Chapter Eleven
A Christmas Interlude

John struggled to find a gift for Sherlock; the man never seemed to want for anything. He had multitudes of science equipment and John wouldn't know where to begin looking for something new. He had thought about a new scarf for a while, but dismissed the idea quickly – the scarf Sherlock had was of excellent quality. It was thick and warm, the fabric was soft and the colour suited him. The scarf had become a part of him, just like his coat, and John knew no item of clothing he could afford would be worth it. A new bow might have been considered a good present, but John knew next to nothing about string instruments, having only played the clarinet in school, and Sherlock seemed quite attached to the one he already had.

As Christmas drew closer and John made yet another trip to Tesco's for various food/experiment items (he had made sure Sherlock knew that those were very separate categories), he thought desperately about giving him a gift card, or even just money, because then it would be out of his hands and Sherlock could do whatever the hell he wanted with it. John stopped briefly at the lights, checking his watch and glancing around at the various desperate shoppers searching for last-minute gifts. A businessman marched into a stationary shop, a harried mother being dragged by two children reluctantly entered a sweet shop and a young woman smiled at her boyfriend as she coerced him into the pet store.

The crossing light blinked on, but John ignored it.

Could he? Did he dare to?

John's lips stretched into a wide smile.

"You're fantastic, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered and kissed her cheek. She chuckled softly and tapped him on the arm.
"It was nothing, dear, I'm happy to help," she returned fondly, then hastened to add, "But I'm not your housekeeper."

John smiled at the familiar reminder.

"Would you be able to keep it here until Christmas? It's just if I bring it up there he'll know right away and I'd like to keep it a secret for as long as possible."
"Of course, but it's not my fault if he figures it out from the way I'm standing, or something ridiculous like that. Goodness knows he's probably got all the different fabrics they use lined up in that funny little head of his. I'm sure I don't know how he does it."
"Nor do I, Mrs. Hudson. Nor do I."

A thumping came from upstairs and they both looked at the ceiling.

"I'd better go and make sure he's not setting fire to anything."
"It's coming out of the rent if he does," she warned, but it had an exasperated affection to it.

John grinned and kissed her cheek again, before running up the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock! Put that down!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she put John's gift away and busied herself making tea. Her tenants were more than a little bit crazy, but they were both dear to her, and she didn't know what she'd do without them.

Sherlock was having a surprisingly difficult time figuring out what John wanted. Of course, there was no end to things that John wanted, but it was proving much harder than he'd originally thought to find the right gift. He could get John another jumper, he mused. The man was certainly fond enough of them (though he personally had no idea why), but it seemed impersonal. John seemed to want a girlfriend, if the constant glances and appraisals of all the women passing by were any indication, but Sherlock's powers only went so far (and besides…no). Perhaps a new tea set? But no, they'd agreed not to have anything too expensive, because Sherlock's experiments swallowed up all kinds of things and John had told him firmly he could replace anything he broke (though that never really happened, because Sherlock was lazy and John couldn't live without tea).

It was in one of many moments of brilliance that the idea came to him. It was simple, but even simple things could be a good idea, Sherlock supposed. He cringed a little. Sometimes.

But John would appreciate it, he knew, and that was the important thing (this time).

John kept glancing at their bush as he puttered around the flat (there really was no better word for it; he simply puttered, and it quite amused Sherlock, if he were honest). Sherlock had kept his present in the packaging, so all John could see was a rectangular prism wrapped in paper with skulls on it. He left the living room to tidy the kitchen for a few minutes, but soon puttered back in to his armchair.

"Staring at it won't help you figure out what it is."
"It might."
"If you were me, perhaps, but I really don't think it will."

John didn't bother taking offence or responding to it, so silence reigned for a minutes before John lost patience.

"I wish they'd hurry up!"
"Honestly John, it's like you've reverted back to childhood."
"That's what Christmas does to people, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth and John rolled his eyes.

"Not you, I know, but I'm excited."
"Well, at least it will be interesting to see Anderson excited by something. Other than his wife being out of town."

John laughed, and only felt a little bit guilty.

The buzzer buzzed.

John practically ran to the door, almost bouncing up and down with excitement each time a guest arrived. Lestrade raised one of his eyebrows as he took John in, and then raised the other one when he saw the rest of the flat. It was tidy, for one thing, and nearly every available surface was decorated. Sherlock lounged on the couch in the midst of it all, no different from usual, except…

Lestrade laughed loudly and John grinned beside him.

"Brilliant, John."

Sherlock scowled from under the Santa hat perched on his head. He turned his eyes on John.

"Yes, you can take it off now."

Within seconds the hat was gone, presumably stuffed under a pillow somewhere.

Sally and Anderson were the only two guests not to arrive yet and Sherlock muttered something about 'typical incompetency' that nobody really protested. Lestrade was placed on the spare armchair, and John had managed to make Sherlock sit up like a normal person. Molly was chatting to Mrs. Hudson by the table and John had graciously (cautiously, unwillingly) allowed Mycroft his armchair.

(The German Shepherd in him growled at someone encroaching on his territory, but John pushed it down firmly, if only for the sake of Christmas.)

Though usually polite, John was getting frustrated at not being able to open gifts yet. His phone beeped and he opened it to see two nearly identical messages.

'So sorry to cancel on you, John, but my family called and they want me to come over. Sorry for the late notice. Merry Christmas! Sally.'
'Sorry, John, can't make it. Dad wants me to meet my nephews. Have a good one.'

