Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I would like to apologise. Starting this, I had meant to give equal space to John and Sherlock. It seems it's not happening anymore. Oh well. Authors propose, characters dispose, right?
He should have known that things would go pear-shaped. They always did, as far as he was concerned. And only more so since he's met his…homonym, John, it's a homonym, no matter Harry's drunken ravings. (God, how much he'd like for her to be right, for once.)
But Sherlock had come back home from…well, hopefully not the morgue, looking all smug with his package and proclaiming he's got John's Christmas gift, "but no peeking!" and he's done for this December.
Which obviously prompts the doctor to ask, "Really? So what did you get for Mrs. Hudson?" Only to receive a blank stare. "You did buy something for het, right? Sherlock, the woman puts up with bullet holes in her walls. The least you can do is show some gratitude at Christmas!" he scolds sternly.
"Well? What did you get her?" the detective counters, always getting prickly when he suspects he should feel guilty – at least that much, John has figured out.
He sighs. "Nothing still, but I have every intention to find her something nice. But with shifts, cases and, now, even participating to tv shows, sorry if I did not find a moment to run that particular errand."
His flatmate huffs, as if John is the one being unreasonable.
Prey of a terrible suspect, the blogger queries, "Did you get anything for people but me?"
The detective blinks, half innocent and half puzzled, and counters, "Why would I? It's not like anyone else cares about me."
Which just about breaks John's heart into little pieces. He only keeps it together because he's a man on a mission: to prove him wrong. "You can't mean that, Sherlock! Besides Mrs. Hudson – believe me, she has to care about you since she hasn't evicted you yet – of course there are other people who like you and care for you. What about Mycroft? Molly? Greg?" he replies, all in a breath.
"Who?" the sleuth asks, frowning.
John rolls his eyes at the deliberate show of idiocy. "Detective inspector Lestrade," he explains all the same.
"You think all these people care about me? Sure, I interact with them, and they find me useful – or, for Molly, mostly the reverse – but I wouldn't call that anything else than reciprocally using each other," the consulting detective expounds, perfectly nonchalant – as if the matter of not having any relationship not founded on the reciprocal exploitation was not a tragedy, but just the way the world works.
And maybe, John wonders, heart aching, that is really what he thinks. Someone has to uproot that from his magnificent brain – and he is the man for the job. If only because, apparently, there is no one else. "That's it. We're having a Christmas party, at Christmas' Eve," he decrees, unconsciously going into captain mode.
"Why would you want something so ridiculous?" the detective wonders, raising an eyebrow.
"To prove you that you're wrong. I mean, if all the people you know only tolerate you for some sort of reciprocal usefulness exchange, nobody will want to be in your company in a not-working setting, right?" the blogger explains, trying to make an appealing argument for Sherlock's logic.
"This is our flat," the consulting detective points out. "They might consider a party with you worthy of tolerating, or at least ignoring, my presence. For some reason, you are rather charming, and as such, an attractive companion."
"…Thanks?" John replies. True, the whole 'for some reason' means that his flatmate doesn't see his appeal at all, but it's not like he expected him to. "If this is a concern, though, it is easily resolved. You will be the one inviting them, and you can let drop that I will be staying with my sister."
"But you're not going to, are you?" Sherlock queries, sounding almost…alarmed? It makes no sense, though. "You're only spending the actual Christmas day with her, aren't you?"
"Yeah, of course I am. But we don't want your results to get skewered, do we? You are a phenomenal bloody actor; you can sell this one tiny lie," the doctor states, with a smile that hopefully reassures his friend.
"Will we have to go through with the party, if they accept?" the detective queries, a hint of a pout already forming.
"We will," the blond declares, "otherwise you'll forever be left in doubt about whether they would tolerate you in a not-work, or better said, reciprocal exploitation setting. They will honestly enjoy your company, Sherlock. Because you're lovely."
The sudden blush from his flatmate reminds John that 'lovely' is not exactly on par with the other praising adjectives with which he's so used to showering his friend. Amazing is one thing. Lovely is quite another.
"Because with you it is easy to have a lovely time, I meant to say," he quickly corrects himself. "I certainly do."
"I still think you'll discover you are the only one," the sleuth objects.
"Only one way to find out, don't you think?" the blogger quips, handing Sherlock his phone with a smile.
