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The Holmes household smelled like Christmas.
Every room seemed to smell of something different. The study smelled like peppermint and the library smelled of oranges. The den smelled like the freshly cut fir tree that stood proud in front of the bay window, adorned with lights and ornaments. The dining room smelled like cranberries and the kitchen smelled like turkey and roasting potatoes.
Sherlock loved the smell of Christmas. It was his favourite time of the year, although he would never admit it. And he’d make sure to kill Mycroft if he ever told anyone.
John knew, though. John knew everything.
Though it was his favourite time, he hated that it took him away from John. Sherlock could only hope he’d get to spend Christmas with John one day when they were older and living on their own. They’d make their own traditions that would live on for years and years.
Sherlock’s heart fluttered and throbbed at the same time. He hadn’t seen John in over a week – not since winter break began. Sure, they talked every day, but it wasn’t the same. And their messages were a little sporadic today as both of them were helping prepare dinners with their families.
“Sherlock,” his mum sang out.
He blinked a few times, startled, and looked down at the eggs he had now overbeat.
“Where is your head at, crumpet?”
His mum was the only one allowed to use pet names with him.
“Nowhere, mum.”
“Mmm, sure,” she chuckled. “Wouldn’t be daydreaming of a certain blond boy, hmm?”
Sherlock’s cheeks turned as red as the cranberry sauce and Mrs. Holmes giggled.
“What’s he got planned this Christmas?”
“Family stuff,” Sherlock shrugged. “With his sister and his dad.”
Sherlock pushed aside the ruined eggs and started over, concentrating. He’d been his mum’s helper during the holidays for as long as he could remember. Now, at 19, it was simply habit. It was comforting. His mum had always been his favourite person. Until John came around, she was the only one who treated him like a normal human being. She loved him unconditionally, in ways no one ever had before, and he was always thankful for that.
He never expected he’d find that same kind of love in the form of friendship. John is his only friend and has been the only friend he’s ever really had.
Lost in his thoughts again, his mum rested her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder when the eggs were ready. Instead of chastising him for not paying attention or for making a mistake, she treated him with respect and adapted to how he behaved. It was a constant in his life that he needed. No one was ever patient with him and it often sent him into a self-destruct mode. Sometimes John was less patient, but he tried.
And that was enough for Sherlock.
“Will you set the table for me, dove?”
“Yes, mum.”
Most people thought that their Christmas dinners were elaborate and crowded, but really, it was simple and intimate. Aside from his parents and brother, the only other people who came were Sherlock’s maternal grandparents and his aunt on his father’s side. It was almost always pleasant.
Sherlock finished setting the table, complete with folded napkins, and headed straight back into the kitchen to see what he could do next to help.
Before he could sit down to chop up some vegetables, the doorbell rang.
This was the part he liked the least about the holidays. It wasn’t that he disliked the rest of his family – he liked them very much and they got on decently, but it was exhausting to be social. By the end of the night, he’d be as useful as a broken clock.
Sherlock rushed to the door, knowing that the weather was rather frightful.
Greeting him on the other side of it was John.
Snow had covered his hair and shoulders and he was shivering, tears frozen to his cheeks and his nose red and chafed. There wasn’t a car in sight and Sherlock suspected then that John had walked twenty five minutes in the freezing cold, barely done up in any winter clothing.
“John?” Sherlock gasped. “John, come in.”
When John didn’t move, Sherlock gently grasped John’s forearms and pulled him inside the house. Once inside, John collapsed to his knees, and Sherlock collapsed with him, ridding him of his damp jacket.
“John, what happened?”
John shook his head, unable to speak, and Sherlock inched closer, throwing his arms around John and pulling him in close, trying to warm him up and comfort him at the same time.
They sat entwined for nearly ten minutes before John finally stopped shivering and pulled away, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper.
Slowly, Sherlock started to push himself up and held his hand out for John, who didn’t hesitate to take it.
“Go on up to my room and find something to change into, I’ll be up with some tea in a moment, okay?”
John nodded solemnly and trudged up the stairs, sniffling, and Sherlock ran into the kitchen to tell his mother something was wrong. Instead of tea, she made them some hot cocoa with marshmallows and set up a plate of treats. Sherlock hugged his mum and managed to bring everything back to his room without spilling or dropping anything.
When he got to his room, John was sitting on Sherlock’s bed in a pair of Sherlock’s pajama pants and a jumper that Sherlock never looked twice at. It looked better on John. Sherlock set the plate of treats onto the middle of the bed and gently sat down beside John, handing him the steaming cup of cocoa.
“W—we don’t have to talk. If you don’t want to,” Sherlock whispered.
John took a sip of his drink and then placed it on Sherlock’s nightstand. Sherlock’s heart was breaking for John and he didn’t even know why – and it didn’t even matter. John quietly laid his head in Sherlock’s lap.
“My dad got drunk tonight,” John’s voice broke. “T-things…they got really ugly. I left. I—I’m so sorry I crashed your Christmas, Sherlock.”
“Oh, John,” Sherlock said, running his hands over John’s hair. “You don’t need to be sorry. You can stay here.”
John whimpered and tears fell from his eyes again.
“I’m so tired, Sherlock.”
“I know. I know you are.”
John fell asleep in Sherlock’s lap until it was time for dinner, where John indeed joined them for their festivities. Sherlock found it impossible to miss the fake smiles and the persistent tears in John’s eyes. His family was kind enough not to mention it and carried on as though nothing was different.
Everybody had finished eating and Mycroft cleared the table. His father put on the kettle and his mum prepared the desserts.
Sherlock inched his chair closer to John’s under the pretence of showing him some stupid cat video on his mobile. And while they watched, they held hands under the table.
And for the first time all night, Sherlock saw a real smile grace John’s lovely face.
Some day, they would have their own Christmas.
It would be just the two of them.