Title: Peppermint
Author: smilingsoprano
Rating: Currently K+. No promises for the future.
Pairings: Will be Sherlock/John, though that's only hinted in this chapter.
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. If I owned Sherlock, there would be no plot, only character development, and no one wants that.
Summary: John and Sherlock decide to spend Christmas with the Watsons. Gift-giving, self-discovery, and hilarity (probably) ensue.
A/N: This is part of my Christmas present for fantastic friend and fellow fangirl harlequin dragon. Love you, dear! As a result of her tastes and my wanting to branch out, these will be silly, cracky, and slashy, probably in about that order. Hopefully, they'll also be fun. This story will probably be three (fairly short) chapters, unless I get in deep, which I'm not aiming for. Not Brit-picked, sorry. Reviews are love and shall be loved in return. Enjoy this bit of Christmas-flavored fluff!
"Sherlock, do you want some hot cocoa?"
"Tea will be fine."
John, who was currently searching the kitchen cabinets for ingredients, sighed. After three weeks of December had already passed them by, it was abundantly clear that Sherlock wouldn't know Christmas spirit if it played the marimba naked on a mortuary table. John had put up decorations, John had cooked holiday foods, John had bought presents, and Sherlock hadn't even noticed.
"How about some eggnog?" he tried.
A pause, and the crisp response came in a slightly puzzled tone. "Are we out of tea?"
John felt his lips tightening in exasperation. "No, I suppose we're not. What sort?"
"Earl Grey."
Staring at the boxes lined up on the counter, John set his jaw, grabbed a teabag, and put the kettle on. When it began to whistle, he poured the hot water into Sherlock's favorite orange mug, added milk, and hesitated for just a moment before unwrapping a candy cane and defiantly plopping it into the steaming liquid.
Sherlock actually took a sip before he noticed. "This isn't Earl Grey."
"What a brilliant observation!" John snapped. The past week had pushed him dangerously close to a breaking point. "No, it's not."
"This is peppermint. With sugar."
"Hot, fresh, delicious, and seasonal."
Finally, Sherlock deigned to favor John with a look. Granted, it was a look which could have peeled paint, but at least it was recognition. John held his ground.
"From the tension in your facial muscles and the frankly confrontational tone, as well as this passive-aggressive refusal to bring me the tea I asked for, it is clear to me that you're angry about something. What is less clear is the catalyst for this outburst. Of late, I have been nothing if not accommodating and well-mannered." He paused, studying the candy cane as though it had sprouted wings. "Being less well-versed in emotions, I fear I must resort to interrogation. What, pray tell, is bothering you?"
Sighing again—it was an action he had perfected in his time spent living with Sherlock—John rubbed his temples. "Sherlock, what day is it?" he asked.
His flatmate frowned. "December 21st. I fail to see the import."
"You don't see . . . good God, please tell me this isn't like the solar system debacle."
"I rather think 'debacle' is far too grandiose a word for your petty judgments on what is and is not necessary information. Moreover, you have yet to explicate the significance of 'this,' which helps your cause but little."
John took a deep, calming breath. "What I mean is that . . . well, you do know December 25th is Christmas, don't you? Please tell me you know that."
To his relief, Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I do. I am not an imbecile, as you should well know. Your insistence on the relevance of this common-knowledge fact is still misplaced, however. You inquired about today." His tone had turned patronizing, once again raising John's ire.
"Yes, of course I did! Christmas is in four days, Sherlock! I have been doing my damnedest to bring a little seasonal cheer and good spirits into this flat, and you have neither lifted a finger to help nor even commented on any of my work. As many times as I have tried to raise the subject, we have no idea where we are going or what we are doing. Sherlock, Christmas is my favorite holiday, and to be perfectly honest, you are ruining it for me."
"Yes, well, I have always attempted to ignore the tawdry trappings and bric-a-brac the masses seem compelled to associate with this season." Luckily for his continued health, Sherlock chose that moment to glance up from his newspaper and notice the look on John's face. His ice-pale eyes flickered across the expression, coldly observant as always, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a pacifying smile.
"If you wish to discuss our plans for that day, however, I am more than willing."
Trying to soften what he knew was a deadly glare, John took the seat next to Sherlock on the couch. He looked down at his hands, waiting to speak until they were less white-knuckled. In the meantime, he breathed through his nose, willing his heart rate to slow. When he finally felt calm enough to trust his voice, he spoke.
"I thought we might spend Christmas with my family."
Sherlock had the grace to look surprised. In their time together, John had found that almost nothing could genuinely startle the consulting detective, but at least when he pretended he knew he was making an effort.
"Mother may be a bit put out, but given that another interminable dinner with my brother is as thoroughly unappealing to me as I'm sure it is to you . . . yes, your family might be quite refreshing to associate with. Will I be required to procure gifts, and if so, what categories of items would be deemed acceptable?"
John stared at his ivory-skinned, long-limbed flatmate for a moment, musing for the thousandth time on how alien the lamplight made him appear. "You know, I have despaired of you ever uttering a normal sentence," he muttered.
"Yes, well, you have yet to answer my question."
"Right, right. Um, since you haven't met my family, maybe just some small, inexpensive things. A gesture, but nothing that would put you out."
Sherlock nodded absently, his mind already elsewhere. Watching him, John felt a slight surge of affection for his flatmate. To be fair, the detective was actually trying to follow social conventions. It was a mark of the oddly close friendship that had developed between them over the past few months, despite the sheer unlikeliness of two people with their personalities getting on. They should have destroyed each other within minutes, but John enjoyed Sherlock's company much of the time—when he wasn't being insufferable or completely callous, that is—and Sherlock occasionally made an effort to be nice. It was an unrecognizable act if one didn't know him, as he was abominably bad at social interaction, but John saw those carefully calculated outreaches and accepted them. They meant progress.
John smiled down at his flatmate, who was once again absorbed in the newspaper. "I can take back the tea and make some Earl Grey, if you'd like."
"Oh." Sherlock looked at the mug in his hand, his expression contemplative. "It's fine. Your substitute is acceptable."
"You actually can say yes. I won't be offended."
"Right then. Earl Grey would be much appreciated."
"Consider it done."
