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The holiday season is in full swing, and from your cozy seat in 221B, you’re happy to be in the center of it all.
The flat was decorated wall-to-wall with various decorations that you’d brought from your own collection, and some from Mrs. Hudson’s closet. There was a glow about the sitting room, light being cast from the fireplace and from the strings of lights you’d managed to stick on almost every available perch..
You’re clad in a sweater and button-down, your feet curled under you as you watch the snow falling, covering the usually bustling street with a white blanket of calm. Your hands cradle a mug of hot cocoa, and you sip it idly, trying to remember whether or not you’d seen Sherlock mixing unnamed chemicals in the cup a few days ago.
Speaking of Sherlock, he’d been playing the violin all evening -- at your request -- and accepting the praise quite gracefully. That is, until he’d started analyzing his guests and their families. It was all you could do not to kick him each time he said something untoward. You suppose, however, that it wouldn’t really be Christmas without Sherlock over-analyzing everyone around him.
The evening had wound down quite quickly after a while, and soon, everyone had gone home to enjoy the rest of their evenings alone. You’d hugged each guest before they’d left, murmuring a quick apology to each of them for Sherlock’s behavior. You knew it wasn’t technically your fault, but you still thought it best to leave the evening on a pleasant note rather than a stale one.
Sherlock, to his credit, had sat at his and John’s shared desk in the living room for much of the evening after he’d exhausted his database of deductions and insults for the evening. The sound of the fire crackling and of his fingers tapping at keys were the only sounds that filled the flat. After John had retired for the night -- he murmured something about too much apple cider, and you’d handed him some aspirin and a glass of water for the morning -- you made two cups of tea, and sat across from Sherlock.
You place his tea across from him, on the side of his dominant hand, and he hums, a quiet and non-verbal acknowledgment and thank you. He doesn’t take his eyes off his screen, but still you smile, blowing on your tea before taking a sip. You watch the snow fall for a few more moments before addressing something that had been bothering you all evening.
“Well then,” you say eventually, straightening your legs and leaning backwards in your chair. “Where’s mine?”
Sherlock looks up at you briefly, and then back at his screen, before his eyes meet yours once again. “I’m sorry?” he says distractedly, as though he hadn’t been listening to you. You know he had been. His hand hovers near his mouth, relaxed, and you try your best not to stare at it.
“Where’s mine?” You cross your arms, a silent challenge. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at you, telling you with his eyes to elaborate. “My snide remark. You’ve said something blunt and rude to every single one of our guests, even John, but you haven’t said a word about me.” You smirk as Sherlock’s eyes begin to dart back and forth minutely, evidently replaying the night’s events in his mind.
“Mm,” he says non-committedly, shifting his eyes back to his work with a shrug. His shoulders are now tense, and you can tell he’s not actually taking in any of the information in front of him. You sigh, pretending to be irritated, but you bump your feet against his under the table playfully so he knows you’re not actually angry with him.
“What’s got you so upset, anyways?” You ask him, more gently this time. Sherlock ignores this, instead shifting his weight so he’s sitting up in his chair, his eyes meeting yours, steepling his fingers as he often does when he’s preparing to analyze someone. You smile, leaning back, crossing your arms in front of you. He’s ignoring the question you’d just asked by answering your first one. Smart-ass.
“You clearly have an ardent love for Christmas,” Sherlock starts, looking directly at you. You quirk an eyebrow at him, tilting your head slightly. You hadn’t been secretive about this in the slightest -- in fact, you’re the one who’d helped Mrs. Hudson decorate most of the flat for tonight’s get-together. You’d been humming Christmas carols since December had started.
Sherlock takes your silent gesture to go on, and he continues. “Quite frankly, it’s appalling. The Christmas season started as a commercial scam to get idiots to buy gaudy decorations and pray to a fat man in a red suit. The fact that you’d stoop so low for an entire month almost makes me want to consider you one of them.” He relaxes his posture slightly, his brows quirking upwards.
You smile, placing your still-crossed forearms on the desk in front of you. “That’s not really the same, though,” you counter, admiring the way Sherlock’s features cast shadows on his skin under the warm fairy lights. His pale skin looks to be glowing, and you want to brush your fingers against his cheek.
