Archive of Our Own

Christmas Eve.

It’s a wonderful time. Families get together, friends see each other once more, and all together, people have fun and give gifts.

But apparently, if you’re Sherlock Homes, no matter what, you can’t seem to have fun even on a day like this.

“Yes John, I’m aware that we made plans for this afternoon, but it is not yet the afternoon, now is it?” Sherlock walks quickly, leaving John to have to catch up. Rude.

“Fine, yes, whatever, but don’t you think we should, oh I don’t know, prepare?” John says, nearly slipping on ice on the sidewalk and breaking his tailbone. Not once does Sherlock look back, John thinking briefly about dragging him all the way back home, unconscious or kicking and screaming. Either was just fine.

“We are preparing.” Sherlock says back, taking a sharp corner that John nearly missed.

“For a case. Not the party. Seriously, would it kill you to take even a short break?” Sherlock turns abruptly at that, leading to John nearly colliding head on with him.

“Maybe it would. Who’s to say?” Sherlock tilts his head before continuing on, his coat sweeping behind him in a big fluid motion. John sputters as it hits his face but quickly chases after him, wishing suddenly he had refused the offer to come with (he hadn’t, truthfully).

As Sherlock stops in front of the postal office, John gives him a quizzical look. “I thought you said we would be at–”

“The museum. Yes, I did say that, but plans change.” He says, opening the door for John. He hesitates before entering, Sherlock following behind before taking John’s hand and leading him to a barely touched mailbox, opening it to find a nicely wrapped gift, which Sherlock hands to John.

“I-.. Uhm, Sherlock, what exactly is this for?”

“Can’t you see the name? It’s for you.” Sherlock points to, low and behold, John’s name written in neat cursive handwriting John didn’t recognize. He hesitantly opens the wrapping to find a handmade Christmas sweater inside. It was mostly red with green sleeves and a big green Christmas tree with golden metallic ornaments in the middle. John laughed at the sight. Out of all the things in the world, he did not expect this. 

“Sherlock, what is this?”

“It’s a sweater, John. I thought that would be fairly obvious.” Sherlock said, not looking at him.

“I can see that. Just… Why?” Instead of answering, Sherlock turned around, displaying a sweater of his own. It’s in the exact same homemade style as John’s, but green with red sleeves, and a big red present with metallic gold ribbon in the middle. John’s face lights up (much like a christmas tree) with surprise and joy.

“Who the bloody hell are these from?!” John says, pressing it against himself to try and guess how it will fit. He notices it might be a little big, but comfortable. Sherlock clears his throat, neatly folding his sweater.

“They’re from my mother.”

John fails to hide the shock on his face, his jaw nearly on the floor as he blinks and stares at Sherlock like he had just gotten struck by a bus right in front of his eyes.

“What? Do you not like it?” Sherlock looks like that of a kicked puppy and John’s heart squeezes in his chest. 

“No!” Realizing that came out much too quickly, John clears his throat before trying again. “I mean no. It’s nice. Perfect even.” John looks down at the sweater and when he looks back up, he swears Sherlock’s shoulders relax.

“Good. Now come on, I believe we have a party to prepare for.”

“Yes, we do– Wait what?” 

“The party? The one you were adamant we get prepared for as soon as we woke up and even as we made our way here?” Sherlock says it like this was his plan from the very start (which it was) but John feels the sudden need to hit something.

“Yes I know the party you're referring to, you literally said we were going out for a case.” 

“Did I not also tell you that plans change?” Sherlock tilts his head, looking all smug and John wishes nothing more than to wipe (kiss) the smug look right off of his face. “Besides, how else was I going to get you to come with me to the post-office?”

“By asking..?” 

“Wheres the fun in that?” John groans, about to make a retort back when Sherlock takes John's hand and goes back out of the post office without saying another word. John can only sigh and follow along wordlessly behind him.

“Thank you for inviting me.” Lestrade bows his head politely as he walks through, giving Sherlock, who was standing in the kitchen, a nod as well.

“I'm glad you could make it.” John smiles, motioning for him to sit down at one of the many chairs they'd arranged. 

Mrs. Hudson had already arrived and was sitting down in one of the chairs, greeting Lestrade as if she were hosting too.

“Welcome in, dearie. Can I get you a cuppa?” She says, taking his coat and hanging it on the wall. 

“Oh, that's quite alright I ate on the way here.” Sherlock glanced at him suspiciously

“Ate what?” At that moment Mycroft walked in, umbrella in hand and a small plate of cookies. Sherlock scoffed “nevermind” Lestrade practically falls over with how hard he starts coughing.

“Did I miss something?” Is the first thing out of Mycroft’s mouth, eyes scanning the room.

“Oh no, nothing of importance.” Sherlock says dismissively, Mrs. Hudson having helped Lestrade cease his momentary coughing fit.

“May I take those off your hands?" John says quickly after to try and shift the topic, gesturing to the umbrella and cookies, Mycroft nodding and passing everything over, Mrs. Hudson beckons him over to take his coat and make sure he's comfortable.

As John enters the Kitchen, there's a sudden knock near the entry way.

“Oh, Sherlock, could you answer that for me please?”

“Who else are we expecting?” Sherlock mutters under his breath, going to the door anyway. John makes a mental note to thank him later for it.

When Sherlock gets to the door, Sally Donovan is standing in the doorway, looking just as annoyed that she's here as Sherlock.

“Evening.” She greets through a strained voice, but Sherlock doesn't greet her back.

“May I come in?” 

“John!” Sherlock called over his shoulder, annoyed. “The pest has arrived” John drops something, sounding like silverware

“Sherlock!” John quickly makes his way to the door to prevent any injuries. Before he can intervene, Sally responds.

“Good to see you too, freak.” Sherlock moves just slightly, silently letting her in. She pushes past and hands her coat to Mrs. Hudson, who gladly takes it and hangs it up with the others. Despite Sherlock's lack of hospitality, John doesn't appreciate Sally's name calling either. He tries to keep his face pleasant while his hands are clenched in fists.

