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John wakes up first (as usual) and pads downstairs to the kitchen to stick his Christmas list to the fridge. It’s a little passive-aggressive, sure, but he had a right laugh writing it, so he doesn’t care. Once it’s up, he settles in to make tea and wait for Sherlock to drag his self-righteous arse out of bed.
He doesn’t have to wait long; he’s just taking his first sip when he hears the click of the door and the dramatic swoosh of an overly expensive dressing gown. He takes a second sip as Sherlock swoops into the kitchen and stalks over to the fridge, then freezes as he takes in the list in front of him. Sherlock slowly glances back at him, then back at the fridge, and John can practically see his thought process of Must not look ruffled in front of John. But list! But must not look ruffled in front of John. He snorts a bit into his tea, and sees Sherlock settle on something along the lines of Will allow curiosity, but must remain aloof. Sherlock reads the list, then swirls his dressing gown around him (John is fully aware that he does this in an attempt to impress him) as he asks, “Why is there a list of passive-aggressive demands on the fridge, John?”
John smiles as he explains the concept of Christmas lists to Sherlock, making sure to convince him to make one himself. While Sherlock may be a git sometimes, he’s a git that John has been secretly in love with for many, many years, and John wants to shower him with everything he’s ever wanted, and if he has to deal with extra organs for a while, so be it.
Sherlock makes a big show of being annoyed, and John chuckles into his tea as he storms out of the kitchen with another dramatic dressing gown swirl. Christmas will be much more interesting this year.
The next morning, John pads downstairs to see if Sherlock managed to write a decent Christmas list during the night. He pads quietly into the kitchen, not wanting to wake Sherlock if he ever made it to bed, and freezes. He hesitates between leaving the kitchen to get his phone and take a picture, or staying here and looking his fill. Sherlock is beautiful in sleep. He’s lying across the table, using his forearm as a pillow, and his nose is adorably scrunched as he makes little snuffling noises into his arm. His curls cascade down his forehead, framing his face perfectly, and John has never seen anything more adorable in his life. He steps forwards silently, not wanting to wake Sherlock, and that’s when he catches sight of a piece of paper crushed under Sherlock’s face. Probably his Christmas list. John hesitates.
He doesn’t want to wake Sherlock, but the curiosity is killing him. He knows that logically, he could just wait until Sherlock wakes up and then ask him about it, but he really wants to know what Sherlock wants. He hesitates a moment longer, then inches towards Sherlock and gently pries the list out from under his cheek, careful not to jostle him too much. He sits down across from him and smooths it out with his hands, and that’s when he feels his heart break into a million pieces.
The list reads:
A hug (potentially more than one)
(More than one is preferable)
A belly rub (on the sofa)
A kiss (this is ridiculous)
A kiss
Tell me you love me (please)
Sherlock loves him. And Sherlock clearly never thought his feelings could be reciprocated, because this list is the most heartbreaking thing John has ever read. He reads it over again, just to make sure he hasn’t made it all up, and yup, the list still says the same thing. Tell me you love me (please). There’s a pause, and now John knows exactly what he’s getting Sherlock for Christmas. And New Year’s. And the rest of their lives.
Stunned at this momentous discovery, it takes John longer than usual to make his breakfast and morning cup of tea. He spends the whole time watching Sherlock, who, as it turns out, is fascinating in sleep. He mutters to himself every now and then, things like But apiology is fascinating, must convince John and No, the victim obviously did it. John can’t stop watching, and his heart swells with affection with every passing minute.
Just as he’s about to get up to make a second cup of tea, Sherlock starts to stir, and John quickly folds the incriminating list into his pocket. John finally takes in the fact that Sherlock fell asleep at the kitchen table in the middle of the night and realizes he probably needs to eat, so instead of heading towards the kettle, he heads over to the toaster. By the time Sherlock shakes himself awake, there are two pieces of toast with honey ready on a plate, and John pushes them towards Sherlock.
“You need to eat, clearly. You feel asleep sitting down!” John laughs, trying to keep everything as normal as possible. He waits until Sherlock has started to eat the toast before he adds, “Did you get a chance to work on your Christmas list?”
A few crumbs spray across the table as Sherlock freezes and chokes. He looks around the table, panicked, and John is glad he’s still a bit woozy from sleep because the list is now burning a guilty hole in his pocket. Sherlock finally stops frantically upending everything on the table and says, slowly, “I… did… But I can’t seem to find it?”
John tries not to look suspicious or shifty-eyed as he replies, “Well, there was nothing on the table when I got down here… Are you sure you wrote one?”
