The 12 Days Of Christmas

Day 8 - 21st December, 2014

Sherlock's flight wasn't until the afternoon and with nothing else to do with the morning, he decided it was worth checking up on some unfinished business.

It wasn't all that hard to break into the Met. Police Station, probably easier than it should have been.

Even though Sherlock didn't generally think as highly of himself as he pretended, he still couldn't help wondering what they were going to do without him around. There were very few competent detectives around, except maybe Lestrade.

He imagined he'd get a phone call on Christmas day telling him that England had fallen into the sea.

He had to resort to these crass methods to get to the morgue considering he wasn't technically on staff anymore so no one was obligated to let him see anything.

Because it was a Sunday and nearly Christmas there were very few officers there, Sherlock didn't have a hard time sneaking down to the morgue.

Sherlock perched on one of the metal tables and stared at the wound on Eileen Baileys arm. He couldn't get the bad feeling out of his stomach, it wasn't like him to leave a case in the middle.

Could he just go to America with the possibility of foul play in England?

Did he really value his career over justice that much?

Sherlock shook his head, these were the times he really needed to keep himself in check. To make sure he didn't accidentally become the image he had created for himself.

Taking his phone from his coat pocket and removing one glove, Sherlock made two phone calls.

The first was to Molly Hooper, who was less than happy to be awoken early on a Sunday but more agreeable when she heard Sherlock's voice on the other end of the phone.

The second was to the airport, this phone call took slightly longer.

John sat on his living room floor, using his coffee table as a rest to write his Christmas cards out on.

He'd already showered and changed which was unlike him on a Sunday. But then who was to say that his boss wasn't going to call him in with some other random article.

To Mum, merry Christmas and... He slipped it into the envelope and wrote her name on the front.

Dear June and Chris... This one required a stamp.

To Mike + family, sorry you couldn't make it...Sealed and addressed.

To Sherlock...John stopped suddenly and looked at the card he was writing out. He shook his head at himself, Sherlock was gone. What was he going to do? Mail a Christmas card to America?

It wasn't like he could even give it to him next year. John was probably never going to see him again.

John stared at the card for a long time, suddenly plunged into an in-explainable depression.

John carefully picked up the pen and gently wrote something below Sherlock's name. He stared at his words sadly for a moment.

Then, deciding he wasn't allowed to be sad at Christmas, quickly seized the card and promptly ripped it in two.

He stood and walked into the kitchen, throwing the two halves of the card into the small waste paper bin in the corner before walking back into the sitting room, plopping back down on the floor and continuing with his list.

Once all the Christmas cards were done, John worked out a route he could deliver all the near ones on, realising he could do with the exercise after a weekend of lazing around and eating fast food.

As he descended the stairs and stepped out into the snow he was unceremoniously reminded of running down them after Sherlock the previous night, and all the feelings of melancholy he'd experienced last night came racing back to him.

Stop thinking about Sherlock Holmes.

He really, really did want to stop thinking about Sherlock, but more than anything, he wished that he still hated him. He wished he'd never gotten to know the sweet, honest, comfortable Sherlock.

But then at exactly the same time he was glad that he'd had the chance.

He shook his head. He guessed the one thing he really was going to miss about the detective was just seeing his face. Irritatingly, he'd gotten used to his company despite the fact they'd only known each other a few days.

It had been a good few days, though.

It had made him feel less lonely at Christmas time.

John returned home and spent the rest of the day doing various chores and errands he hadn't been able to get done in his hectic week.

He wondered momentarily what he was going to do for the evening when he suddenly remembered that his presence was required at the Met. Christmas party.

He sighed loudly to himself.

Perfect. He thought. This never bloody ends.

John begrudgingly took his suit from his wardrobe and, judging that it was fancy enough, threw it on before lounging on his sofa for a while, wondering what incurable disease he could fake so he wouldn't have to go.

When the time came, John phoned a cab and when he stepped outside it was pitch black and snowing again despite the fact it was early evening.

"Thought it was supposed to get lighter on the 21st." He said cheerily to the cabbie.

"Who knows with the weather these days," the cabbie responded, "did you hear about the poor sod found in the snow?"

"Yeah," said John. "Sad, really sad."

John gave the cabbie a little Christmas tip when they arrived and walked into the Met., knowing the way now.

He almost physically recoiled when he saw the change to the break room. It wasn't the simple, almost sterile room it had been a week ago. It was now lavishly decorated with black and white decorations and looked like some suave debonair set from a film from the 20s. John was almost saddened because all the men weren't wearing fedoras.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Said a voice beside him.

John turned to see Greg Lestrade offering him a glass of champagne. "Oh, Greg. Hi, place looks amazing," he said. "Thanks." He accepted the glass.

"Thanks for coming," said Lestrade.

"Thanks for inviting us," John replied, taking a sip.

"It's the least we can do. Can't wait to read your article."

Oh yeah. The article.

John merely smiled.

"Well, enjoy yourself." Said Lestrade, moving away.

When he was gone, John made a face at himself. He really needed to finish the damn article, it was due in a few days.

He turned around to see if he could spot anyone he knew, Sarah maybe, Gregson at the worst, refusing to stand on his own all evening like an idiot.

John could swear he saw a familiar face on the other side of the room and had to do a double take when he saw Sherlock stood talking a woman.

He stood stock still for a few moments, unsure of what to do with himself.

Sherlock was here, here and now and...

Without thinking, John practically ran the distance of the room to the detective.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He asked without thinking, apparently everything except "Sherlock is here" going completely out of the window.

"John." Said Sherlock, a smile breaking out across his face, immediately turning him into the same Sherlock from the previous day.