“Alright! Looks like that's everyone.” John clasps his hands together as he makes his way into the almost circle of chairs, Sherlock standing in front of the door having a one-sided staring contest with the back of Donovan’s head. “I'm glad you all could make it. We will have food provided later, but for now feel free to place any gifts or anything extra on your person near the tree.” John cringes internally at how unsure he sounds even in his own head, Mrs. Hudson giving him a quick thumbs up.

“Uhm, well, that's all from me. Have fun!” John’s voice cracks slightly at the end and he swears everyone is staring at him even as he leaves the circle, and John suddenly wishes that he was back on the battlefield instead of here.

“Nice speech. Very.. Festive.” Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s shoulder as he comes to stand by him, Sherlock noting the tension in his entire body.

“You don’t have to just say that to flatter me, you know.”

“Flattery is only if it’s not true. And what I said is true.” Sherlock smiles at John and pulls him closer, John leaning into the touch begrudgingly.

“Aw, you two sure are cute,” Mrs. Hudson comments, walking over to them, holding a small plate of cookies John recognized as the ones Mycroft brought in. “Care for a cookie? Mycroft made them.” She smiles as she asks, and John nods his head.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” John reaches for a cookie and in two seconds, the cookie is on the floor thanks to Sherlock smacking it out of his hand.

“Who’s side are you on?” Sherlock reprimands, snatching the cookie up off the floor and looking genuinely betrayed.

“Uhm… Your side..?” John says it like he’s unsure, even though what he said is unmistakably true. He’s always been on Sherlock’s side, he’s just unsure of where that comes into play here.

“Then you wouldn’t be eating my brother’s cookies.”

“Technically they’re our mothers cookies. It’s her recipe. Sherlock loves these.” Mycroft, having seemingly spawned right next to Mrs. Hudson, is now holding a single cookie, a bite having taken off the head of the gingerbread cookie.

“They’re your mothers recipe?” John looks over at Sherlock, who has a relatively blank expression all of a sudden.

“Yes. Yes they are.” Sherlock clears his throat before taking the tray. “I shall be needing these, they’re for an experiment.”

“You’re going to eat them all in one sitting, aren’t you?” John and Mycroft say it at the same time, Sherlock already having walked away, cookies in hand.

“I do hope he doesn’t get a tummy ache from eating all of them.” Mrs. Hudson says thoughtfully, John thinking the same thing.

“Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s eating more than what’s on that tray before.” Mycroft reassures them both, walking back to the main party and standing Lestrade’s side. A very normal, not gay thing to do. Totally.

John smiles at Mrs. Hudson and offers his arm to her as a polite gesture,“Come on, let’s get back to the party.” 

Mrs. Hudson takes his arm and they walk back together, John guiding her back to her seat.

Upon seeing John alone and Sherlock gone, Sally folds her arms and tilts her head. “Has your boyfriend disappeared again? Maybe going back to all his silly detective equipment?” She has an almost knowing tone in her voice, her nose turned up and body all relaxed like she knew every damn thing.

And John wants nothing more than to strangle her.

“You realize he’s only going to love you when you’re dead, right?” John’s heart is suddenly in his throat and his eyes are wide with both frustration and fear. “His whole obsession with dead body parts, and all.”

“That’s enough, Donovan.” Lestrade's tone is loud and cautioning, and Sally, although reluctant, shuts her mouth.

I'm going to commit murder. John thinks, hands balled into tight fists as he smiles as warmly as he possibly can given the circumstances, fighting the urge to cry right there.

“Let’s just get back to the party, shall we?” John says, brushing past Sally and knocking his shoulder against hers roughly, not bothering to say sorry or look back.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Hudson calls after him, having stood up from her chair looking worried.

John puts on a kinder, more genuine smile just for her, “I just need some fresh air.” He says before climbing down the stairs of their apartment.

As he leaves, Sherlock, who had been standing just out of sight, listening to him go down each step from where he was in the kitchen, each step like a stab to his heart.

When the door opens and shuts closed roughly, Sherlock is already going through each and every step on how he might get away with Sally Donovan’s murder and never solve it as he follows after, Sally looking surprised he wasn’t actually gone.

Once Sherlock is out the door, both Lestrade and Mycroft turn slowly to her, looking ready to jump her on the spot.

“Was that truly necessary?” Lestrade’s voice cuts through the silence and Sherlock, just barely able to hear their conversation as he gets closer to the door, can tell he’s inches away from popping a blood vessel in his temple, which would have been a funny thought if Sherlock wasn’t fuming with rage too and trying to get back to John.

“What? I’m right, aren't I?” She says innocently, as if that would excuse what she said.

“That’s enough.” Mycroft's tone is venomous, and if looks could kill, Sally would have been dead the second she opened her mouth, her soul along with her body. “Miss Donovan, I have only just met you, but I can already tell you are a dense, idiotic excuse for a Sargent, and if you think I’ll stand by while you insult my family at a party which they invited you to, you are more dense than I thought. Now, I do not wish to cause a scene, so I suggest you either apologize or leave before you get to find out exactly why I carry around my umbrella so often.”

“Mycroft, I’m frustrated too, but I would advise against resorting to violence.” Lestrade places his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, his other hand looking as though he were reaching for the umbrella.

“Don’t fight me on this, Detective inspector. You might be strong, but I’d still win.” Mycroft’s tone is less threatening this time, but it’s still a thinly veiled (if at all) threat.

Sally opens her mouth to speak, but both Lestrade and Mycroft give her a dangerous look and she shuts her mouth.

Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching that scene unfold, looks out the window to see Sherlock and John sitting on the pavement together, hands intertwined.

My poor boys… I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry. She thinks as she continues to watch them from afar, only hoping silently that they’ll be okay in the end.

“You know what she said isn’t true.” Sherlock says slowly, grasping both of John’s hands with his own, John still not meeting his eyes. It hurt worse than dying to see him like this. 

“Please look at me. Even for a moment. Please.” Sherlock pleads with him, wanting so badly to cradle John’s face with his hands, but too afraid to let go of his hands.

John swallows around the knot building in his throat as he looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. John knows Sally was just being, well, Sally. But it still stung. It still felt like a seed had been planted, in the back of his mind, never seeing the light of day, but growing none the less. 

