A/N: So, I just shared my entry for the Johnlock Advent Calendar 2020, inspired by the prompt "Christmas Carolers" on AO3 and I couldn't let you guys down! /spanIt's a fic with many firsts for me - first one-shot, first fic I finished (YAY!), first long story and first time writing something with a little smut as well, so please be gentle! As always, I love to hear what you guys think, so let me know in the comments! Have a good Christmas and stay healthy!
Hallelujah
Night had long fallen over London on Christmas Eve, leaving the streets glowing in the amber of flickering Christmas lights and decorations. The shops were still open, accommodating customers who needed to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, making the streets buzz with people.
John walked down on those streets, trying to avoid people who were entering and exiting the shops without looking. He didn't have to be anywhere; he wasn't looking for Christmas gifts or the perfect outfit; he just walked around enjoying the atmosphere the evening had to offer. He hadn't been to this part of London for more than two years; the last time he had visited was when his friend Mike got married.
The fact that he was in London now wasn't exactly planned. He didn't expect that his leave request would be approved. Every year, many, many service members requested leave to spend Christmas with their families, and there were only a small number of soldiers who could be missed. So the chance of having the command approve your leave request was almost nil. John had thought it was worth a shot, especially since it would probably be the last Christmas his mother would be around. So, when he heard that his request was approved, he was so grateful.
But things didn't go according to plan. When John arrived that morning at the small apartment where his mother lived, he wasn't greeted at the front door by his mother, but by his sister. The look on her face told John that something was wrong, and when he entered the apartment and saw his mother laying on the couch with her eyes closed, he instantly knew this wasn't good. Ever the doctor, John immediately sprang into action. He ordered Harry to call an ambulance and took her vitals. He was a little relieved when he felt a steady pulse, but there was still enough reason for concern, considering his mother's condition.
Luckily, the paramedics agreed with him and decided to take John's mother to St. Thomas' Hospital. After some hours spent in the A&E catching up with his sister over some disgusting cups of coffee, the doctors decided it would be best to admit their mother to give her some strong IV antibiotics.
John knew that meant she would not be able to celebrate Christmas at home. He briefly considered spending Christmas together with Harry and her girlfriend Clara, but he knew that would mean a Christmas full of bickering and fighting. With the promise of coming to brunch on Christmas day, he decided to find a cheap hostel for his short visit to London and have Christmas by himself, apart from a couple of short visits to the hospital.
Which was why he was now wandering the streets with nowhere to be.
After walking around for another good twenty minutes, John arrived at the Christmas fair at the South Bank of the Thames and decided to take a stroll there. He bought himself a cup of hot chocolate and walked past the stalls for a few minutes until the singing of a Christmas choir caught his attention. They were singing the First Noel, and quite nicely too. John shuffled a bit closer to take a better look, careful not to bump into the other listeners. He was surprised to see the singers were barely adults, skinny, with greasy hair, dressed in shabby clothes. The only conclusion John could draw was that the young boys and girls were homeless.
When they finished their song, the crowd started clapping and John, together with some others, reached in his pockets for some change and put it in the container in front of the singers. The singers made a grateful bow and smiled, and John decided to listen to another song. He watched how the singers changed position and made way for one of their female singers to come forward.
A short woman – or girl, John wasn't sure - with long, blond hair and big, blue eyes stepped forward. She looked up in the crowd with an open expression and a smile on her face. She took a deep breath and started singing, soft and beautiful. Her angelic voice immediately gave John goosebumps, and he felt a lump in his throat as he recognised the first notes of the song. Hallelujah .
There was something about the melody, combined with the lyrics and dynamics, that always touched John deeply. He listened to her singing the first verse and chorus, amazed by the fragility of the girl's voice when suddenly a young man stepped up next to him with a violin in his hands. John was sure he hadn't seen him standing by the choir before, and wondered where he'd come from, but before he could give it much thought, he got distracted by the first notes of the violin.
John didn't know if it was the sight of the dark-haired man with the sharp cheekbones, the dexterous, long fingers on the violin, the beautiful notes he played, or a combination of all three, but he was utterly mesmerised the moment the man started playing. A shiver ran down his spine, and he was unable to look away. Suddenly the man looked up, straight into John's eyes, and their eyes locked. The man's eyes were ice-blue, almost glistering in the warm light that surrounded them, and John swore he'd never seen such remarkable, gorgeous eyes before. The man gave him a small smile, and that was it. John felt how his knees went weak, his heart skipped a beat, his lungs refused to take a decent breath. If he didn't know better, he would've sworn he'd just fallen in love with a complete stranger.
But that couldn't be possible, could it?
All of a sudden, the man's gaze left John's, and his face grew focused. He kept playing, but if you listened as closely as John did, you could hear something different was going on. Then, in a flash, the man stopped playing, pushed his violin in the girl's hands without a second thought and started running.
