John had just finished paying for the take-away when Sherlock arrived home. In silence he swept through the door, leaving the blond doctor to follow up the stairs in his wake.
"Did you get your experiment completed?" John asked as he moved into the kitchen and started dividing the food between two trays.
Sherlock hummed distractedly while he flicked through his post, then flung it onto his desk and slumped into his chair.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." Looking mildly puzzled John handed his flatmate a tray, then sat down with his own and waited expectantly.
Sad grey eyes turned his way. "What was Christmas like when you were a child?"
John wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. He thought briefly, then smiled.
"We used to buy a real tree, and decorate it the first weekend in December." He said, his eyes distant, remembering. "God, the pine needles got everywhere; in our clothes, trampled all around the house, but the smell of a real tree, and mum's cooking….."
"Fun then?"
"It was wonderful. Me and Harry…" he glanced across, waiting for the grammar correction that never came. "…we would be awake at an ungodly hour, and opening the little gifts in our stockings."
"What about your parents?"
"They encouraged us, made everything magical and bright."
