A/N: Another Christmas drabble, because the lights around my room are so very inspiring! No warnings for this one except language and allusions to sex - my muse wasn't having it today.

Anyways just a public service announcement: my other ongoing fic 'In My Mind...' will be returning tomorrow with an update, then another after Christmas!

To those of you celebrating I say Merry Christmas! To those who aren't, like myself, happy holidays and may you have a lovely break/vacation!

The Romantic Potential of Christmas Lights

Coming home from the surgery that night, Johns back ached, his feet smelled like vomit and his shoulder was singing a painful tune. He was most certainly ready for bed, the sweet melting under the warm covers; sleep sounded heavenly and completely welcomed.

He took his time coming up the stairs to the flat, rubbing his chilled palms together and reminding himself for the millionth time to put his bloody gloves in his jacket pocket before he left tomorrow. Usually Sherlock did it, an uncharacteristic gesture of kindness John still didn't understand, but they had had a row two nights ago and the detective had been particularly miffed. Then again, John was just the same.

The domestic had occurred on a night which Lestrade had called a 'perfect storm' type night when John explained it to him yesterday at the pub - having used the term to describe fights with his wife, Lestrade found it amusing how like a married couple the detective and his doctor were. After coming home from a double shift at the surgery, the exceedingly tired doctor had been welcomed by the smell of fire, the sight of an inflamed laptop – later he found it to be his own – and a thoroughly bored detective. John had taken two deep breathes to try and control himself, and was nearly through the third when Sherlock had finally look up, and acknowledged his presence by asking him to please go out and buy more matches; he'd run out.

John had responded by yelling, Sherlock had mirrored him, both exchanging words they may come to regret later, and they had ended it with John leaving, but not before ordering Sherlock to get his own fucking matches, get him a new laptop and he bloody well clean the burns off the table. He had walked the cold December streets for about an hour before he could feel the cold in his bones.

When he had returned, he ignored Sherlock and Sherlock ignored him. They have lived as such for two days; staying out of each other's way was surprisingly easy when there was no case, if not a little uncomfortable.

But tonight, John was tired of it all. Of fighting and of work, of not getting to brush his hand against those long pale fingers when he handed off his friends morning tea, or listening to him deduce crap telly in the breathless blink of an eye. He missed the closeness he hadn't really noticed they shared just days before.

As he entered the flat, his immediate thought was, warm. The fire in the hearth was low but had obviously just started to die down, and the light from the flames mixed and melded with the Christmas lights, illuminating the room in an eerily white-orange glow. He and Sherlock had compromised on the festive lights: the detective hadn't wanted any, and the doctor had. The compromise was that, since Sherlock declared rainbow lights completely out of the question due to their utter cheeriness, they would hang white lights but Sherlock was allowed to play the funeral march on his violin Christmas day. Morbid, but if that's what it took to get some holiday spirit around this place, John was willing to concede.

Shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up behind the door, he turned to see not only the fire, lights, chairs and table, but a sleeping Sherlock in the couch.

There were papers on the floor, strewn out as if they had been dropped; he must have passed out of exhaustion. John watched the surprisingly innocent looking form, watched the steady rise and fall of his stomach under the dark blue dressing gown, the hand under his face acting as additional proof of how bloody at ease and peaceful the usually sporadic and unstoppable man looked right at this moment.

Chancing a few stops closer, John made sure to keep as quiet as possible as he made his way over for a better look, stopping to kneel in front of the still unconscious figure. Dark eyelashes looked almost a muddy ochre, the usually pale expanse of skin painted with dark shadows and flickering orange light, all dawning from the fire across the room. John could run his fingers over the shadow under that sharp cheekbone if he wanted to, could trace his tongue under that tantalizingly full, sunset-pink bottom lip if he really wanted to… but did he really want to?

He hadn't questioned it since the slight bruise to his ego that first night… 'Married to my work…' you had said, John thought. And as long as I'm a part of this work I'll have a purpose. He knew that. So to waste it all for the simple, short-lived diffusion of unrequited sexual tension was out of the question. He had a purpose in Sherlock's life, was needed if only as a stimulant to brain activity or a warm gun for protection; it was better than slowly dying in a suffocating beige room filled to overflow with PTSD and boredom.

But now, his body nearly hurt with the need. So beautiful lying there, so peaceful and… kissable. In private moments such as these, John could indulge in long looks of unabashed want, so he did, and was often left wondering what the hell he was doing.

John wondered what Sherlock is dreaming about; goblins or mysteries or cadavers or bees, perhaps even me. Perhaps.

Unlikely.

Then, his train of thought is brought to an abrupt halt, hearing Sherlock moaning on baited breath, like someone was…

"John."

The named man froze in shock, studying his friends face intently for any signs of consciousness. Sherlock's eyes were moving beneath the closed lids and his breathing was still regular; all telling John it was simply a dream of some sort… a dream in which Sherlock bloody Holmes moaned his name.

Letting out the quiet breath he had been holding, John felt the familiar building of want in his abdomen; it was practically a whole city by now filled with sexually repressive people living their tension filled lives, all in desperate need of their one flat mate who just happened to-

"John."

God that sound was maddening; sinful and deep, laced with besotted sex.

His tongue poking out to run along his bottom lip, John ghosted his thumb over the cheek of his friend before he could think better of it – before he could think at all, he was stroking the wild curls at the side of Sherlock's face.

Then the sleeping man was stirring, stretching beneath John's hand and the doctor could swear he felt the cogs begin to turn again in that big brain, feel the different observations as those dark eyelashes fluttered open, then John felt the breathtaking sensation of a finger trailing down his own cheek, a palm wrapping around the nape of his neck and pulling down and then – oh.

Then John felt fireworks on his thin lips, felt the velvet symphony of a tongue seeking entrance between; the fantasies he had been collecting were in no way relatable to the actual experience of kissing Sherlock Holmes. Kissing Sherlock Holmes, he was… God.

With a moan of his own John brought his hands up to grab hold of the darkened curls, attractively bed-headed, and proceeded to put the weeks, months, years of inappropriate fantasy-fueled wanks and unrequited sexual frustration into this one kiss; all manifested themselves in the sucking and sliding of lips, tongue and teeth, a purpling love bite on both men's necks, a chorus of moans and profanities, as well as two thoroughly turned-on and shirtless men rutting together on the couch.

When they both took a moment to gasp and truly look at one another for the first time that night, they did the unexpected thing – as was their way – and giggled profusely, before they lied together in silence, both sweaty and debouched.

As their breathing became regular and the doctor slept, the detective stayed awake to play fingers over the naked spine of his companion-turned-lover, stared at the fire, and wondered absently at the romantic potential of Christmas lights. Looking down at John, those thin lips slightly parted and his face slumberous and void of age, Sherlock decided that, no matter the actual romance of the impractical lighting fixtures, his lover looked beautiful whilst they were lit. And that was enough for him.