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John was long past the age where Christmas morning was anything more than a good lie in before a decent enough breakfast and a few hours to kill before going to some party where he would exchange gifts with mates and the sort. It was actually just as good as when he was a kid most days. Should’ve been even better than before considering he had spent a good chunk of Christmas eve in with Sherlock and Mycroft, which was a whole new kind of wonderful.
And yet, rolling over in Sherlock’s bed, it was hard to ignore the fact that his arm was resting against a cool bed instead of Sherlock. Furrowing his brows, John grumbled angrily before rolling over. Sitting up when he met more empty bed, he rubbed his eyes and looked around the room for either of the curiously absent Holmes brothers.
“Sherlock?” He called out into the darkness of the room. “Mycroft?”
When no answer came, he got out of bed, determined to figure out just what had happened to the two men. Putting on his dressing gown and some pyjamas, he made his way out of the room, doing his best to keep as quiet as possible until he heard the sounds of two familiar voices bickering as usual.
“This one is a –“
“Sherlock, stop it. That’s for me,” Mycroft said in an exasperated tone.
“You already know what it is.”
“Stop it.”
Smiling to himself as he walked into the room, John couldn’t actually believe what he was seeing. Mycroft and Sherlock were sitting around the Christmas tree, both still in their pyjamas and dressing gowns as they looked over the presents under the tree. Looking over at him, the two of them seemed like children caught… well, under the Christmas tree just a few hours too soon before Sherlock went back to the present he was holding.
“You two do realize it’s still dark outside, right?” John asked as he rubbed at his eyes tiredly.
“It’s Christmas and Mycroft said he wouldn’t let me open the presents until you woke up. You’re awake now,” Sherlock said as he began to unwrap the present in his lap. Pulling out a scarf and some gloves from the box, he handed into to Mycroft, saying, “This is yours.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft said with a fond roll of his eyes.
Sitting down next to them by the tree, John looked over the scarf and gloves himself before shaking his head. “You know, in my family, we opened our own presents.”
“Sherlock gets some kind of childish thrill from unwrapping presents. Birthday, Christmas, that sort of thing,” Mycroft explained as he handed John a box. “I’ve made him agree to leave your presents alone though.”
“That is very kind of you,” John said as he inspected the box.
It had horrible wrapping paper and was of a rather clothes like size, not that he had expected anything else from Mrs. Hudson. If he as lucky, it would be a nice jumper, since she always seemed to know just what all of them needed. Even Mycroft.
Opening it, he was pleased to find the dark blue jumper, a nice handwritten note from Mrs. Hudson resting on top of it about how she was certain it would be his colour and really bring out his eyes. Chuckling fondly, he shook his head.
“Mycroft, you clever bastard,” Sherlock laughed, snapping John out of his revelry.
Crawling over to him, John cocked his head as he looked at the box in Sherlock’s lap. It wasn‘t like the sort of cardboard boxes gift’s usually came in, but rather a dark, wooden one that had some kind of formula carved neatly into the top of it. There was a lock with a key in it, but Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to open it any more than he had. Glancing over to look at Mycroft, he frowned.
“What’s so special about a box?” He asked, feeling a bit sceptical about the entire thing.
Holding it up to him with all the joy of a manic child, Sherlock said, “There’s a cat in here.”
“So why not let it out?”
“Because it could be dead.”
“Or it could be alive,” Mycroft pointed out.
Looking between the two of them, John furrowed his brows. “You got him Schrodinger’s cat for Christmas?”
“It seemed like an appropriate joke gift,” Mycroft said, shrugging it off.
Looking over the box, Sherlock continued smiling like a mad man. “What kind of cat is it? There is a real cat in here yes?”
“Yes. But I’m not telling,” Mycroft said smugly. “You have to open it and find out.”
And judging by the look of horror on Sherlock’s face that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Instead, Sherlock ran his fingers along the engraved formula with a pensive look on his face. “I’ll open it later,” he grumbled, not that he sounded all that committed to the idea.
Looking over the presents, John got one for Sherlock, handing it to him with small smile. “Here. To take your mind off the cat in the box.”
“This is from you,” Sherlock said, sounding mildly surprised.
Nodding, John shrugged and said, “Well, I figured since I am living here and sleeping with you and your brother, the least I could do is get you a present.”
Opening the box a lot more carefully than he had anything else, Sherlock looked into and just stilled. Biting his lip, he tilted his head to the side as a slow smile spread across his face. “You got me a telescope and a book.”
“It’s a small telescope and the book is on—“
“Stars.”
“I thought you might like it,” John said as he handed a present to Mycroft.
Pushing the box aside, Sherlock hugged him tightly, pressing a kiss to his neck before muttering, “I love it. Stars are interesting.”
“And maybe if he’s lucky he’ll see a blue box,” Mycroft teased as he opened his own present with the utmost delicacy, carefully peeling back the tape and wrapping paper.
Laughing at that, John nodded. “Or the Titanic.”
“What does the Titanic and a box have to with astronomy?” Sherlock asked, making the joke funnier by the sheer lack of knowledge he seemed to have in regard to what they were talking about.
Calming down his own frantic laughing, John shook his head before pressing a brief kiss to his Sherlock’s mouth. “It’s a joke. Don’t worry about it.”
“John, by the by, I do enjoy your gift,” Mycroft said, putting the pen back in its case before kissing the corner of John’s mouth.
“You got him a pen?”
“It has a hidden blade. Very…”
“Bond,” John supplied, knowing that Mycroft would, at the very least, appreciate the joke involved in the gift since he really hoped that Mycroft wasn’t the type to actually need concealed weapons for anything.
“My brother would make a terrible Bond,” Sherlock said before going back to the presents.
Leaning against Mycroft, John looked him over and shrugged. “He’d make a much better M.”
“Droll, John,” Mycroft complained, wrapping his arms around him as Sherlock let out a bark of laughter at the remark.
Smiling cheekily, John cuddled up a bit more comfortable against him. Sherlock didn’t seem like he’d be all that pleased until everything was unwrapped and all the gifts had been judged. Mycroft was a warm presence against his side, arms loosely wrapped around his waist while the sounds of Mrs. Hudson puttering about downstairs drifted into the living room. It wasn’t the kind of Christmas John typically liked, but when Sherlock unwrapped the jar of eyes Molly had gotten him and began too brandish them about like it was the best gift ever, John figured that things could be worse.