The Unexpected Envelope: A Christmas Story
A headache was starting to build behind his eyes as Sherlock handed the girl at the counter his credit card. She was in her early twenties, he observed, the scowl she'd been sporting since he'd first noticed her as he'd taken place in the long line telling him she was less than happy to be working on Christmas Eve. He couldn't quite blame her. The shops had all been packed full, as if apparently every last person in London had waited until the last minute to do their shopping, and then in a single burst exploded from their homes to assault every shop all at once.
He paid for the perfume he'd chosen for Molly and left the scowling girl to her never-ending line of customers. Just the twenty minutes of his life he'd lost to the perfume shop already had given him the beginnings of a migraine, and he still had too many gifts to buy to start feeling ill this early in the day. He checked the list he'd comprised in his head, crossing a neat little line through Molly: Personal but not too personal. Perfume or shoes.
John would be furious if he gave Molly the wrong sort of gift, hers was very tricky. Something to say Happy Christmas Dear Friend. You are held in esteem, yet not give her the impression of flirtation. Which Sherlock was pretty sure he'd never done in his life, but John said otherwise and John was usually right when it came to silly rules about social interaction.
It took another two hours to sort out a new wallet for Lestrade, a slightly overly expensive tea set for Mrs. Hudson (he'd broken at least three of her teacups in the past six months, and had noticed she'd started to bring up tea in mismatched cups and saucers which was probably all his fault), and a new overcoat for Mycroft which cost more than John made at the Surgery in a month. But his brother had expensive tastes unfortunately, along with the money to cater to himself, so any cheap gift given was likely to be tossed in a drawer and forgotten about completely. (Sherlock of course had no idea that his brother had in fact never thrown out a gift of Sherlock's. And that at that very moment somewhere in a darkened government office there was a messily made clay fish he'd made in Primary school being used as a paperweight. Sherlock had been eight when he'd gifted it to the elder Holmes' at Christmas, and he'd been ever so proud of it. The thing was absolutely horrid looking, and had ever since been one of Mycroft's most treasured possessions.)
Now all that was left was a gift for John. And oh, how he'd dreaded this moment. John's gift had to be absolutely perfect. It had to be incredibly meaningful, yet not too expensive. If John couldn't match the price of his gift to Sherlock, he'd feel guilty, which the consulting detective felt to be ridiculous. John worked hard for his money, and he made considerably less than Sherlock happened to have stashed away in several bank accounts in different countries. John could probably save the rest of his life and never match the figure of any one of those accounts. He was being rather childish about the whole thing.
It was however, hard to find something nice on the budget John had restricted him to, and it was even harder to find something that said the thing that Sherlock so wanted to say to John, but hadn't yet found the words for. The doctor liked simple things, jumpers and tea and books and old films. And not a bit of that was meaningful in the least.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled with a sigh. John wouldn't be happy when he smelled it on him, but as it was John who was causing him so much stress at the moment, he felt justified. He'd flat out asked John what he wanted most for Christmas and John had simply sighed and never looked up from his laptop, "Just don't disappear on me again Sherlock," he said muttered with a hint of sadness, "all I want is for you to be here."
It had been less than helpful in way of finding a gift, though it had succeeded in making him feel guilty enough that he'd cleaned the entire apartment after John had gone to work that day. By the time the doctor had appeared tired, and hungry at six pm there was Thai food waiting and not a single cow entrail or petri dish of mold to be had anywhere in the flat.
He'd apologized for the past over and over. And over and over John had accepted his apology. He couldn't go back and undo the events that had led up to the fall and their time apart. He could think of nothing short of a marriage proposal to make John understand that he never planned to leave his side again, but seeing as he'd yet to get up the courage to even tell John he had feelings for him, well…a marriage proposal seemed rather like jumping the proverbial gun.
The idea hit him suddenly and like a ton of bricks. Oh but no, it did rather fall quite a bit out of John's budget range he'd given Sherlock to stick to. Sherlock flicked his spent cigarette and shook his head. Budget be damned. This would either show John everything he wanted him to see, or backfire horribly and send John packing.
He hit speed dial three on his phone, "Mycroft, answering on the first ring are you? No, I'm not in trouble," he gritted his teeth, "of course I'm not high you fat bastard. I need a favor. It's…it's for John…for Christmas."
"You took your time," John grumbled as Sherlock sat his bags on the sofa and pulled his scarf from around his neck, gently hanging it by the door.
Sherlock hid his smile. It was worry in John's voice, not anger. "I'm sorry John but you know how terrible I am with gift buying," he almost whined hanging his coat beside his scarf, "and the shops are packed not a single person in London has their shopping done this year apparently."
"I've had mine done for weeks now," John snorted, looking back down at his book, "What did you get Molly?"
John was no good at hiding his emotions, and the little hint of jealousy in his voice gave Sherlock all the hope in the world, "Perfume. Brand name but nothing too flashy."
He handed John the small gift bag for inspection with a worried look, "You think it's alright? I don't understand women John you never know what will set them off," he was rambling now and completely missing John's smile, "I mean what if she thinks it's meant to be sexy perfume, but John I picked out the most innocent one they had. I told the women it was for my little sister."
John burst into a fit of laughter and put the little pink gift bag under the tree, "It's perfectly fine Sherlock I think you did wonderfully."
Sherlock released a breath he didn't realize he was holding, "Ok. Good. I…I'm just not…good at this."
The smaller man almost looked a bit sorry as he gave Sherlock's arm a little squeeze, "You did fine, I'm sure. Let's sort the rest of your gifts and get them wrapped."
