A Merry Time of Year
Chapter Summary: It's Christmas! (Almost)
24th December 2005
This was impossible.
Sherlock was sat in the flat, surrounded by…things. Things that Mrs Hudson had picked up; in fact, more than that, because the bloody woman had added to his rather purposely specific list. There was wrapping paper, labels, tinsel, cards.
Things. Terrible, terrible, awful things. Things he didn't want to deal with or suffer through. Flicking at a stray piece of silver something, he reached for his phone.
Again.
And again, he pulled away, hissing at the idea, completely lost as to which would be the worst option.
There was an odd urge to lie to John; to create a Christmas and see him wonder, see him have a slight moment of doubt that perhaps, just maybe, there was a Santa Claus.
Ridiculous urge. Why on earth he wanted to encourage John to be naïve and stupid was beyond him. He should just toss the plastic bag at John, nod a greeting at him and bundle him down to Mrs Hudson's, despite his mother's urging to drop John round theirs. Christmas day did not fall on a Sunday and so he was under no obligation.
But the idea of actually doing it was…difficult. All he could imagine was John's face falling; that disappointed look appearing.
Sherlock was becoming worryingly concerned that he would do anything to avoid seeing that look on John's face. Already he was becoming a slave to his paternal instincts.
Surely it was understandable that he didn't want to waste his time wrapping things and writing things or fiddling with it all. The entire debacle would put him in a horrendous mood.
Mrs Hudson had irritatingly refused to help. Why she'd done half the job and then left him to it he had no idea. It was callousness at its very worst.
Which left one person.
Well…that wasn't entirely true. There was always the possibility of breaking Anna out of prison and persuading her to wrap these presents.
It was almost flawless in comparison to the other plan where he called his mother and requested her presence and her wrapping technique. And, of course, his father would feel the need to escort her over and would probably take umbrage at the idea of staying outside and waiting.
As if their last conversation hadn't been indication enough that they could no co-exist in the same room together. Voluntarily asking his parents over? He would rather walk over hot coals, go without murder for a month, stab his own eyeballs out.
Risk John's disappointed face?
He reached for the phone again, and this time managed to pick it up, twisting it in his hands and turning it over and over.
John's face. His parents in the flat.
Which was worse?
Two hours later he had a brainwave.
Send your assistant over to wrap things. SH
Really? You do not think I may have tasks that are better suited to her skills? MH
Such as? Wiping your mouth after dinner? This would be a holiday for her. SH
She's gone home. It is Christmas, Sherlock. MH
Damn.
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. With a despairing glance at the mess, Sherlock lifted himself from the floor and wandered down, opened the door and stared at Mycroft.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, glaring at him.
"You aren't calling our parents?"
Sherlock scowled. "I do not need help," he spat, as if the word was filthy.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and waited. "Would you prefer me to pick up Mother?"
No. Not really. "You're here now," Sherlock conceded. "You may as well attempt to help."
It was almost funny.
No, strike that. It was funny.
Mycroft, sat in an armchair, trying to manoeuvre paper around the box, was frowning at the puzzle. The man who would manipulate and control delegations, ministers and officials was confused by wrapping paper.
"You're not doing much better," Mycroft frowned. "So I suggest you wipe that look off your face."
Triumphantly, Sherlock held up the one he had managed to do successfully. "There."
"I could always leave."
No. It was bearable trying to do this when Mycroft was doing worse than he was.
"Giving up?"
Mycroft raised his eyes. It reminded Sherlock of when they were children, both too stubborn to ever back down from anything and constantly trying to out-do each other. There was a small smile, as if he was aware of what Sherlock was doing, yet unwilling to admit defeat.
"No murders tonight?"
"No. Everyone is stupid this time of year. There's been nothing interesting for days."
"I thought you had a case on Tuesday."
"It was boring," Sherlock complained, trying to get rid of the cellotape by shaking his hand. "No flair or imagination."
"How dreadful," Mycroft said, the sarcasm only just touching his voice.
"Though granted," Sherlock said, sniffing as he jammed the paper together (just), "The murderer had those qualities in spades compared to the people you deal with every day."
