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Sherlock very nearly turned around and left when blaring music came spilling out of the pub and into the chilly night air. It had been a trying enough day already; John bustling about the flat, decorating, making tea and finding every possible reason to put his hands on Sherlock. It was a maddening effect of the holiday season, one that would be gone on Boxing Day while Sherlock's pathetic pining would remain, stronger than ever with the memory of John's fingers on the skin of his wrist. Now he was expected to endure the Yarders, the pub, the flirting John would surely do with the female officers and staff.
Hateful.
John stood there, holding the heavy wooden door open with his good shoulder so he could rub his bare hands together for warmth.
Something in Sherlock's face must have given him away, because John's eyes narrowed.
"Oh no, don't you dare leave me alone for this," John warned. "This is your fault in the first place."
Sherlock scoffed.
"My fault? If you'll recall, I said we should throw the bloody invitation in the rubbish. We're here because of your attack of conscience."
"Our names were only in the drawing because Lestrade wanted to get back at you for that stunt you pulled in the courtroom last month. Besides, the names had already been drawn. If we'd backed out, two people at the party would have gone without a secret Santa gift. The only two people we actually consider friends, at that."
"Pointless tradition."
"And yet, one you're going to participate in," John said, hauling Sherlock through the door by the crook of his elbow. "We'll go, have one drink, give our gifts, and if you still want to leave right away then we will."
"You say that as if there's any chance I'll want to stay," Sherlock grumbled, but let himself be guided to the back room of the pub. John's hand had migrated from Sherlock's elbow to the small of his back, and any sudden movement might cause John to reevaluate that decision. Externally, he ensured a mask of perfect disdain stayed fixed in place. Internally, he wondered if he could get away with shifting closer, or if that would spook John into dropping his hand.
A moot point, though. Once they crossed the threshold into the private back room the Yard had rented out for the party, the hand fell away. John nodded to each familiar face they passed on the way to the bar, pretending as always that he actually enjoyed forced social interaction, then ordered them two scotches. As he leaned against the bar to wait, Sherlock puzzled over his body language: Hips and feet pointing away, but leaning too far into Sherlock's personal space to appear separate from him. Not telegraphing availability with careful distance, as he had in the past. Not leaning close, either. Curious.
The bartender returned with their drinks, and John took them with a nod of thanks, then finally turned to fully face Sherlock. He withdrew two small, squat boxes no larger than the palm of his hand from his coat pocket, and pressed one into Sherlock's left hand, then a drink into his right.
"Go give that to Lestrade, then come find me. If you're still absolutely miserable, we'll go," he said, tapping the rim of his glass against Sherlock's with that tiny, mysterious smile he'd worn so often of late. "I'm off to find Molly. Be nice to people, please. It's Christmas."
And with that, he disappeared into the crowd of mingling, drinking, and badly dancing Yarders.
Sherlock briefly felt the room close in around him, a press of clashing voices and syrupy drinks, drowning in his own half-formed hopes. It's Christmas, John said.
John's Christmas sentiment just might be the death of him.
Sherlock shook it off. Complete the task. Go home, with or without John.
(It was a lie, but he let himself slide.)
Sherlock spotted Lestrade across the room, speaking animatedly to a junior officer who all but fled at Sherlock's approach. Lestrade turned, puzzled, but his expression brightened in an odd way when he spotted Sherlock.
"Sherlock!" he crowed, clapping him firmly on the shoulder with tipsy joviality. "Glad you could make it, really chuffed."
"You say that as if you didn't engineer our presence here specifically. Please take your gift so John will let us leave."
"Ooh, not so fast, mate. You get a gift too, you know, and it just so happens that I got your name." He fished around in his inner jacket pocket for a moment, then gave a triumphant aha! as he withdrew a silvery blue envelope. "There you are, now."
"Lovely," Sherlock said brusquely and dropped the envelope in his coat pocket, eyes already seeking John. Obligation fulfilled. Perhaps now they could go home and enjoy a drink without the oppressive stupidity of a pub full of Yarders—
"Oi, Sherlock," Lestrade said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and suddenly looking far more sober than he had a moment ago. "You're going to want to open that now, mate. Promise."
