#tessfic

It was solid white outside the window when John awoke. He peered at it, puzzled, than got up to investigate, ignoring the grunt of displeasure from his bedmate. A glance out the window cleared things up. Metaphorically speaking.

London was utterly snowed in, fat flakes still drifting down from the sky. Several inches had accumulated on the windowsill, and the glass fogged as John exhaled onto it. He couldn’t tell the roads from the footpaths, and not a single car was making tracks through the fresh snowdrifts. There was no way he could get into work today.

“Hi, Sarah? Yeah, we’re completely snowed in here--oh, you too? Yeah, are there--ok, yeah, thanks, great. Hopefully some of this will clear up by then. Ok. Yeah, I will, thanks. Bye.”

Tossing his phone back onto the nightstand, he snuggled back into bed, scooting into the mess of splayed limbs until their owner pulled them away from the center. “Budge over.”

“Hmmm. You’re letting in the cold air.” 

“Gah! Your hands are freezing!” John squirmed as Sherlock got to work adhering their bodies together, limbs wrapped around him like a death grip and snuffling into his neck. Sherlock shushed him and pulled the duvet up until they were in a sweltering cave.

“What is this tripe?”

“Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer! It’s a classic, you must have seen it at least partway once.”

“If I did, I must have deleted it. And rightfully so.”

“Oh come on, it’s fun!”

“It’s asinine.”

“It’s not very long. Look--we’ll just watch this then flip over to something else.”

Pouting. Shifting about on couch cushions. “Fine.”

10 MINUTES IN…

“Why is Santa encouraging the abuse of Rudolf? He can’t control his deformity.”

“Well, it’s… yeah, actually, Santa’s a dick in this movie for some reason.”

15 MINUTES IN…

“There aren’t an known gold or silver mines above the Arctic circle!”

“It’s for kids, Sherlock!”

“So they want to teach inaccurate information?”

25 MINUTES IN…

“I don’t understand. Did Santa really not know where the Island of Lost Toys was? Or did he just not care?”

“Maybe both? I don’t know. He probably doesn't care what happened to the toys after he delivered them.”

“So this is a massive regifting operation of inferior toys.”

“Essentially? I mean some of them are perfectly fine.”

“Oh, thank God it’s over.”

“Yeah… I mean it has some nostalgic value but… yeah, that wasn’t as good as I remember.”

“Naturally, John. Nostalgia often clouds the memories of our childhoods.”

“No thanks to you talking through the entire thing.”

More shifting. Arm wrapped around a pair of narrow shoulders. 

“Well, I’ll watch more Christmas tripe with you if we can cuddle.”

“Are you going to talk through those ones too?”

“Maybe.”

Kiss.

Hauntingly beautiful strains of a violin pulled John from a series of bizarre and increasingly sensual dreams. He started awake, feeling warm and tingly and stretched, relieved that he didn’t have to wake up for an early shift this morning. What time was it anyhow?

Christ, almost 11:00.

The violin continued, launching into the familiar “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” with a lot of lyrical flourishes. John smiled, pulling his robe tighter around himself and going down to greet Sherlock. 

Sherlock gave no indication that he’d noticed John’s arrival, but tea was already steeping next to John’s armchair, an unexpected gesture of thoughtfulness. Murmuring a “thank you” to Sherlock, he settled into his chair and sipped at it. Hot, strong and just a tiny bit sweet, just how he liked it.

The swooping, trilling violin eventually stopped and Sherlock went to sit across from John as though he hadn’t just been playing Christmas music for the last fifty minutes.

Mrs. Hudson had put it up in the doorway to the stairs of their flat a few days ago, and John had carefully avoided accidentally passing underneath with Sherlock. Not because he didn’t want to kiss him; on the contrary, there was little more John wanted to do than to seize Sherlock, dip him back and kiss him senseless. But that might be an unwelcome gesture. Or at least John assumed it would be, though sometimes Sherlock would give him a certain Look and he’d wonder.

In the end, Sherlock made the decision for him.

“Come on, John! This is the second body they’ve found stuffed in a chimney! The most creative serial killing I’ve seen in a while; it’s Christmas!”

“Literally,” muttered John, zipping up his jacket and hurrying to join Sherlock, who was waiting in the doorway. John didn't even realize what he was up to until he saw Sherlock point upwards at the little round-leafed plant hanging innocently from the doorframe. 

“Oh--”

And then Sherlock kissed him. And kept kissing him. And, oh… Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him firmly, keeping him upright as John’s knees had decided this was a good moment to give out. He sagged helplessly against Sherlock, one hand reaching up to tangle in luxurious black curls and the other one trapped between his chest and Sherlock’s. He could feel Sherlock’s heart slamming out a rhythm against his palm.