Of course, the only way to prove him wrong is to actually call. To the consulting detective's bafflement, everyone accepts promptly. They seem even more keen, if anything, when informed of John's probable absence. That these people care for him, and don't want him to be lonely, apparently does not compute, given the genius' puzzled frown.
"You know what this mean, don't you?" John points out, when everyone has agreed to come. "We're having a Christmas party. You'll have to buy some form of gift for them – even a tiny thing."
"You can take my credit card, John. I trust you with the matter," his flatmate replies immediately.
"Oh no. These are going to be your gifts. I mean, they can be ours, if you want, I don't mind giving a joint gift with you. But you are definitely coming with me and helping me select them," the former Captain instructs, his officer persona coming unexpectedly to the forefront.
"But John…there will be…people!" the over five foot tall three years old he lives with whines.
"Absolutely," the blogger confirms, way too gleeful.
"I might get overwhelmed by the amount of data…and stupidity…in the air," Sherlock insists, plaintive still.
"I'll be with you – have your back. Come on, you can do this. At most, we only have to visit four shops," the kind doctor coaxes.
"Three," the sleuth barters immediately. "I'll just take a case for Mycroft. That will be the only gifts he wants, anyway."
"Oh, I don't know – you've led me to believe the best possible gift for Mycroft is cake," John objects, grinning.
"Fine, maybe four," the consulting detective concedes, smirking back. Any occasion to rib his brother is welcome.
For a while, things go smoothly. Pastries – not cake, in the end – for Mycroft, from the best bakery in all of London. A nice shawl for Mrs. Hudson. The blogger somehow manages to stop Sherlock from buying Greg a House Chores for Dummies book despite his protests.
"Because he's going to be divorced very soon, so he'll have to look after himself, John!" the detective grouses, but he's ultimately rebuffed.
At the same time, John wonders if he should purchase a copy tomorrow for Sherlock as half of his gift, because God knows if anyone needs such a book it is his flatmate. In the end, he decides against it. Being passive-aggressive would be perfectly useless with him.
Molly will get a kittens decorated tote bag that's sure to make her squeal (though hopefully not too jarringly). It is actually Sherlock's idea, and John is rather proud of him. It's rather hard to find a balance when the person you're buying a gift for is crushing on you, and you don't want to encourage her, and at the same time has done you so many favours that you need a gift important enough to convey many, many untold thank-yous.
Sadly, it would be too much to ask for this outing to go untroubled. They have not had a decent case since the start of the month, though they did take some simple things the sleuth would not have left his armchair for usually, simply because they were both going stir-crazy.
And now his friend has been coerced into shopping, been bombarded with Christmas-themed music not always well rendered, shoved around by other last-minute shoppers and generally subjected to a mayhem of contrasting, useless data from people he does not care about, and that will require a long deletion process.
When he tries to shove someone out of the way himself, though, on the way back, it happens to be a pretend Santa Claus with a gaggle of doe-eyed children around him. And the man, rather than cursing him or something, loudly ho-ho-hoes and asks him why he's in such a sour mood (isn't everyone?) and what he wants for Christmas. Maybe he's just a very committed actor.
Sherlock, though, explodes like a badly used pressure cooker, yells about his soulcrushing boredom (…fine) and asks at full volume for a nice, juicy murder. Getting descriptive about what he wants (including chopped body parts from different unidentifiable victims).
The unfortunate Santa looks at him in fear, manoeuvring himself between the violent psychopath and the kids. Of course, the consulting detective is not a serial killer, but the poor man doesn't know, and John notices and silently appreciates him. The kids, obviously, start sobbing and crying noisily, which attracts the parents' fury and – would you believe it? – the sleuth's puzzlement. Then again, he tried to solve Carl Powers' murder when he was fucking eight, John reminds himself, so maybe he's been asking Santa for a juicy murder since he was their age.
Before the invoked police can arrive, the blogger manages to persuade his companion to flee the scene and get back home. They have the gifts they came for, and Sherlock does not ask for anything better than getting out of the crowd. Accidentally having to outrun the cops makes it only more fun (for him as well, even if John would never admit it).
It hits John only at this point that he has not a gift for his flatmate – yet. They have agreed that the gifts for their friends will be common (despite the detective waving it away, he's determined to give him his share of the money spent on them).
But with Sherlock's preternatural deductive powers, his not being attached to any material things – beside the skull and his violin – and the fact that the madman is, put bluntly, richer than him, finding a gift that his friend will like and, preferably, not guess as soon as John buys it is really not that easy.
