The Two Gifts, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: Written for mylittlecornerofsherlock for the Exchangelock 2014 Holiday Exchange on Tumblr, and very, very belatedly finished and posted now. My prompt was: "Fluff or angst to fluff of some sort. Christmas Day and frosted windows, a love confession."

When Mrs. Hudson sees John leave the flat, his hands in his jacket pockets and his shoulders hunched up near his ears, she tells herself, oh, it's just the cold, it's just a chilly sort of day. She hasn't heard any unusual noises from upstairs. No hint of a row. And sometimes John's thoughtfulness reads like anger or frustration on the outside, true; she's made that mistake before. Lost in thought herself, she stands by the window and watches him until he's turned around the corner and disappeared. Then she lets her curtain fall down again and returns to fixing lunch. Christmas is fast approaching but there has not yet been any snow.

Sherlock hears the door to the flat close, abruptly and unexpectedly, but he doesn't look up. His eyebrows twitch, briefly. It's an odd hour for John to be going out. Or maybe it isn't. Maye he's simply lost track of the hour himself. Either way. His posture remains the same: upright in his chair, both feet on the floor, his hands pressed together and his fingertips at his lips. His eyes are sometimes open, sometimes closed, but it hardly matters, as he's thinking much too deeply to be worried about sight. Memory, for now, is more important than observation. But he will have to tell John later that he understands now, the difficulty of writing. Explaining one's own life and one's own feelings was much more challenging than he'd imagined, not at all like cataloguing different sorts of ash or various categories of fibre, simple objective things.

John returns at six, with takeaway for dinner in two large paper bags. Walking up the stairs, he'd schooled his face not to show his disappointment or his fatigue—it's been a long day and he's got nothing to show for it—but Sherlock, he finds, is in the same position he was in four long hours ago, and he doesn't seem to notice John's arrival. Maybe he never even noticed John had left. Good to know, that. John sets the food down on the table, then presses his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, as he's not got it in him today to settle for just a simple tap, and says, "I've brought Chinese. Ready to leave the mind palace for a while?"

Sherlock reacts more to the touch than to the words, looks up wide-eyed, and almost uncomprehending, and finally nods.

Molly used to be confused, and slightly off-put, disconcerted, when Sherlock showed up at the morgue for no reason: not to ask for any favours, but just to observe her, he said. She used to get her hopes up about it. She used to think today might be the day, and spend the whole day working up her courage to ask him to lunch. But she doesn't think that way anymore. Every time Sherlock opens his mouth it's to ask about John, to say something about John.

In truth, it doesn't bother her anymore.

"I don't think my Christmas gift to him is going to work out," Sherlock admits, watching as she separates human tissues, as she pokes body parts, and makes her notes. Molly wonders if he would be bothered, if she interrupted his work this way. Maybe, maybe not. Probably. She debates the question in her head but still listens, juggling, multi-tasking. Nodding at the right moments.

"Well, do you have any other ideas?" she asks. Maybe it's an obvious question, but Sherlock doesn't say so, or complain.

"No. Nothing."

"Then you'll have to make the first idea work."

She glances over to see his face, wondering if he's about to remind her that he's not looking for such obvious advice, and for a moment she's quite sure that's exactly what he'll say. But instead he says, "Mmmm," and drums his fingers against the table top, and looks away. "Yes, I suppose so," he mumbles.

Sherlock spends most of Christmas Eve in his room. John leaves early in the morning—not sure if Sherlock is awake yet or not, he doesn't say goodbye—and isn't home until late. Perhaps they are having a row, Mrs. Hudson considers. But she hopes she's wrong. A row at Christmas! That would be unfortunate indeed.

"Going out again?" Sherlock asks, so suddenly, and without moving, and without even looking up, that John jumps a little where he stands. Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table and staring down at a piece of paper. There's a pen next to it but his hands are in his lap, folded, a bit prim.

"Oh—ah—yes," John manages, at last. He'd been halfway through putting on his coat. Now he finishes, adjusting the collar where it folded in over itself. "Yes, going out. Won't be long."

"It is Christmas." Sherlock looks up. This might be, John thinks, his nervous expression. "You can't spend the whole day out."

"I'm not. I just said I won't be long."

