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John is working on little food and zero sleep as he pours the previous evening’s Malbec dregs down the drain. He swallows hard as the red rivulets slither their way down the gentle curve of the sink, biting back bile, bad memories, and too many regrets to voice on an evening meant to be all things merry and bright.
It was a child. Girl. Four-years-old. Strangled to death by a man her six-year-old brother (and only witness) claimed to be Father Christmas. For Christmas Eve of John’s first year back at Baker Street, it’s not exactly the case he had been hoping would fall into their laps before Sherlock got bored and started shooting the walls - but the boredom never manifested and the case came anyway. Murders involving children in any capacity are no one’s cup of tea and, given the events of his own life, everyone expected John to fall apart. He could hear it in the tone of Greg’s voice over the phone telling them they didn’t have to come, could see it in the way Donovan withheld her not-quite-as-biting-anymore greeting upon their arrival.
Yes, everyone expected John to go to pieces, perhaps even John himself, and the only reason he didn’t was because Sherlock beat him to it:
“She was just a child!” Sherlock roars, long fingers gripping the collar of the suspect (neighbor) and shaking him violently, “And you let her down!” John’s arms come across his chest from behind as Greg works at prying his fingers off the cloth. They succeed after several moments of struggle and John wrestles him as far away from the perpetrator as Sherlock’s flailing limbs will allow.
By the time the furiously brilliant and brilliantly furious man sags in his arms, John barely has enough strength to keep them both on their feet.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into his hair, hands still clasped over Sherlock’s thundering heart. “It’s all right, I’ve got you.”
They had returned from the scene physically and emotionally drained, but John’s hand could never quite stray far from Sherlock’s body: the grip on his bicep leading him away from the scene, the careful way he made sure Sherlock didn’t bang his head as he ducked into the cab, a hand on his knee as they made their way back to Baker Street in loaded silence.
Sherlock had disappeared immediately upon arrival, shuffling down the hallway towards his bedroom without the exuberance or high of a case solved quickly. Because though it had been quick, it had also been too late, and the memory of the little girl in her Christmas jim-jams leaves an ache in John’s chest too sharp and too familiar to ignore.
He hears the taps in the bath turn on and he stops cleaning, resting his palms on the counter, inhaling a rattling breath, and letting his chin drop to his chest as tears prick the corners of his eyes. Thirty seconds. That’s all he allows himself to mourn. Frankly, he’s done enough mourning over the last few months, but whatever penance he must be paying never seems to stop coming back and asking for more.
The taps turn off in the loo and all is quiet. John frowns and strains to hear. All is too quiet. Wiping his eyes, he sticks his head in the hall and listens to the slight upset of water on the other side of the door. Sherlock’s reaction to the case had been a complete break in protocol, not that there’s a right way to act when faced with something like that. But John saw the haunted look in his eyes and the fury that lined his face. It wasn’t a huge leap to figure out who Sherlock was actually speaking to or about when he roared, “You let her down.”
He takes a step and then another in a dance he’s done too often to count recently, but he never quite manages to reach his destination. He can never quite buck up the courage to say what needs to be said. To knock on the door that is closed, but not locked. Never locked.
He sighs as he comes to a stop outside the loo and presses a palm against the worn wood. Neither of them should be alone tonight. After all, it’s Christmas Eve and a fraught one at that. He can hear the low tones of the holiday radio station filtering up from Mrs. Hudson’s flat as Frank Sinatra launches into a melancholy ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
From now on, our troubles will be out of sight”
If not now, when? he thinks as he holds his breath and lets a knuckle lightly rap against the door.
He thinks he hears a hum, so he cracks it open, not entirely sure what he’s expecting, but the sight of Sherlock in his suit in a full bathtub with his knees pulled up to his chest is not it.
“Oh, Sherlock…” he breaths, stepping forward and quietly shutting the door behind him.
The great detective’s shoulders are hunched as his arms wrap around his shins. He had at least shed his shoes and socks but the bottom half of the rest of his bespoke suit is well on its way to ruined.
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the Yuletide gay
From now on, our troubles will be miles away”
Without another word, John pulls his jumper over his head, letting it drop to the lino with a muffled thunk and then goes to work on the button of his trousers. If Sherlock notices, he gives no indication.
Stripped to his pants and vest, John steps forward and places a foot in the limited space Sherlock’s folded body has left behind him, a last chance to say ‘If you don’t want this, say the word.’ But Sherlock’s only response is to scoot forward and John takes it as the invitation it is, putting his other foot into the warm water and settling gingerly behind the lanky man whose shaking body he pulls to his chest. Sherlock goes limply yet willingly, resting under John’s chin as John’s fingers comb his hair away from his forehead.
“Here we are as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more”
John closes his eyes as Sherlock’s shaking slowly subsides. After a moment, the man sighs and John can feel his lungs expand beneath the palm not currently carding through Sherlock’s curls.
He doesn’t know what this means for them. He knows what he wants it to mean, but he also knows that the sole reason he knocked on that door was to make sure Sherlock was first and foremost all right. Anything that comes out of it, any words said or unsaid, is just one more step on the journey towards the destination John knows they’re heading for. The destination they’ve always been heading for, if he’s honest with himself.
“Through the years we all will be together
If the fates allow
So hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now”
After a moment, John’s fingers deftly flick open Sherlock’s suit jacket before he nudges the man forward and works the material down his sodden arms.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” Sherlock whispers hoarsely and John smiles, leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss on the back of his neck, before pulling him back again and dropping the heavy jacket over the side.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he replies, a little surprised with himself at the ease of the admission, “but not tonight.”
They stay like that until well after the water goes cold, until Sherlock starts shivering in earnest again, and so John wraps them each in a towel and helps to peel the clothes from their bodies. They dress in pajamas (John stealing a pair of Sherlock’s), grab a couple of blankets, and pad back into the living room, where the lights from the tree Mrs. Hudson made them get wink in the surrounding darkness.
London is quiet. John feels like they’re the only two in the world.
He builds a fire and then sinks down onto the blankets next to Sherlock, pulling him to his chest once more as the radio downstairs comes back around to ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ again, Judy Garland this time.
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light”
Wordlessly, he threads his fingers through Sherlock’s longer ones and presses a kiss to the back of his hand. Sherlock sighs and burrows further into the cotton of John’s shirt.
“From now on, our troubles will be out of sight”