This chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. Thanks again! All mistakes are mine.
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Chapter nine
"Don't just stand there gaping, help me," John ranted at his friend, standing on a ladder in front of the kitchen cupboards, having managed to get himself entangled in some fairy lights. It was Saturday – the dreaded Saturday as John secretly called it. It was the day that family and friends would come to their annual Christmas party – this year halfway through December since they would be in Aldershot shortly – to celebrate not only Christmas but also their glorious engagement. Therefore, it was about time to put up some Christmas decorations.
"I could….but I won't," Sherlock replied with a wide hand gesture. "It's all your own fault. You don't have to do any of this. Besides it's much more fun to watch you." Sherlock lay flat on the carpet by the fireplace, wearing his suit pants and his purple shirt under his blue dressing gown. His head rested against his armchair, and he watched John in amusement. He had abandoned his attempt to read a book. "You could join me here, you know. It's cosy," he smiled playfully.
John looked at him just for a fraction of a second. He immediately regretted it. His mind was going blank, his pulse quickening. A strange feeling started to spread in his stomach, and he suddenly got all weak at the knees. His body had decided to start living its own life.
This could not be happening.
He dropped his eyes at once and tried to focus on disentangling himself. He slowly regained his balance. Really, you're not fourteen anymore, John. He didn't want to think about what that might be implying or not. At least, he didn't blush this time.
"We've been through this. You'll have to grin and bear it," John replied dryly.
"Proper gifts and being nice. No one said anything about tedious decorations. The flat already is a mess with all these stupid balloons and garlands. Why would anyone want to add even more decorations?" Sherlock grimaced.
"It's Christmas, Sherlock. Time for fairy lights and candles and Christmas trees. It's nice, homelike," John explained. "Don't pretend that you don't like it. I know you better. Now, be a dear and help me."
"It always is homelike. I don't need that stuff to make it more homelike. Is this about sentiment?" Sherlock asked dubiously, knitting his brows.
"Sentiment, yes," John admitted. "Do it for my sake. It is very important to me."
Sherlock let out an audible sigh and remained silent for some time, apparently thinking it through. Just when John started to draw his attention towards putting up the fairy lights again, Sherlock addressed him again. "You still could join me down here, John. It really is snug," he invited him, smiling a crooked smile.
Here we go again!
Given the fact that Sherlock didn't have much experience in flirting, John had to confess that he had made considerable progress. At the speed of light. He could hardly keep up.
"Someone has to do the work, Sherlock, since you refuse," John replied, trying to ignore the insinuations of his friend.
"You could join me first and I might be persuaded to help you afterwards," Sherlock said grinning. There was evident curiosity in his expression.
Unintentionally, John broke into a fleeting smile, "You could help me first and I might be persuaded to join you afterwards."
Great goodness, John, of all the things you could come up with, you choose to play along. It was like playing chess on a rollercoaster, John thought. On the other hand, maybe offence was the best defence after all.
However, John wasn't prepared for Sherlock to actually give in.
"Well," Sherlock sighed dramatically and stood up slowly, "you've got me on my knees. I am at your disposal." Every movement was a dramatic gesture of his objection to the whole idea of Christmas decorations in the house.
"Your help is very much appreciated," John replied, taken aback.
"We could take Mrs. Hudson's decorations down," Sherlock asked hopefully.
"People expect us to celebrate the engagement with them, Sherlock. This is the least painful way, believe me," John answered, not completely convinced himself. He would rather take them down, too.
"I got rid of Mrs. Hudson's mistletoe, though," Sherlock admitted while lending John a hand with the lights.
John nodded approvingly, carefully avoiding looking down. He tried very hard not to be aware of Sherlock, standing dangerously close, again. The physical closeness made him self-conscious. "Good. I'll bet Harry will bring some, too. Make sure it disappears quietly."
"Understood."
"You've done your shopping?"
"Yes", Sherlock told him. "But I will give your present to you on Christmas day if you don't mind."
"No, that's fine."
"You know you are asking for trouble by inviting my brother to the party," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
"You won't quarrel today," John warned him.
"I'll be on my best behaviour," Sherlock replied and added after a moment, "for you."
"I appreciate that," John said and added mischievously, "if you are a good boy today, you may take down the balloons and garlands tonight. Mr. Hudson is going to visit her sister for a few days."
"Sounds promising," Sherlock replied chuckling.
They went on working together silently, John humming Christmas songs to himself. Not one grumble escaped Sherlock's lips.
"Ouch," John suddenly cried, examining his left hand where drops of blood were seeping from a new wound. "I cut myself." He carefully climbed down the ladder.
