Author's Note: I have just realised that the last chapter and this one correspond exactly to the days described. Chapter Twenty-Four – Christmas Eve. Chapter Twenty-Five – Christmas Day! I would love to say I planned it that way but... I didn't. Just a lucky coincidence. Anyway I hope you like this chapter. It's a bit of a beast, and took me ages to write. But I hope you enjoy a little bit of Christmassy fluff in what is shaping up to be a very dull February! (Well, it is for me, anyway!)
Just a quick thing, I know the Sherlock in my stories is a little OOC. I can't help it, that's just how I see him. I believe he does have these feelings and emotions but they are incredibly deeply buried. John is one of the only people able to bring them out, and still they only come out kicking and screaming, hehe. I hope I've got enough of his more sociopathic tendencies still in here though.
Warnings: The usual suspects. And by that I mean enormous doses of fluff combined with a decent helping of smutty m/m love.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Christmas Day
Sherlock does indeed wake up before John. Unsurprising really, as when he checks the alarm clock it is half past six and he knows John enjoys his lie-ins.
He drops a quick kiss on John's forehead, gets out of bed, shrugs his long body into his dressing gown and pads downstairs. The apartment is cold and the air ices his skin, raising goosebumps and making him shiver. He turns up the heating, knowing that John will appreciate not waking to freezing cold, and wanders over to the windows, drawing one of the curtains slightly. He blinks.
It has snowed. Overnight it has snowed and heavily. The familiar sight of Baker Street has disappeared under a perfect blanket of white. Even now flakes are drifting down from the cloudy grey sky, adding to the number already on the ground. Sherlock doesn't usually care for snow. It impedes travel, the whole of Britain grinds to a halt as if every year they are completely unprepared for the possibility of this kind of weather and organisation generally gets messy. He snorts as he imagines John's face when he sees it. John is one of those people who will probably get very excited at the fact that it has snowed on Christmas Day.
Swiftly he makes his way downstairs and taps on Mrs Hudson's door. There is no answer. He knocks again and waits for a few seconds, leaning his ear slightly against the wood to see if he can hear any sound of movement from within. There is nothing. He huffs in exasperation and raps loudly and continually for about ten seconds until he hears a shuffling noise and steps back, pasting a broad smile onto his face.
The door creaks open and Mrs Hudson's tired and bewildered face peers out from around the crack.
'Happy Christmas, Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock proclaims loudly with what he hopes is the correct amount of cheeriness. His smile disappears as she scowls at him.
'Sherlock... do you have any idea what time it is?'
Ridiculous question. 'Twenty-two minutes to seven,' he replies promptly. 'I've come to collect John's presents – I need to do it early so he can be surprised when he sees them under the tree.'
The door opens wider and Mrs Hudson is revealed fully. She is clad in a faded purple towelled dressing gown, tattered pink carpet slippers are on her feet and her usually fly-away hair is even more dishevelled than usual. Something occurs to Sherlock.
'I'm... sorry if I woke you,' he announces hesitantly. Perhaps knocking on his landlady's door at twenty to seven in the morning on Christmas Day is something which John would pronounce as being a little not good.
Mrs Hudson's eyebrows disappear into her hairline but presumably she decides not to dignify this with a response. Instead she waves a hand tiredly to invite Sherlock inside. He steps in and closes the door softly behind him, watching Mrs Hudson shuffle off down the hallway. She waves a hand over her shoulder in the direction of her living room.
'Your presents are in the bag in there,' she mutters tiredly. 'I'm going back to bed and I'll see you and John at a more respectable hour. You can let yourself out can't you?'
Yes, definitely a little not good Sherlock muses as she disappears into what is presumably her bedroom. He snatches up the bag from the living room and lets himself out of the apartment quietly.
Back in the living room John is still not up. Sherlock doesn't expect him to wake until at least nine o'clock so he has at least two hours to kill. He spends five minutes of that time placing John's gifts under the tree and checking on the various experiments littered around the kitchen, but all of them are progressing well and do not require any further attention for the meantime. Idly he picks a thick book and attempts to lose himself with the study of serial murderers in the last century. After a few pages he throws the volume down to the floor with a huff of irritation.
'Incompetent,' he mutters to himself, glaring at the author's name. The book is a new one given to him a few months ago by Mycroft but he hadn't bothered to read it until now. It is clear to him, however, that the author of this novel hasn't really the faintest idea of the subject, preferring to blunder through the first few pages with sensationalist language and wild theories. A bit like John's blog, now he comes to think about it. Perhaps he should lend the book to him.
Sherlock shifts about on the sofa for a few more minutes and even debates switching on the television. He allows this idea to linger in his mind for exactly two seconds and then physically jerks his head, sending it flying out of his mind. He will never be that bored. Watching mindless, rubbish telly is okay with John (if he's honest it is more than okay, but he will never let on) but by himself it would just be tedious.
So he finds himself tramping back up the stairs and into their bedroom. He removes his dressing gown, hangs it up, and slides back between the covers. As the mattress dips due to his weight, John, seemingly unconsciously sensing him back in bed, reaches out and wraps his arms around Sherlock's hips, pulling him back into his chest. Sherlock huffs with contentment and wiggles around a little against John's body. This 'spooning' is really very comfortable he says to himself, shuffling around a little more. I wonder what it is about the way the bodies fit together in this position which makes it so enjoyable? Just as Sherlock's agile mind sets itself to work in examining angles and certain placements of limbs, something happens which is enough to send his thoughts careering along a completely different, yet not unwelcome, track.
John's cock, apparently reacting with interest to Sherlock's continued wriggling against it, stirs and twitches. Sherlock can feel it hardening slowly but steadily against him. His lips quirk upwards in a sinful smirk, laced with a healthy dose of desire. His brain abandons the problem of the logistics of spooning and instead focuses on what exactly John's reaction will be if Sherlock very slowly starts rubbing himself up and down against John's still hardening erection. The movement is purposeful and sensuous and feeling John's arousal pressing against his buttocks means that Sherlock is aware of a stirring in his own pyjama trousers. He can hear John's breathing, previously slow and steady with sleep, coming harsher and faster from behind him, but upon twisting his head on the pillow to glance at John's face, the other man is clearly still asleep, although a deep flush has suffused his cheeks.