Pulling off his suit jacket and heading back to the couch Sherlock missed John's breath hitch in his throat a little, if only he knew how that purple shirt had played into so many on John's fantasies, well he might have bought another two dozen just like it.
"No worries," he said happily, "I had the shops gift wrap everything."
John sighed, "That's such a waste of money Sherlock, you could have easily done it yourself."
Sherlock shrugged innocently and placed the perfectly wrapped gifts under the tree, "I'm no good at it John you know that. Everyone always pokes fun at them."
A pang of guilt washed through John; he'd made fun of Sherlock's wrapping more than once. It was just shocking that Sherlock seemed to be perfect at everything, and to see that he couldn't wrap a gift and manage to make it look like a toddler didn't do it, well, it had been a bit funny, "I'm sorry," he whispered, "It wasn't meant to be hurtful you know."
Sherlock shrugged, "It's fine John."
The last thing he took from his bag was an envelope, with John's name written in fancy calligraphy, which Sherlock actually had done himself, but now didn't seem the time to brag on it. He placed it gently on the trees lower branches as John eyed it quizzically.
"Did you get me a gift card?" he laughed.
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, one of those rare genuine Sherlock laughs that only John was ever privy to, "I should have. You're extremely hard to buy for John. But no, I did not cop out and get you a gift card."
Sherlock rather liked baking. Every recipe was a formula that had to fit together perfectly or everything was ruined. He'd gotten rather lost in it when a small tap on his shoulder brought him back to 221B, and he found John standing behind him with a glass of wine and a small smirk on his face.
"I think seven dozen is enough love, we've four people coming tomorrow."
Sherlock's eyes followed the small sip of wine as John swallowed, it was enough to start him sweating, "Seven dozen already?" he asked rather aimlessly, not bothering to glance back over the completely cookie covered kitchen table.
John nodded with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes, "I didn't want to disturb you," he laughed, taking another sip of his wine, "You seemed to be having a rather good time."
Sherlock blushed, "Just lost in thought I suppose," he lied.
A wine glass was pushed into his hand and he stared at it dumbly before taking a sip. He followed John into the sitting area, noticing that John had now placed his own gifts under the tree. He must have been wrapping them while he'd been baking. He'd also started a nice fire and put on some sort of tedious Christmas music that Sherlock would pretend wasn't already driving him up the wall.
"Seems you've been busy," he mused, taking a bigger sip from his glass.
John smiled, "Well I didn't have the store wrap everything for me," he joked, poking Sherlock gently in the ribs, "If you'd been paying attention, you'd have seen your gift."
Sherlock sat on the edge of his chair, his nerves still chewing away at him, "John I was wondering…it's probably silly…"
John sat across from him, a look of concern crossing his eyes, "What's wrong Sherlock? Everything's alright. We'll have some dinner, drink a bit much, maybe watch a film. And tomorrow I promise not to let the party go on too long I know it makes you anxious. Four hours maximum I promise. Just gifts and food and a bit of drinks. Nothing to worry about."
Sherlock's mouth pressed into a thin line, "Could you maybe open your gift tonight? Only it's…I'd rather you not do it in front of the others is all."
John studied him a moment, "You're worried I won't like it." It wasn't a question.
Sherlock nodded but refused to meet John's eyes, "It's rather personal John and if you hate it well…I'd rather it not ruin your party."
He was snapped into near shock as John gently grabbed his hand in his own, "Firstly Sherlock I could never hate anything that's from you. So, you never need worry about that. But if you'd rather me not open it front of the others, I'd be perfectly alright with doing it now. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
Sherlock nodded numbly, his mouth suddenly dry, "Please."
John smiled and retrieved the little envelope from the branches of the tree, "I must admit I'm curious," he said, studying the little envelope as if to try and guess it's contents, "I have no idea what to expect."
Sherlock faked a weak smile, his confidence about his gift slipping further and further by the minute.
"It'll be fine love," John said reassuringly as if reading his mind. He slid the envelope open carefully and opened the papers inside. There was no emotion on his face. Sherlock couldn't read anything from his reaction as he slowly read the papers over, and then read them over again.
The detective ran a hand through his curls and curled further into his chair. This had been a horrible idea.
"Sherlock," John's voice didn't sound angry or happy, "What is this?"
Sherlock groaned and put his head in his hands, "It's the lease to 221B."
John rubbed his chin, "I can see that. I'm going to need you to elaborate Sherlock I don't understand…did you buy our flat?"
The raven-haired detective pulled his knees up under his chin, "Yes."
He could tell John was angry now, he had that scowl he got when he came home to find Sherlock had forgotten to buy milk or had used all the space in the fridge to store body parts.
"Why on earth would you buy our flat?" John growled, "First off, we had a budget, and second…isn't this more a gift for yourself really?"
Sherlock fought back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks, "It's in both our names John. I thought…it was meant to be a promise…that I'd be here…with you…forever."
John's face softened as all his breath rushed out of him, "Sherlock I…"
"It's ok," Sherlock whispered, "It was stupid I just…"
Calloused fingers were suddenly lifting his chin. John was in front of him, smiling softly and wiping away the tears that had finally succeeded in falling down Sherlock's pale cheeks.
"I love you you daft git," John chuckled.
Sherlock swallowed hard, "I love you too John."
John leaned forward and captured Sherlock's lips with his own, eliciting a small whimper from the detective.
"Does this mean you'll stay here," Sherlock whispered, "in our home John?"
John laughed and shook his head, "For as long as you'll have me Sherlock."
"I was aiming for forever," Sherlock whispered, running a slender finger along the doctor's jaw.
John swallowed and looked deep into Sherlock's eyes, "Then I'm promising you forever."
The End