He wants to lean over and kiss Sherlock on the cheek, or on the top of his head. Those curls must be very soft, easy to twirl around one's finger, pull one straight and watch as it bounces back into place—

If Sherlock's said something, John hasn't heard, he has to shake his head free of vague fantasies and say again, "I promise," sternly, to them both, before he leaves.

They've put up a small tree this year but there are no gifts underneath. Sherlock has stuck a letter between the branches: a thin and discreet white envelope with the flap tucked in, not sealed, almost invisible. One must look carefully, one must observe to find it. He's not sure John will even notice but it's only this thought that gives him courage to set it out in the first place, hidden in plain sight. Like something out of Poe. He smiles softly. Then steps back and looks over the tree again, and decides that it's just right. It's perfect.

But John still isn't home.

Mrs. Hudson's gift to them is Christmas dinner downstairs in her flat, so there's no food to prepare and no table to set, which is the sort of busy work he'd actually appreciate at this particular moment, to save him from pacing. There are, of course, no cases. He could pick up his violin but he's too tense even for that. And John is still not home, not even visible through the window. The sky is dark and overcast, grey with almost-snow. Sherlock hasn't been outside yet today but he knows it's frigid, and John will come home bone-cold and needing to warm up. Perhaps he should boil some water and have some tea waiting. That's the sort of small gesture people tend to appreciate. But he doesn't want to start too early and have only cold tea to offer (somehow that seems worse than nothing at all), so he just keeps watching out the window, waiting.

The bitter cold has left patterns of frost on the pane, beautiful clear overlays of cold in bright geometric patterns. John might say they look like trees or leaves. But to Sherlock they resemble some mathematical formula made tangible and real. Examining them takes him away from his feelings, and his worries.

A touch to his shoulder makes him jump.

"Sorry, sorry," John says quickly, smiling, putting up his hands. "I've been trying to get your attention—very deep in thought this time, are you?"

"Yes," Sherlock mumbles. "I suppose so." John is here and real and everything seems very close. He should take the letter out of the tree. Quickly, subtly, so that John doesn't notice. The words he wrote are coming back to him, scattered and disordered:

Dear John, I am writing this letter to tell you how important you are to me. This is much harder to put into words than I'd imagined…

…Your kindness, intelligence, bravery, and strength astound me. The most unanswerable mystery of my career is how I could have attracted such a person as my friend…

…But in truth, John, I have a selfish reason for writing to you this way. There are many things I wish to say face to face but I cannot. I don't want my true feelings for you to push you away…

He feels as if he's said all of this already, and the words can't be taken back or the embarrassment they've caused, they're certainly going to cause, undone. The sensation that follows is one of claustrophobia, the slow tightening of his world in around himself—an inability to breathe.

"Have I lost you again?"

And John's voice cutting through.

"Sherlock?" it repeats. "Hey, don't want to interrupt any important thoughts here—but your Christmas present is downstairs. I'll bring it up in a minute, I just wanted to warn you, as it isn't wrapped. It isn't the sort of thing one can wrap... Well, you'll see."

An embarrassingly long moment passes before the sense of the words settles into his mind, and he comes back into the present again. "Ah. Of course." Should he point out where John's gift is, too? John is looking at him with a confused, uncertain expression, edging into worried. "I'm fine," Sherlock promises and smiles a bright and happy and not quite true smile. "I am. Really. Where's this gift?"

John had despaired of finding the perfect dog, had despaired of the idea of a perfect dog, which had begun to sound like some silly fantasy anyway, when he found the little floppy-eared pup with soft brown fur and big round eyes. That was the one. He seemed to like John too, licking his face and scrambling over him as soon as John picked him up. John knew Sherlock would love him.

Now, with the dog downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat, and Sherlock acting so strange, almost guilty, first standing eerily still and then pacing with contagious nerves, John feels less certain. A live present is a big risk, after all. If Sherlock is displeased, where will the dog go? But there isn't anything to be done about it now. He can only go forward.

When he comes down to get the dog, he finds it in a playful mood, encouraged by Mrs. Hudson, no doubt, and it's a bit of a challenge to pick the wriggling little body up and carry it back up the stairs. "Sherlock!" he calls, as he comes back into the room. "Say hello to our new flatmate."

Sherlock is so shocked that for a moment that he can only stare (as John, terrified he's made a big mistake, forces a big fake grin on his face, staving off the moment of angry rejection)—until without warning, he steps forward, and takes the happy little dog into his arms.

