Chapter Text
John thought it was perfectly obvious why he needed a little extra dose of holiday cheer this year.
He felt that he deserved the full experience. He wanted freshly baked cookies (made from readymade dough - he was ambitious, not insane), he wanted Christmas music, he wanted fairy lights, he wanted Christmas markets, he wanted hand-written wish lists, he wanted roasted chestnuts and he wanted a live Christmas tree.
He almost wanted to go to an ice-skating rink but that idea stranded on him not having a suitable partner for the venture, and middled aged men on their own in the skating rink were members of a demography John preferred to avoid.
But the rest of it was hardly too much to ask?
There is comfort in rituals and there is nothing quite as ritualised as Christmas.
The only thing John didn't get was why Sherlock needed to be such a little shit about it.
He scoffed when John ordered himself a cinnamon latte at Starbucks.
He made fun of the chocolate chip cookies - and then proceeded to eat them all during the middle of the night.
John even suspected him of eating the wrapping paper, because that was the only explanation for how quickly it seemed to be disappearing.
But still, John made do. He trudged on, hell-bent on holiday cheer. He couldn't even understand why Sherlock was being such a Grinch about it - he hadn't been the last time they'd been living together. But now he seemed to have an angry bee in his holiday bonnet.
“John, I'm... I'm terribly sorry to have to inform you, but Father Christmas...” Sherlock faked wiping a tear from his cheek. “He... He didn't make it. I'm sorry. The… It was the laws of physics that got him in the end. It was… It was ugly, I’m told.”
John, who was putting up their stockings on the mantelpiece, glared.
And then he glared again, every morning after that, when Sherlock gleefully pointed out the coal someone had taken great pleasure in placing inside John’s stocking.
John made some feeble attempts to find Sherlock’s secret stock of coal, but to no avail.
At the Yard's Christmas Party everyone got roaring drunk on mulled wine, which was a colossally stupid idea, considering how much mulled wine you need to consume in order to get properly drunk. Meaning that everyone was both quite drunk and faintly nauseated.
Sherlock stood in a corner of the room and made deductions - mainly about how long it would be until particular members of the force would vomit.
John didn't find that it added to his holiday cheer.
“Sherlock, I'm sure the answer seems perfectly obvious to you - but indulge me. Why are you trying to ruin Christmas?” he asked. He took care not to sound mad, because he didn’t want to start a row, just curious.
“I'm not. I'm merely pointing out the factors that are already in place, clear to steer the whole thing into its inevitable destruction.”
“The inevitable destruction of Christmas?”
“Mhm.”
“Well, stop it. This is a nice party, the walk home will be lovely in the dark with the lights and tonight is a good night. Could you just... I don't know. Don't be a prick? I wouldn't want to have to put you on my naughty list.” John winked at Sherlock who ducked his head and... Blushed?
John shrugged it off as he winced in sympathy as Donovan struggled past them, looking vaguely green and heading for the loos.
The next morning John had a nice lie-in and then put on a brand new pair of holiday socks, shrugged on his dressing gown and made his way downstairs.
He found his flatmate where he was busy writing case notes on John’s fresh stack of blank Christmas cards.
John rubbed his temples.
“Okay, Scrooge. We need to talk.”
Sherlock grunted.
John grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and slammed it on the floor with a loud bang when he repositioned it. Sherlock twitched at the sound.
“I’ve told you that this is important to me. And I’d like to have your help in celebrating this holiday, okay?”
Sherlock said nothing.
“Are you with me?”
“Why? You’ll do it regardless.”
“Yeah, but I’d like your help.” John purposefully didn’t use the word family, but it was there, just at the tip of his tongue and he imagined that Sherlock could sense it lurking there.
“You’re not even religious.”
“It’s not about that,” John said patiently.
Sherlock said nothing.
John was still a bit hung over, he hadn’t had anything for breakfast and he would like to get through this conversation and carry on with his Sunday. With proper holiday cheer, thank you very much.
“Sherlock, I am going to set some aims for this Christmas, okay? There are some basic things I'd like to achieve, and I'd prefer it if you helped me achieve them.”
Sherlock didn't even reply.
John continued, undeterred.
“I think that you'll get a reward if you'll help me, is that agreeable?”
Sherlock mumbled something from his chair.
“What was that?”
“I said: I'm not a child.”
“No, but you're still human,” John said, “as much as you like to pretend that you're not. Humans work in a pretty simple way. When we do something and the result is pleasant, we'll likely do it again. So I'll give you a reward for helping me make our home nice and pleasant during December, and you'll get something you'll like in return. In addition to all the niceness the experiment will create in and of itself. Therefore - you'll probably be more willing to do this again next Christmas. It's a win-win situation.”
Again Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible from the chair.
“Sorry?”