"Obviously I am the most put upon person in the room," Mycroft said, something pulling at his lips.
Well, he did have the misfortune of having to deal with himself every day, Sherlock thought as he tackled another present with wrapping paper that tore far too easily.
"Mother and Father should be back from their engagement," Mycroft said suddenly. "I could always send the presents over to them and collect them again."
"Giving up?"
"Indeed. Watching you smugly smile at me because you can wrap presents is rather…odd."
Sherlock glanced down at what he was doing and dropped it in distaste. "Summon the car," he said. "But I am not going."
"Thankfully," Mycroft muttered. "I fear that would be one step too far for tonight. However, you do know there will likely be some price you are expected to pay?"
Sherlock cast an eye over all he had left to do then slumped and waved a hand in agreement, closing his eyes do he could pretend he hadn't just consented to what would likely amount to be torture.
It was seven o clock.
John stared at the clock, waiting for the number to change again, curled up in his bed and deliciously warm.
Seven oh one.
He was being stupid, he knew that. If Sherlock could see him now he was mock mercilessly. It was the first time ever that John could remember not wanting to get up on Christmas Day. Mainly because he didn't really know what to expect, what he should hope for, realistically.
Realistically. John snorted into his covers. Realistically, Sherlock wouldn't even know what day this was.
Seven oh two.
He was not a coward, John thought , suddenly feeling stubborn. And if nothing else, there would be a film on downstairs. He could take his covers and snuggle up in front of the television.
It seemed like a good plan. Gathering himself up and rolling the duvet around him until he resembled a misshapen sausage, John carefully made his way down the stairs, wincing at the cold.
And then stopped in confusion at the state of the living room.
There were presents and a stocking, filled with things. And the presents were wrapped. There was even a carrot that had been chewed up messily and an empty glass that looked as if it had contained milk.
John stared, dropping the duvet as he crept forward, stunned.
Either Sherlock had shopped, wrapped and faked Santa Claus' visit or Santa actually existed.
Both seemed bloody unlikely.
Glancing at the kitchen and Sherlock's door, John walked up to the stocking and peered in, raising himself up on his toes to see into the depth of the stocking.
That was really weird; there were loads of things his mum usually had in the stockings.
Utterly confused by this point, John reached out a toe and poked at the glass, rocking it a little off balance. It felt real…
Maybe Mrs Hudson had done it? Except no, she was at her sisters…
Well…maybe they'd lied about that. But Mrs Hudson was rubbish at lying to them.
"Inspecting your hoard?"
John jumped and spun, staring at Sherlock who had suddenly appeared and was leaning against the kitchen wall. It was hard to tell if he'd come from his room or downstairs, but he looked as if he'd been up for a while.
Though John was vaguely sure the man never slept. He was like a robot sometimes.
"I…" John glanced back. "They're wrapped."
"Indeed."
Nothing, he was getting nothing. No help at all to work out whether he was being conned. "It's...good wrapping," John said, watching carefully.
All he saw was scorn, "Well, if one does dedicate their existence to presents one would hope they were good at wrapping."
John took a step forward, mouth pursing as he tried to work out what had happened. Sherlock just looked more and more…happy?
"So you know what day it is?" John asked.
"Indeed. Friday."
No, that wasn't- John watched helplessly as Sherlock picked up the duvet and threw it at him. The second the covers hit him, he giggled, scrambling to find the end so he could peek out at Sherlock from underneath.
"You know this means Santa will get all the credit?" John asked, holding the covers up over his head, as if it were a shelter or a tent.
There. The small flicker of doubt in Sherlock's eyes. "It is his job," Sherlock muttered again, looking peeved.
He'd done this? John dropped the covers to hide his reaction and flailed his way to the sofa trying to get his head round it all.
Sherlock had made an effort for something that wasn't immediately self-serving or crime related?
As he almost crashed into the sofa, John felt the biggest smile suddenly pull at his face. Seconds later a strong grip was lifting him onto the sofa, pushing him down and rearranging the duvet until John's head poked out.
"Here," Sherlock thrust the stocking at him. "Do whatever it is you are meant to do. I wish to see if I can make an improvement to the toaster."