Everything moved so fast that John didn't have the time to register what was happening. Only when the man bumped into him, he turned around and saw another man running as well. It seemed like the violinist was chasing him, and John didn't hesitate but took off as well, going after the two men. What followed was a chase starring three men, hurtling across a bustling Christmas fair. John tried to avoid as many people as possible, but he couldn't bypass everyone, bumping into someone accidentally. He didn't hear the irritated yells he got and only focused on the two figures in front of him, trying to catch up as fast as he could.
After what felt like several long minutes, John stopped. This wasn't going to work. He looked around to see if he could come up with something else when his eyes caught on stairs that led to the top of the wall. Immediately, he climbed the stairs and spotted the two men who were still chasing each other. He set off in a sprint, ran down the next stairs he came across two at a time and ended almost side-by-side with the fleeing man. Without hesitation, he sped up, even more, dove forward, grabbed the man's shoulders and let himself fall on the ground. The man let out an angry growl and tried to push John off of him, but John knew as a soldier how to hold someone in a headlock.
"Don't let him go!"
The violinist ran up to stand next to John, visibly assessed the situation and reached in his pocket to take out his phone. John didn't fail to notice the surprised and impressed look on the man's face and couldn't help but to feel a little proud at himself.
"Lestrade? We caught him. No, let's just say he won't be going anywhere anytime soon. Can one of your men for once not be completely useless and come to take the suspect into custody this instant? As much as I enjoy the scene in front of me, I don't think we can let him lie on the ground."
The man ended the call and knelt before John with a smirk on his face, and John felt his heart skip another beat. "I suppose I should show you my gratitude," the man said in his low baritone voice that made John shiver. "Then again, I would've caught him myself if you hadn't distracted me, but—"
"Distracted you? And how did I do that?"
The man closed his mouth with a snap at the realisation of what he just had said. "That's not… I didn't mean that you distracted me, obviously," he stammered, a blush creeping upon his cheeks.
"Uh-huh," John smirked. He felt the man underneath him struggle to get loose and simply added some pressure, making the suspect whimper. "You just accidentally made it sound like I did."
Their eyes met for the second time that evening, but this time, the man's eyes were filled with daring and mischief. The man let his gaze roam across John's face for a second. When their eyes met again, John swore he could see a hint of anticipation in them as well, and he couldn't help but to lick his lips.
They were forced to take their eyes off each other when three police officers arrived. John stood up and pushed the suspect up onto his feet as well. One of the officers quickly cuffed the man, while the violinist was talking to another officer. John supposed he had to give a statement as well, and walked over to the two men.
"Yes Lestrade, I'm certain that man is the burglar; he owns a terrier as a dog! He also visited his mother-in-law before he came here according to the faint lipstick stain on his cheek, and his sneakers match with the footprints we found at the crime scene," the violinist spoke, clearly frustrated that the officer didn't follow. "Plus, I caught him in the act!"
John looked at the man in amazement, but the officer named Lestrade just sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you not to go undercover on your own?"
"You are completely missing the point!"
The officer didn't answer. He turned his head towards John. "I believe I should be thanking you. Without your help, I'm pretty sure the suspect would've fled once again. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard."
John took the offered hand in front of him and shook it. "John Watson. And no need to thank me, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."
John heard the dark-haired man next to the inspector snort and shot him a look. "Well then," the inspector grinned. "Thank you, Mr Watson. I haven't seen such a decent headlock in a long time. Will it be possible for you to give your statement at New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning? I know it's Christmas, but I'd like to hand this off as soon as possible. That way I might be able to attend Christmas dinner, for once."
"That shouldn't be a problem."
"Good," Lestrade answered, let go of John's hand and turned towards the other man. "You too, Sherlock. I know you don't celebrate Christmas, so don't even bother to come up with an excuse. Goodnight."
With that, the inspector turned around and walked away, leaving John and the other man behind.
"So," John started with a playful smile on his face when the inspector was out of sight. "Sherlock, right? Care to tell me what that was all about? Don't get me wrong, I'm always in for some action, but normally I know a person a bit better before I let myself fall on my knees in front of them."
It was supposed to be a bit of a joke, but Sherlock didn't miss the suggestive tone in John's voice. To John's surprise, the man quirked up his eyebrow and smirked. "Oh believe me, from the moment I saw you I knew you wouldn't say no to some danger. Ever the soldier, hmm?"
"How do you know that?"
"I didn't. I deduced."
"You what?"
Sherlock turned a little towards John. "I deduce, it's what I do."
"So you're what, some kind of private detective? I thought the police didn't work with private detectives."
"I'm not. I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world," Sherlock answered proudly. "If the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
John raised his eyebrows at that in disbelief. "I thought the police didn't consult amateurs."
