Summary: Christmas was just around the corner, and life at Baker Street had slowed down a little bit. Johnlock, established relationship.
Warnings: Slash and fluff. Happens after season 2 and Sherlock's return, but not much weight will be put on that.
Disclaimers: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of the characters.
There was something comforting about their messy flat to John Watson. It told him a great lot of things, but the most important was the pure and simple fact that Sherlock lived there.
After having lived three years without the man, that enough was comforting.
Still, John did try to clean once in a while. He never was very successful more than a few days, a week at the most. Sherlock was like a cat when it came to his own state of cleanliness, but he obviously hadn't extended that to that of his own living area.
Now with Christmas just about banging on their door, John wanted some more tidying up, and put some decorations up. Of course Sherlock wasn't going to help. John had tried before, but now he just didn't ask. He just shoved Sherlock aside when he came barging, and the consulting detective, under snarls and near-bites to John's shooing hands, moved out of his way.
So it shouldn't be much trouble now, right?
Well, Sherlock has the annoying habit to do the unexpected. He probably was born with that habit.
"Sherlock," John groaned. "Come on, I want to clean off the floor."
"Sherlock. I'm warning you."
"It's comfy. And warm. Please?"
John sighed and looked at his mad flatmate and lover. Sherlock had decided, apparently, that the floor was good enough to take a nap on. After he had dragged pillows and blankets over, of course. He was curled up to the point that John only saw half of his head, and a mop of curly hair. And at the end, a bony foot. Of course he wasn't wearing socks either. Despite the flat being rather cold until they got the fire going.
"Sherlock," he attempted one last time when Sherlock got his head out, levelled his perfected hurt puppy look at him, and John broke. "… Fine. I'll clean around you."
Sherlock burrowed down, the foot vanished and so did the rest of his head. John looked fondly at the blankets and pillows and the lump that hid his somewhat childish lover.
Some of the mess ("absolutely necessary for the case," Sherlock once interrupted during the cleaning, to which John merely rolled his eyes) were soon cleared away, and the flat started to look a little tidier. He had even managed to put some Christmas lights up, as neither he nor Sherlock cared a great deal for any Christmas tree. They had a Santa hat, and it was perched on top of the skull at the mantelpiece. John thought it fit. Sherlock grumbled, but always let it stay.
"Sherlock," the doctor said and poked at the lump with his toes. It squirmed away. "Sherlock, love, I'm going to order some take-out. Chinese or Italian?"
"… Italian," came Sherlock's slightly delayed answer, and his voice was slow.
"Were you asleep?" John asked with a smile. "Come on, get up on the couch. The floor's too cold for you."
"It's comfortable," he mumbled.
"And too cold. Come on."
John drew the blankets back until he reached Sherlock. The consulting detective blinked up at him, still slightly curled up, and then he yawned before sitting up. He looked around the flat.
"Is there something wrong with the lights?" he asked.
"No, I just put up Christmas lights. You know… red, green… that's why it looks a little funny."
"Oh. Why did you put up Christmas lights?"
"Because it's Christmas? I actually want some decorations, even if it's just for a couple of days," John said as he helped Sherlock up. "You just want plain pasta for dinner?"
"It wouldn't hurt if you had a little meat too."
"Mmm, maybe next time."
Which was the phrase Sherlock had used for the last… well, ever since John met him.
"Do you mean next meal or next life?" John muttered despite himself.
All he got in response was the familiar smirk as Sherlock curled up on the couch. John shook his head and watched fondly as the man once more buried himself in blankets. Then he went for his phone and dialled the usual Italian place. Maybe he should cook something for Christmas dinner. Sherlock liked his food. And Mrs Hudson shouldn't be doing so much work as she was already. If he made some dinner she wouldn't worry and do twice as much as she usually did.
Dinner ordered and to be delivered done with, John returned to the sitting room and settled down with Sherlock who moved over so that he could lean his head on John's good shoulder.
"Lestrade's coming over later, yeah?" John said. "Maybe should've ordered to him too."
"No, he has already eaten by the time he comes over," Sherlock replied. "Just give him whiskey."
"Planning on making him drunk?"
"He's not on call."
