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Christmas had come and gone.
It had been a different sort of Christmas, this time around – and not just because John had found himself hand deep inside a goose.
Rather, it was one of the first Christmases he had spent with someone other than Carol or his army buddies since leaving the army – and, surprisingly, it was nice.
Really, really nice.
But now it was over for another year, and Mariana was on at him for the twentieth time to take down the festive decorations in 221B (because apparently January 6th was much too long past Christmas to still have them up). Personally, John rather liked them - but then again, there was always next year.
And…the year after that.
Would he still be here, or would he have moved on by then?
John thinks on this for a moment or two. He’d rather like to think he would still be around for another Christmas – though preferably, one without his hand up a goose.
Adjusting the cardboard box in his arms, he shoulders the door to the living room open. Whatever happened, there wasn’t going to be a next year for him if he didn’t get these decorations down in record time – or at least before Mariana got back from the shops.
Stepping into the room, he sets the box down with a grunt, and – nearly has a heart attack.
There’s a pair of legs sticking out from under the tree.
Hand on his chest, he takes a step closer, and - oh. He recognises those legs.
Or rather, the dinosaur socks on them (which, of course, Sherlock had given John grief about for being inaccurate, then claimed for himself anyway).
“Mate, what are you doing?” he says, giving the leg a gentle poke with his toe.
It moves away, clearly not having liked being poked.
Crouching beside the prone form, John moves a couple of the branches aside, revealing Sherlock’s scowling face.
“I would appreciate it if you put those back, Watson.” It is said matter-of-factly, like moving the branches was a crime worthy of divine intervention.
Sighing, John lets them go. Still, he doesn’t get up. If Sherlock wanted to keep being mysterious, who was he to stop him? He could work around him anyway.
Sherlock peers at him through the branches. “What are you doing?”
John’s hand stops inches from the next bauble, and he looks down.
A pair of eyes were watching him, unblinking. God, it was creepy when Sherlock did that.
Setting the bauble down, he picks a pretty blue glass one as his next victim, plucking it from the branch without hesitation. “I am tidying away, a job that you could help me with, you know.”
The eyes dart away, then squint. If he was a betting man, he would bet Sherlock was pouting as well.
“Is it ‘putting the decorations away’ or ‘tidying the living room’ sort of tidying?”
John places a plastic bauble on Sherlock’s chest and watches as it rolls off. Archie chases after it. “Does that answer your question?”
A beat of silence passes, and then Sherlock’s entire face is popping out from under the tree. “It doesn’t.”
Smiling, John picks off another ornament from the tree, placing it into the box - and Sherlock’s face twists into something he could almost pin as sadness.
“But I like the ornaments.”
The smallness of his voice tugs at something in John’s chest.
“Sorry mate, but I’m under Mariana’s orders. All this has got to go.”
He gestures to the tree, and the lights, and the pretty wreath above the fireplace they had all made together.
Sherlock wriggles out from under the tree, bringing his legs up to his chest. Reaching for the blue bauble, he brings it up to his face, gazing into it forlornly. “That is a shame.”
John’s heart sinks into his stomach.
Placing the bauble into the box, Sherlock begins fiddling with the fairy lights they had haphazardly wrapped around the tree. Pausing, John watches Sherlock as his fingers dance across the glowing lights, hiding them one moment and letting them shine the next. It was quite pretty, how the pale white light danced across his hands.
“I was stimming. With the lights,” Sherlock breathes.
John must look confused, because in the next moment Sherlock is fixing him with a look that means he’s missed something obvious.
“You asked me what I was doing under the tree. I was merely enjoying the way the lights reflected off the different types of baubles.”
Reaching back into the box, he retrieves the blue bauble.
“Observe. If I hold the lights up to this glass bauble, it will create a reflection – one vastly different to that which might be produced by a plastic one.”
The light glimmers on the surface as Sherlock moves the bauble around. Then, reaching for a dull gold bauble with a slight dent in the side, he repeats the action.
The difference was obvious, light glowing dully against the cheap plastic.
“Now if we add a stronger light to the glass bauble, we shall succeed in throwing the colour onto the carpet as the light passes through the coloured glass.”
Pulling a torch from God knows where, he holds it close to the bauble, clicking the button to turn it on.
Faint blue light spills across the small patch of carpet in front of them. Placing his hand into the patch, Sherlock wiggles his fingers, smiling as if he’d forgotten John was there at all.
And…yeah. It’s oddly beautiful.
Sherlock’s mind is a fascination to John.
The way it could catch the slightest detail, capture what others thought of as insignificant.
