The 12 Days Of Christmas
Day 9 - 22nd December, 2014
John was woken unceremoniously by his 6:30am alarm but instead of waking up to the biting cold, he found himself cocooned in a pair of warm arms. He reached a hand out and silenced the alarm, turning over to see a sleepy Sherlock grinning at him.
"Morning." Sherlock said.
"Morning." John replied, smiling widely.
Sherlock hitched himself up on his elbow and arched an eyebrow. "Why are you so happy?" He asked suspiciously.
John reached a hand out and traced the pale outline of muscle on Sherlock's torso. Sherlock shivered. "Ah, that's cold."
John grinned again. "Sorry, I'm just happy. In fact, I don't think I've ever been happier."
John watched joyously as a pink blush spread across Sherlock's cheeks. He loved that Sherlock got flustered like this, it was the most adorable thing John had ever seen.
"You're so cute." John voiced.
Sherlock frowned at him. "Cute?" He asked, immediately pulling John closer to him.
"I thought you said I was cold." John mocked.
"Did I say I cared?" Sherlock asked rhetorically before pressing a soft kiss to his cool lips. When Sherlock pulled back, he saw John staring up at him, eyes wide.
Sherlock frowned with worry. "What is it?" He asked softly.
John licked his lips. "Sherlock, I'm sorry." He said.
"Sorry for what?" Sherlock asked, confused, tangling his fingers together with John's.
"I'm sorry for thinking the worst of you in the beginning."
Sherlock shook his head. "Don't be sorry, there's no need to be."
John sat up and faced him. "No, there is." He began. "I thought you were a total prick when I met you and I didn't even know you, no one really knows you."
Sherlock's mouth pulled up into a half smile. "I suppose you're right."
"Why are you so honest with me?" John finally asked, "I've been wondering for a couple days actually, what is it about me?"
Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I don't know, a feeling. I guess I just knew you'd understand."
John leant forward and kissed him again. He didn't think he could ever get tired of kissing Sherlock, he was so receptive to every little touch.
Sherlock gently pushed John down onto the bed, Sherlock had turned out to be a much more tentative lover than John had expected, making sure that John responded to every kiss and caress positively before he continued. John supposed the word was selfless.
John tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair and pulled him down to him, they met in a kiss.
Sherlock's phone buzzed in the distance.
John groaned against Sherlock's lips.
"I have to get that." Sherlock whispered.
"No you don't," John said, kissing Sherlock again.
Sherlock laughed before pulling away from John and getting out of the bed.
John swivelled and watched Sherlock's naked body walk out of the room.
When he was sure Sherlock was gone, John allowed himself to fall back onto the bed and he most definitely did not let out a sound close to a squeal in happiness.
Sherlock found his coat in the kitchen and fished his phone out of his pocket and saw a missed call from Molly.
He quickly phoned her back, wishing he wasn't stood naked in a kitchen and instead wishing he was back in bed with a certain someone.
"Molly." He said when she picked up.
"You know how you begged me to do another post mortem on Eileen Bailey?" She asked.
"Yes." He said, walking back to John's bedroom.
"Well, I've just finished it, pop in and I'll show you the notes."
Sherlock watched John bend over to get to the bottom drawer of his dresser.
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
"Err, yeah." Sherlock said, blinking a few times. "Yeah, sorry, bad reception. Molly, you're a star, I owe you one."
"Who was that?" Asked John when Sherlock hung up.
"Molly," Sherlock explained. "She's finished the post mortem on the dead woman."
John nodded. "Oh, right. I hope it all goes how you want it to." He said sincerely.
Sherlock smiled widely. "Oh it will, nothing can go badly today."
John felt himself blush until Sherlock reached out and snaked his hands around John's waist, pulling him closer to him. There were aspects of Sherlock's confidence that John admired, after all.
John watched as Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and stared inquisitively down at him. It still looked like Sherlock was trying to figure something out about him but his gaze was somehow affectionate now instead of intense.
Sherlock Holmes was a totally different person to the man he'd been only a few days ago, John wasn't even sure that was physically possible.
"Thank you." Sherlock said finally.
"For what?" Asked John.
Sherlock gave him a small smile. "For changing my life."
…
John was humming to himself when he walked into the office, he dropped his bag off by his desk and headed off to the coffee machine.
He spied Sarah stood beside it and walked over to her.