Sherlock takes a breath, squeezing John's hands. “Please don't tell me you believe her comment about me only loving you when you're dead.”

John pauses just long enough for Sherlock’s expression to drop, pulling John into his arms. “Oh, John..” Running his hands through John’s hair and keeping him close, Sherlock rests his head atop John’s, all as if to shield him from the rest of the world.

“I’m fine you know, you don’t need to–”

“No. No you’re not.” Sherlock interrupts, loosening his grip just enough for John to look at him. “Listen to me, John. I’ve been studying human emotions and indicators longer than you know. I can tell you’re hurting. I want to help you, so please, John. Let me help you.”

John stares long and hard, the knot in his throat getting harder to swallow around, the edges of his eyes starting to blur.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, John tries to hide his face again. “I'm sorry.” Is all he can trust himself to speak without risk of his voice failing him, shutting his eyes tightly as a tear threatens to fall.

John was tired. Tired of pretending he was fine. Tired of the smile he put on to make a good impression. And most of all tired of the pit that seemed to grow bigger each time it reopened when something went wrong. 

So when Sherlock pulls him back in close, whispering, “You don't have to apologize for something you never did.” The dam breaks. Hell, everything breaks. John is crying — Sobbing, really — right on Sherlock’s shoulder, on the sidewalk, on Christmas Eve while they had a party still in full swing. It certainly was not what John had hoped for, but John had come to expect many surprises. Just maybe not one of this nature.

*

After crying for what felt like both only a minute and a lifetime, Sherlock’s sweater was coated in tears, as well as wrinkled from where John had held it, and his hair was all askew and stuck up at odd angles, which Sherlock had smoothed over with his hands, taking time and care to re-style it.

John's breathing was hiccuped every once in a while, but Sherlock was helping him through it, making sure he kept slow, even and measured breaths, rubbing circles into his back at the same time.

“We must look hysterical.” John wonders aloud, a small smile breaking through his tears stained face.

Sherlock hums at the thought, “Maybe so. But I'm certainly glad I'm looking hysterical with you.” 

John chuckles, leaning into Sherlock, his breathing finally evening out as he rests his head over Sherlock’s heart, noting how it picks up speed when he reaches for one of Sherlock’s hands. “You say such romantic things only after something bad happens.” John teases, smiling up at Sherlock, who had an increasing pink color to his cheeks at the moment.

“Yes well,” He clears his throat. “That’s the perfect moment, is it not?” 

“Hmm… Debatable.” John hums, pulling back a stray hair that had blocked Sherlock’s face, his eyes catching the light in such a way that made them look almost green. “goodness you're gorgeous.” John mutters, apparently loud enough for Sherlock to hear because his heart quickens at an alarming rate and his cheeks burn brighter than before.

“I think we should, uhm, go back to the party, yes?” Sherlock says quickly, wiping one of his hands over his mouth to try and compose himself.

“Oh, I suppose we should.” John sighs, picking himself up off the pavement and extending a hand to Sherlock.

“I really should be the one helping you up.” Sherlock says even as he takes John's hand, keeping their hands clasped together as he stands.

“Consider this a simple pay back for helping me.” John says, leading them towards the door, stopping just before. “Hold on, you have something on your face.” 

Sherlock tilts his head in confusion, reaching up towards his face but John stops him, pulling his hands away as he leans forward, planting a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock goes stiff as he flushes a bright red color.

“Yes uh..” Sherlock clears his throat, licking his lips briefly. “Let's get back to the party.” He mutters, John giggling as he opens the door, taking pride in the fact he got Sherlock to short circuit.

When they walk in, John can hear light talking, and as they make their way up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson is already there, gasping quietly when they come in and giving both of them a firm hug.

“Oh, I was worried sick! Thank God you both are alright.” 

“What.. What exactly did you think would happen to us?” John speaks in a bit of a hushed tone, Mrs. Hudson only giving him a gentle smile and pat on the back 

“She was simply worried, John.” Sherlock says, escorting John back inside with his hand placed firmly on his hip, John squeaking with shock and trying to wave Sherlock's hand away.

As they walk through the house, Sally gives them a passing look of embarrassment, quickly averting her gaze when Sherlock catches her eyes.

Mycroft, upon seeing them walk in the door, approaches the pair and scans them both over briefly before speaking. “Hopefully, she won’t bother you anymore.”

“If I hadn’t seen her when we walked in, I’d say you murdered her.” Sherlock mumbled, brushing past Mycroft and bringing John with him, John barely able to squeak out a thank you and apology before he’s out of ear shot.

“You’re awfully rude all of a sudden. Any particular reasoning for that?” John asked, digging his heels into the floor to get them to stop.

Sherlock turns to look at him, taking one quick glance at Sally, who was currently standing in the farthest corner from where they both stood, refusing to make eye contact. Then, he turns back and John gets enough of the picture to understand.

“Come on, she's leaving us alone–”

“For now.” Sherlock interrupts, gazing down at John with a hardened gaze, but John can see it soften.

“Yes yes, for now. But that's better than nothing.” John fires back playfully, taking hold of Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it.

“Would anyone care for some wine? I've got eggnog too.” Mrs. Hudson calls out, holding a tray with drinks for everyone, each cup looking more enticing than the last. 

John was seriously needing to get her on a vacation somewhere for doing so much for both him and Sherlock.

“Get yourself a drink and try to relax, okay?” John smooths his thumb over Sherlock’s before letting go.

“Are you not joining in the festivities?” Sherlock tried grabbing for John's hand again, but he's quicker than Sherlock is and hides it behind his back.

“I'm hosting the party, aren't I? I would call that festive.” John points out, Sherlock not buying into it (no surprises there).

“We are hosting the party.” Sherlock corrects.

“No. You are picking fights with Sally — As perusal— and I am entertaining the rest of our guests.”

“That's what I would call teamwork, John.”

John laughs and Sherlock takes the distraction to press a kiss to the top of John’s head.

