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Somewhere around the middle of November, when the Father Christmases and tinsel and terrible updates of classic carols became unavoidable in the shops and streets of London, John can no longer avoid the reality of his situation. Christmas with Sherlock will be a tricky business at best; at worse... well, whether it be littered with Valmara 69s and M14s or reindeer jumpers and badly concealed longing, John knows a minefield when he sees one.
Although, it is an interesting notion, as far as that goes: Sherlock would probably love an actual minefield, especially one planted in the convenience of his own flat; he’d consider traversing the thing a worthwhile yet relaxing afternoon in, quite probably.
Briefly, John considers what he might rig up with several dozen Christmas crackers and a crate of glitter. But, then again, the floorboards would probably not survive a less than perfectly designed and executed scheme; not to mention surreptitious installation would be next to impossible without elaborate machinations on his part. John shelves Minefieldapollooza for further contemplation at some hazy Christmas in the future -- when he has at least a year-long head start -- then turns to solving his more immediate problem.
It’s not that he needs to worry about what to get The Man Who Has Everything, exactly; it’s more that most of Everything is completely irrelevant to someone like Sherlock. Sherlock, who has little need for the treacle of the masses and the cunning to procure whatever remained via direct manipulation, John’s willingness or Mycroft’s bank account (should it ever actually come to that). Sherlock’s id and super-ego were constantly engaged in spectacular and epic battle, but given the object was neither food nor sleep, he felt little need for self-denial.
Which means the real question is: What to give The Man Who Has Everything He Wants? The best answer he can come up with is: Something he doesn’t know he wants.
Not that this bit of cleverness is of any particular help, really. Until the moment it is.
*** 20 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS ***
“John, I’m getting very unhappy in here!”
“Just relax. Close your eyes, think about the peaceful place we talked about before. Calm, warm beaches, a sandy shore, lapping waves...”
“I told you this was going to happen, I told you! ... Look, I think it’s time.”
“Have you tried the deep breathing thing at all? In through your nose for five, out through your mouth for five.”
“Don’t try that soothing tone bullshit with me. You promised. I told you the only thing that would calm me down in small spaces, and you said you’d do it when it came to that. John, you promised.”
“Greg. I...”
“Freaking. Out. Now.”
“Oh my god! Okay:
“In the tooowwn where I was boorrrn
Lived a ma-aa-aan who sailed the sea...”
***
Six days before Christmas, a gaily dressed box, outfitted in cheerful green and red and gold striped paper, takes up residence on John’s desk. The card attached clearly denotes Sherlock as the recipient, but all outward signs indicate it’s meant to sit there undisturbed for the time remaining until the 25th arrives.
Deducing the prohibition on the package itself is not interesting at all; nor is the fact that his skull goes missing just about the time the present appears. While it’s not difficult to glean that the two events are related, Sherlock finds himself infinitely more intrigued by this thought: Would he have bothered to care at all about the thing had it merely sat innocuous on the desktop? Though he would certainly have noticed the gift, might he have naturally discarded its existence as inconsequential had John not played the obvious gambit of taking his farcical former partner? It’s been so long since there have even been gifts to contemplate, he honestly has no clue what his normal reaction might be.
Sherlock is so consternated, he leaves the package alone for almost a full day.
*** 18 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS ***
“Mrs. Hudson, you’re meant to wear both of them.”
“Both of what, dear?”
“Both gowns. You fasten one in back and wear the other like a housecoat.”
“Oh, well, I wondered why I had two. Anyway, it’s too late now, that other gown is all the way back in the changing rooms.”
“Look, if you’re comfortable, great. We’re just through these doors; it should only take about 30 minutes.”
“Oh, that’s just fine.
“But do be a dear and help me with one thing: I couldn’t quite get the bottom laces tied back there, and it is a bit drafty in here.”
“...”
“John? John? Are you all right? You’ve just turned the most alarming shade of puce.”
***
John takes some pride in the fact that he’s learned enough from Sherlock to observe the telltale signs of an envelope having been steamed open in the flat. Even if he hadn’t been looking for specific indications -- the barest hint of puckering along the seam of the seal, for example -- the condensation on the window panes would have been proof enough for him.
No equipment is left about, and while boiling beakers aren’t terribly uncommon while Sherlock is in the midst of one his grand experiments, said experiment being cleared away upon its conclusion is absolutely unheard of. Considering Mrs. Hudson has been with him at the shops, the idea of tea preparation as explanation is downright laughable.