For a brief moment, Sherlock seemed to look offended. Then, a mischievous smirk appeared on his face as he stepped a little closer, invading John's personal space. "Oh, but I am not an amateur," he told John, his voice dropping into the low baritone that made John's knees feel weak.
But John didn't just give in and gave the man a daring look. "Prove it."
Sherlock let his eyes roam across John's body before he spoke. "Like I said, you're a soldier. I knew that even before you tackled the suspect because of your haircut and the way you hold yourself. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrist. That, together with the fact you're on active duty – you wear your dog tags under your shirt – tells me you're stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq. Obviously, you are on leave because you have a sick family member who is in the hospital, according to the faint smell of antiseptic that's around you. I'm sorry about that, by the way."
"It's okay," John responded automatically.
The detective quirked an eyebrow and stepped even closer to John before he continued. "You don't seem very upset about it, so either you're not very close to the person, or you find comfort in the fact that the person has been admitted to the hospital. If they granted you leave during the holidays, it must be a direct family member, and you must be close. So my conclusion would be that you have a medical background. You're an army doctor."
John blinked, unable to find the right words. He was completely blown away. Sherlock had been right on every account, things he couldn't possibly know about. He looked at the man in front of him with big eyes, equally filled with disbelief and admiration. "That," he started after seconds. "Was amazing."
This seemed to startle Sherlock. "You think so?"
"Of course, it was. It was quite extraordinary."
Sherlock snorted. "That's not what people normally say."
The surprise in Sherlock's voice didn't go unnoticed by John. "What do people normally say?"
"Piss off."
John's heart filled with sympathy for the man when he saw that Sherlock was serious. The man genuinely seemed surprised by John's reaction, and John couldn't begin to think what it must be like to be told to piss off regularly. He realised that most people probably found Sherlock annoying and an incredible know-it-all, but John only found him incredibly smart and fascinating.
Feeling bold, John decided to take a small step closer this time. "Any more deductions about me?" he dared, his voice low.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You have an older sibling who you're not incredibly close to; you'd rather stay at a cheap hostel than with your family. You've been roaming the streets for hours to kill your time, which means you haven't eaten a proper meal in a while. Which leads me to the following question," the detective spoke. He bent closer, and John could feel his breath tickle his ear, making him shiver with anticipation. "Dinner?"
John turned his head a little and looked down at Sherlock's lips for a second before he replied. "Starving."
They looked at each other a second longer before Sherlock let out a small sigh and stepped back. "Come on, I know just the place."
John followed Sherlock through the crowd, and after a short walk, they arrived at a busy street. At his first attempt, Sherlock succeeded in hailing a cab. He opened the door, let John slide in the back of the car and entered as well, only leaving a small gap between them.
When the taxi drove off to the given address, John glanced sideways at Sherlock. The man was staring out of the window, the city lights flickering across his features, making him absolutely beautiful. John couldn't help but smile when he thought about the sudden turn of events this evening. Only a bit more than an hour ago he was wandering around London without a purpose, and now he sat in a cab to go to dinner with the most incredible man he'd met in a long time. Not only that, but the seductive tone in Sherlock's voice and the heated glances he'd given him made John almost sure that he was interested in him, too.
The realisation caused a wave of heat through his body, and suddenly, he wasn't too concerned with dinner anymore.
Ignoring the sudden nervousness that was starting to creep up, John moved a little closer. "You know," he began when Sherlock looked at him, his voice almost a whisper. "I think I might be able to make a deduction of my own."
Sherlock smirked. "Is that so?"
"Oh, yes. I don't think you really want to go to dinner with me, but that you are trying to be a gentleman. You actually just want to invite me back to your place."
When Sherlock didn't respond immediately, John feared he might have misread the situation. He ignored the hammering in his chest and waited for Sherlock to give a response, hoping that he wasn't horribly wrong, trying to keep his cool as he did. But when Sherlock swallowed, John knew he was right.
"What makes you think that?" the detective whispered hoarsely.
John placed his hand on Sherlock's knee, causing Sherlock to suck in a breath. "Your pupils are dilated, your heart rate slightly elevated." John bent a little closer, just like Sherlock had done earlier. "I don't think I need to tell you what that means. The question is, how hungry are you?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, and John felt a little triumphant when he felt a shiver running through the man's body. "I think I'm okay with dessert only."
"Good," John whispered in Sherlock's ear. "Then you'd better change the address."
After a short drive, Sherlock was relieved to see the front door of his sanctuary at Baker Street. He opened the cab door, feeling that John would follow him, and opened the door to 221 with slightly shaking fingers. He would be lying if he didn't admit that he was a little anxious. Sure, he had taken quite a few men to his apartment before, but this time felt different for some reason.
