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“But it’s Christmas!” Exclaimed John, frustrated at Sherlock’s refusal to cooperate.
Sherlock was perched on the couch, knees were drawn up, wrapped in his gown and a quilt. The Christmas tree sat naked between the couch and the window, with Rosie standing near it, and bags of ornaments waiting to be used.
“So what, John? What’s the point of hanging useless ornaments on a tree?” Sherlock argued back, his voice muffled. The only thing visible of the detective was his messy curls sticking out of the blue quilt.
“Fine, You brought this on yourself, you arsehole,” John spoke, strode up a step to where his flatmate laid, and physically pushed him off the couch. “Just decorate the bloody tree already!”
Sherlock landed on the floor with a thud, his expression that of disapproval.
“Daddy! You broke your own rule again!” bellowed Rosie, as she once again witnessed her father swearing.
“Christ, yes, sorry, but you see this idiot isn’t cooperating,” came the reply as John made his way to stand near his daughter, “tell him something?”
“Mr. Holmes,” began Rosie with her sweet angelic voice, her hands clasped in front of her, “I, Rosie Watson, request you to help in decorating our Christmas tree.”
Sherlock looked at both Watsons, frustrated beyond imaginable at having to do such a task. He stood up and dusted off invisible dust off his gown as he glared daggers at the tree as if it personally offended him before turning in to Rosie’s request. “Fine,” he growled.
And John grinned to himself, secretly thinking that Rosie’s heart-warming tone touched a soft spot of Sherlock’s.
-<0>-
“No, John,” Sherlock repeated, standing at the fireplace where a bag full of ornaments was laying, agitated towards John’s revolting choice of colour for the already rainbow-like tree. “According to colour theory, Green and orange don’t go well together, this tree will tur-“
“listen here cheekbones,” John interrupted, as he closed the last few steps between, face to face, John lifted his finger, “I don't give a monkeys how this tree turns out, I don’t care what color combinations we make, I just want to spend quality time with Rosie and enjoy this Christmas, so if you could please just have some fun with us,” finished John, his voice low and dangerous.
Sherlock’s exhaled breath collided with John’s face. Their proximity like never before.
The fire was crackling, spreading its heat across the flat. But it was nothing compared to the warmth Sherlock brought, to which john accepted without hesitation. Both of them standing mere inches from each other. Eye’s locked in a stare.
Sherlock watched, observed, John with his hawk-like gaze, scrutinizing John under it.
And John took in the sight before him. Sherlock’s irises exploded into a network, no, a galaxy, of colors from blue to grey to green, they seemed so surreal. His hair hanging from his forehead in dark elegant curls, and John would be lying if he thought he didn’t want to touch them, to stroke them, to brush them away.
Sherlock’s scent attacked John’s nostrils. Not the usual cologne he wore, but something else, something more Sherlock. It brought an unimaginable amount of comfort and warmth that seeped through John’s skin, crawling it’s way to his organs, to his tissues, to his cells.
And then the hawk’s gaze lowered, no longer under observation and deduction mode. Taking in the doctor’s features. Those eyes turned softer, the wrinkles around them faded into smooth soft skin that called to be caressed. And John’s eyes wandered down, to his sharp cheekbones, and then to his full bow lips, pink, in contrast to the smooth white alabaster skin. And so god help but John wa-
Ring Ring. Ring Ring.
John answered his phone, it was his colleague Sarah, she must want him to fill in for someone. And indeed, John was needed at the surgery for a couple of hours.
And so the spell was broken. Sherlock went over to Rosie with the last bag of ornaments who was very quiet during the last couple of minutes.
“The surgery called, I need to fill in for someone, I owe him a favor,” John informed Sherlock who lowered Rosie back to the ground from attaching a star to the top of the tree.
“Obviously,” Sherlock said as a matter of factly, as Rosie ran up John.