"Sally and Anderson can't make it; they've both been taken away to see family."
"Oh, really? I didn't know they'd made it official."

Sherlock glanced at John and he flashed him a brief, amused grin that no one else saw, before putting his phone away.

"Anyway, this means we can do gifts!" He barely restrained himself from saying 'presents'; Sherlock had been right, Christmas did reduce him to a six year old.

John practically bounded to the table, where everybody had placed their gifts. Somehow, he had managed to persuade them to participate in a Secret Santa exchange (though he remembered Sally complaining about getting Anderson, and him hoping to get into Sally's good books again with a so-called 'gift' of…dubious quality), and they had grudgingly bought a gift for their selected person. John handed each of them out and then sat cross-legged on the floor next to Sherlock's legs, eagerly holding his own present.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's enthusiasm even as Molly and Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. It was almost refreshing to see John, who had been listless and quiet on his return from Afghanistan, so excited about something.

At a silent signal, everybody unwrapped the paper, except for John, who ripped it off in one go. Sherlock rolled his eyes again, both at John and the book he was now holding. It was obviously from Lestrade, because Mycroft was the only other person there who knew and he, at least, would never stoop so low as to give him a book on 'German Shepherd Virtues: Lessons Learned from Our Faithful Companions'.

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered to the smirking D.I next to him, but started thumbing through the pages regardless.

Lestrade felt a smug satisfaction in Sherlock's reaction and turned to his own gift. Which was a gun.

To be fair, it was a very nice gun, far better than the police-standard one he had been issued with when he began his job. It was also very expensive. He looked up to see Mycroft inspecting his package with a bemused expression on his face. He seemed to register Greg's stare because he looked up and met his gaze. Lestrade nodded gratefully, and Mycroft nodded back, then returned to being bemused.

A picture frame. He supposed it was a good one, as far as picture frames go; the glass was clean and bordered by a polished, dark brown wood. Perhaps Anthea will like it. He turned to Molly and bestowed a carefully calculated 'thank-you' smile on her. She gave him a bright one back.

The lab coat was rather gorgeous. It was crisp, and white, and clean. Her old one had been getting rather dirty, and there was only so much stain remover could do. She turned it over.

"Oh!" she gave a delighted gasp as she saw the small M.H sewn in cursive on the breast pocket. She glanced up to Sherlock, but he was buried in a book. Her smile faltered a little and she held the coat a fraction tighter.

Beside her, Mrs. Hudson gave a pleased titter as she unearthed a beautiful tea set from the wrapping paper. It was a painted deep blue, with lighter flowers decorating the body. The cups were similarly decorated.

"Thank you, dear!" she directed to John. "I'll call Mrs. Turner around tomorrow and use it then!"

He gave her an equally pleased sentiment, grinning spectacularly at the kettle he had been given and laughing at how their similar ideas. He nudged Sherlock's knee.

"Oi, you. You have an extra present. An extra one apart from the one I'm giving you." He raised the kettle. "You can have our old one for experiments, but you're not to use this for anything other tea. Actually, just don't make tea, because I don't trust you near this kettle."
"I'm capable of making tea, John."
"Yeah, but don't."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Fine by me."

John realised he had doomed himself to a life of making tea.

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson called and he rose to his feet to go and talk to her. Sherlock stared speculatively as she gestured to the floor. John grinned, kissed her cheek, told anyone listening he would be "back in a mo'", and then ran down the stairs.

Ah, Sherlock realised. John was getting his gift. Sherlock stood smoothly and collected his from under their pathetic 'tree'. He was aware of the others watching him curiously, but ignored them in favour of guessing what John had gotten him. It would have to be reasonably large; not so huge that he couldn't get it up the stairs by himself, but big enough that he couldn't smuggle it past Sherlock.

John huffed a bit as he reached the stairs and paused, knowing Sherlock would be trying to figure out what he'd bought him.

"You, close your eyes!" he called before entering the flat.
"Really, John?"
"Humour me."

John heard Sherlock sigh and was about to enter when-

"Actually close them, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

John grinned and entered after hearing Sherlock sigh again, more violently than before. He walked in and stopped in front of Sherlock.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now."

They swapped gifts, John ripping open the paper and laughing when he finds a chew-toy and Sherlock merely glancing at the box in his arms before letting out an amused, "Really, John, a scratching post?"

Lestrade made an odd choking noise and they started giggling like they do after solving a crime and chose to ignore the strange looks they were getting from Molly and Mrs. Hudson (who didn't know what it meant, even though she helped hide it) because they never signed up for 'normal' and it's never really expected from them.

After everybody left and John collected various cups, mugs and glasses and placed them in the sink, they shifted. John settled himself down in front of the TV, absentmindedly gnawing on the rubber bone, and Sherlock explored his scratching post, climbing through the various holes and eventually sitting on top like a king surveying his kingdom.

"I just forgot my…"

Molly paused in the doorway at the sight before her. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, but then she closed it deliberately and merely picked up her jacket from the coat rack. She left again with a confused, "Okay", muttered as she closed the door.

John glanced at Sherlock, who gave what could be called a shrug, if a cat's body was designed for shrugging, and John just thumped his tail once and turned back to the TV.

It had been a good Christmas.

A/N:

The book I mentioned? It's a real book. I found it on Amazon. You can look it up, I swear.