Nothing is beta-read or Brit-picked. All mistakes are mine. I got the idea from an image I saw on Tumblr about bullets and the sizes it would make. That's all.
John wakes up to eight successive gunshots, one right after the other.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
He thinks 221B is under attack and his only thought is for Sherlock's safety. He rushes down from his bedroom, gun in hand, cocked and ready to kill whomever has harmed his flatmate. He finds Sherlock behind the table with eight handguns, neatly lined up. The flat smells of smoke overpowering the smell of the Christmas tree that sits in the corner of the room. There are dogs barking outside, where big fluffy snowflakes float gently down.
It's going to take a miracle to convince Lestrade that nothing is wrong here, John thinks. He rounds on his flatmate, dressed in his favorite pair of pajamas and grey t-shirt with his blue dressing robe draped over him. On his face are a pair of goggles, the only concession to safety. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing?" John can still feel his heart beating wildly in his chest as he pushes thoughts of wounded and dying soldiers in the arid landscape of Afghanistan.
"It's for Science, John!" Sherlock replies in a bored voice. His voice suggests to John that he shouldn't have to explain to him what he was doing.
"I don't need a bloody reminder of what I've seen in action, Sherlock!" John shouts back at his mad flatmate.
An uncomfortable silence descends upon the living room as John stares down Sherlock willing him to understand.
"My apologies, John," Sherlock says. "I wasn't thinking," he adds looking deeply uncomfortable in the situation.
John nods and turns to go back upstairs to go back to sleep. But he is too keyed up to sleep and when he finally descends into sleep, it is fitful and he ends up on the floor, his blanket twisted around him.
He bangs his fist roughly against the floor, his breathing hard. John closes his eyes and takes deep lungfuls of air, forcing himself to calm down. Strains of Beethoven drift upstairs towards John as his eyes slam open. He recognizes that it is Sherlock trying to make amends for his previous experiment. John smiles gently, feeling the brittleness easing from his bones. He leans against his bed, closing his eyes again. The strains of music are easing into a soft silence and soon John is asleep again.
From outside John's room, Sherlock leans closer to the closed door and to hear John's light snores. He quirks a corner of his mouth up and eases the door open. He hefts his flatmate back onto his bed and settles John, tucking the blanket around his prone body. Sherlock sits down gingerly on John's bed, careful not to wake him and watches as John sleeps. John's face is smooth as years slip from his face. Sherlock's heart clenches in his chest and before he can stop himself, he places a soft kiss on John's lips.
I am sorry. So very very sorry. Sherlock thinks. For everything. You've had to endure so much, there's nothing I can do to help ease your pain. With a heavy heart, Sherlock stands up and makes to leave John's room.
"Sherlock?" John asks sleepily.
"Go back to sleep," Sherlock says quietly.
"Sherlock," John says again. He shifts to a sitting position and fixes Sherlock with a sleepy. "How long are you going to punish yourself?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about John," Sherlock says stiffly and makes to leave again.
"No. Please stay," John says and reaches out to him. "It's Christmas. A time for forgiveness, for peace and for joy. You're here, you've explained your reasons. I've forgiven you and now it's time for you to forgive yourself."
Sherlock stares at John for a minute trying to see the thread of a lie through it. He can see nothing. "How can you be so forgiving? I've put you through hell and broken your engagement to Mary and yet here you are, telling me to forgive and forget."
John smiles crookedly. "I didn't say anything about forgetting, Sherlock. I haven't forgotten but I have forgiven."
Sherlock smiles back, a little shy.
"Well?" John asks.
Sherlock's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "Well, what?" he counters back, suddenly feeling out of his element.
John's smile turns wider and Sherlock could almost swear that it also turns a little mischievous. "Are you getting in or what?" John turns up the blanket allowing for Sherlock to slide in.
"I thought you weren't gay," Sherlock counters and slowly walks back to John's bed.
"I thought you were married to your Work," John replies.
"Work and I are having a trial separation," Sherlock says and gets in, settling in beside John. They are laying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock is almost asleep when he hears John say very softly, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock. I'm glad you're back." He feels John's hand slip into his. The fall asleep hand in hand as Christmas Eve turns into Christmas Morning.
Just a little something. Thank you for reading and Merry Christmas.