When Lestrade had rung him to consult on a case, Sherlock almost didn't take it; a man who was robbing visitors at the Christmas fair didn't sound like an interesting case to him. But when Lestrade told him the suspect was only stealing from people who were listening to a Christmas choir, it started to peak Sherlock's interest. Not because the case became more fascinating, but because Sherlock always loved to go undercover, and this sounded like the perfect case to do so. So, he gathered some singers of his homeless network, and by the time the evening arrived, they formed a choir and were performing at the Christmas fair, allowing Sherlock to stay on the lookout for the suspect.
Everything was going according to plan, and after a couple of hours, Sherlock had the suspect in his sight. He quickly spread the word that the plan code-named 'Hallelujah' had to be carried out, and when the choir finished their song, Margie – a girl with a remarkable voice – stepped forward. She started the song by herself, allowing Sherlock to take his violin, and he joined her at the second verse while his eyes were roaming the crowd to locate the suspect. But when his eyes lingered on the blonde, muscular man with friendly, blue eyes who was standing in the audience, he was utterly thrown off-guard. He tried to ignore the man, but when their eyes met, Sherlock felt something flutter in his stomach, suddenly unable to focus on what he was doing. Only when he saw the suspect appear right behind John, was he able to clear his mind and leap into action.
Sherlock had momentarily forgotten John in the thrill of the chase, but when the man appeared out of nowhere and tackled the suspect like it was nothing, the fluttering sensation in his stomach returned. But Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't deduce everything there was to know about John in under ten minutes, even if he knew it was something most people didn't appreciate. He couldn't help himself; the man was so fascinating that he had to find out more about him. To Sherlock's surprise, John didn't react with disdain, but with amazement. From that point, Sherlock knew something more was going on. Physical attraction was usually something he could ignore, but this felt different.
This felt like there could be something more.
However, when they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock started doubting that. Maybe John was just trying to get a leg over while he was on leave, hoping to have some casual sex to take his mind off of things, something Sherlock couldn't blame him for given the circumstances. Besides, John would probably laugh at him if he ever told him how he felt, because who would ever fall for someone so quickly? He was being an idiot; people didn't do that. John was just here to have a good time, and Sherlock decided he was going to give him that. He just needed to push his own feelings aside, like he had done on many other occasions.
So when they had entered the apartment, Sherlock walked towards the fireplace, made quick work of building a fire and waited for John to sit down somewhere. He turned around with a seductive smile and started unbuttoning his cuffs. "So, John. Tell me; what do you want?"
"Sorry?"
Sherlock's hands reached the top buttons of his shirt. "What would you like me to do to you?"
John didn't answer, and Sherlock saw how his expression changed from questioning to something that almost seemed like affection. He then slowly got up and approached Sherlock to grab his hands and still them. Swallowing, John looked up at Sherlock. "I don't know what you're used to, but you don't have to do that. Not with me."
With that, John closed the small gap between them and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's. It was soft, almost hesitant at first, and nothing like Sherlock had ever experienced before. He was frozen on the spot for a second, the feeling of John's lips against his own his only focus. Only when John reached up and gently cupped his cheek, did Sherlock remember to reciprocate. He opened his mouth a little, allowing John to take the lead. The touch of John's tongue against his lips made the heat pool low in his belly, and he was no longer able to suppress a moan.
John smiled against Sherlock's lips. He reached up with his hand and let his fingers run through the man's dark hair. His mouth left Sherlock's, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek before he grabbed a fistful of curls and gently forced his head to the side, making Sherlock gasp.
"You are incredible," John whispered and kissed Sherlock's sharp cheekbone. "Amazing." A kiss just underneath his earlobe. "Brilliant." The spot just where jaw met neck. "And absolutely gorgeous." A little lower. "And I can't wait to devour you. Make you fall apart and put you back together."
"John," Sherlock groaned when he felt John's hands glide across his chest. John's hands stopped at the buttons of his shirt to open a few more. As soon as there was more skin revealed, John pressed his lips against it, kissing every bit of it. He slipped his hand in Sherlock's open shirt and aimed for a nipple, making Sherlock gasp in response.
Suddenly, everything seemed to be gaining momentum. In a blink, John's lips were back on Sherlocks, but this time the kiss wasn't hesitant. It became heated, maybe frantic even, with hands roaming across each other's bodies as they tried to get rid of their shirts and jumpers. When they were naked from the waist up, Sherlock bent to kiss John once again and reached out to grab John firmly by his hips and pressed himself against the soldier. The feeling of John's erection suddenly made his knees feel weak, and he was glad John was holding him tight as he did
"Christ," John panted when their lips lost contact. "Maybe we should take this somewhere else?"
Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he nipped at John's earlobe, drawing a low moan out from the man. "Yes," he whispered in John's ear. "Bedroom, now."
When they arrived at Sherlock's bedroom – including a stop in the hallway for another round of amazing snogging against the wall– the atmosphere between them changed. Everything seemed to slow down a bit; kisses no longer frantic but languid and passionate, their touches appreciative and soft. Slowly, John nudged Sherlock back until his legs touched the bed. He allowed John to push him on the mattress, followed by John's body lowering over his.
