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John groaned as he placed the last of the boxes on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. I'm getting too old for this, John decided as he looked around the piles of boxes that surrounded him. Of course, sixty percent of those boxes were probably Sherlock's lab equiment, and they were not getting even a tiny bit close to his new kitchen table.
'Please tell me you are actually planning on using that spare-spare room as a lab now that we have it?' he asked, turning towards Sherlock as he waltzed into the room from the backdoor, wiping his snow-covered shoes on the doormat. 'Because I don't want to keep worrying about experiments near the jam.'
Sherlock huffed. 'Of course I am, John! That is why I got all that new equipment from the internet! Should be arriving in a few days, I expect,' Sherlock replied, walking past John - and stopping quickly to place a kiss on his cheek - to go into the sitting room.
They had finally agreed to retire. It was long overdue, since even Sherlock now admitted that he wasn't physically able to run around London like they used to. All the better, because that meant that they could rent out Baker Street - left to them by Mrs Hudson on her will, God bless her soul, their long-suffering not-the-housekeeper - and move to the beautiful house in Sussex Sherlock had acquired a few years prior. John had convinced Sherlock to move before the end of the year, straight-away, so there would be no temptations for either of them. So, three weeks before Christmas, they packed up the entire flat - and John may or may not have cried, not that Sherlock would ever point out because he found himself in a similar predicament - and took the hired truck to Sussex.
There were far too many heavy boxes dedicated to their books. They had too many books. At least now they also had a small office-library, so there wouldn't be piles of books and journals scattered around the sitting room. But their weight took small toll on John's shoulder and he could feel the pain start to creep it. But that was more common everyday, as he got older and the weather got damper.
'I'll make some tea, would you like some, love?' asked John in a quasi-yell from where he stood amid the boxes. He heard some grunting noise coming from the sitting room and assumed it was a yes. So John set about finding the kettle, mugs, teabags and milk - he wondered privately if now that Sherlock was retired he could be persuaded to ever get the milk. Luckily for him, Sherlock had become overly zelous about organisation - not to use the word "anal" - over the years and every single box was perfectly labelled, so it was easy findind everything he needed.
He plugged the kettle on and waited for it to boil. While leaning on the counter, John thought about everything that had ever happened in his life. About his somewhat troubled childhood, medical school, Afghanistan... He couldn't help but being thankful for all those things, because they both prepared him for and brought him to Sherlock, to their life together, and to this house. This house with the sensible staircase leading to the first floor, with the spare room for the books and the spare-spare room (as they called it, John was certain the real estate agent only called it an "spare room") for Sherlock's lab, with the soon-to-become-beehives in the backyard, as well as a beautiful garden John looked forward to looking after, and just all the little things that would eventually make this a home, just as 221b had been.
(John even remembered with a warm heart and a fond smile when he first walked up the staircase of the house, only to realise that there were 17 steps, and that Sherlock had done that on purpose)
After the water boiled, John poured it on the mugs along with the teabags and sugar, then he removed the teabags and put on the amount of milk each of them preferred. He sighed, not even thinking about what Sherlock was up to being so quiet in the sitting room, and picked up the mugs.
'Here's your--' John was saying, but he stopped in his tracks as he saw Sherlock standing by an enormous pine tree. Well, enormous... It was tall enough to leave only a couple of inches between the top and the ceiling. Sherlock looked proud, seeming shorter next to the tree, as he hugged it by the side. The door that led to the backyard was open, letting a cold wind blow in, and there was a snow-covered axe next to it. John wasn't bothered by it, though, because he currently found himself gaping at his beautiful, amazing, incredible, mad, ridiculous husband. 'Where did that come from?' he managed to ask. Sherlock smirked.
'Got it from the garden,' he replied proudly. 'Although that much was obvious. Really, John, do try to pay attention... Your observational skills are only getting worse as you grow old.'
John placed the mugs on the table next to him before bursting into laughter. He was soon joined by Sherlock, and they just stood there for long minutes, giggling like they had that first night with the cabbie.
'You are insane,' John pointed out, fondly. Sherlock shrugged and went to get his cuppa. He wrapped an arm around John's waist and picked up his mug with his free hand.
'I might be,' he commented, taking a sip. 'But you love me anyway...'
John shook his head. 'God help me, I do.'
Suddenly, Sherlock let go of him and started rummaging through a box. From there, he took a bright red stocking with fluffy white fur on the opening. They had bought it during a case in France, well John had convinced Sherlock to stop for twenty minutes so he could go into the shop and buy it, about twenty years ago, and ever since then it had always been a constant presence on their mentelpiece on Christmas time. It said, in golden letters that never seemed to fade, "Joyeux Noël".
Sherlock extended the stocking to John with a small smile. 'Why don't you do the honours?' he offered, and John beamed at him.
He stuck their stocking to their new mantelpiece and smoothed it with his left hand, rubbing his fingers through it softly. Then he looked back to find Sherlock watching him lovingly.
'What?' John asked with a smile. Sherlock approached him and planted a kiss on his forehead.
'Welcome home.'
And it really was.