Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
Enjoy!
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Hazard Control
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Part 21: Christmas Is All Around
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Mrs Hudson has just begun to heat a pot of milk on her stove when there are a few knocks on her door.
She looks at the clock: it's after nine already. Usually, the boys are very considerate about her early bedtime (well, John is- Sherlock plays the violin whenever he fancies it, nothing new there), so it must be an emergency. Rather reluctantly, the old lady turns off the stove and goes to answer the door, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her.
She is greeted by the sight of her two tenants, both of whom are in their dressing gowns as well; John is grinning all but giddily whereas Sherlock looks vaguely amused.
"Boys? What happened?" Only now Mrs Hudson notices the bottle of champagne in John's hand.
"We've got something to celebrate," John says, unable to stop beaming at her.
"All right," Mrs Hudson is a little suspicious at that, but curiosity gets the better of her: "Come in."
She leads them into her kitchen and takes three glasses out of the cupboard.
"Maybe you should sit down," John muses while Sherlock opens the bottle, regarding Mrs Hudson thoughtfully.
"It's not bad news, of course," he quickly adds when she pales a little.
"She doesn't need to sit down, John," Sherlock says quietly. "Hand me your glasses."
"I'm not made of porcelain," Mrs Hudson assents, "thank you, dear. Now, what is it? I didn't forget a birthday, did I?"
"No, you didn't." John smiles mischievously. When Sherlock stands next to him, they share a brief look, and the detective inclines his head ever so slightly, indicating for John to go ahead.
He takes a deep breath and raises his glass: "Sherlock and I are going to get a civil partnership."
Mrs Hudson looks from him to Sherlock and back, momentarily speechless. "What- you mean you're getting married?"
"It's not exactly the same-" Sherlock begins.
"He did propose to me, though," John chimes in, evidently proud of the fact.
"Oh Sherlock, you did? That's... I'm so happy for you two!" Mrs Hudson quickly puts her glass on the table and pulls them both into a hug, beaming. "Congratulations, my dears!"
She can't wait to tell Mrs Turner.
That night, John tosses and turns. He tries to keep it to a minimum in order not to disturb Sherlock, but he can't find a position he's comfortable in, and he is too agitated to settle down. He is torn between a ridiculous amount of delight and the fear that he's been too rash. It's just like Sherlock, springing such an idea at him out of the blue.
John takes a deep breath (and he feels like he's been doing that a lot in the past few hours) and forces himself to lie quietly, listening to Sherlock's breathing. Of course he shouldn't for a second be doubting his decision, considering everything. He's happy, happier than he'd possibly have imagined. Granted, this particular kind of happiness is not at all how he'd expected it to look like, but he'd not exchange it for anything in the world. What more reasons could he want?
An hour later, he is still wide awake. He turns and looks at the red digits of the alarm clock; it's 2:44. After a moment's hesitation, he gets up.
In the living room, he digs his mobile out of his coat pocket, unsure whether he should do this or not. To hell with it, he then decides, he's had countless times of interrupted sleep because of his sister, now it's his turn. He needs to talk about the matter, and right now, he doesn't have a better choice than Harry.
She answers after half a minute, sounding drowsy but slightly alarmed nevertheless: "John? You okay?"
John, who still doesn't know if this is such a good idea, sits down on the sofa: "Yeah, I- yeah. Sorry to wake you."
"What's up, what happened?" Harry seems slightly more alert now.
"Well, something came up, and it's quite a big deal." John feels his heartrate increasing once again: "Sherlock and I decided to get married."
"Congratulations," Harry replies, a little hesitantly. "Though I've got to admit that that's the least I expected."
"I know. It was kind of inspired by you, actually. You know, rights and all."
"Ain't you two romantic."
"It's not like that."
"I know. Just teasing."
"Hm."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So, what are your qualms about it?"
"Why do you think I have qualms?"
"Because you called me in the middle of the night to tell me. Something's bothering you."
John pinches the bridge of his nose: "Well... I'm happy, and I love him. I think it's a good idea to get a civil partnership, I hardly need explain it to you. But... " He pauses. It'd sound silly if he said it out loud.
"You're a guy and he's a guy?" Harry suggests. "You probably won't have kids with him? You're afraid to lose him again?"
"Yes," John concedes after clearing his throat. "That may be it. Or not. I'm not sure, Harry. I shouldn't be having these doubts at all, it's not fair towards Sherlock."
"It's completely normal," Harry says, wisely, "especially if you're someone who likes to think things through first."
"I'm not like that."
"Yes, you are."
"Sometimes, maybe."