Their first greeting is just what John hoped it would be. Sherlock collapses down in his chair, grinning like a little kid, laughing and happy, while the puppy licks him and paws at him and wags his tiny tail. John can't remember the last time he's seen anyone look so purely joyful.

"What's his name?" Sherlock manages, finally, around large, deep breaths of air. They've both calmed down a little, but John sees excitement still in the movements of the puppy's tail and in Sherlock's dopey, persistent, grin. John perches on the arm of the chair, just to be closer to them both.

"He doesn't have one yet," John answers. "I thought you could name him."

Sherlock just hums, looking at the puppy's oversized feet and silky ears. "I could name him after you. But I think having two Johns around the flat would be too confusing."

"A bit confusing, yeah." He's not sure if he should be flattered, or amused at the joke, or if it even was a joke—something about Sherlock's tone tells him that the remark was quite serious. And Sherlock is still looking at the dog as if he's just fallen utterly in love. John hesitates. Then he touches Sherlock's shoulder, waits for Sherlock to look up and meet his gaze, and says, quietly, "You know I'm not going anywhere, right? This dog isn't a replacement for me."

"Of course. I know." Sherlock's eyes narrow, and John wonders if he's said something utterly stupid. "I'm not an idiot."

"I know."

The pause between them lasts too long for comfort, utter stillness except the puppy's jerky, excited movements on Sherlock's lap, and the way Sherlock pets him, in a gentle and familiar rhythm as if the two were old, dear friends. John opens his mouth to say he's sorry, because it really was a stupid thing to say, when Sherlock cuts him off with a sudden, quiet, "I love you."

If the words surprise John, that is nothing compared to the effect they have on Sherlock, who had intended to say no such thing until his tongue just formed the phrase. The terror sweeps over him again suddenly. He's really ruined things now. John is just staring at him. His face is blank. Sherlock can't read his reaction and it's frightening, unnerving. Is it too late to go back, to claim he'd said something else?

And when John starts to smile, Sherlock is so convinced he's being laughed at that he almost picks up his dog and stands up and just leaves, just to stave off the humiliation he's sure will come.

"You can stop looking at me like that," John grins. "You are a bit of an idiot, actually. I love you, too."

"I mean love as in—"

"As in I'd like to kiss you now?"

The dog gets a bit in the way, and the angle isn't quite right, and Sherlock didn't think he'd be leaning up into his first kiss with John, if he'd ever really let himself think he'd have a first kiss with John at all. It was really more like a fantasy, half formed and half admitted. And he never could have created this. He has one hand on John's chest, his fingers curled slightly into John's jumper, and John's fingers are in his curls, and they find their balance quickly, like old pros. Sherlock doesn't ever want to pull away.

When John does, for air, and to smile in the most surprising, shy way, Sherlock tries to follow him. He doesn't even realize he's stretching forward and reaching for John's kiss again. John seems to find it endearing, and he nudges Sherlock over so they can squash together in his chair, the unnamed puppy settling on both of their laps.

"We should have done this on the couch," Sherlock notes. His voice comes out very serious and sombre, which is funny, because his heart is pounding and his stomach and chest are filled with something fluttery and wild.

"Next time," John answers, with a decisive little nod.

Next time.

The flurrying increases.

After an extended discussion, in which Sherlock argues quite strenuously that the dog's name should be Hamish, and John provides any number of frankly silly alternatives in response—no, John, we won't be naming him 'Bluebell,' that's not funny—they settle on Arthur, a stout, proper name that seems to fit the pup better when he tires himself out from exploring his new home and settles down, all curled up, near the fireplace. "We'll have to train him to stay off the furniture," John says. Sherlock's quite sure that won't be happening.

"Yes, of course. We could buy him a dog bed," Sherlock suggests.

He'll need other things, of course: food, a dog dish, a leash. John says he has some essentials downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, but he'd left most of the pleasure of shopping to Sherlock. Sherlock pretends this doesn't matter to him. But he's quite pleased.

As they're preparing to go downstairs for dinner, Sherlock catches sight of the tree, the thin envelope sticking out between the branches. Will everything he wrote sound silly to John now? "I, uh—" He hesitates; John turns and looks at him, waiting, expectant. "I still haven't given you my gift. I suppose it might be anti-climactic now. It's not as exciting as a puppy." He plucks the letter out from its hiding place and holds it out to John. "And I think you already know everything it says by now."

