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Sherlock had been back for two months. Back from the dead, that is. And his cheek had already healed from John's punch when he first appeared in front of his loyal army doctor. His spirit, however, was still wounded, even more so now, since the day after he got back was the last time John spoke to him.
John didn't just up and leave, he'd never do that. Sherlock knew that his friend was happy that he had returned, that he wasn't dead. But even Sherlock could see how damaged John was, still grieving his death. There were dark circles under his eyes, his limp had returned, just as the tremor on his hand. It was sad for Sherlock to see John like this. Strong, powerful John, who had such force hidden underneath funny jumpers and warm smiles.
What John did now was just act as though Sherlock weren't there. It was understandable, albeit hurtful. They still lived together in 221b, so at least Sherlock got to see John everyday, even if he wouldn't tag along cases or nag Sherlock about eating. His mere presence was enough to Sherlock, after almost three years of Johnlessness.
Christmas time had arrived, though, and Mrs Hudson had decided to decorate the flat for her boys. (She was the only one who didn't seemed shocked at all when Sherlock had returned, as though she expected him to fake his own suicide then come back from the dead out of the blue) She put up a small tree near the fireplace, and tinsel and fairylights everywhere. There were also snowflakes made out of paper stuck to the windows, and there had been a mistletoe by the front door, but Sherlock took care of it as soon as he saw it, getting rid of the thing before John got home from work.
Sherlock had thought about getting a present for his flatmate, but he didn't think it would be welcome. He had been staring at the tree and pondering about it when Mrs Hudson entered the flat with a plate of warm gingerbread biscuits.
'Hello, dear,' she said. Upon seeing his pensive face, Mrs Hudson joined him by the fireplace, sitting on John's armchair. 'What's bugging that big brain of yours?'
Sherlock turned to her with a long-suffering sigh - at which she rolled her eyes. He was wary of these sentimental things, but if anyone could help him with a John-related issue, it would be Mrs Hudson. 'Do you think it would be good if I got a Christmas present for John?' he asked. 'I find that it is common for one to get presents for their friends on Christmas, and I would like to apologise, but...' he trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Mrs Hudson gave him a warm, fond, somewhat patronising look.
'Oh, dear, John is still very hurt. He spent such a long time grieving and to find out it was all for nothing, that his feelings were based on a lie, well... He lost so much of himself when you... jumped, and I don't think he's ever recovered. Now that you are back, even though he is happy that you are alright, I don't think that he can trust himself not to get completely lost on you again...' she said, placing a gentle hand on Sherlock's forearm. 'I think the best present you could ever give John is a promise that you will be alright, that you won't leave again.'
Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes. 'But I can't promise him that...'
She smiled slightly and patted his arm. 'You can try...' with that, the landlady made her way out.
Sherlock sighed once more and leaned further against the back of the chair. Matters of sentiment were so dull and complicated, but he had to do right by John...
*
It was raining on Christmas morning. A cold, light, relentless drizzle that had put Sherlock off getting back to sleep after he woke up at 6am. He got up glaring at the window and moved to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then he moved to the sitting room, where he continued to glare at the Christmas decorations around him.
John had spent the day before at Harry and Clara's, and probably got back after Sherlock had gone to sleep, so it'd be a while until he woke up this morning. So Sherlock made himself a cup of tea - three years away had taught Sherlock that John's tea was somehow the best, and he had never managed to make it the same way - and got his laptop to check the website. There were a few interesting - but easy to solve - cases there, so he occupied himself for a couple of hours, until John woke up and he couldn't focus any longer.
He could hear John walking about upstairs, then him moving down the stairs into the bathroom for his morning ritual, which hadn't changed, the ever-predictable John. He showered, as always, and went back upstairs, as usual, to change into his day clothes. As John made his way back downstairs into the kitchen, Sherlock went back to his laptopn on the kitchen table, checking the last few messages he had left on his website.
Suddenly, a plate of chocolate chip cookies - the ones that Sherlock loved but of which he didn't know the brand since John did the shopping - and a glass of milk. Sherlock stared at the cookies, then up at John.
'Merry Christmas,' he said with a small hint of a smile. Sherlock gaped and stuttered a bit. John seemed to understand what had got him like that, because he explained. 'Christmas is a time of forgiveness and being with your friends... I am... I am tired of being angry at you for leaving me -- I'm just so happy so have you back, so... I got you those cookies you liked. You don't have to eat them, or--' but Sherlock cut him off by standing up and wrapping John into a tight hug. John gasped and reluctantly put his own arms around Sherlock, squeezing ever-so-slightly.
'I'm sorry, John. For everything,' Sherlock said, face hidden in John's neck. 'I had no idea... I'm...'
John pulled back and smiled at Sherlock, squeezing his shoulder. 'I know.'
They just stared at each othe for long minutes, until John broke the stare with a cough.
'Eat your cookies and drink your milk, Sherlock,' he said. 'I can't tell you haven't been eating properly...'
Sherlock chuckled, surprised that he could actually still chuckle, and pretended to roll his eyes. 'Oh, again with the nagging about my eating, then...'
John just shot him the brightest smile and nodded. 'As per usual,' he said.
Indeed, Sherlock thought, happily biting on his cookie with a giant grin.