Work Text:
Each time the phone gasps in his pocket or on his desk, Sherlock’s skin prickles and warms, and he sees John knit his brow and frown. John knows these texts are from Irene—his teasing said as much that afternoon with Mycroft, but they haven’t discussed it since. Sherlock can see he’s taking note, counting them in his head to use next time he wants to show off his own skills of observation. Pathetic.
Sherlock wonders why John is so irritable about the texts when he doesn’t even know what they’re about. Doesn’t know Irene’s flirting, needling, recreationally scolding—as much as she can do by phone, at least. Sherlock doesn’t take her seriously, of course, but it’s an amusing kind of game. She doesn’t ever retreat, stays on the attack. She’s like John in that way—not giving in, laughing at Sherlock’s pretensions, cutting him down one moment, but applauding and admiring him the next. The attention is intoxicating, the kind of attention he doesn’t always get from John lately, what with the Teacher and the Spotty One and the Nose.
John often pulls a face and leaves the room when Irene texts. He clatters loudly in the kitchen. On a couple of occasions, he’s stomped into the loo and slammed the door. This is John’s famous temper—which has always delighted Sherlock. But today it’s jagged and piercing, not bumbling and silly like the doctor’s rants about chip and pin machines. Sherlock used to think he understood all John’s moods and facial expressions, had them catalogued and cross-referenced. But he’s not sure what this is. Sherlock suspects that John himself doesn’t know why he’s so angry. It’s just a few texts—well, a few dozen texts. If he understood his anger, John would yell at Sherlock with specific accusations. He’d attack—not slam doors and break teacups.
Sherlock slowly moves the rosin up and down his bow and watches John carry a tangle of colourful lights into the sitting room, decorations for the Christmas party Dr. Watson is determined to host tomorrow—despite Sherlock’s objections. The first row today came when John suggested some Christmas songs for Sherlock to play at the party, and Sherlock refused to play anything at all.
Sherlock wants to ignore Christmas this year. John—for someone so allegedly attuned to other people’s feelings—has no sympathy for Sherlock’s strong preference on this matter. For the first time in years, the Holmes brothers have not been summoned home to suffer a week of Yuletide torture. Mummy and Father are visiting some friends in Glasgow. Mycroft has not even extended an insincere invitation to dine with him on Christmas Day. Sherlock is free. John is free. Why must John spoil it all with a party?
Sherlock watches John try to untangle the lights for ten minutes, accompanying the efforts with a funeral dirge of his own composition.
“Sherlock, do you mind? If you’re not going to help me, you can at least stop playing that –it’s making my ears bleed.”
Sherlock puts his violin away and lies down on the sofa. John sighs and climbs onto a chair to hang the hideous lights, first around the mirror over the mantel, then around the window frame.
“Don’t bother helping me. No law saying that the tall one should hang the lights. I’m happy to break my neck up here.”
Sherlock closes his eyes and folds his pale hands across his stomach. “How many imbeciles have you invited to this party, John?”
John finishes draping the lights and climbs down from the chair, banging it on purpose against Sherlock’s shin as he carries it back to the kitchen. “Not many. I know you have a low tolerance for fun. Half a dozen. I invited Harry and her new girlfriend, but they’re busy tomorrow night. I’ll stop by Christmas Day to take her gift and watch Doctor Who.”
Sherlock snorts. He ought to tell John that his sister has taken a flying leap off the proverbial wagon again. He’ll save it for later—maybe it’ll stop him going.
John fills the kettle and pulls out a cup and the box of Earl Grey. “It’ll only be us, plus Mrs. Hudson, of course, probably Lestrade, and . . .”
Sherlock’s phone sighs again. Sherlock glances at the text.
Warm and cozy with your Xmas elf tonight?
Let’s have dinner.
Sherlock hears John break a dish and decides to turn the phone off. He’s bored. Time to provoke a little dust-up. He stands and crosses the room, runs a finger across the mantel.