Sherlock rolls so that he is facing John and reaches out a hand to stroke John's hair back from his forehead. The doctor subconsciously pushes into the touch and in doing so his hips jerk into Sherlock's. The detective groans as their erections meet.
'John,' he murmurs throatily, his hand still in the doctor's short blonde hair. 'John, wake up.' He shuffles forward a little more and presses a kiss to John's mouth. 'Time to wake up.' This is a blatant lie and no doubt John would castrate him if he knew what hour it actually is. He feels John's lips move beneath his and soon enough John is kissing him back, albeit sleepily.
'Mmm... Sherlock?'
'You have to wake up, John. I have a rather pressing... problem. I need a doctor.' Inwardly he cringes at the line – somehow his boyfriend has a strange habit of reducing his intelligence to absolute mush. He cannot be blamed for it. Further making his point he rolls his hips forward once more and John's blue eyes widen slightly and then he smiles as he connects Sherlock's statement and his ensuing action.
'God, Sherlock,' he groans. 'That line is awful.'
'Well, all the blood from my brain has been diverted,' Sherlock huffs wriggling even closer to the doctor so they are pressed flush against each other. 'I'm sure it doesn't take a genius or a doctor to work out where it went.'
John smirks and slides his hands underneath the loose t-shirt Sherlock wears to bed, rubbing the pads of his fingers against the soft skin at the detective's waist, gradually moving up until his thumbs hit Sherlock's nipples. His smirk growing wider John circles the small buds torturously slowly, rolling them between his fingers, pinching occasionally until they grow harder.
Sherlock is breathing heavily, the pale pink flush on his cheeks almost matching that on John's.
'Off,' John breathes, tugging at the shirt lightly to emphasise his point. Sherlock hastens to comply, drawing the material swiftly over his head, rumpling his curls. Once his torso is bared, John wastes no time in bending his mouth over those delectable dark pink nipples, laving his tongue around and around. Sherlock presses his head further into the pillow and his back arches slightly. When John bites down on one of them he hisses.
'John.'
John's right hand has been running gently up and down the detective's side, loving the feeling of the muscles twitching under his touch as he lavishes attention on Sherlock's nipples. Now both his hands travel downward, to the appealing 'V' made by the contours of Sherlock's sharp hipbones, just peeking out from under the taut pale skin. Knowing how sensitive Sherlock is at that spot, John spends a few seconds rubbing gently, smiling when he hears the detective take in several sharp, choppy breaths above him.
John's mouth follows his hands and soon he is pressing light kisses to Sherlock's stomach
and hips. Tantalizingly slowly he draws the silken pyjama bottoms down, allowing
Sherlock's now fully erect cock to spring free. His dark blue eyes gleam as he passes by it, instead nipping and sucking at the detective's smooth inner thighs. Sherlock squirms and writhes on the bed, his hands fly to John's shoulders.
'John, stop messing around,' he growls harshly.
John raises his head and grins at reaches up to tweak a nipple before he nips once more at Sherlock's inner thigh, swirling his tongue around the small mark immediately afterwards.
'Only if you ask me nicely,' he murmurs, trying desperately to ignore his own pressing arousal. Sherlock groans and arches his hips up off the mattress.
'John... do something... please.'
For a few moments John contemplates drawing it out a little longer. But then, Sherlock so rarely says please, and besides the detective's long, slender cock looks so appealing right now with little drops of precome on the head. He takes pity and without any further words sinks his mouth down, taking Sherlock in fully.
The detective's fingers latch into John's hair and tug sharply as the delicious pleasure sparks through his body. John hollows his cheeks and sucks like he cannot ever get enough, occasionally swiping his tongue around the shaft.
'John, God, John...' His name issues from Sherlock's mouth like a stream of consciousness and the deep rich baritone texture of his voice makes John's cock even harder, something he hadn't thought possible.
He withdraws his mouth and continues pumping Sherlock gently with one hand as he leans up and kisses the detective full on the mouth. Sherlock groans as he tastes himself on John's tongue and he clutches at the doctor hard, bringing their bodies once again into alignment. His long, slender fingers trace at John's broad, muscled back and sliding his hands down he smoothly removes the doctor's boxers. John obligingly kicks them off, not breaking his assault on Sherlock's mouth, nor his continued attentions to Sherlock's erection.
'My turn, I believe,' Sherlock breathes and flips them over, effectively dislodging John's contact with his mouth. He balances himself on his forearms, now placed on either side of the doctor's sandy head, and stares down at the man he has adored from afar for so long. Those deep blue eyes sparkle with laughter, barely concealed lust and... something else. There is something shining back at him which, without more data he is loath to define, but he thinks it might be – love. It is such a powerful thing that his heart clenches. How is it that he, a man who has thought himself an automaton, a robot, for so long, how is it that he can be so blessed to have the love of someone like John Watson? Somebody who has fought for his country, saved lives whilst in danger of his own, actually been shot while carrying a young soldier to safety?
John's hand against his cheek brings him back to his senses.
'Anything the matter? Only when I'm in bed with someone I'm not exactly used to having them gaze vacantly at me.' He grins. Sherlock does not.
'I love you,' he murmurs, thrusting his erection against John's. 'I love you, John Watson.'
John groans with pleasure and his previous statement suddenly filters through to Sherlock's brain. 'You'd better get used to a vacant stare anytime I feel like it,' he growls, now thrusting and rutting roughly against John, causing the older man to whine at the sensations coursing rapidly through his torso, 'because I'll be the only person in bed with you from now on Doctor Watson. Understood?'