“Go have fun, love.” John says, and Sherlock just nods, grabbing a wine glass from Mrs. Hudson's tray and nodding his head in thanks.

John breathes in his nose slowly and out his mouth, readying himself to reproach the party. Mycroft had reassured them both she wouldn't bother them anymore, but the comments she made still were echoing distantly in his mind like a fire alarm going off in the next apartment over.

John pushed forward anyway, Mrs. Hudson smiling at him.

“Any drink suits your fancy?” She asks, holding the tray up for John to see. 

“No, I'm alright. Thank you.” John rests a hand on her shoulder and lets it slide off as he goes the other way.

‘Just make a small announcement that food will come out soon and you'll be fine. You'll be fine..’  John tries reassuring himself as he steps into the middle of the room, slowly all eyes falling on him.

“Uhm.. Yes, hi. Food is going to be served in just a moment. But keep enjoying the party for now.” As soon as John had opened his mouth, he regretted it. Even more so when he actually spoke.

Seriously, how is it that he’s better on the battlefield than speaking to people he knows. It's stupid.

Walking away from the middle of the room, John runs a hand over his face, palms sweaty and his fingers shaking. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Lestrade is by his side in two seconds, looking concerned.

“Oh, yes. I'm quite alright.” John reassures, trying to put on a smile that's convincing but he knows it's anything but.

“Hm..” Lestrade hums, raising one eyebrow. “Right, sure. Just take it easy, you hear?” With that, Lestrade leaves John’s side and goes off, John paying no mind to where or who he goes to. 

Settling down on a chair that was unoccupied, Sherlock comes and joins him, a sway to his step that John can only assume is because he's absolutely hammered.

“Hey there, darling.” Sherlock slurs in that sweet voice he knows drives John crazy, slumping down into a chair and kicking out his legs, nearly tripping Mycroft in the process.

“Christ Sherlock! Pull yourself together.” Mycroft growls, glaring at Sherlock with enough venom to kill John too.

“Lov— I mean Mycroft. Leave them be, will you? They’ve had a rough day.” Lestrade walks over, beginning to usher Mycroft away.

“I think Mycroft's had a bit too much socializing today. I should probably take him home” Greg apologizes as John stands up to shake his hand, wearing a knowing smile. As he stands, Sherlock wraps his arms lazily around John's shoulders, awkwardly holding onto him from behind.

“No problem, Greg. I should probably get this one,” he glances back at Sherlock, who gives him a lovestruck smile in return. “To bed. It's probably best for everyone to call if short” 

“Oh, are you retiring already?” Mrs. Hudson questions, walking towards the small gathering.

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Hudson.” John responds, Sherlock snuggling into him, John swooning silently inside. “You’re free to go at any time.”

“Well, thank you for having us. Both of you.” Greg smiles and nods his head in thanks, Mycroft nodding along.

“I’ll make sure you boys get all your things.”

“Oh, uhm, Mrs. Hudson you don’t have to–”

“Oh hush, It’s alright. You just take care of that poor boy currently hanging off you.” She waves John away, ushering both Mycroft and Lestrade to their coats, Donvan standing awkwardly in the kitchen, suddenly holding two, relatively small,  festively wrapped boxes.

John pays it no mind, guiding Sherlock to the couch, setting extra pillows under his head.

“Just relax for a bit, alright?” John whispers, Sherlock needing no more convincing than that, promptly closing his eyes and relaxing into the couch.

As John walks to say goodbye one last time to Mycroft and Lestrade, Donovan approaches slowly, almost timidly, nearly spooking John. She was never timid.

Suddenly on edge, John faces her and plasters on a smile. “Ah, Sally. Hello.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“..Pardon?” John sputters, his smile falling and shattering like glass.

“I.. I said I’m sorry. For how I behaved earlier.” She’s fiddling with the ribbons on the boxes, looking anything but the Sally Donovan John had known for years by now.

It takes John a while to finally remember he has to say something back, scrambling for a reply.

“It’s alright.” Is all he says. It's all he thinks he can say without making a fool of himself.

“You.. you didn't take it that much to heart, did you?”

A silence falls over them again, and John tries to decide if he lies to spare her feelings or tell her outright how long and hard he had cried.

“Oh are you leaving too?” Mrs. Hudson walks over, touching John’s shoulder.

He was going to be 12ft buried in debt with how many favors he would need to make up to Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I am.” Donovan replies, the sentence quick and almost mean, but John decided to ignore it. For now.

“Oh, well it was good to see you dear.” 

“Before I go,” Donovan passes the two boxes to John. “Open those. One is for Sherlock, but I don't care what he thinks of it.”

John stifles a laugh. The Sally Donovan John knows is back.

Taking the gift and finding the one with his name on it, John opens the wrapping carefully, taking out a barely taped box. As soon as both lids to the box are open, John can see the item inside.

It's a jacket, nearly identical to the one he has, only much nicer, no signs of age anywhere on its surface. 

“I didn't really know what to get you, but I hope it suits your fancy.” Donovan scratches her neck twice before folding her hands in front of her.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” John smiles at her, a genuine one this time.

“Hm.. Well, I'll be going now. Good night.” She says quickly, Mrs. Hudson handed Donovan’s coat over, and then she was out the door.

“I'm glad you two made up.” Mrs. Hudson remarks, a smile on her lips.

“Me too.” Still staring at his new jacket, John barely registers anything Mrs. Hudson says.

“Well, I'll take my leave now. You take good care of Sherlock, okay?” As she goes, Mrs. Hudson gives John a hug, shocking him out of his daze.

“Yeah… Yes, yes I will.” John blinks a few times, hugging Mrs. Hudson back firmly.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Mrs. Hudson.” 

As soon as they say their goodbyes, Mrs. Hudson takes her leave, and John breathes out slowly. The house was eerily quiet, and John felt a little like collapsing right there on the floor now that he wasn't “performing”.

Turning around to check on Sherlock, expecting to see him still on the couch, he nearly dies on the spot when his back is suddenly against the wall, Sherlock right in front of him, both presents in his hand falling to the floor.

“Wha—? Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?” 

“Inviting her was a bad idea.” Is all he says, pressing John in more firmly into the wall.

