AN: Yay for a positively Christmas-y chapter, loves! This one is my longest chapter by far, because I simply couldn't stop adding the fluff. Like the fluff level is over 9000, it's that fluffy. I made myself cry at one point, that's how ridiculous this chapter is. I was going to wait til Christmas, but I am terrible at waiting, so if you really want the full experience: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL XMAS.
But I won't hold it against you if you read it now. ;)
You all are incredible, and I want to wish you the very best holiday season. You are in my hearts. May God bless you and keep you.
xxHoney.
"John?" John creaks an eye open to see Sherlock's bed rumpled silhouette standing next to him.
"Wazzit, love?" he mumbles, closing his eyes again. He curls his arms under his pillow as he stretches out on his front.
"John," Sherlock says again. "Open your eyes. Something's happening outside." John simply groans, and Sherlock moves closer to the bedside. Suddenly he feels cold little fingers trying to pry one of his eyelids open.
"Sherlock. I'm trying to sleep, and you need to be in bed," John says. He tries to fix him with a no-nonsense look, but Sherlock remains gazing at him hopefully, his bumblebee tucked in his arms. He does this little wiggly dance thing, an excited smile on his face.
"But…outside, John!"
"What's outside?"
"Come see," Sherlock says, tugging John's arm until it flops out from under the pillow. John groans again, but manages to pull himself upright on the edge of his bed. Sherlock waits patiently, pressing into the side of his leg and playing with his stuffed bee. John yawns, scratching his achy shoulder, and blinks down at the little boy. He's adorable, but extremely infuriating at times.
As if sensing John's grumpiness, Sherlock looks up at him, pursing his lips a little in contrition. Then he smiles meekly, and brings the bumble bee up to John's cheek in a pantomime of a kiss, and all of John's irritability sloughs off of him. He's probably being manipulated, but John can't find it in him to care too much when Sherlock climbs up into his lap and kisses him on his cheek for real.
"Good morning!"
John glares at the alarm clock. 4:13.
"Barely," John says.
"Merry Christmas!"
"Not yet. I need tea, and then you can show me what's outside."
"'Kay!" Sherlock pipes, and hops off John's lap. His bare feet patter out into the sitting room, and John wonders idly where his socks went to. It is absolutely criminal how much energy he has at this god forsaken hour. John huffs and drags himself to his feet, tugging a random jumper over his head from the open drawer of his dresser.
He makes a bee-line for the kitchen, boils the water, and waits for his tea to steep before he entertains thoughts of anything above basic human functioning. Only after a few rallying sips of the fragrant brew does he makes his way out into the chilly sitting room. The sight that meets him causes warmth to spread throughout his chest that has little to do with the tea.
Sherlock has climbed up on the desk shoved against the wall, his back pressed into the window frame, curled as close as he can get to the glass. He's sitting cross-legged, his stuffed animal in his lap, quietly humming parts of different Christmas carols he's picked up from Mrs. Hudson. John pushes off from where he was leaning against the door jamb and makes his way quietly across the cold floor. Sherlock turns at the sound of John approaching.
"John," he whispers. "Look at how pretty."
John leans over the desk to get a look at what has Sherlock so enraptured.
Outside, Baker Street is covered in a soft blanket of snow made pearlescent under the lamp light. It glitters and sparkles in its unmarred perfection, the hour much too early for any sort of traffic or snow plow, and it nearly takes John's breath away. Although the brunt of the storm seems to be over, a few scattered flurries continue to fall against the still morning.
"Oh my god, I haven't seen snow like this in years," John says, taking another sip of his tea.
"Snow?" Sherlock says turning back to peer through the glass. "That's what snow is?"
John grins. "That is, indeed, snow."
"But…I thought it was only in And-ark-ita."
John chuckles and snags a throw off the sofa. He wraps it around Sherlock's shoulders to keep the draught from the window at bay. "Sometimes, if it's cold enough, London gets snow too."
"There's so much of it!" John hums in agreement, and runs his hand through Sherlock's hair. A thought occurs to him, and he grins.
"Do you want to go see?"
Sherlock's head whips around so fast it's almost comical. "Really? Can we?"
"Absolutely." He holds out his hand for Sherlock to grasp. "Let's go get your kit on. I believe Mrs. Hudson got you some good snow gear."
Sherlock jumps off the desk, and all but drags John up the stairs, and for the life of him, John can't imagine why he ever wanted to have a lie-in anyway.
-oOo-
Twenty minutes, two changes of snow trousers, and a fruitless search for mittens — which, in the end, turned into John ultimately sacrificing his gloves for the cause — later, they were finally headed out into the frosty morning.
