Happy Christmas my dears! And in the spirit of giving, a fic which I never got round to sharing. Many compliments of the season!Pairing(s):
established relationship, crack(ish)Sumary/A.N.:
John and Sherlock at Christmas...Written for a fic exchange prompt last year, by carenejeans – you set loose a plot bunny who was very insistent! Many, many thanks to the lovely fengirl88 for betaing! She is the star on the Christmas tree!Warnings:
Refs to anatomyJohn and Sherlock at Christmas
The first Christmas didn’t count. Although the writing was on the wall (literally, in case of the betting sheet hidden behind the calendar in the Met’s canteen nothing had actually happened. Or, rather, a lot had happened: kidnappings, death threats and, on one memorable occasion, imprisonment in a meat locker but despite occasional offers to die for each other, all exchanges of body heat had remained purely practical. John went to Harry’s and spent the whole of Christmas surreptitiously checking his phone while Sherlock went to the Czech Republic to sort out a minor problem for an illustrious client. John suspected this trip was Sherlock’s present to Mycroft, or the other way round – it was difficult to tell. Certainly a lot of unmarked black cars seemed to be involved and the fee (which John eventually extracted after a number of steely conversations in disused car parks) paid six months rent.
This Christmas was different. Their relationship was too well established for it not to be acknowledged but John wasn’t exactly sure what Sherlock was expecting. The normal ‘your family or mine’ conversation translated for them into ‘spend a dry Christmas baiting my alcoholic sister or introduce me for the first time to your relatives who are probably insane, if your brother is anything to go by’. Yet the other option, of suggesting that they each returning to their own families, was an emotional minefield. John had no idea whether Sherlock got on with his parents, but his relationship with Mycroft suggested that there were, at the very least, some unresolved family issues.
It didn’t help that Sherlock seemed to have relapsed into a prolonged fit of boredom, and had barely risen from the sofa in three weeks. Mrs Hudson fretted, the fridge filled up with body parts and the walls suffered. Having the Christmas conversation with Sherlock in this state struck John as being a very bad idea.
But it was now December 21st and plans could be delayed no longer. John mustered his courage.
‘Maybe, but also in less than a week, and we need to make plans.’
‘Dull and incorrect. You
need to make plans – or at least you think you do. You’ve been agonising about it for weeks.’
John refused to be sidetracked. ‘So what do you want to do?’
Sherlock looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘For Christmas. What do you want to do for Christmas?’
‘Hope for a case, I suppose – why?’
‘Well I wondered, if you hadn’t anything on, whether you’d like to do something together. With me – not Harry,’ he added as Sherlock scowled, ‘she had me last Christmas and it was fucking awful.’
Sherlock looked slightly intrigued. ‘How would it be different from what we normally do?’
John considered. ‘Well, we could get a tree I suppose and decorate it...’
‘I could cook...’
‘Not turkey. Dry.’
‘Ok then, not turkey. But I could make something that you do like. And we could go for a walk on Hampstead Heath. Or,’ he hazarded, ‘just stay in and drink some nice booze. I wasn’t thinking of doing anything fancy. But it would be nice to just spend Christmas together. As a couple.’
Sherlock’s face lit up. He bounded across the room and threw his arms round John, burying his head against John’s neck. Clearly the question of Christmas was solved.
In the remaining three days, Sherlock shook off his lethargy. He whirled in and out of the flat, carrying mysterious parcels to his laboratory and John woke to find the bed empty and the sound of muffled bangs from downstairs. He was amused and relieved. After three weeks of brooding, the return of Sherlock’s energy was well worth broken nights and scorch marks.
Besides, he had preparations of his own to complete.
They bought the tree on Christmas Eve, at John’s insistence.
At least waiting so long ensured it was cheap, although it was a slightly odd shape. Sherlock muttered darkly that he didn’t really see the point, but John merely smiled enigmatically. Sherlock gave him a long, sharp look but didn’t raise any further objections and even helped carry it up the stairs.
Once it was secured, John brought down a small shoe-box from their room.
‘I know you don’t really like decorations, so I made these.’
Inside the box were what looked at first glance to be parcels of stuffed felt.
Sherlock gazed at them with rapt fascination.
They were a masterpiece of detail. The chambers of the heart were clearly delineated, the ligaments of the liver were picked out in stitching and...
‘Ah, those brown ones are the smoker’s lungs. Thought you could do with a reminder as to why you gave up. There’s a pair of healthy lungs as well, to emphasise the difference.’
‘When did you learn this?’
‘I made stuffed toys when I was stuck in hospital after being shot. Anatomical models aren’t that different to ducks, once you’ve got the hang of it.’
‘They’re amazing! You’re amazing!’ Sherlock’s eyes shone.
‘Well, then. Glad you like them. I’ll go and fetch the red tinsel - for the small intestine.’
It was the best Christmas Sherlock could remember, by a considerable margin. The tree looked magnificent
. John had insisted on lights but even Sherlock conceded that they exposed the detail of John’s handiwork. Besides, he could always pretend they were endoscopes.
John made roast beef and Yorkshire pudding which was perfect, even the burnt bits. And after lunch, John had been delighted by the crackers – it was well worth all the secrecy and minor burns. Some of the indoor fireworks might have been a little overenthusiastic
...but they certainly weren’t dull.
And when the last fiery fountain had sputtered out, the sofa and John were far more interesting than anything that the outside world could offer.
Later, as they lay tangled up together, Sherlock’s nose pressed against John’s collarbone, John murmured, ‘So... again next year?’
‘Next year,’ said Sherlock, and wrapped himself contentedly around his lover.