John gasps as Sherlock bites and tongues at one of his nipples. He arches off the bed and grabs wildly at the detective's curls.
'Yes, oh God, yes Sherlock... just...'
'Say you're mine,' Sherlock growls, reaching down between their bodies to grasp John's now throbbing cock.
'I'm yours, for Christ's sake, I'm yours! Now just hurry up and fuck me!'
Sherlock raises his head from John's nipple in astonishment. His hand freezes its movements on John's erection. His luminous grey eyes are wide and shocked. John turns his face away from Sherlock's stare. He hadn't meant that to come out. But now that he's said it, he realises he has never meant anything more.
'Do you mean that, John?' Sherlock asks softly, in his gentlest tone of voice. He realises what a big deal this must be for the doctor. Yes, he'd been a virgin, but he'd at least always known he was attracted to men and was prepared for what sex would involve for him. John, however, has been rather thrust into the deep end and although it is clear to see he is just as interested in Sherlock as Sherlock is in him, it must still be something altogether for John to concede the power and allow Sherlock to... for lack of a better word... penetrate him.
John doesn't reply audibly, instead he nods against the pillow. Sherlock reaches out and turns his head so that once again their gazes are locked.
'John. I need you to answer... out loud. Are you sure about this?'
The doctor meets his gaze and Sherlock is once again astounded by the beauty of John's eyes.
'Yes.' His voice is slightly hoarse, and Sherlock detects a slight tremor, but there is no disputing the honesty of his answer.
Under his hand John has softened slightly, no doubt due to the serious turn the conversation has taken but by contrast, Sherlock has never been harder. He doubts it is possible for him to lose enthusiasm now, not when he keeps replaying those words in his head.
'... hurry up and fuck me!'
Gradually he resumes his strokes, starting off slow and steady but soon he builds up the pace. Once again he lavishes attention on John's torso, paying particular study to each nipple. Within a few seconds he feels John hardening.
Sherlock feels the responsiblity he has assumed settle on him and he kisses his way down his doctor's body until he reaches John's now leaking erection.
'Gorgeous,' he murmurs as he wraps his full lips around it and licks up and down the shaft, revelling in the taste of John. He can feel John's thigh muscles clenching and relaxing as pleasure shoots through John's body.
Briefly he removes his mouth from the doctor's arousal and slips his fingers into his mouth, soaking them with as much of his saliva as he can. Anything to make this easy and pleasurable for John.
Slowly he moves a finger to John's entrance and circles, putting a little pressure here and there, but not quite slipping in. John groans and twitches.
'Come on, Sherlock. Do it.'
Slowly Sherlock slides his finger into John's tight heat and hears the older man hiss slightly as he does so. He pauses and then pushes further in, murmuring to John as he does so.
'Just breathe, John. Breathe.'
'It's okay, I'm alright Sherlock. Keep going.' Sherlock can feel John's muscles relax around his finger and gradually he introduces a second one.
'I'm going to make this so good for you,' he whispers throatily, starting to stretch John a little. Glancing up he notices that John is frowning and beads of sweat have started to stand out along his hairline. His erection is also noticably softening again.
Keeping his fingers inside John, frankly he doesn't want to withdraw out of that amazing tightness, Sherlock reaches his other hand upwards to gently start stroking John again.
'Do you trust me John?' he murmurs.
'Of course,' John pants out.
'Then just relax. This is me, John. And you feel... so good,' he accompanies this assertion by wriggling his fingers a little until they press against something. John's eyes blow wide. Of course he knows about the prostate, but never, never, did he think it would feel like this.
'Oh Christ,' he groans, his eyes drifting shut. 'Do that again. Please.'
Sherlock smirks, never ceasing his strokes on John's cock, now rapidly hardening again. 'You mean this?' He crooks his fingers once more and John cries aloud with pleasure and attempts to press himself down on Sherlock's fingers.
'Yes that – right there, Sherlock.' John writhes on the sheets as Sherlock teases him, stretches him wide but distracts him at the same time with little nudges against his prostate. After a couple of minutes he introduces a third finger and almost comes at the sight of it disappearing to join the others inside John, with only a token amount of resistance now from the tight ring of muscle. John, by this point, seems almost incapable of forming a coherent sentence and all he can do is pant out Sherlock's name.
'I'm ready,' John gasps suddenly, as Sherlock's clever fingers once more brush against his prostate. 'I – I can't wait any longer, I...'
Sherlock takes pity and gently withdraws his fingers, his eyes wide as he watches John's hole, now stretched and wide open, twitch at the loss. Scrabbling at the bedside drawer, Sherlock removes a condom and discovers a forgotten bottle of lube. His hands shaking he slips the condom onto himself and slathers a decent amount of lubrication over it.
'You are amazing,' Sherlock whispers, lining up his now painfully hard erection. Slowly he enters his doctor, watches as the head of his cock gradually pushes past the ring of muscle. John whines and clutches at the sheets. Sherlock halts and glances anxiously at his face which is screwed up in a frown.
'John? Should I...?'
'Keep going,' John mutters harshly. 'For God's sake, keep going!'
He is so tight, so warm, and the feeling is all-encompassing. Sherlock pushes in slowly, feeling himself sinking right to the hilt into John's body. When he is fully sheathed he pauses and waits for John to relax his muscles, which he does after a couple of seconds.
'God, John...' Sherlock gasps as he withdraws slowly and then drives back in. John groans and Sherlock begins to set a rhythm, starting off slow at first and then as John's exclamations become those of pleasure, not pain, he begins to thrust more forcefully until he feels the head of his cock hit that certain place inside John and the doctor arches up sharply from the mattress of the bed, his spine bending so much it almost looks as though he is going to snap in two.
'Jesus, Sherlock...' he gasps, his eyes fluttering wildly. His hands claw at the detective's back, bringing him closer, driving Sherlock deeper into his body. The muscles in Sherlock's pale forearms are corded as they start to throb with the strain of holding his body above John's and the thrusts as he brings John closer to the edge.