Sherlock trembles with excitement, his smile so big and bright the sun would be envious if it was out, and John has to remind him to be quiet as they make their way down the stairs for Mrs. Hudson's sake. He grips John's hand tight, wiggling impatiently as John locks the door, and at long last they face the still landscape of perfect snow.
Sherlock doesn't even wait until they are off the stoop before yanking off one of John's oversized gloves and patting the powder at his feet.
"It's cold!" Sherlock proclaims, looking up at John. "And wet! See, John?" Sherlock brings the handful up to his mouth to taste it before holding it out to him. John nods, helping brush the snow off his hand, his fingers already turning red from the chill.
"It is very cold, Bones. And not good for eating," John says, helping him get the glove back on. "Come on, let's go down to the park."
Sherlock shuffles along side John as they make the short walk to Regent's, his boots crunching through the fluffy banks. Occasionally, he'll stop and crouch down, swiping his hand through the snow and watching the flakes scatter in all directions. He giggles, gathering some in both hands before tossing it straight up in the air. He does it again, getting some on John, and John reaches down to scoop some up into a ball. He chucks it at Sherlock, and it hits him in his puffy blue coat.
Sherlock looks at him with a stunned expression, before breaking out into an enormous grin. He balls up some snow and throws it as hard as he can back at John, but John laughs and dodges it.
"Hey!" Sherlock says gathering more snow and chasing after him, his feet slipping here and there as he attempts to run in boots he hasn't quite grown into yet.
"Come and get me!" John says, throwing another snowball. This one hits Sherlock's wooly stocking cap, and he sputters, laughing full on. He wrenches back his arm, and lobs the snowball in his hands at John, managing at last to hit him square in the chest. "Oof!" John says, and dramatically falls to the ground, clutching his heart.
"John?" Sherlock says, panting. John peeks out from his closed eyes, but continues to play dead. Sherlock warily comes closer. At the last second, John leaps up and tackles him around the waist tumbling them both back into the soft snow. Sherlock shrieks, his giggles bursting with unbridled joy, and John tickles him under the arms as best as he can through the heavy winter coat. "Stop! Stop, John!"
John relents, laughing almost as hard as Sherlock, and they both collapse on their backs breathing out great plumes of vapour as they catch their breath. John moves his arms and legs back and forth through the snow, and Sherlock watches him curiously for a moment before doing the same.
John levers himself up, and pulls Sherlock up as well. They both look down at their creations, and John lifts him into his arms. "Snow angels," he murmurs, indicating their imprints in the snow.
"What's a angel?" Sherlock asks, keeping his voice low to match John's. Snowflakes start to fall again, and they don't want to disturb the serenity of the early morning enfolding them like wings.
John thinks for a moment, not sure how exactly to answer his question.
Sherlock is far more intelligent than John can keep up with half the time. He isn't prone to whimsical fantasy like other children are. Mrs. Hudson, unfortunately, learned this the hard way when trying to convince him of Father Christmas. He asked her so many questions, she finally gave up, chiding him for being so obstinate in that exasperated fond way she has.
Later, Sherlock worried that he'd upset Mrs. Hudson, but he told John that Father Christmas what just too silly to believe in. He wondered why parents would lie to their kids when they would find out the truth eventually, and then he looked away and asked if it was bad of him to think like that. John reassured him, and pulled him into his lap. He explained that sometimes adults were silly, and for the most part they hoped that believing in Father Christmas would teach their kids good behaviour. When asked why other children believed so much instead of asking questions like he did, John just replied that sometimes the act of believing in something was greater than the object of your belief. When Sherlock asked why yet again, John didn't have an answer.
And now John stares down at their misshapen angels in the snow, and the only thing he can think of is bleeding out on the desert sand and praying with every last fibre of his being for a God he didn't believe in to send him an angel, to Please, please let me live.
He didn't think his prayer worked at the time. Being invalided, and bereft of the one thing that gave his life meaning — how was that a life worth living? London was a tomb just waiting for him to bloody give in already and finish what that bullet started, as far as he was concerned.
What he hadn't considered was the timing of it all, and when he looks into Sherlock's clear blue eyes, he understands, and suddenly he has an answer for them both.
"An angel is someone who saves you," John says.
Sherlock gazes right back at him, and for once doesn't ask why or how, because John can see that he understands probably better than anyone what it means to be saved — and for all that John feels helpless and unworthy as a parent, to Sherlock, he is that same light, that hope that John found in him from the start.
The realisation is a profound one, and John can feel his eyes stinging with a sudden swell of emotion. He closes them tight when Sherlock wraps his arms around his neck, and fights back the ridiculous tears. He holds Sherlock close, burying his face into the top of his head, and thinks that if there really is a God, and if He really is listening, then one more prayer won't go amiss.
