A/N: Firstly, this one's not been checked by my unofficial beta either, sorry!
I have to say this has been fun! My longest fic to date, and thank you SO much to every one of you reviewers. I've never received more than thirty reviews for a fic before, so getting just under 150 is absolutely breathtaking ^.^
This bonus chapter is dedicated to everyone who left me encouraging messages this month. Thank you. I have plenty of plans for Sherlock fics come the New Year, so have a brilliant Christmas, and keep your eyes peeled.
All my best wishes,
Detective Inspector Dimmock
DI Dimmock had a mountain of paperwork and a strong desire to go home to his pregnant wife, leaving said irritating paperwork till after the holidays. It was Christmas Eve after all; he shouldn't still be working at six twenty pm.
DI Dimmock was tired, but he forced himself to keep writing; if he finished the report he was doing, he'd promised himself he'd leave the rest till after the holiday's, so when he glanced up from his desk, looking for coffee and finding Sherlock Holmes and his ever constant companion, John Watson striding towards him, to say that he was irritated was an understatement.
"What do you two want now?"
"See, John? I told you this would be a waste of our time-"
The two men locked eyes for a long moment, before Dimmock coughed, and drew their attention. Sherlock sighed and threw down a small packet onto the inspector's desk, wrapped in bright Christmas paper.
The weary detective looked up at Sherlock's whine in time to see the doctor close his eyes with a sigh,
"It's a Christmas present inspector, as is this."
A small envelope landed on the desk by the small packet from the doctor's hand, and all Dimmock could do was stare in surprise.
"A complete waste of time" Sherlock repeated, turned away and marching from the room. John Watson, however stood for a few moments longer as though expecting the DI to open then gifts, only shifting his weight when it became clear that Dimmock had no intention of moving.
"Right then, Merry Christmas."
DI Dimmock cautiously watched them both leave, and John Watson begin arguing with Sherlock as the door shut behind them, before he returned his gaze to the 'gifts'. This had to be some sort of prank, right?
Carefully he opened the envelope from John Watson, wary of what may be inside, but all that fell out was a small business card.
Only crimes of the complicated nature.
221b Baker street, London.
Dimmock flipped the card over the find only a short sentence in the doctor's hand writing, "Just in case you ever need his help."
As reluctant as he was to admit it, Sherlock Holmes' contact details were probably the most thoughtful gift anyone had given him in a long time, and he carefully slid the card into his desk draw, before refocusing on Sherlock's present. This was the one that could be detrimental to his health.
Sliding a nail under the Christmas paper, Dimmock peeled it open like he was diffusing a bomb, and when nothing actually exploded, he tipped the contents out of the open end, onto his desk.
A small pocket magnifying glass, very much like Sherlock's, was sitting on his desk, along with a gift tag.
"In the hopes that you will use it to actually see something."
The gift was more thoughtful than he would have expected, even if it did contain Sherlock's personal brand of humour. Dimmock frowned at the objects before shaking his head. Just when he'd thought he'd gotten those two figured out, they threw a curve ball like this.
He glanced at the paperwork and decided enough was enough. If anyone asked, he'd blame it on the shock of Sherlock Holmes giving Christmas presents, and DI Dimmock defied anyone to argue with him.
The two boxes were delivered by private courier. Or so the delivery man said, but Anderson could see no insignia on the mans uniform, and the black car parked outside his home looked more than a little suspicious.
"Who was that?"
Anderson winced at his wife's sharp tone and shut the front door sharply.
"Gifts from... colleagues."
He placed the two boxes on the kitchen table and Mrs. Anderson came through from the living room as he began opening the first box. Sherlock wouldn't poison him with a package that had the consulting detective's return address on it would he?
Then again, the one with the return address was the package with Doctor Watson's handwriting all over it...
"A goose! Oh isn't that lovely darling, You'll have to let me send thank you notes, that will make a wonderful centre piece for Boxing Day lunch..."
He ignored the gushing vocals of his wife, and decided that he would need to thank John Watson, but then Anderson's gaze fell on the smaller gift, from Sherlock Holmes and he felt his suspicions rising.