Luckily, the following day the consulting detective – still without a case – remains grumbling on the sofa. John, suddenly stricken by inspiration and giggling to himself, goes to buy the right gift for his own overgrown toddler.
Hopefully it will at least make him laugh. And it will be a seasonal-appropriated change from his much despised deerstalker, at least. Not that his friend will let himself be caught dead using it. much less wearing it in public.
But it could be odd enough that he will not be able to deduce it. After all, he'd have to imagine it first. And it wouldn't surprise John if his flatmate had deleted Christmas legends (and isn't this so very sad?).
He comes back home studiously nonchalant. Only for Sherlock to perk up upon seeing him and asking eagerly, "Did you find us a case?"
"No, sorry, mate. Why would you think so?" he replies, honestly curious.
"Because you…oh, of course. My Christmas gift. That's why you ooze so much smugness for having something that'll make me happy. Dull," the sleuth corrects himself, plopping back down on the sofa.
"I ooze smugness?" the blogger echoes, disbelieving.
"Might as well, when you try so very hard to play normal. Your 'never mind me, I am an ordinary bloke with nothing to hide at all' means 'I have something you will like, and I will make you so very happy soon'. You are horrible at pretending, John," the detective scolds, but the smile betrays how fond he is of that particular flaw.
"Not my fault that you are a bloody genius," the blond objects, "If I cannot deceive you or your brother, it doesn't mean that anyone else would see through me. By the way, can I beseech you not to deduce it until I give it to you?"
"You won't be there at Christmas anyway," Sherlock points out, pouting full force.
"Which is why I thought we might exchange gifts before the party. Can you resist the urge to deduce it until then?" the doctor queries.
"Why would I want to resist it?" the detective asks, honestly puzzled. This is what he does – the one remarkable trait he has. The one that makes his disappointed soulmate heap sweet, sweet praise on his starved soul. If he can gain another 'brilliant', that's worth some snooping and deducing, certainly? (Snooping because John – fond of traditions as he is – will certainly try to hide his gift, but come on, the house is not that big).
"For me," his blogger replies simply, and that's it. The magic words that will forever make Sherlock bend to his mate's desires. Hopefully John doesn't realise it still – otherwise the sleuth is doomed.
"I suppose I could," the consulting detective agrees, with a shrug and a pout aimed to mislead John about how very unable to displease him he is. Not when he knows that the matter is important to John, at least. With the little things – body parts, experiments, shirking chores – he will always try the man, but these don't count.
The soft, grateful smile he receives is enough to warm his heart and make him vow to deserve more of these. "Besides, I have already something to apply my deductive powers…Hannibal." Yeah, he's reduced to wild guessing now.
"Christ, Sherlock! No!" John H. Watson yells, aghast.
"Well, I checked – that cannibal character whose movie you made me watch appeared first in 1981, and before the name referenced a great, if ultimately unfortunate, general. So it seemed plausible," the sleuth explains.
"Don't make things impossible for me though – go hide it. If you just leave it around, I'll have no choice. I cannot turn off my brain, John. Not without chemical aids whose use you wouldn't approve," he adds. At least his friend had mixed the gift among other groceries and not come home with the bag of the shop inevitably inkling him.
His flatmate obeys immediately taking the stairs to his room two at a time (something Sherlock is still proud of – he might be inadequate, but he'd like to see any of his girlfriend see through and remedy that). Coming back down after a short time, his blogger orders, "No snooping in my room. I can't exactly rent a safe-deposit box. Not that it would be safe from you."
The smile he receives makes the sleuth smile back, blissful, without even realizing he's done that. He's supposed to be frustrated. Bored. Certainly not smiling dopily at being issued boundaries in his own home, of all things.
Thank God that an excuse to continue being happy, without John figuring out all of Sherlock's brain chemical balance hangs on him, comes just then in the form of a client. (Not a locked room, dismembered one, though, because Santa does not exist.)
True, it is disappointingly simple, but it gives him the excuse to play around and show off. It also sort of gives him pause, the way the victim has been murdered because he was involved in a relationship…and half, not really two-timing, with people, neither of which were his soulmate. Not even homonyms. He knows people do that, he's seen more than his fair share of it on cases, but it still puzzles him.