"Good morning," he greeted cheerily.
She eyed him suspiciously. "You're strangely chirpy for a Monday morning."
He shrugged. "I'm just happy,"
She nudged him. "It's good to see you smiling," she said, "especially after last week, having to work on a Sunday."
"Yeah." John nodded. "Did you get any Christmas stuff done this weekend?"
Sarah nodded. "Yeah, got most of the presents wrapped for my parents. You?"
Are you possibly referring to my insanely passionate night with the most incredible man I've ever met?
"Yeah, I got all the food in..."
The pair chatted all the way back to John's desk and John was about to sit down when he spotted Gregson coming his way. But not even Gregson could spoil his mood today.
"Morning John." He greeted.
"Good morning, Sir," John replied, sitting at his desk and opening his laptop.
"How's the article going?" He asked.
John nodded. "Yeah, fine. I really feel like I'm getting a grip on it now."
"Good, good. I suppose you're extra nervous about it now, right?" He asked with a laugh.
John frowned slightly. "Nervous about what?" He asked.
"Didn't you here?" Gregson asked. "Sherlock Holmes isn't leaving for New York until Christmas Eve, so he'll be able to read the article." And with that, he took off in the other direction.
John stared at his laptop screen, his bubble now officially burst.
In all the excitement he'd actually managed to forget that Sherlock, not his Sherlock, but the perfect Sherlock was still destined for New York.
John wasn't exactly sure if he was in a position to demand anything from Sherlock but even if he was, what would he ask? Would he beg him to stay because he didn't want to give up what they could have? Or would he let him go because he had amazing opportunities waiting for him in America?
John's face fell into his hands.
…
"It was only tiny," Molly explained, "that's why we didn't detect it the first time."
Sherlock frowned as he read the file in front of him. "Cocaine," he breathed. "She had cocaine in her system. She got the tetanus from a dirty needle, that's why she was in a field." He rubbed his eyes. "She killed herself. Or, the death was her fault."
"Yeah," Molly nodded. "So, you figured it out."
"There was no murderer." He said, face stony. "All this," he gestured to the files, getting angrier. "I stayed, and there was no murderer."
"Look, Sherlock-" Molly began, hands outstretched like she was trying to physically calm him down. "I hate to say it, but there must have been some other reason you stayed. I mean, I know you don't like leaving a case but that's not enough to delay moving your whole life. Maybe there's something else that's kept you here, something bigger than this."
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he looked at her, forcing himself to remain calm.
"Yeah." He agreed.
….
After only getting Sherlock's voicemail, John decided to get a cab to the Metropolitan in a moment of madness, put on edge by Gregson's words.
He needed to find Sherlock, although he had no idea what he was going to say once he found him.
John tried to walk normally and calmly into the building, realising that it probably wasn't the wisest idea to rush like a mad man into one of England's most revered police stations.
Once he walked in, he considered going to the help desk to ask where Sherlock's office was until he happened upon Lestrade walking down a corridor.
"Detective Inspector!" John called out, walking up to him.
"John." He said, mildly surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"I was just here to see Sherlock, about the article." He added quickly. "Um, could you possibly tell me where his office is?"
"Sure," said Lestrade, "at the end of this corridor, on the right, his name is written on the door."
"Thank you." Said John, surprised at the easy instructions before taking off in the aforementioned direction.
Lestrade watched him go, perplexed.
John came to Sherlock's office relatively quickly and, composing himself, knocked.
"Come in." Came Sherlock's voice from the other side.
John took a couple of deep breaths, reminding himself that he was a grown man and not a love sick teenager, but then also justifying himself by thinking that he hadn't liked anyone in years and being in different countries wasn't great for relationships.
Sherlock looked up as John walked into the office, expression grim. John momentarily forgot what he had came for.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?"
Sherlock sighed, clasping his hands together. "That woman, in the morgue, she got tetanus from a dirty needle, she was an addict. The death was her own fault."
John didn't know what to say.
"Which means," Sherlock continued, "that there was no murder, and no murderer, and I thought I'd delayed my flight for nothing."
John tried to not let his heart sink.
"But..." Sherlock continued, causing John to look up at him again. Sherlock sighed and his agitation seemed to melt away with it. He unclasped his hands and his expression relaxed. "I'm glad you came here, John. Because I've been doing some thinking and I think I stayed for y..."