"Why are we going?" John asked as Sherlock shut the door behind them.
"Because my parents wish to make us all drown in misery and suffering and believe being lectured to is something that all should want at least once a week."
"Right," John pulled a face, flexing his fingers in their new gloves that looked wicked solid. When it next snowed he was going to be the master of snowball fights. "I meant why are you going?"
Sherlock looked suddenly skittish. "Tradition," he said shortly. "I believe you should make an informed decision before you reject it."
Really? That didn't even sound remotely like Sherlock. "But going to church?" John whined. "The vicar will send you to hell within five minutes of the show starting."
Sherlock's lips twitched as they turned a corner. "Service," he corrected. "They call it a service, though your word may be more apt." He looked down at John. "Unless you wish to join me in being condemned to hell within the first five minutes."
"You first," John grinned. "So we're…you know. Sitting with them?" he asked, unsure as to how that was meant to work. Weren't you meant to be silent in a church?
"Yes," Sherlock scowled, his good humour suddenly vanishing. "The joys of Christmas."
John looked away, suddenly dreading the afternoon. It had been such a fun morning as well, just the two of them doing whatever they wanted and Sherlock showing him his latest experiment. John looked up at the sky, wondering just how long they would be stuck in-
Tiny flakes where flying down, getting tangled in the wind and dancing across his vision. Stopping, John stared up as the flakes suddenly picked up speed and started to thicken. Delighted at the sight, he stuck out his tongue, never sure why he felt the need to taste the snow. The flake melted on his tongue, tasting like absolutely nothing. Instead he watched as they fell onto his gloves, spattering the dark blue with white drops that fizzed and melted.
"It's snowing," he called to Sherlock who had continued to walk, muttering under his breath. "Look!"
"Yes I am aware-" Sherlock turned and his voice trailed off as he watched John. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see his father soften slightly.
"Do you think it will settle?" John asked, desperately eager.
Sherlock held out a hand and John ducked forward, letting the large gloved palm settled on the back of his neck reassuringly. "Perhaps," Sherlock said, looking oddly frustrated.
"Do you think there'll be time after church?"
"We shall see."
His grandmother looked fancy in a deep dark red coat with matching gloves and hat. Her scarf was snowy white and perfectly knotted to fall in a spill of soft looking fabric. His grandfather and Mycroft were sat in their fancy coats, looking for all the world like gentlemen from some boring Victorian drama that the TV always showed this time of year.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock and his grandfather had hardly said two words to each other. Instead they had seemed to silently agree to stay out of each other's way. Separated by the John and Mycroft, they at least seemed to be doing better than they had last time, even though Sherlock was slumped in his usual coat looking like Frankie Martin did when he was sulking after a telling off. His arms were folded and his legs were stretched out as far as the pews would allow, while he scowled at nothing.
John glanced over at his grandparents a few times, half expecting the look or for one of them to snap and start scolding Sherlock but, although they seemed aware of what he was doing, neither seemed as if they were going to say a word.
Well, at least his grandfather did. His grandmother cracked about seven minutes in.
"Must you act like a child?"
"I was under the impression that you felt that was my default state," Sherlock muttered. "Besides, if he were more interesting, I would sit up."
Hi grandmother shot him a doubtful look. "You are setting a terrible example for John," she scolded.
"I know," Sherlock agreed. "Yet still he sits attentively and politely. He's not paying an ounce of attention to me."
John sniggered.
"John," his grandmother scolded.
"Sorry," John mumbled.
"See?" Sherlock complained. "Isn't that atrocious? I certainly never taught him that."
On the other side of John, Mycroft's lips twitched.
"Mycroft! Don't encourage him."
The affronted look on Mycroft's face made John giggle as Mycroft leaned to glare at Bella. "Mother, he is sitting relatively quietly. What more did you want?"
"Manners." John glanced worriedly at his grandmother and blinked as he saw the starts of a smile on her face. A wary glance over at his grandfather showed him to be studying Sherlock carefully and, for once, Sherlock seemed utterly oblivious. His grandfather caught John's gaze by accident and drew in a breath, looking unsure. Then he swallowed as if nervous about something. "One miracle a day dear," his grandfather suggested.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow looking faintly bemused as John tried not to giggle.