The look of confusion on John's face slides away and transforms to clear, bright, understanding, a lovely, secure calm. He looks so handsome that Sherlock's breath catches again.

"I look forward to reading every word."

John insists on watching Christmas movies after dinner, because it's festive and the sort of thing people normally do, but Sherlock doesn't argue too much about it, about how they aren't normal, about how John is beautifully abnormal. He spends the first half of the film with his head on John's lap, his arm hanging over the edge of the couch and petting Arthur's silky fur absently. (Arthur is a friendly animal, and he seems to like their company. He's moved from the fireplace to the floor by the sofa, just to be with them) By the time of the thrilling conclusion—Sherlock assumes it must be thrilling—he's climbed onto John's lap, completely, egregiously, blocking John's view of the screen, and is distracting him with kisses and sweet, mostly incoherent, words.

"I still haven't opened your gift," John whispers against Sherlock's collar bone, the credits starting to roll in the background.

Yes, his gift. His letter, his painstaking words. They seem silly now and, embarrassed, he tries to duck his head and keep his expression from John's view. There is no dinner to distract him this time. It wouldn't be very mature, would it, to hide in the bathroom until John finished?

"You should read it to me," John murmurs into the shell of Sherlock's ear. This would seem a very cruel suggestion, if John's voice weren't so soft and so quietly sincere. Still, Sherlock wants to shake his head no, no he doesn't think so, no, that wouldn't be a good idea. John takes Sherlock's face in his hands.

"Please," he adds, very low, right against Sherlock's lips. And Sherlock is sold.

If John knows just how to manipulate Sherlock, Arthur knows perfectly how to manipulate them both. He's already broken the no-dog-on-the-furniture-rule, and with utter impunity, finding a bit of unused blanket at the corner of the bed on which to settle, as he watches John rest his head on Sherlock's chest. John's eyes are open, but Sherlock is pretending they're closed because it makes it easier to read without becoming self-conscious at the sound of his own voice. John rubs circles against Sherlock's hip as he listens.

"…But in truth, John, I have a selfish reason for writing to you this way. There are many things I wish to say face to face but I cannot. I don't want my true feelings for you to push you away—"

"I don't think that's going to happen," John murmurs.

"Shush." He pretends to be cross. He sounds like he's smiling. "I don't want my true feelings for you to push you away. I have never felt happier, or more—complete." A pause, Sherlock hardly daring to admit that his voice has started to tremble. John waits patiently, not forcing anything. "More complete than during our time as flatmates. And friends." He remembers being embarrassed to write the word, as if John would read it and scoff at the very notion of friendship between them. It was a real fear, deep in the centre of him. "You mean more to me than anyone I have ever met. I want your happiness more than I want my own. You are brave, strong, exciting, intelligent, and good. You make me good, or at least—you make me better. I'm still working on being good."

John makes a vague noise, as if he were about to protest. Perhaps the sound itself is his protest, because though Sherlock pauses, and looks down, John offers no more commentary. Sherlock seems to feel it flowing through him, though, seeping in from every spot where his body touches John's: reassurance; you are good.

"It's taken me a long time," he starts again slowly, "to understand these feelings. You are the most complex, most puzzling mystery I've ever encountered, and I will never solve you. But I would be honoured to spend the rest of my life trying. I care for you very much. I love you—in every sense." He has to pause to take a long, shaky, breath, because he's never said this aloud, never prepared for this moment, this spoken confession, and the words feel more momentous on his tongue than they appeared even written in solid black ink on the page.

"I love you," John repeats, "in every sense." He takes the paper out of Sherlock's hands and sets it on the bedside table, safe and out of reach. He pulls himself upright, just a little bit, and then leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips. Telegraphed far in advance, all of John's movements underwater slow, it still comes as a surprise. The knowledge that John likes to kiss him is still new. There seems no room for it yet. It is too novel and too strange and just a little too right.

But he won't complain.

If it takes him the rest of his life to learn how to deserve this, how to feel safe and secure in his own happiness, it's a challenge he'll gladly take on. John is kissing his nose now, and his cheeks, and his chin, and his lips one more time. Arthur has started making quiet noises in his sleep, his feet and ears twitching with an imaginary chase, and outside it has started to snow.