"No, please, let me help you," Sherlock quickly said. He took John's hand in his own and led him to the kitchen sink. He bathed the wound with clear water, disinfected it, and applied a plaster to the wound, before fluttering a kiss onto John's hand.
When their skin touched, it felt as if an electric current had passed through them. John stiffened. Anyhow, neither of them let go.
"It will get better soon," Sherlock explained in a low voice. "My mother always did this when I was young and got injured." He watched John with a concerned look. "Well, I got injured a lot," he continued, whispering.
Their eyes met.
John remained silent. His mind went blank again. Incoherent words formed in his thoughts but he couldn't form any sentence that made sense. He kept staring at Sherlock, who met his gaze. He examined the face which he knew so well. There was curiosity again, and anxiety. There was also something else. A fraction of the emotion he only saw when his friend was on the edge of boredom, in want of a new case. Some sort of longing, more than a glimmer now. He saw that it was mixed up with the rare sight of insecurity. John was mesmerized by the soft look of the usually austere grey-blue eyes. A subconscious part of his mind recognized the soft feeling of a thumb, carefully caressing his hand and the distance closing between them. Another part registered the uneven pounding of his heart and the trembling feeling in his stomach. However, he couldn't move. He was lost in the fascinating sight.
A part of him was disconcerted to realize that they were leaning towards each other unconsciously - or maybe not as unconsciously as John was trying to tell himself. However, there was still the voice in his head, telling him he felt more comfortable with the situation than he had expected to. In fact, he liked it more than he should. Now Sherlock was close enough for John to catch his scent. He could smell Sherlock's eau de toilette, which he liked, and he could smell Sherlock, which he liked too. He admitted weakly to himself that this wasn't helpful - at all.
They were mere inches away from each other, now. Sherlock's grip on John's hand was firm, as if he were afraid John might run away from it. Funny enough, he couldn't , even if he wanted to, because his legs wouldn't obey. So he just stood there, in apprehension of the things that were about to come.
Sherlock's face was just coming dangerously close, when someone rang at the door.
Saved by the bell.
Sherlock angrily cursed at the unknown intruder as he turned away and walked towards the door.
"Victor," he welcomed their guest a little more warmly than necessary, apparently having forgotten the fact that he had wished him far away just a few moments ago.
It took John by surprise, how much that really bothered him. John was starting to have a faint suspicion where this was heading but he told his subconscious to shut up, once more.
"Hi, Sherlock," Victor replied sweetly.
Hi, Sherlock. One doesn't say "hi" to him. He wasn't the "hi"' type.
"Hi, John. Nice to see you again."
"Victor," John nodded. At least he had "hi-d" them both.
"Please, come in," Sherlock invited him, all ease and friendliness. "Take a seat."
"I'm sorry to disturb you," Victor apologised. "It won't take long."
Sherlock waved towards one of the armchairs, offering Victor Trevor a seat. "Forgive the mess. John is decorating for Christmas."
"Not only for Christmas, I see," Victor responded, smiling one of his enchanting smiles.
"Our landlady surprised us with the decorations. She overdid it a bit," John replied. "She meant well." He could hear that his voice sounded strained, reserved. UnJohnlike.
He saw Sherlock pucker up his lips in a smile. He had noticed. John made a mental note to try to remember he was dealing with Sherlock Holmes and to be a bit less obvious next time. The detective was quickly turning his world upside down.
"Would you care for some coffee?" John managed to say less coolly.
"No, no," Victor said. "I'll be gone in a minute. Please, don't trouble yourself."
"How can I help you, Victor?" Sherlock asked interested, taking the armchair opposite.
"I visited David today. He had asked his secretary to gather some information about the staff in Aldershot for your investigation. I have a set of documents here for you. She can be trusted." Victor looked at Sherlock intensely. "We both have complete faith in you."
There was an undeniable tension between the two. An old flame never dies, John thought instinctively. On the surface they were well suited to each other. He couldn't deny that they looked pretty together. His stomach tightened. The sight of them gave him a pang of … something.
"I will do what I can, Victor," Sherlock replied reassuringly. "Don't worry." He chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.
"I don't. I put my trust in you," Victor said. "It really is good to see you again, you know."
Sherlock didn't respond. His face was unreadable.
"Well, I better be off. I have to bring David some of his stuff to keep him from boredom," he told them, slowly standing up, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "I've managed to get you on the list for Aldershot. The workshop will take place next weekend, from Friday till Monday. If you will call Dr. Stevens to confirm, everything will be settled."
"Excellent," Sherlock replied, pleased.