John didn't even ask how Sherlock knew that. He itched though to get Sherlock's phone and see if he had communicated with the detective inspector about it. He knew the consulting detective would grin at the action, and so decided to not abandon his place. Instead he looked around the room as Sherlock nodded off for a bit.
He would get Sherlock's gifts from Mrs Hudson's flat later, and given them to Sherlock the following day. John knew better than to leave them in their flat, as Sherlock would have found them in no time. As for Sherlock's gifts to John, the doctor wasn't as curious as Sherlock and therefore didn't even look.
Sherlock slept until the food came. He woke up when John rose, blinked sleepily and found a blanket over him as John moved down the stairs to get the food. With one foot he pushed the papers off the table in front of the couch, and didn't care how they ended up in the wrong order on the floor. Not important, most likely.
John didn't comment, it was no use, and simply set the food down and went to get some wine Mycroft had gotten them. Ever since Sherlock's return, the older Holmes had been coming over more often, usually with Sherlock's favourite wine or something the younger brother would enjoy. Guilt or relief, John never could quite figure out, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind and so the doctor didn't bother guessing.
The consulting detective had only finished half of the portion when Lestrade came. Dressed more relaxed than at work, he accepted a whiskey and settled down on the couch as well. Sherlock was snuggled up with John anyway, curled into an impossible small ball with those freakishly long legs of his.
"Something wrong with him?" Greg asked after a bit, nodding at Sherlock who was dozing.
"He's just relaxing," John replied. "At least I hope that's it. Christmas good so far?"
"No one's been killed so I had to be called in, so good for me. Bad for Sherlock."
"Boring," Sherlock mumbled.
"Oh don't you start," John said. "Go back to sleep, you."
"Can I get back on the floor?"
"No, it's not warm enough for you."
"No. Too cold. You eat too little, sleep too badly, and will catch a cold."
"But, there are lots of blankets…"
"Let him," Greg interrupted. "First time I ever heard him wanting to relax like that."
"Don't give into him," John said even as Sherlock grinned gleefully. "Don't look so satisfied with yourself!"
"You're the strict one," the detective inspector shrugged and sipped some whiskey. "I'm the lenient dad."
"Yes, thank you, father," Sherlock said and John gaped. The man used the moment to get up, blankets and pillows and all, and start making his little nest again. The doctor sighed, and settled back into the couch. He and Lestrade found a Christmas movie on the telly whilst Sherlock busied himself with getting comfortable.
Little was exchanged between them, as little needed to be said. The hours flew past quickly, and Sherlock had already fallen asleep by the time Greg and John bothered to check the time.
"Just like a kid," Lestrade said and grinned at the sleeping face of Sherlock Holmes. "Bloody hell, it's been a while since he looked that calm."
"Better enjoy it while it lasts. Tomorrow he'll be complaining about the decorations."
"He hasn't found your gifts yet and complained about them?"
"Mrs Hudson is an angel. She hid them. He doesn't dare to rummage through her flat, not after getting that frying pan in his head."
"Good Mrs Hudson. Criminals and mass murderers not enough to scare Sherlock Holmes, but a woman with a bad hip and a frying pan does the trick."
"Don't be so sure you would stand a chance either in front of her wrath," John said. "She's quite terrifying. You want another whiskey, or do you want to get back home?"
Lestrade thought for a bit. "This couch is actually very comfortable," he added at last.
"I'll go and get the bottle then."
Sherlock looked happy enough to sleep on the floor, and Lestrade didn't need much later. John just made sure the fire wasn't going out, and slowly crouched down next to Sherlock. He stroke back some unruly curls and sighed.
"He's not going anywhere," Lestrade said gently. "You know that."
"I know, I just get sentimental at Christmas. He calms down. I want him to be at this much peace all year round."
"That's why I've always loved Christmas. He'd slow down. He does take notes about holidays, but Donovan thought his favourite was Halloween."
"No, it's Christmas. He has good memories of his mother at Christmas."
Sherlock moved, and John kissed his temple before tucking him in.
"Traditional Christmas food tomorrow and Sherlock's grumbling?" John asked before leaving the room.
"You bet," Lestrade replied. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
And despite they knew Sherlock could be a right pain in the ass, you only had to look at him to see that, neither John nor Lestrade would want to have their Christmas any other way.
Hope you enjoyed!
Until another time,