Please, God. Let me keep him. Please.
"Merry Christmas, Papa," Sherlock whispers into his ear, a secret — a gift between the two of them.
"Merry Christmas, little one; I love you, and I always will."
Soon after, the chill of the morning starts to get to them, and they head back to the flat where John immediately dresses them both in the warmest pairs of pyjamas he can find. They really should go back to sleep, but John plugs the Christmas tree in, and makes them both hot cocoa instead. He tugs the duvet off his bed, and they both snuggle in on the sofa to watch the multicoloured fairy lights blink and twinkle. For once, John is lost in the peace of it all, the typical barrage of thoughts running through his head blessedly quiet.
Sherlock's body grows gradually heavier against him until he eventually succumbs to sleep, and John takes the half-drunk mug of cocoa from his limp fingers before it spills. He sets it on their cluttered coffee table next to his, and wraps the duvet tighter around them both. Being careful not to wake Sherlock, John reclines length-wise on the sofa with Sherlock snuggled warmly against his chest.
His eyes grow heavy just as the sky begins to lighten from velvet black to a grey timbre, the dawn heralding Christmas Day.
-oOo-
The sound of a text alert goes off, slightly muffled due to Sherlock's new phone being currently crammed under the sofa cushions.
John chuckles as Sherlock whips towards the sound, the red bandana over his eyes tucked just above his ears. They look comically large this way, and John had to restrain himself from squandering too many pictures on the adorable sight when he first tied it for him.
"How close am I?" Sherlock asks in the general direction of John, touching his fingers to the cloth over his eyes.
"No peeking, or I'll hide it all over again!" John says from his armchair.
"I'm not!" Sherlock says, snapping his hands back to his sides. John makes an unconvinced noise, and he darts a hand out, tugging Sherlock to him. Sherlock yelps in surprise, and then breaks out in a chorus of giggling when John begins to spin him around, disorientating him. "Hey!"
"There," John says, steadying him a little when he stumbles back slightly. He pulls out his mobile, and taps out another text to Sherlock's number. A moment later, the alert goes off again, the cheery bing sounding a lot more depressing from where it is being squashed.
Determined, Sherlock sets about in what he thinks is the vicinity of his toy, hands stretched out in front of him. He reaches the coffee table.
"Am I close?"
John fires off another text: Getting warmer. ;)
Sherlock gasps, skirting around the coffee table and all but pouncing on the sofa. John texts again, laughing when Sherlock plops to his knees, and stuffs his whole arm between the seat cushions in his haste.
"I got it!" Sherlock hollers, pulling the bright green gadget out of the sofa and brandishing it in the air. John immediately sees where this is headed, and intercepts Sherlock as he runs across the floor with the blindfold still on, clearly forgetting about the small step that divides the sitting room into two areas. He laughs his contagious belly-laugh when John swings him up into his arms and begins tickling him.
Sherlock shoves the blindfold onto his forehead, and holds the phone out to John. "Again!"
John chuckles, and is luckily saved by a pair of voices ascending the stairs.
"And do you know what I told him? I told him he could take a hike to Doncaster back to his wife, and he better be prepared for a surprise inspection, because I know people in high places in the food and services bureau!" comes the sound of Mrs. Hudson's indignant voice.
"Oh, good for you, Martha!" comes another, the sound of which reminds John of a clucking hen. He'd only met her once, but it no doubt belongs to that of the infamous Marie Turner, fellow landlady/gossip/rival of Mrs. Hudson's. "I always thought that Mr. Chatterjee was a scoundrel."
Like a gaggle of geese, both women bluster into the flat, arms full of groceries, and one deep covered roaster — which is most likely the source of the sudden delicious waft of cooked meat filling the air.
"Hello, John dear," Mrs. Hudson says, heading to the kitchen with the roaster. Her cheeks are flushed, but despite her previous implications about Mr. Chatterjee, she positively beams at the both of them. "I'll just pop the roast in your oven to keep warm."
"Roast?" John says.
"Hello, Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Turner says, sweeping him into a surprisingly strong, rosemary-scented embrace. She was what some would call the 'huggy' type. She pulls back, her mouth, holly red with too much lipstick, stretches into a wide smile. "And this must be your little boy Martha's told me about!"
"Yes, Mrs. Turner, this is Sherlock," John says, hitching Sherlock a little higher on his hip. "We both want to thank you for letting us use some of your grandson's old things."
A clatter of cockery comes from the kitchen, and alarmed, John tries to peer around Mrs. Turner's impressive bouffant to see what his mad landlady is up to. Mrs. Turner doesn't budge however, and instead pats him on the cheek, her eyes sparkling with something other than her gold eye shadow. He fervently hopes it's not tears.