“Of course it’s the same. What do you mean it’s not the same?” He asks you hastily, and you mentally shake yourself. You’d been gazing far too fondly at Sherlock, and if you didn’t already know that he was oblivious to most romantic thoughts about him, you’d be worried that he’d noticed something amiss.
“Of course I love Christmas. You know that already,” you say, smirking. Sherlock blinks, evidently unsure as to where to go from here. His lips part, as if to continue speaking, but you cut him off before he can.
“And of course I know it’s mostly a commercial holiday, that part’s kind of hard to ignore,” you continue, looking around at the decorations in the room, because if you keep looking at him, you’ll definitely give something away.
“But you know that I mostly just like spending time with you. And everyone else,” you add hastily, almost too hastily, and you kick yourself. “It’s nice. Having people together and feeling like a family, and being able to share happiness with each other, you know?” You look back at Sherlock, a small smile gracing your lips. You can’t help it -- the season makes you happy, and the atmosphere of 221B is so cozy right now that you’re in an excellent mood despite Sherlock’s strange behavior.
Sherlock’s looking at you with his lips still parted, but he looks less confused now. It almost seems like he’d been admiring you while you’d been admiring the decorations. His expression only lasts a moment, though, before he clears his throat and tries to turn his attention back to the laptop in front of him.
You’re still waiting for a proper insult, though, so you keep staring at him expectantly. For a moment, you don’t expect it to work, but Sherlock eventually sighs and shuts his eyes, acting like he’s deeply annoyed.
“All right!” He concedes, his voice louder than it had been for most of this conversation. “All right,” he amends, his voice more tranquil this time. You wait a few beats more for his words, readying yourself for whatever insult or remark he’d actually prepared for you.
Sherlock’s next words surprise you, though. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, and you’re surprised to see a light blush dancing across his cheeks.
“I suppose,” he starts, looking back down at his keyboard. “I suppose you haven’t been quite as insufferably unbearable as everyone else has been this evening.”
You blink. And again. You’re certain you’d heard that wrong, but you most definitely haven’t, and after reviewing Sherlock’s words a couple dozen times in your mind, a smile starts creeping its way across your face. Sherlock is definitely blushing, now, and you’re sure that you are too, now. It’s the most backhanded way he could have possibly said anything nice to you this evening, but he has said it, and it’s so undeniably Sherlock that you’re starting to feel that your affections aren’t entirely unrequited.
“Mr. Holmes,” you say, your eyes twinkling. You tilt your head at him, unable to reign in your smile even a little bit. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say that you’d just given me a compliment.”
Sherlock is still looking down at his computer, his deft fingers typing things here and there, but whether or not he’s actually typing anything is unclear.
“But you do know better,” he says, and to anyone else, he might seem the slightest bit annoyed. You can tell, though, that he’s just embarrassed, and this doesn’t totally surprise you. Sherlock had never been the best at talking about feelings, and after complimenting you like that, he didn’t really have a choice. He was trying to backpedal, but now that you’d heard him express his affections -- more or less -- you weren’t about to let him go that easily.
“On second thought,” you murmur, planting your elbows on the desk in front of you and placing your chin on your hands. “Maybe I don’t.”
Sherlock looks up at you now, a crinkle forming between his brows, and your smile grows at his expression. His look of confusion had always been endearing to you, and now that it’s directed at you, you’re able to take in exactly how much it makes him look like a confused child.
You reach your hand out across the table, palm facing upwards, and Sherlock looks at it with that same expression until he realizes what you’re asking of him. At last, he takes his fingers off of the keyboard, and slowly presses his hand against yours.
There’s a beat of silence, and you take the moment of calm to appreciate the feeling of Sherlock’s hand against your own. His skin is warm tonight, which is something that you can’t always say about the detective -- you suppose, though, that the warm fire was helping to take the chill away from his pale skin.
Before you’re able to relish in the contact for too long, Sherlock’s hand tears away from yours. You’re taken aback, even embarrassed, and you feel heat rush to your face. You’re not left to worry about your actions for long, though, as Sherlock hastily types something into his laptop, and a slow Christmas song begins playing.
Sherlock rises from his seat, and offers his hand to you once more, his other one folded neatly behind his back. You look from his hand, to his face, to his hand again, and though you’re certain you look like a goldfish, you can’t hide the confusion you feel. Sherlock shifts on his feet, his eyes betraying his sudden spark of anxiety.