"You," John started, his voice husky. "Are completely breathtaking." He bent to kiss Sherlock's pulse point. Sherlock swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat that was starting to form.
"You really think so?"
John stopped kissing him and raised himself on his elbows. "Of course. How can I not?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't find the right words. Because how did you tell the man you were falling for, you used to have sex as a cure for boredom, or even worse, as payment for drugs? And that with those reasons, men usually didn't care how you feel, but only cared about how good you were at sucking cock, or how hard they could take you? He couldn't tell John that. Not only would he disapprove, but he would be gone in no time.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked gently, concern evident in his voice. He reached out to stroke his hand through Sherlock's hair again. "What's going on?"
"I… I don't…" Sherlock stammered. He closed his eyes and sighed. "I think you should know that I'm not used to this."
John backed away a little and took a good look at Sherlock. "To what?"
There was no going back now; Sherlock knew that he would have to tell John eventually. "I'm not used to having sex, not like this. The men I've been with weren't very interested in me as a person, only in my body." He opened his eyes and saw how John's eyes grew wide. "And I let them - I let them use me like that. It was a distraction, a way to deal with things." He paused and swallowed. "And above all, a way to pay for drugs.
Sherlock waited for the moment where John would lift himself off of his body, get up, excuse himself and leave, but nothing happened. When he dared to look at John, he was surprised by a look of sympathy instead of disgust and Sherlock suddenly felt his eyes prickle.
"I'm so sorry," John whispered. He cupped Sherlock's cheek and started stroking it softly with his thumb. "Did you manage to get clean?"
"I did. I am."
John smiled. "Good. Then you have nothing to worry about, not with me. You can't change your past, and it wouldn't be fair of me if to judge you for that." He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Now, as for your previous experiences with sex, I think you know it doesn't have to be like that. And I promise you that I would never, ever do that to you."
Sherlock felt his heart swell at John's words. "Never, huh?"
John only then seemed to realise what he was implying. "Oh, god. I didn't mean… I just, uhm," he stammered, his eyes big, a blush creeping high on his cheeks. Sherlock thought it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.
"John," Sherlock asked, his voice dropping in his low, seductive baritone that apparently made the man above him shiver. "Would you like to stay here and spend Christmas with me?"
The look on John's face changed from humiliated to heated in a flash. "God, yes."
"Good." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pulled him a little closer. "Where were we, then?" He asked before he pressed his lips to John's once again and licked into the soldier's mouth, earning an eager moan.
He felt how John's hand lowered from his neck to his shoulder, across his chest down to his trousers and arched into his touch. "I believe," John whispered mischievously, his hand reaching for Sherlock's belt. "That I was about to take you apart."
The next morning, John slowly woke up from the feeling of another body pressed up against his side and a head full of curls resting on his chest. The warmth and the skin-to-skin contact made him very reluctant to move any time soon, so he simply moved his arm to pull Sherlock even closer and softly started tracing irregular patterns on the man's upper arm.
With the memory of the previous night still fresh, he couldn't help it but smile in the darkness. It had been extraordinary, there was no other word for it. Initially, John feared that Sherlock wouldn't be able to let his past go that easily, but once he did, he changed from hesitant and nervous to playful and loving. John had loved the feeling of Sherlock's lean body against his, his lips against John's, his long fingers stroking every part he could reach. They had kissed for what felt like hours, slowly exploring what the other liked, what made him moan and what made him gasp. When they'd finally removed their pants, things grew a little more heated. John still could feel the touch of Sherlock's fingers around his cock and taste of Sherlock's cum on his lips, and it was the best possible feeling in the world. Afterwards, they were both extremely content, but also too exhausted to take a shower – the only thing John regretted right now - when Sherlock simply had wrapped his arm around John's stomach and put his head on John's chest, the same position as he found himself in now.
Lifting his arm to play with Sherlock's hair, John was amazed by how normal this already felt, while they had actually only met the previous night. Something about the man in his arms made him feel completely safe and secure, which he hadn't felt in a long time. The soldier never believed in concepts like 'love at first sight', or 'finding the one'. He had learned that the hard way, growing up in a family with little love to give. But, he had to admit that he was starting to believe he might have been wrong all this time.
There simply was no other way to explain the feelings he was beginning to have for this man.
A soft groan came from somewhere deep inside the sleeping man next to him, and John could feel him starting to wake up. "Good morning, love," he whispered and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's curls.
Sherlock shifted a little to be face-to-face with John and looked at him with surprise. "You're still here."
"I am, and I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon," John chuckled. He let Sherlock adjust to the idea and watched how the words slowly sank in. When they did, Sherlock relaxed a little and lay back next to John.
"They usually don't do that."