John would have never thought twice about doing this.
But Sherlock…Sherlock saw the impossible beauty where others saw nothing.
John wants to tell him this, let him know that it meant something for Sherlock to share this moment with him. But he doesn’t. “I thought you didn’t like lights,” he says, instead.
The moment shatters as Sherlock puts the bauble down, turning off the torch. The colour across the carpet disappears along with his smile, and something in John’s heart breaks.
He would do anything to take those words back. To go back to that private smile painted across Sherlock’s face.
But it’s too late, and Sherlock’s already speaking again;
“I make an exception for fairy lights. They are subtle and gentle and rather magical; don’t you agree, Watson?”
He can only nod as Sherlock sighs, letting his fingers tangle up in the wire. Maybe it was a shame, separating Sherlock from the glowing snowman lights. But before he can say anything, Sherlock abruptly stands up, twisting his fingers in a painful looking way before stepping around him.
“I apologise, I’m in your way. Please don’t let my affinity for the lights stop you.”
He’s gone before John can call after him, shutting the door with a quiet click. Running a hand through his hair, he glares at the tree, like it was its fault for taking away Sherlock’s fun.
“Bugger.”
…
John tells himself what he’s doing is out of guilt.
The four miles he’d walked across London to reach this overly pastel shop was out of guilt, the rabbit hole he’d fallen down researching ‘the best shops to buy fairy lights at’ was out of guilt.
This was all one big sack of guilt.
Not at all to do with how Sherlock had seemed calmer when the lights were playing across his skin than he had in days, and certainly not to do with wanting to understand just a drop of what Sherlock felt – to maybe even share in his joy.
This was out of guilt for taking that away from him. Nothing more.
“Welcome. Can I help you with anything, sir?”
John is tempted to turn and run straight back out the door at the lady’s too bright voice - hell, even her shop uniform was a shade of pink so bright it should probably be illegal.
Laughing nervously, he asks where the light section he had been promised by Google reviews was ‘the best in London’ is located.
She points, smiling as John blinks rapidly because no shop should sell this many lights. The whole back wall was filled with little boxes, each displaying a different type of light. This was going to be a nightmare.
-
“That will be thirty-four pounds and eighty-nine pence, please.”
Thirty-four quid!
The lady offers him the card machine, fake nails curved around it like daggers.
Maybe he could pass the expense off as something for a case. Mariana didn’t need to know – after all, it was partly her fault he was in this situation anyway.
Stepping out of the shop, John wishes he’d brought his own bag instead of having to walk the four miles home with this incredibly eye-catching pink one.
Sherlock better be bloody grateful.
…
“Woah, Jesus Christ!”
The chair wobbles under him, threatening to tip him onto the floor.
Jumping to the floor before the chair can completely upend him, John groans, his knees shrieking in a way no thirty-four-year-old’s knees should.
In the space of ninety minutes, he had turned the living room into what he thought resembled lots and lots of different coloured fireflies.
Strings of lights hung from the fireplaces, ceiling, and walls, and he’d even draped one string of roses over the back of the sofa (though safely out of reach of Archie’s gaping mouth).
Grinning at his handiwork, he spins in a slow 360, taking it all in.
He'd spent far too long in that shop trying to buy just one set of lights – yet, in the end, he’d said bugger it and bought sixteen.
Each lights up its own small portion of the room, beautiful and lovely and perfect.
For once, he felt glad that he’d had no self-control.
He clasps his hands together, and Archie looks up from a corner of the room, eyeing him like he’d gone mad.
Which truth be told, maybe he had. But only a little bit.
“Shall we get our detective, Archie boy?”
Archie blinks, then lays his head down on the carpet with an exhale.
Leaning over, John gives him a quick pat before he leaves the room, making sure to shut the door behind him.
It takes a moment to silently creep along the corridor to Sherlock’s room, and he presses his ear against the door.
Nothing.
It was late – but then, that had never stopped him from being a menace before.
Stepping back, John chews the inside of his check.
Maybe Sherlock was actually sleeping, for once. It would be unfair to wake him.
John considers this for approximately five seconds before tapping lightly on the door.
“Sherlock?”
No answer.
“Sherlock. Mate. It’s me. You know, your favourite roommate? Requesting a tiny, little moment of your time.”
Still nothing.
Maybe something was wrong.
Maybe Sherlock was plotting revenge on having his snowmen lights taken away.
Biting his lip, John turns the handle of the door and pushes it open slightly. Peeking through, he squints in the darkness.
No Sherlock.
“Christ’s sake! I have the decency to do something nice for once and he doesn’t even bother to bloody be here.”