John licked his way between plush lips and was rewarded by Sherlock holding him tighter and moaning into his mouth. They swayed slightly, licking and sucking and delving into each others’ mouths, learning each other in a most intimate way. John wondered breathlessly if this would lead to other, more intimate explorations. Preferably ones that could be carried out on his bed.

Or Sherlock’s. He wasn’t picky.

Finally Sherlock pulled away, panting slightly. His mouth was delightfully kiss-reddened and his cheeks were flushed; his hair was a wreak. He was beautiful. 

“Uh. Well. I. That is… Lestrade’s expecting us,” he murmured quietly, leaning his forehead against John’s. A big part of John wanted to say “fuck the case” and abscond with Sherlock to the nearest bedroom, but now wasn’t the time. His heart was still pounding wildly.

“Lead the way.” 

“I hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”

John sighed, putting his book down and rubbing his temples. Maybe another shot of whiskey was in order, but the beginnings of a headache suggested otherwise. This night had been going… well not terribly, and then Sherlock had insulted Molly and things had gone downhill. John felt something in his gut burn with envy at the memory of Sherlock kissing her on the cheek.

Then Jeanette had broken up with him, and in retrospect he had to admit, he didn’t really blame her. He didn’t know who was trying to kid, really. It was virtually impossible to sustain a romantic relationship with Sherlock as his flatmate, and even more so considering how he felt towards the man. Jeanette’s accusation hit a lot closer to home than he was comfortable with.

And now the death of the Woman. John still wasn’t sure what to make of her. All he knew is she was the only person he’d ever seen really catch Sherlock off guard. And that bothered him--in a protective, entirely platonic friendship-type way, of course. And… well, ok, it had bothered him (a lot) to come in on her straddling Sherlock’s lap naked. And as soon as he’d received her phone, Sherlock had retreated, refusing to speak with him except a few words in passing. John had definitely lost him for the night. He didn’t know what he’d really expected, really. But Sherlock seemed really broken up about this, in his own way.

John was NOT jealous!

He was just… worried.

Yeah. That was it.

67 beads, half white and half black. Sherlock had strung two beads on the string every Christmas since he and John had finally realized that they didn’t want to be apart anymore. John hadn't realized the significance until much later. It was a physical marker of time for them both, a small reminder that even if memories faded and feelings cooled, there always would be evidence of their time together. After so many Christmases filled with death, hurt, misunderstanding and grief, it was proof of their survival, and more importance, their survival together.

Sherlock’s hair was thickly streaked with grey now, John was relying on his cane more than ever these days, and their faces were lined with wrinkles, but their love remained undiminished. They’d long since left London and 221B, moving out to Sussex in the cottage Janine had sold them. There had been both wonderful and poor Christmases, but without fail Sherlock always strung two beads on the string, even in the worst of times. To see Sherlock voluntarily carry out such a sentimental act made John realize how much he’d changed--for the better, John thought--since they’d met. He was getting soft in his old age, perhaps.

Sherlock lurked in the corner of the room at the Yard’s Christmas party, nursing an untouched glass of eggnog. John was over by the buffet table. He’d insisted that Sherlock eat something, ignorant of Sherlock’s protesting grunts and eye rolls, and was assembling a myriad of goodies, some of which Sherlock would hopefully be interested in. 

He gazed disinterestedly around the room. Lestrade and Molly were getting cozy on one of the ugly brown couches, and Molly looked like she was on her third cosmo. Donovan was chatting animatedly with one of the evidence officers while Anderson watched jealously (this falling out seemed permanent. Sherlock wondered at what point his wife had threatened to leave for good) Detective Dimmock was on his phone, loitering by the doors (Waiting to leave with someone?) Boring. Dull. A waste of his time, but John and insisted…

He sighed.

“Sherlock?” John was at his elbow, holding up a plate of nibbles and sipping his own glass of eggnog. Sherlock pursued the plate, finally consenting to a sugar cookie to make him happy.  

“Was it really necessary to attend this?”

“We were invited by Lestrade, and I wanted to come. You didn’t have to,” shrugged John, eating a forkful of egg salad.

“Well. I.” Sherlock tried to find a way to word it without sounding horribly codependent. “You shouldn’t suffer through this sort of thing alone.”

“Sherlock, I think the only one suffering is you,” said John with a hint of laugh. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock scanned the room. “That couple over there is going to break up soon, possibly tonight. He’s already started up a new relationship with one of the secretaries. She doesn’t know but she’s so disillusioned she doesn’t care. That man over there just lost his dog. He’s showing everyone pictures but he’s drunk enough that he won’t cry about it. The woman there--”

“And this is why I wanted you to come,” chuckled John, threading his arm through Sherlock’s. He felt his heart and stomach flutter pleasantly. “These sorts of things are only fun with you.”

“Oh.”

“Ready to go home?”