“Who?…” A pause, then it clicks. Sally. “No, you made it a bad idea. You picked a fight with her for no reason.” 

“She was talking to you.” Sherlock says it like that explains everything away. It doesn't.

“Yeah, that’s what people do, talk–...” John lets Sherlock's words sink in for just a second longer, blinking a few times. “Wait. Were you jealous of her?” 

“Shut up, John” Sherlock’s voice dropped an octave, sending a small thrill through John’s body. He'd hit the nail on the head.

“The great Sherlock Holmes, jealous!” 

“John…” Sherlock warns slowly.

“I mean who would’ve guessed, only a few drinks and you get so clingy—” 

“I said shut up john!” Sherlock raises his tone just barely before grabbing at John’s collar and smashing their lips together, the kiss hungry and almost angry, a shock running down the expanse of John’s back. His hands raise up to Sherlock’s shoulders when Sherlock’s hands move down to his hips, the kiss slowing, then slowing once more to a pace that John could better keep up with.

They hold each other like that for what feels like both an eternity and not nearly enough time, when suddenly they both pull back, John breathes in and out heavily, Sherlock doing the same, pressing his forehead against John’s, eyes closing in content.

 “You taste like gingerbread.” John smirks, opening his eyes as he speaks.

“‘S that bad?” Sherlock slurs, reminding John just how drunk he must be.

They lock eyes, Sherlock pulling back just enough so he could see clearly.

“No. It’s delightful, actually.” 

Sherlock hums low in his throat before kissing him again, slower and less aggressive than before, but John wasn't complaining. He would never dream of it.

“You taste good too.” Sherlock murmurs into the kiss, John smiling in return.

“Shut up.” Now it was his turn to say it, pulling Sherlock in by his neck, Sherlock going willingly, putting one hand on John’s thigh, the latter getting enough of a memo and jumping into Sherlock’s arms, the wall helping with Sherlock holding him up.

John hums into the kiss, pulling away for a quick breath of air before diving straight back in, Sherlock beginning to move his hands underneath John’s sweater, long fingers smoothing over pale skin.

‘Oh good God this man will be the death of me.’ John thinks, back arching off the wall, pressing him closer to Sherlock in turn.

As Sherlock’s hand goes higher, fingertips brushing against his chest, John bites his lip when they part, trying very, very hard to not make too much noise.

Sherlock takes that as a challenge.

His lips move down to John's neck, kissing over the expanse of skin there, each kiss marking every blemish or freckle on his skin, as if each and every one was precious— as if John were precious.

“Sherlock—” John whines, trying to ignore the warmth growing down in his stomach, tingles following suit each time Sherlock places another kiss on his neck.

“John.” Sherlock echoes back, suddenly biting John’s neck, leaving a light pink circle when Sherlock pulls away.

John swallows thickly, closing his eyes for just a second, only to gasp, eyes shooting open when Sherlock bites him again, firmer this time.

“You do know that just because I taste good doesn't mean the rest of me tastes good, correct?” John breathes out shakily, gripping onto Sherlock’s shoulders for dear life when he kisses the new mark, back arching once more.

“I beg to differ. You taste amazing.” Sherlock pulls back enough to speak clearly, each breath he takes sending warm air ghosting over John’s neck. 

“You.. Are the worst.” John breathes out. He didn’t mean it. Not fully, anyway.

“That’s funny ‘cause I didn't hear you complaining mere seconds ago.” Sherlock counters, moving to the other side of John’s neck and beginning again.

John melts as soon as Sherlock’s lips make contact, jaw going slack as Sherlock weasels tiny sounds out of him. 

John thinks must have done something right in his life to get treatment like this, and to have none other than Sherlock Holmes be the one giving it to him.

Before John can form another thought, Sherlock is pulling away, pulling him off the wall and carrying him all the way over to the couch, placing him down and kneeling down on the floor.

John is halfway to begging when Sherlock moves again and kisses him, alcohol and gingerbread alike mixing into it.

The sudden taste of alcohol shakes John awake enough for him to push Sherlock away abruptly, Sherlock making a noise akin to a dog whining.

“Wait.. You're still drunk.” John says breathlessly, Sherlock only shrugging and pulling John back in.

“Don't—” John tries to speak again but Sherlock is fast, silencing him nearly every time, quick enough to cut any sentence short.

“Sherlock.” John says it as a warning, grabbing hold of both of Sherlock’s shoulders and keeping him at bay. “You’re drunk. We can't—”

“Why not?” Sherlock pouts, relaxing in his relent to get closer, John reluctant to move his hands. 

“Because I want you here for this. Not half drunk off your ass.”

“But I am here. You're literally touching me.” Sherlock points out, placing his hands on John’s, which were still on Sherlock’s shoulders, for emphasis.

John sighs. “Not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant being drunk, Sherlock. Your eyes never really focus, and your body is all sluggish. That's what I meant by not being here.”

“I can focus.” Sherlock pouts like a child and John raises an eyebrow.

“Can you now? Well, go on, show me then.” 

Sherlock looks mildly surprised John actually wanted proof, but does it anyway, looking up at John sweetly, and for a moment John thinks he wasn’t as drunk as he thought he was, but, of course, his eyes go almost lazy and are not fixed on just John anymore.

“Excellent.” John groans, running a hand down his face roughly.

“Really?” Sherlock beams, almost looking like he was wiggling with excitement.

John shakes his head slowly. “Let's get you to bed.”

“What happened to all those words telling me to stop?” Sherlock grins and his voice is low like it was before when they kissed.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” John blushes a light pink and he gets up off the couch.

“But my head isn't in any gutter.” Sherlock says it so sweetly and innocently, John isn't sure if he wants to bash his head into a wall or kiss Sherlock again, despite what he just said.

“Come on.” John grabs Sherlock's hand, guiding him to their bedroom, Sherlock sitting down and looking around the room as if he'd never been in it before.

“You’re beautiful.” Sherlock smiled as John picked out new clothes for each of them.

John stands very still when he hears it, but then continues on, ignoring the warmth spreading down his cheeks and neck.