“Don’t be gone for too long, daddy. We still need to bake a cake!” Said Rosie as she hugged her father, and then she whispered to his ear, “there is a mistletoe above where you and papa stood.”
John let go of Rosie and gave her a stern look to which Rosie chuckled. “I will be back soon, don’t worry,” John said as he donned on his Parka, glancing behind him to see the mistletoe above the mirror where it was hanged there this morning. “And Sherlock, look after Rosie, and I swear if I return and you two are dissecting another toad, you’re in for a big storm on Christmas Eve.”
And with that, John vanished to get to work.
But he was quite content on going to work, he would need to concentrate on his patients rather than one complex enigma that is currently probably stripping the tree and redoing it, his way.
His forehead rested to the side on the cab’s window, his thoughts running. He didn’t know what happened back at the flat, and what would have happened had Sarah not called.
-<0>-
The wooden door supported John’s weight as he leaned with his back on it, the weather was bloody cold, and his fingers were numb. He had brought a few bags of groceries Mrs. Hudson had ordered him to bring, as she had happily sake she would cook the turkey for tomorrow. He had been gone for shorter than he thought.
A loud bang traveled from upstairs, followed by some more ruckuses. Just as John was going to ascend the stairs, Mrs. Hudson appeared.
“Oh dear, you must be freezing!” exclaimed his landlady as she hurriedly took the bags from him.
“Yeah, covered in some snow too,” replied John, as another bang was heard. And he had a feeling an experiment was currently being conducted upstairs. John hopes the Christmas tree is fine. “What are they doing up there, Mrs. Hudson?”
“Oh, this has been going on for a little after your departure! But it does sound like they are having fun.” Mrs. Hudson replied as she went to tuck away the groceries.
Just as John was about to ask what would indicate they were having fun, Rosie’s high pitched laughing broke his thoughts.
Slowly he ascends the steps, thinking what his mad flatmate was up to.
He opens the door slowly and was greeted with the redecorated not burning Christmas tree, and John must admit, it looked much better than before.
The noises and cluttering came from the kitchen, and as John took a slight turn to peek in there, he was astonished.
Absorbing in the scene playing out before him.
Rosie was propped on the kitchen table, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a bowl of definitely not any chemicals mixture lay in front of her. She was covered from head to toe in flour and dough. Her uproarious laugh filling the kitchen, as she flicked the spoon in Sherlock’s direction.
Sherlock, who was facing Rosie, his back to the kitchen door, was holding a book in one hand and a glass beaker on the other hand. His hair completely white from flour, and what looked like a cracked eggshell was sticking out from it. His former dark velvet shirt is now almost completely stained with eggs, flour, and dough mixture. Rosie’s spoon flicking added the final touches to the shirts Picasso painting, staining it with dark brown dots as well as Sherlock’s face, his tongue darted out to lick the delicious chocolate.
Sherlock’s laugh was deep and low as opposed to Rosie’s high-pitched shrieking which continued. Both oblivious to John’s presence and completely immersed in……baking.
Sherlock’s laughing started fading away, and so did Rosie’s. She looked down at her bowl of brownish mixture and back to Sherlock, who is trying to be serious.
“What next?” came Rosie’s innocent question, still recovering from the fit of laughter she had.
“Now we must add-” Sherlock said, as he looked up from his book to Rosie, both of them sharing a look, and then erupting into hysterical laughter, once again.
And here was John, standing outside the kitchen, completely mesmerized by the scene before him, half-hidden half obvious, his once shocked face now carried a smile, Sherlock bloody Holmes, Baking with one Rosie Watson. Now that is a sight to cherish.
“Daddy!” Rosie exclaimed.
And Sherlock had slightly jumped, his whole body stiffened by the announcement of John’s much too early arrival. He turned around with the movements of a turtle to face John, as Rosie looked expectantly at Sherlock with her wide grin and shining eyes.
Sherlock’s eyes were crystalized with tears, too, from all the insane laughter, as he tried to regain his composure.
