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Nothing says The Holidays like influenza and the common cold. John Watson was the most empathetic of physicians, but at the moment, he would have given anything to have a patient with an infected boil or even an ingrown toenail for God's sake. The puking, sneezing and coughing was NOT providing comfort or joy. He was knackered, hungry and hoping for just five minutes to himself. The screeching door hinge (didn't anyone else hear that horrid sound) alerted him that no peace was at hand.
"Look, I'm not quite ready for the next appointment yet, so...."
"Ho Ho Ho, John Hamish Watson, not enough time for me?"
The jovial booming voice forced the Doctor's head to snap up, his entire body rigid, on alert.
"Ever the soldier, eh Johnny? Well as the poem says, you have nothing to dread. Good thing too, since the gun you're reaching for is back at Baker Street safely locked away."
John's mouth hung open as he focused on the man towering over him dressed in the most authentic Santa outfit he had ever seen. Even the beard appeared to be real, a lush thing in a startling shade of pure white.
"Who are you, what do you want? Sorry if you're unwell but we can't take walk-ins at the moment."
The deep shaking laugh, which seemed to confirm that the portly belly was not a pillow, echoed around the room filling it with an invisible good humor.
"WHO I am should be obvious, and what do I usually want? I'm here with an Express Delivery for you, Johnny. As for my health, I am quite well, but thanks for asking."
"Well, ah, good, that's good. So you're a deliveryman? Sorry, but I don't remember ordering anything online. You must have made a mistake."
"I can honestly say, I've never made a mistake in my entire career, and believe me I've had this job for a very very long time."
"The fact remains, Sir..."
"Santa, John. No need for formality. Now let's get to this shall we? It's my busy season you know. Point of fact, I'm only here because of my wife's twin sister. When she asks a favor, there's a sprig of holly in my heart if I refuse. Hence the early Express Delivery. Now where did I put that package? Pardon my ineptitude, I normally travel with a great many more parcels and have a large pack upon my back. Damn that poem, it lends itself to quoting. Shhh, don't tell the kiddies I cursed, the elves will give me the dickens over it. The dickens, oh I AM pulling out all the old chestnuts today. Must be the London air."
Throughout this soliloquy, the man was searching valiantly in his pockets while John could only sit frozen, staring like the idiot Sherlock always accused him of being.
"Spiced eggnog and rum balls! Finally, here it is. To Captain Watson, Happy Holidays."
The man held out a small box wrapped in blue paper with a fancy bow. John didn't move, or even blink for that matter.
"Come along, son. It's not going to bite you or explode, though considering your hobby, I can see where you might be wary. However, I assure you, it's only a gift. After all, the paper matches your eyes, and it's beyond difficult to find an oatmeal colored shiny ribbon. Someone wants you to know it's from them. Go on then, I'm running terribly behind. Oh, by the way, feel free to open it today, but don't spoil the surprise by telling anyone. Christmas Morning, all will be revealed. Agreed?"
John cautiously reached out and took the box, nodding silently, his eyes wide as if he were five years old again.
"Good thing your admirer knows what you want for Christmas, you're not the best at conversation."
"So I've been told," John managed to squeak, "ah, thank you I think. Half a tic and I'll get you a tip."
Now the laughter seemed like a warm blanket, covering John with cheer, "I've no use for money, lad. I only accept biscuits and milk, and frankly, I'm abstaining until the big night. Can't have Father Christmas splitting his trousers under the Christmas Tree. The sleigh is a lovely way to travel but drafty as can be. You've grown into a fine man, John. I knew you would, Santa is proud of you."
The small clock on John's desk chimed one. "Comet's cuspidor! I'm late, and no chimney in sight. Blast, I despise going out in only a glitter storm, it really jingles my bells. Happy Christmas, Johnny, and a bright New Year."
John pulled open a drawer, "I insist you take a tip, you've done a splendid acting job and.."
The room was empty. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the reception area, "Where's Santa? Did he leave by the front door?"
After basically demanding thirty minutes for lunch, John sat in his office trying to reconcile what had happened with the clinic staff then telling him no one dressed as Santa had been there the entire day.
His eyes fell on the gift and he couldn't resist. The bow and paper yielded easily, revealing a plain box. Removing the lid, he discovered two metal discs, much like his official Army discs. It was clear that the medallions weren't the traditional stainless steel, instead they appeared to be platinum and were threaded on a platinum chain.
"Christ, that's an expense", he thought. One disc bore the insignia of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Saint George slaying the Dragon, and the other the medical caduceus. Both emblems were in what John assumed was gold. Turning them over, he found engraving. The insignia read Love, and the caduceus Heals.
Rubbing the discs between his trembling fingers, John whispered, "Love Heals. Sherlock, it's from Sherlock."
For awhile now, it had become obvious that John's way of dealing with his flatmates reckless lifestyle, a firm but gentle rebuke followed by the necessary medical care, was really saying "I love you" without using the words. This was Sherlock telling John he understood. The blogger was overcome with happiness, but how the hell could he stay quiet until Christmas? Well, evidently that's what his genius wanted, so John Hamish Watson would find a way. He never did notice the glitter on his shoes.