One of the doctor's hands moves from Sherlock's back and John starts stroking and tugging at his aching erection, his head thrashes from side to side on the pillow as that sweet coil begins to build in his belly.
Sherlock can feel the muscles start to clench around him and the sensation pushes him ever closer.
'John... I'm close,' he manages to gasp, his punishing thrusts becoming more and more erratic, although he still hits John's prostate with every drive. John nods wildly.
'Yes, yes Sherlock... God... me too...'
It only takes Sherlock three more pushes before John spasms around his cock. The doctor shouts out loudly and screws his eyes shut as his orgasm hits him. Sherlock manages one more thrust before the sensations are too much for him and he almost sobs with the force of his explosion.
They collapse together, sticky and sated. Sherlock pulls out with a slight hiss and slumps next to John, one arm thrown across his chest. John remains on his back, panting, his deep blue eyes wide.
'That was incredible,' John murmurs shakily after a few seconds. Sherlock nods and rolls his eyes. 'You're definitely a quick learner.'
'The various components involved in a successful sexual encounter are not that difficult to acquire, John,' Sherlock drawls, only the slightest tremor in his tone betraying his emotion. 'It is simply a matter of biology.' Shakily he slips off the condom, knots it, and tosses it in the direction of the wastepaper basket.
John grins and hauls himself off the bed. 'Not to mention chemistry,' he quips and reaches for new boxers. 'I'm going to take a shower. What time is it anyway?'
Sherlock winces slightly and reaches for his watch. 'Just gone half-past-seven,' he mutters almost inaudibly. John's eyes widen and and his hand clenches on the boxers he is holding.
'Half-past-seven?' he repeats. Sherlock nods and busies himself with looking elsewhere. 'Jesus... half-past-seven? In the morning? It's Christmas Day, Sherlock! I should be asleep! Everybody apart from small children and their parents should be asleep at this time on Christmas Day!'
'I didn't mean to wake you, John, but I was bored. And besides, you started it,' Sherlock retorts slightly sulkily.
'What do you mean, I started it? I was asleep!'
'Most of you, perhaps, but there was definitely one bit of your anatomy which was very pleased when I came back to bed. It seemed kinder to deal with it immediately.'
John shakes his head, half in annoyance and half in amusement. 'Fine. Whatever. I'm going for my shower. You are going to clean yourself up and make me a cup of tea to apologise.' His tone of voice brooks no argument and the detective merely shrugs and nods. John moves to the door and then throws something back over his shoulder. 'Oh, and for your future awareness... if you wake me up to have sex everytime I have morning wood I will end up killing you. Just a warning.'
'I think you're overreacting a little, John,' Sherlock drawls, but gets up and reaches for the tissues. John opens his mouth as if to say something, then seems to change his mind and goes for his shower, laughing to himself.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sherlock has dressed and has a mug of tea waiting on the living-room table for John by the time the doctor makes it downstairs, freshly showered and dressed in his favourite dark-blue cable-knit jumper, a pair of smart stone-washed jeans and thick black socks.
Sherlock gestures towards the mug and wonders absently how long it will take John to notice the extra presents under the tree. He would have noticed them immediately of course, but then, as everybody knows, Sherlock Holmes notices everything. It seems that his boyfriend only has eyes for the tea at the moment, as he passes by the Christmas tree without even glancing at it and collapses into his chair, cradling his mug in his hands.
'Happy Christmas, Sherlock,' he murmurs, smiling at the detective.
'I think I can say that in all honesty this will be the best Christmas I've ever had... no family and no Mycroft to annoy me. Just you and Mrs Hudson.'
John grins at him almost pityingly at takes a deep swallow of his drink. 'It's good tea,' he comments.
'Always surprised. Why are you always surprised?' Sherlock gazes at John for a second and then smiles. 'Just one question, John... do you think you have a problem?'
John frowns as he thinks about this. 'A problem? Erm... no, why? Do I?' It is a mark of how much he has come to trust Sherlock's observation skills that he even thinks there is a possibility that Sherlock has noticed there is something wrong with him that he hasn't even seen himself.
'It's just you drink an awful lot of tea. What do you go through, ten mugs a day? At least?' Sherlock's tone is almost serious but there is a sparkle in his grey eyes and a twitch around his lips that lets John know he is joking. John clutches his mug tighter to his chest and narrows his eyes at his boyfriend.
'You can never, never drink enough tea. It's just not possible.'
Sherlock throws up his hands in mock surrender. 'Fine. Fine. Just... wondering.' He throws another wry smile at John and stretches back on the sofa. 'So – what's the protocol for today? I know that the basic activities performed on Christmas Day are present-unwrapping, eating and watching mindless, inane television.'
John nods. 'Yup. Sounds about right to me. I'm going to put the turkey joint in the oven soon. I'm aiming to have it ready for about two o'clock and Mrs Hudson will join us for lunch and the Queen's Speech. Then I thought we could do presents? How about that?'
Sherlock shrugs. 'Whatever you want, John. I would have thought you'd have wanted to have a snowball fight or something equally as ridiculous.'
John laughs. 'Well, that sounds like fun, but there's just one tiny flaw...'
'And what's that?' Sherlock drawls.
'Well, to have a snowball fight you actually need to have snow.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes, wondering once again if ordinary people really are this unobservant all the time. Not only has John failed to notice the extra gifts under the tree, he apparently hasn't even bothered to look out of the window.
'Oh, yes, of course... what was I thinking?' he murmurs sarcastically and throws an arm in the direction of the large living-room windows, still half-covered by the curtains.
'You want me to draw the curtains?' John asks, a little confused.
'If you would,' Sherlock mutters.
Still quite puzzled, John gets up and makes his way over the window. As he pulls the curtain back he gasps. 'It's snowing!'
Sherlock thumps his head against the cushion of the sofa a couple of times. 'Excellent observation, John. Really, I am so pleased to see that living with me has taught you so much.'