Why would anyone get involved with people who cannot possibly be their destined one? Never mind John, he has the excuse of having been mismatched, but why get into a relationship that will never make you Happy? If anyone (aka Mycroft) pointed out to him that this reasoning is eminently romantic, while most people are, if not logical, at least pragmatic, Sherlock would blush and deny it to his last breath.
The cold front he offers to the world is ruined at the point where he blesses the fact that there are actually two places that need to be not d out, in order to catch their murderer. Because the mere idea of cuddling together in the dark, quiet, barely breathing, all senses alight, makes him need a cold shower. John would undoubtedly get angry with him.
Still, he gets frustrated – no, not in that sense, he keeps himself too focused on the case to allow himself that – with the way people never seem to think. Hope, all these months ago, had a point. He would have got away with it – if he'd bothered to start such a relationship, in the first place. There were so many sensible alternatives, but no, people just murdered in a fit of rage and then scrambled to cover it up. Of course they got caught, hell, even their client had solved it, and only came to them because the 'how' had her stumped.
If he complains about it, the following day, it's only his right, isn't it? After all, it will probably be his best crime around the holidays. People do snap and attack each other – not that he doesn't understand that, he'd get the urge to murder his brother too if he were forced in a yearly reunion – but they are terribly dull about it. All the creative criminals seem to take a break around Christmas. Infected by the seasonal goodwill…or possibly spending the festivities finalizing the details of their master plans.
And John is so insensitive. He offers his perfect tea to cheer him up, yes, but mostly it is obvious that he's tuning his flatmate out, going about his own errands and sidestepping the sleuth when he gets up from the sofa to bring his grievances to what should be a sympathetic ear.
His flatmate takes the frozen turkey out of the fridge, warning him that it needs to unfreeze with a few hours at room temperature, "so whatever you do don't contaminate it, Sherlock. I'll be doing the cooking, but I don't want to order in again tonight. It's unhealthy."
"Where are you going?" the detective – not whines, he never whines. He just…ponders. John would not be warning him off if he was there to remind him not to touch it.
"Out. I forgot some of the ingredients for what I have in mind. Well, not exactly forgotten…I could have sworn that we still had some potatoes…" His soulmate's voice peters out, but he does not accuse Sherlock outright, even if he is the only possible responsible. Mrs. Hudson is more likely to fill their fridge and pantries than empty them.
And the consulting detective offers no explanation. A failed attempt to cook mashed potatoes for John a couple days ago to tempt him away from the nth date with Jessica…Joan…Janice? is not something he wants to flaunt. So he starts offering his observations to the turkey instead, which he privately names Timur, going on at length about how even his new friend would be able to plan a murder better than their last silly murderer, with all the disadvantages of being a bird. His flatmate rolls his eyes (fondly, Sherlock still wants to think) and leaves, waving his goodbye.
Timur offers no objections, but he does not comfort either. Growing frustrated, the sleuth is tempted to throw him away, but he refrains. John will be very cross if he comes back to find his dinner thwarted. Like Mycroft (though not as epicurean) his doctor is not fond of seeing his meals ruined. Sherlock had to learn to make time during his investigations to allow his soulmate to feed himself, even.
But really, the only person he should be angry at is himself. Since when is he so depending on someone paying attention and answering him? A soulless listener used to be the best. It didn't distract him with stupid questions or objections. His flat(soul)mate has spoiled him. Having someone who understands, when he takes the time to explain, and makes observations he is not forced to immediately delete just not to lose his train of thought, now makes him crave for interaction.
But he cannot follow John around 24/7, to ensure he has his precious input, can he? John has his work. John goes on silly errands (he cannot be expected to do the shopping and maintain his sanity). John…ugh…dates – and he very much does not want his flat(soul)mate around then.
Which brings him back to the matter of the goddamned name. He needs John's middle name, because he needs him to stop dating – at least for the promised week. Seeing him make sure to look so beautiful, and knowing he's not allowed to touch, is its own brand of torture. Knowing he cares about impressing a number of random females, just because they have the right body parts, is a constant reminder of his own inadequacies the sleuth would love to go without. Besides, John does not need to dress up to sway anyone, doesn't he know? He's naturally sexy.
Now, about the name…the fact that he's by now reduced to wild guessing proves that John was right, it was picked randomly enough (or according to data he's not and cannot be privy to, like an obscure ancestor's name, or the name of his mother's favourite character) for it to escape deducing.
