Author: tigersilver
Rating: R
Pairing: S/J
Word Count: 1500
A/N: Based loosely on 'Love, Actually', this is a flimsy sort of cross-over. John and Sherlock are Porn!Stars and I am only playing, really. All apologies, as per usual.
Further Notes: There are several stories in this series: 'Actually, Yes'; 'Actually, Brilliant'; 'Actually, Irritating'; and 'Actually, Heartbreaking'. There will be one or two more, depending, I think.
...Comments are golden; I am a whore.
"John, bugger it all, but I must go in there," Sherlock waves at a storefront, an upscale department store. "It's stupidly Christmas."
"What?"
"Damn it, I said it's Christmas, John! I simply must to go in there. Dreadful."
There's not a lot to do on the final day; they've both been called in to the studio mainly to view the last of the rushes with the group, and then be released for a quite long luncheon break. John had managed to drag Sherlock to a local Italian place by dint of simply putting on his coat and walking out. For a moment he'd not been sure Sherlock would follow but he had. He had, and that was heartening. Slightly.
"There? In that place? You, Sherlock?"
And had—wonder of all wonders!—put away a full plate of pasta. And then the lion's half of John's on top, the pigging bastard!
"No help for it, is there?"
Now they've hot steaming cups of coffee and are wandering a bit aimlessly through the local shopping section, Sherlock grimacing at the lights and the garish tinsel and the piped-out Muzak. 'Feel it in my fingers, feel it in my toes' seems to be the most prevalent, and John's about sick to death of it, that song. 'Feel it in his fucking gut' is more like! Bloody awful.
"Really? Really, really, Sherlock? You're telling me you're voluntarily entering a department store at Christmas? To buy something for someone?"
Well, this is a turn up for the books! Sherlock Homes, participating in what normal people regularly enjoy? Taking a stab at 'merry' and 'happy' and all that?
John, on the other hand, is not feeling very merry at all, really. He's a little something in his pocket for Sherlock, just a memento of their time together, nothing more: a pot of very dear, very organic imported honey with the comb still in and tied to the lid with a piece of raffia is a little wooden spoon for dipping. A Welsh Kissing Spoon, the shop girl had said, and winked at him, or rather at the sight of Sherlock, glowering and pacing impatiently outside the plate glass doors. Holmes Rampant, JOhn would've said, if asked Sherlock's armorial bearings. But he isn't asked, not at all; instead he's treated to a very knowing look from the girl.
"Your bloke out there? He'll like it, ducks, trust me." She dropped John a terribly sassy wink and a wag of a chin bob. "They don't call 'em Kissing Spoons for nothin', if you catch my drift, eh? He'll be wild for you, come Christmas morning. I know it."
It's not much at all, a spoon and some expensive honey in a pretty little pot, and he's had a bit of a huge blushing frenzy over it in the shop, trying to tuck it away discreetly in this pocket before Sherlock caught him at it. But John's still feeling strapped, and his advance on the next film hasn't come through yet. He can't exactly splurge out, either, on behalf of a bloke who could care less for Christmas. More, it's he mustn't. They're not like that, are they?
"Yes, blast it. Well?" Sherlock demands right at this particular moment, catching his elbow with a jerk. "Come along, John. Let's have this over with."
"Right, oh," John goes along. As he generally does, and blast that, yeah? Bloody feelings, leaving him all dizzy-minded, like a sopping wet ninny.
"Wait here," he's ordered peremptorily, after Sherlock's dragged him through the automatic revolving doors and into the eddying crowds that populate the huge store. "I won't be moment," he snarls, scowling, surveying the hoi polloi at their finest, throwing about their hard earned funds like so many sweeties and bashing each other with errant bags and packets. "I'd best not, that is. Horrid."
John loiters about aimlessly, catching sight of his tall lover now and again, zipping from one glassed-in sales counter to next one, gesticulating at various poorly prepared employees but never quite alighting on one department or counter in particular. John begins to seriously consider popping over the children's area, as he could possibly stumble across another little treat for his niece, to present her that , god, no—the bloody panto! He'll have to remember to murder Harry in her sleep, sometime soon. As payback. But protests are pretty much useless and John knows it. Besides, he rather enjoys being an uncle.
He still hasn't asked Sherlock to go along with. He wants to; god, yes he does. The film's cast party is scheduled for this evening and he'll need to duck out early and this could very well be his last chance to spend any significant time with Sherlock.
John heaves a shuddering sigh and tugs at his own hair absentmindedly, smoothing it back. He'll likely end up blurting out his pathetic little invite when he hands over his pathetic little gift. Later on in the afternoon, probably, as that's all that's left to him, really.
But, he decides, squaring his shoulders in a soldierly manner, it must needs be done, no matter how Sherlock will sneer. One more go—just one. As he'd not managed the last one properly.