Like so many of Sherlock's acidic comments this just rolls of John's back and he turns to his boyfriend with a blinding grin.
'It never snows at Christmas! This is brilliant!'
'I'm glad you think so.'
'Oh let me guess. Sherlock Holmes doesn't like snow.'
Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and glares over at John. 'Correct.'
'Well, we'll have to change that won't we?'
The slender detective frowns. 'What?'
'I thought you mentioned something about a snowball fight?' John grin is devilish as he makes his way over to where Sherlock is sitting. Sherlock leans back, waving one finger in the air decisively.
'No, John. Absolutely no way. There is no fathomable way you are getting me out in the street at this time on Christmas Day to partake in a snowball fight of all things. It's not happening. Now sit back down and drink your tea.'
Five Minutes Later
'Come on, Sherlock – you'll enjoy it once you get into it!' John cajoles from his position just under the awning of Speedy's Café. Sherlock, standing awkwardly with his hands in fists at his sides, hovers near the doorway of 221 Baker Street as if he is going to make a dash for cover at any moment.
'I want it to be known that I'm only here under duress,' Sherlock proclaims loudly, his posture still tense. 'It's hardly fair to threaten no sex for a month just because I don't want to have a snowball fight, John,' he complains in a lower tone. 'And that threat about burning my experiments was just plain evil.'
'When you're with Sherlock Holmes you learn to fight dirty,' John counters, a casual grin lighting his handsome face. 'Come on!'
'But I don't even know how... the advantage is all on your side,' Sherlock complains, trying desperately to think of something to get him out of this.
'It's very simple. You're a genius, you should pick it up in no time. You pick up a handful of snow...' John bends and demonstrates as if talking to a very slow toddler, '... then you mash it into a ball in the palms of your hands...' he does so, again very slowly and Sherlock rolls his eyes, '... and then – you throw it.'
The snowball catches Sherlock unawares and bursts against his collarbone, scattering tiny chips of snow and ice down the collar of his coat and making him gasp. Frantically he brushes at the flakes of white still littering the wool and the curls of his hair while John bends over, gasping with laughter.
'That was hardly fair, John. I wasn't ready.'
John manages to straighten up and calm himself enough to reply. 'Okay, okay. I'm sorry. You get a free shot at me and then we'll begin. Alright?'
Sherlock sniffs and bends over, scooping up a sizeable amount of snow with an expression of deep disdain on his face. Slowly he smooths it into a ball, making sure to pack it tight. John shifts from one foot to the other impatiently.
'Take your time, by all means,' he calls. Sherlock continues shaping the snow carefully.
'You said I had a free shot, I've got all the time in the world.'
Finally he is happy and tosses it from hand to hand a few times, testing the weight and shape. Looking up he takes aim, at John's uninjured shoulder, and lets fly. John attempts to dodge out of the way but Sherlock has anticipated this and the snowball hits him hard in the shoulder. The force of the throw and the weight of the tightly packed snow means that John stumbles back a little with the impact.
'Okay, no more free shots,' John calls, rubbing his shoulder. 'Jesus, that one was like a cannonball! You know it is supposed to be fun, just a game.'
'You should know I take games very seriously,' Sherlock responds, a small smile on his lips, although he does look a little guilty when he sees that John is still rubbing his shoulder. There is a small twist of pain on John's features and Sherlock frowns, a little anxiously, moving closer to his boyfriend.
'John? Are you alright? It didn't really hurt you did it...'
Without warning John has darted forwards, scooped up a handful of snow and mashing it together quickly, launches it at Sherlock's worried face. The detective's reactions are quick enough for him to turn slightly to the left, but the snow still hits him in the middle of his cheek. The sharp cold is biting on his skin and he brushes frantically.
'Right.' The single word comes out roughly and John grins.
They spend the next ten minutes dodging and weaving around each other, some throws finding their target, others going spectacularly wide and assaulting various windows or doorways. It is hard to know who wins as both are equally covered in snow by the time John calls a halt. The doctor smiles warmly as he takes in the sight of his boyfriend. Sherlock's calm and icy demeanour have disappeared completely for the moment, a bright smile is on his lips and his dark curls are sodden and pulled almost straight from the melting snow. His pale cheeks are flushed with pink and the tip of his nose has turned red from the cold. He had started the game impeccably dressed as always and John is pleased to see that not even Sherlock can retain his dignity after a snowball fight. The dark blue scarf is skewed to the side and half undone and his long black coat is ruffled and marked with patches of snow and dirt from the pavement.
'Truce?' John calls eventually, holding his hands up. Sherlock sighs and nods.
'Truce.' He holds out his hand and John takes it. Swiftly Sherlock brings his other hand down on the top of John's head, rubbing the handful of snow he'd secreted in his palm through the short strands of blonde, grey hair. John shouts aloud and pushes at Sherlock's chest.
'Payback,' Sherlock smirks, wrapping an arm around John's shoulders and pulling the smaller man into his side as they walk back to the door of 221, 'for pretending I'd hurt you at the beginning.'
'Fair enough,' John remarks smiling, tousling his hair with the hand that isn't wedged between their bodies to empty the strands of snow. 'I vote we get warmed up and I'll start the turkey off. Don't forget you promised to help me.'
'Don't worry John, I hadn't forgotten. I am quite certain that I will be superb at cooking, it is simply a matter of logistics and timing after all.'
'Well, we'll see, won't we?'
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
'Sherlock! How in hell did you manage to do that? I gave you specific instructions... it's not even that hard!'
John can't help laughing as he takes in the doleful expression on Sherlock's face as the detective peers down at the bowl on the counter.
'I don't know what happened, John... perhaps there were too many cranberries in it?' John twirls a spoon between his fingers before tapping experimentally at the sauce once more. It hasn't softened a bit, the metal surface of the spoon bounces right back off it.
'There is no way too many cranberries could have done this,' John remarks absently, now banging the spoon off the sauce with a puzzled expression on his face. 'Oh well. Luckily I have some ready-made in the fridge.'