"Well," John started and turned on his side to face Sherlock properly. "I'm not 'they', and it's their loss because you look incredibly handsome in the morning. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips to emphasise his words.
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed against John's lips. "I'm indeed starting to believe that you are something else."
John answered by smiling against Sherlock's lips and kissed him again. He shifted a little closer, wrapped his arms around the man next to him, and turned back on his back, dragging Sherlock with him, so he was able to lay on top. He deepened the kiss a bit more and allowed his tongue to slip inside Sherlock's welcoming mouth. John could feel that Sherlock started to get interested against his thigh. He let his hands roam across the man's back, and playfully grabbed his ass, which earned him a gasp.
When John opened his eyes, he could see the heat in Sherlock's gaze. He pressed his hips up a bit, causing some delicious friction that made the detective moan. "Oh," he panted when Sherlock rolled his hips in return. "That feels incredible. Please tell me we can spend Christmas in bed."
"We can do anything we want, John," Sherlock whispered in John's ear before he bit on his earlobe softly.
"Best Christmas ever."
After another round of groping, touching, stroking, gasping and making each other feel good, John and Sherlock decided on a quick shower together and a well-needed cup of coffee in the kitchen. They shared some toast and yesterday's newspaper, enjoying each other's company in silence.
Both men knew that they had to get out of the apartment eventually, but were very reluctant to do so. John kept glancing over the newspaper at Sherlock, granting him small smiles whenever their eyes met, and he couldn't help but feel amazed at how easy everything was going. It felt so natural to be around Sherlock, and the apartment felt so familiar already that it made him feel like he belonged there, with Sherlock.
But it was just a facade, and he knew it.
A sigh escaped him as John stared at the page in front of him, no longer able to read any of the words in front of him. The sudden realisation that he had to leave, that he had to go back to Afghanistan, and that he had to leave Sherlock behind, made him sick to his stomach.
"John? Everything all right?" Sherlock asked. He lowered his newspaper and gave John a concerned look. "You look a bit pale."
John quickly decided that it wouldn't do Sherlock any good to hear that they only had less than twenty-four hours left together. He didn't want to fight, and he definitely didn't want to hurt Sherlock by telling him. So he did the only thing he could think of; he cleared his throat and composed himself. "I'm fine," he answered and put a smile on his face. "So, what did you want to do today?"
The rest of the day passed by as if in a dream. John insisted on dropping by at New Scotland Yard first to give his statement and let Sherlock and the D.I wrap up the case. Of course, Sherlock had been pouting, saying that he knew far better ways to spend their time together and that he always had to wait on the slow officers from the Met, but John was very persistent.
Sherlock's mood cleared when John suggested going to Hyde park; not because he wanted to visit Winter Wonderland, but because he wanted to go to the ice rink instead. Once they arrived, Sherlock couldn't withhold his enthusiasm and practically ran to the ticket box, which looked extremely funny, according to John. They quickly exchanged their shoes for ice skates, and before they knew it, they were on the ice rink skating around and chatting, only taking short breaks to grab some gluhwein or hot chocolate to stay warm.
When evening fell, Sherlock made a quick call to an old friend to see if it would be possible to have dinner there. John thought that it would be a long shot, given it was Christmas day and every restaurant was always fully booked weeks prior, but Sherlock surprised him a couple of minutes later with the news that they had a reservation at Angelo's at seven. They briefly headed back to the apartment to freshen up a bit, only to get distracted by each other's bodies when they were changing clothes.
A little later than initially anticipated, the two men arrived at Angelo's where they were greeted warmly by the owner. They got a small seat near the window overlooking the street and shared an incredible meal over some delicious wine and good conversations.
It was already past midnight when they arrived back at Baker Street, but neither of them cared. With the warmth of wine still in their bodies and the cold of the snow still against their skin, they made love to each other, only to fall asleep in each other's embrace afterwards.
But in the middle of the night, John woke up to an empty bed. It took him a moment to register it, but then he noticed the soft tones of a violin that were filling the apartment. At first, John could only describe the melody as beautiful, but when he listened more closely, he could hear something else too. Something sad, something melancholic.
Something like heartache.
John's mind started racing, trying to think if something happened what could've caused this, trying to trace back what could possibly be the reason for Sherlock's sudden change in emotion. But he couldn't think of anything, except…
With a jolt, John sat up, an disturbing, uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He got up as fast as he could, not caring about the fact that he was only in his pants and walked towards the sound of the violin.
Sherlock stood by the window with his back towards John, his curly hair a mess, his dressing gown loosely wrapped around his shoulders, his violin tucked under his chin. The sight momentarily took John's breath away. He let the wistful melody fill the room a little longer before he took the courage to say something.
"Sherlock?"