“John.” Stated Sherlock, “you’re early today,” his face back to his all too famous bored expression. “We...are…”
“Baking.” John finished the sentence for him, his eyebrows raised high, his lips turned upwards forming a curve of amusement as he came into full view.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, as casual as ever. “Now, take over from me, since Watson has decided to turn this into her playground,” Sherlock gestured to the kitchen and its disastrous state with a disgusted disapproving look, and then indicated his state, “I need to wash.”
Sherlock put down both beaker and book, and with dramatic steps marched away to get fresh clothes and shower.
Both Watson’s share a knowing look as John made his way to pick up the abundant book which lay open on a page with the recipe of a traditional British Christmas cake.
“Well, let’s finish off this cake, shall we, Rosie?” announced John as Rosie’s hands flew happily upwards, she beamed at him, and both of them set to work.
The seconds morphed into minutes when finally the cake was in the oven. Both Watson’s stood before the oven’s glass door looking at the cake when Rosie spoke.
“Papa is nicer than what most people think, daddy. They just misunderstand him sometimes.”
John chuckled at Rosie’s statement, thinking about how he found him baking happily and enjoying himself. “Yes, sweetie, he is, isn’t he?”
Rosie nodded as she ran off, leaving John alone.
Sherlock was a magnificent yet complicated creature. And recently, their domestic life took a turn. They became more….John couldn’t find another word for it except intimate. John could have sw-
“Help me wrap!” Rosie had appeared once again, interrupting his thoughts, with a gift in her hand. And so John got to the task of wrapping up presents.
-<0>-
The first day of Christmas went smoothly. John and Rosie went out for some events, built a snowman at the nearby park, and Sherlock even accompanied them.
Rosie was at her happiest when she played with the snow, ate Gingersnaps and Chess Pie, enjoying Christmas so far.
And then the night came. Mrs. Hudson greeted Lestrade and Molly at the door, urging them to come in. Rosie had shown delight when both Uncle Greg and Molly came in, wrapping attacking them with hugs.
The Evening went smoothly as the lot ate dinner consisting of Turkey, made by a hundred-year-old recipe as Mrs. Hudson has informed them, Gravy, Roasted Potatoes and Parsnips, Roasted Beef and Mashed Potatoes, Herb stuffing, wine for the adults, and juice for Rosie.
Mrs. Hudson had chatted away about how Christmas was celebrated in America when she was in Florida. Molly listened carefully, with Rosie exclaiming at certain parts of the story. Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing, more like Sherlock insulting Lestrade for not solving a particular case. And John felt at home. Warm and happy as he ate away from his plate.
Soon, the lot gathered around the living room. Wine, Mince Pie, and the British Christmas cake were served on plates. The Christmas tree shined as Lestrade spoke.
“Well, let’s open the presents. Rosie, how about you start?”
Rosie’s face had lit up with excitement as she ran to search the gifts under the tree. She radiated joy as her tiny hands grasped around a soft squishy gift with her name labeled on it. The brown card also read ‘Merry Christmas, Rosamund’ - Santa, with a very familiar handwriting.
“I found one!” cheered Rosie as she made her way back to sit beside her father, her smile wide, her happiness glowing as her eyebrows were raised. Her electric blue eyes were focused on unwrapping the gift, the movements full of energy. John’s face had a massive smile on it, as he took in the scene.
“Daddy,” Rosie began casually as she continued opening her gift, “Santa’s handwriting looks…..strangely like yours.”
Dumbfounded, John turned around to look at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow who in turn gave a dramatic eye roll as the others started laughing at Rosie, when Molly piped in and said, “Someone’s taking observation lessons from a certain consulting detective.” To which John responded with a laugh as Sherlock’s face carried a proud smile.
“Eerily.” Sherlock stated and got a confused look from look Rise over her shoulder. “Eerily is the word you’re looking for”
The night started extending as Mrs. Hudson started another lovely story where she had mentioned her first name.
