Work Text:
As soon as Jean let her eyes flicker open, it was the most regrettable decision she had made that day. Since she had just woken up, she figured it could only go up from here.
It had snowed the last evening - the forecast had been right - causing the most picturesque dusting of snow outside, though the reflection of the sun coming off of the icy ground and in through Jean's window was blinding, rendering the idyllic morning pointless. Groaning, Jean stubbornly rolled onto her stomach to press her head into the pillow.
Though, she supposed, it was Christmas morning. She should give the day a bit of a chance to improve.
Sighing, Jean hoisted herself out of bed and slipped into a pair of woolen slippers waiting for her feet - the cold floor of the flat was unbearable on naked soles. Rather than get properly dressed, Jean pulled on a heavy jumper over her sleep wear - a simple tank-top and pyjama bottom combination - before making her way to the main room, bee-lining for the kitchen so she could start the coffee drip. As usual, there was no sign of Sherlock yet, though she was likely to emerge once the smell of coffee roused her.
Settling at the kitchen table with a novel and prematurely snacking on a bag of crisps (she could make breakfast later), Jean felt a smile tug at the corner of her lips when she heard a mumbling Sherlock emerging from her bedroom. A recently roused Sherlock was a sight to see, hair all wild and hanging strangely, usually wearing a robe (at Jean's insistence, since it had been far too mortifying having a naked Sherlock prancing about), and strangely slow to react. Testing this last bit, Jean snatched a crisp from the bag in front of her on the table, tossing it in the direction of Sherlock's head. Jean's aim was off (it was difficult to be accurate with a crisp, after all), and the morsel of food hit Sherlock on the shoulder and fell to the floor without even a flinch from the curly-haired woman.
"Hmn," was the only response Jean got before Sherlock slumped into the empty chair at the table. "Coffee," she mumbled, picking up yesterday's paper and opening it with a messy flourish, realizing it was not recent and shoving it back to the table with a huff.
When Sherlock didn't move, it was clear that she expected Jean to get the coffee for her. "You can get your own bloody coffee," Jean offered. "And you're closer to it."
Sherlock simply threw a glowering look in Jean's direction. "It's Christmas." As if it were an obvious explanation for her expectation that Jean would get the coffee.
"Your point?"
"You're obviously going to be more eager than usual to practice… 'good will toward men', in keeping with the 'Christmas spirit'," Sherlock prattled off. "I see no reason why that shouldn't extend to you getting me coffee. You usually do."
When all Sherlock got in return for her infallible logic was a dirty look to rival her own, Sherlock reluctantly lifted herself up from her chair to get her own coffee. Jean returned to her novel (she was just waiting for the crack about how mindless her reading was), and was more than moderately surprised when she saw her own mug, filled with coffee, sliding across the table to rest in front of her. Jean glanced up at Sherlock with a dazed, blinking expression. "Er, thanks."
Sherlock, however, had already flipped open a manila folder that had been shoved to a corner of the kitchen table (you know, so there was room to eat) and was scanning what seemed to be lab results for something and was no longer paying Jean any mind. Returning to her novel again without a second thought, Jean assumed Sherlock had written her flatmate off as 'low level of interest' for the remainder of the morning. Which was why she was once again caught off guard when Sherlock spoke. "Is this how you usually spend Christmas morning?"
Pausing to mark her page, Jean glanced up at Sherlock, seeing she hadn't even looked up from her lab report. "…Well, I wasn't sure what you were expecting. You don't eat breakfast or anything on a normal day, so I didn't really plan on making breakfast. And after the party last night… I mean, we had the mince pie, we had the mulled wine, carols…" Sherlock grimaced at the memory, which Jean pointedly ignored. "I mean, we exchanged presents, you insulted everyone… What else were you looking for?"
There was a long pause, during which Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the report. Jean pulled a bit of a face, not sure what her insane flatmate was getting at, when Sherlock finally decided to reply. "You haven't asked me why I didn't give you a present last night."
Jean was caught off guard once again, arching both eyebrows. "I… wasn't going to pry," Jean responded carefully, calculated in her effort to hide the fact that she had been wondering indeed if Sherlock was going to give her anything.
"You gave me a gift," Sherlock went on, her gaze lifting up to fix on Jean, those strange grey-then-blue-then-green eyes unreadable in the current lighting. "The shirt. It was… nice. Functional, yet thoughtful. Careful not to be overly sentimental, but prudent, seeing as you know how many blouses I go through." The detective's brow furrowed. "You have every right to wonder where your gift is, yet you were willing to pretend it didn't matter. You would give your gift selflessly." Jean recognized Sherlock's 'deduction stare' when she saw it, scanning and collecting data.
Licking her lips for a moment, Jean worked her jaw trying to find the right words to respond. Sherlock had a way of short-circuiting her thoughts. "I mean, I guess I just… have no idea what you would even give me. It doesn't really matter." Everyone else at the party had gotten a gift last night, all of them books on various obscure topics that most of the guests had simply smiled awkwardly but politely at Sherlock when they opened them. Jean had wondered, of course, why she had been excluded. "You don't give a gift because you expect one in return," she insisted.