Abruptly, Sherlock stopped playing, but apart from that, he didn't move. John waited for Sherlock to say something, but when nothing came, he estimated that it would be okay to come a little closer. The expression that was visible on Sherlock's face when he did made John's heart clench painfully in his chest, but he knew he had to push through.
"What's wrong?" he eventually managed to ask, mentally bracing himself for what was about to come.
The question made Sherlock lower his violin and his bow. He continued staring at the window, his body tensed. When Sherlock did speak, his voice was low and threatening. "I'm not an idiot, John."
"No, you're not."
At that, Sherlock did turn around. "Then why didn't you tell me you're leaving tomorrow?"
John didn't answer and sighed in defeat. There they were, the words that he feared would be the reason. He searched for his own words to say, for a way to tell Sherlock that there was a reason why he hadn't told him. But he couldn't tell him that, because John knew that hearing those words would be even more painful than this.
Sherlock then slowly approached John with a furious look in his eyes. "You know what, maybe I am an idiot. I told myself I wouldn't do this anymore, that I wouldn't let my feelings get in my way. And the worst part is; I could've known. If I just hadn't let myself get distracted by you, I would've deduced it right away. But no, I let my feelings cloud my judgement yet again."
For a second, Sherlock let his eyes roam across John's face, searching for something that would tell him he was wrong. When he didn't find it, he changed his look from furious into distant so quickly that it made John shiver. "I promised myself that I wouldn't get invested anymore and that opening up to someone was a waste of time because eventually, people leave. That's what people do. It was naive of me to think that you would be any different. My brother always told me that caring is not an advantage. Thank you for the final proof, John."
"I'm sorry," John managed to whisper.
"What for? For the fact that you were selfish enough to think you could have another day with me, or for lying in the first place when you told me you would never use me?"
"That's not why."
"Then you'd better enlighten me, John, because I'm this close to throwing you out!" Sherlock bellowed, the loudness of his voice making John flinch.
Squeezing his eyes shut, John searched for the courage he needed to tell the real reason why he didn't want to leave, but it seemed impossible to find them. Because how would you say to the man you've met a little over a day ago that you've fallen in love with him? And that the real reason for you not telling him that would have to leave was that you were afraid you would never see him again? But suddenly, John reached another conclusion.
If he didn't tell Sherlock, he knew for sure he would never be able to see him again.
So John swallowed, looked up into Sherlock's fierce, beautiful eyes and took a deep breath before he started to whisper.
"Because I didn't expect to fall in love with you."
The words hang between the two men long after John spoke to them. At first, he wondered if Sherlock had heard them at all, but Sherlock's wide, blinking eyes told John that he had heard them loud and clear. "Look, I'm sorry," he started, feeling the urge to explain himself. "I know it sounds insane. I only just met you, we don't know a thing about each other, and I really tried to convince that this wasn't something that happens. I swear I tried to fight it, but the more I tried to resist it, the more it became clear to me that the damage had already been done."
When Sherlock still didn't respond, John knew that that was it. The sudden feeling of tears prickling behind his eyes indicated that he couldn't keep himself together much longer and that, if he wanted to leave with any dignity left, he had to go now.
"I'll just grab my things," he managed to croak before he turned around to the door.
"You love me."
The words were so soft that John almost didn't register them at first. But when he did, he couldn't suppress a small smile at hearing those words coming from Sherlock's lips. "I'm afraid so."
Then, everything happened all at once. John turned around to face Sherlock at the same time as Sherlock strode towards John. He flung himself around John with such force that John knew Sherlock was feeling the same things for him. With that thought, he reached out and tightened his arms around Sherlock, allowing them to stay as long as they needed.
"I'm terrified," Sherlock mumbled against the crook of John's neck, his voice sounding muffled.
"I know."
"It's not fair."
"No, it isn't."
"Stay."
John tightened his grip even more. "You know I can't."
"I do, but still."
"Sherlock, listen to me. I know it's not much, and I know it won't solve things. But I am going to make you one promise: I am going to do everything in my power not to lose you. Promise me you'll do the same?"
Sherlock didn't reply, at least, not with words. But the little nod he gave all the soldier to know that they at least would try, and that was enough.
They would figure out the rest along the way.
Christmas arrived once again a year later, and the Christmas lights were yet again flickering in the shop windows. The approaching holidays made the streets busy with people who were trying to score their last-minute gifts, just like they always did around this time of the year. And just like last year, John was wandering down the streets of London.
The only difference with the previous year was that he wore a sling around his left arm.
As John walked on the streets of London, he couldn't help but think back to last Christmas, to the time he had with Sherlock, and to the promise they had broken. They had tried to remain contact; wrote each other letters and called if there was ever the opportunity. At first, it was going well. John looked forward to reading about Sherlock's adventures and promised every time that if he got the chance to return to London, they would be reunited.
