcastically, "Of course I'm not drunk, John." Warily, John spoke. "Maybe you need to go easy on the..." Suddenly Sherlock had thrown his arms around John's shoulders, pulling the shorter man towards him. "John!" he cried, an urgent look in his eyes when he pulled back. "John! The thing is coming tonight! The thing!" He looked so urgent it was funny. Sherlock was one of those people who, when drunk, could not hold anything back. He was all over the place, his emotions everywhere.
John laughed lightly. "Calm down, 'Lock. I know about the thing, okay? I brought up the thing ages ago." Sherlock coughed into his sleeve. "John... John, I haven't seen you in like half an hour," he gasped. Yep. He definitely had to much to drink tonight. "Sherlock, calm down," John insisted, tugging Sherlock toward an open chair. "You've had to much to drink. Sit. I'm right here. You better be at least partially sober when the 'thing' gets here." He turned to go, taking a step, when Sherlock lept from the chair. He stumbled again, and John twisted around and grabbed him. "Sherlock!"
"It's the Christmas tree, John!" he gasped, flailing and trying to pull himself from his husband's arms. "It's the Christmas tree! It's trying to kill us!" John laughed. "'Lock, it's just a tree! Calm down!" Sherlock was pulling against John's arms as the watching crowd laughed too. When John had forced Sherlock back into the chair, he turned to the rest of the guests. "I'm so sorry. My husband really cannot hold his liquor." He, too, glanced out the window, then down at his watch.
"You've not told them yet, John?" Sherlock gasped. He pulled himself up, stumbling over to John and rabbing his shoulders. "You haven't told them that we're adopting the boy tonight?" The room went still, and John glanced nervously out the window. "I was waiting until the right time, Sherlock," he said, his voice low. "Now, sit down. And stay there, okay? Stay." He looked sternly at the finally stationary detective in the chair. He laughed slightly embarrassedly as he turned to the crowd. "You never told us you were adopting!" Molly laughed with a smile. John pulled a faint smile. "Yeah. A little boy. He's supposed to be arriving today, he's only about 2 months old."
"We're calling him Hamish," Sherlock piped up. John cast him a glance. "Really?"
"Yeah," Sherlock said again. "We're calling him Hamish, after you."
John smiled again. It was a true smile this time, not a faint one. A real one. Just then, a black car pulled up to the street. John's smile widened. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the lips, ruffling his black curls. "Now, come on, you. Act sober. Our son's here."
Even though Sherlock really couldn't hold his liquor, it had been a great Christmas. And it was getting better.