***~~~***
Sherlock had tried not to complain, really he had. It was, after all, the first Christmas detective and blogger would spend together and if the Doctor wanted fairy lights, a tree with an obscene number of ridiculously bright ornaments and even garland hung around the flat on every available surface, so be it. But damn! Conducting his experiments without disturbing the decorations was a thankless task.
He was about to dissect a rancid lung and coat it with a tincture of bleach and soap when he felt a presence behind him. Whirling around into a ninja crouch, he was shocked to find a Father Christmas giving him a kind but dubious look.
"There you are William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I knew better than to sneak up on you, but I wasn't expecting fisticuffs, young man. What if I had been your landlady?"
"Mrs. Hudson has a who-who early warning system to alert me. You, however, are an uninvited and unwelcome intruder. Who are you and what do you want?"
"You're the second person to ask me that today. Is the Suit not working for me anymore? Nevertheless, uninvited and unwelcome am I? Holly berries, I have a gift for you, but it seems you're more in need of a bundle of twigs in your stocking."
Sherlock scowled, "I am certainly not interested in your opinion of my behavior, fat man, and even less interested in whatever insipid trinket with which my asinine brother has chosen to harass me."
The pink cheeked man felt his entire face, flush and his eyes twinkled, not with merriment but with annoyance. "Now see here, William, I'm not as youthful as I once was, but I can still handle a naughty boy like you. Either you behave and accept the Express Delivery I have for you, NOT from Mycroft by the way, or I turn you over my knee and put that bundle of twigs to good use. What's it to be?"
Sherlock blinked rapidly to clear his vision because the man was now holding said bundle of birch twigs. Since when did 221B have birch twigs on hand? John had teased about lumps of coal, but surely he hadn't bought twigs.
"I'm waiting for an answer, William, a polite one I might add."
Shaken from his stupor, Sherlock found his voice. "A delivery you say? Not from the British Government? Very well, hurry along. I have a critical experiment in the works."
The Santa sighed, "I suppose that's polite by your standards, but just so you know, people normally leave me something more appetizing."
"No one has ever accused me of being normal."
"Not surprised by that in the least. Well I have a schedule, and as you're not charmed by my visit, I'll give you your gift and depart."
This box was wrapped in purple paper and had a glossy jet black bow. Sherlock took it with disdain.
"You might show a bit of gratitude, little boy. Those particular shades of purple and black are the colors of those posh shirts and bespoke suits you're so fond of. Someone wants you to know it's from them."
The detective's face showed nothing beyond a frustration at his deductions failing miserably.
"No need to pull your skills out for me. It won't work, as I'm magic you see."
"And I'm hallucinating from the bleach fumes. Having established that, would you kindly leave and allow me to return to my senses."
"Gladly, but you'll find after I'm gone, the gift will remain. Open it today, but don't speak of it until Christmas Morning when an explanation will present itself."
Sherlock huffed and ground out, "Agreed! Anything to see the arse end of you, go quickly." With that, he threw open the door.
"No thank you, I've had enough of pedestrian human exits, at least this flat has a chimney."
His eyes squeezed tightly shut for one second, Sherlock opened them to find himself alone, the fireplace with a scattering of glitter shining in the glow of the fairy lights.
"Of course Holmes, your hallucination went up the chimney. Why wouldn't he? But too bad that would mean the gift was a..." Looking down, he was stunned to see the package still in his hand.
Dismissing the absurdity of the situation, he tore the paper and ripped open the box. Inside was a familiar sight, the subject of many a late night fantasy, John's Army I.D. discs on a chain. Something was different, however. They were an exact replica complete with all the laser etched information- blood type, service number, last name, initials, religion, but these were platinum. Sherlock had memorized the facts on the originals months ago when he discovered the discs on one of several "covert raids" he made into John's room, searching his belongings to learn more about his new friend.
Turning them over, the discs revealed two words fashioned from heavy gold block letters applied to the smooth surface. Love Saves. Sherlock drew a sharp breath, "Love Saves. John! It's from John!"
Everything Sherlock had done from almost the very first had been his admittedly clumsy, yet sincere, efforts to give John a new life filled with comfort, purpose and happiness. He so desperately wanted this wonderful man to be whole again, to be saved. Sherlock had no words to express his love, but he had hoped his actions would be enough. This gift told him HIS John knew and understood. God, Christmas Morning couldn't come soon enough.
***~~~***
December the 25th dawned on a London resplendent in a light sheen of fluffy snow, enough to be beautiful, not enough to be bothersome. The residents of Baker Street, one landlady/not your housekeeper and two grown men who had somehow de-aged to small boys with their eyes all aglow, gathered in 221B. Presents were exchanged, far too many breakfast sweets consumed and the Spirit of Christmas shone all around.
After a third cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson rose and tidied the tea tray. " This has been lovely Boys, but if I'm to have our goose and pudding ready for our supper tonight, I'd best head down to my kitchen."
"We could have arranged for something, save you the effort."
Smiling, she patted John's cheek. "Fussing over my Boys is never an effort, and would you deprive an old woman of her few paltry pleasures?"
The deep bass rumbled, "Never old Hudders. Age is merely a number and your number is infinity."