Sherlock turns to stare at him. 'You've got what?'
'Ready-made sauce. I thought it best to be prepared if you were in charge of it. Seems like I was right to be cautious.'
'I find your lack of faith in me deeply disturbing,' Sherlock huffs as John gets the new cranberry sauce out of the fridge, niftily avoiding the tub of severed ears which are apparently the focal point of Sherlock's latest pressing experiment.
'Oh, I have plenty of faith in you when we're at a crime scene. Bizarre murder committed, no clues to be found, Sherlock's the man for the job, most definitely. But cranberry sauce and domestic arrangements... no, no trust at all.'
Sherlock has no answer for this and so scowls deeply and moves back to the sofa. He collapses onto it and the springs creak and grate in protest.
'If I'm that much of a hindrance I shall simply remain here until the food is prepared,' he announces.
'You do that. D'you want a sherry or port or something?'
'You know I don't drink.'
'Yes, but it's Christmas. Besides, you drank mulled wine a couple of days ago, didn't you?'
Eventually Sherlock agrees that a very small glass of port might be nice and John hands it to him with a smile.
The doctor fusses around in the kitchen while Sherlock lounges on the sofa and amuses himself by watching him. He likes the way John bites his lip or sticks out his tongue when he's concentrating very hard, he notices the way he drums his fingertips on the counter whenever he's waiting for something to come to the boil on the stove. But most of all he loves those quick little glances John throws in his direction, always accompanied by an affectionate smile or quirk of an eyebrow. He likes the fact that even when occupied with something else, John still makes time for him.
And that also makes him feel slightly guilty. How often does he do that when on a crime scene with John? Does he make John feel as valued as the doctor is doing now with him? Even when he isn't helping, just lying on the sofa sulking? Or does he treat John as a mere accessory when he's observing and deducing?
Unable to bear these thoughts any longer, Sherlock gets up from the sofa and stalks into the kitchen, moving up behind John who is standing stirring a sauce on the stove, and wraps his arms tightly around John's waist.
'I do value you,' he murmurs into John's ear. The shorter man tips his head back slightly against Sherlock's shoulder, absently stirring the sauce still.
'What? What's brought all this on?'
'I just want you to know. No reason.'
John is clearly puzzled but accepts this as part and parcel of living with the detective. 'Okay, well. Thank you.' He tilts his head to the side and presses a kiss against Sherlock's jaw before pulling away slightly to resume cooking. Sherlock returns to the living room and takes a sip of his port.
'Boys? Are you decent?'
Mrs Hudson's face peers round the door to their living room. John barks a laugh from the kitchen. 'Of course we're decent Mrs H! Come on in, lunch is almost ready. Do you want a drink? Port, sherry, wine, beer...' John trails off and Mrs Hudson laughs, seating herself primly on the sofa.
'Oh, just a small sherry for me please, dear.'
'Right you are.' John takes a break from his final preparations to pour her drink and hand it over.
'So, how are you enjoying your Christmas so far, boys?' Mrs Hudson enquires, taking a sip of her sherry. John grins at Sherlock.
'Oh, it's been great fun. We had a snowball fight and then Sherlock managed to make the cranberry sauce as solid as a brick.'
'Really, John? Must you keep bringing that up?'
But his boyfriend, obviously attempting to keep the laughter smothered, has brought over the bowl and a spoon for Mrs Hudson to see. Their landlady takes the small implement and tentatively brings it down a few times, only to find that it reverberates off the top of the reddish/brown mixture with a satisfying thunk.
'Oh, Sherlock,' she wails in a mixture of amusement and despair, 'it's cranberry sauce. I didn't think even you could mess up that.'
Sherlock twists away from her on the sofa and folds his arms, drawing his knees up to his chest. 'Well, when you're both finished mocking me, please do let me know. I shall endeavour to do something else to amuse you.'
John smiles slightly and crosses over to his boyfriend, sinks to his knees and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
'Okay, I promise that's it. The cranberry sauce shall not be mentioned again. Alright?'
Sherlock is still scowling but nods his head ever so slightly.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Christmas lunch goes off without a hitch. Mrs Hudson and John manage to persuade Sherlock to pull crackers and laugh at how incensed he is at his little gift.
'A miniature plastic golf tee? How on earth is this supposed to be useful to anyone? Even if I played golf, this is far too small to actually use.'
John offers to swap, but Sherlock decides his plastic frog is even more useless than the tee. The food is pronounced a success and the detective manages to finish an entire plateful, much to the surprise of John and Mrs Hudson.
'I don't think I've ever seen you eat that much in one go,' John says in a slightly awed tone, watching as Sherlock spears a parsnip with his fork and runs it around the plate gathering up gravy.
'I thought this is what normal people do on Christmas Day,' Sherlock says casually. 'They eat amounts of food which far exceed their usual daily intake.'
John smiles, pleased that Sherlock is doing something to make him happy and he can't deny that it does him good to see the detective eat a proper meal.
Mrs Hudson stays to watch the Queen's Speech with them and very obviously enjoys it, while Sherlock has to stop himself from screaming at the television. Once it has finished Mrs Hudson heaves herself up from the sofa.
'Well boys, I'll leave you to your present opening.'
John glances up. 'You're more than welcome to stay, Mrs Hudson.' He ignores Sherlock's glare which he can feel burning the side of his face. Their landlady smiles.
'Oh, bless you dear, but I'll be heading off all the same. My sister always rings after the Queen's speech – it's a little tradition we have.'
'Well then, goodbye Mrs Hudson, thanks for popping round,' Sherlock calls, waving a hand absently in the air. John rolls his eyes and sees Mrs Hudson to the door but not before he grabs her present from him from under the tree and hands it to her. She smiles.
'Thank you, John. How lovely. I'll see you boys tomorrow, no doubt?'
