The quiet was entirely irritating, as was much of everything else that waning Saturday evening. There were no shuffling footsteps below, no low hum of festive radio play seeping through the floor to signal Mrs Hudson's seasonal rituals, nor was there a soul wandering the snowy street outside, only the fading path of a single someone who had strolled past precisely nine minutes ago (by Sherlock's previous window-side estimation). He had since abandoned his silent stare through the frosted glass, the disappointing exterior driving him to the couch, where he lay, pondering everything useful and nothing satisfying.
Lestrade had sent him a single message, a mere three hours ago. The chime of his phone had signalled the potential of a case, but this particular instance had left him with nothing but a well-intentioned, 'Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Have a good one!'
Perhaps he should have responded. He had considered it, which he was positive John would approve of, but his tolerance in the face of pointless holiday greetings had not been tempered so much over the last few years that he was truly bothered.
Maybe next year.
But likely not.
He was sure he had heard his phone ding several more times following that first message, however its current housing in the bread bin did hinder its audible alert abilities slightly, as was the intention. No doubt each ping heralded the arrival of more well-wishing for the day that was in it.
Not exactly unwanted, but, again, rather pointless.
Without the interruption, he had hoped to focus. On something, anything.
But restless was his mind, despite the solidity of his frame as he sank further into the couch cushions.
Sighing through his nose, sharp eyes opened to stare at the ceiling, finding the somewhat interesting line of a fine spider web amongst the plain view, his gaze following the silk strand to where it clung to a nearby garland hung atop the window frame.
He resolved to inform John that the mess of fresh holly he had forced on him during his time at 221B a week ago had brought a potential infestation.
One spider could mean an infestation. Unlikely, but not impossible. Screw Mycroft's 'balance of probability' on this one.
In any case, John would be informed of the inconvenience he had visited upon Sherlock. Surely it was only polite that he come here at his earliest availability to remove the eight-legged imposter. The detective might text him as much, when he was bothered to remove his phone from its bread-laden prison.
Or maybe he could come up with a better excuse to message John. A spider might not be reasonable. Perhaps in the early days of their friendship, but the doctor was a father now. His responsibilities had shifted and the concept of 'if inconvenient, come anyway' applied no longer.
Sherlock didn't mind of course, but he did find it difficult to summon a viable motive for John to come over. And whilst concocting such a motivation might be a useful thing to turn his mind to, he found himself unwilling, unsettled by the need to in the first place.
Ugh.
His dissatisfaction was increasing and he began deducing the time of Mrs Hudson's return from her sisters on St. Stephen's Day.
It would be 4.15pm, laden with a bag of fresh scones and two treacle tarts. Boring.
Unsure of the passing hours, purposefully paying them no attention, Sherlock's thoughts were just reaching out to consider the concept of a cigarette when the stillness of the evening was interrupted by the low scrape of a key in the lock of the front door downstairs.
Instantly alert, he pulled himself into the moment, unmoving but listening intently as a familiar relieved sigh crept up the stairs. Muffled words followed, alongside the ruffle of a removed coat and rustling paper bags.
He waited, wholly aware of who was climbing the creaky stairs, resolved to stay still until the door behind his head opened and all was right with the universe.
The handle twisted, solid timber leant inward and soon comfortable motions of familiar human activity filled the room.
He stretched his head back, gaze taking in an upside-down view of John Watson, complete with bundled-up Rosie Watson in one arm. An impressive collection of colourful bags filled his other hand. It made for a welcome sight.
"Answer your phone," was John's greeting, as he strolled into the room and carefully balanced Rosie atop Sherlock's legs, the detective instantly sitting up at a ridged angle to hold onto her.
"Can't."
"You could if you stop stashing it in the bread bin."
Sherlock's answering scowl summoned a grin from the doctor, and the detective elected to ignore him in favour of removing Rosie's coat. John busied himself with setting down his bags – clearly filled with gifts – placing them beside the fireplace.
"The required reading of your texts seems rather defunct now that you're here and no doubt will provide a reason in person."
"A reason?" John's eyebrow was raised.
"Yes," Sherlock drawled, nonchalance ruined by his attempts to keep a grip on a now wriggling baby Watson.
"It's Christmas, you know. Did the holly I brought last week not tip you off?"
The detective huffed.
"Your infested greenery has served as a reminder of the tedious season, yes. Your point?"
"We're here for Christmas, Sherlock. A fact you would be more up to date with if you'd stop deleting my texts."
Sherlock stood, Rosie's desire to struggle out of his arms and toward the rather hazardous collection of shining beakers laid out on the coffee table proving too much for sitting.
"Stop beginning them with 'hey' and I'll consider it."
John snorted and stooped down to add a touch more fuel to the fire. He was wearing a green jumper with rows of fine silver thread woven throughout, the metallic lines glinting in the flickering light. Sherlock found he didn't hate it.
"You realise I don't have any traditional Christmas fare, don't you? Why on earth would you decide to come here? I am currently using the oven to house my charred fabric samples, there isn't capacity for turkey or ham, or some other customary culinary nonsense, even if I had purchased such a thing."
"No surprises there," John muttered. "But we're not here for any of that, we'll make do with what we have tomorrow."
Sherlock ceased swinging Rosie back and forth and paused to frown at the other man.
"Then what are you here for?"
John gave him a baffled look, the line of his mouth working its way from incredulous to surprised, and then finally settling on what could only be described as a fond smile.
"You, you idiot."
Sherlock balked, misunderstanding.
"I don't require company just becau-"
"Christ, it's not about requiring anything. I want to be here. With you. At Christmas."
Silence. A long silence. At least Sherlock deigned to blink through this one.
Then he finally spoke, quiet, uncertain.
"I see…"
John looked amused. "Do you?"
More silence.
"Well then, for the record, Sherlock, there's nowhere I want to be more than here, with you and Rosie."
Sherlock glanced between John and the baby for a moment, carefully considering his next words; mind focused on something singular and satisfying at last.
"And does that statement strictly apply to the Christmas period alone?"
John simply sat in his chair, leaning one elbow on the armrest and smiled, eyes doing the full crinkle thing that signalled he was truly happy.
"Nope."