Then John does laugh, recalling the Yuletide platitudes contained in the card, and hopes the Sherlock has gotten the message.
*** 14 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS ***
“...And then Toby said -- well, didn’t ‘say’ really, I just know him so well that I know what he would say if he could talk -- and then, anyway, Toby said, ‘What I’d really like is more of that cheese from yesterday afternoon,’ and I said...”
“For gods’ sake, Mike, just turn off the microphone.”
“We’re required by law to keep it on, in case the patient experiences any trauma. You know that.”
“What if I’m experiencing trauma?”
“Look, I’m sorry I told her it’d be alright to talk while she’s in there, I really am. But she is a doctor! I thought she’d probably know.”
“‘Sorry’, MIke, really? Sorry enough to dedicate the rest of your life to finding a way to build a time-machine, go back to 28 minutes ago and NOT tell her talking is allowed?”
“...Then Toby told me he wanted to wear his new gold tuxedo -- you know, the one I told you about earlier, that Mr. Symthe-Smith special made for me? -- and to bring the green tasseled sleep pillow, NOT the purple one. He was right, of course, the purple with the gold would have been far too gaudy...”
“Yes, John. That sorry.”
***
Sherlock has always known John is ruthless enough to match anyone, given the right circumstances: After the first 24 hours of their acquaintance, the fact has never given him further pause. He also does not forget, for all the imitation he likes to give that he might, that John is a doctor, which means he does possess an attention to detail significantly more developed than most of the population. And, as a military man, the efficiency John displays is a foregone conclusion.
But what Sherlock is finding a little surprising about his flatmate is the man’s willingness to put so much energy into displaying all of these characteristics over something so trivial as a Christmas gift for a relatively new friend. (“Friend,” the aptness of the word itself astonishing enough to surprise Sherlock.)
Not that John’s plan is unassailable; he could find a way around it with a modicum of effort. But the note seemed to make it clear that whatever the contents of this box, Sherlock would be best advised to steer clear for the next few days.
Dear Sherlock,
I know you know what it meant when Trevor went missing and this box appeared. But, you still couldn’t help yourself, could you?
Well, I knew you couldn’t help yourself, so I’m cutting you a break. Leave the gift alone, and your skull makes it through 2010 alive (...or, dead. You know what I mean).
I’ve no doubt that by now, you’ve noticed certain security precautions insulating the box. Should any of these precautions be disturbed... I think you know what happens next.
Trevor is currently resting securely in a safe deposit box at HSBC’s main headquarters. Your picture has been distributed to all relevant personnel, and Lestrade has assigned Donovan the task of checking on its continued residence in the box every day before close. Any attempt to retrieve him will trigger swift counter-measures of Mycroftian proportions.
I trust we understand each other?
Yours Sincerely,
Dr. John H Watson
Of course, Sherlock does not believe one word of the utterly ridiculous note; likely, John has handed the skull off to Lestrade’s less than imaginative guile (bottom right desk drawer) but what’s with all the fuss? And, though he’d never admit it, he’s becoming concerned about how far the fallout of disobedience might land, both around himself and around John.
He hopes this is not the start of a disturbing trend.
*** 9 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS ***
“John, does the subject have any medical conditions you’re aware of? I mean, I trust you vetted him properly before he came in today?”
“My god, do you see something on the monitors?!”
“No, nothing on the monitors.”
“Christ, you scared me.
“What, then?”
“It’s just that he’s... he’s so still. He’s been in there for 22 minutes, and he hasn’t moved a single muscle. I’ve never seen anything like it. Frankly, it’s starting to creep me out.”
“Someone creeped out by Mycroft doing something vaguely creepy. Yeah, everything’s all normal here.”
***
Sherlock assumes by 5 AM on Christmas morning he has fulfilled his unspoken promise and can open his package. Yet, sitting there with gift in hand, he feels surprisingly reluctant to do so.
He does, of course, know what’s in the package, to certain degree. Given its size, its weight, the way the pieces flap as he shakes the box, John has gotten him some kind of scrapbook or album. He’s not certain of the specific contents, though likely the book is filled with something case-related; a special copy of his blog entries, maybe, or snippets of the significant evidence that lead them to the puzzles’ ultimate conclusions. He cannot think of any sentimental mementos; there are certainly no pictures or other memorabilia of their time together that could possibly be worth a thing to either of them.
