Work Text:
Seventeen steps have never felt like so many, or so steep, or so cold.
Granted, Sherlock is wet, tired, freezing, and running on six cups of disgusting Yard coffee and two Hobnobs he stole from Molly’s not-so-secret stash in her desk. He grumbles under his breath as his shoes squish up the stairs and an icy drop of water drips from the ends of his hair and rolls down his collar.
He’s in such a foul mood he’s through the door and hanging his coat on the peg before he notices. Cinnamon and clove, the warm, lush scent of wine, and he’s lost, transported.
Mycroft with a beautifully detailed cup. Mummy and Father had presented it to him with great ceremony, smiling in that way they had when they were particularly pleased. Sherlock was impatient to receive his own cup, too, but at only five years old his cup held only hot cocoa, not the steaming spiced brew of Mycroft’s. “Only a sip, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, as their parents left the room to bring the roast to the table, and Sherlock had coughed and spluttered at the shock of it, leaving them both giggling.
“Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock, you in there?” John’s voice cuts through, drags him back to the present, the soft glow of strands of white fairy lights draped over the mantel highlighting a pair of candlesticks (John’s own, inherited) on either end, evergreen boughs in a spray hanging in front of the mirror.
Oh. Of course.
“You completely forgot it was Christmas Eve, didn’t you?” John looks amused, verging on a laugh, but he looks like that so often these days, a secretive little smile perched at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve been working since yesterday morning. Dates are irrelevant.” He unbuttons his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. The rain has seeped through his shirt, cold and clinging and uncomfortable. John gives him a look of pursed-lipped concern and crosses the room to pick up his hand. Sherlock shivers once, hard.
“Go take a hot shower, all right?” John says. “Then come back and we’ll have supper and then you can go collapse somewhere for the night.”
Sherlock nods, but as he passes through the kitchen his nose is caught again by the scent of the mulled wine simmering gently away on the hob. The smell is incredibly comforting, and he stops to dip up a cup.
“Hey, now, that’s for later,” John protests, and there’s that smile again, and Sherlock smiles back.
“Bah,” he starts, then takes a sip and it’s absolutely perfect, made with ruby-red port wine and heavy on the nutmeg. It’s so stunningly good, in fact, he stops walking a moment.
“I should have warned you, my gran likes the sweet stuff,” John starts, but Sherlock cuts across him.
“No, it’s…no. It’s … very good,” he says, because explaining his parent’s tradition of mulling a hideously expensive bottle of port every year at Christmas until the year his father died isn’t something he thinks he can choke out at the moment. But the cup in his hand tastes like home, of bright fires and cheer, of twinkling lights and a comforting, safe warmth that he’d not expected to feel ever again.
He forces a brief smile and retreats to the safety of the shower, leaving John staring curiously after him.
…………………………………………………………….
Sherlock gets out of the shower once it threatens to start running cold, and he’s finally warm, dry, and comfortable for the first time in three days. His pyjamas are threadbare, soft old friends, and he puts on the warmer, red dressing gown in concession to the season. When he reaches the sitting room he finds that John really wasn’t kidding about the supper.
Dishes of roast beef and potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts, fluffy white yeast rolls of the sort that went out years ago as monstrously unhealthy, crowd their little table. The books on ciphers, books Sherlock called in from libraries all across the country, have been cleared out of the way and piled neatly on the floor in the same organized stacks Sherlock had left them in. On each plate is a brightly wrapped Christmas cracker. He realizes he’s been staring and completely silent much too long when John starts fidgeting with a bottle of wine.
“Is this … I thought it’d be nice, as we’re both here, Harry in Inverness and all and Mycroft not exactly bursting with good cheer if last year is any indication.”
Sherlock chokes a laugh, dear God, John is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous and the last time Sherlock had a proper Christmas of any sort he was seventeen and trying to keep the needy, addicted twitch in his fingers from his mother’s sharp eye.
“I hope you remembered the Yorkshires,” is all Sherlock says, because the hollow within is suddenly howling. He snatches a roll from the basket and tears off a piece.
John’s smile finally breaks into a laugh. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, and pours the wine. “Special occasion, and Mrs. Hudson did the bread.”
They eat, Sherlock settling into his chair and filling his plate with more food than he’d eaten in the previous week. John watches him with amusement, wearing a silly paper hat and keeping the tiny plastic bee he’d gotten from his cracker tucked under a side of his plate. “I’ll hide it around the flat where you least expect to find it,” John says, and Sherlock declares there’s no possible way John could hide it in such a way Sherlock couldn’t find it, all the while plotting how to steal it by the end of the night. Its easily the most comfortable, comforting meal he’s had in years.