"Well open the next one then."
"Yes dear..." he sighed, pulling it towards himself apprehensively.
It took less time than Anderson would have liked to pull the box open and the silence that fell over the Anderson kitchen was chilling.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he heard his wife but couldn't make himself answer. Sherlock hadn't. Sherlock wouldn't. John wouldn't let him... But Sherlock had. Sherlock bloody Holmes had sent him a home test STD kit.
His marriage was over.
Many people in Beresford Road hear the shrieks of Mrs Anderson that night, and the promises Mr Anderson made to her.
It was a bad joke, they didn't get on, it wasn't true, and it took till the early hours of Christmas morning before Mrs Anderson unlocked the front door and let her husband back inside again, but the doubt had been planted, and she would watch.
Anderson knew she would watch, and knew Sherlock was making him choose. He hated to admit it, but Sherlock Holmes had helped him realise that he didn't want to loose his wife.
"Merry Bloody Christmas, Sherlock, you bastard" Anderson whispered, as his wife fell asleep upstairs, and he resigned himself to backache from the sofa for the rest of the Christmas holidays.
A man in a black suit, calling himself a private courier delivered two small jar shaped packages to the one bedroom flat of Sally Donovan on Christmas Eve.
She'd been just about to relax in front of the fire with a book and a small glass of Amarula when the doorbell had gone, and now Sally was staring at the jar shaped gifts, wrapped in bright shiny Christmas paper with a look of abject shock plastered over he features.
Christmas presents from Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. She could see it, coming from John, but Sherlock sending gifts? Particularly her?
She smelt a rat.
Deciding swiftly to get Sherlock's out of the way, she pulled the gift towards her and began ripping the paper away hazardously. She nearly dropped it when she realised exactly what Sherlock had sent her.
There was a tag tied round the neck of the jar of half melted eyeballs, and she pulled it out of the remaining wrapping paper to read it.
"You seemed fond of them during the fake drugs bust, so I thought you might want to keep them"
She nearly threw them across the room, but refrained when she realised she'd have to clean to goop up, and had to satisfy herself with simply dumping them in the bin and hoping her dustmen wouldn't ask too many questions.
Taking a calming breath, Sally returned to the second gift and eyed it. This one had to be from John Watson, and should theoretically be safe, but the doctor did live with Sherlock, and the detective had his ways... he could have tampered with it...
She ripped the paper from the second box and pulled out a large tub of moisturising cream; of a ridiculously expensive brand. Scotland Yard was paying them two men too much money. As she pulled the creamed gold out of it's container a small gift tag dropped onto the table and Sherlock's spidery writing caught her gaze again.
"I'm sure this is intended for use on your knees"
Sally could have screamed, but she refrained, managing simply to grit her teeth and set the cream aside. It was ridiculously expensive, and she would be damned if she was going to throw it away to spite Sherlock Holmes.
She eyes her small glass of Amarula, and shook her head before moving round her flat swiftly splashing the liqueur down the sink and pulling out a bottle of her dad's favourite whiskey.
Merry Christmas? Yeah right.
When the man, Sherlock had borrowed to send his Christmas presents, returned to Mycroft's office, he carried one more, large box and placed it on Mycroft's desk with a soft "sir".
To say he was shocked would be an exaggeration, but mild surprise and a hint of amusement were clearly present in his usually stoic face. Sherlock hadn't sent him a Christmas gift since the time Mycroft's younger brother had come home from university for Mummy's Christmas party. The events that followed were... unpleasant. As far as Mycroft knew, Sherlock still hadn't forgiven him...
So John Watson must be a much better influence than he'd given the ex-service man credit for. There was a sealed envelope taped to the top of the box, and Mycroft ordered his people to leave the room as he carefully sliced through the paper with an ornate silver letter opener.
Do not suppose for once infinitesimal instant that this is in any way a peace offering. John simply wished to send you a Christmas gift, and did not want to do so without a gift from myself to go alongside it.
My Christmas gift to you will make you scowl, a pleasant thought for myself, but don't trouble yourself worrying and checking... although it took some persuasion, John has agreed with my recommendations completely.
