A/N: I just read Alone in the Water for the first time (amazing, truly) and I watched the new Hobbit movie (AMAZING, really!) twice… I need some fluff in my life guys. I need it. I am emotionally compromised, I will be crying for approximately the next 3 hours, and I need the fluff… so here it is!

Included is a healthy dose of sexy-times and Christmasy themes, because for me, the two kind of go hand in hand this time of year… make of that what you will

Enjoy and, please, leave a review!

Warning: This is definitely M-rated. It kind of got away from me, then came back with a porny vengeance… sorry?

Bloody Awful Sweaters of Christmas Past

"John, what the hell is that?!"

"It's… a sweater," John tried feebly. Wasn't a lie… though not necessarily the answer to the question.

"Obviously, but what is on it? Or rather, what died and was left on it till it slowly fused with the yarn and cotton itself, creating the ghastly imprint of a carcass?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, it is supposed to be a reindeer. A Christmas reindeer on a Christmas sweater, made for Christmas, by my aunt."

"Does your aunt hold some kind of grudge against you? Or reindeers, for that matter?"

"No and no, not to my knowledge. I'm only wearing it this one day, because if I don't my mum will tell her, then she'll try and call me, or email me, or write, asking if I want a different sweater or if I've somehow misplaced mine. If I don't wear it this one day and send my mum a picture, I'm hunted down like some kind of family Scrooge."

As he listened to this rant, or rather, not listening to this rant – who the hell is Scrooge? - Sherlock stared at the red and brown mass before him, adorned sporadically by little white and gold splotches no doubt meant to be snowflakes and… tinsel? It is badly stitched, obviously old. It is hair too tight for the growth of puberty and adulthood; though still thin and fit, the muscle of manhood has put great strain on the morbidly merry creation. Even if Sherlock still knew what a reindeer even looked like – perhaps it is hidden somewhere in the palace, probably deleted – or even what their role in the festivities was on the first place – most definitely deleted that – he knew no animal ever looked like that, no matter how sad it might be living on a sweater.

On a now tight sweater which actually accented pectoral and abdominal muscles nicely, outlining the warm, compact body which was Captain John H. Watson… for some odd reason Sherlock's opinion of the horrendous garment has turned on its head; the only improvement he can think to Johns current state of being would be not wearing anything at all.

John was still looking at him accusingly, in the doorway of the sitting room. He looked down at his sweater sadly, perhaps thinking about the best way to defend the pitiful tribute to knittery everywhere.

Sherlock was still looking at the shorter man, but not in surprise or disbelief anymore. No, now there was want mixed in, and the dark-haired detective was certainly able to handle that one, with a little help from his doctor…

"Come here."

Looking up quickly, ears perked to the low voice laced with husk, John saw the familiar sparks of restrained sex in the multicolored irises. He gave a small smile as he walked towards his still seated lover. "Is this some kind of kinky turn-on for you? Murdered reindeers?"

John stood directly in front of him, bloody ugly, bloody tight jumper and all, with his hands on his hips and a defiantly seductive look on his round face. Bringing a hand up to brush ever so lightly against the slip of exposed stomach between the knit and the jean below, he felt the shudder beneath his fingers and he smiled as he leaned forward, popping a wet kiss against that tantalizing skin, giving a small lick when he felt the moan; tasted like ginger-bread.

Puffing out a breathe against the damp patch he'd just left, Sherlock turned his eyes up, letting his lashes catch some red string from the sad excuse for a sweater. "No, John," he breathed, "not reindeers, murdered or otherwise…" One hand wrapped around to play at the swell of Johns arse, teasing shapes over the jean, while the other palmed him in front, feeling the pulsing swell of a half-hard cock.

"Jesus, Sherlock…" Closing his eyes, John swayed towards the palm, towards the mouth on his stomach, towards the man he wanted more than air right this moment. Talking about murdered holiday mammals should not be so stimulating.

Tongue traced the flesh just below his companion's waistband, Sherlock began to unbuckle the belt and, smirking at the suppressed whimper above him, slowly lower the zip to expose a pair of lovely red pants. Pulling down the jeans he leaned back only long enough for John to step out. Moving swiftly back in, he let laved at the space above his lovers pubic bone through the soft fabric.

"We'll have fun with these later…" he promised, taking the white waist-band between teeth and tugging it out, then letting it go to hear the satisfying snap – accompanied by an even more satisfying moan.

Hands grabbing in dark curls, John pulled Sherlock up and fused their lips together in a smoldering kiss. Tongue and teeth battled while John proceeded to undress his detective, pinching a pebbled nipple to elicit a chocked gasp which he swallowed hungrily. Running deft fingers over taut hipbones and the small of Sherlock's back, he deposited two fingers into the back of the posh black trousers to trace the plush arse underneath. Rutting forward, Sherlock felt their twin erections against one another, felt the slight scratching of that ugly jumper on his bare chest, felt the thin pale lips of his lover on the sensitive area beneath his ear; John bit and sucked on that one spot just to feel the great Sherlock Holmes tremble.

Pulling down the remaining covers, Sherlock left on the ugly jumper and John was too far gone to care. Straddling the long, lean body the ex-army doctor took hold of their now pulsing cocks, running a thumb over both heads as he deposited a bite hard enough to bruise on Sherlock's throat.

Bucking his hips involuntarily, Sherlock's eyes closed hard and his mouth fell open as the luscious mix of pain and pleasure coursed through his nervous system. He thrust up against the hole John had made with his hand, feeling the hard body above him, hot under the extra layer, holding him down as lips and teeth continued to play at his neck. It was overwhelming, an animal mating with a dance of sweat, precome and an air heavy with moans. He could feel the quivering as John began to rock harder, pulling between them more enthusiastically, drawing out the last bit of everything hot and heavy inside both of their bodies; he heard the wanton growl of his name against his neck, the body above his stiffening and melting all at once, as the respectable Dr. John Watson's cock splashed come onto the expanse of his stomach. Sherlock's head snapped back and his mouth opened in a strangled shout of his lover's name, following John down into the volcanic depth of pleasure.

They lied there, completely spent and satisfied, as minutes passed by unceremoniously, without consequence. When John did finally move he lifted his head and placed a soft, chaste, loving kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Sitting up he looked down between them, inspecting the messy evidence of debauchery.

Frowning as he saw that some of the mess had found its way onto jumper he still had on, John looked up just in time to see Sherlock taking a photo. "Oi, what the fuck are you doing?" He made a grab for the phone but Sherlock extended his arm out of reach, then proceeded to shoot up from his seat and, in the process, knock John onto his arse.

"You had said you needed evidence of yourself in that sweater, I was only helping," Sherlock gave his best pout as he looked down at the glaring man. Before John could make another snatch for the phone, the taller man began walking, still naked, till he got to the doorway of the room. "Unless you want me to send it to your mother, you will remove that horrid excuse for holly-jolly clothing and join me in the cleaning up of our mess." On the last word he turned around, giving the doctor a lovely show of swaying hips as he walked to the bathroom.

"Buggery fuck…" already feeling the kindling of lust in his belly, John chuckled as he pulled himself up and, remembering, chucked the bloody awful jumper off behind him.

It landed in Sherlock's leather chair, where it stayed for a few more hours, till the detective cleaned it, hid it, and took the initiative to text Johns mother not the thoroughly inappropriate photo he had taken of a recently orgasmed Watson on his lap, but a request for this aunt to send more sweaters.

When asked for John's measurements, Sherlock smirked and simply said to use the same.