"You are such a good boy taking him in the way you did, Dr. Watson," she says, her voice going all watery.
"Please, call me John," he says, trying to be polite. A crash sounds a moment later, followed by a slamming cupboard.
"Such a good boy," she continues to prattle.
At that moment, Sherlock brings his mobile up and snaps a picture of Mrs. Turner, the flash going off with a pop of light that has her blinking the spots out of her vision. John takes the opportunity to slip around her only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight.
The kitchen has completely been invaded in the matter of minutes by Mrs. Hudson. On every inch of the table, there are packages of nibbles waiting to be put on trays, potatoes waiting to be washed and peeled, and carrots waiting to be chopped. The counter tops are in a similar state with a cutting board and some very sharp looking knives at the ready, along with a colander, a whisk, and various other utensils he couldn't name if his life depended on it. All four burners on the stove are going full blaze, one of which he recognises by the strong scent of mulling wine. Two more are covered, their contents unknown, and the last one, a giant stock pot, is already simmering merrily with water.
John blinks, abashed. If only there had been a Mrs. Hudson in every platoon, he's positive the war would have ended ages ago with enough time for tea and biscuits before supper.
"Mrs. Hudson," John recovers slightly. "What is all this?"
"Mm?" she responds, just as Mrs. Turner pops in and adds two foil covered dishes to the fridge. Pies, if he were to guess. "Why, it's our dinner of course."
"I bought a turkey already."
Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson both glance at each other with a knowing smirk, before promptly breaking out into a gale of laughter.
"Oh, honey," Mrs. Turner says, a hand pressed over her ample bosom. "You don't do turkey for Christmas dinner."
"You don't?" John says. For as long as he can remember, Christmas dinner always featured turkey.
"Perish the thought! Not if you plan on having Yorkshire pudding, which we are," Mrs. Turner says.
"Yes, it's all about textures and pairings, you understand," Mrs. Hudson volleys.
"Roast is much more sumptuous for a special occasion, wouldn't you agree, Martha?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"But…" John flounders. "I bought a turkey."
"Which you haven't even bothered to pull out of the package yet," Mrs. Hudson says, shooting him an indulgent glance as she stirs what looks like the start of breadsauce in a saucepan. "When were you planning on feeding your guests? Midnight?" Mrs. Turner clicks her teeth at this, and sets about preparing some parsnips.
John looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock shrugs.
"Well…is there anything I can do to help?" John asks, knowing the answer already.
"We've it all sorted in here," Mrs. Turner says. "Perhaps you and the little ducky can set the table?"
"Um. That is the table."
"Oh. A bit small isn't it?" Mrs. Turner sniffs, eyeing the rickety surface on which she was chopping.
"John figured we would all eat campfire-style in the lounge," Mrs. Hudson chimes in. "Isn't that cosy?"
"Ye-es," Mrs. Turner says in a derivative tone that suggests it isn't cosy at all. "Martha, did I tell you my tenants are getting married?" she says switching tack.
Taking his cue, John and Sherlock leave the ladies to their cooking and idle gossip, and John breathes a sigh of relief when they reach the sitting room.
"Mrs. Turner wears a lot of colours," Sherlock remarks.
"She does."
"And she talks a lot, and when she smiles I can see lipstick on her teeth."
"Er…"
"And she's wearing a wig."
"Best keep that one to ourselves, okay Bones?" John says trying to suppress a smile. Sherlock nods, bringing a hand up to his mouth to stifle his giggles.
"I like her, though," Sherlock says, grinning, his round cheeks rosy. "She's loud, and she takes up the whole room, and she's silly."
John gives him a puzzled smile. "Oh?"
"She doesn't try to hide who she is. It's easy to know her story. No secrets," Sherlock says.
John hums, bemused. He feels a little guilty about being put-off by Marie Turner's eccentric excessiveness, and wonders once more about the guileless innocence of children.
The door buzzer rings, and John sets Sherlock on the floor to which he immediately scampers off towards the tree to gaze longingly at the small stack of presents. John had taken them out of their hiding place earlier that day, and set them under the tree in front of Sherlock all without a word as if this was an everyday sort of thing. Sherlock didn't ask questions, but he investigated the three colourfully wrapped gifts with all the seriousness of a proper detective. Smiling fondly at the memory, John jaunts down the steps to answer the door.
"Molly!" he greets warmly, unable to stop himself from giving her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Happy Christmas, John!" she says blushing a pretty pink. "I've brought decorations, just some crackers and paper crowns and such. I was going to bring wine but I didn't know which everyone prefers so…" she tapers off, flustered, and John helps her with the bags.
