A/N: Try to stay tuned. From here on, a plot thickens! (Wait, there was a plot to thicken? A plot was created then. Yeah...)
25 Days of Christmas
Chapter 9
9 December, 2013
John awoke the next morning to a peculiar warmth hanging about his face. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by two bright grey orbs floating no more than two inches from his nose. They blinked once, acknowledging the fact that he was awake, but otherwise remained attentive and motionless. John would have jumped, but recognition flickered somewhere in the back of his brain. He simply blinked back. Now that the almost-shock was over, he realised how half-asleep he still was.
"You've been sleeping in a lot recently," Sherlock said casually, momentarily revealing slivers of white teeth. For a second, John was reminded of the Cheshire cat.
John blinked again, then reached up to rub his eye. As soon as he moved, Sherlock jumped up from his perch on the edge of John's bed and walked to the window. John followed the figure of his friend with his eye(s). "What time is it?" he yawned, his hand sliding from his eye to rub the side of his face.
"Half six," Sherlock replied in that low baritone of his, peeking through a slight crack in the curtains that he had made. "The time you should be getting up."
John raised both brows and stretched. "Well, I'm up."
Sherlock turned and tilted his head. He shot John a puzzled frown. John could see the gears turning in that funny head of his. He gave him a minute.
"Ah," Sherlock suddenly said, chin raising and eyes widening in revelation. In the blink of an eye, he was gone. John chuckled.
Fifteen minutes later, John was ready to leave. He popped into the sitting room and grabbed his jacket. "Bye Sherlock," he called as he pulled it on, listening for the jingle in his pocket (he and Sherlock had a standing agreement: Sherlock supplied money for his cab fare to and from work, and John covered the rest).
"Laters!" Sherlock called from some unseen location.
During his shift at Bart's, all John could think about was Sherlock's expression last night at Harrods. He had never seen Sherlock look that way before - for any reason. He simply wasn't one to pine over physical possessions. There must have been something special about that pen...
When John got home, Sherlock was curled up on the couch, head lolling off of the side. John tried to follow his gaze, but he seemed to be staring at nothing. His face was lax, yet his eyes seemed... doleful.
"Y'okay?" he asked, slipping off his coat and shoes. Sherlock looked up suddenly, as if snapping out of a trance.
"Of course." Then he frowned. "Why?"
"No reason," John said. "Want a cuppa?"
"Please."
Later that evening, Sherlock was curled up in his chair, John's laptop resting on his knees. The whining screech the fan was making was starting to grate on John's nerves. Sherlock had broken John's laptop on more than one occasion by letting it overheat. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened.
"Oh God," he said, mouth turning up in a manic grin. If John hadn't been so confused, he would have noticed the endearing little crinkles around his friend's eyes.
"What," John asked, about to shove himself to his feet. Sherlock frantically waved him away.
"Nothing, nothing," he insisted, trying to compose himself. But every time his eyes happened to land on the computer screen, he laughed. By the time John was on his feet and behind Sherlock's chair to see just what was so funny, nothing was there.
Sherlock looked up at him innocently. He cleared his throat. "It's nothing, really."
John scrunitised him closely. His face was back to normal, though a hint of amusement hid in his eyes. John sighed. "Fine," he huffed, ruffling Sherlock's hair fondly. Sherlock ever-so-slightly leaned into the touch. Bastard, it was impossible to be cross with him. At least not on days like these. Days like these reminded John that Sherlock wasn't actually as emotionless and cold-hearted as he would like others to believe. Not that he needed reminding. It was just nice to have proof to look back on every once in a while.