But as the months passed by, the letters started to arrive less frequently. Sherlock's career as a consulting detective started to take off, allowing him to work on more significant cases that took more of his focus. Things were growing tenser in Afghanistan, causing John to not respond to Sherlock's letters as quickly and in as much detail as he would have liked. The letters became shorter and more general, and eventually, neither of them was able to bear the distance that was between them.
So when John heard he was going to be stationed in Helmand this May, he made the most difficult decision he had to make in his life; he decided to let Sherlock go.
In one final letter, John explained to Sherlock that he was going to be stationed in an active war zone and that he would no longer be able to contact him. With his final words and tears in his eyes, he told Sherlock that he loved him, but that chances were that he wouldn't be able to return to London and that Sherlock shouldn't wait for him any longer.
And John almost didn't return to London. After four months of fighting for other soldiers' lives in Helmand, a bullet nearly took his own. He survived a shot to his shoulder and a nasty infection, but just barely. Two surgeries and weeks of hospitalisation eventually got him back on his feet, but his military career was over. When he received his honourable discharge at the end of November, John decided to get back to London.
In the first week that he arrived, John had considered reaching out to Sherlock, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He only just could bear the thought that Sherlock might have found another person, but John knew he wouldn't survive If he knew he had.
Also, deep down, John knew it would be best for both of them if he didn't contact Sherlock.
Without realising it, John arrived at the same Christmas fair as last year. He walked past the stalls and smiled at the memory of him and Sherlock chasing a criminal through the crowd of people, allowing himself to stop in the exact spot where he had tackled the suspect. He could almost hear the first words Sherlock had spoken to him in his low baritone, the conversation the detective had with the D.I, and picture how he had handed the suspect to the police like it was no big deal. And then, there was the deduction that followed once they were alone again. John still knew every word of what Sherlock had said about him, he knew them by heart.
John decided to walk on before his emotions got the upper hand. However, after a minute, he wished he hadn't, because he was greeted by the sound of a group of carolers who were singing the most beautiful Christmas songs. He wanted to walk past them, he really did, but something about the voices lured him in their direction and forced him to stand and listen.
The carolers were finishing Carol of the Bells with a beautiful decrescendo. After a bow and a round of applause, the singers switched places and waited for everyone to be ready. At the first intake of breath from one of the carolers, John knew which song they were going to perform.
Hallelujah .
All of the emotions he had tried to suppress earlier came rushing through him, and John couldn't do anything than to let it happen. He fought the lump that formed in his throat, overwhelmed by nostalgia, sadness, but most of all, regret. He shouldn't have let Sherlock go, he should've reached out to him, he should've tried-
"You know, Hallelujah isn't even a Christmas song."
John jerked around at the sound of the familiar baritone so fast that he had to reorientate. It felt as if the world swept underneath his feet; he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He just stood there, completely frozen. Because there, right behind in the middle of the crowd, stood Sherlock.
The detective approached John with a slight smirk on his face, clearly enjoying John's astonishment. "Hello John, it's good to see you," he said softly when they were almost standing toe to toe.
"Sherlock," John managed to gasp. He let his eyes roam across Sherlock's face as if he couldn't believe that he was really standing in front of him. When he was convinced that it indeed was him, John's first instinct was to reach out to him and grab his hand, but in the last second, he hesitated, not knowing if he was still allowed to do that.
"It's okay," Sherlock said, his voice almost a whisper. He grabbed John's hand instead and laced their fingers together. The touch of Sherlock's fingers against his skin suddenly made him aware of his surroundings, but most of all, of the song that the carolers still were singing. He looked up into Sherlock's beautiful eyes, the ones he had pictured so many times over the last year, and felt how his own eyes filled with tears.
Sherlock's face grew serious at the sight of John's emotions. He reached up with his other hand and gently cupped John's cheek. "You know," he started, and John could hear the struggle in his voice. "I thought I would never see you again."
John squeezed his eyes shut, and let the first tear roll down. "You were almost right."
He could hear Sherlock suck in a breath before he wiped the tear from John's cheek. "I tried to move on just as you asked me to, but I couldn't. Not when there still was a chance you would return."
At that, John opened his eyes. He couldn't believe the words he was hearing and knew he probably misunderstood them, but to him, it almost sounded as if Sherlock had been waiting for him. That couldn't be true, could it? But when he met Sherlock's gaze, John realised that he didn't misunderstand. Sherlock was looking at him with such sympathy and vulnerability that John knew the words had to be true.
They didn't speak another word. They both knew that there were so many things left unspoken, but at this moment, words could wait. Instead, John gave Sherlock's hand a soft squeeze, encouraging him to step even closer. Sherlock did and bent forward a little, their noses almost touching. John felt the huff of air against his lips and licked them before closing the small gap between them.
To the people around them, it probably seemed like a normal, almost chaste kiss. But to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, it felt like so much more. Like an apology, like a promise, like devotion.
Like home.