“I hate these Christmas cards.” Sherlock starts turning each of the cards on the mantel upside down. Cards from fans of John’s blog, from one of John’s former patients, from Bill Murray, from Mike Stamford and his wife, from Harry, from John’s parents and an aunt who still includes a five-pound note as a gift for “Johnny.” There is just one card addressed to Sherlock: Warm regards, Mummy.
John is not taking the bait today. He doesn’t acknowledge Sherlock’s remark about the cards. The flat is warm with the fire going, so he’s pulling off his jumper. He stirs milk into his tea. Doesn’t offer any to Sherlock.
Sherlock looks at the white skin—a thin strip visible between the waist of John’s jeans and his t-shirt. It’s almost the same color, but a different texture than Irene’s skin. Sherlock thinks about John and Irene and feels a little warm too, but can’t be bothered to take off his dressing gown. This is why sheets are preferable to clothing—you can drop them and pick them up again so easily. No tying and untying.
John’s skin. Irene’s skin. Sherlock closes his eyes and sees them both quite clearly, but wishes he could touch them, for a true comparison. Irene talked about cutting herself on his cheekbones, slapping him. She’d beaten him with a whip and drugged him. He could do without the drugging, but he didn’t mind the way she’d stood over him: beautiful, powerful, threatening. He was still fascinated after all this time. Fascinated by the way she had so successfully invaded and found purchase in his physical and mental space. Sherlock doesn’t like people crowding into his personal space as a rule—at least he hadn’t thought he did before Irene—and before John.
Now Sherlock likes the way both John and Irene create a certain . . . what is it? Frisson? Maybe. Friction? Yes. They create friction in his life that is pleasing. Mental friction. Physical friction sometimes, too. Irene slaps and whips. Sherlock remembers John’s punch and touches his fingers to the spot. Still a tiny scar there to keep the memory fresh and alive.
Sometimes John stands close beside him and they shave together, side by side, elbows bumping, hips gliding past each other. Sherlock is usually naked or wearing his sheet, but John wears his boxers or pyjama bottoms. Sherlock can feel the fine blonde hairs on John’s arm and torso whispering against him. Sherlock likes that whisper. He thinks John likes it too. John sighs and frowns because Sherlock is taking too long in the bathroom. But then he comes in and stands close and Sherlock can feel the doctor’s body warming. He sees the skin on John’s neck and chest getting pinker. Sometimes Sherlock catches John’s reflection smiling in the mirror. When this happens, Sherlock can feel his own temperature rise by at least a degree. It’s curious, indeed.
John is reading the paper quietly, his face normal now, not pink, and not angry. The lights are twinkling around the window: green, yellow, red. John’s eyes are dark blue and calm. This is dull.
“I think you should cancel the Christmas party, John. I don’t want all that fa-la-la and noisy hoopla. Tell everyone it’s cancelled.”
“No.” John puts his nose back in the newspaper.
“Christmas is for families—people with children who chatter on about Father Christmas. We’re not a family. We don’t have families—not really. Mycroft and Harry hardly count.”
John is pinking now. He’s folding the paper and standing up. Sherlock sees the doctor’s pulse throbbing at his throat and watches him swaying left to right, clenching his fist and tensing his muscles as if preparing to throw a punch. Sherlock can’t help but smile just a little.
But instead of hovering over Sherlock threatening—or following through with—that punch, John turns on his heel, grabs his coat, and walks out of the door, stomping down the stairs and into the twilight.
Sherlock is confused. He’s made John angry again, that’s obvious. But usually they have a good bickering match when this happens, and John gives almost as good as he gets. It’s a sport, like with Irene. It quickens Sherlock’s pulse and makes him see the world a bit more sharply, makes colours just a little more intense. Makes him feel more alive. John’s not supposed to walk out in the middle of the match. Now everything is faded browns and greys again. Where has he gone?
Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, hands steepled, thinking about what to do next when Mrs. Hudson climbs the stairs and knocks on the open door. She’s smiling, as usual. She’s a faded lilac hue. John is not with her.
“Sherlock, I just wanted to pop in and say thank you for the lovely card you and John gave me yesterday—it’s so charming and festive!” She’s waving the card and trotting over to hug him, which Sherlock allows because—it’s Mrs. Hudson, of course. She pulls out a brown something made of felt and wire from behind her back. A pair of reindeer antlers.