“I said it's not an experiment. Not a proper one. Are you even sure you got a proper classical education as a physician, John? You should, even after all these years, retain even a hazy notion of what qualifies as an experiment.”
“Oy, did you just call me old?”
Sherlock glared at him.
Not only was he glaring, he was also working himself into a pout.
“You can choose your reward now, if you'd like.”
Something changed in Sherlock’s face, when John said that.
“Anything I want?” Sherlock's voice was low and he didn't meet John's eye.
John could feel himself holding his breath.
“Within reason,” he found himself saying. He'd long since learned the wisdom of not giving any open promises to Sherlock. And then he regretted the words as soon as he saw some of that interesting light in Sherlock's eye go out.
“I can't think of anything,” Sherlock muttered, “that you could give me that I can't already have.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could ask you to do all the shopping for a month, but...” Sherlock shrugged. “You already do that, don't you? Should I ask you to give me free access to any one of your possessions? Because that would be pointless - I hardly consider limited access to be a problem as things stand.” John glared at him.
“Besides,” Sherlock said under his breath, “what's to say you'll still be here next year?”
John could feel his breath hitch.
“'Course I'll be here. Where else would I be?”
Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't meet John's eye.
John did some quick calculations and it dawned on him out that since the two of them had met, they had actually spent much more time apart than they ever had together. He’d never thought of it quite like that. Sherlock was such an all-compassing presence in his life. It was a strangely sobering thought.
“Sherlock,” John said in a low voice. “I'll be here.” And he quickly grabbed Sherlock's hand and held on to it a few seconds.
They both looked down on John's hand. Sherlock looked as startled as John felt.
Handholding hadn't ever really been on their list of appropriate gestures. Except when handcuffed together on the run from the law, of course.
But this was different. Sherlock's large hand lay unmoving under John's. It was warm and solid and John liked the feel of it there. And John hoped that it somehow managed to convey to Sherlock that things were different now. There were different things on the horizon now. That John wasn't leaving.
John cleared his throat and inched his chair back.
“Right,” John said. “The five things. Number one: Ugly Christmas Sweaters.”
Sherlock stared at him in horror.
“I’ve never had one,” John continued, “and I’d like one. Preferably one that matches one that you are wearing. At the party.”
“What party?”
“Ah, that’s item number two. Our party.”
“We’re having a party?”
“Yup. A nice one. With mince pies and violin playing and a Secret Santa thingy.”
“… A what?”
“A Secret Santa. Where everyone brings a gift and then we draw lots when everyone’s here. It’s fun.”
Sherlock stared at him with undisguised horror.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You don’t like cheap gifts that are deliberately chosen to be impersonal. No one does.”
“No, I don’t,” said John cheerfully. “The best you can hope for is a bath bomb, really, and honestly, even if you do luck out and get one, odds are that Molly’s the one who bought it and it’s a glittery one.”
“But then… Why?”
“Why? Are you seriously asking me why?”
Sherlock cocked his head, seemingly puzzled.
“Yes?”
“Hmm, let me think. Over the last few years the best Christmas I’ve had was the one where I got dumped on Christmas Eve and where our Christmas party was then interrupted by a trip to the morgue. Not a fun, work trip, but a trip where you knew the dead person personally.” John frowned. “Well, we thought you did, at any rate. And that was, by far and large, the best Christmas I’ve had recently. The one where you murdered someone in cold blood wasn’t really special. I think it might’ve been worse than the one I spent in my bedsit and looked up ways of killing myself after being sent home from Afghanistan. And even that one was better than the one right after you jumped of a building to your bloody and horrible death…” Sherlock winced but John kept going. “I also seem to remember one where I was recently engaged and had recently discovered that you weren’t dead after all and I was both furious and elated but I had no idea which parts of my life I was furious with and which made me feel elated. So yeah, not a lot of warm fuzzy feelings about Christmas. So I’m reclaiming them. With my list.”
“Your list.”
“Yup. And remember. A nice reward for you if you do good. A nice reward in ADDITION to all the lovely holiday cheer my list will bring both of us.”
“And what if I don’t?” Sherlock didn’t meet John’s eye.
“What if you don’t … What?”
“Do good.”
“Ah.”
John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was after. Telling him he’d be getting a lump of coal in his stocking seemed redundant. Sherlock was the main coal distributor of the house, after all.
“Well.” John coughed. “Then I guess there’ll be … Consequences.”
“Consequences?”
There it was again. That flicker on Sherlock’s face. And John was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting to each other. The tone of the conversation had changed and John wasn’t quite sure why or how. He didn’t know what game they were playing but he decided that his next move had to be a calculated gamble.
“Punishment,” he said in a low voice. Not a whisper, but in a low, firm voice.
He didn’t think he imagined the quiver he detected in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders.
Interesting.