"O Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree"
'Good God, John,' Sherlock growls from where he's watching, far enough back that neither he nor Hamish - papoose bound and wearing his red and green hat and matching mittens – are in any danger, 'do you have any idea what this … uh … display is doing to me?'
John swings the axe again, makes a satisfied sound as the tree topples over and then turns to Sherlock with a feral smile on his face. 'I do, as it happens.' He drops the axe and saunters over the snow; hips swaying in a way that Sherlock is certain should be illegal. 'It's exactly what you do to me at every crime scene, with deductions falling from those luscious lips, smirking over your coat collar. What I feel every time you pick up your violin and I see your fingers moving over the strings … so sure, so in control.'
Sherlock twists as John get close, reaching to pull him into his side without crushing Hamish, intending to tilt John's head up and …
'Waaaaaaaaah'
'Oh sweetheart, you're cold!' John goes from sexual to paternal in a flash, Sherlock left clutching at thin air as John whips Hamish away, cuddles him close and starts back to Gatton.
'John!'
'I chopped. You carry,' he calls, apparently oblivious to Sherlock's unquenched interest, 'and mind you don't damage the branches.'