Before Sherlock could finish his sentence, the door to his office opened with no knock and a woman with pinned up black hair and crimson lips came sauntering in holding some file work.
Sherlock smiled at her in exactly the same way he had smiled when John had first met him. Arrogant, narcissistic and worst of all, flirty.
"Irene." He greeted. "Thanks for those."
"No problem, babe." She said suggestively, placing the papers down on his desk. She turned to John and her expression hardened, John resisted the temptation to raise an eyebrow.
"Who's this?" She asked.
"A journalist." Sherlock replied, and John's mouth nearly fell open.
"Oh," she acknowledged, looking disinterested and walking out of the room.
As soon as she was gone, John rounded on Sherlock, feeling the rage pouring into him.
"What the hell was that?" He asked, annoyance seeping into his voice.
Sherlock, for his part, looked confused. "What was...what?" He asked.
"That!" John gestured to the door. "The 'babe' stuff and you referred to me as the 'journalist' and not as..."
"Not as what, John?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
The room was silent for a moment, the calm before the storm.
"Why do you do that?" John exploded, causing Sherlock to jump a little. "Please, just tell me, because I've been dying to know since I met you. Why do you act like an arrogant, flirty prick around everyone else when it's obvious that's not who you are?"
"Because I have to!" Sherlock all but shouted back and John fell into silence. He'd never known Sherlock to shout before.
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, apparently composing himself before he began again. "Look, before I worked for the Met. I was a 'consulting detective', and I was myself. I was honest and brash and no one liked me. No one wanted my help! I couldn't help people that way, I couldn't solve crimes that way!"
"So you think having fake friends who like a fake version of you is any better?" Asked John incredulously.
Sherlock sighed. "It makes my life easier." He explained. "No one liked me when I was myself!"
"That's not true!" John shouted, and Sherlock's face went slack with shock. "Because I did." John told him, not caring about the impact of his words anymore. "I thought that...having someone around that genuinely cared for you might make you see that you don't have to pretend anymore." He took a step back. "But apparently I'm not good enough."
The wide-eyed, shocked look on Sherlock's face said everything and John could feel the tears pricking at his eyes.
"John, please try and understand. The rest of London isn't like you, they won't understand. New York won't be like you, I can't have you both."
John straightened his back. "Well, it looks like you've made your choice. If you're not prepared to give up this shit fake personality for me then I'm not sure what we're doing here." John's sentence had begun angry but by the end of it, his anger had turned to dejection.
"John..." Said Sherlock softly, voice full of desperation. His eyes were wide with what looked like fear.
John shook his head slowly. "Just go to America, Sherlock." He said miserably, feeling a single tear sliding rebelliously down his cheek. "I'm not even sure what I was expecting anyway."
John turned and walked from the room and Sherlock tried to open his mouth to call out after him, to tell him he was sorry or beg him for forgiveness but nothing came out.
His breath came out in short, shallow gulps and his eyes wavered, he felt totally helpless.
Irene walked back into the room without knocking and saw Sherlock sat at his desk, expression neutral.
"Hey, sorry I forgot this one." She said, plucking a form from his desk.
"Thanks," Sherlock smiled widely at her, "See you later."
She sketched him a little wave as she left and when his door was shut, Sherlock's face fell into his hands and his body was overcome with desperate, keening sobs that shook him to the core.
He clutched at the back of his head as he convulsed and willed himself not to make a single sound, but every few seconds a raw intake of breath would make itself known.
…
John went straight back to his office, nearly everyone else had gone home so he had the luxury of being alone at his desk. The lights were low and it gave the entire office an ethereal quality.
John had never cried silently before, generally he was a massive wailer with snot and all, but right now the tears were streaming down his face and he'd never felt a pain that was so raw it was silent.
John wished he could scream or shout or wail but he couldn't, it felt like every emotion had left his body completely.
He pressed a hand to his face to stop the water flow but failed, allowing the moisture to flow thick and fast.
After a few minutes, the tears began to dry on his face but the void in his stomach just got deeper. He supposed this was what it felt like to lose everything.
Sniffing slightly, John opened up his laptop and was greeted with the half-finished article that was due tomorrow. The words SHERLOCK HOLMES were emblazoned across the top, John let out a little breath.
He thought, he thought long and hard on his judgement of the great Sherlock Holmes and after the longest time, he began to type.