"I'm going to assume that's a compliment, Sherlock. Now, you two relax. You needn't even bother behaving since Father Christmas is officially on his day off."
John grinned, "Know that for a fact do you?"
"Have it on the best authority, John dear. One thing though, I expect to be paid for my labours."
Taking both by the hand she dragged them to stand under the mistletoe in the kitchen doorway. "On you go then, you know what to do, and don't let me hear a word of that not gay/married to my work nonsense. Carry on!"
Hesitation lasted only a moment before they were in each other's arms, Sherlock seeming to melt to half his size while John suddenly grew "taller". The kiss was tender, soft and not chaste by any stretch of the imagination.
Clapping her hands, Hudders turned for the stairs, "Well done! Fa la la la la, la la la la!!"
***~~~***
It was only a matter of seconds after the door to 221A clicked shut that the two men pounced on each other. The ensuing exchange was strange to say the least as both blurted out simultaneously, "Your gift to me..."
Then a befuddled back and forth, "John, it was only a jumper and some gloves. Your hands are always cold." "Sherlock, I know you can get your own lab equipment, and the gingernuts were just a bit of fun."
Followed by these lines spoken in unison, "But the necklace, you you sent me. Necklace I sent you, what necklace?", ending with the detective and his blogger pulling the discs from underneath the collars of their dressing gowns.
Wordlessly they surveyed the matching yet different discs and realized they had not been the other's gift giver. Sherlock began to bolt for his bedroom when John grabbed him around the waist, pulling him tightly to his compact body.
"Oh no you don't. I don't know who sent us these, but I do know they got both of our heads out of our arses, and I, for one, am not going back. These necklaces say we love each other and it's the bloody truth. What do YOU say, love?"
Sherlock peered out from underneath the curls that had fallen over his eyes and stuttered, "I concur, I mean...that is I- damn! I DO love you John Watson."
"And I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Think we'd best write a thank you note to Santa, whoever he is. I'll tell you, when he came into the clinic..."
"Santa gave you your necklace at the clinic?"
"Yep! Thought at first he was a nutter off the streets, but there was just something about him."
"I know, he went up our chimney, I think."
"What? He went where? And why is there a bundle of birch twigs hanging from our skull? Never noticed that till now."
Blushing furiously, Sherlock snatched them and threw them into the fire. "Kindling, John, obviously."
"For our gas fire? Have you been into the Christmas punch this early?"
"Shut up Captain, and kiss me again."
***~~~***
At the North Pole, a tired but satisfied Santa was soaking his feet and having a hearty meal.
"Papa, you do know you don't need to fatten up for another twelve months now."
"Mrs. Claus, don't nag. Besides I have to keep myself at fighting weight. Never know when your family will be requesting my services again. Speaking of which, don't you think your sister is getting a tad old to write letters to Santa?"
"That will be quite enough from you, Nicholas Claus. My twin sister remember? As in same age as me? Besides, we girls don't get old, we 'age to perfection'. She should be calling soon."
As if on cue, the candy cane mobile began to vibrate with Santa Claus is Coming to Town. "Who-who! That you Martha?"
"Happy Christmas, Merry. Just a short call. I know Nick must be done in but I wanted to thank him for filling my Christmas Wish List. It was a rousing success! I WAS surprised by the Peppermint Schnapps and the chocolate flavored soothers. Bit naughty AND nice."
"Well, he's always like that, and he does feel badly we seldom get to visit."
"Not like I can say to my Boys, popping off to the North Pole to visit my sister Merry, Mrs. Santa Claus. They do keep asking to meet you though."
"Since they've met Nick, who can say. Maybe in your letter to Santa next year."
"Merry Noel Claus, do NOT give your sister any more ideas!!"
"Yes, dear, I mean no dear. Sorry, sister, I'd best ring off. The day after he can be somewhat cantankerous. Sitting behind those reindeer all around the world after they've all eaten their weight in high fiber veggies rather puts him off. It isn't exactly sugar and spice if you get my meaning."
Both women bid their goodbyes giggling like schoolgirls, and Merry turned back to her husband. "She's ever so grateful, and on the bright side, no more gifts to deliver till next year."
"Just one more, dear, and I believe I have just a pinch of magic left. Should do the trick."
***~~~***
It was quite late in the evening on Boxing Day when the new lovers emerged from their shared bedroom, giddy as drunken men.
"Suppose we'll never know who our Santa was. I can't imagine Mycroft..."
"No, no, no! Don't even think it! But whoever it was, my compliments to their jeweler and his good taste in matchmaking."
John flopped down in his chair and sprang back to his feet. "What the hell?!"
"Something wrong, John?"
"Sat on this blasted bundle of birch twigs again. I thought you burned these last night."
"Here, give them to me, I'll burn these as well."
"Hold on, there's a tag. To John: Apply when and where needed. Courtesy of Santa's Express Delivery."
As John guffawed and Sherlock turned bright red, a familiar voice filtered down from the roof, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight."
Downstairs, Martha poured a generous portion of schnapps into her chocolate soother and smiled. "Cheers, brother-in-law mine, and God bless us everyone."