Shutting the door, John folds his arms and marches back into the living room to wait. And sulk. But mostly wait.
Thirty-six minutes later, the front door opens, and John bolts out the room, hanging over the staircase banister.
“Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, yes mate, you’re back!”
Sherlock stares up at him, looking like he very much wants to open the door and walk right back out again.
“Take off your coat and get up here! I have something for you,” John says excitedly. He can’t help but do a little jump, still holding onto the banister. God, he was acting like he was six.
Wearily, Sherlock edges up the stairs, eyeing him. “What is it?” His voice is cautious, a million miles away from John’s bubbling excitement.
“I can’t just tell you, Sherlock. Where would the fun be? The pizzazz?”
Sherlock eyes his jazz hands with barely hidden contempt.
Ok, so maybe he was going a little over the top. But then, in his defence, it was late and he’d spent way too long on this.
Taking a breath, he skedaddles over the shut living room door, throwing his hands out with a flourish.
“Ta-da!”
Sherlock looks from him to the door and back again, blinking. “It’s a door, Watson.”
Rolling his eyes, John shakes his head. “I know it’s a door, Sherlock. Just bloody open it, would you?”
Taking a hesitant step forward, Sherlock places his hand on the knob, twisting it before pushing the door open.
There’s a beat of absolute silence.
Sherlock is frozen in the doorway, and for a horrible moment John feels his heart plummet. Was it too much? Had he done the wrong thing? “Sherlock?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer.
Rather, he darts into the room, arms outstretched as he spins in a quick circle. The shock on his face gives way to wonder, and that smile is back. “This is - this is incredible, Watson!”
The anxiety crushing John’s chest lifts in an instant, and he watches Sherlock dart from one set of lights to the next.
His hands are moving, flapping and jumping in front of his chest, his mouth opening and closing with each new string. “Watson, look at this one, it changes colour!” Sherlock claps, staring in fascination as the lights slowly fade from blue to green.
Moving to stand beside him, John watches the lights too, like he wasn’t the one to set them up to make sure they wouldn’t flash like mad.
Just as quick, Sherlock darts away again, his attention drawn to the set of rose lights on the sofa. He handles them like expensive jewellery as he holds them up to the light, his fingers tracing the petals.
“Did you know roses lack the gene to ever be blue naturally? So, if you see blue roses being sold, they’re actually white roses that have been dyed.”
He places them back down, arranging them into a circle on the seat. Without waiting for John to tell him that no, he hadn’t known that, he’s gone again, fingers tracing a set of pale yellow crescent moons that glow against the wall.
Then he’s marvelling at a set of blue trains – and finally, he comes to a stop in front of the set John had been torn about buying.
“Dinosaurs, Watson!” He jumps, letting out a small laugh.
Folding his arms, John can’t help but smile. “I don’t want to hear a word about these ones being inaccurate.”
He expects Sherlock to launch into a spiel about how the spikes on the dinosaur’s back meant it was this type of dinosaur when it clearly looked like another, but he…doesn’t. Rather, he’s completely silent, hands fists by his sides, shoulders hunched. Almost like…
“Please give me fair warning if you’re about to cry – because I might start blubbing too,” John laughs, nervously.
But Sherlock doesn’t move. He faces the wall, his back to John.
“Are you - ok?” John tries. He says the words gently, not wanting to shatter the man in front of him.
“I’m not sure,” Sherlock breathes. His voice sounds thick, almost like he was holding back tears.
Moving closer, John stands by his side. “Would you like a hug?”
The screwed up expression on Sherlock’s face seems to fade as he considers the question. Then, he nods.
“Yes please.”
John wraps his arms around Sherlocks shoulders, squeezing tightly, and leans his head against Sherlocks when he buries it into his shoulder.
Maybe it had been a little much to spring this on him with no notice.
Maybe he had got carried away - but then, it was worth it to see that smile again.
“Are you a happy boy, Sherlock?”
His voice is muffled in Sherlocks chest, and he feels a nod against his shoulder.
“Impossibly so.”
Drawing away, he investigates Sherlock’s face. He’s not looking at John, but around them, eyes never settling on one thing for more than a moment, wanting to drink in everything and never let it go.
His mouth is stretched into a wide, wonderstruck smile.
Wandering over to the sofa, Sherlock sits on the carpet in front of it, pulling the string of flowers into his hands and staring down at them.
“Every Christmas since I was a young boy I’d walk round the neighbourhood with my family, and we’d look at all the Christmas lights together.” The words are distant, like he’s recalling a memory from long ago.
