A/N: This is corny in the extreme, but it had to be done. This is NOT slash, merely a very strong friendship in which Sherlock is learning to appreciate that normality doesnt always mean inanity, and John is learning that Sherlock can actually appreciate other things about him outside of his ability to put up with eyeballs in the microwave.
As he looked up from his slide for the first time in three hours, Sherlock peered to his right. Upon finding John absent from his usual place in the squashy armchair closest to the fire, he hopped off the stool, meandering through to the kitchen-John was forever leaving mundane notes on the fridge door of all places, with moronic little titbits of information on them. "Gone to get milk." "If you blow up the toaster before I get back from thenight shift, I swear I will wring your neck, and bugger my Hippocratic Oath." "Left some soup in the fridge; bloody well eat it this time, would you?" (He had. It was John's 'winter minestrone', whatever that was. He'd looked up to discover himself mopping up the dregs with a hunk of bread...what was wrong with him?)
This time, it was different.
"If you want to hear some carols, stand at the corner of Covent Garden covered market in front of the Opera House. They start at 7."
Checking his watch, he could see it was half past six. At a strong rap on the front door, he whirled around, crossing the floor in a few steps. Yanking it open, he was surprised to find Lestrade standing on the threshold, in warm jacket, jeans and walking boots. "Did you get John's note? Thought I'd come and cajole you into actually following orders for once." Wrinkling his nose in distaste at the teasing smile working its' way over Greg's features, Sherlock sniffed.
"I hardly think you can cajole me, Detective Inspector."
"Oh really? No cases until the New Year unless you come and see the carollers."
Sighing, Sherlock strode over to the sofa, where he'd haphazardly thrown his coat and scarf in a fit of pique the day before. They swept out of the door and down the stairs without a word to each other.
Stepping out of the taxi, Sherlock and Greg picked their way over the cobbles, hoping to avoid the black ice whilst quickening their pace as the snow started to fall in drifting flakes. They could hear the singers striking up a tune that sounded as though it was in Old French, a charming chorus of 'Noel Nouvelet'. After that, 'O Come Emmanuel', 'We Three Kings' and 'The Angel Gabriel', the taller man all but growled at his companion with a testy shake of the head. "This isn't going anywhere, Lestrade! We could be-"
Interrupting, and hooking a hand round Sherlock's collar to turn him to the side, Greg looked up at him with a strange half-smile on his face. "Your favourite carol is 'I Wonder As I Wander', because you like the fact that it takes talent to sing it well. John told me. Come on, mate. One more, eh?" At Lestrade's nod towards the assembled mass of singers, Sherlock felt strangely compelled to turn. Pivoting slowly, he heard the opening notes being sung in a strong tenor. As he relaxed into the melody, his eyes fell on the man in the middle of the second row, positioned halfway up the steps.
It was John. His sandy hair glinted in the winter moonlight, and he looked for all the world as though the cold night air around him didn't exist. As he reached the crescendoing half-octave leap in the last cycle, he caught sight of Sherlock. With the corners of his mouth turning up, his voice sounded brighter than ever.
Sherlock watched and marvelled at his friend. It seemed that John had yet more skills of which he had no inkling. He wondered idly if he could bring himself to ask Mycroft whether or not John sang when he was out of the house.