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The London streets were blurred through the rain streaked windows. Yellow and blue lights apeared like little blobs against the black sky. The whether man had been threatening for snow, but none obliged. The city was quiet, or as quiet as London could get.
Sherlock
221b Baker Street was lit by the Christmas tree that stood in the corner of the sitting room, much to Sherlock's dismay. Sherlock had protested bringing a large conifer into their apartment, but John had taken no notice, and had even persuaded Sherlock to help decorate....sort of.
Sherlock had reluctantly placed a couple ornaments on the tree, but then decided that the Christmas lights would look better on the ceiling. Before John could stop him, Sherlock had strings of little white lights all over the room, pinned up quite nicely, John addmited to himself. John had to by more lights for the tree, by which time Sherlock had moved on to at looking post-mortum finger nail growth.
John now stood on the wooden landing outside the entrench to the flat. Sherlock had sent John out of the flat so he could prepare something....god only knew what. The problem was that there were no shops or restaurants that were open at ten o'clock on Christmas Eve. So John had returned to the flat, cold, and with nothing to show for the outing
Loud noises escaped from inside the flat, and a slight pit of concern began to grow in John's stomach. What could Sherlock be doing? There were endless possibilities. Minutes slipped by into the night and John began to loose patience. He sat stiff and bedraggled on the stairs, and a cold draft wafted up to meet him from the front door.
After what felt like hours, Sherlock finaly opened the door, and what lay behind it made the wait worthwhile. Sherlock had turned the sitting room into a suite. Sherlock's bed stood on the rug where the armchairs usually were, and a fire was crackling merrily in the hearth. The room had been cleared of all clutter, and the door to the messy kitchen had been closed, creating a bubble fron the outside world. Besides the fire, the only light sources in the room were the lights from the Christmas tree, and the lights that hung on the ceiling. The dim ambiance of the room cast Sherlock's long shadow up the wall, it's elegance hardly a match for the man himself. He stood infront of John in a royal blue silk pajama set, his dark hair tossled and out of place. John's breath caught in his throat at the sight of this gorgeous man infront of him, and what this man had done for him.
"Merry Christmas." Sherlock said in welcome, clearly very proud of the work he did. As John walked through the door, Sherlock pulled him in for a light kiss, lighting brushing his lips against the doctors. When he pulled away, John's eyes fell softly upon Sherlock. As Sherlock shut the door, John swiftly discarded his coat and shoes. He walked up to the tall detective and kissed him again without warning. John threaded his finges through Sherlock's hair, and the tall detective held John close by the waste. Each toch of their lips was enslaving, it held them there, stuck in that moment, a breathless want for more. John took Sherlock by the hand and led him over to the bed. Slowly John worked at the button of Sherlock's silk shirt, holding Sherlock's eyes with his own. Eyes locked with John's, John slipped off Sherlock's shirt, and then Sherlock took control, undressing John slowly between hungry kisses.
Soon they were both clothless in the bed, their breathing heavy and their toched hot. Their hands roamed each other's bodies, savoring the feel of soft skin, craving more. When Sherlock slipped inside John, it was ecstasy. The world stopped turning, and nothing existed in that moment except them. Their bodies moved together, like one entity, they became one person. With heavy breath, soft moans escaping from their lips, the two men hit the height of pleasure, just as the clock stuck twelve.
*****
Sherlock lay naked in John's arms, his face was burried in John's chest. John rested his head on Sherlock's, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's hair. Their bodies were intertwined, the sheets on the bed no longer straight.
"I love you." John whispered, running a hand through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock could never understand how those words made him feel so good. How such simple words could hold him captive.
"You don't kneed you to say it back, so don't bother. I love you and I know you love me too, and thats all that matters." Sherlock muzzled his face into John's sternum, craving the affection of this army doctor. This doctor was the most amazing man Sherlock had ever met. He was smart, and willing, and brave, but most of all, he was good. John Watson was a good man. He was the most real thing in Sherlock's crazy world. He kept Sherlock grounded when the whole world was spinning. Sherlock need John Watson, more than he needed anything else in the world. As time wore on the pair of them began to drift off to sleep. The edges of their brains grew foggy, and there eyes grew heavy. Their matching breathing began to slow, and sleep, a dangerous mistress, began to seiz her prey.
" I love you too." Sherlock whispered back when they were almost asleep. John squeezed Sherlock's hand to thank him, the mistress of sleep already caught his toung. As Sherlock let his mind slip away into the abiss, he couldn't help noticing that the little Christmas lights he had put up looked vaugly like the lights of London he saw out the window, shining brightly against the backdrop of midnight sky.