“Change into these.” John sets the clothes down for Sherlock, heading for the doorway again.

Sherlock stops him with a hand on his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch you some food and drink so you don't wake up tomorrow with a bad headache.” John explains as best he can, not yet pulling his wrist free.

“Oh..” Is all Sherlock says before releasing him, stepping back.

“Now get undressed— And no, that is not me initiating, I only want you to be comfortable when you sleep.” John looks at Sherlock pointedly, the latter pouting but following directions regardless of the argument John was sure Sherlock was brewing in his mind.

Walking back into the kitchen, John gets a few bottles of water and a small container of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had given them only a few days ago.

‘Seriously, that woman does too much for us.’

Once all the things were in John’s arms, he walked back, careful to not let anything drop.

But, once in the doorway, John nearly drops everything anyway upon seeing Sherlock, upper half almost completely bare beside the fact his undershirt was twisted around him in just about a million ways, his arms sticking up awkwardly.

John laughs, long and joyous, Sherlock turning to him in a way that John knows means he's pouting.

“Don't laugh at me.” 

“I'm not.”

“Yes you are!” Sherlock tries twisting himself a few times, only making his arms more trapped, Sherlock falling flat on his ass, no doubt sulking pitifully.

“Let me help you with that.” John says, setting down the items in his arms and walking up towards Sherlock.

He reaches up and spots the sleeves of his shirt, untangling them from the rest of him. The rest was easy work, simply untwist it and get it off.

Sherlock’s hair was messy once they were done, John giggling as quietly as he could manage as he helped smooth it out, Sherlock taking hold of his hips.

“I thought you said no funny business.” Sherlock says, stepping closer to the bed with John. He stops them just short.

“I did. And I meant it.” John lets his hands retreat once he's satisfied, pulling out of Sherlock’s hold and picking up the water first.

“Drink this.” He says it softly, but it's still a firm command and Sherlock does it without question, opening the bottle with only a bit of trouble.

While he drinks to his heart's content, John goes back to grab the biscuits, setting them on the bed for now. 

“This doesn't taste like wine.” Sherlock points out, swirling the liquid a few times, half of it gone already.

“That's because it's water.” John smiles faintly, unsure if he wants to laugh or stare at him concerned.

“Oh..” 

“Well, once you're done with that, eat these.” John points to the biscuits.

Settling down on the bed, Sherlock rests his back against the headboard, staring at John expectantly. John doesn't move.

“You aren't staying?” Sherlock asks, looking like he's about to cry.

“Well…” John struggles for the right words. He didn’t plan on staying very long, only making sure Sherlock ate and drank before heading away and cleaning the house. “I didn't plan on it..”

Sherlock looks as if John had struck him, and it stings a bit as if John had been too.

“You need rest, and I'm sure I would only keep you up, and you'll be hungover in the morning, so you best be getting the most amount of sleep you can.. W-without me.” John tries to give good reasons, but Sherlock only looks more hurt with each one.

“You’re not staying?” He repeats again.

“I have things to do. You'll wake up tomorrow and see me beside you, alright?” John starts to move away, but Sherlock pulls him back quickly, having moved surprisingly fast, now seated at one of the corners of the bed. 

“Don’t leave me here in all my sorrows. I’ll die without you next to me.” Sherlock whines, trying to tug John closer.

“Your sorrows being not punching Miss. Donovan?” 

“..That, and having to sleep without you here right next to me.” 

“Right. makes sense.” There’s a brief pause as John stands in the doorway, knowing he should move and get to work, but not wanting to leave Sherlock’s side.

“So are you staying or not?” Sherlock waits for a response, and John finds that, once again, he cannot resist those cheekbones. He sighs, slumps his shoulders, and steps towards the bed.

‘You are a weak, weak man.’ A voice plays in his head and John tries to drown it out.

“Alright, scoot over.” Sherlock is visibly overjoyed and is more than happy to oblige. He clumsily climbs over himself, making room for him. John lifts up the covers and takes a seat trying to get comfortable. Sherlock takes this as an opportunity to snuggle in. 

He wraps an arm around John, resting his hand on his lower back, pulling John close while nuzzling his head under his chin.

John can’t help but smile. He takes Sherlock’s free hand and places it on his abdomen, John’s hand resting on top of Sherlock’s. 

“You're very warm.” Sherlock whispers, snuggling in more, much like a cat might, trying to get comfortable.

“Am I now?” John whispers in turn, taking a deep breath in, chest rising and falling slowly. Up and down. Up and down.

“Yes.. You smell nice.” Already seemingly half asleep, Sherlock shuts his eyes slowly, John tracing patterns and shapes only he can name onto Sherlock’s cheek, as if making imaginary lines on a treasure map— A treasure map of fair skin and high cheekbones.

“That tickles.” Sherlock smiles, wiggling just a bit in John's arms. 

“Oh, sorry.” John pulls his hand away, opting to leave it resting on top of Sherlock’s shoulder when Sherlock suddenly moves it back.

“That didn't mean stop.” Sherlock says it with a look in his eyes. The look that makes electricity travel down John’s body every time.

John clears his throat abruptly, flushing a soft pink color that extends to his cheeks. “Yes, uhm, right…”

Sherlock is grinning suddenly and John is unsure if he should be turned on or concerned.

“Don't look at me like that.” John says slowly, but Sherlock doesn't listen— No surprises there— Trailing a hand up and down John’s chest.

“What are you..?”

“Helping you relax.” Sherlock responds, his hand just barely making real contact with the skin, his movements lazy and almost sluggish from his drunken haze, but damn does it feel heavenly

“Sherlock, you are supposed to be sleeping.” His voice quivers when Sherlock trails over his stomach, his blush deepening in color. 

“Aww, but this is so fun.” Sherlock complains not yet pulling his hand away, drawing nearer downwards on John’s body.

“Sherlock.” John warns, grabbing for his hand. He misses the first time, Sherlock smiling like he won the world, but it was short lived. John snatched his hand away the second time, pushing it away. Sherlock pouts.

“You’re no fun.” 

“I'm trying to make sure you get sleep.”