Sherlock looks so lost that John considers giving up the game right then and there. But he wants this to be perfect, so he waits until Sherlock is well and truly sure he’d dreamed the list before going to get ready for work.
When he comes back downstairs in his work clothes, he finds a new list pinned to the fridge and Sherlock on John’s laptop. He quickly jogs over to the fridge to get a look at the list, sighs, then goes to the clinic.
***
Sherlock’s list being entirely comprised of body parts, John finds himself begging at Molly’s doorstep far too many times in the week leading up to Christmas. She gets him the required eyeballs, but draws the line at the cirrhotic liver, which means many evenings of pleading over the phone from John until he obtains it. There had been a near disaster with the lungs: Molly had located them, but an assistant had shown up to work early and had been on the verge of aspirating the mucus before John had come crashing in with a frantic, “NO!”
Then it’s a waiting game, since congenital cardiomegaly is rare enough that not a single case crosses Molly’s morgue until John is nervous enough that he’s climbing the walls. Sherlock has probably noticed and deduced what is making John crazy, but at least he hasn’t figured out the truth, and John keeps counting his lucky stars. Finally, on the morning of Christmas Eve, Molly tracks down the heart and John promises to help her with her paperwork for as long as they both shall live. Molly blushes as he rushes out of the hospital and back to the flat with his precious package.
He makes it home before Sherlock and stows the heart in Mrs. Hudson’s freezer (she’s been a saint through this whole thing) before heading upstairs, trying to look innocent. Sherlock is busy burning something foul-smelling in the kitchen and doesn’t notice him come home, so John heads upstairs and prepares himself for Christmas morning. He’s going to have to start slow, but it’ll be worth it by the time New Year’s Eve comes around.
***
On Christmas morning, John heads downstairs into the sitting room to find Sherlock looking forlornly at the tree. It takes John a moment, but then he realizes that Sherlock himself hasn’t clued in to the fact that his gifts were of a delicate nature and could not be kept overnight under a tree, lest the flat fill itself with maggots. He smiles at Sherlock’s disappointed expression (so much for not caring about Christmas) before pointing out the flaw in his logic.
“Don’t look like that, you git. They all had to be refrigerated!”
John grins as he sees the gears slowly turning in Sherlock’s sleepy head until his face lights up. John drags him into the kitchen and makes him open the fridge, watching as Sherlock takes in the perfectly labelled and stored containers inside. Sherlock turns to him with a wide smile that makes John’s heart do a barrel roll.
“I can see the eyes have been very well preserved. I hope your gifts will be satisfactory as well.” He glances over at the sitting room, clearly wanting John to go open his gifts.
For a moment, John imagines them sitting together, limbs tangled as they open gifts together in front of the fireplace, and realizes that next Christmas they may just do that. He smiles to himself, then shakes it off when he sees that Sherlock is starting to stare at him. He heads into the sitting room with Sherlock to open the rest of the gifts.
The kettle and microwave are no surprise, but he nearly chokes on his Jaffa cake when he opens the next gift. He’d seen this laptop while doing research online, but it had been laughably out of his price range. He stares at it in awe, his eyes wide as saucers as he looks over at Sherlock.
“Sherlock! That’s a really nice laptop!” This must be what shock feels like.
Sherlock makes a joke about both of them using it, and John sees the smile in his eyes as he does, and as he lets the feeling of rightness wash over him, he realizes that this is the right moment to give Sherlock the first item on his real Christmas list. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and pulls him towards him, wrapping his arms around the lanky consulting detective. Sherlock stiffens in surprise, then relaxes into the hug. John nuzzles his face into Sherlock’s chest as he says, “Thank you, Sherlock. Everything is lovely.”
He feels Sherlock’s arms come up around him, and the image of them unwrapping gifts by the fire comes back to his mind, and he smiles at the endless possibilities awaiting them.
***
It takes John a little while to figure out how to casually give Sherlock a belly rub on the sofa. He eventually comes to the conclusion that he can do it under the guise of educating Sherlock on pop culture, and, somehow, he convinces Sherlock that watching Goldfinger is an essential activity. They settle onto the sofa together, and Sherlock does exactly what John expected him to do, which is recite James Bond’s entire sexual history. John loves him so much his chest aches.
Now comes the tricky part, however. John slowly maneuvers them around until Sherlock is half-lying on top of him, and holds him close. Sherlock freezes for a moment, stunned, and John feels the need to ask, “Is this ok, Sherlock?”