But, as the saying goes, intelligence is not knowing everything, but knowing where to look up what you don't know. Some might admittedly regard it as cheating, but what John doesn't know won't hurt him. Sherlock can always invent a bullshit deduction once he knows what the goddamn name is.
Which is why the following day, December 22 (the year is almost gone – how did this happen? it seems yesterday that they met in January), as soon as John is out of the door to go to work, the detective slips out himself, headed for the register office. He will fake working for his brother's, if need be. They won't hold back any data from one of Mycroft's minions. National security, you see. Possible identity theft. He has an excuse at the ready that will make any public employee rush to comply.
And indeed he gets the copy of John's birth certificate that he needs. Mmm…they didn't even check with his superiors that he indeed worked for Mycroft. He should inform his brother of this security weakness. He gets back home, smiling all the way, and finally discovers the damned name. Hamish. Why didn't they pick that as first name, honestly? At least there are way less Hamish around that there are Johns, and he might have a marginal chance of finding him with a careful research.
And why does his soulmate dislike it? True, it is a Scottish spelling of another very common name (James) – yes, Sherlock is spending time researching the name, how can he fake a deduction otherwise? – but there are no famous criminals connected to it. Inherited it from some annoying relative? Someone discovered it and teased him about it? (People can be cruel when they find something unusual, Sherlock knows it all too well).
He doesn't realise that he's been spending so much time wondering, but John Hamish Watson is a neverending puzzle that he wants to unravel and will probably never manage to. It's all too easy to get lost in the mental sceneries he's concocting. Which leads to the tragic end he'd wanted to avoid. His flatmate coming home after work and finding him frowning at the birth certificate.
John's wide grin makes Sherlock blush, for no reason at all. "So you gave up. You could have asked me if you were so curious," the doctor remarks.
"I wasn't meaning to forfeit," the sleuth mumbles, eyes once again fixed on the paper in his hands.
"Cheating? Is having to eat like a human being for a week so horrible a prospect?" the blond queries, raising an eyebrow.
"It's not that," the detective replies hurriedly, clamping down what the truly unbearable future is. But wait…maybe he can manipulate things into reaping the spoils of victory all the same. "I am just not used to losing in such games but to Mycroft," he admits, redirecting the conversation. "I won't try to weasel out of my penalty, though. For the next seven days, I will eat whatever you put in front of me. These were the terms of the bet, yes?"
"Yes," his blogger confirms, frowning. "Why do I sense that you're going to add something I won't like, though?"
Teen! Sherlock is beaming in his attic, very tempted to reply, "Because you are a pretty damn smart man, love, and have survived this long by spotting traps from a mile away." That would be counterproductive to say, though. Admitting to trying to con someone is not the best way into anyone's good graces.
"I don't know what you mean," the consulting detective quips instead, "I just wanted to let you know that you can't expect me to feed myself this week. With all you'll undoubtedly put before me in an attempt to start me on a healthy diet, I'd gain at least a pound in the next seven days if I indulged in any extra snacks." There. John hates when he misses meals, so he can't go out on dinner dates. True, he might arrange to go out afterwards, but if he can concoct something he can have him all to himself. He's not above drugging him to ensure his soulmate will be too tired to go gallivanting, honestly. Bit not good, probably, but if John hadn't driven him to despair he wouldn't need to go to such extremes.
"Then I'll be claiming my prize starting after Christmas," John declares, shrugging.
"What? Why?" the consulting detective protests automatically.
"Have you forgotten that I'm going to Harry's? The last thing I want is you starving at Christmas out of sheer stubbornness," his blogger answers, voice warm despite the critique.
"No, I haven't," the sleuth replies, in a clipped tone. He would very much like to, but John looking forward to abandoning him is not something he can delete, sadly.
The matter gets mercifully ditched, and they spend the evening in comfortable, quiet companionship, both pretending to be busy with their own pastimes. Sherlock managed to obtain a whole hand out of Molly by noticing that she's changed the brand of her cosmetics. The fact that he can tell make-up brands apart is apparently not enough of a hint for her about his preferences, luckily for him.
As for John, he's surfing the web, looking at cat videos. Apparently they are a longstanding favourite. Especially the 'cats forgetting how to cat' ones. The consulting detective is too annoyed by the use of the noun as a verb in an improper sense to love the silly things. He's not interested in catting, whether it relates to whipping, sex (this might be Irene's verb, now that he thinks about it), nautical activities or heaving, and none of these cats on Youtube seem to have problems with such activities, either. Gratuitous improper use of language is not something he feels should be encouraged by repeated viewing.