In other words, I suggest you fire those numerous and exceedingly expensive private physicians, as you are now on the patient list of one Doctor John Watson, I have enclosed the contact details of his surgery to save you the trouble, and you already know where to find him out of hours.
He is more professional, talented, and better under stress than your hirelings, Mycroft, and added to that, he will not ask you who won 'X factor' as a test for concussion, knowing that you, like me, have very little need for such frivolities.
Merry Christmas Mycroft,
Don't choke on your turkey.
P.S Just for confirmation this is entirely fine by me Mycroft; John Watson.'
Mycroft had to admit the doctors' signature in the post script was comforting, and he studied the caustic tone of his brothers' letter for a moment before letting loose a rare unguarded smile.
Although Sherlock had covered it with biting comments and scornful remarks, his high praise of John Watson's work spoke absolute volumes to Mycroft; Added to the fact that he was offering his partner's services to his brother, spoke of a gift more heartfelt than anything shared between them in longer than the older man cared to admit.
With a soft smile, and a mental note to have his PA fire his exceedingly expensive private physicians, he turned to the large square box that must be the gift John Watson had not wanted to send on its own.
Sliding the lid off slowly, his was truly shocked to see an exquisitely cut suit lying in swathes of tissues paper. He recognised the work of the Holmes family tailor, so Mycroft knew it would fit, but he rarely purchased himself suits for work in a material of this quality. He could afford them, certainly, but that often took the pleasure away from wearing them. Wearing this suit would be different; it wasn't something he could buy.
It was a gift, send in good will, and Mycroft suspected that he may very soon come to consider John Watson a very good friend.
He would have to abduct the man in the New Year for tea, and maybe crumpets.
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade
Lestrade had left his office, through the desks, down the corridor, gotten down in the lift to the ground floor, and halfway across the lobby of Scotland Yard before he was stopped.
He was so close to being out of the place and home for Christmas, but no, there in the doorway stood Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
A perfect way to end Christmas Eve.
"Sherlock, if you have a case it has to wait for three days, I'm on holiday, I'm going home, to my wife, and there is nothing you can say that's going to stop me-"
"We have a Christmas present for you."
Lestrade stopped dead, and turned slowly to scowl at the two men, "you what? Sherlock, you ignore Christmas every year, with a bad tantrum and a sulk that we're wasting time while criminals work... and now, you've got a Christmas present?"
"Don't knock it" John muttered, drawing the inspector's puzzled frown, "You haven't got any clue what I've had to do to get him to agree to this."
From the doctors grin Greg was pretty sure he didn't want to think about it either.
"Why do you insist on doing this John, nobody's grateful everyone will moan and complain, and argue..."
"If you gave gifts more often, it wouldn't be suck a shock to their system's Sherlock."
Sherlock was silenced and Lestrade gaped "That was amazing John, that my gift? Him being silenced?"
The shorter man chuckled, but Sherlock merely stayed silent, his glare darkening as John shook his head.
"No, this is" the doctor handed over what looked like a folder for a case file and Lestrade became wary again.
That was until he opened it and began reading, and then he nearly dropped the blasted thing in shock.
"Is... is this what... what I think it is?"
"It's a contract, well done Lestrade."
John shot him a look and the detective stopped talking again, with a sigh, waving an imperious hand for his flatmate to explain, which he did with a smile.
"You've been such a help this year that I thought I should get you something special for Christmas, especially when you saved me from a murder charge by letting me access the cold cases..."
The shaking in his hands lessened at the joke, and the DI even managed a shell-shocked smile as the doctor continued explaining the documents in his hands worth their weight in gold.
"That is a contract, signed by Sherlock, and it promises his help in three cases of your choice... No fee needs to be paid, and he will refrain from insulting or antagonising any member of your team, except in defence of himself."
"In other words, Lestrade, I'll keep my mouth shut, if they do."
His hands were shaking again, if this was a joke he's not sure his blood pressure could take it. Three cases where Sherlock co-operated? Really?