"See you soon," Victor said standing in the doorway, casting one more look at Sherlock before finally turning around and leaving the flat.
Sherlock turned around, facing John. "Now, where were we?"
"Kitchen. Christmas decorations," John replied reluctantly.
"Ah, yes indeed." Sherlock gave him a meaningful look.
"Where has the time gone?" John muttered under his breath. "You better hurry. Change your clothes or wrap the presents or whatever you still have to do. It's late. Off you go." The discontent in his voice was poorly disguised.
Sherlock studied him intensely. "You're angry."
"Good deduction." John held his gaze. He was consumed by a sudden anger. This time he was able to block his subconscious out.
"Is this about the kitchen thing?" Sherlock asked warily.
John refused to answer.
"Don't tell me this is about Victor?" Sherlock asked incredulously. He watched John closely.
John remained silent.
"Silence means consent," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Please, I told you he's over and done with."
"Well, you better tell him then, before he devours you alive," John replied sharply and continued before Sherlock could reply, "Practise what you preach! I told you I'm not blind."
"Obviously you are," Sherlock replied stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest.
John mirrored Sherlock's body language, crossing his arms tightly around his chest. "Oh, and the next time you plan on jumping me, please warn me beforehand."
"If I remember correctly, you didn't object," Sherlock riposted defiantly. "Jealousy is such a low feeling, John."
"How would you know? Feelings are not really your area, are they?" John narrowed his eyes. "The world doesn't revolve around you, you know."
"No," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes, "it revolves around the sun. Obviously."
"Arrogant git," John hissed and stormed out of the living room, leaving the sulking detective behind.
"Yoohoo, anyone at home?" Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe, when John came downstairs – more or less cooled down.
He had taken a very long shower and spent some time listening to music on his laptop afterwards. He felt confident enough again to look Sherlock in the eye without having to fight the urge to punch him. Although he had to confess that he might feel relieved afterwards.
"Having a little domestic again?" she asked, smiling knowingly. "It's not the end of the world, you know. It keeps the fire burning."
John looked at Sherlock who was wearing one of his perfectly tailored dark suits, wearing a dark blue shirt which matched his eyes perfectly, of course. Sherlock met his gaze, obviously examining John himself. He had chosen dark blue jeans and a light grey V-knit above a white shirt. Sherlock nodded approvingly.
"Fire is not the problem, you know," John muttered more to himself than to the landlady.
"Well, well," she mumbled. "You are both a feast for the eyes, boys."
"It's good to see you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. "Finished your packing? Your sister will be glad to see you."
John had to bite his lip to hide his smile. Either Sherlock had decided to honour the bargain they made with each other, or he was looking forward to taking down her hideous decorations.
"You are so sweet, sunshine. Yes, I will leave first thing in the morning."
Sherlock's eyes glinted unmistakably with excitement.
"I've brought you some homemade jam and various sorts of tea," she continued, "It's always so difficult to get you presents. Especially finding something for you, Sherlock. But I know you like my jam."
Sherlock straightened up, feigning a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That's very nice of you."
"I haven't brought anything for the engagement, though. I thought you wouldn't want to make a great fuss about it. I thought it might be nice to have dinner together when I get back."
"That would be lovely. You've done enough already," John replied with a wide hand gesture, putting on a happy face.
"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, sighing almost inaudibly. "Well, we have a little present for you. I hope you will like it."
"A new scarf," she beamed. "I love it."
"I heard you complaining last week that you hadn't got a suitable scarf to meet the weather in Scotland," Sherlock explained.
"How very thoughtful of you, Sherlock." She kissed him on the cheek.
"Can I offer you anything?" Sherlock asked.
"A glass of wine would be lovely, dear," she said smiling, taking a seat in John's armchair in front of the fireplace where the fire was burning silently.
John followed Sherlock into the kitchen to get some more glasses. "Prince Charming, are we?" John jibed at him, frowning.
Sherlock observed him intensely. "Don't turn a blind eye any longer, John," he said with a serious face. "You will have to have some faith in me," he added in a severe voice, unsmiling. Sherlock hadn't made a request. His voice had been demanding, challenging John to have implicit confidence and implicit faith. Unreserved, unconditional, and absolute.
John stared back, struggling to think clearly. Apparently he wasn't angry enough anymore to be immune to his charm.
Sherlock nodded curtly, averting his gaze from John and leaving for the living room again.
Silence means consent, John thought silently sighing. Considering it, John had to admit that faith wasn't the problem either.
"Ah, dear brother," Sherlock cried out loud. John could tell from where he was that Sherlock was faking a smile.