"This is brilliant, Molly, really," John says, and he offers to take her coat and technicolour scarf. He gestures for her to go ahead and follows her up to the flat. A chorus of squawking assaults them in the direction of the kitchen, and Molly raises an eyebrow. "We've got the Christmas Dinner Brigade. I would steer clear from the kitchen at all costs, if I were you."
"Noted," Molly says laughing a little. "I wouldn't even know the first thing about cooking anyway. I'm afraid I'm quite rubbish at anything that doesn't involve postmortems."
"Ah," John says for lack of anything to say to that. "Sherlock! Molly's here."
Sherlock turns around from where he is sitting on his knees, and Molly crooks her index finger at him in their secret little wave they've adopted. Sherlock smiles, and gets to his feet. He walks up to her, and gives her a brief hug around the legs.
"Merry Christmas," he says shyly. Molly crouches down, and pulls two presents wrapped in blue and pink snowflake paper out of the carrier bag she was holding.
"Do you want to help me put these under the tree?" she asks him. Sherlock's eyes grow wide, and he nods his head reverently, which makes her laugh her bubbly laugh again. "You carry this one," she hands him the smaller of the two, "and I've got this one. Sound good?"
"Yes," he says, and clutches the present — some sort of book, most likely — to his chest. With his other hand, he takes hold of Molly's wrist, and leads her to the tree. He immediately starts talking her ear off about the arctic tundra and something about musk-oxen and their shaggy coats.
John figures Molly will be occupied for some time yet, and he decides to go ahead and decorate. He diligently goes about the room and places a Christmas cracker on each one of the seats he arranged in a semicircle for the occasion.
A muffled bang, followed by tittering laughter from the kitchen, has John jumping nearly out of his skin a moment later. He pops his head in to investigate, only to be shooed out most vociferously by the Kitchen Squad, but not before he snags a small bacon-wrapped sausage for his trouble. He chuckles to himself, spotting how Mrs. Turner tries to hide the champagne bottle they just opened before he ducks out.
There are a set of footsteps on the stairs, and John heads out of the sitting room to see who it is. He grins when he peers over the banister and spies the Stamfords arguing as they climb up the seventeen steps.
"I don't know why you had to take it out of the package, Michael," Michelle says in exasperation. She rolls her eyes, but John doesn't miss her soft smile.
"I had to test it, didn't I?" Mike says, following his wife, a cocky grin on his face. John can see him carrying a poorly wrapped and very spherical present, and knowing Mike, it is probably a football. "Happy Christmas, John!" he says.
"Happy Christmas you two," he says, giving Michelle a kiss on the cheek.
"Oh, Happy Christmas," Michelle beams. "Is Sarah coming?"
"No, I'm afraid she has to work."
"Aw that's a shame," Michelle says pointedly. John shakes his head, knowing she knows better, and laughing when she merely shrugs.
"Starting him early, aren't you?" John grins, nodding at the gift under Mike's arm.
"Never to young to be an Arsenal fan," he banters jovially.
"Too right! Feel free to head on inside, warm up by the fire. I'll take your coats and put them in the cupboard with the rest," he says, gathering their things and hanging them in the small closet along with his other guests'. He glances down at his watch, wondering where his sister is. It's true she's never been the most punctual of people, but John can't help feel a pit of worry in his stomach given the fact she has yet to respond to any of his text messages.
Just as he's about to join the rest of his party, the buzzer goes off, stunning him in place. Apparently, today was a day full of miracles, because when he finally manages to answer the door through his shock, there she is: his sister, sober, a little shaky, but better than he's seen her in a long while.
"Harriet," he says, unable to do much but stare at her for a second. "You came."
"Of course I did," she says, eyes sliding away from his. "I said I would."
"Yes, of course. I know, come in, please," John says rambling. He shuts the door behind her and notices the guitar case she's carrying for the first time. "Hey, you brought your Gibson?"
"Figured I would. Been getting back into playing," she says, running a hand through her flyaway hair. "It's part of my meetings I've been going to; finding a hobby and all that."
"Yeah?" John says. Something warm like hope blooms in his chest, and he tries to come off sounding interested but not patronising. "You found a program that isn't full of imbeciles and shite mantras?"
She tosses him a crooked grin. "Oh no, there's plenty of that…"
"But?" John ventures.
"Clara recommended it," she says casually. Too casually, if the slight blush on her cheeks is anything to go by. He nudges her playfully, grinning from ear to ear until she pushes him away. "Yes! We've been talking, all right? I mean…most of it is stuff I've passed along to her about Sherlock's custody case, but there's still a connection there that I think we both aren't ready to let go of. And…I dunno."