And there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that made Sherlock obey. With one last skeptical look for Lestrade, he slid his finger under the flap of the envelope and broke the seal with an impatient rip. Inside was a single heavyweight stationary card, embossed with silver snowflakes around the edges. In the center of the card, in Lestrade's neatest handwriting, was a message:
John Watson is in love with you.
Happy Christmas!
Sherlock's mind went perfectly blank.
The world tilted beneath his feet.
"What is this, some kind of cruel joke?" he said, barely a ragged whisper, but his heart raced, pumping panic through his veins and the constant stream of I've been caught I've been caught he knows he knows he—
"Hey hey hey, Sherlock, breathe, okay? Of course it's not a joke. I would never. Not about this." He cleared his throat and looked away. Guilt. "You know John and I go to the pub on occasion."
"Every Thursday evening so long as there's no case on," he rattled off despite the pressure in his chest. Never could stop the impulse.
Lestrade huffed a laugh. "Yeah, that's right. Because John needs someone to talk to, see? Someone who understands."
Sherlock shook his head, uncomprehending.
"Understands?"
"You. Someone who knows you who won't constantly call him a nutter for staying with you."
The particular phrasing grates at Sherlock. "He's not with me."
"But he wants to be. It took me bloody years to get it out of him, Sherlock, but he told it to me straight over a year ago. He's in love with you, but he's too afraid of losing you to say anything. Got it into his head that you're not interested in that sort of thing."
Lestrade smiled then, slow and kind.
"But we all know that's not true. I'm breaking his confidence right now, but Molly and I couldn't stand to watch you two torture yourselves any longer."
Molly?
Molly. Oh no.
Sherlock's gaze darted from face to face, searching for John, for familiar blond grey hair and dangerous eyes... and to his horror, found him locked in conversation with Molly Hooper, an identical silver and blue envelope clutched in his hands.
All at once, Sherlock remembered every conversation he'd had with Molly in the past six months: Coming out to her in a fit of honest kindness, storming into the morgue after a fight with John, sitting with his back against a cabinet in the darkened chem lab with his head in his hands when John went out on a date for the first time in months. Confessions spilling out far too easily, meeting her kind heart with his broken one.
She knew everything.
Which meant John knew everything now, too.
Sherlock stared hard at the back of John's head, as if he could see into his mind and read his thoughts if only he could look hard enough.
"How sure are you, Greg?"
Lestrade's mouth gave a funny little wobble at the sound of his first name.
"A hundred percent. I told you. Words from his own mouth. I swear it on my life."
Then John turned around, his eyes locking onto Sherlock immediately, as if they always knew where to find him.
And maybe they did.
"Go to him, Sherlock," Lestrade said with a little shove between his shoulder blades. And once his feet were moving, he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. He was drawn in by John's wet eyes, the twist of his mouth as if he were barely holding something in, and he'd meant to approach slowly, with some small measure of self-preservation, just in case, just in case--
There was nothing slow about it.
They crashed together in the center of the dance floor, John's arms winding around Sherlock's neck, fingers buried in dark curls. Sherlock pulled John to him with arms around his waist, dropped his head to John's shoulder and breathed, breathed in the scent of him and felt every tight thing in his chest begin to uncoil.
John Watson is in love with you.
"I thought it was confirmation bias," he managed in a harsh whisper before his throat closed up once again. "Seeing what I wanted to see, coloring the collected data with my own wants—"
John pressed his forehead into Sherlock's temple and gave a weak chuckle. "I thought I was painfully transparent and you were just exercising discretion for the first time in your life."
Sherlock snorted at that, and they both collapsed against each other, laughter shaking their shoulders. Hands drifted, the space between them softened, and before long they were swaying gently to the music, John's left hand tucked in Sherlock's right, resting quietly with their foreheads leaning together. Lingering in the moment, enjoying the last bit of tension as it melted away into warm surety.
Finally, Sherlock nudged John's nose with his own.
"Does this mean I can kiss you?"
John huffed a small laugh. "Absolutely. I'd be quite put off if you didn't."
"Can I do it right now, with all of Scotland Yard staring at us?"
John's bright smile turned wicked, and he murmured his answer directly against Sherlock’s mouth.
"Yes."