“Martha is your first name, Mrs. Hudson?” began Lestrade, “Blimey, I never knew. What about you Sherlock? Sherlock isn’t your first name, is it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he munched down on another mince pie.
To which Sherlock replied with, “It’s my second name.”
“And the first?” Lestrade inquired once again.
“Not your concern.”
“Sherlock!” John punched Sherlock playfully, shooting him a grin before turning to Lestrade. “It’s William.”
“And why did you tell him that?” Sherlock folded his arms in obvious disapproval over the doctor’s actions.
“Cause I’m a bit tipsy, William.” John replied as he drowned the rest of his wine down before making a disgusted face.
“Sherlock.” Sherlock said sternly.
“Scott.” Supplied John.
“Holmes.” Indulged Sherlock, dramatically rolling his eyes at John’s game.
“Watson!” Piped in Rosie excitedly over from her seat on Molly’s lap, watching the two flatmates with a cheeky expression.
Everyone laughed at her little input while Sherlock rolled his eyes once again before taking another sip from his wine. However, as John stole a glance, he saw something….else. Not just a monotonous expression, but rather something…..new.
John dismissed this as just his drinking, as he stood up and announced that Rosie ought to go to bed since it’s nearing 1 am. John accompanied Rosie upstairs to their shared room, putting her to bed.
As John was tucking her in, drawing the blankets around her, Rosie said, “Have fun with Papa.”
Hummed John in response, before wishing her goodnight and trotting down to return to the living room. He spotted Lestrade putting on his coat, and Molly saying her goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson.
The night was coming to an end.
Soft violin music started playing as John guided the guests to the door. Saying farewells and wishing everyone goodnight.
The front door closed with an audible click. And it was finally time to fully truly relax from the chaos Christmas brings.
It had been ages since John had properly drunk wine, what with tackling Rosie needing constant care, going out on cases, and the surgery. The amount of stress this past week had brought was enormous, and John got time to fully relax, he had a day off from work tomorrow too. Dinner was ready. And who knows, Lestrade might turn up with a good case for Sherlock.
John made his way to the kitchen, grabbing another bottle of fine wine and two glasses, then reappeared in the living room. He took his respective seat, pouring himself a glass.
Sherlock’s elegant form was standing tall, the fire casting orange shadows on him as he played away at his violin. His long fingers dancing on the strings.
And John got lost in the music. Drowning him in it. It was beautiful and cheery and warm. Just what John needed.
He thought of all the happy times the pair of them went through. He thought of the fun times he and Rosie spent together. Of the time when Sherlock took Rosie to a crime scene without his permission. Of the time he caught Sherlock reading through John’s blog to Rosie, who was perched up and listening.
He thought of his first time meeting the detective, how aloof and cold and amazingly fascinating creature he was. He thought of how much development and growth Sherlock went through over the past few years.
He thought of everything Sherlock had done to him. And he truly marveled at how he ended up with a man like Sherlock in his life. The detective was like a planet, pulling John into his orbit.
He thought of the past few months. He thought of the extra glances Sherlock shot his way. Of the way their fingers brushed. Of the way how Sherlock looked completely relaxed when he was around John.
John’s thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock’s flawless playing stopped, setting his violin back in its case as a mother would place a sleeping child in a cot, with great gentle care.
John set down his glass, taking in the other empty one. It was cold against his palm. Red liquid was poured into the glass, bloodlike; he gave it to Sherlock as the detective took a turn to his seat.
Upon retrieving his own glass, it was already cold, whatever warmness there was evaporated. Leaving the glass cold. But upon sipping its contents, fire raged in his throat.
The fireplace was alive. Casting orange shadows across the room, its crackling sounds breaking the silence. The wind howled outside, snow was falling. And there was Sherlock, sat on his armchair, looking elegant with his long limbs, drinking away his wine.