"Sherlock," Mycroft replied gracefully. "How very kind of you to invite me."
John decided to intervene immediately before things could get out of hand and returned quickly to the living room himself.
"John, dear," Mycroft greeted him with a hammy smile.
"Mycroft. Nice of you to join us."
"I wouldn't miss this for the world," Mycroft answered, still smiling ominously. "When I visited you the last time I wasn't able to give you my engagement present. I am glad I can make up for it now." Mycroft reached into his pocket, his smile never fading, and presented them with an envelope.
John swallowed hard, a foreboding feeling spreading in his stomach. "You take it", John managed to say, not looking at Sherlock who took the envelope grumbling and opened it.
"What do you think?" Mycroft asked cheerfully.
Instinctively John grabbed Sherlock's free hand, squeezing it and telling him silently "Whatever it is, say thank you and leave it." John heard a strained "thank you", imagining Sherlock with an annoyed face combined with the most fake smile he was able to produce. John remained silent, his smile probably as fake as his friend's.
"You're welcome."
"We got you another umbrella," Sherlock blurted out, still forcing himself to smile.
Mycroft seemed to be at a loss what to make of it. "How kind of you," he replied frowning, studying the two of them.
"Please, help yourself," John told him, directing Mycroft towards the table with drinks.
"How bad is it?" John asked Sherlock curiously, forgetting for a moment that he was still supposed to be angry.
"A long weekend off."
"That doesn't sound too bad."
"In Scotland. On a small Island. Just the two of us. In the middle of nowhere, in a small house, probably luxuriously, but with absolutely nothing to do at all."
"Okay. Good point." John made a face. Apparently that was Mycroft's idea of humour.
A short distance away Mycroft started a lively conversation with their landlady.
"They are a bit short of domestic bliss at the moment," Mrs. Hudson explained, carefully whispering to Mycroft but still audibly enough for John to hear.
"They bicker constantly," Mycroft replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You know the saying: "The quarrel of lovers is the renewal of love"."
Both of them started to laugh heartily.
John sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. A moment later he heard his sister.
"Hi, John," she greeted them happily smiling. "Look what I've brought."
Mistletoe.
"Hi, Sherlock," she pecked him on the cheek, before he could react. "It's so good to see you." She giggled. "The way you two behave is so sweet. If I didn't know any better I would think you just fell in love with each other."
It dawned on John too late, that he hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand, which was burning in his own now. He took it away quickly.
"Let me take care of the mistletoe, Harriet," Sherlock replied with an enchanting smile. She gave it to him, still giggling. He pressed his jaws together and went into the kitchen to dispose of it.
"Harry," John hissed. "There is no way I am going to kiss him in front of any of you. We're not some kind of amusement attraction."
"You'll kiss at the wedding." Harry obviously couldn't stop giggling.
John looked at her seriously. "You will not be there if you continue to behave like this."
She watched him with curiosity and apparently had a hard time suppressing her laughter.
"Sherlock's brother is here. Why don't you introduce yourself?" John offered. She deserved some quality time with Mycroft, and he with her.
Sherlock returned quickly from the kitchen, nodding to John. "It disappeared."
"Good," John replied relieved. "I really don't know which of our siblings is worse."
"I think I win," Sherlock answered dryly, watching both of them from a distance.
"Yeah, I think you do," John agreed, smiling despite himself.
The party continued and it was surprisingly quiet and normal. Mycroft and Harry annoyed each other continuously and Sherlock had trouble containing his joy. Nevertheless, he kept his promise and was polite and kindly at all times. He spent two hours having an animated conversation with Lestrade, who joined them later in the evening. He talked about cases and colleagues, teasing him once or twice about his strained relationship with Tobias Gregson. Sherlock's interference at Kensington Gardens had forced the two inspectors to cooperate, to their great dismay. Sherlock had even tried to invite Gregson too, but unfortunately it turned out he had to work that evening. Afterwards, John watched Lestrade spend a troublesome hour talking to Mycroft who probably took the piss out of him after his encounter with Harriet. All in all, it had been fun. Sherlock probably had laughed more tonight than he had in all the time they had spent together.
That night Sherlock didn't come to bed with John immediately and John didn't summon him. He was playing the violin again. John listened to his mournful and thoughtful music. He guessed that the songs were the product of Sherlock's own composition because he had never heard any of them before. He desperately wanted to close the distance between them but was afraid of what he might find if he did. He had apologized to him earlier that evening over Victor Trevor. Anyhow, neither of them had mentioned the kitchen incident. Fear, he thought, wondering. Fear actually was a problem.