A/N: I realize this fic is completely out of season. Considering it took me over a year to finish writing, I think posting it only four months after the season is an accomplishment worthy of congratulations. This story is already complete, and chapters will be posted at least weekly, possibly more often. This was based on a prompt at one of the Sherlock Holmes kink memes, to rewrite A Christmas Carol with the cast of Sherlock. Assume a post-Reichenbach/post-Empty House reunion, although not exactly a BBC canon compliant world. And yeah, I tried not to, but there are some Sherlock/John undertones. (I really can't help it, they want to be together so much, it happens even when I don't mean it too)
1
"Why doesn't he answer?" Sherlock flopped onto the sofa in disgust, his mobile clutched tightly in his hand.
"Who's that?" John asked. He didn't look up from the newspaper he was reading; it wasn't necessary for him to know that Sherlock was sulking about something. He and Sherlock had done this dance enough times for him to know the steps.
"Lestrade. I've texted him twice about the Elliot case, but he hasn't answered. What could possibly be more important than a murderer on the loose?" Sherlock huffed and tucked his legs under him, mobile balanced precariously on one knee.
"You are kidding," John said, finally lowering his paper. Sherlock merely frowned. "What could possibly be more important, today, than a five year old murder case?"
"Yes, precisely. The Yard is obviously incapable of apprehending the culprit. I've handed them their man on a platter, is it too much trouble to text back a response?"
"Sherlock, I realize this is probably a stupid, no, I realize you will likely think this a stupid question, but do you know what day this is?" John folded his paper and placed it on the arm of his chair. He knew the answer, knew Sherlock didn't and was preparing himself for what was sure to be an argument.
"Friday, John." Honestly, Sherlock thought, and he concerns himself over my sanity?
"And the date?"
"24th December. Oh. Oh. Christmas, yes of course. How irritating." Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, hands pressed together and resting on his chin. "I suppose it will be at least two days before Lestrade responds. Out of town, naturally, visiting with his children. Tedious."
"How can you, seriously? Christmas with his children is tedious?" John knew Sherlock had been consumed by the Elliot case since Lestrade had indicated new evidence might have been found, and had expected that Sherlock had simply forgotten the date. But to dislike Christmas?
"Tedious, yes, exactly. Gifts that will be forgotten or broken in a week's time, more money than can reasonably be afforded to buy said gifts, alcohol fueled fights, crazed shoppers, weary travelers, children in various states of sugar induced ecstasy and screaming exhaustion, tiresome family obligations. Tell me, John, what specifically about that should I not find tedious?"
John gaped. He didn't even know where to start with that statement. It wasn't that anything, or well, everything Sherlock had said wasn't true. But that was exactly the point. You put up with all of that, the crazed shopping and the last minute changes of plan and the crying and shouting because when Christmas actually happened, that moment when you felt it, none of that mattered. Christmas was something you felt.
Well, there's the problem right there. I don't think Sherlock ever lets himself feel anything. John had heard the sociopath line thrown at people by Sherlock more than once, but he knew it just wasn't true. It was convenient for him, a way to stop people trying to reach him. John wasn't sure Sherlock would ever understand about Christmas; it was something you had to let in.
"You don't celebrate Christmas, then?" He decided to stick to facts, talking to Sherlock about feelings was only an invitation to be humiliated.
"Mycroft will undoubtedly invite me to join him for Christmas dinner. It is a family obligation I have been able to avoid…more recently."
If John hadn't known Sherlock so well, he might have missed the slight pause. John had deduced that their mother had passed away, though he never mentioned it. Just as easily, he deduced that this would not be a prudent time to bring it up.
John was spared having to respond by a knock on the door. John barely had time to consider that the knock sounded sharper than Mrs. Hudson's normally light tap, perhaps a bit like wood on wood before the door was opened. When Mycroft stepped into the room, John allowed himself a tiny smile. He was getting better at the details, if not at the speed he could assimilate them.
Sherlock rolled over on the sofa and curled himself into a ball. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in consternation at his brother's antics and greeted John instead.
"Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson."
"John, please, Mycroft. And to you as well, of course," John stood and offered Mycroft his hand. "Can I get you something? Cup of tea?" He knew Mycroft wasn't used to a civilized reception when he visited Sherlock, and as much as it was simply ingrained in John to be polite, he did enjoy keeping Mycroft slightly off-balance whenever possible.
"Thank you, John, no. I've come to invite my brother to Christmas dinner, which you already know, and to be turned down, rudely, if past experience is any indication." Mycroft turned to Sherlock, or Sherlock's back as it were, and addressed him. "Shall we commence, Sherlock? I have several rather pressing matters to attend to before I am able to allow my staff to join their families."
"That's thoughtful of you," John commented.
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. He rose from the sofa; John was never sure how he managed to make himself look so fluid, almost as if he simply flowed into a standing position. "You know precisely how the conversation will transpire, yet you still insist on traversing London to see me when you could have completed your pressing matters an hour ago. That hardly seems considerate. In point of fact, you are wasting everyone's time on such a foolish errand."
"I will never consider it foolish, Sherlock, to extend a kindness to my brother," Mycroft said, although John thought he detected a note of hurt in his tone. No doubt this had been done for many years.
"As you say," Sherlock said, unperturbed as ever.
"Mummy would have wanted you home for Christmas, Sherlock," Mycroft said gently. Sherlock bristled.
"Then perhaps it is well that Mummy isn't here to be disappointed. Good day, Mycroft." Sherlock didn't wait for a response, merely swept gracefully from the room. He didn't even deign to slam his bedroom door, but chose instead to shut it purposefully, with a snick that somehow managed to sound disdainful.
"I am sorry, John, that you had to witness another family disagreement." Mycroft apologized, although from what John had witnessed he'd done nothing wrong.
"No, it's fine," John said. He sighed and wondered how many years of uncomfortable silences he and Harry would endure over Christmas dinner before descending into a similar scene. "Does he ever accept?"
"Not since Mummy passed," Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor before fixing John with his normally mild expression. "I trust you and your sister will have a pleasant dinner together."
"How did, no, stupid of me to ask. Well, Mycroft, I hope you have a pleasant day as well, even without Sherlock there."
Mycroft nodded and took his leave. John sat and waited for Sherlock to come out of his room, but there was no appearance made by the consulting detective. Well, John thought, I'm not going to sit around the flat all day waiting for him to get over this snit with his brother.
"Sherlock?" John knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door. "Mycroft's gone. You can come out." John got no response. He huffed a bit, and hoped he might be able to pull him out of his sulk. "I'm going to head out to the shops, see if I can't find something for Mrs. Hudson. You're welcome to come along, if you'd like." There was still no answer. "You know Sherlock, if you keep this up, some day there won't be anyone to even invite you to join in their Christmas plans."
John left the flat, and never noticed the pale green light under Sherlock's door when he did.