A day later, things go as bad as they can possibly go. John doesn't even need to go out cruising (which Sherlock could somehow thwart) to get a date. He comes back home from work grinning, and the sleuth knows that look on him. "Don't you think unprofessional to hit on your patients? Or unwise, at least, since they're clearly carrying some ailment?" he sneers.
"Jeanette is not my patient," the doctor points out, his smile now morphing in the fond, admiring expression that so often accompanies his flatmate's deductions.
"Your patient's relative, then. She might be healthy, but I still find it somehow questionable," the sleuth huffs.
"If I gave her mom's a better treatment because of it, certainly. But her mum is, honestly, the more serious case of LOLINAD I ever saw," John points out, shrugging.
"Sorry?" Sherlock yelps. Has one of them suffered a sudden ictus? Why do John's word suddenly not make sense?
"Little old lady in no apparent distress," the doctor explains. "I suspect she was lonely, mostly. You spend so much time at Bart's that I forgot that you do not know every term of medical slang out there."
"If I ever heard it I deleted it immediately. After all, I have you for that, should it ever become relevant to a case," the detective replies, waving away the knowledge.
"True," John agrees fondly. Whatever happens, Sherlock can always lure him in with cases, and that's comforting. Sadly, not every time one needs a good murder the criminals of London are obliging. "Anyway," the blond adds, suddenly hesitant, "I'm going out with her tonight, and I was thinking…if it goes well…I'd like to invite her to our Christmas Eve party too. If that's okay with you."
'Why would you do that to me?' teen!Sherlock wants to wail, but the detective clamps that down ruthlessly. He knows the proper answer to that. The one that will warrant his reluctant soulmate's presence at the hateful gathering. "It's your flat too, John. You're certainly entitled to inviting whomever you want. Besides, can I point out that this…celebration was your idea in the first place?" he replies, snappier than he probably should be.
"Yeah. But it was to prove a point to you, you great git," his flat(at least, still)mate quips, and yet again the consulting detective is reminded that John's insults are actually terms of endearment. No matter how often it happens, the lack of hatred behind them never fails to surprise him, though he's careful not to let that show on his face. "Anyway, I'm glad it won't bother you. And she might have previous engagements, so it's not sure," his soulmate concludes.
Now, that's just mean. 'It won't bother?' Of course it bothers Sherlock, and a great deal too. John parading his conquests inside the flat – their flat? Demonstrating to his soulmate all the ways he's lacking? Of course it hurts. Honestly, the detective would rather be subjected to physical abuse. He's been in enough fights with criminals to know how to deal with physical pain, how to push past it. This sort of implicit humiliation is more agonizing than any broken bone.
But he can't complain – he can't say a word. Implicit humiliation is still better than vocal, loud put down, which would undoubtedly follow his protests. He can ignore the insults – or pretend to – when they come from strangers, idiots, and generally people he can heartily despise in turn.
John, though…no matter how many times he belittles him aloud, truth is that the consulting detective cannot seem to find a flaw on him that is not made absolutely inconsequential when faced with his awesome virtues. Even the specks of cruelty, Sherlock will blame on himself rather than John.
Dangling the chance that it might not happen, after all, is just toying with the sleuth's feelings. He knows better than that. Of course it will happen. Why would anyone refuse the blond, sex-on-legs doctor's company?
He deserves it, though. Among other things, because… "I missed your birthday," Sherlock mumbles mournfully. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm too old to want to celebrate getting older still. I'm almost forty, for God's sake!" John replies.
The sleuth scrunches his nose. How inexact. There are whole years still. And he's been robbed of a chance to behave properly and celebrate his soulmate's existence, and that's just unfair.
"Besides, you didn't mention anything about your birthday either," his blogger points out, shrugging.
"Because it is January 6, and I hadn't still met you then!" the detective blurts out.
"Oh," John breathes, sheepish – and the sound does things to Sherlock's insides that should be illegal.
"Yeah, 'oh'. I owe you a party now. Tonight?" It's a long shot, but he'll attempt practically anything at this point.
"Date, remember?" John's not unkind, but not so easily swayed, either. Obviously.
"Of course." The consulting detective is not going to show how disappointed he is. He's not.