Slouching down, John sits in front of Sherlock, waiting for him to continue. It was rare for him to talk about his past like this – naturally, the least John could do was listen.
“I loved it. Not just because the lights were so beautiful but because I wasn’t seeing them alone. But then I went away to school, and I couldn’t always go home for Christmas. So...” His voice trails off.
John can only imagine what happened next, and it makes his stomach churn.
Little Sherlock waiting for his family so they could all see the Christmas lights together, only to be told they weren’t coming.
Little Sherlock alone in his room, staring out the window at a set of flashing fairy lights, missing what he didn’t have.
Clearing the lump in his throat, he stretches his hands out, motioning for Sherlock to pass him the flowers.
He does, watching as John waves them together into a loose circle, before gently placing them on Sherlock’s head, looping the battery pack around his bun so it doesn’t get dragged straight off again. Raising his hands, Sherlock touches the impromptu flower crown and smiles softly.
“How do I look?”
Leaning back onto his hands, John nods. “Like the prettiest princess at the ball.”
Sherlock lets out another little laugh, eyes crinkling.
Getting up, John carefully takes down a set of dragon shaped lights, holding them for a moment before draping them across Sherlocks shoulders, into a sort of elaborate necklace. Then, he takes down another, this one in the shape of cats, and places it over his waist.
Sherlock watches all the while. “Are you turning me into some sort of elaborate decoration, Watson?”
John grins devilishly before placing another string across his lap. “You’ll have to find a place to put all this.”
Sherlock frowns, tilting his head. “Can’t I keep them up in here?”
John pauses, fixing Sherlock with a stare. “I literally spent my morning cleaning up in here, mate, absolutely not. Find somewhere in your space to put them. Mariana will have an aneurysm if she walks in tomorrow and this room isn’t spotless.”
Sherlock folds his arms. “Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind.”
“What wouldn’t I mind?” Mariana says, pushing the door open before standing still. Her mouth drops open as her eyes scan the room, then land on them both.
Fixing them with a piercing stare, hands on her hips, she sighs. “John, care to explain why you’re tying Sherlock up? Is this a kink I don’t know about?”
Spluttering, John feels his cheeks heat up before he can answer.
Sherlock answers for him, which is arguably worse. “Watson is turning me into a pretty princess, Mrs. Hudson.”
Mariana looks bewildered for a beat before smiling and shaking her head. “Of course he is.”
Stepping delicately over Archie, who had decided to fall asleep in front of the door, she pads towards them, sitting down on the sofa and pulling out her phone. “This is what Sherlock needs.” She tilts the phone towards them, and they both peer at it. On the screen was a pale blue dress which appeared to be glowing.
“It’s a dress with LED lights sewed into it. You’d really light up any room you’re in with that on.”
The pun misses Sherlock entirely. Or…maybe he was just too busy staring at the dress with wide eyes. Slowly his eyes travel up, fixing on John’s face.
“Don’t look at me like that. We’ve literally just had Christmas.”
The eyes blink, slowly travelling to Mariana. She sighs, adjusting his flower crown which had been leaning off centre. “Maybe if you both go to bed, I will give it some thought.”
So, reluctantly, they go to bed, with a promise to tidy the room in the morning.
—
It’s a week later.
A quiet knock at John’s door makes him look up from editing. The knock comes again, a little louder this time, as he gets up.
Rubbing one eye, he opens the door, revealing Sherlock grinning broadly.
“Please tell me you haven’t stolen my shoelaces again,” John sighs, already resigning himself to his fate.
Bobbing up and down on his toes, Sherlock shakes his head. “Even better. I have got you a present.”
Before the surprise can knock him off his feet, Sherlock whips his hands out from behind him.
Laying in his hands is a tiny rubber duck, a knitted scarf tied around its neck.
John stares at the duck.
Then he stares at Sherlock, tries to find words, and fails. Remaining silent.
“It lights up when it touches water,” Sherlock explains. “I knitted the scarf, but I advise you take it off, should you take Sir Quackington in the bath with you.”
A laugh forces its way out of him. “Sir Quackington?”
Sherlock looks away, extending the duck further towards him.
John takes it and holds it in his hand. The duck is yellow, like most rubber ducks are. Yet, what draws his attention - are the colours of the scarf. “Sherlock, are these - the Swindon Town colours?”
Sherlock nods, wrapping a loose strand of hair around his finger. “Do you…like it?” His voice holds an uncharacteristic anxious note, and John could explode.
Of course he liked it. “Bloody love it, mate. Sir Qauckington is going to become the unofficial mascot of the podcast. He can sit on my desk and stare into my soul when I’m not editing fast enough.”