“Well?” He says, almost impatiently, offering you his hand more insistently. You’re still not sure what to think, and you close your mouth, realizing that it had been open since he’d asked you the initial question.
“Well, what?” You ask, somewhat stupidly, as he’s clearly asking you to dance, but for some reason, your brain can’t quite put together all the pieces to this puzzle.
“Would you like to dance?” Sherlock asks, now sounding annoyed. You know, though, that it’s just a front -- he’s been caught being sentimental, and embarrassed, and now he’s trying to make up for it in sourness.
A smile crosses your face. You move your chair back and stand, straightening your clothes and not-so-surreptitiously wiping your palm lest it be clammy. You place your hand in his, grinning up at him as he relaxes minutely and leads you to the middle of the sitting room.
“Mr. Holmes,” you say as he places your hands where he needs them -- one upon his shoulder, and the other in his own -- and getting into position himself. “A compliment and a dance, all in one night? I must be special.” Sherlock knows you’re teasing, and though he lets out a small huff, you know he’s hiding a smile, too.
“Yes, well,” he says shortly, though he’s leading you through a graceful waltz. He casts his eyes around the room, avoiding yours, though he’s definitely pressing your bodies a bit more close together than he needs to. “I suppose it’s not too late for a Christmas miracle.” Sherlock sighs through his words nonchalantly, as if he hasn’t just said one of the most ridiculously affectionate things you’d ever heard him say in your life.
You clear your throat, trying to distract yourself from the fact that you’re absolutely blushing again. The contact seems all too much, and you’re starting to think that Sherlock is actually trying to be romantic, as unlikely as that may seem.
“I thought you didn’t like Christmas,” you say breathlessly, silently cursing yourself for your tone. If you’d misread the situation, and Sherlock was just being nice to you, he’d surely find any evidence of your attraction to be distasteful.
Without realizing it, the two of you had stopped swaying, though the melody still played from the laptop on the desk next to you. The hand that had been placed in Sherlock’s had migrated to his other shoulder, and you’re forced to look at him directly. In the warm light, his eyes seem more green than blue, and you’re dangerously close to getting lost in them.
There’s such a lengthy pause that you’d forgotten that Sherlock had yet to respond. His hands are on your hips, higher up than you’d admittedly like them to be, a respectable position. His eyes begin darting about again, probably trying to think of some previous interaction to compare this one to, but you’re almost certain that he finds nothing, as his brows knit together in the way that you love.
At last, Sherlock’s eyes meet yours, before his dart down to your lips. You do your best not to hope, but for the life of you, you can’t help the desire to feel his mouth on yours.
“There are exceptions,” Sherlock says, his voice low and gravelly, and you’re surprised that your legs don’t give out from under you. “To every rule,” he finishes, and you feel his breath fan out across your face, and you can’t take it anymore.
One of your hands creeps to the back of his head so that you can feel his hair between your fingers. You hope that this is enough for him to understand that if he wants this, so do you. Before you can actually ask him if you can kiss him, his lips descend upon yours, and you’re forced to stand on your toes so that you can meet him halfway.
The kiss doesn’t ignite fireworks in you. It’s simple, and lasts mere seconds, but your stomach fills with butterflies and you’re breathless by the time it ends. You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry when it ends, because you’re filled with such a rush of relief that this had finally happened.
Once you pull away and place your feet flat on the floor again, you just look at one another. There’s a smile on your face, and you’re sure you look ridiculous, but you can’t help it. Your hand cups Sherlock’s face, and you brush your thumb against his cheekbone, relishing in the way that he nudges his head forwards into the contact.
There’s another few moments of silence between the two of you. In that instance, the only sounds in 221B were the crackling fire, the soft notes of Christmas music, and your hearts beating fast.
You’re the first one to break the silence. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re surprised to hear Sherlock’s baritone laughter, and you raise your arms to hug his shoulders as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. It’s a bit of an awkward position, as he’s a good deal taller than you are, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“Happy Christmas,” the detective wishes you, and you can feel the vibrations of his voice against your skin. You kiss the top of his head, ruffling his hair, and your laughter soon joins his own.