"In addition, he also promises not to withhold evidence, or to go off on his own and investigate under his own steam without informing you, unless there is a very real chance that doing so will loose the suspect."
The three men stood silent and Lestrade gaped at them, his eyes flickering between Sherlock's stormy gaze and John's utterly pleased one.
If he spoke he's stutter, he just knew it, and he nearly dropped the papers at the magnitude of this gift. What John had done to convince the man? Give him a temporary concussion maybe, forged his signature, also possible...
"If you loose those documents, I will not hold myself to them" Sherlock hissed, his tone sulky and Lestrade snapped back to himself, grinning like a maniac.
"Oh don't worry Sherlock, I'm photocopying them, and placing them in a number of safety deposit boxes... just in case they get pick pocketed from my desk draw."
He smirked at the detective's surprised expression and John's unrestrained laughter, before wishing them both a very Merry Christmas, and departing from the lobby of Scotland Yard for home, as swiftly as his feet would carry him and long before either man had been in a fit state to reply.
When Mrs Hudson opened her front door to be faced with two shivering tenants, she immediately asked if the heating was broken in their flat.
"Not unless Sherlock hasn't told me something" John reassured her gently, and the old woman grinned as he continued, "No, we've just been out delivering presents and it's freezing out there, we've just got back but wanted to give you yours..."
"Oh John look at you getting Sherlock into the Christmas spirit! That's what it's all about, Sherlock, sharing!"
The detective rolled his eyes and she prepared to scold him when she realised that her two tenants had gotten her Christmas presents.
"It's not so much giving her the presents, John, as telling her what they are."
John looked embarrassed and Sherlock sighed, intriguing the old woman enough to stay silent for once and simply listen.
"John informed me that I make a ridiculous amount on noise with my experiments and violin Mrs Hudson-"
"You do dearie, at all hours of the day and night, now only last week-"
"SO!" Sherlock managed to interrupt the beginning of his landlady's waffle, "I'm having 221b sound proofed for you after Christmas, that should prevent my experiments and thoughts disturbing you sufficiently."
Mrs Hudson began tearing up and Sherlock had a distinct look of panic about him, so John coughed softly, drawing Mrs Hudson's attentions to him, "and I know how you keep worrying about the health factor of Sherlock keeping body parts up there, so I'm getting a new fridge for the flat, our resident scientist can keep body parts in the old one, and you can stop worrying about what you're going to find next..."
Mrs Hudson hugged him, a few tears escaping, "Oh you lads are the nicest tenants I've ever rented too!" she pulled back, and took in John's flushed embarrassment with a grin, "but..."
"I have promised not to use the new fried as an overflow."
Sherlock grumbled and she laughed "Honestly, Sherlock, sometimes I do wonder if you can read minds with that brain of yours..."
She studied the still shivering men for a moment, beaming at them brightly "I really can't thank you enough, such thoughtful gifts... but I'll start with some hot eggnog, come in, come in, it's freshly made."
John thanked her and began following her inside when he noticed Sherlock wasn't with him and turned to find the man still standing in the doorway with wide eyes.
"The rum, John, don't you remember last time?"
"I couldn't get out to the shops for any appropriate alcohol, so I'm afraid it's a non-alcoholic version this evening!"
John grinned as Sherlock visibly relaxed and came into 221a with a sigh of relief. At least something had come from John's twelve Christmas presents. Sherlock was still willing to drink eggnog. Not much but, John thought as he wrapped his fingers round Sherlock's, any win was a good win when it came to Sherlock Holmes.
Doctor John Watson
The front door shut behind John and Sherlock leapt into action. Contrary to popular belief Sherlock could cook when he wanted to. It was just like any other science experiment after all. What prevented him from cooking well, and produced black sausages, mush instead of beans on toasts, and convinced the man that's the way it should be, was nothing more than boredom, lack of experience because everyone knows that food at home is completely different from food when eating out, and a perchance to want to experiment with the cooking process.
At least that's what he'd told himself before he'd planned this surprise, and proceeded to research the best way to make Christmas dinner.