"John- I don't know what you expect to hear from me. I certainly won't talk you out of this, but I won't try to encourage you either. It's your decision, I can only tell you that from my point of view, being married is freaking awesome. As long as everything's good, that is. You know how awful it can be if that's not the case. You shouldn't make that kind of commitment if you're not a hundred percent sure it's what you want."
"I know." John vividly remembers the fights between Harry and Clara he witnessed. "I'm aware that it can complicate things a good deal. And what you said- I never gave it that much thought. I mean, I think I saw me being married and maybe being a father at one point, but it was nothing fixed, no great plan including a house and all that. I just assumed I'd one day arrive somewhere."
"And there you have your answer," Harry states. "Do you feel like you've arrived somewhere, or that you're at least on your way to arriving somewhere with him?"
John considers this. He is already certain that without Sherlock, he'd be leading a boring life some place other than London. Would he really want to change the way they were living now? What if he did in five years' time? What if Mrs Hudson's gone one day?
He shakes his head. Those are questions he can't possibly answer right now, but as he thinks of the man in the next room, he feels his whole body tingling. A well-known, pleasant warmth makes itself known in his belly at his mental picture of Sherlock, curled up in his sleep, and he suddenly longs for him. The feeling of being where he wants to be hasn't changed. Which seems the most important point right now.
"I've never loved anyone so much," John murmurs. "I don't think I could live without him again, not one single day."
"As much as it baffles me," Harry sighs,"but there you go. Stop worrying, little brother."
"Easier said than done," John mutters, but he feels a lot better already.
"Sure." Harry sounds like she is smiling. "Have you looked for a date yet?"
"No, we haven't. Knowing Sherlock, he'd like to do it as soon as possible, preferably before the holidays."
"That won't work. You need to give notice to the authorities first, and then there's a waiting time of about two weeks."
"Oh. Okay, I didn't know that."
"Feel free to ask away if you have any more questions."
"Thank you," he says, "For now, I will let you get back to sleep."
"Great, since we'll have to get up in a measly two hours to catch our plane."
"Oh. Oh, Harry, I'm sorry-"
"No need. I can nap on the way, and besides- I think I owed you."
"No you didn't." But John is glad that he's called his sister nevertheless. "Have a great trip. And Merry Christmas, Harry."
"Merry Christmas, Babe."
o
When John slips back into bed, Sherlock turns towards him: "Can't sleep?" he mutters, a little slurred and probably not quite awake.
"I'm all right, love" John whispers.
Sherlock mumbles something about warm milk and asking Mrs Hudson for it as John wraps his arm around him and snuggles up against him, and the doctor smiles against his partner's sleep-warm skin, closing his eyes and listening to the heartbeat of the man he's soon going to officially bind himself to, legally and otherwise.
Of course, Sherlock deduces John on the following morning.
"You've had trouble falling asleep," he says, "because you were worrying. And you got up in the night. You seem calm now, so I'm guessing you did something to help with your nerves. You're not hungover or smell of alcohol though, and you dislike warm milk with honey. Maybe you watched TV, or maybe... you talked to someone."
"Am I allowed to say 'brilliant' right now?" John asks meekly, putting his chin in his hand and smiling at his partner.
Sherlock tries to hide his own smile, unsuccessfully so: "I told you, it's fine."
"I love your modesty."
Sherlock puts down the paper he's been reading and regards John, ignoring the last comment: "Tell me what's been keeping you up?"
"I feel silly even thinking about it right now," John replies evasively. He shrugs: "The whole thing. Us. Getting married. It's a big step, after all."
"Did you change your mind about it?" Sherlock asks, and only someone who knows him as well as John could possibly detect the hint of insecurity in his tone.
"No, I didn't," John hurries to say. "Not at all."
Sherlock doesn't seem convinced, so John gets up and circles the table, sliding his arms around the other and resting his chin on his shoulder: "I want to marry you, love. If anything, last night's confirmed it."
He can feel Sherlock's shoulders relax at that.
"I took you by surprise," the detective says. "You didn't have much time to think about it."
"That's true. But things were pretty clear already."
"Which means you were uncertain about something else. Me."
John shakes his head, then stops. This thought hasn't even occured to him, but now that Sherlock mentioned it, it doesn't seem so unreasonable.
"You were wondering whether I suggested it merely for the practical aspects," Sherlock continues, his voice low, his body immediately tensing up again. A slight tremor runs through him, and John realizes that he's hurt.
"No," he says, firmly, "that's not it, Sherlock. I know how much you care for me."
When Sherlock remains silent, John gently reinforces his grip around him: "I didn't doubt your reasons for a second, love. You can ask Harry if you don't believe me, it's her I talked to."