'Oh I don't think so, Mrs Hudson. Lestrade has a case he needs me to look into, he's ringing tomorrow so I'll probably be heading over to the Yard.' Sherlock is barely able to stop the glee from ringing out and John half expects him to rub his hands together in anticipation.
'Oh, another serial killing?' Mrs Hudson enquires kindly. Sherlock throws his hands up in the air in response.
'Don't know, don't care! It's a case Mrs Hudson, a case.'
The landlady squeezes John's hand understandingly and takes her leave. John shuts the door and returns to flop next to Sherlock on the sofa, feeling rather alarmingly full and at the same time wondering if he could go for a plate of Christmas cake. Eventually he decides to postpone the pudding for the meantime and instead turns to glance at Sherlock.
'So... presents?'
'I suppose so,' Sherlock murmurs, his gaze fixed on the television. 'It'll beat watching this rubbish anyway.'
John reaches out for the remote and flicks the telly off. Sherlock glances at him surreptitiously. He honestly cannot understand how John has been so unobservant. Watching him discover the extra presents will be interesting. Sure enough, John levers himself off the sofa and glances towards the mound under the tree for the first time today. The expressions which flit across his face are priceless and Sherlock has to stop himself from smirking. First of all John starts moving towards the tree and then stops. His eyes narrow and his brows knit together in confusion. He looks as if he is about to ask Sherlock something and then stops, his gaze flicking back to the tree.
Then a sort of faint hope starts to dawn and the detective watches those blue eyes widen slightly. The doctor flicks a glance back towards Sherlock and then kneels next to the tree and picks up one fairly small package, neatly wrapped in silver paper. A tag dangles off it and John catches it between his fingers to read the inscription.
His eyes widen even further and he draws a breath in through his teeth. He rocks back to sit down cross-legged next to the tree and turns his head to look properly at Sherlock. The detective has adopted a calm, neutral expression and merely raises an eyebrow.
'You... you got me a present.'
'I got you four presents, John. Mrs Hudson helped me with the wrapping though.'
John stays silent for a minute and then says blankly. 'But you never get anybody presents.' Sherlock rolls his eyes, something he seems to be doing a lot of lately.
'I thought we'd already established the fact that you're not anybody. Now can we get on with it? Do I have to sit on the floor like a child as well?'
John appears to be fighting with some deep inner emotion and swallows heavily a few times before finally meeting Sherlock's eyes again. When he speaks it is in his normal voice but Sherlock, ever the detective, notes the slightest tremor.
'Yes, you do. Come on down here and we'll start.'
Huffing to himself Sherlock slithers down off the sofa and shuffles over so that he is sitting next to John, his knees tucked up to his chest. The doctor takes the opportunity to reach out his hand and turn Sherlock's head towards him. Quickly he leans forward and kisses Sherlock deeply, winding his hand into the detective's curls. Sherlock opens for him willingly and presses back against him. The heated kiss lasts for about a minute before John pulls back.
'Thank you, Sherlock.'
'You haven't opened them yet, you don't know what they are. You might hate them.' John smiles.
'It doesn't matter. It just matters that you thought to get me something. That means a lot more.'
'It does?'
Sherlock brows are furrowed in confusion and John laughs lightly. 'Yes, it does. Come on then, let's start. I'm fairly sure this one is a crate of beer from Lestrade...'
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
They open the presents from everybody else first. Sure enough, Lestrade's is a case of Becks beer which John immediately finds room for in the fridge. There is the usual bottle of cologne from Harry. Sherlock receives a selection of silk shirts and a cheque from Mycroft which he flings aside casually. John doesn't even want to think about how much the clothing cost, or the amount on the cheque. John himself gets a Chelsea football shirt printed with 'Watson 01' on the back and peering closer, he sees that there is a signature scrawled in marker on the bottom of it.
To John. Cheers for your support. Best wishes, Fernando Torres.
John gapes at it. Here is proof that Mycroft Holmes is more socially aware than his younger brother. Not only does he know that John is a keen supporter of Chelsea, has been since he was seven, he knows about personalising the shirts and has even managed to get it autographed by one of John's favourite players. God knows how he knew that, yet alone how he'd managed to get it signed. He shrugs out of his jumper immediately and pulls the shirt on over his head, running his fingers again and again over the autograph at the bottom. Sherlock is frowning at him so he stops and starts unwrapping more gifts.
Mrs Hudson has bought him a pair of thick gloves and Sherlock gets a new book on the development of crime through the nineteenth century which he gives a cursory glance, pronouncing that it might be quite interesting to flick through when he's bored.
Finally they get onto the presents bought for each other. Sherlock examines each of his closely and then picks one up, bringing it up to his eyes as if he might be able to look through the wrapping if he stares hard enough. John, reaching out for one of his, throws him an amused look.
'Just open it, will you?' He knows from the shape that it's the Rubik's Cube. Sherlock plucks delicately at the sellotape and opens it neatly. The brightly coloured block tips out onto his lap and he stares at it for a moment before picking it up.
'You know what it is, right?' John asks.
Sherlock frowns and turns it over a few times in his hands. 'Well, I presume that all these lines mean it's designed to move and click into different configurations.' He glances at John. 'Is it some kind of puzzle?' John is flabbergasted.
'It's... it's a Rubik's Cube. Please tell me you've heard of a Rubik's Cube.'
'The name is vaguely familiar, I think I may have deleted it. What does it do?'
John reaches out and takes it from him, twisting it over and over again until the block colours have been thoroughly broken up. He hands it back. 'You have to make each side of the cube one colour again, like it was when you opened it.'
Sherlock's face lights up and he examines his present closely, trying a few experimental twists. 'Thank you, John. This promises to be a distraction, although I must warn you it seems incredibly simple. I'm sure I'll have solved it within a few days.'
'As sure as you were that you'd be brilliant at cooking?' John asks smugly, unwrapping his first present from Sherlock. Sherlock scowls and doesn't answer.