They decide to leave the clearing up until later, because they’re both relaxed in front of the cheery little fire with cups of beautifully spiced wine and John is watching Sherlock explain his latest case so attentively Sherlock can feel the glow of it spreading out through his fingers. The flat is quiet, and the lull in the conversation is comfortable, soft, and Sherlock sinks into it, content to watch the flames leap and spark in the fireplace as he starts to file away bits and pieces of his case in his mind palace.
When he is next aware, John is standing next to his chair. Sherlock is flustered for a moment because he suspects John has been standing there for quite some time, he does so get lost in his own head sometimes, John knows this, and as he tilts his head back to meet John’s gaze more fully, John takes a deep breath, leans over and kisses him.
It’s a soft kiss, a wine-flavored kiss, a sweet press of John’s mouth against his. It makes Sherlock flush, it makes him tremble, and he shudders against the rush of adrenaline that slides down his spine.
John pulls away and Sherlock finds he’s having trouble opening his eyes. The tide of arousal he’s feeling is a shock, almost painful in its intensity, and it leaves him feeling hollow, queasy.
“I …” he starts, and he honestly isn’t sure what he’s about to say, but the look of fond, wistful regret on John’s face stops him.
“Go to bed, Sherlock,” John says. “Happy Christmas. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Sherlock does. He crawls into sheets shockingly cold compared to the warmth of the sitting room, blue shadows highlighting the walls of his room. He watches the lights of the city shift and change behind his curtains, and he thinks, about John, about the softness of his lips and the bright joy of his humor, the simmering grumpiness of his temper, the spark of his intelligence and the priceless value of his friendship. It’s a pretty problem, but Sherlock is good at this, at weighing evidence and motivations and examining priorities, and by the time the sun stains the sky a bright, rosy pink, he’s fairly sure he’s sorted it all out to his satisfaction.
………………………………………….
The next morning, Christmas morning, and Sherlock’s stomach erupts in fluttering nerves as soon as John reaches the sitting room. He’s dressed in one of his hideous Christmas jumpers—green this time, dear Lord, with holly even, and the light in his eyes has Sherlock scrambling backward in his own mind to try to remember why he’d decided this was all such a bad idea to start with.
“Good morning,” John says, and his face falls when he meets Sherlock’s eyes.
“John, I… let me just say that…” Sherlock starts, and gestures helplessly. How can this be so damned difficult?
John blushes, smiles a tight little smile. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I understand. I just thought… well. Too much wine. I hope I didn’t …”
“No, not at all.”
“Let’s just forget it happened, okay?”
Sherlock nods. Yes. Moving on, get things back to normal, exactly as he wanted last night. John as part and parcel of the Work, a friend to rely on without anything more complicated making even more of a hash of things when Sherlock fucks up, because to be frank, he always fucks up and generally at the worst times imaginable. John as his friend can at least leave, find refuge somewhere else, until he forgives and forgets. Sleeping with someone, allowing them into your life, your bed—well, escape is not so easy.
But when John pats his shoulder and gathers up bags of gifts and hat and coat for his trip to the elderly care home to see his gran, the slam of the front door echoes in Sherlock’s heart with finality.
………………………………………………………………………………….
Winter wears on to spring and things are normal. Well, sort of normal.
Sherlock finds that as time goes on and John makes absolutely no sign or signal that he’s got any feelings toward Sherlock other than a friendly camaraderie, he spends more and more time thinking about Christmas, and wonders if he’d made the right choice. He tries to ignore the tug on his heart, the completely irrational affection he feels when John leaves him notes in the fridge or on his equipment —This is the last time. Biohazard materials in the bottom drawer only—but it keeps intruding into his mind at the most inconvenient times.
Yes, they still move around each other in perfect synchronicity, and Sherlock admits to himself one warm spring day that he’s never been more content, more alive, more satisfied in the presence of any other person in his life.
Except when he watches the shift of John’s back under his t-shirt, the smooth play of muscles more defined than they had been a year ago, and the heat that suffuses his body he’s sure has nothing to do with friendship. He thought he’d firmly buried any lingering inconvenient attraction far in the back of his mind, but when John falls asleep on his shoulder in a cab at two in the morning, his soft hair under Sherlock’s nose and smelling of sandalwood and leather, it roars back with a fury that leaves Sherlock helpless, battered about in the wake left behind when John passes too near.
He can admit he loves him.
…...................................................................
That Earth-shaking revelation, then, leads to a problem, and one that Sherlock realizes should be solved quickly, before John’s dates turn into girlfriends or boyfriends, because sometimes girlfriends or boyfriends can turn into wives or husbands while your back is turned. Every time John hums happily at the mirror as he shaves, splashes on a little gift cologne Mrs. Hudson bought him for Christmas, Sherlock is drawn back to that night by the fire, and the way John’s touch had made the world stand still.