John had just left to pick up Harry for Christmas day, honestly believing that they'd either be sitting down to microwave dinners, or some of Mrs Hudson's meal when he got back since he wouldn't have time to cook himself when he was picking up his sister.
Sherlock was determined to have everything ready to dish up onto plates, within ten minutes of their arrival, The Turkey was stuffed the night before, and he'd managed to get it in the oven before John woke, telling the doctor it was an experiment. John had been so tired he'd taken Sherlock at his word, and left the flat without comment.
The detective glanced around the kitchen slowly, thinking, before he swiftly proceeded to gather parsnips, potatoes, carrots and brussel sprouts to prepare.
This Christmas would be perfect; he'd make sure of it. John would never forget if he didn't.
Nearly an hour later, when the front door opened and John returned with a high pitched voice the consulting detective knew he was going to hate by the end of the day, the kitchen was filled with steam (better than smoke) and Sherlock looked a mess, (which was better than covered in food).
As far as he could tell, noting was burning either.
The detective didn't answer, running over the recipe instructions in his mind and he heard John's familiar footsteps on the stairs.
"I'm back, Harry's with me..."
John's hair appeared round the kitchen door way, a look of surprise on his face and he simply blinked.
"Sherlock... have you, cooked, Christmas dinner?"
"Yes" he responded slowly, still frowning "But it's going to be later, it should be ready in about ten minutes, but in actuality it won't be for another half an hour or so... the recipes were inaccurate."
John grinned she shook his head "Christmas dinner is always later Sherlock" he ran his eyes over his partner's frazzled form, and the man in question felt their heat burn right through to his skin, his face flushing as he turned to stare at John.
The doctor swallowed and sighed "You'd better go and get a quick shower, and changed, I'll finish up here."
Sherlock moved across the small kitchen to press his lips to Johns, barely brushing a tongue across his partners' lips when the alcoholic sister reached the top of the stairs. It was 12.30, and she was already tipsy, and Sherlock could see very clearly how John's request that anything remotely resembling alcohol be removed from the house had not been an exaggeration.
"You must be Sherlock!"
"I need to change" he almost growled, stalking past the woman and ignoring her insulted mutterings. Sherlock merely grinned as he heard John explain.
"That's just what he's like, Harry, it's nothing personal..."
Dinner went well. John finished cooking and serving while Sherlock got cleaned up, and while far from perfect, it was the best Christmas John could remember having. If the turkey was more cardboard than meat, the potatoes more brick that roast, and the parsnips more buggered than burnt, nobody said anything, silently blamed the recipes, and complimented the chef.
John knew that Sherlock's Christmas present to him had been dinner, cooked for him so that they'd have a proper Christmas, so the last thing he'd expected when they sat down to open presents was a box shoved into his hands before anyone else had a chance to move to the small collection under the tree.
"Merry Christmas, John" Sherlock muttered, slumping into the sofa as though he couldn't care less, but John noticed the corner of his mouth tuck in as he bit the inside of his lip, and grinned before carefully opening the box.
It contained a stunning black wool coat, a little shorter than Sherlock's own coat, and equally as warm. John was speechless and Sherlock began babbling.
"I noticed you bough a longer coat, and it suited you, but it's been ridiculously cold this year so-"
He was stopped short as John threw a balled up piece of tissue paper at him laughing, "It's perfect Sherlock, and absolutely stunning, thank you!"
The consulting detective blushed and ducked his head, before remembering they had company, and bringing his eyes back up with a scowl and a swift, sharp nod.
"Well, I got you both the same thing, so you might as well open at once" Harry announced brightly, her voice still grating on Sherlock's nerves and threw a small lumpy present at them both, waving her hands to get them to unwrap swiftly.
The ghastly bobble hats that were revealed tested even Sherlock's control of his emotions and John managed to stutter over an unconvincing 'thank you' but, Sherlock noticed dryly, Harry Watson didn't seem to care much as she sat in an armchair laughing.
Like a machine gun. No wonder John hadn't stayed with her, that laugh could have set off flashbacks to Afghanistan immediately upon the doctors return to England.