Sherlock nods stiffly, and John pretends to be more interested in the movie than in the fact that he’s rubbing Sherlock’s softer-than-expected belly, his skin mere millimeters away from his fingers. Sherlock is still a bit rigid, so John whispers, “Just relax, Sherlock,” and Sherlock melts into a puddle under his fingers. He makes little contented sighs every now and again when John presses more firmly or in the right place, and John has never been less focused on a movie in his life. By the time the movie is over, Sherlock is snuffling softly into John’s neck and John’s heart sinks as he realizes he’s going to have to go to bed eventually. He lies there a moment longer, stroking through Sherlock's curls as Sherlock nuzzles sleepily into his shoulder, and wonders if he’ll be able to make it to New Year’s Eve. In the end, the romantic in him wins out, and he brushes a soft kiss across Sherlock’s forehead before gently pulling away. Sherlock makes a quiet mewling noise as John settles him onto the sofa, and John can’t help but kiss the tip of his nose before going off to find a blanket.
He tucks the blanket under Sherlock, making sure his toes aren’t sticking out the end and that his head is comfortably settled on one of the throw pillows, then slowly pads back towards his bedroom. He stops in the doorway and takes one more look at Sherlock’s sleeping form, letting himself hope that soon, he’ll be looking at him every night.
***
“Don’t give me that look, it’s an important New Year’s Eve ritual,” John says, both of them sitting drowsily on the sofa, warmed by the fire. Sherlock grumbles, but ultimately puts on the silly paper crown as John holds in his giggles. John glances down at his watch.
“Only two minutes to go, now!” he says, smiling up at Sherlock in what he thinks is probably a vain attempt at looking normal. He’s so close. They’re so close. He’s practically vibrating with tension and can feel his heartbeat in his ears, but Sherlock hasn’t noticed. How much of Mrs. Hudson’s food had they eaten!?
He shifts a little closer to Sherlock and lets their thighs touch, and that’s when he realizes that Sherlock is sitting much closer to him than he was when they had originally sat down. He smiles to himself at the little reminder that Sherlock wants this just as much as he does.
He had dimmed the lights earlier to make it a bit more romantic, another thing he’s sure has passed straight over Sherlock’s head. It does, however, still make Sherlock’s cheekbones shadow across his face in a very fetching way while the firelight dances across them, and John is trying hard not to drool. He catches Sherlock glancing at his watch again, and he looks down himself, his nervousness at all-time high. 23:59.
Aaaaaand…. 00:00. He hears cheers erupt from outside, and it’s now or never. John takes a deep breath, then reaches over and touches Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock looks down at him, startled, and John says, “Sherlock. Hey. Look at me.”
Sherlock’s confused look is adorable as John tells him, “Happy New Year, Sherlock,” and brushes his lips softly across his.
Sherlock freezes in surprise. John reaches up to soothingly run a hand through his curls, and then Sherlock is kissing him back. John smiles into the kiss as he lets his tongue lightly taste Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock’s lips part obligingly under his. Their tongues tentatively explore each other as Sherlock lets out a soft moan, and John sighs into the kiss. Everything about this is perfect, from Sherlock’s hands on his shoulder blades to the soft sounds he makes whenever John’s tongue strokes past his. Eventually, John needs to breathe, so he pulls back and just looks up at Sherlock, who looks like he’s just been hit by a train.
John watches him slowly piece together what’s just happened, from the original list to everything John’s done.
“John… You don’t have to… If you don’t want to do this, you really don’t have to. It was just a silly list, you were never meant to –”
John can’t bear to see Sherlock so scared, so hesitant, so he leans up and kisses him again.
“Sherlock, I came downstairs that morning to the most adorable thing I had ever seen. You were asleep on your face, your dressing gown was tucked around you like a blanket, and did you know you mumble in your sleep? There was a piece of paper squished under your face, and I pulled it out, and Sherlock, if I had known you felt that way I would’ve done something about it years ago. Literally years ago. And I sat there eating breakfast and watching you mutter to yourself for nearly an hour, and the whole time I just wanted to wake you up and tell you this.”
Sherlock looks like he’s fighting against the hope in his eyes, and John has to tell him. Needs to tell him. He reaches up to cup Sherlock’s lovely face in his hands.
“Tell me what, John?” Sherlock asks softly, tentatively.
John rolls his eyes, knowing full well that Sherlock knows what comes next on his list. He smiles at Sherlock, feeling the full weight of a new year full of possibilities and adventures press on his heart, as he says, “I love you, Sherlock. I always have.”
He doesn’t get to say anything else after that, because Sherlock has crushed him to himself in a fierce hug, and they’re tangled together on the sofa in front of the fire, and John doesn’t need that image in his head anymore, because now he has the real thing.
All Sherlock had wanted for Christmas was John, and John had never given anything more willingly in his life.