Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
by: Ismira Daugene
"Sherlock, I don't think you're going to make it," John said looking out the window. The snow was blowing in and those few souls brave enough to be outside were huddled over and had their hats pulled down and their scarves pulled up. It had started with a gentle rain late last night when John had gone to bed, but upon waking he saw that it had turned into a freezing rain/snow mix that cut visibility down to less than a dozen meters. Several inches of ice covered everything and it was only being added to.
"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat. "A little rain never hurt anyone."
"No, but a lot can kill you," John replied turning to look at his flatmate. "Look, I've already called my folks and told them I won't be able to make it. We can spend Christmas together here. It'll be fun!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As much fun as that sounds, I have a plane to catch."
The consulting detective, knowing that his blogger was going to be out of town for Christmas, had elected to take a vacation for himself over the holiday. He had purchased a plane ticket to Toulouse, France and had arranged for a several day long stay at a natural bee-keeping farm. "Have you checked your flight online to see if it's canceled?"
"Yes, John, and no it isn't," Sherlock replied as he grabbed hold of his suitcase and started towards the door.
"Check it again, just in case," John said eyeing the snow again. "If nothing else, I'm betting it's delayed."
Sherlock sighed, but did as bid and pulled his mobile out of his pocket and slid his thumb around the screen a bit before he got where he wanted to go. John watched as his eyes widened and then turned angry. With a sharp jab, Sherlock glared down at his phone before throwing it into the chair beside John. It bounced against the fabric and landed with a clatter on the floor. "Canceled?" John asked hesitantly. He could see the makings of a full strop.
"Brilliant deduction, Doctor Watson," Sherlock sneered. He dropped his baggage to the floor and nearly tore his coat in trying to get it off.
John watched his flatmate struggle for a moment before going over to help. Gently, he grabbed hold of the great Belstaff coat and pulled it off before hanging it back up. The blue scarf was thrown in his direction as well, but John merely caught it and hung it up as well. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you were looking forward to this," John said.
However all he got in response was an agitated grunt as his flatmate stomped off to his room and slammed the door. John winced as it rattled in the frame. "That went well," the blond man muttered to himself as he picked up Sherlock's phone from the floor. He looked at the screen that was still active to see that the flight had indeed been canceled. In fact, it looked like all flights had been canceled until the storm was over, which was any one's guess at the moment.
His head jerked up at the sound of a crash coming from Sherlock's room and then silence. "Sherlock?" he called out. "You okay?"
No sound was heard and John could feel his doctor senses tingling. What if Sherlock had been hurt? What if he was incapable of answering? Rising to his bare feet, John made his way over to the detective's door and knocked. "Sherlock?"
Still no sound was heard, so John hesitantly opened the door to peek inside. The room was its usual state of chaos and he could see immediately that the cause of the crash had been everything on the dresser being swept to the floor. John's eyes wandered over the pile of items trying to deduce if anything was toxic, but it looked like most of it was books, papers, and trinkets. He frowned a little as he saw there was a framed picture of Sherlock as a boy with a woman who he suspected was Sherlock's mother that had cracked. Well, at least the picture was okay. "Sherlock?" he called out again as he stepped into the room.
The man was huddled on the floor of his room near the foot of the bed. His jacket, shoes, and socks had been tossed across the room, leaving him in just his purple button-up and black slacks. John looked at his flatmate with pity and grabbed up a blanket lying on the bed before moving to Sherlock's side. Without a word, he sat down next to the man and threw the blanket over both of their shoulders. Sherlock tried to lean away, but John caught him and pulled him back until they were pressed together from shoulder to hip.
"John," he protested.
"Look, Sherlock," John interrupted. "I know you really wanted to go to France over the holiday, but we can have fun here. Anyway, the only reason you were going was because I wasn't going to be here, right?"
Sherlock didn't look at him and wrapped an arm around one raised knee before tugging the edge of the blanket down over the shoulder not pressed against John. "It was more than that, John," Sherlock muttered after a while.
John looked over at the nest of dark curls resting against the upturned knee and waited for more. Sherlock sighed before continuing, "My maternal grandfather used to keep bees in southern France. He died several years back, but I was hoping to revisit the farm where he used to work."
John's eyes widened at the admission of sentiment. Sherlock turned to face him then, his face an undeniable expression of regret. John felt pity well up inside him as he tugged the blanket tighter around the two of them and settled in next to Sherlock. "We can go together?" he suggested. "After the holidays sometime. It'll be nice to get away from London for a while." He glanced back over at his flatmate to see a look of surprise now.
"You'd do that?" Sherlock asked.
John smiled. "Of course I would, you great git." John reached up to ruffle Sherlock's messy curls before letting his hand fall again.
Sherlock smiled and relaxed back against John. "That would be nice," he said.
"So, what do you want to do for Christmas tomorrow?" John asked. It would be just the two of them. Mrs. Hudson had left before the storm to reach her sister's house and would most likely be staying there until the all clear had sounded.
"We could re-enact that cold case Lestrade sent me the other day?" Sherlock smiled.
John thought back to the case. It had been a five-year-old case that had been dropped because while they had a suspect, there was nothing tying him to the murder. It had been a man supposedly strangled with tinsel and left to freeze in a full size ice chest. John seriously hoped they could leave the freezing part out of the re-enactment, but smiled and nodded. "As long as we can have some eggnog at some point then it sounds good to me!"
Sherlock grinned again and seemed to bounce a little with excitement. "Excellent."
John giggled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."
"Happy Christmas, John."
A/N: This was inspired by a picture on tumblr. doublenegativemeansyes dot tumblr dot com/image/69783120162
BBC Sherlock (c) Mark Gatiss & Stephen Moffet