Then, the smile was gone and he turned to the woman. "Molly, could you give us a moment?" He asked, voice an octave deeper.

She nodded. "Yeah, of course." She said before moving away, Sherlock turned his attentions back to John, smiling again.

"I couldn't leave." He told him.

"You couldn't?" Asked John hopefully.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not without knowing what happened to the woman in the morgue."

Oh.

"Y...yeah, yeah, of course." John agreed, forcing the smile to stay on his face. "You...delayed your flight?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, they had to move me to another airport a few hundred miles away, but I'm not leaving until the 24th."

John felt the pit in his stomach reopen. Sherlock was still leaving, but he was here now. John couldn't help but be grateful for it.

So much so that he decided to tell Sherlock what he had kept to himself yesterday.

"I'm glad you're here." John told him truthfully.

Sherlock smiled his response and John couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed until that moment just how beautiful he actually was, he was dressed up in a tuxedo and the lighting was playing off of his hair.

It made him happy but at the same time it broke his heart. You're in too deep, John Watson. For something that isn't going to happen.

The evening passed in relative comfort and John was glad he didn't actually pretend to have bird flu so he didn't have to come.

John wasn't sure if spending the evening in Sherlock's presence was a blessing or a curse, because he was grateful he got to see him but he knew it would just hurt even more when he left again.

So when it got to about half ten in the evening, John wasn't sure if he was happy to call it a night or not.

"I should probably get a cab." He finally said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't bother, I'll drive you back."

Cut this off, cut this off right now.

Sherlock smiled at him.

I can't.

"Okay."

It had never occurred to John that Sherlock actually drove, now he thought about it, it sounded a little silly but it wasn't something that had actually occurred to him before.

John kept his eyes on the front of the road as Sherlock steered, unsure what he supposed to say.

When they got back to John's flat, John knew that he shouldn't have invited Sherlock up but he would have felt guilty if he didn't.

When the pair were stood inside his kitchen, John was saved from the silence by the sudden overwhelming need to pee.

He excused himself to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock began to pace around the small kitchen, asking himself exactly what he was doing there. He knew this was ridiculous, he'd already said goodbye to John Watson and that had been painful enough, he didn't need to do it to himself again.

Plus, he didn't necessarily want to force his company on a man who looked like he had been trying to squirm his way out of Sherlock's presence since he'd seen him.

Sherlock toyed with the idea of just leaving but knew John would never forgive him. But would John care?

Sherlock skimmed his hand along the side of the sink, trying to pin down his feelings once and for all.

What did he want from John Watson? Why did he feel this way about him? What was the point if John didn't...

He cursed as he accidentally upturned a half full glass of water. Sherlock watched as the liquid dripped out onto the counter top. He quickly righted the glass and ripped off a wad of paper towels from a roll John had on the side.

He mopped up the water quickly and balled up the sodden towels, walking over to the bin to throw them inside.

Then he saw his name, written in pen on a piece of paper.

Unhygienic though it was, Sherlock fished the slip of paper out of the bin. The bit of paper, it turned out, was half a Christmas card addressed to him.

To Sherlock

all I want for Christmas is you

Everything changed. Seven words changed everything.

Sherlock knew, how couldn't he know, what John Watson meant to him.

John Watson meant more to him than anyone ever had.

Than he'd ever allowed himself to believe.

Sherlock looked up as he heard the toilet flush and saw John walking down the hallway to him.

John halted in his step when he saw what Sherlock was holding, knowing exactly what it said.

Sherlock straightened up and their eyes met.

"Nothing gets past you." John said quietly.

"It wasn't just the woman," Sherlock said. "That wasn't the only reason I stayed."

John walked up to him like an automaton and took the card from Sherlock's hand and placed it on the side.

John turned back to the detective, Sherlock suddenly looked so scared, like a deer caught in the headlights.

John resisted the temptation to smile, not because it was funny, but because he simply couldn't fathom seeing such an obnoxious man looking like a startled rabbit because of him.

Tentatively, John reached out a hand and took Sherlock's. Sherlock nearly recoiled when he felt his somewhat cool skin come into contact with John's. Staring down at their fingers, Sherlock slowly entwined them together, mesmerized by the way they fit.

John watched Sherlock staring down at their hands and bravely placed a hand against Sherlock's cheek. The contact seemed to startle the detective, whose eyes darted towards the journalist, looking wild and alive. Pulling John into him, Sherlock pressed his lips to his.

John untangled their hands and ran a hand through Sherlock's soft curls, moving his fingers until they curled around the detectives neck. John pulled Sherlock down and deepened the kiss. Sherlock, it seemed, was quite happy to be manhandled this way. He responded to each of John's caresses and kisses like an animal learning to walk for the first time. After a few moments, John felt Sherlock tentatively slide a hand around his waist and pull his body tighter against him. They stayed like that until they became a tangle of limbs, unable to differentiate between each other anymore.

Sherlock pulled away from the kiss slowly, John could feel his warm breath ghosting over his sensitive lips and quickly leant up and kissed him again, capturing Sherlock's mouth with his own.

"You're so beautiful," Sherlock whispered across his mouth, John groaned.

John took one hand from Sherlock's neck and pushed his coat off of one shoulder. Sherlock, seeming to find his footing at last, retracted his hands from around John's waist and took his coat off quickly, letting it fall to the floor before his hands were immediately at John's waist again, lifting him with surprising strength until John was forced to wrap his legs around Sherlock's waist.

The pair collapsed onto John's bed, John's legs still wrapped tightly around Sherlock.

"Sherlock..." John moaned brokenly.

Sherlock silenced him with another kiss.