"I should have had girls," his grandmother complained, sitting back, a smile still lingering around her mouth.
They settled back but John suddenly couldn't focus on what was being said.
They were almost getting along! He wasn't sure if it was awesome or just plain wrong.
"We're gonna play in the snow after," John whispered to Mycroft who blinked and looked back down at him.
"Ah," Mycroft looked a little lost, as if he had no idea what he was meant to do with that information. "I see."
A little deflated, John turned back to the service suddenly hyper aware of the way Mycroft was staring at him. On his other side, Sherlock had closed his eyes and seemed to be muttering something under his breath.
Someone cleared their throat and John glanced over, suddenly surprised to see his grandfather leaning forward to be seen past Mycroft.
"Go," he mouthed, inclining his head at the door, an oddly gentle look on his face.
Had they done something wrong? John stared at him, frozen. But his grandfather levelled a gentle smile at him and inclined his head at Sherlock.
John turned to Sherlock and nudged him fiercely. "We can go," he hissed in his ear.
Sherlock frowned and, as if suspecting it was some kind of a trap, slowly sat up to lean and look at his father.
The look of startled surprise was kind of cool to see on Sherlock's face. Instantly, Sherlock gripped John's hand and slipped out past Bella who was looking at her husband with an odd expression.
And then they were free, out of the church and into the freezing wind.
"Look," John yelped, seeing how high the snow was getting. Carefully he balanced, trying to make his footprints as clear as possible. "If I'd killed someone, could you catch me from these?"
Sherlock blinked, then snorted in laughter. "I'd be deeply concerned if you killed someone and were then that fastidious about leaving behind your footprints."
"Fastidious?"
Sherlock sighed. "Look it up when we get home."
"Can-" John broke himself off, trying to remember that Sherlock had done loads already. Hunching his shoulders, he kicked at the snow, smiling at the spray and the soft noise it created.
"Can?" Sherlock prompted, falling into step next to him.
"Are we going home now?" John asked.
"I…" Sherlock tilted his head. "You want to go somewhere."
"No." John tried not to look at Sherlock.
"Liar."
Annoyed, John glared up at him. "What is my tell?" he whined, "It's really annoying when you do that."
"It's equally annoying when you attempt to lie to me."
"You'll say no," John shrugged. "It's fine."
They walked in silence for a street or two before Sherlock let out a breath. "You honestly believe I would have an issue with you going to the park around the corner to play in the snow?"
That was…John looked up at him, stunned. "How do you know that?"
"I know you," was the simple reply. "We can stop there on our way back."
"Really?" John asked, trying to keep the wide grin off of his face.
"Yes," Sherlock seemed to fidget as they walked. "I just endured a church service, I can manage the park."
Watching John at the park had been…decidedly not boring. The boy was a good athlete, a team player who was eager to include people. Bright and quick on his feet with a love for just playing and having fun.
The children had played until the sky grew dark and the adults called them in, a lot of the parents watching in groups with warm drinks or from the windows and balconies overlooking the park. John had seemed over the moon with the Chinese they had for dinner and their demonstrations and discussion about the various methods of picking a lock.
His son was half asleep by the time he got John into bed. He looked terribly young with his hair sticking up at odd angles and his cheeks flushed from the cold and exercise he had done.
It was almost impossible to not pull the covers up and check he was warm enough.
The boy snuggled into the bed and blinked up at him sleepily. "Did you like today?" John asked suddenly.
The answer was surprisingly easy. "Yes," he said shortly.
John nodded and then seemed to hesitate, as if wanting to say something. "Thank you," he whispered after a moment, his eyes barely staying open.
Sherlock leaned down and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Merry Christmas," he said, breathing his son in.
"Mm," came the eloquent response.
Amused, Sherlock carded a hand through John's hair, watching as the tiny features below softened into sleep.
Suddenly the world seemed dull and boring again as John shifted in sleep. There was an insane urge to wake the boy up again, just to keep on talking and keep the world full of colour.
A foolish notion.