After another moment of silence, Sherlock releases a slightly shuddering breath: "I do believe you." He turns around in John's embrace so that he can look at him: "Do you want to know why I want to do this?"
He looks very young and vulnerable right now. This heart of yours is making you damageable, John thinks. Out loud he says:"Yes, I do."
"When you fell ill, you called me your 'half'."
"'I did?"
"You said something about me being the responsible half that day."
"Oh, yes. I remember."
"I liked that. I liked the notion that we're two halves of a whole, because that is how this feels. My younger self would have laughed at me for wanting this, but it's how it is. I have been... lonely for a large part of my life, John."
"So no more 'alone is what I have', hm?"
"No. I was stupid."
"Not on the whole, as I've told you before. You were stubborn, there's a difference."
Sherlock regards John with a curious expression: "You always defend me, even against myself."
"Well, someone once said I was a conductor of light. I assume that's my angelic side."
At that, Sherlock laughs a little. "John," he then says, voice small again, and the doctor just pulls him close, keeping his arms around him for an unaccounted amount of time, taking care of Sherlock's heart.
On December 24, John can hardly wait to get out of bed.
"Christmas isn't until tomorrow," Sherlock groans because he, for once, would have liked to sleep a little longer and pulls the blankets over his head.
"You'll get ten more minutes," John says, ignoring the continuing, if slightly muffled, complaints, "I'll come and get you when breakfast is ready."
He has already tidied and cleaned the flat on the day before (with minor help from his partner), and the fridge is fully stocked with nothing but edible things. It is the first time in years John is actually looking forward to the festivities, and he intends to fully enjoy every second of them, starting with breakfast on Christmas Eve. He stirs a little cardamom into the freshly ground coffee and lights a candle.
When an initially reluctant Sherlock is being dragged into the living room a little while later, he can't but admit that it is cosy and inviting- a fire is burning in the fireplace, the fairy lights are on and several things smell fantastic; among them, the yet undecorated Christmas tree which the doctor insisted they get.
Sherlock unexpectedly feels a lump in his throat; this is how it should be, he realizes, how it looked in the picture books from his childhood. Inhabitable, welcoming, colourful.
"Thank you," he murmurs, "this... this is nice."
John refrains from asking him how Christmas at Holmes Manor has been, because he can imagine. Furthermore, Sherlock's reaction is rather unambiguous, especially considering that he didn't seem to have any particular expectations about this.
Later, once they are both dressed, John wants to decorate the tree. He has already brought in a few boxes with baubles and ornaments he bought recently, spending far too much money on them. It didn't matter, he told himself in the shop, since he was starting from scratch. He rarely had to spent any money on household items during his entire adulthood because the places he rented usually provided with everything he needed, and the army had done so too; now seems as good a time to start as ever. Sherlock and he are a family, after all.
John has always been a tidy person, a trait which comes in handy not only in his profession; they have invited Mycroft over for Christmas, and the doctor wants his future brother-in-law to be comfortable. John had expected protest and a lengthy discussion when he had suggested not to go to Holmes Manor but asking Mycroft to come to Baker Street instead; Sherlock however had surprised him by only shrugging and giving his consent.
"Erm-," John said, "did you actually hear what I suggested?"
"I heard you perfectly well," Sherlock replied, "and I agreed. Of course, it's less than ideal that we won't have any influence on the length of his stay, but on the whole, you are right. He should come here, it might appeal to him."
"Appeal."
"Yes. The Manor is difficult at Christmas."
Too many ghosts, John suspected.
"Here, we've got Mrs Hudson and fairy lights," Sherlock added as an afterthought.
"Right. Good. And Mrs Hudson seems to have taken a liking to Mycroft ever since he-" John paused when he saw the unmistakably mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes: "Sherlock- unless you two will be short of killing each other, there'll be no attempts to make him leave early. Not verbally, not with your violin, understand?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock retorted, his voice sounding a tad morose now.
"We've been welcome in his house for a long time," John reminded him. "He's equally welcome here."
"Yes, yes. You were saying?"
"Right... I forgot."
"Mrs Hudson seems to have taken a liking to Mycroft ever since he-"
"How do you do that? Never mind. Well, she hugged him, after all."
"He's still recovering from that, I bet."
"If you manage to keep it civil, I'll make it up to you on Boxing Day."
Sherlock sat up, interested:"How?"
John looked smug:"I'll leave that to your imagination as of yet."