John had gotten his sister a pair of leather gloves that she gushed over, she Sherlock smirked silently, knowing exactly how much his partner had spent on Mycroft, compared to his own sister. Sherlock had been given two instructions in regards to the gift giving on Christmas day. One, everyone got a gift, so Sherlock had to find something for Harry Watson, and two, it couldn't be alcohol.
So when Harry tore the paper from a large case of wine bottles, Sherlock didn't think John was going to give him a chance to explain from the black look he was receiving from his lover.
"I've not heard of this wine!" John sister announced loudly, making the detective wince. He'd be deaf for days, he knew it, "What's it like?"
"Non-alcoholic, third shelf on the left of the spirits isle in Asda" Sherlock deadpanned, and the room froze. John smothered a grin, and Harry looked like she wanted to throw the bottled at him, but after a moment smiled .
Sherlock grinned back. He could hear her teeth gritting. John's gift to Sherlock, while useful, and very welcome wasn't particularly inspired.
On the other hand, the top of the range microscope with a number of additional features was a huge improvement over the one he'd stolen from parts five years previous, so he'd beamed at John, drawn the blush he wanted and thanked him, surprising himself when he began fidgeting, wanting to go and test out the gift.
He was banned form doing so, and sulked through some awful film Harry had brought. Love Actually. Urg.
Harry went home in a taxi, and Sherlock could honestly say he'd never been more grateful to see someone leave. He'd take Mycroft over that woman any day, but he spoke not a word to John.
When John returned from seeing his sister to the taxi, he stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment before speaking.
"I've got a, uh, another gift for you Sherlock... one I didn't want to give you while Harry was still here" the doctor said softly, drawing Sherlock's gaze from the view at the bottom of his new microscope, and onto John's face.
John beckoned him over to the sofa and he took one last glance at the microscope before standing and joining his partner, where John handed him a leather bound book, the words printed on the front in gold foil said "The 24 Days of Christmas".
"You got me a song book?"
John laughed softly, his head thrown back in true amusement and Sherlock couldn't draw his eyes away from the expanse of neck bare to him until John calmed, and re-caught wandering eyes with his own twinkling blue.
"It's a customised photo album" John watched Sherlock's eyes narrow, as he became suspicious and began deducing, and the doctor simply smirked, "Stop working it out, and open it".
Sherlock took another moment to study his partner's confident gaze before he opened the book, the spine creaking as he revealed the first picture.
Sherlock, sitting on the sofa, watching TV, with a pear sitting right in front of his mouth. The first line of the poem was neatly penned in John's hand writing on the blank page to the left of the photograph, and he studied the page for a moment before moving on.
Page two, had a picture of their Christmas tree, the same one that sat innocently in the corner of the room, with a second photograph of the two turtle dove ornaments hanging from it. Sherlock remembered that day, and exactly how John had gotten him to agree to keep the tree.
He grinned, and watched John relax out of the corner of his eye. Once again the words of the poem were penned in John's own hand, and Sherlock found he absolutely adored the personal touch.
Page three had a picture of John, Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock sitting in the living room of 221b, laughing happily, and clearly drunk. Page four, a photograph of John's blog post on the case he'd found for Sherlock. Page five, a snapshot of Lestrade holding up the evidence of five wedding bands they'd needed.
Sherlock really needed to thank the photographer, because he'd managed to capture the look of pure adoration Sherlock remembered sending John at that moment.
There were no pictures of the two of them shooting geese on page six, but there was a captured moment when they'd been getting the birds out of the hired car, and the looked they'd shared between laughing had Sherlock's breath catching. Page seven, Sherlock barely remembered the swans, but there they were, swimming on the lake as he sat in thought, and John sat trying to keep warm in the freezing snow.
Eight... well the photographer could only be one of Mycroft's people now, only they would have come into the flat and photographed the whole fridge filled with milk. They were still over run with the stuff now.
Nine. Nine was Sherlock's favourite. Nine had quite a few photos, some of John at his dance lessons, and some of them dancing at Mycroft's Christmas party. Sherlock didn't even realise he was crying until John's fingers brushed them away.