It's Sherlock's abrupt stillness that catches his musing eye. He's made his way to Fine Jewelry, apparently, and is poised before a jaunty, nattily-dressed salesman, and is jittering just a bit, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, in those dapper hand-sewn brogues of his. Gloved hands are stuffed deep in his pockets and with his lips pursed in just that way he has, he reminds John nothing so much as of a species of minor royalty, forced into an obligatory commune with the plebes.
But he's apparently purchased something in the department, and 'something' very dear indeed, as the salesman is making a great to-do over wrapping up a plain white box in a sheath of printed plastic wrap and a positive cascade of something sparkly going inside it.
Intrigued, John wanders over, arriving just at Sherlock's elbow. All he can make out past the dark woolen hump of Sherlock's sloping shoulder is the little white box disappearing rapidly into a sea of the iridescent packaging material, like it's drowning in a sea of silly froth.
"What's that?' he asks, idly. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock jumps at the sound of John's voice and the feather-light touch to hisbent arm, which is highly unusual. Normally he knows exactly how close people are to him at any given time, and he also seems to sense where John is. Always. And what to do with him when he finds him, too! Tea—and also shagging.
"Oi! Oh—this? This little thing? Nothing!"
Sherlock's face transforms for an instant, going all bonhomie-filled and confiding. He blinks rapidly at John, making use of those ridiculously long thick lashes of his. John blinks right back at him, bewildered. Why is Sherlock putting on act? And why for his benefit? He almost checks over his own shoulder to see if there's anyone lurking about, anyone untoward—maybe a fan? They both do have fans, though they're far and few between, so far. God, please not a fan, he begs the Almighty. He's not sure sure he can muster up an appropriate smile.
"It's—it's nothing, a mere bauble," Sherlock babbles at him, charmingly, all smiles and grins and dark cocking this way and that, like a sparrow. "Something for Mummy, you know?"
John is stunned by a sudden wink, fake as the smile stretching those lips wide.
"Can't face her across the Christmas dinner table otherwise, can I? My brother would make my life miserable if I did." Sherlock nods his chin sharply, snatching up the sack the salesman hands him with a perfunctory grunt of thanks in passing. "Silly sod. You know how it is, don't you John? After all, you've your brother, don't you? And that niece of yours. I assume some sort of sister-in-law comes along with as part of the packet, too."
"Oh?" John blinks some more. Why does Sherlock believe John has a brother? And is it worth explaining…ah! No, not, it's not: Sherlock is practically dancing in his haste to escape the shops. He's nearly made the exit whilst they were talking, hasn't he?
"Oh, sure," he shrugs, rushing along behind, nodding. Not dwelling at all on the excruciatingly sharp twinge of lonely agony radiating through his chest. Mummy, huh? Not…anyone else, then. Just…Mummy. Right, right.
"Right, yes, exactly," he says aloud, putting his best face on it, not that Sherlock's looking at him in his haste to escape the madness of people having fun, buying gifts for other people. "Not the done thing, that. Going empty-handed, is it? To, er, ah, Christmas."
"No, no," Sherlock twists his head about to peer at John, only to shake it sadly over it, the whole matter of arriving gift-less, as if such a breach of conduct was completely incomprehensible to him. "No, positively not." Which is isn't; as he likely does it all the time, from what John knows of him. Gifting others is not one Sherlock's priorities. "Right, mission accomplished, eh? Come along again; we daren't be late back to the set. Paul will have our respectives, won't he? So excited. The poor man. Such rubbishing drek, and pointless drama, all of it. Go straight to the on offer bins, I don't doubt it. Well? Shall we?"
John feels his face going through an amazing variety of expressions of puzzlement all the way back to the studio. He lags slightly behind Sherlock's heels just to hide them from his terribly observant, completely thick lover.
Sherlock considers the flick they've just made utter rubbish? While a tiny bit hurtful, it's not that which is surprising to John. No...it's more:
A present—Sherlock has actually managed to enter a shop and purchase something for someone?
And a brother—a brother for John? He's got a sister, certainly; his stupid big sister Harry, but he's never owned a brother in his life!
And Sherlock has a brother? A sibling? He'd never mentioned it, not once!
A Mummy, too, who'd be horribly unhappy and distressed if Sherlock showed up to Christmas supper without a present for her. Hmmm….
Yes. There's a great deal they don't know about one another, still, even after weeks of fucking each other six different ways from Sunday, and then on Sundays too, as well as every other day.
A great deal they don't know. Haven't had much of a chance to find out, it's been so…so rushed, and so insanely heady. All that shagging, all that tea! And tonight is John's last chance to lay the groundwork so as to maybe one day discover a little more about this puzzle of a man, this amazing, insane, brilliantly delightful, horny as a fucking badger, oblivious as a cream pie Sherlock Holmes.
Whom he loves, because yes. Yes, and he really, really does.
John does, and he's probably a prize idiot for doing it, too.