Stag night. That was the night they first got drunk together. It was also the first time he got to….yes, it was bloody soft too….and he wants to do it again. God damn you, Watson, pull yourself together! But how can he? How can he when everything he……no, this is wrong. What is in this drink? Something must be in it; because his thoughts were diverting. Real bad.
John doesn’t want to break Sherlock’s trust, nor ruin what they have. And so whatever this…..impulse is, will have to go to the rubbish. Don’t fool yourself, Watson, you know what this is. You’re just denying it.
But some temptations can’t be resisted when you’re drunk. He doesn’t want to be obvious, though. And then it hit him, the stag night.
And so John opened his eyes, formulating how to propose his idea.
Sherlock was watching him. And there was something in his eyes…..something that John’s rational mind can’t pinpoint. The enigma kept looking at him, and then John said his suggestion to pass the night.
“Let’s play Forehead Detective.” Announced John with absolute delight.
The detective chuckled remembering the last time they had played it, on John’s stag night. It was a night full of memories, experiments, and theory confirmations, a night dear to both of them. “That’s absurd,” Sherlock started, “But I don’t see why not.”
John set down his glass, trying to hide his smug, as he maneuvered around the flat in search of pen and paper, his mind racing. He remembered the last time they had played it. How John had to stick the paper to Sherlock’s forehead. How he had to touch Sherlock’s curls, making way for the paper. And John lounged for another touch. This was what he's after.
By the time John found pen and paper, Sherlock had moved the armchairs closer to each other, just like before. And then he collapsed on his armchair. So impossibly beautiful. No. Stop that, Watson.
As John sat down on his chair, he grabbed the bottle of wine and poured himself another one. He was already half-drunken and sleepy, yet the wine had tasted good, and on a fine night like this, he planned to enjoy it.
Rosie Watson. John dotted the name on the piece of paper, thinking it would be a good choice. And then he stood up, stepped forward to be in front of Sherlock. He propped one knee on the vacant side of the armchair, pressing it between the side rest of the armchair and Sherlock’s thigh. The pressure sending a bolt of electricity through him.
Sherlock leaned forward, his paper in his grasp. Presenting himself to John.
John caught a glimpse of a pale collarbone against velvet.
And John found himself yet again mesmerized by the half-drunken detective.
He leaned. Invading Sherlock’s personal space.
The fire painting orange on the detective’s alabaster skin, making it glow ever so slightly.
And John’s hands raised. One holding the paper, and the other one hovered over a pale forehead.
His fingers made contact with dark locks of hair. They were soft and silk as John caressed them. Brushed them away. Exposing more soft skin. And then he stuck the paper, his hand lingering more than necessary.
Navy blue clashed with a swarming galaxy.
Sherlock lifted both hands, previously lying on the armchair’s armset. One hand raised to John’s hair, which was glowing golden as the fire threw its light onto them. The other hand ever so gently stuck the paper to John’s forehead, with the same care he handles his violin. And John found himself wondering what else are those elegant fingers could potentially do.
He wondered if Sherlock could play him as well as he played his violin.
Sherlock’s hand traveled below, to rest on John’s waist. The other hand rested on John’s shoulder.
John’s hand traveled down, and down until they rested on the other’s chest.
John felt it, the heartbeat of the world’s only consulting detective.
Beating viscously against Sherlock’s body, as if trying to escape a cage. Whether it was betraying Sherlock’s commands or obeying it, John didn’t know.
Warmth spread up to his fingertips, quickly branching out to his hands, arms, and eventually his whole body. Whatever coldness was there, was quickly replaced with Sherlock’s warmth.
John’s other hand took Sherlock’s face in his hand.
And those soft full bow lips parted. An open invitation.
Before John could think of what was happening, what the consequences would be if he made a move, lips crashed like waves.
Electricity bolted through John’s body, sending him into another world, as he let Sherlock in.
Desire burning in the atmosphere.
The mistletoe shining from where it hanged above the two of them.
The End.
Fin.