She shrugs and finally meets his eyes. For the first time in a long time, John feels as if he can actually see his little sister starting back at him, the mantle of guilt and pain finally falling off of her shoulders and rendering her lighter like she was when they were young.
"I'm…really happy for you, Harry," he says, and her lip trembles a little when she nods. He pulls her into a tight hug then, and she grips back fiercely, shaking against him.
They break apart soon after, both not much for overt emotional displays, and Harry makes an off-colour remark like usual, and they are back to teasing each other like brother and sister. And if John wipes a tear off of Harry's cheek, well. They don't have to say anything about it.
"Shall we?" John says, tilting his head towards the stairs.
They enter the cheery sitting room to the sight of the landladies handing out an apéritif in clear crystal tumblers, and Mike fiddling with the telly, until he lands on some sort of Charles Dickens Christmas special. Sherlock and Molly are still sitting by the tree, Molly singing 'White Christmas'softly while she pantomimes a little dance with Sherlock's hands in hers. Sherlock can't help but giggle; a sound that never fails to make John feel heady and buoyant.
"Here you are, dears," Mrs. Hudson says, coming around with the tray.
Harry looks down at the tumblers filled with amber liquid, and swallows thickly. "No thanks," she says with a weak smile, and John is so proud of her he could burst.
"None for me either, Mrs. H," he says nonchalantly, although he doesn't miss the grateful look his sister gives him.
"Sure thing," Mrs. Hudson says. "And it's so good of you to come, Harriet. Family is so important, especially during the holidays. It's all we have in the end."
Harry nods, blushing a bit under Mrs. Hudson's benevolent gaze.
"Everyone ready for dinner?" Mrs. Turner sings, and she is answered by a round of hearty and eager 'yes'-es.
It's funny. John is technically the host; however, he has practically been railroaded by this batty pair of women in his own house.
And he absolutely doesn't mind in the slightest.
-oOo-
After the delicious feast has been eaten, after the Christmas crackers have been opened, and after the Queen has addressed her humble nation, John finally reckons that it's time for the main event of the evening.
"Do you want to open up some gifts?" John murmurs to Sherlock where he is sitting on John's lap. Sherlock looks up at him, the earlier fog of too much food clearing from his sleepy gaze. He glances at the presents under the tree, the pile having grown to a decent size with the new additions, and nods hesitantly. John kisses him on the forehead, and stands up. "Gather 'round, everyone!"
"Oh! Is the little one opening some prezzies?" Mrs. Turner says. "Have him open mine first!"
John goes to gather the presents with the help of Molly, and Mike turns the telly off.
"You can't play Father Christmas without the hat, dear," Mrs. Hudson says, giggling like a lark as she pulls the iconic red velvet cap over his head. John patiently lets her, but he darts a look a Sherlock and rolls his eyes. Sherlock bites his lip, trying not to smile. Perhaps that should be enough wine for Mrs. H, he thinks.
After the hat is in place, John places the parcels on the floor in a circle around Sherlock.
His eyes are saucer-wide, and he trembles a little as Molly continues to arrange them, the various multicoloured wrapping paper seeming to blindside him. Another shudder runs through his frame, and John pauses for a moment, casting a critical eye over him. Something is off.
"Go on, Ducky!" Mrs. Turner urges. "Mine are the ones with the holly."
Sherlock looks down at the presents in question, a stricken expression coming to his face. His eyes dart up and latch onto John, sudden tears threatening at the brim. John immediately crouches down, and Sherlock grabs onto him so he could bury his face in the front of John's jumper.
"Ooh what's wrong, sweetheart?" Michelle coos from her spot on the coffee table where she was planning on being the festivities' unofficial photographer.
"Sherlock?" John says, voice low. He cringes a little, and John rubs a hand over his back. He glances at Mrs. Hudson, and she nods her understanding.
"The little love's a bit overwhelmed, the poor dear."
"Sherlock," John coaxes again. "What's wrong, Bones?"
Sherlock peeks up at John, eyes watery. "There's a lot of them, John," he whispers, gaze flicking to the presents. John is reminded of how Sherlock reacted to the gift Mycroft gave him, and it starts to make sense.
"I know. They're all for you," John says, trying to cheer him up.
This seems to do the opposite, however, and in a tremulous voice laced with confusion Sherlock asks, "But, why?"
John tugs his chin. "Because we all love you, Sherlock."
His face crumples again, and John gathers him into his embrace, chuckling sadly. He manoeuvres them so he is sitting on the floor cross-legged, Sherlock in his lap.
"Michelle, honey, why don't you put the camera away?" Mike says touching her shoulder, and she nods her agreement, tucking it out of sight.
"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart," Michelle says.