“Look what I found at the shops yesterday! I thought you might like them for the party tomorrow! You or John could wear them when you greet people at the door! Wouldn’t that be funny?”
Sherlock is frowning and looking at the card she’s laid down on the table, open so he can see the inscription. Dearest Mrs. Hudson, Wishing you the happiest Christmas and a brilliant New Year. Love from your family upstairs, John and Sherlock.
Sherlock snatches the card, grabs his own coat from a hook by the door, and bolts past Mrs. Hudson “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I must be off now. Back soon. Glad you like the card. Lovely . . . uh . . . antlers.”
A light, wet snow is falling. John would walk to the nearest pub, wouldn’t he? Or he might hail a cab and visit Lestrade. They do enjoy whinging on and on, those two.
He catches sight of John’s silhouette at the newsagents down the street, looking through the magazines. Sherlock’s heart is beating double-time, his mouth feels dry, and his head is throbbing as he approaches John.
John looks up and rolls his eyes. “Hello. Come to cancel New Year’s and Easter too? Fire away, I’m not going to argue with you. You’re entitled to your opinion, and you don’t have to attend the party, but I am not un-inviting anyone.”
“I apologize, John.”
“You what?” Sherlock has trouble reading the mix of emotions on John’s face. He puts it in the category of “surprised” for the moment.
Sherlock steps closer to John. He is seeing more colours now, bright like fireworks in the distance. And he’s feeling an interesting heat—heat that makes his skin ticklish and taut. He very much wants to touch the fine lines and freckles on John’s neck, which he can see so clearly under the streetlamp, but hesitates. He steps closer to John and leans down so he can speak into his ear. This is convenient also for the purpose of brushing a few strands of Sherlock’s hair against John’s, which is quite pleasant.
Sherlock remembers thinking about Irene’s hair as she stood over him—just as he was about to lose consciousness. He’d wanted to touch and smell her hair, to record the texture and fragrance, but hadn’t had the chance. So now he removes his right hand from his pocket and slides his fingers into John’s hair, letting the soft, short strands wrap around each finger. Sherlock’s whole body warms by nearly two degrees now, and he’s afraid he might have to remove his coat if this trend continues. But first he ought to say what he’s come to say.
John still has that surprised look on his face and he’s pulling away. He’s stuttering. Sherlock doesn't want to hear what he’ll say next. Sherlock’s left hand goes over John’s mouth to stop it moving.
“I was wrong. When I said we aren’t a family. Obviously, you disagree, and you behave as though we are . . . We define the word differently, perhaps. I suppose you would say we’re . . .”
John very gently removes Sherlock’s hand from his mouth. John’s smiling. That’s good. Sherlock is relieved. But then John steps back and pulls Sherlock’s other hand away from his hair, and that is not so good. Sherlock’s fingers are naked and the snow stings like needles.
John tilts his head and motions for Sherlock to follow him. They’re walking back to the flat. Sherlock slows his pace to meet John’s so that his arm will brush against John’s shoulder every other step. This feels very good. He listens to John talk now, while monitoring his own quickening heart rate.
“A family of choice, not blood. That’s what Harry calls her group of friends—although sometimes she calls them the lesbian mafia.” John lets a quick smile pass over his face. “I like ‘family of choice’ for us.”
“I prefer ‘lesbian mafia.’ Sounds menacing.”
John laughs. “Yeah, it does have a ring to it, doesn’t it? But are we tough enough to pull it off?”
Sherlock giggles. “Perhaps not. In the final analysis, I think our relationship is indefinable, John. Not reducible to a single word or cliché.”
“Indefinable? Bollocks. It’s not that hard to explain—not indefinable at all. You just like to think everything to do with you is complicated and mysterious and that you’re nothing like any other human being. We’re friends, Sherlock. Best friends.”
John pauses and stares up at the snow falling a little heavier now, set aglow by streetlamps and Christmas lights in a few scattered windows up and down Baker Street. “Maybe we’re more than friends—but you don’t understand that sort of thing, and maybe I don’t either.”