"Don't wait up," his blogger adds cheekily, before going to get ready.
"You know I don't sleep anyways," the sleuth grumbles. As if he could when his feelings are all over the place. If he spends the whole night playing wailing, mournful violin pieces, it's nobody's business.
At dawn, John's still not there, and Sherlock's upper body is cramping horribly. He needs a long, hot shower to unwind his aching muscles. Then he'll go to sleep and hopefully not be conscious when John comes back, to inevitably read the night's activities off him.
Sherlock sulks the whole of 23 December, falling in one of his spells of silence he warned his flatmate about. John does not pester him, offering just as silently countless cups of tea and some food, which the detective accepts almost in a daze.
The doctor keeps himself occupied with his blog and the odd chore, inconspicuously keeping an eye on his prone flatmate. Until, at night, he announces – needlessly, because it's obvious, thank you very much – that he's going to see her again.
He pats Sherlock's left shoulder leaving, and it feels like a fiery brand on skin that has not even been touched. If it feels like this with pyjamas and dressing gown through them, how would it be for John to touch his naked flesh when he's not busy stitching him up or Sherlock is not in agony for some other result of a confrontation with a criminal? No, no, don't wonder, this way madness lies.
His overreaction must depend on the fact that the soft touch took him off guard. They are comfortable around each other, being far more in each other's space than any other person not involved in a relationship Sherlock has observed. (Is it a consequence of their soulmate status? A sort of consolation prize for everything else he's not allowed to have?)
Still, touches between them are usually telegraphed in advance. It's simply not safe to sneak up physical contact on a former soldier, or a consulting detective with too many enemies gained in his career to count. To tell the truth, at least half the time Sherlock has to instigate touching, with oblique requests that seem to hint only at his own awful laziness. The affectionate caress, especially with the sleuth's eyes close against the sight of John primping for someone else…that's new. Why, John? (He can't ask, but God, he's going to go mad from all the questions in his head.)
In a desperate bid to get his mind off forbidden alleys,he gets up and decides to find something to do. There's the hand, of course, but he wanted to keep that for the awful day of John's absence. He should be able to handle a few hours. Only his feelings are all over the place, bitter and angry and confused and achingly needy, and he needs to vent them somehow. If he was rational, he would immediately see that his plan is at the very least questionable, but in this moment the only thing he can think about is taking revenge on his frustrating flat(soul)mate in the worst way he can.
If you want to hit John Watson, you hit him in his tea. Well, no, he's not literally going to poison the tea – the sleuth is too British to conceive of such a sin – but getting rid of the necessary milk is as good a passive-aggressive move as any. Pouring it down the drain would be too easy, though, and not soothe the detective's wounded feelings at all. Turning the bottle in a chlorine bomb is much more satisfying. And it's not like the neighbours aren't used to explosions.
Apparently, Mrs. Hudson is tired of damages to her flat, though. She comes up, frowns at the devastation that is the kitchen, tut-tuts at the momentarily deafened and tearing up Sherlock, and disappears. Less than ten minutes later, John is home.
Enraged, yes, frustrated, of course (well, he's not the only one), muttering against insane flatmates creating fucking bombs in their bloody kitchen (if Sherlock is reading his lips properly, hard to do with his eyes all teary). But even if it is, technically, all the effing madman's fault (John's words, again), his hands are so tender. Checking up inflamed eyes, helping Sherlock wash away the sting, airing the kitchen.
"Why didn't you open the window, Sherlock, are you an idiot? What are you doing sitting in the midst of this devastation?" the blogger huffs, exasperated.
…The consulting detective has no answer for that. Not one he can say at least, because "Going half blind with chemical irritants gave me a proper excuse to have a good cry," is not something he's ready to admit. So he just shrugs, as if it doesn't matter, and it really doesn't anymore, because even if this wasn't his aim, John is home. He will mutter, and grumble, and when the air is breathable in there clean the kitchen, and the detective will beg milk from Mrs. Hudson tomorrow morning because a John who ditches his second date to run tend to him doesn't deserve milkless tea.
Bless God, by the morrow (the day of the party – the mere idea makes Sherlock shudder) everything is forgiven and forgotten. Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue but lets him loan her milk at an ungodly early hour. Since elderlies notoriously do not sleep much, and John has still not overcome the early bird training instilled by the military, it is simply a necessity.