Neither of them mentioned it, they both knew it would start an argument, so Sherlock simply turned to the next page.
Then Sherlock was laughing. Mycroft stood drenched, surrounded n water up to his ankles, clearly shouting at some plumber, and the camera man, purely by accident, managed to catch the pipe in the background exploding. It was pure genius, he'd have to send his mother a thank you card.
The intimate embrace they'd wrapped themselves in to watch the parade, and the eleven drummers that Sherlock had been so suspicious of, surprised Sherlock. He knew John wasn't fond of public displays, but his arms wrapped around John, and John's hands tugging at him, with Sherlock's head on his shoulder and nose against the doctors neck... It didn't belong in a photo album, as far as the consulting detective was concerned, this picture was... well, he sent John a heated look and the doctor grinned, before waving a hand at the book, insisting Sherlock continue with the last entry.
Sherlock knew. He knew what the last picture was going to be. There were pictures of the ballet, certainly, but he was still unprepared for an outsider's view of John and himself pressed together in a heated kiss.
The shadows of their booth had hidden where their hands had been roaming, but Sherlock's breath was stolen at the hint of tongue escaping the cage of lips, and the expressions of pleasure plastered on their faces.
He closed the book with shaking hands and reverently placed it on the coffee table before turning on John, hands to his lovers' face he pulled him into a kiss to rival the photograph on page twelve, and ravished the doctor till they were both gasping for air, and Sherlock was practically lying on top of the man.
"You're perfectly wonderful" Sherlock told him as they tried to regain their breath and John blushed.
"Don't argue with me John, you know I'm always right."
The doctor laughed and grinned, "Right then."
Mouths met again slowly, and the men's eyes slipped shut as their bodies settled against each other comfortably, Sherlock lying between John's legs, pressed close to his partner and tongues probed mouths, testing and reaching and challenging each other, as teeth began nipping at lips, and hands began wandering.
As Sherlock raised himself onto his elbows and let his hands began wandering down John's neck he could feel the doctor's pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips, and followed the trail with his mouth, soft kissing and sharp nips began marking the skin as John shifting under the detective's weight, gasping in breaths as his neck tipped to one side to give Sherlock more access.
Sherlock only observed that John had managed to pull his shirt form his trousers when he felt the tips of the mans fingers brushing a line up his chest as he unbuttoned the fabric, and Sherlock groaned at the sparks Johns fingers left dancing over his skin, biting the doctor's neck firmly and drawing a sharp hiss and a sigh form the man beneath him.
It took very little time for Sherlock to be divested on his shirt, and John's jumper swiftly followed, neither of them keeping track of exactly where their clothing landed.
"John..." They met in another kiss, the heat rising between them when John hooked a leg round the back of Sherlock's and pushing their hips together tightly, drawing groans from them both. Sherlock repeated the motion, shifting slowly and drawing out the sensation as he relished in the shudder that travelled through John's and the brief glazed look his electric blue eyes gained.
The paused only briefly to shed the rest of their clothing, and then they were meeting again, falling back into the familiar positions on the sofa, and writhing at the heat from skin on skin contact. Sherlock slide his was down John's chest, his tongue flicking over nipples, and teeth nipping at ribs, and the detective spotted the trembling in his lovers body.
He smirked, pressed his short nails into John's sides, drawing a breathy hiss, and dragged himself back up his lovers body, pressing a deep kiss to the man's mouth, smothering the his cry as he felt John shudder his release.
Sherlock was studying him intently when John finally came back to himself, and he was suddenly determined to wipe the smug smile from his partners face. A firm jerk of his hips, had Sherlock's focus thrown and a wave of pleasure cross his currently unguarded features as John sat them both up slowly, arms wrapped round Sherlock as he nibbled Sherlock's ear, and waiting for the shiver he knew would come from the action.
John's hands wandered swiftly while his partners' attentions were diverted and swiped a hand over Sherlock's weeping head, drawing a strangled cry and John watched the worlds only consulting detective begin to loose his control right in front of his eyes.
