A/N: Unfortunately, for the past couple of days my internet decided to hurl itself into the void and has been nonexistent. For those of you that care - my apologies.
12 Days of Christmas
Chapter 2
13 December, 2014
Horns honking, pedestrians chatting, a whole city bustling. Smell laundry detergent, something baking from below – nutmeg?
Sit up, God, does he ache this morning. Must have slept funny. Stretch. Better. Sherlock ruffles a hand through his hair as he stands, grabs his dressing gown from the hook on the back of his door, pulls it on. Pad into kitchen, switch on the kettle. Wait. Rub face as he wanders to the sitting room-
Wait.
John?
Sherlock stops in his tracks as all of the heaviness leaves his limbs. He must be staring, but… well. John hasn't lingered in the sitting room for months, at least. And now here he is, sitting in his chair reading the morning paper.
Hair damp, tired eyes, subtle frown. Jeans, jumper, bare feet. Hm.
"Morning," John says without looking up. Smells of coffee.
"Morning," Sherlock replies, itching the back of his head. He's still staring, and he's rather sure John has noticed by now. Kettle boils. Sherlock tears himself away to switch it off. Grab a mug, note the dirty one in the sink. Coffee. John. Pull down two. Two teas: earl grey and Assam. Pour the water, wait for it to steep. Two sugars in his, spot of milk in John's. Grab both mugs, walk back to the sitting room. Stifle a lingering yawn. Hand John the earl grey. He takes it wordlessly. Sherlock sits down in his chair, takes a sip, drinks in the silence, the situation. This is… comfortable.
When his mug is empty, Sherlock decides to make another. It's a quiet day, and for once it would be rather nice if it stayed that way.
"Another cuppa?" he asks John as he stands, and John shrugs, offers him his own mug. Sherlock takes them both and begins the process all over again.
As he walks into the sitting room a second time, something catches Sherlock's eye. It seems rather… clean. There is a significant lack of dust on the bookshelves, around the windows, and the papers that usually litter the coffee table seem to have straightened themselves. Mrs Hudson.
John watches curiously as Sherlock scans the room, and his hand lingers in the air for an extra second when Sherlock hands him his tea.
"Wonder what they have on the telly…" John muses. Sherlock shrugs, sits in his chair, huddles around his mug. John offers a smirk, and pulls himself up. Sherlock tries not to stare as John clicks on the telly, then turns to start a fire. Sherlock hums appreciatively and sips his tea.
They spend the rest of the day watching old Christmas movies in silence.
"Well, this was fun, but it's getting late," John finally says with a tired sigh. Sherlock contorts himself to get a view of the microwave in the kitchen. It's going on two a.m.
"Yes…" he hums, smirking at the man across from him, maintaining eye contact as John stands and turns to the kitchen, presumably to put his mug in the sink. When he walks back out, John murmurs 'night', and walks by Sherlock's chair, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before padding softly away.
Sherlock notes that John's gait isn't as tired and heavy as it has been.
Upstairs, John lingers in the doorway of his bedroom for a moment, finger lingering on the light switch. He sighs, turns on the light, and starts pulling of layers. He's tired, so tired, and because of more than just the time. As his shirt hits the floor, he unbuttons his jeans, steps out of them, and tries to decide whether or not he should just crawl into bed now or look for something other than pants to sleep in. Deciding on the former, John flicks off the light, and sits on the edge of his bed.
He sits in silent darkness for a long moment, thoughts churning.
He switches on the lamp on his bedside table, pulls open the drawer, and picks up a small something from within, turning it over in his fingers. The gold band shines in the menial light.