“We can get to sleep after.” Sherlock says it so sweetly and innocently, John rolling his eyes in return.

“You need sleep.”

“I need you, actually.” Sherlock corrected, John nearly laughing out loud.

“Is that a need or a want?” John grins when Sherlock doesn’t speak right away.

“Both, how about that?” Sherlock counters, looking like he might have just won the world.

“That’s against the rules.”

"We've broken into government facilities and you're worried about the morality of romantic partners being intimate? Come on, John, use your head" He said it like he was king, but also like a joke, and John laughs. Shoulders shaking and head bowed, a wide and open smile gracing his lips.

And if Sherlock could, he would marry John all over again.

“Come on, just close your eyes. You need rest.” John rests a hand on Sherlock’s head, fingers brushing through his hair.

“Mmm.. Wait.” Sherlock says, looking into John’s eyes for a long time. “You’ll stay? And I’ll see you when I wake up?” 

“Of course.”

“Swear it?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Good..” Sherlock says, resting his head on John’s chest, hearing his heartbeat slowly, counting each one as if he were counting sheep to fall asleep.

Still threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, John shuts his eyes too, holding him close, feeling his breaths slowly even out, then slow, then his entire body relaxes, a small, barely audible noise escaping every 3 or 4 seconds.

“I love you.” John whispers, soft like he was trying not to break glass. Like if he said it too loud all of this would suddenly disappear, and he would wake up back in his small, stuffy apartment, no Sherlock, no ring, no nothing.

But it doesn’t. They stay there, holding each other gently, Sherlock beginning to dream, and John starting to fall asleep.

*

Waking up, having to squint from the bright, snow reflected light, his headache from being hungover worsening, only to be met with a soft peck to the forehead was not what Sherlock expected to wake up to, but by no means was he complaining.

“Good morning. Are you doing alright?” John says sweetly, Sherlock’s heart picking up pace, seemingly beating all excited like that could somehow free it and drop right into John’s hands.

His heart already was. In his hands. It had been since forever, maybe before they even met.

“You look quite happy.” John smiles once again as he dips down, placing a few more quick kisses all along Sherlock’s forehead.

“That’s because you’re here.” Sherlock says it without thinking. He doesn’t have to. Not when it comes to John. Never.

“Oh, high praise. What did I do to deserve that?”

“You know you can get compliments from me for breathing, John.”

“Of course.” He says, brushing away a few stray curls, from his forehead, grey-ish blue meeting ice blue like clouds touching down on spikes of ice.

Sherlock thinks briefly how anyone could ever look away from those eyes. How he could have dared to look away.

“I’ll go make us breakfast, alright?” John whispers into Sherlock’s skin, kissing him one last time before shifting so his feet hit the ground, walking to the door. Sherlock watches him go, shifting suddenly up on his elbows, ignoring how his head throbs in pain.

“John.” He calls after him, John stopping just in time to not leave without him.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course, I just wanted to go with you.” Sherlock explains, getting off the bed and walking slowly towards John, taking his hand and squeezing it.

John hums, nodding his head. “Alright. Just promise you won’t make me burn breakfast.”

Sherlock gasps, hand over his heart. “How could you accuse me of such things?”

“Because you’re very persuasive.”

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” Sherlock tilts his head, grinning down at John.

“At times.” He says, kissing Sherlock once, then pulling back and going straight back to his lips.

“Mmm.. Guess I don’t even need to use words to persuade you to get distracted.” Sherlock teases, John pulling away suddenly, a small frown on his face.

“You are so mean to me.” John grumbles, crossing his arms.

“You like it. Don’t lie to me.” John sighs loudly, opening the door and taking Sherlock with him.

As soon as they get to the living room, they stop dead in their tracks upon seeing it cleaner than they had left it, gifts under the tree that were not there before, and a note stuck to one of the boxes.

Picking up the sticky note, John peaks at it with Sherlock, reading over the words carefully, noting it looks like Mrs. Hudson’s handwriting.

“Dear Sherlock and John, I hope it wasn’t a bother that I helped clean up your living room a bit, as well as make sure the presents were all under the tree. I also do hope that Sherlock doesn’t feel too bad this morning, (P.S. I’m not your housekeeper!) ~Mrs. Hudson.”

“She did this?” John asks, looking around the room.

“That’s what the note says.”

“We really have to make this up to her..” John says, taking the note into his hands.

“She has been talking about taking a small vacation somewhere.” Sherlock comments, walking toward the tree, grimacing when he spots an ornament Mycroft had given him one Christmas, taking it off the tree and thinking briefly about smashing it.

“What are you doing?” John asks, eyebrow raised, that knowing tone in his voice.

“Nothing.” Sherlock says quickly, setting the ornament down on the table.

John hums skeptically, eyes narrowed for a moment. “You do realize I know when you’re lying, yes?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Who said I was lying.”

John groans loudly. “You are the worst.”

“And yet, here we stand, married and happy.” Sherlock smirks at John, the latter giving him a gentle glare, one Sherlock came to know as, "I love you, you stupid fool”.

“Come on, let's eat and then open presents.” Sherlock takes one of John’s hands, leading him toward the kitchen, stopping when he sees the doorway.

“Sherlock?”

“That woman.” Sherlock mutters, shaking his head fondly, staring up at the very top of the doorway.

“Sherlock what are you going on about?” John says rather impatiently, looking up to where Sherlock’s gaze has fallen. “Oh..” He says quietly, blinking a few times like that could suddenly make it go away.

Hung upon the doorway was a piece of mistletoe, a little bell strung along with it, the ribbon holding it in the air like it was a gift in itself.

“Well.. Hm.. Uhm, yes, that is definitely mistletoe..” John chuckles awkwardly, looking from Sherlock, to the mistletoe, mistletoe to Sherlock.

“Are you nervous?” Sherlock turns, looking at John with a flirty look in his eyes, much like the one from last night, but also with concern simmering on the surface.

“What?”

“Are you nervous?” Sherlock repeats, stepping closer. “This doesn’t have to be something we do, John, if you’re truly nervous we can—Oh.” Stopping momentarily when John grabs his collar, Sherlock raises his arms to John’s waist, holding him. Not pulling, just holding.