His blogger (he can claim that at least) smiles at him, unused to seeing him up yet unless the sleuth has simply never gone to bed to work on a case. John prepares their breakfast, but Sherlock accepts only a cup of tea, fidgety and staring at the other man intensely all the way. The doctor gives up midway through his own toast. "All right, what's got you in a state?" he asks.
Uncharacteristically, the consulting detective starts by stating the obvious. "You won't be here tomorrow." (He thinks he manages to hide his disappointment, but he can't be entirely sure.) "And later there is the..celebration you organised, and we'll have to get things ready." This time, he doesn't bother concealing his distaste. "So I was thinking we might exchange gifts now?" he concludes, eager like a puppy.
John nods, grinning. The sleuth bolts for his room to retrieve the package, and is followed by the other's tinkling giggle. It's not mocking – Sherlock knows everything about expressions of sneer – it's just pure happiness and a bit of , "Maybe you're being a tad childish but I miss being a kid too."
The detective presents the gift proudly, and if there's maybe a splash of red on his cheekbones, from a mix of nervousness and anticipation, they're not going to remark on it.
The doctor rips into the package without a care, and then stares silently for a second.
"Not good?" Sherlock asks quietly, and oh God, he's botched it, why would he ever think it was a good idea, John hated that failed date…
"No. It's good, Sherlock, really good. I just…didn't expect it. Neither of us really buy the good-luck charm tripe, after all. But hey, if it works, there's no place that needs this more than our flat," his blogger replies, smiling.
'Of course it doesn't work, don't be silly, John,' he almost retorts, but if he does they'll have the acknowledge the 'wife' angle, and the 'Did you enjoy the case? Including being kidnapped and almost murdered?' angle, so maybe it's better that he shuts up, for once in his life. He doesn't want to ruin the day.
"So, I guess we have to find a place for Honey," John ponders aloud.
"Honey?" the detective echoes, puzzled.
"Well, he's a cat, he'll need a name, and he's golden, so…" the doctor explains with a shrug.
Sherlock doesn't say that it's a toy, not a cat, and naming toys is for kids. He's guilty of naming inanimate objects too, after all. He just doesn't share the names.
John looks around, and then settles. "Ah ah!" he exclaims, setting the cat on the mantle, on the opposite end and somehow complementary to the skull. "Do you think he'll mind sharing space?"
"Not at all. We share the flat without a fuss, they can share the mantle," Sherlock assures. Actually, he loves John's choice. He could have put the thing anywhere, and somehow instinctually he chose the one place that implies a connection between them. His choice of a gift wasn't a failure, after all.
"Yours, now," his blogger announce, running to get a shapeless, deep red package. He instinctively tries to deduce it, but there are no shop indications, and while he has an idea of what it might be, some details do not add up…
"Oh, come on, open it!" John prompts, which reminds Sherlock that he's not with Mycroft, not expected to deduce correctly for the privilege to open it (their games could be rather twisted, from a stranger's point of view). So he complies, opening it carefully – he's not a child anymore – and takes out…a red woollen hood with two brown antlers protruding from it.
"John…that is…" he stammers, just barely swallowing the 'ghastly'. This is revenge, surely?
The man is smirking at him. "Well, you hated the deerstalker, so I thought a change in hats could be a good idea," he teases fondly.
"I won't let the press catch me dead wearing this. I don't care if it's the season," he growls. Mycroft would disown him, for one. Not that it should matter, but…
"Fine, fine, I didn't ask you to. But you know, it seemed proper. You've always reminded me a bit of Rudolph, after all," John quips.
"What?" the sleuth yelps. How does John even know about uncle Rudy and his love of dress-up? That's the least thing he thought Mycroft would share.
"Of course you've deleted it," his blogger sighs, and Sherlock is tempted to sigh back – in relief. "No matter – we have a free morning before we need to prepare for the party, and you're watching the movie with me," the former army captain announces in his best no-nonsense tone.
The consulting detective doesn't resist this – of course he can't – and a look from John is enough to make him wear the hood for the endeavour, with a put-upon sigh. Discovering Rudolph is a literally brilliant reindeer, and apparently that word association was the one John was aiming for from the start, he risks seriously to let it be seen how moved he is by the ridiculous thing.
With the best – or maybe the worst – ever timing in the world, Mrs. Hudson comes up, bringing tea and scones, and sneaks up on them at that exact moment.