Sherlock doesn't make a move to reach for anything, still bombarded by the concept that everyone is here mainly for him. John doesn't blame him. He would bet his life that this is Sherlock's first proper Christmas.
Murmuring encouragements in his ear, John leans forward and picks the smallest of the lot, a present not much bigger than his hand. It's from his sister, and she smiles tightly at him from her spot on the sofa.
"Do you want to help me?" John asks, to which Sherlock shakes his head. "All right," he placates, and tears open the package for him.
It's a white box with a snow flake on the top, and when John lifts the cardboard lid, he sees a sleek black rectangle nestled inside among the tissue paper.
"It's a magnifying glass," Harry explains in response to John's puzzled expression. "Go on. Pull it apart."
John hands the object to Sherlock, and sufficiently curious, he pulls each end until they slide apart with a – shick! – revealing the little convex glass within. He gasps softly, holding it up to his face, and then holding it over John's knuckles to get a good look at the tiny nicks and freckles of his skin.
"Thank you," he says ardently, his voice breathless with awe.
"You're welcome," Harry says, tucking a blonde strand of hair behind her ear. Sherlock gets up from John's lap, and totters over to her, smiling in that little way of his that makes his blue eyes look all the more bright. They stare at each other for a beat, and then Sherlock stretches up on tiptoes to wrap his arms around her neck in a tight hug.
She stiffens in shock at first, but then closes her eyes, her arms holding him close. She plants a kiss in his hair, and sniffs discreetly before letting him go.
John has to look away for a moment as he clears the sudden lump from his throat. He is composed by the time Sherlock plops back in his lap, however, and pulls another present towards him. "How about another?"
Sherlock nods, more confident now, and carefully opens the gifts from Mrs. Turner: a nice set of trousers and a shirt and tie to match, a package of colourful socks, and a pair of felt reindeer antlers attached to a red headband.
"Put them on!" she exclaims.
Sherlock silently gives John a look that says 'Do I have to?' to which John responds with a stern nod. He sighs, reluctantly slipping them on, and Mrs. Turner claps her hands, delighted.
The rest of the presents are opened in this fashion, with careful fingers so as not to spoil the paper, and with each one Sherlock's uncertainty fades and his enthusiasm grows.
He opens a nice wool pea coat from Mrs. Hudson, the likes of which is a bit too long and hangs right at his knees; a football from Mike and Michelle (surprise); a book about bees from Molly; the Tricorn pirate hat John got him (which replaces the antlers in due fashion) along with all of his developed pictures, and six freezer bags each full with a different colour of M and then the stethoscope Sarah wanted to pass along in lieu of her being there.
Of all of these, though, one gift is a show stopper: the microscope John and Molly picked out for him. He let her take the credit for it, saying she did all the work in acquiring it in the first place, him only contributing to the idea, really. They both agreed to hold it back until the very end, and by the time Sherlock opens it, the look on his face has them both grinning at each other like proper co-conspirators.
"It's a mico-scope!" Sherlock exclaims.
"A microscope?!" John says, feigning ignorance.
"Yeah!"
"Why don't you go ask Molly to show you how it works?" John suggests, and agreeing, Sherlock hops off his lap and holds the box out to her.
Joints creaking, he rises from the floor, his back protesting in indignation. Michelle gives him a hand, teasing him.
"Come on, old man. I'll help you with the dishes."
He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He knows this is Michelle speak for 'I want to talk to you. Alone.' He follows her anyway, picking up a few dirty plates on his way to the kitchen.
They settle into the routine they had when they were roommates back in their Uni days, sharing a flat with no dishwasher and a hot water heater that had a pathetic life span that could rival a housefly. She stands to his right, drying the cups and flatware with efficiency, pausing only to help tug one of John's sleeves back up past his elbow where it had fallen.
"Thanks," he says, scrubbing at a particularly tough spot of gravy.
"So…" she starts, and John knows it's coming; that this is what she has been waiting for. Penny in the air —"I'm surprised Sarah couldn't be here."
— and there it goes.
"Er. Well. She has a practice to run. She sends her regards, though."
"Ah," she says, wiping down a plate. He looks at her askance, and sure enough she doesn't just leave it there. "So you two aren't…you know?"
"No. God, no. I mean, maybe, once upon a time ago. But not now."
"You seemed to hit it off, if I remember. What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"
John sighs. If he's honest, he does mind her asking, but he supposes an explanation is somewhat warranted give she was the one who introduced them all those months ago. Sarah and he tried dating, and even settled into a proper relationship until the Subject, capital 'S' implied, finally came up.
"We both wanted different things," he says, hoping to deter her. It doesn't, of course.
"Like what?"