To Jean's surprise, Sherlock simply waved a hand at Jean to silence her, rising up from the kitchen table in a flurry of fabric from her robe and exiting the kitchen. "No matter. I did get you a gift, of course." Before Jean could respond, Sherlock had escaped into her bedroom, leaving Jean with a sudden nervous energy in her gut, wondering what the hell Sherlock had gotten her. When Sherlock emerged, it was with a small box, wrapped with a silver bow done neatly on the top. All of Sherlock's presents had been wrapped with the same silver ribbon, but the box Sherlock held now was significantly smaller and thinner than a book.
"You didn't have to get me anything," Jean found herself saying on instinct, manners pushing to the forefront.
With an annoyed look, Sherlock crossed back into the kitchen. "Nonsense." The pale hand was thrust in front of Jean, a strange gesture when paired with the disparaging look Sherlock was giving her, as if the etiquette had been an insult.
Jean accepted the box, not meaning to make it seem she was worried the box might explode at her as she handled it gingerly but doing just that. She began tugging the ribbon off of the box, still slightly dazed. As she pulled the lid off of the top of the box, Sherlock broke in.
"I will admit, I… didn't give it last night because I assumed you would be embarrassed to open this gift in front of the others," she explained. "People do nothing but gossip, after all."
Jean hardly heard what Sherlock was saying, eyes staring wide at the gold chain bracelet on display in the box. Adorned every inch or so with a small dazzling blue gemstone (sapphire, perhaps?), the bracelet was understated and yet breathtaking with it's simplicity. "I…" Jean was truly speechless.
Voice slightly quicker paced now and seeming higher pitched that usual, Sherlock rushed to explain. "You rarely purchase jewelry to match the level of income we've begun to accrue, though it is obvious you have a taste for elegance and… finer things. Your mother's ring, for instance. And your clothes; simple, but always of high quality and craftsmanship. You wouldn't want something drowning in diamonds, but you would wear… this. The…" Sherlock actually seemed to trip on her words for half of a second, but Jean was still so dazzled by the bracelet she didn't look up to confirm. "…the sapphire would match your eyes."
Feeling choked and overwhelmed, Jean found herself staring up at Sherlock, who was standing before her and looking like a wide-eyed fish pulled out of its tank. "…Thank you," Jean got out somehow, amazed at how easily Sherlock had been able to find something that fit her so simply, so effortlessly.
The shine in Sherlock's eyes when Jean spoke was dazzling. "…You like it?" It was barely more than a mumble.
"I do," Jean insisted. There was an awkward pause where Jean didn't know what else to do but stare up at Sherlock, both women locking gazes in anticipation, unsure what to do next. At last, the cogs in Jean's brain decided it was time to get to work again and Jean started to life. "Erm, could you… help me try it on?"
"Of course," Sherlock answered without a second's hesitation, as if she had been waiting for the very question. She by now had composed herself into a gaze that was much more aloof and calm, though it was still unerringly fixed on Jean.
Fumbling with the packaging, Jean extracted the bracelet from the box, setting the cardboard and ribbon aside to unfasten the clasp that joined the ends of the bracelet. Holding the jewelry out to Sherlock, who accepted it and held it with the same delicacy that her long fingers handled test tubes and petri dishes, Jean hesitated before holding out her hand and therefore her wrist to her flatmate. With only some effort - after all, Sherlock was obviously not one to fiddle with jewelry often - Sherlock encircled Jean's wrist with the gold chain, fingertips just brushing the underside of Jean's wrist. Even that gentle touch sent an unexpected rush of air out of Jean's lips in the form of a gasp, causing Sherlock's eyes to dart up to meet Jean's for half a second before returning to her task, fastening the clasp with care.
That particular moment emblazoned itself in Jean's consciousness: Sherlock's hands so close to her own, long fingers so precise and careful with the delicate jewelry and by extension with her handling of Jean, and Jean's heart singing in her head with its pounding.
And in a flash, the moment passed, Sherlock retracting her hands away, glancing up at Jean. "It doesn't quite match your pyjamas," Sherlock noted, deadpan.
Tearing her eyes away from Sherlock, Jean looked down at the bracelet, delicate and precious next to the sleeve of her ratty old jumper. She took in the rest of her apparel and couldn't help herself when a smile broke across her mouth. Descending into giggles, Jean covered her face with one hand, turning to her coffee and taking a sip to try and mask her immature break down. Glancing at Sherlock, Jean was struck to see Sherlock grinning as well.
Before long, both of them were giggling away, both trying to hide their childish laughter in their coffee and failing miserably, like they often did when they attempted to act their age. The sapphires of Jean's bracelet glinted in the winter sunlight streaming in the window, truly a sight to see. But Jean had eyes only for the lanky, chuckling detective sitting across from her at their kitchen table.