December 25th. Holmes' winter estate, Yorkshire. 15:30.
Sherlock didn't hear the shower shut off, so deep in thought he was. The soft snick of the door opening caught his attention, however, and he blinked to awareness.
"You took ages." Sherlock complained looking up from his prone position on the bed. "I was starting to think you-"
He broke off when he caught sight of John, a red and green Christmas towel slung low on his hips.
His mind, for the first time in recorded history, completely short circuited. Instead of deductions running through his mind, all he could focus on was the slight sheen of John's damp skin. A single drop of water hung from the end of John's hair, glistening in the light before dropping to his shoulder, making a quick trail over a starburst scar, down tight muscles, finally coming to a halt at the garish towel.
"You alright?" John's voice broke through Sherlock's distraction, and he swallowed thickly, averting his eyes at last.
"I'm fine." Sherlock replied quickly, sitting up. "You should dress, or we'll be late for dinner."
"We have plenty of time before dinner." John said, laughing softly. "I actually have something in mind first. Just let me get changed, and then we'll go downstairs."
"Right. Let me just give you some privacy." Sherlock said, standing and practically running from the room in his haste. If he had been paying attention, he would have heard a fond huff of laughter from John.
John came down less than ten minutes later, a button up that belonged to Father looked dashing on his short frame. In one hand he held a blanket, and in the other was Sherlock's violin.
"John?" Sherlock asked in confusion, but John just shook his head with a smile, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him. He led Sherlock through a winding path through the estate, ending up in a small, enclosed porch with a crackling fireplace.
"I don't think I've been in here more than once." Sherlock mused, watching John as he spread the blanket across the glossy wood floors. "There is a sofa behind you."
John laughed, sitting down on the blanket and leaning his back against the small sofa. "It ruins the ambiance. Just humour me, okay?"
"Very well." Sherlock sniffed, pretending to sound put-out, which only made John laugh again. "You brought my violin."
"I did, yes." John glanced down at the violin before handing it up to Sherlock, who took it without thought. "I want you to play for me."
"Here?" Sherlock asked, looking around the small but cosy room.
"Please?"
Sherlock plucked a string nervously before swinging it to his shoulder, holding the bow aloft. He sucked in a breath before beginning to play. He only realised that he was playing Paganini's Caprice no. 24 after he started playing it, though he realised that his subconscious would want to show off for John. He quickly changed into something more seasonal, an ornamented melody of We Wish You a Merry Christmas, which caused John's face to light up.
'It would be very pleasant to kiss John again', Sherlock decided as he switched to a hearty rendition of Jingle Bells. Not because he wanted to kiss John. Of course he didn't. But John had been a very nice kisser, and he wouldn't mind if he were put in the situation of having to kiss him again.
'But would John mind it?' He wondered to himself. 'Not that he would want to kiss me, of course, but would he loath being made to kiss me again?'
Sherlock was thinking much too hard about this, it seemed. Apparently the universe agreed with him, for that was the moment that mummy decided to poke her head in, grinning at the two of them brightly.
"Oh, Sherlock. You play marvellously, as always." She sighed, pressing a hand to her heart. "But I need to ask you a favour."
"Of course I'll take out the garbage." Sherlock replied, ending with a final chord from the original Paganini before setting his violin down.
"Do you need my help?" John asked, scrambling to his feet.
"Nonsense, Victor." Mummy said. "You're our guest."
"It's quite cold out." Sherlock replied sensibly, giving John a small smile. "You stay inside, where it's warm. You won't even notice I'm gone."
He turned on his heel at that, slipping out of the room quickly as he worked to regain his thoughts. Playing his violin for John had been almost intoxicating.
Sherlock wondered if this was what having a proper friend felt like. Not that Molly Hooper wasn't a proper friend, per se, but she was from a difference social group than Sherlock. He was a loner, and she needed to have friends, and people to talk to, and cats. John was different sort of friend, they clicked. John was wonderful.
And handsome too.
Oh, he needed to stop thinking.
Sherlock grabbed the black trash bag, tying the top in a knot before heading for the back door, heading out into the cold without even a coat on.
"Ah, brother mine." A voice said, and Sherlock looked round to see Mycroft standing there, a lit cigarette in hand.
"I hope you have two." Sherlock dumped the trash bag on the sidewalk, reaching out to grab the fresh cigarette that was wordlessly passed to him.
"So…Victor." Mycroft mused aloud, a knowing glint in his eye. Sherlock rolled his eyes, diverting the subject.
"So…Anthea?"
"What about Anthea?"
"You aren't dating her anymore." Sherlock stated, causing Mycroft to cough.
"Well, you were never dating Victor in the first place." He retorted, and Sherlock choked on his cigarette smoke.
"What are you-?"
"Don't play innocent," Mycroft said, looking pleased with himself. "It was clear that Victor was just a paid actor…at least, at first. Now, it seems that he's much fonder of you…"
"How clear?" Sherlock asked, something akin to panic swelling in his chest.
"No worries, Mummy and father have no idea." Mycroft said. "Small mercies."
"You're not dating Anthea." Sherlock repeated, trying to regain foothold on his own blackmail.
"No, I never was." Mycroft admitted. "She is my assistant, no more."
"Why did you lie?" Sherlock asked, his shoulders relaxing as he took another drag from his cigarette.
"I didn't like anyone at the time, but it made Mummy happy to think me in a committed relationship." Mycroft replied.
"That implies that you like someone now." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"An astounding deduction." Mycroft sneered, though Sherlock could see the worry behind the mask. "Really, some of your best work yet."
"Don't be so pedantic," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come out with it, who is it?"
Mycroft was silent for a minute, the soft cherry glow of his cigarette almost touching the filter. "He works for the police."
"A cop?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
"A detective inspector." Mycroft corrected.
"Are you…dating him?"
"Hardly." Mycroft snorted. "I very much doubt Gregory considers me a viable contender for dating. Why are you asking, anyway?"
"I do care about you, you know." Sherlock said, trying to sound as disgusted as possible. "Also, you never know what will be good for blackmail."
"Why do I even try?" Mycroft asked, stubbing out his cigarette.
The door opened, and Mummy poked her head out, a smile on her face.
"Boys! Dinner is ready, and- good lord, you two aren't smoking out here, are you?" She demanded, looking upset.
"No!"
"It's Mycroft's fault!"
Mummy gave them a disapproving look, and both Sherlock and Mycroft hung their heads in shame and fear. It was never good to cross mummy.
"Dinner is ready." She repeated. "I suggest you come inside, before you catch your deaths."
She vanished back into the house, and they followed her, Sherlock intentionally forgetting about the garbage he left on the sidewalk.
"Of course you would blame me." Mycroft hissed.
"Naturally. I don't know why you act so surprised." Sherlock chuckled. He earned nothing but an aggravated sigh from Mycroft, who quickly entered the warm house, Sherlock tailing him closely. With all the excitement that had happened over the past few days, you would think dinner would be calm.
But I suppose you can imagine the Christmas dinner.