Sherlock’s lips flicker into a quick smile, so quick it’s gone in an instant. He seemed to be…working his way up to saying something. Though, John had learnt that it was best to let him say whatever it was on his own terms, rather than try to push him – so he stays silent.
“I found a place for the lights you brought me,” Sherlock says, finally. “May I show you? If you are available, of course.”
Looking swiftly back over his shoulder at his glowing computer screen, John shrugs. Editing the podcast could wait.
Nodding, he follows Sherlock into his room.
“Ta-dah,” Sherlock says, deadpan.
The lack of enthusiasm is so horribly Sherlock it makes John smile.
Looking from him to the corner of the room, his eyes find what John liked to call the ‘overstimulation station’.
A few weeks back, Sherlock had nicked their clotheshorse, much to John’s annoyance. When he’d finally come in to confront him about it, he found what Sherlock had done with it - a blanket draped over the top, Sherlock had turned it into some sort of den, filled with pilfered cushions, what he now knew to be stim toys, and, more recently, the ear defenders John had brought him for Christmas.
He’d titled it the overstimulation station because – well, the second time he had come in to confront Sherlock about taking yet another cushion, John had found him tightly squeezed into a ball, hands over his ear defenders, eyes squeezed tight shut.
He’d let the theft of the cushion go after that.
Sometimes he even left a pack of the oat biscuits Sherlock loved as an offering.
Looking at it now he could see Sherlock had indeed found a place for the lights. Each string was wrapped across a different metal bar of the clothes horse. Even off, they looked pretty.
“Very tasteful,” John agrees. “I’m glad they found a place that wasn’t the living room or my bedroom.”
Sherlock looks at him once, then crouches down and crawls into the nest of cushions and blankets. It looked cosy, and John couldn’t say he wasn’t slightly jealous.
“Care to join me for the grand turn on event, Watson?” Sherlock invites, holding up a single switch with many leads spilling out of it.
Praying to God the whole thing won’t go up in flames, John crouches. “Budge over, then.”
Shuffling, Sherlock makes just enough room for them to both squeeze inside. “So - do we want a countdown, or…?”
Before he can finish, Sherlock flicks the switch and the small den lights up, colour spilling across the dark blanket.
Sherlock exhales lightly, and John turns his head to peer at what he’s doing.
He’s fiddling with a loose thread between his fingers, eyes downcast and mouth set in a grim line. “I was worried, at first. When we met, that is. That you would find me strange. Admittedly I may be strange but it makes perfect sense to me, the way my brain works.”
He rubs at his temple before setting his hand down in a fist in his lap. “People my whole life have told me to act like this or don’t do that because people won’t like me. At some point, I just stopped caring what people thought about me, it was their problem if they found me too much or not enough. Or perhaps I never cared that much at all. But when it came to you - I cared. I care quite a bit, John.”
As Sherlock takes a shaky breath, John finds himself wishing he could show everyone this version of Sherlock. The Sherlock that found beauty in what everyone else thought was the mundane.
The Sherlock that took the time to knit a scarf for a rubber duck he had named. The Sherlock that didn’t deserve to be called strange for merely existing.
“But instead of laughing at me, you went out of your way to accommodate me. And what I think I mean to say to you is this – I am incredibly grateful for your gift, even if I may not look like it. I suppose I – struggle to show my excitement, or appreciation. But I do appreciate it. And you. And - this.” Sherlock breathes, gesturing to the tent, and the lights, and John.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then, John gently bumps his shoulder against Sherlock’s with a smile. “Want to know something strange?”
Sherlock spends a moment processing before nodding.
Sitting back, John fiddles with one of the lights before replying. “I think there’s a pack of oat biscuits in the cupboard leftover from Christmas with your name on that you haven’t absolutely demolished yet.”
An excited smile spreads across Sherlock’s face, and then he’s hurriedly crawling from the nest of blankets and offering John his hand to help him out.
“Would you, like to share in an oaty delight with me, John?”
Taking his hand, John heaves himself to his feet, and a warmth in his chest that had long been dormant stirs. “There’s nothing I’d rather spend my time doing, Sherlock.”
“Excellent. Come Watson and Sir Quackington, I must educate you both on the difference between dragons and dinosaurs.”
And things were…good.
Even if next Christmas came and went and John was still here in the warmth of 221B, he didn’t think he would be unhappy.
Far from it.
If his days looked more like this – sitting and eating oat biscuits with Sherlock, learning Spanish with Mariana, and solving the most baffling cases in London, well – he might just be a very happy boy indeed.