“Just kiss me. Please.” John says quickly, and Sherlock reacts instantly, placing his lips on John’s, tugging him closer suddenly, holding John firm against his own body.

They both stand there like that for what feels like only seconds as well as hours, kissing and holding each other with something akin to reverence.. Something Sherlock never thought he would ever experience.

When they both part, breaths coming in quickly to try and regain the air they missed, John is blushing a soft red color, Sherlock looking no better, red stretching from his cheeks to his ears.

“Right..” Clearing his throat briefly, John backs up just barely, Sherlock holding back a laugh. He loved it when John got shy, even embarrassed. He seemed to curl in on himself and seemed to have a permanent blush on his face. “Let's go eat before we get distracted again.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”

As they make their way into the kitchen, John walks over to the coffee machine, turning it on and finding the box of hot cocoa he had bought only a few days prior.

“Sherlock, how rich do you like your hot chocolate?” John asks, taking out two festive mugs for each of them.

“Mmm… How many packets do you have?” Sherlock asks, walking up behind John and wrapping both arms around his waist, head resting on John’s shoulder.

“I have the whole box left.”

“Then two packets are fine. Could you add marshmallows to mine, please?” Sherlock kisses John’s temple for good luck, John smiling over his shoulder and at Sherlock.

“Of course, honey.” 

“Thank you, dear.” Sherlock kisses John once more before watching him, eyes trained on his hands, imagining those same hands doing less.. domestic things.

“You’re staring.” John points out, a smirk on his lips. Sherlock looks away at been caught. “Are my hands really that pretty?” John asks, putting water in their kettle, then proceeding to turn around, both hands resting back on the counter.

“Of course. But not just your hands,” Sherlock moves a hand from John’s waist, up to his arms, placing a kiss to each side, then upward toward his neck, and upwards even further to his face. “Each part of you is perfect.” 

“Oh..” John is slightly tense, a deep blush all across his face, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“You look like you don't believe me.”

“Oh, uhm.. Not at all! I just..” John trails off, moving his head so Sherlock can't see his eyes. 

Sherlock takes one of his hands and tilts John’s head back to look at him. John wiggles under Sherlock’s stare, swallowing back an embarrassing sound.

Sherlock moves forward to kiss John, his other hand moving down towards the very top of his jeans, only to be rudely interrupted by the loud screech from the kettle, nearly scaring John right out of his skin.

“Maybe you should check that.” Sherlock teases, slowly letting go and backing away only a step.

John nods slowly, clearing his throat. “Uhm.. yeah. Yeah.” John nods once again, turning back around, turning off the heat and pouring the water into each cup, adding the hot cocoa to each right after.

“I'll go sit down.” Sherlock moves away, quickly kissing him before walking to the table.

When they both sit down, the cup warms John’s hands, Sherlock taking a sip without even bothering to blow on it first, tongue suddenly bursting with pain.

“Sherlock,” John reprimands, sitting up straighter and offering a hand to Sherlock, which he takes and squeezes gently. “Does it hurt?” John asks shortly after, all the anger, however small, that was in his voice, completely gone.

“I’ll live..” Sherlock says, his tongue still throbbing with pain.

“You must be more careful, Sherlock.” John was already back to disciplining Sherlock.

“You should be pitying me, not reprimanding me.” Sherlock complains, pouting just barely.

“Well maybe you should try and take better care of yourself.” Crossing his arms, John leans back in his chair. Sherlock huffs quietly, a “silent” admit to defeat.

Sherlock stares into his mug, watching the liquid like it might suddenly reveal the secrets of the world to him, when suddenly he rises from his seat.

“Sherlock?” 

“I’ll be right back, John.” Sherlock says quickly, leaving his mug right where it was and rushing out of the room, John getting up and watching him go, unsure if he should follow.

Sherlock comes back no more than 15 seconds later, holding a small bag with two cookies inside, which he hands to John.

“Are these..?”

“Mycroft’s — well my mother’s, cookies. I saved them for you.”

“You..” John isn’t sure what to say, really. It was sweet that Sherlock had saved him not one, but two cookies.

“If you don’t want them—”

“No!” John clears his throat, trying again, “No, I want them. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Anything for you, dear.” Sherlock says softly, guiding him back to the table. “Now drink some more.”

“It will still be hot, honey.”

“Last I checked you don’t put honey in hot cocoa.” Sherlock teases as he sits down, John laughing despite wanting to hit Sherlock (gently) for that joke.

“Oh just say you want to finish quickly so you can open presents.” John says, sitting down again, opening the bag and eating a cookie. They were delicious, and John can see why Sherlock hoarded them all for himself like some kind of dragon.

“That’s not true.” Sherlock says, lying through his teeth.

“Remember what I said about you not being able to lie to me?” 

“Why would I ever lie to you?” Sherlock asks innocently.

“For many reasons, I would assume.”

“Honestly, I feel betrayed. You think so low of me.” Sherlock pretends to wipe away a tear, sniffling for added dramatic flare.

John was going to kill that man. Or fuck him. Or both… Maybe leaning closer to that ‘fuck him’ option.

“I still love you, you know.” John sips a bit of his drink, finding it pleasantly hot, the liquid traveling down his body slowly, warming him inside and out.

“I love you more.” Sherlock counters, staring at John, daring him to say it back.

“No, I'm not playing this game with you.” John shakes his head, taking another sip from the mug,

“You are no fun.”

“Uh, no, I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast.”

“Fine, fine, enjoy your breakfast.” Sherlock takes a long sip from his own cup, luckily not burning himself further.

They sit in a rather pleasant silence for a while, having almost finished their drinks when John speaks up.

“You’ve been staring at my face. Is there something on it?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, rising from his chair and walking in front of John, bending down a bit to reach him. “There is.” 

Sherlock kisses John right then, slow and deep, John moving a hand to keep Sherlock there.

“Merry Christmas, John.” Sherlock whispers into the kiss.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” John whispers back, pulling him in further, the two kissing for a while longer.