Every detail is burned into his mind like a photograph, every book, every paper, every sparkle and reflection of fairy lights against the glass and china and silver. The way the wine had warmed him, made him feel flush and languid, almost tranquil, until the soft touch of John’s lips had narrowed his focus and expanded his heart, and everything else around them had melted away for a single, breathless moment.
Sherlock can’t seem to remember one without the other, and as summer has worn on and John’s dates seem to be centered around the same woman, Claire, and as smiles and quiet chats on the phone with her start leading to later and later nights, Sherlock frets and paces and tears at his regrets. He sifts through and discards various ways to tell John he was wrong, that turning him down was a mistake, but all of the various scenarios he manages to come up with smack of desperation. John should be left in no doubt of his sincerity, he reasons, and as he throws open his bedroom window one night so he can perch on the sill and have a single contemplative and nerve-calming cigarette, he has a flash of inspiration so gloriously genius it almost exceeds even his own high standards.
He can’t think of Christmas without regret, and he can’t think of John without remembering Christmas. So, the best way to correct an error is to go back, reset conditions, and complete the action again, this time properly.
Sherlock dashes from his room and clatters down the stairs, slamming the door behind him before calling impatiently for a cab.
Oh, this is absolutely brilliant.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
At least, it seems brilliant until four days into the enterprise he can’t find the correct Christmas crackers.
He’s located the port, ordered a roast of the correct weight with potatoes and sprouts and carrots all to come with, quietly rousted John’s family candlesticks from where they are packed under his bed and smuggled all of the fairy lights out of the basement. The books on ciphers are quickly recalled and hidden under his bed. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to make more rolls in exchange for a bottle of sherry. But the damn crackers, wrapped in green shiny paper and tied on the ends with silver ribbon with holly on, are nowhere to be found. Not on the internet, not in any shop of any sort he’s prowled around in town.
It’s absolutely maddening. Everything else has slipped into place more easily than Sherlock could have hoped for, especially when John says he’s on rota Friday evening at seven, the Friday Sherlock has chosen for this entire enterprise to come together.
“Which means I’m not available, Sherlock,” John admonishes as he picks up his wallet and keys from the mantel. “No calling me because you’re too bored to entertain yourself. I got in trouble the last time by reading out cases and letting you guess diseases, and I’m not doing it again.”
Sherlock tries to look bored. “Fine,” he says, and waves his hand dismissively. “Go look at some mysterious rashes again, have a fantastic time.”
“Yes, thank you,” John says, and that smile is back, the little one at the corners of his mouth. “That woman had full-blown lynphangitis, poor thing.” He shudders, and Sherlock cracks a smile, because John gets a bit twitchy around skin things, which Sherlock finds hilarious because John Watson can dig in blood and muscle and organs without batting an eye, but rashes make him gag.
“Hope there’s pus,” Sherlock adds cheerfully.
“One day, Sherlock Holmes, I will find the thing that turns your stomach, and then you’d better watch out. Remember, I am a doctor. You wouldn’t believe what I have access to.”
“Promises, promises,” Sherlock calls out, and John flips him the bowfinger and turns to clatter down the stairs.
As soon as the door closes Sherlock races for his bedroom and drags out the fairy lights, the candlesticks and the evergreen spray he’d ordered in from the florists, and hangs it all up around the flat in a perfect recreation of the Christmas Eve he can’t seem to forget. The cipher books on the floor are stacked in exactly the same ordered piles, and he tips a sheaf of notes over the top. Moves one sheet under the table, where one had been previous.
Clearing the table is easier; he’d been moving things off it for the last week and John hadn’t even noticed. The plates and cups and silverware set, a bottle of Moulin-a-vent open and breathing. Two hours until the caterer arrives with the food.
Just enough time to set the port on the hob to simmer, drop in ground nutmeg and a bundle of cinnamon sticks and orange peels. Two hours really isn’t enough time for it to develop the flavors to their prime, but it should be enough to make the flat smell magnificent and invoke the proper atmosphere.
Sherlock steps back to take a look at his handiwork, and frowns. Something isn’t right, something is not quite meshing properly with the scene as he saw it before. The fire is laid and will be lit closer to time, the fairy lights are… on, but not quite as bright…
Ah, the light. It’s still light outside, and will be for hours yet, unlike at Christmas when it’s dark by four in the afternoon. Sherlock pulls the curtains, tucks the edges in to block any little seeps of light, and finds a sheet of cardboard to cover the kitchen window. It’s not perfect, but it’s nicely dim and quiet, the curtains muffling the traffic noise outside. The drawback is that heat is starting to rise now that the windows are closed.
Sherlock takes one last look around, satisfied, until he catches sight of the bare plates, and sighs.
“Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson calls from the door, and she’s brought the rolls, perfect. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s lovely! I know you said you needed these rolls specifically, but…it’s Christmas! Is this one of your experiments?”