But still, while he doesn’t yet have all the details, he hesitates. In many ways, Sherlock does not really want to know what the book holds. Whatever it is, it clearly means something to John, and Sherlock’s not sure how he’ll be able to cope when it means nothing to him.
***
By 5:08 AM, Sherlock proves himself right: He has no idea how he’s going to cope.
***
John stumbles into the living room far too early for Christmas morning. It’s 7:23, and he’s well aware his flatmate has been up for hours. John holds no hope that Sherlock has managed to restrain himself in the pre-dawn hours, and the discarded paper on the floor confirms his suspicions.
Sherlock himself sits at the kitchen table, back to the doorway, hands braced wide abroad what is presumably the album. He hasn’t moved a muscle since John walked in, but there’s no doubt he’s aware of John’s presence.
“Sherlock, it is traditional to wait until the gift giver is actually there before you go ripping into your presents, you know.”
After 30 seconds pass with no reply, John becomes aware that this opening gambit has used up his entire reserve of casual bravado. He can’t quite bring himself to cross the threshold into the same room, and stands, increasingly dismayed, in the doorway between kitchen and living room.
After an excruciating stretch of seconds pass without sound from Sherlock, John’s voice takes on a decidedly more uncertain tremor.
“Um... so, did you like it? I... uh, know you can get the real thing from Molly down at the morgue, but there’s more than 20 scans for each of us. ... Did you, ah, see the discs with the 3D modeling on them? And, hey, it’s not like you’re going to get a first-hand look at any of ours for quite some time, thank you very much.” The forced jocularity sounds less than pathetic even to his own ears.
Still nothing from Sherlock, who remains unmoving, seemingly frozen to his place at the table. John soldiers on, though, tone more staggered with each syllable.
“It’s because you, um... you said that you didn’t have a heart, and I wanted you to know you did. At least, you have a part of ours. And... all of mine.” This last bit barely amounts to a whisper, mostly due to the breath frozen in his chest, almost impossible to choke through; the preternatural stillness of the man at the table does nothing to melt it.
“Oh my god, I’ve bollocksed it up, yeah? Just, forget it, forget all of it. I mean, keep the scans and the discs and stuff, but forget the note, forget what I just said.”
Nothing moves in the flat except John’s rising panic.
“Christ, you’re broken now, then? Listen, think about this, think about all the suicides! It’s Christmas, the season for it! But, look, if you were out to commit murder, how perfect would it be to do it at Christmastime and make it look like a suicide? Tomorrow, we can go down to the station and look through all the reports and see--”
Sherlock’s kiss tempers the pace of what’s happening to John in this moment: the racing speed of his heart, the words tripping through the air between them, the thought that he has ruined them, ruined them for good because he can’t be arsed to design and implement one measly glittery minefield beneath the floorboards of their rented flat.
***
For letting me make the family I always wanted, Martha Hudson
Colleagues in arms, brothers in battle, Greg Lestrade
Because you remind me every day what an amazing place the world is, Molly
No matter what you do, you are always my baby brother, Mycroft
You say you have no heart, but we both know that’s not quite true. If nothing else, you have mine, John
***
His kiss is slow. It’s deliberate and warm and immediately vital. Sherlock’s lips, moving in gentle pressure across John’s, and his long fingers, laid liberally above John’s left temple and softly against the thin skin of John’s neck, comprise all John knows about the world just then. Steady, slow, replete, the lingering address of Sherlock’s lips to his moves him in quiet way he would not have expected, gives rise to a thickness at the back of his throat he isn’t quite prepared for.
When Sherlock does speak, it’s against John’s lips, as though he won’t stand to be farther than a breath from John’s mouth, and John can feel the vibration of the words and hot exhalations at the same time.
“Do I have to give it back to you?”
If John could bear any distance himself, could move the elbows that bracket Sherlock’s torso and the hands at his shoulder blades, he might also manage something more articulate than, “What?”
“The book. Do I have to give it back to you?”
“No. Why?” Whatever the answer is, John is certain he does not care.
“You said your heart was mine.” There is nothing, nothing in the world worth not having Sherlock’s lips, and so John regrets all the moments of his life when they were not for him.
“It is.”
“If the book is my heart, then, it should be yours.”
Beneath the skin of Sherlock’s neck, pulsing next to his cheek, John feels the staccato proof of Sherlock’s heart beating in reply: here here here ...
“Oh. No, it was only to remind you where to find it.”