For MissDavis's 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge (on AO3). I actually adapted it to incorporate a few of my doodles and attempts at gif animation as well. You can see the art on Instagram, Tumblr, or my AO3 account (I'm scrub456 on all formats).

"John. John."

"Mgnahh sher…" John groaned and rolled away from his definitely-not-whispered name, and pulled the quilt up and over his head as he went.

"John." Despite his instincts to the contrary, Sherlock grasped John's shoulder firmly and pulled him back over. Exasperated, he didn't try to soften his approach. "John. John wake up. You have not yet achieved REM sleep and are at least partially aware of your surroundings."

With another groan, John attempted to flinch away, but Sherlock's grip was persistent. "What?" He croaked, cleared his throat, and tried again. "What the hell, Sherlock?"

"It is a matter most urgent, I assure you." Sherlock leaned over the bed in order to focus his most concentrated stare down at his flatmate. Despite the rough waking, he appeared sleep warmed and soft, his hair mussed just so. Sherlock sniffed and held his stance.

"Urgent. Right." John groused and forced his eyes to open. He startled as Sherlock, who hovered over him, came into focus. Still wearing his great coat and scarf, he'd clearly just come in for the night - if it could still indeed be considered night. His hair was windswept and damp from the rain, and the early December chill radiated off from him. They stared at each other until an errant drop of water dripped from Sherlock's hair, rolled down his nose, and splashed softly on John's cheek.

John cleared his throat, pushed himself up to sitting, and forced Sherlock to take a quick step back. "So. Urgent?"

"Quite right." Sherlock stammered, and flipped on the bedside lamp, causing them both to wince against the light. He glanced around the room, retrieved John's robe and tossed it haphazardly at him. "Up."

"Arse," John grumbled even as he started pulling on his robe. "It's going to take more than you being a git to convince me this is a real emergency."

Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed impatiently. "There was a time when you never questioned my motives."

"I was young and stupid then," John rolled his eyes, stretched slowly, and finally stood. "So… some sort of emergency?"

"Yes! Finally!" Sherlock took John by the arm, and none too gently attempted to herd him to the door.
John dug his heels in. "Wait."

"For godsake, what? Are you so unbothered that the sanctity of our domain has been breached that you are willing to waste time testing the limits of my tolerance?" Sherlock urged him on to the door once more.

"Breach- What? What are you on about?" Stunned by Sherlock's tirade, John allowed himself to be guided through the door and rushed down the steps.

"While I was out following leads on a potential case," Sherlock swooped into the sitting room, and spun around dramatically, his coattails billowing behind him, "And you lazed about, squandering your day with whatever mundane trivialities your dull mind…"

"Oi!" John shoved past him and trudged into the sitting room.

Sherlock exhaled deeply and continued. "Some other industrious individual managed to flawlessly get past our locks and other defenses…"

"Other defenses? Sherlock, what…"

"John!" Sherlock put both hands up and glared. "How are you not understanding this? Someone broke into our flat! They came right in, a clear violation of our privacy, trifled with our belongings, and all directly under your nose. I just…" Sherlock slumped into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What are you talking about?" John turned a slow circle, inspecting the room carefully. Nothing seemed amiss from before he had retired for the night. Nothing, save the heap of sulking detective in the armchair. "I don't see anything missing."

"Perhaps not, but not all who housebreak do so with intention of appropriating ill-gotten gains. Some do so with the motive of property damage. In our line of work, certainly you've noticed this, John." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin.

"I haven't the bloodiest idea what it is you're on about," John shrugged and dropped into his own chair.

"Of course you wouldn't notice." Heaving a long suffering sigh, Sherlock flung his arm back and motioned broadly behind him and to his left. "We're the victims of vandalism, John. Distasteful, garish defacing. Try not to look at it too closely, as it's an affront to the senses."

John squinted and looked up at the bison skull on the wall. In place of the usual headphones sat a pair of oversized blue fuzzy earmuffs. A long red scarf and a strand of twinkling fairy lights were draped (quite artfully in his opinion) over and around it, and there were ornaments dangling from bright red ribbons.

"If you hated it so much, you could have just taken it down, you know." Deciding it was his turn to pout, John slid down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Instead of… Of this. Of tormenting me in the middle of the night."

"We agreed you could decorate for the holidays. Small. Tasteful. That," Sherlock stood and glared accusingly at the bison skull, "that is the opposite of tasteful. That is a travesty of the highest order."

"I like it." John shrugged. "It's festive."

"It's vile."

"Mrs. Hudson likes it."

Sherlock spun to face him. "Of course she does! The excess of kitsch that woman possesses is nothing short of alarming!"

"Don't like it?" Squaring his shoulders, John stood. "Do something about it."

"I am." Sherlock took a step nearer, in an attempt to once again loom over John.

"You being a cock isn't changing my mind." John smirked a deadly sort of smirk.

"I'll take it down when you're at the surgery." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in challenge.

"There's a fresh tree lot on my route home." John smiled innocently up at him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

"Already got the perfect one picked out. It'll fit beautifully. Just there." John nodded to the space behind Sherlock's chair.

"Devious." Pursing his lips, Sherlock studied John intently for a moment before shrugging out of his coat, stepping up and over the coffee table, and flinging himself onto the couch. "You are not a nice man, John Watson."

"And happy Christmas to you too, Sherlock," John chuckled and headed back up the stairs.

Sherlock checked his mobile, tossed it to the coffee table, huffed and flopped dramatically over to face the back of the couch. "Damn. It's only December first."