unfortunately one day late. but better late than never. I hope you guys enjoy it any way, since it’s my fault she handed it in too late :(
John was getting a tad strange. For the past week, they had been on a case about a brutal triple murder and a missing file, and like most of their cases, it had included a good amount of legwork.
As Sherlock dragged John through the festive streets of London, he found his companion to be more interested in the shop windows than usual. Sherlock’s alarm was enhanced when John started asking him such questions as, “What do you think of this tie?” and “Do you prefer blue or black?”
Now that the case was over (it was the employer’s ex-wife), Sherlock was in his routine post-case idle state and John was out on another date with Sarah. By his observations from his last meeting with Sarah two weeks ago when he collected John from a dinner date, their relationship was not very likely to last much longer. He gave the woman a maximum of two more dates before she broke it off - well, two dates that were interrupted by Sherlock (and he had perfectly sound plants to interrupt all such dates).
He was broken from his thoughts by the sound of the frond door shutting, followed by the footsteps of a light little woman up seventeen steps. “Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson chirped happily, knocking on the frame of the door and sniffling slightly from the cold. “Sherlock, I’ve got a little something for you here to brighten up this place a bit.”
Sherlock grunted from his place on the sofa as she bustled into the flat and set some shopping bags on the kitchen table. “Sherlock, look at the mess,” she chuckled fondly. “Where’s the good doctor?”
Sherlock waved his hand slightly. “Date,” he mumbled. He thought he heard a little giggle coming from her direction.
And then it hit him.
“What’s the date?” His eyes snapped open in realization.
“Why, it’s the twentieth,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “Five days until Christmas - that reminds me, I won’t be on -“
At this point Sherlock stopped listening, for a completely different thought had taken his mind.
“Mrs. Hudson!” He exclaimed, standing up abruptly and crossing the room with a step on the table and a few strides. He gripped her shoulders and exclaimed, “Ah! Christmas!”
Sherlock dove into the bags on the table and found a wreath, tinsel, ornaments, tree - the lot. “Excellent! He muttered, pulling out his phone to send a text to John, summoning his best friend by threatening him with the possibility of another head in the fridge.
“It’s over!” Slam.
It had been a rather disastrous date that ended with Sarah stomping back home and shutting the door in John’s face.
What issues had she cited? A one-sided relationship? Dates always disrupted by Sherlock? Something about competition?
John, for some reason, wasn’t too bothered by their rather harsh break-up. He stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets and shrunk slightly into his jacket, hiding behind righted lapels in hopes that they may provide a bit of protection against the December chill.
The streets were adorned in festive garb, shop windows twinkling, decorated for the holidays. He passed a display of exquisite cheeses and chocolate strawberries. He thought of just getting a cheese platter for Sherlock for Christmas, and then chuckled at the image of horror on Sherlock’s face when he would unwrap his present on Christmas morning.
It was the twentieth, and with only five days left until Christmas, John was getting a tad desperate.
Nevertheless, he let out a hot breath and bravely trudged on like the soldier he was. There was still time.
He never did end up finding an adequate present for Sherlock, because the very next day he was taken ill, and spent the next three days in bed, sneezing his lungs out and burning from head to toe. By the time he was able to move about the flat again, it was Christmas Eve and Mrs. Hudson invited them to dinner, which was delicious, but prevented John from going out to pick up an adequate present for his flatmate.
After their small feast (during which Sherlock actually consumed sustenance and John fretted over his Great Gift Issue), Mrs. Hudson pulled John aside to her kitchen.
“John, you haven’t had the time to get Sherlock a present, have you?”
John winced slightly. “No, Mrs. Hudson, I haven’t. I was ill for the past few -“
“Oh, never mind that, dear,” She waved away his words. “I’ve got something here that you can give him, just picked it up yesterday.” She waved John over to a cupboard and opened the door to let him peek in. There sat a brilliant new microscope, gleaming slightly from a spot of light that shone through the door.
“Mrs. Hudson!” John hissed. “That’s - that’s a terribly expensive microscope!”
She grinned and winked at him. “Oh, don’t you worry about that, I know some people who were able to give it to me, free of charge.”
Sherlock awoke Christmas morning, giddy with excitement. He felt six years old. He felt ridiculous.
It was wonderful.
Because this was the first Christmas he would spend at 221B, and the first of hopefully many that he would spend with John.
He sneaked into John’s bedroom, package tucked under his arm. He set it on the foot of John’s bed and swept out before his friend stirred completely awake.
Roughly an hour later, he heard a thud of a package dropping to the ground and a yelp of surprise. Then silence, then the crinkling of a wrapper, then the almost inaudible friction of clothes against skin.
Within a few minutes, John was downstairs, and after setting down a heavy object behind the door and out of view, he emerged, hair properly messy, sporting his new woolen jumper.
He walked into the room, grinning widely, and spread his arms wide, admiring the dark burgundy that somehow complimented his skin tone.
“Sherlock, it’s fantastic! Thank you!” His eyes twinkled, and Sherlock’s heart soared.
John was retrieving the package now, which Sherlock had already guessed to be his own present.
And it was beautiful; an excellent new microscope, with shining glass and gleaming knobs and a giant red bow attached to it.
And Sherlock smiled, and John smiled; that is, until he caught sight of Sherlock’s little Christmas decorations: a wreath on the fireplace around the skull, an ornament balanced precariously on every Erlenmeyer flask, every test tube, every beaker, tinsel scattered over the kitchen, the miniature tree that stood in the corner completely bare; he smiled until he saw these things, and then he doubled over in laughter, tearing up and wheezing until Sherlock joined him.