John's Christmas Gift
"Now Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and I haven't given you that oven so that you can put it away in the kitchen." said John in a mock, stern voice. "We expect cakes."
"Of course, dears! I'll bake cakes and cookies. And crumpets!" said a smiling Mrs. Hudson, "I used to be quite a baker in my day." she giggled in a tipsy manner.
"Don't forget scones" Sherlock added, bending to refill Mrs. Hudson's eggnog. "John. Would you like some?" he asked his room mate.
"No, I'm good. Why don't you…uh…have some yourself?" asked John, picking up a fluffy, wrapped packet from the side of the armchair.
Sherlock didn't reply. He put down the eggnog and picked up his violin bow. There was a tinkle at the door below as someone walked in.
John began to study the packet, intently, wondering if he could employ his genius friend's methods to guess the contents. It was soft and lumpy and had no note. It was impeccably wrapped in a green and red Scottish kilt checked wrapping paper. John tuned it around in his hands, "Hey, Sherlock, any idea…"
"It's yours." said Sherlock shortly.
"Oh." said John, "From you?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Isn't that lovely?" cooed Mrs. Hudson, "Go on, dear, open it!"
John's fingers fumbled as he tried to undo the wrapping.
The door opened and Mycroft Holmes strode in.
"Mycroft." called Lestrade as he waved his wine glass, "Happy Christmas!" Sherlock looked up from his violin bow.
"And to you, Detective Inspector. Miss Hooper." Mycroft replied nodding his head to them in acknowledgement.
"Mycroft, what a lovely surprise! So nice of you to drop by on your family on Christmas Eve." said Mrs. Hudson, "Sit. Have a drink."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What brings you here? Let me warn you, I haven't got you a gift."
"I wasn't expecting one." said Mycroft quietly. He took the seat across from John and took out an envelope from within the folds of his coat. "I, however, have a little something for you, dear brother."
Sherlock didn't move from his spot. He merely shrugged and picked up his violin. His blue-green eyes betraying his aroused curiosity, something that Mycroft did not miss. The older Holmes leaned forward and began speaking from the corner of his mouth, so as to block out the rest of the party. "One of our Interpol spies are missing. We need him back, now. Here are his details. The people concerned are willing to pay a handsome amount for your help on this most delicate matter."
Sherlock sighed, pointing to Mycroft to leave the envelope on the coffee table, "You know all that doesn't interest me."
"Nevertheless, I have asked them to get in touch with the good doctor. We require utmost discretion on behalf of you both, of course." Mycroft turned to look at the good doctor in question, who had failed to acknowledge his presence so far.
"John?" he said, clearing his throat.
"I…what?" said John. The packet lay open on his lap. His fingers wrapped around a soft, knitted scarf, exactly like Sherlock Holmes's trademark blue one, except in bottle green.
"That's lovely," sighed Mrs. Hudson, "Isn't it lovely?" Molly cooed in assent.
"Christmas gift? From Harry?" asked Mycroft.
John shook his head, "Sherlock."
"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, turning to face his brother, "The doctor doesn't wear scarves."
"He wore mine, once. He thought I was asleep, but I wasn't and I saw him go to the grocery store wearing it. He looked very comely in it." said Sherlock bluntly, drawing his bow over the violin strings.
Lestrade sniggered. John blushed involuntarily, but ignored him. He knew from experience, that Sherlock said things, without really understanding or meaning them.
"Oh, of course. I see." said Mycroft, a smug smirk of satisfaction plastered across his face.
"I…thank you. Sherlock. It's lovely, really." said John hesitantly. "And yes, Mycroft. I'll keep that file and get in touch when we have a few leads."
"That's that then." said Mycroft rising from his seat and buttoning his coat, "I shall take your leave."
"Merry Christmas Mycroft." said Sherlock as his brother walked out the door. Mycroft stopped at the door for a fraction of a second and returned an enigmatic half-smile. Then with a last wave to the rest of the party, he was gone.
A few hours later, everyone had gone home. Mrs. Hudson had retired to her flat downstairs and John was busy picking up scraps and things, leftover from the evening while Sherlock played one of his original compositions on his violin. John stopped to pick up the scarf. It felt soft and surreal against his fingers. The very best merino lambs' wool. It must have cost a fortune. He swung it around his neck, bringing the two ends together and then weaving one tail within another like a tie.
"You're doing it wrong." Sherlock said. He put down his violin and walked to where John was standing in front of the fireplace.
John sighed with his 'here-we-go' expression. Trust Sherlock Holmes to come up with his own approved fifty-four correct ways in which one can wear scarves.
Sherlock stood in front of John, his skeletal fingers unraveling the green scarf from John's throat. He folded it once and wrapped it around John's neck, passing the end through the hitch in his customary fashion. He straightened the ends, folding the scarf below John's collar as his eyes found John's, his short, warm breath falling on the shorter man's face.
"Merry Christmas John." he said softly, before placing a light kiss on his lips. John stood there, too stunned to react as he watched Sherlock turn around, pick up his violin and walk into his bedroom.
All of a sudden, John felt very hot. He loosened the scarf from his neck, and then took it off entirely. He looked around awkwardly, hoping for a witness who would clarify what had just happened. But it was just him, all alone in the living room. He picked up the Interpol envelope in one hand, the scarf gripped tightly in the other, and stumbled into his own bedroom.