Hey muchachos and muchachas. Since X-mas is getting here, i thought, let's write a Sherlock X-mas fic. No, wait, that's a lie, i just got bored in class again. Jebbus, I'm gonna fail this year if i don't start focusing on all the boring.

Either that, or i'll start to yell BORED. BORED. BORED. in the middle of class and ask anyone if they have a gun so that i can shoot at the smiley face i just drew on the wall. Because the wall had it coming.

Anywhoodles. Bad news my loves. My sister like, crashed my computer to the ground twice and it will not turn on now. I am on my mother's laptop right now, but its hers and she needs it for work so i won't be able to update much until it gets fixed and who knows when that will be. IF they can even fix it. Which will so totally suck if they can't because all my shite is on that fucking thing. I'm gonna break my sisters computer in retaliation if mine's broke for good.

Computercide!

So. To the fic. Sorry guys, i'm like, ugh, idek, attention span of a fly and stuff. So, this fic is around the Christmas holidays. Do John and Sherlock even celebrate X-mas? I don't fucking know, but in my fic, they do. They are also TOGETHER because, you know. Gay is the way, HEY! *ahem* i also enjoy their pairing. They are 'married' (i.e. civil partners, legalized, la di-da di-da, w.e.) and stuff. Also, they have a baby. Not THIER baby because i only do m-preg with SPN because you know, they are supernatural characters in a supernatural show called Supernatural, so that shit is quite possible to actually happen. Sherlock is all human and stuff, so i'm keeping the genetics of it all human. So. They adopted her. There. And she's a baby, a bambina, so you know, just lots of gurgling and cutsie stuff to get to the heart of their relationship and shit.

So there.

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC or Sherlock. Ok? I wish i did, but no. I just... you know. Play with them sometimes. And make them happy and stuff. And ermm... you know what? I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO YOU. *cries in a corner*

Title from: Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not? by Thompson Square

Current Song: Isn't It Bromantic? from Supernatural Season like 5 i think, by Christopher Lennertz

Current Thought: i am going to fail English this year. and it is my BEST subject. just, fyi. idek guiz.


Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not?

"Sherlock, what are you-" And now John laughs. "What on earth are you doing?"

And the other man looks a bit scandalized now. "You said to start decorating," he deadpans, "so we have." Sherlock is sitting on the floor surrounded by tinsel, fairy-lights, a variety of ornaments and several stockings. And in his lap is a little girl, about a year old, the bottom half of her body in a large, crimson stocking. She's covered in tinsel and glitter and clapping her little, chubby hands together to make the specs of glitter fly.

John makes his way over and scoops the baby up, grinning. "Daddy doesn't know how to decorate, does he?" John asks her, sliding her out of the oversized sock and letting it drop to the floor. The baby only gurgles in response and giggles, drool dripping down her chin.

Sherlock makes a face as he stands up, glitter and tinsel shedding off of him as he does so. He wipes the drool from the baby's chin as he says, "Well of course not," a bit grumpily. "We had decorators that did that for us in the manor when I was a child." He seems a bit miffed, but it turns to disgust as he wipes the drool on his trousers. "I was lucky if I even got to watch."

John shakes his head as their daughter continues to drool and wipes at her own face, deciding she can do it for herself and only succeeding in leaving glitter on her cheeks in her hand's wake. "C'mere," he says to Sherlock, moving closer with the baby in his arms.

Sherlock meets him half-way and pouts. "What?"John tries not to smile, because Sherlock is a grown man and he's pouting for Christ's sake. Their daughter pouts. And she's one.

John smiles as Abigail – that's their daughter's name, after a relative of Sherlock's; John doesn't know which one and Sherlock's not telling- squirms, getting comfortable in his arms. "You've got silver tinsel, in your hair," John says. "Here, let me-" And he's untangling the shiny piece of plastic from dark curls and handing it to the baby sp she can entertain herself. Sherlock has that half-smile, because he's a smug little bastard and he knows exactly what John's going to do next.

"Well?" the world's only consultant detective asks when his husband doesn't make a move.

"Well what?" the retired soldier says with a smirk of his own, because he knows exactly what Sherlock expects.

Sherlock sighs dramatically, because he may be thirty-seven bloody years old, but he's still got a penchant for the dramatic. It's like he's still a child in there, but that's alright, John wouldn't have it any other way. "Well, are you going to kiss me, or not?"

John chuckles, gesturing to the infant that's playing with Christmas decorations in his arms. "My hands are a mite full, if you can't tell."

Sherlock takes John's face into his hands. "And when has that ever stopped either of us?" And with that he kisses John breathless until he feels a small hand pushing on his arms. When Sherlock pulls back, John is smiling and Abigail is scowling, tinsel still in one little hand. He'd been squishing her a bit. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, Abbi, don't be that way, child," he says to her. "Daddy will give you kisses too."

And he snatches her from John, smothering her in kisses as she squeals in delight and John watches in amazement. Because yes. This is his life. And no. He wouldn't trade it for the world.


Later on, it's dark and quiet in 221B Baker Street in Westminster. Abigail is fast asleep on Sherlock's chest where he's laying on their couch, running his fingers through her silky, brown, baby hair. Sherlock can feel her heart beat against his chest and her head is over his, the steady rhythm lulling her into a deep slumber. It's quite remarkable.

John finishes the Christmas decorating and then sits in the armchair beside them. The flat is decked in fairy-lights and holly, a small sprig of mistletoe under a doorway. They have a small, plastic tree in a corner, because Abbi has a pine allergy and sneezes like the devil around them. It's decorated as well, a small star on top, pulsing with lights. The flat is roomy and warm and peaceful. Lestrade knows not to call them past eight and its eight-forty three, so they're in the clear. Mrs. Hudson had been up earlier, so there was no chance of her coming around again. It was…nice. A bit domestic, yes, but still. Nice.

John looks at his small family, then says to Sherlock quietly, almost fearfully, "It's different, isn't it? Being a parent. Having that type of responsibility."

Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment, and John starts to think he didn't hear, when the man says, "A bit, yes." Then he says, "But raising a child is quite like a murder mystery. You have to find out how you do it, what you do it with, who you do it with, who is fit for it, where to do it and, most importantly, why you do it."

John's a bit afraid to know the answer to the last one, but he asks anyway. "And why do you do it?"

Sherlock smiles, really smiles, and just like that, John knows that it doesn't matter what the answer is because Sherlock wants to be here, with both him and Abbi, so it doesn't matter what the initial reason was, does it? "It's a mystery John," Sherlock says, as if it makes perfect sense and in an odd way it does. "And isn't it my job to solve them?"

John laughs, because it's the best answer he could have hoped for.


Any thoughts, coments? Concerns for my mental health and wellbeing? Well, you wouldn't be the first.

Review please dahlings!