John starts walking faster and in a few seconds they are both bounding through the front door. “Holy Mary, it’s cold out there,” says John, rubbing his hands together and brushing snow out of his hair. He glances at Sherlock, but doesn’t seem to want to look at him. He’s nervous, Sherlock thinks. Nervous and pink and his eyebrows and nose and hands are wet with melting snowflakes. John steps up onto the first of the seventeen steps to their flat.
“So we are having the party tomorrow. That’s what friends do—they host Christmas parties and get tipsy and sing carols. You’re going to play your violin. No arguments.”
“Of course.”
Sherlock is thinking, processing the whole day’s events, John’s looks and gestures, and barely listening to his words. Friction. Warmth. John’s skin and the tiny lines on his neck. The few silver strands at his temples. Sherlock thinks of Irene hovering above him, attacking his body and brain, forcing him to imagine things he’d never imagined before. He wonders how he can invite John to do that too without making him pull away again. He wonders if John would want to make Sherlock imagine new things, feel new things.
John is looking puzzled again.
“Sherlock, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Sherlock steps into John’s space, as close as he can, and their faces are almost at the same height, with John standing one step above. Sherlock puts his own long, warm hands on John’s smaller, colder ones, then presses John’s hands to the lapels of the gray coat—“that Byronic bloody coat,” John calls it sometimes.
Sherlock wishes John would take hold of him, pull or push, or do something unexpected. He doesn’t know how to name exactly what he wants. It’s possibly something to do with his heart, which is beating so quickly now. Stupid that everyone says he doesn’t have one.
John looks at the tiny scar still visible on Sherlock’s face, souvenir of the punch and wrestling on the first day they met Irene. Sherlock smiles and moves John’s hand to touch the scar. John nods and sighs.
John leans into Sherlock, his whole body moving slowly, deliberately pressing against Sherlock’s. Both John’s hands slide onto Sherlock’s face, cool wet fingers, a different kind of friction, but good. John’s mouth does not hesitate, but covers Sherlock’s with a kiss that is deep and very much more than friendly. Sherlock would wager that John’s tongue is several degrees warmer than average. Sherlock tastes tea and milk and a hint of the orange juice John had for breakfast hours ago. He brings his fingers to John’s neck to feel the thrumming pulse there.
Sherlock holds back, submissive and open to whatever surprises John has in mind. His own pulse is racing at twice its normal rate and all the hairs on his arms are raised. There is a slightly uncomfortable sense of danger settling into his spine and a question that he can’t ask coiling low in his abdomen.
John pulls back suddenly, breathing hard, eyes wide and dark. He stumbles upstairs, mumbling, and Sherlock follows halfway, but John raises one hand to stop him.
“Sherlock, no. I . . . I shouldn’t have done that. I can’t . . . I’m not ready, not prepared to . . . I’m so sorry. We’ll talk about this later, okay? I just need to think.” John is stuttering and mumbling again, not making any sense at all and Sherlock feels frustrated, to say the least.
Perhaps this evening does need a pause, he thinks. Too many bits of data he ought to analyze. And he’s suddenly very tired. The adrenaline that shot through him as he ran towards the newsagents is dissipating. John looks tired too, and paler now. The dusty greys and browns are back, replacing the fiery gold and sapphire and violet he’d seen just a few moments ago, when John kissed him.
John kissed him.
Sherlock drops down to sit on the stairs and stops listening to John’s babbling. He nods and hums, pretending to understand as he watches John disappear into 221B.
He pulls Mrs. Hudson’s card from his coat pocket: an illustration of two penguins ice-skating, in Santa hats. Around a Christmas tree. He’s overestimated John’s good taste, obviously.
And there are three polar bears watching in the background. Now that’s just rubbish science. Sherlock wants to march into the flat and explain to John that all sixteen species of penguins live in the Antarctic and Sub-Antarctic regions of the southern hemisphere, and polar bears live only north of . . . but he’s very tired. So he leans against the wall and closes his eyes.
He’ll play “Hark the Herald Angels” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” tomorrow. John likes those.
And he’ll make John kiss him again.