The scent of the tree mingles with the scent of Mrs Hudson's baking which is wafting through 221B. Listening to the Christmas carols Sherlock's playing on his violin, John has done his best to arrange the decorations evenly. He also attaches a few real candles, though he doesn't necessarily intend to light them; Sherlock has already lectured him about the fire hazard and how many Christmas trees cause whole houses to burn down each year, and John doesn't want to have to repeat the ensuing discussion. Luckily, Sherlock was content to pluck out a few of the tree's needles and is now experimenting with them; the kitchen smells of burned fir.
"It's beautiful," Mrs Hudson breathes when she comes in a little while later. "I like those little birds." She beams at John, patting his arm: "You did a wonderful job there. Merry Christmas, my dear."
John beams back, visibly growing a few inches: "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Merry Christmas!"
"Is there something burning?" The old lady scrunches up her nose and follows the smell into the kitchen. Sherlock turns off the Bunsen burner and wipes his hands on a tea towel: "Just an experiment. Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson," he says, kissing her on the cheek.
"Merry Christmas, love," she replies softly, hesitating for only a few seconds before pulling him into an embrace, and Sherlock is certain that her eyes were suddenly swimming just now. "Sorry, I'm being silly," she whispers when she pulls back, fumbling in her sleeve for a handkerchief. "No need to snivel, I know."
"You're perfect just like you are," Sherlock murmurs in an undertone, handing her the same tea towel he used earlier. "Despite the frequent snivelling."
"Oh, shut up, will you," she can't subdue a teary chuckle, eliciting a smile from him.
That afternoon, all three of them go to the Christmas Eve Carol Service in St Paul's Cathedral because Mrs Hudson wished to attend it and asked her boys to accompany her. Neither of the two are particularly religious, but that doesn't matter; Sherlock likes the music, and for John, the atmosphere is reminiscent of something which definitely has been a part of his childhood, too fleeting to grasp and yet solid, the very essence of Christmas itself, or rather, the idea of it.
Mrs Hudson hums along each song and seems happy, ever so often glancing at the fedora Sherlock is wearing, and he manages to stay calm despite the occasional crying child and other disturbances. It is on all accounts infinitely preferable to Christmas in the previous year. John seems to sense in which direction Sherlock's thoughts are headed, as he surreptitiously takes the detective's hand and holds it tight.
o
It is already dark when they leave the church; it doesn't snow, but at least it's still properly cold.
The warmth of the fire is a blessing once they are back home, and they all enjoy a cup of tea and some of Mrs Hudson's cookies before she and John begin to make dinner. Sherlock takes up his violin again, which is his way of avoiding having to help.
At midnight, Sherlock plays John's nocturne. Mrs Hudson has already gone to bed, but the detective and the doctor have stayed up a while longer, watching the embers of the fire glow and slowly fall apart.
Comfortably toasted, John admires his partner as he brings the violin to life, each movement with purpose and full of grace. He'll probably never tire of looking at Sherlock, but now he closes his eyes, allowing the music to wash over him. He's unaware that he's smiling, and he never stops once the last note fades away. Sherlock puts the violin onto its stand and eases himself down on the rug in front of John's armchair, leaning back against the doctor's legs.
"Thank you," John whispers.
Sherlock only hums. Slowly, he tips his head back, closing his eyes with a content little sigh. Exactly one year ago, he was in Switzerland, trying to tell himself it didn't matter, that he was exactly as lonely on the other days, but he had missed John so much, had felt so far away from home that it hurt. It's something he doesn't want to think about. All he permits himself to remember about that time is coldness.
John runs his hands through Sherlock´s hair: "Tired?"
Instead of a verbal answer, the detective leans into the touch, so John increases the pressure on the other´s scalp, gently massaging the skin.
Slowly, the ever present tension in Sherlock´s frame dissolves, and he fully relaxes into John´s caress.
"I know what you're thinking about," John ventures a guess, "stop worrying."
Sherlock growls in protest: "I'm not worrying."
"'Kay- stop pondering. It'll be fine."
He means Mycroft, Sherlock realizes, and plays along: "We haven't spent Christmas together in years, for several good reasons."
"That was before."
"Yes," Sherlock concedes. "He's slightly less insufferable now."
John gives a good-natured sigh: "Just remember Boxing Day, Sherlock."
"I wouldn't mind a foretaste."
John chuckles: "Bed, then?"
"Not yet," Sherlock murmurs, his gaze straying back to the dying embers.
There's not much warmth left now, but that's okay. Here in this place, he's got the opposite of coldness.
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(author takes a deep, shuddering breath)
The End
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All that's left now is an epilogue.
I am of course repeating myself, but I'd like to thank you all once more.
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The title of this chapter is stolen from Love, Actually.
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