A black box is the first thing John sees. Opening it reveals a slim and sleek phone, clearly one of those new 'smart' types. John grins and lifts it out.
'I've already got a mobile Sherlock, but thank you very much.'
Sherlock shuffles on the floor. 'Well, this one's special. It's fitted with GPS. I thought it necessary to take that precaution, knowing your unnerving habit of getting kidnapped by my arch-enemies. Now I'll know where you are at all times.'
John bursts out laughing. 'That sounds more like a present for you than for me, Sherlock.'
'Ah, yes, I thought you might say that. That's why I got mine fitted with GPS at the same time. I remember how worried you were when I didn't answer you a couple of days ago.'
'Yes, what were you doing? You never said.'
'I was buying your Christmas presents, John. Honestly, couldn't you tell? No, forget that, of course you couldn't. Turn it over, there's something on the back as well.'
John, smiling and feeling incredibly touched, turns the phone over. Inscribed onto the back are the words.
To John. Happy Christmas. Love Sherlock.
It's brief and to the point and contains a strange mix of formality and sentiment. John swallows again.
'Thank you, Sherlock. It's lovely. But this must have cost you a fortune.'
Sherlock waves his hand in the air dismissively and moves onto his next gift which turns out to be the pen-knife. He turns it over and over, pulling out all the various implements, a smile on his face.
'It was clever of you to think of this, John. I have been thinking for some time that perhaps a gadget like this would come in handy on some of our more... adventurous cases.'
'Exactly what I thought. And there's an inscription.'
Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Merry Christmas, all my love, John. Xxx
John had wondered for quite some time over what to put. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn't appreciate a sloppy, mushy declaration of love and so he'd decided to go for practical and obvious but add his own little bit at the end. If the expression on Sherlock's face is anything to go by, he made the right choice. The detective's eyes are wondering as he traces the inscription delicately with the tip of his finger.
'It's perfect,' is all he finally says and John smiles.
The next item John pulls out is a card, addressed to him in Sherlock's distinctive cursive handwriting. Glancing curiously at the detective he opens the envelope and pulls out what looks like a letter and a receipt. He reads the letter first.
Dear Doctor Watson. Thank you very much for your recent contribution to 'Hope for Heroes'. As I'm sure you're aware, our charity relies solely on generous donations from the public to carry on our vital work with soldiers returning injured from overseas. Your money will greatly improve many lives, so thank you again, from all of us here. Best Wishes, Kevin Thomas (Managing Director).
John blinks in confusion and then picks up the receipt. He stares at it, and then at Sherlock, who is watching him calmly.
'What... on earth... is this?'
'Your recent contribution to 'Hope for Heroes', John. I would have hoped that was obvious.'
'But, Sherlock,' John protests weakly, still holding the receipt and feeling tears rise, 'this is... a huge amount of money.'
'Not that much, really. You know I have a significant amount in savings, this barely scratched the surface if I'm honest.'
John cannot speak. He holds the receipt for a moment longer and then lunges at Sherlock, flinging his arms around his neck and burying his head in the crook of the detective's neck. Sherlock pats awkwardly at his back, unsure whether he is supposed to be comforting the doctor or not. After a few minutes John has recovered himself enough to return to his previous position and carry on opening, although the shoulder of Sherlock's jacket feels suspiciously damp. Sherlock decides not to say anything.
The next gift from Sherlock to John is a stunning original antique medicine kit from the 1800s. The smooth red leather of the case gives way to four genuine bone-handled scalpels and a certificate of authenticity. Sherlock smiles, pleased with himself. He knows that John is fond of antiques and has been debating with himself about buying something similar for awhile, if his internet browsing history is anything to go by.
There are only two presents left and they both unwrap them at the same time. Sherlock's eyes widen as he trails the scarf through his fingers, revelling in its softness. He wraps it around his neck and proclaims that it is massively more comfortable than his old one. John grins and says he bought it because he thought the colour brings out the detective's eyes, and he is pleased to see he was right.
Sherlock's last present to John is a beautiful deep blue jumper. John traces his fingers over the material and Sherlock fidgets next to him.
'You don't have to wear it now. I know you have the... erm... the shirt from Mycroft, and it probably won't fit over it so...'
Unhesitatingly John yanks the football top over his head, tosses it into a corner and pulls on the jumper which fits like a second-skin. It's tighter than he would have chosen for himself, and from the way Sherlock's eyes are shining it suits him.
'I love it. I love you. Thank you for all this, Sherlock.' John stops himself before he becomes an embarrassing quivering wreck of emotion and merely amuses himself with examining his antique medicine set and attempting to get his flashy new phone to work.
Sherlock settles himself back on the sofa, his Rubik's Cube between his hands, ready to start proving to John that a puzzle like this holds no difficulty at all for one of the world's most brilliant minds.
XXXXXXXXXX
By eleven o'clock that night, both are fairly tired, John naturally more than Sherlock. He puts his new phone down on the table, pleased that he has finally managed to understand it and starts getting ready for bed, followed by Sherlock.
Once he'd got the hang of the new device it was all fairly easy and he'd even taken a photo of himself and Sherlock to use as wallpaper for the screen, much to the detective's annoyance. But perhaps, he muses as they settle into bed, Sherlock is just irritable because he seems to be making no visible progress on his Rubik's Cube. He mentions this as his head hits the pillow and hears Sherlock's petulant reply as he settles himself underneath the duvet.
'Don't be silly, John. It is a puzzle which requires patience and much careful study, that's all. You can't just rush into these things.'
'Of course you can't,' John responds, yawning, pulling Sherlock closer into his chest like a giant, gangly teddy-bear. 'Night, Sherlock.'
'Goodnight, John. Thank you for a bearable Christmas.'
And that, John thinks as he drops into sleep, is praise indeed.
I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter will be Boxing Day, of course, and dealing with the starting of the new case. I hope you'll like it, I've thought long and hard about what it will be...
Reviews are, as always, really appreciated. Till next time