Work Text:
Sherlock is sitting on the side of his neatly made bed, wearing a neatly pressed suit, staring at his disheveled flatmate. He’s not sure whether it’s the messy hair or the crooked smile that draws him in, but Sherlock Holmes absolutely cannot say no to that face. Regardless, he certainly gives it a go.
“No,” he says simply.
“It’ll be fun,” John promises before pressing his lips to a mug of steaming black tea. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, cynicism even plainer on his face than usual. “Oh, don’t be that way.”
Sighing—either playfully or sincerely he’s not sure—Sherlock glares for another moment before clapping his hands on his thighs and leaning forward to stand. “Fine,” he grumbles, “but you’re not driving.” Planting a surprise kiss on John’s lips as he stands, Sherlock straightens his jacket one last time before removing it entirely. “I suppose I can’t wear this to a tree lot, can I?”
“Tree farm,” John corrects, grinning delightedly. A pink blush touches his cheeks. “There is a difference, Sherlock.”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock makes his way to the wardrobe in the corner, hoping to find something suitable for a tree whatever. It doesn’t really matter where precisely they’re going, there’s nothing in his closet he’s willing to get sap or mud on. He frowns as John leaves the room, wondering when he became so uptight about his clothing. For a moment, this thought consumes him, and he can’t help the sudden fear that he’s turning into something he doesn’t want to be. An image of Mycroft, neatly dressed and always crisp, floats through his mind and he shakes his head.
When Sherlock enters the living room, John’s already finished his second cup of tea.
“Nearly ready then?” John asks, not looking up from his newspaper.
“Just,” Sherlock responds awkwardly. “How do you think this looks?”
A burst of laughter escapes John’s lips before he remembers to be polite. “Where did you get that?” he asks, eyeing Sherlock’s outfit with something close to amazement on his face.
Sherlock scowls. “I’ll just take it off then if you think it’s so funny,” he grumbles, already tugging at the buttons on the red and black plaid he’s donned for the occasion. A pair of faded jeans completes the ensemble and John can’t hardly believe Sherlock is actually wearing it.
“I agree, that will be absolutely necessary, but I was hoping to get a tree before I undress you,” he remarks comfortably, pushing himself out of his chair and moving to return the earlier kiss.
Sherlock continues scowling, not sure whether he trusts his flatmate to be entirely objective about the matter. “I don’t look silly?” he asks, eyebrows knitting together self-consciously.
“Far from it, actually,” John responds, locking their fingers together and pulling him towards the door. “You look absolutely dashing. Keep it up and I’ll hardly be able to make this trip last long enough to find the right tree.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” Sherlock smirks.
“Because I’ll want to bring you back home and have you.”
The ride to the tree farm includes regrettably less flirting but it’s just as well—their cab driver seems particularly interested in why the famous detective would wear such a getup and Sherlock has apparently picked up a permanent scowl. John stares out the window, hardly concerned by such a conversation and thinking it better to ignore it than to laugh. When they arrive, however, all bets are off.
The smell of fresh pine is heavy in the misty grey air and people bustle about in every direction trying to find the perfect addition to their yule festivities. Several families are present and it quickly becomes apparent that toddlers and young children lack the ability to recognize Sherlock as a person for his spindly legs. Running here and there around the farm, they run into the detective as easily as they might try to run through a shrub.
“How exactly does one decide upon a tree?” Sherlock asks, apparently unperturbed by the goings-on around his legs.
John stifles a smile, hoping not to make the whole affair more painful for the man than it already is. “Well, we’ll have to consider the size of the flat and how much effort we want to put in to moving it and such. I think something small will do just fine.”
“Finally we agree,” Sherlock muses, smiling despite himself.
Moving together easily, they interlock fingers and make their way through the firs, pines, and spruces. Eventually, they settle on something perfect. Of course, the cab driver on the way back doesn’t seem nearly as amused as the last one.
“What do we do with it?” Sherlock asks absently, stroking John’s hair. A light hum rolls through his chest and he smiles as he takes a sip off his hot chocolate.
“Well, we’ll have to water it every day or two. I thought we could decorate it tomorrow if you’d like.”
Sherlock doesn’t respond for a moment and John glances up, worried he’s pushed his luck too far. Tears sparkle in Sherlock’s blue eyes and he leans down to gently kiss John’s forehead. “No one’s ever let me help with that part,” he murmurs.
“What? Why not?” John demands. He attempts to pull himself to a seated position but Sherlock’s arm tightens around him, holding him in place.
“No one knew how much I love Christmas. You’re the first person to find out,” he responds, his soft voice full of smiles. “Thank you, John.”