"Michelle."
"I'm sorry. It's just…we go so long without touching base, you know? Last I heard you were with Sarah, about to propose and everything, and then nothing aside from hearsay that you two called it off. Then, months go by without a whisper until I am called into my husband's office to take a look at a peculiar little boy with a fractured arm. Can you blame me?"
John glares down at the dishwater, attacking the grease in one of the pots with concentrated diligence while he thinks about how to answer her. He swallows, and without looking at her, he says, "She wanted children, and I didn't." Her silence is incriminating enough, and his voice comes out flat, self-deprecating. "Kind of ironic, now, wouldn't you say?"
She hums in thought. "And she's not…you know, bitter?"
"I don't know. You'd have to ask her," John says curtly.
"You know I didn't mean it like that."
He nods, letting the comment go. "I wouldn't blame her if she was," he admits, softly. "The truth is, there was a lot more wrong with our relationship than just that. It just seemed to be the tipping point — the moment we both realised we weren't right for each other. It ended amicably, and she offered me a job once it became clear my rehabilitation wasn't working and I could no longer act as a surgeon. It's better for us, I think. Being friends."
"So you wouldn't ever think of getting back together with her?" Michelle asks.
"To be honest, I have no room to think about any sort of relationship right now," John sighs.
Michelle huffs a little laugh. "I don't mean to pry —"
"Yes you do," he teases.
"No! I just…I'm really proud of you. You seem to have your priorities in check." This startles him, and he dries his hands so he can turn and look at her. "I mean it. You are amazing with Sherlock, and I don't think you believe it most of the time."
"Yeah…" he says lamely.
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not that, it's…god, I try really hard, and sometimes at the end of the day all I can think about is what I should be doing, or what I've overlooked, and most importantly, if I am making sure that he knows beyond a doubt how much he is cared for."
"He knows. Anybody with eyes can see it." She cups his cheek, irises brightening despite the unconvinced look he can't help but give her. "I have something for you; wait here," she says, unfazed.
John finishes putting the dry dishes away, and leans back on the work top while he waits. He smiles when he can hear Harry start up with her guitar, Mrs. Turner singing boisterously along to 'Good King Wenceslas.'
Michelle comes back into the kitchen, a small package tucked furtively under her arm.
"I said no presents for the adults," John chides when she hands it to him. He should have known she would break the rules anyway. He shakes his head at her pleased expression, and slips a finger under one corner.
After a few strategic tugs, the wrapping paper falls away revealing the back of a photo frame. He darts a puzzled look a Michelle before turning it over.
In the frame is a picture of him and Sherlock taken that first day in Mike's office. In it, John had just finished changing Sherlock into some clean clothes, the red dinosaur shirt he is inordinately fond of to be precise. Rarely a week goes by where he isn't having to run it through the wash once or twice.
"How did you…?" he starts, his voice going rough. He remembers that Michelle was taking pictures that day for her records.
"This is one I kept out of the files," Michelle says, and John looks down at it again, drinking in the sight of them both.
John himself is smiling down at Sherlock, his hand stilled in the process of tucking one of Sherlock's unruly curls back into place after the shirt made a mess of his hair. It suddenly strikes him how happy he is in the picture despite the uncertainty he remembers feeling, but in hindsight, he isn't surprised. No, what really enthralls him about this photo isn't him, but Sherlock.
In it, he gazes avidly back at John, his brow furrowing — but for once in neither pain nor fear. Instead, those blue orbs are full of the tell-tale signs of hope, and his lips timidly reflect John's, curving upwards in a sweet smile. It is an expression of absolute trust; one that John has seen every day since. Sherlock trusts him wholly, and when John looks at the image of himself one last time, there is no one else he trusts with Sherlock, either.
He manages to tear himself away from the picture, unashamed that his eyes are probably shining. Michelle beams at him, pulling him into a fierce hug.
"Now do you see?" she asks, and he nods against her.
"I do. Thank you, Mich."
"Happy Christmas, John."
When they break apart, they both head back into the sitting room, automatically joining the chorus of 'Deck the Halls' that's being strummed out by his sister's nimble fingers. John places the photo on the mantle, surreptitiously wiping the last vestiges of moisture from the corner of his eye before facing the room.
Sherlock runs to him, cheeks rosy from laughing and singing, and John swoops him up into his arms, smothering him with kisses until he can't keep up with the fa-la-las due to his giggles.
John takes in the sight of his hodge-podge of a family around the room, wearing their paper crowns, and singing loud and slightly off-key, his heart positively full to bursting. He reflects that for once in his life, he has absolutely everything he could have ever wished for —
Sherlock kisses his cheek.
— and so much more.
End of Part One