John heaved himself out of bed, taking each weighted footstep towards the living room slowly. He was used to being awakened by the detective; the fact that it was three in the morning and the scent of tea and something alkaline lingered in the air wasn't a concern. Nor was the sound of Sherlock cursing at presumably (and hopefully) inanimate objects. The real cause for John's apprehension was that, yesterday, Sherlock had returned from shopping and refused to reveal the bag's contents.
The doctor made it to the living room, the blue robe he wore dragging behind him. It was Sherlock's. Too long, too old, and too minor of a penance for Sherlock's setting fire to his own a week ago.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock turned his head sharply. He was sitting on the floor, hunched over his work like an artist not ready to reveal his masterpiece. Or maybe like a dog realizing he didn't make it outside in time.
"Go back to bed, John."
"Didn't answer my question." He walked over, looking at the contents strewn over the floor. String, staples, scissors, shimmery green wrapping paper. And tape. Lots of tape. A piece stuck to Sherlock's cheek. A small box in front of Sherlock's lap looked mangled; John thought he could make out a footprint on the top. He grinned. "You're wrapping a present."
"Trying to. It's juvenile, John! There must be a better way!"
"You don't buy presents. Who's this for?"
Sherlock looked hurt. "That's an unfair accusation. Just last Christmas we all exchanged presents. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade."
John ripped the tape off Sherlock's face. "I didn't appreciate the dissertations on why all my friends hate me. You can stop updating it, by the way, I don't need one every year. Mrs. Hudson didn't like the magazine subscription to House Cleaners, and Lestrade certainly didn't like the list of applicants to replace Anderson and Donovan."
"Molly liked the scarf I got her," he muttered.
"You mean the one borrowed from the homeless network? Yeah, it was lovely, Sherlock."
Sherlock picked a few more pieces of tape off himself, the floor, the furniture. "Regardless. I've only bought one gift this Christmas, John, but it won't get into the right hands unless this horrifying paper cooperates."
John took the package—it was heavy—and cut a square of paper, evening out the lines and only using three pieces of tape. He was finished in two minutes.
"There. Certainly you can mimic that next time. Who's it for?"
"Christmas is two days away, John. You must be patient."
"For me, then?"
Sherlock shrugged, retreating to the kitchen to finish an experiment.
John followed. "This is what you were out buying yesterday?"
"Great deduction, John. Riveting. Leave me to my work."
John would have, too, if he hadn't looked into the sink and witnessed four thumbs resting in his favorite mug like toothbrushes.
"Oh you—"
"It's the only one with the correct diameter, John!"
"—little—"
"Relax!" Sherlock sighed, handing over the present. "If you're going to worry you might as well enjoy it now."
John frowned, unamused, but was too curious not to open the present he'd just wrapped for himself. Inside was a mug identical to the one currently housing human digits.
"Let me get this right. My Christmas present is a something that I already have but you're bent on destroying."
Sherlock took the mug and displayed the bottom. "Not For Experimentation" was written in bold Sharpie around the rim.
John sighed, unsure if Sherlock's next lesson should cover buying presents or respecting boundaries.