"Dear gods, Sherlock" John gasped, he was already half hard again at the sight of his lover like this, and sliding to the floor John wasted no time replacing his hand with his mouth, tongue swirling over the head and making Sherlock gasp, his head thrown back in abandon and long fingers clenched firmly in John's hair, drawing a moan.
A moan he repeated more firmly once he had his throat filled with Sherlock, finally drawing absolute nonsense from the usually perfectly articulate mane before him. John sucked and moved back from Sherlock's cock slowly, before lowering his mouth back over the man, Sherlock was reduced to whimpers and nonsense words, occasionally muttering Johns name, and all it took was a well timed brush to the detective's balls for him to cry out sharply, hips bucking, and fill John's mouth.
The doctor swallowed, a thin trickle escaping down his chin, that he wiped off slowly as he sat up, knowing Sherlock was watching him. He smirked up at his lover, and Sherlock grinned back, dragging John back onto the sofa to straddle his hips as they reignited their kisses. He could taste himself in the doctor's mouth and he groaned, while John shuddered once again as his now hard cock pressed against the detective's stomach. Their hands continued to roam, nipping at each others bodies, and dragging nails across pale skin, like marking territory.
"Under the sofa, Sherlock."
The detective blinked, distracted at the reply "When did that get put there?"
"After the last time we had to stop and go looking for it at a point like this" John lent down and snagged the bottle he'd put there a week previous, and sat back up with a grin "Now, shut up Sherlock, and lay down."
The detective didn't need to be told twice and laid back on the sofa again, pulling John down with him to the army doctor was laying on him and he could feel the mans arousal pressing into his stomach. Sherlock busied his mouth with placing a love bite high enough on the doctors' neck that the man wouldn't be able to hide it while he waited impatiently for the feel of the lube, his nerves impatiently waiting.
The first press of a finger was surprising, and like always the detective tensed, but John was already there, in him, stretching, flexing and then he brushed Sherlock's prostate and long fingers dug into the sofa with a soft whimper.
"Ah! ... More, John..."
Sherlock needn't have bothered, John was ahead of him, a second finger pushing past the body's barriers and leaving both men gasping in anticipation. John pressed against his lovers' sweet spot a couple more times as he prepared the man, and y the time the doctor was satisfied, Sherlock was squirming onto he sofa.
"Now, John, I want you now" the detective hissed drawing a shuddering groan from John, as he pressed a harsh kiss to his lovers mouth, his tongue sucked mercilessly into Sherlock as he pressed against the man.
He'd prepared himself while he'd made the detective writhe, and John was in his lover, held firmly by tensing muscles before either of them had expected it, and it feeling left them gasping. It always did, Sherlock was beginning to suspect it always would.
After a moment to regain some kind of self control, both men shifted at once, their eyes locking as John began shifting slowly in and out of his lovers' body, pulling Sherlock's legs to his shoulders and dragging a sharp cry from the man as the tip of John brushed against him once again.
The slow build of pressure was almost painful, and John bit his lip, determined to keep the slow dragging speed that was driving them both mad. Sherlock's hands were fisted in the sofa, his head throw back as he finally begged John to fuck him, just fuck him hard.
The sound of the worlds only consulting detective begging, lost John his control, hips snapped forward harshly.
"Oh gods, John, more, please."
Slow rhythm was lost, and their movements became erratic and their cries harsher, their groans louder, Sherlock was writhing, and John smothered a trembling yell with a firm bite into his lovers collarbone as his vision flooded with pleasure, his hands shifting unconsciously stroking over Sherlock once, twice and the man gasped out his released, the tightening around John drawing another groan from the doctor before both men finally relaxed, collapsing together, their sweat coated bodies sticking slightly.
They lay, silent, Sherlock's legs cradling John, and the doctors' fingers trailing patterns across his lovers chest.
It was a long time before either of them moves, and then they simply shifted so they could wrap their arms around each other, as Sherlock pulled the blanket over them for warmth.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock"
"Yes, John, it is."
They could move later, clean up later. But not now. Christmas day was a time for spending it with the ones you love, and that's exactly what the two men in 221b Baker Street were going to do.