“…Yes,” Sherlock says, because honestly, if this absolutely falls flat, the fewer people who know about it the better. “I’m testing memory—mine, and John’s.”
“Well, it looks just the same to me,” she says, and crosses the room to put the rolls on the table. “But, well, dear, I think you forgot the crackers.”
“I couldn’t find the ones we had, so I decided none was better than having the wrong ones.” Sherlock drops into his chair, huffs out an annoyed breath.
Mrs. Hudson gives him an indulgent smile. “You would, ridiculous man. You just sit right there, and I’ll be right back.” She bustles off down the stairs, and Sherlock can hear her clack across the floor to her kitchen, from the sound of it. He really needs to take a shower, he thinks, because the caterer will be here in an hour and he can’t miss it. What is taking her so long?
Mrs. Hudson comes back, and in her hands are two, shiny, green wrapped crackers, tied with silver ribbon and holly.
“John got them from me, and I have quite a few left. If I’d known, I’d have told you sooner.”
“Oh, you are absolutely brilliant!” Sherlock says, kisses her cheek, and ceremoniously places one cracker on each plate. There. Perfect. He beams at Mrs. Hudson, and she smiles back, pleased and a little bit smug.
“There’s more to this than an experiment, isn’t there?” she asks, and Sherlock is taken aback by her sudden perceptiveness. But her smile is kind and without a trace of judgment, and he can’t truly lie, not to her.
“Yes, there is. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but right now I need you to get out because I have more to do.” He puts his arm around her shoulders and gently steers her toward the door.
“Fine,” she huffs. “And be sure you get Amontillado, not cream. By Thursday.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, I promise.” He closes the door and leans against it. One hour.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The last hour disappears quickly as Sherlock showers, puts on his old pyjama bottoms and t-shirt and red dressing gown and tries not to sweat. The food comes and he pops the lot into the oven. Fifteen minutes until John is off work, thirty until he’d make it home if he walks. Sherlock lights the fire in the grate and the temperature goes from warm to blazing in a matter of minutes.
Sherlock paces, nerves setting in and second thoughts swirling. What if John hates it? What if he’s gotten over his feelings and just laughs? Or, worse, tries to let Sherlock down gently? No, Sherlock is fairly certain none of those are likely to happen. He’s seen John’s eyes slide away from where they’d been watching him far, far too often, even if he was pretending not to be looking as closely as he had, and the contented sigh when he fell asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder was the sound of someone who was exactly where he wanted to be.
The creak of the front door sets his heart racing, and each creaking step makes him twitch. He stands by the mantel, poised, waiting, and feels the sweat roll down his neck.
“Sherlock?” John calls, as he opens the door. “What the hell are you up to now? It’s blazing in…” He trails off as his eyes take in the state of the flat, dawning confusion on his face. “Oh. It’s… Christmas. Again. Of course it is.”
Sherlock swallows and works up his courage with a deep breath. They should eat first. They should, then sit down with wine and start all over again. But John looks warmly, softly beautiful in the flickering firelight, and sod the dinner, just sod it all, and he takes John by the hand and leads him to his chair. John sits, surprised and curious when Sherlock hands him a cup of mulled wine and sits in his chair opposite.
“Christ, you even found the crackers, and, and, the books,” John says. “And when did you get my candlesticks? What’s all this in aid of?”
Sherlock takes a deep swallow of wine. “Recreating exact conditions.”
“Christmas Eve is an exact condition? Condition of what?” A little curl of suspicion is starting to form on John’s face, and he looks for a moment like he can’t decide whether to laugh or make a run for it.
“Kiss me again,” Sherlock demands, because he’s out of words for the first time in his life and his chest is tight and he’s ready to crawl out of his skin with anticipation.
“What? You said—“
“I know what I said. Kiss me again.” Why isn’t this working, this should work, he realizes what I’m asking please John. “Please.”
John grins, big and bright and blinding, and he stands next to Sherlock’s chair, slides his palm along Sherlock’s jaw and tilts his head up. Sherlock closes his eyes, heart hammering in his ears and waits, waits, barely breathing until John finally kisses him softly, achingly slowly, his other hand sliding around the back of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair.
This isn’t like the last kiss, it’s better. Shockingly so, sweet and full and passionate. Sherlock is lost in the swirl of sensation, a starburst, a sunburst, radiating from his stomach outward, the tingling radiating down to his fingertips, his toes, and isn’t he supposed to be saying something?
“Yes. I’m saying yes,” he says, and John chuckles against his lips.
“You’re mad.” John looks around. “It’s lovely.”
“I wanted another chance. “
“Then you’ve got one,” John says, and sinks onto his lap to kiss him again. “Merry Christmas.”