A/N: Hello, people!
I don't own Sherlock.
I have no beta.
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-Sherlock is a fluff muffin.
21 December 2015, Monday:
"Sherlock, you shouldn't be moving around so much, you're not fully healed."
"John, I have always produced cells at an alarming rate allowing me to heal much faster than normal people. I will soon be okay. It was a shot to the abdomen and the bullet was stuck inside. I'd be having a much harder time if it went completely through. I should be perfectly capable of walking around by Christmas."
"Yes, but that's four days away. Why are you trying so hard now?"
"You'll see."
The Yard was having their Christmas do this night and Sherlock knew John wanted to go. So… they were going. One way or another.
"You're willing to go to a Christmas party where Anderson and Donovan will no doubt be, just to make me happy?" John asked, tears in his eyes.
"Yes."
John pecked his cheek, "You thoughtful git."
The cab ride was uncomfortable for Sherlock, having gotten used to relaxing the past few days. The bumps and potholes of the city just seemed to deliberately get in the way, jostling him to and fro and making him wince a bit as his stitches pulled.
John ran a soothing hand over his thigh and he allowed himself to relax. It would be over soon. He could sit at the party and simply watch as John mingled.
That was a sound plan.
In his lap were several case files that he'd managed to solve in his spare time. Lestrade would no doubt approve of having them finished. Sherlock even wrote down some notes to be even more helpful for the holiday season.
Whoever made the punch had done something right. Sherlock wouldn't admit it out loud but he really liked the flavours and ended up drinking four glasses of the punch.
Lestrade then had to come and ruin it. "You like Anderson's punch?"
What the hell?!
"I'm just joking with you!" grinned the man. "It's actually Donovan's!"
That wasn't any better!
Sherlock set the glass down, frowning at the floor.
"Sherlock, it's okay. I made the punch with sherbet, ale, and some chopped fruit. Lighten up."
Lestrade ruffled his already messy curls and stalked off to chat up one of his coworkers.
The people around him were dressed in hideous jumpers as it was that type of party. Sherlock had not participated in that requirement, though John was all for it. There was a poll going for the one who had the worst jumper. The winner received a small prize of whatever people brought that was placed in a glass bowl.
Sherlock had been put in charge of tallying up the votes. John had won but the revelation wouldn't come until later.
John's jumper was the worst of his collection.
Five different shades of yellow and orange, with bright green jagged lines covering it. There were various pink and purple baubles dangling off it, such as bells, and ribbons. To make it worse, the back was decorated with poorly stitched words that said, 'Happy Holidays', but was misspelled and the letters were a garish shade of tan, spotted with black. On top of it all, it sparkled with gold glitter.
It was terrible.
But John was having so much fun that Sherlock resigned himself, sitting in his hard chair and simply tuning out the horrendous music. Filling his mind with memories of the past month which had gone by a lot faster than he thought it would.
The photo of the day wasn't actually a photo. It was a to do list, instructing the viewer on proper masturbation technique. Two different kinds depending on the genitalia the viewer had.
Sherlock laid back in bed as the first step suggested and chose only one image from the former days to think about. He then had to trail his fingers carefully up and down his shaft but was not allowed to grip it or stroke himself. It was a teasing sort of thing, making himself cum from only light touches and intense thoughts of John.
He'd done it of course, proudly. But it was exhausting and the grin John wore all afternoon had Sherlock flushed. John knew that Sherlock had pleasured himself at John's order basically, and John apparently liked that idea.
Sherlock liked that John liked it.
A peck on the cheek brought him into the present and he blinked up at John, who was smiling proudly.
"Can I get a kiss, you great git?"
"Of course," Sherlock purred, pulling John by his hideous jumper so he could claim John openly in front of Scotland Yard.
He is mine. All of you can fuck off.
A/N: Another is done!
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