A/N As promised, an epilogue. Better late than never? I hope so.

Check out the cover art for Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Googling anyrei/Tumblr or even sendaiv/Tumblr to see the beautiful picture of Sherlock and his ex-army elf created by anyrei1.

Warning-fluff and mistletoe. Hey it was supposed to be a Christmas fic.


John slowly dragged himself out of slumber. His face peeked out from under a pile of blankets and duvets. His nose and mouth twitched. Funny, he didn't recognize this room.

He slowly stretched his stiff muscles in the warm bed, the smooth sheets gliding across his bare skin. Right, no shirt. Now that was a bit unusual.

Sitting up, John finally 'observed' the room, chair, dresser, window, periodic table. Periodic table? This was Sherlock's bedroom, a room John had seldom entered. And why, wondered John, was he sitting, half-naked in Sherlock's bed?

He rubbed his face and noticed that his hand, in fact both hands were bruised, scraped, and covered in plasters.

Plasters? Oh, plasters! Ohhh….kidnapped, trapped in a room with his girls, escaped, almost recaptured, rescued at the last second by a very smug and bossy detective, brought home by this bossy detective who forced John to shower (Oh God, he had a vague, fuzzy memory of Sherlock helping him in the shower. Embarrassing. Humiliating. A bit sexy). Then his equally bossy landlady gave him some soup, before he was sent to bed like a child.

Oh God, had he really clung to Sherlock like a limpet and refused to let go? Had Sherlock actually cuddled him and petted him? In bed? Nah, that had to be a dream, except John remembered an awful lot of details.

He smacked his face with his bandaged hand. Finally, Sherlock Holmes brought Three Continents Watson to bed, and then John Watson fallen asleep at his post.

"Of course you fell asleep," rumbled a deep baritone voice. "You'd gone two and half days, with almost no sleep, and then you were given a fairly large dose of pain-killer.," said Sherlock, handing his blogger a steaming mug of Darjeeling

"Um, yeah," said John sipping the pungent brew. "And how long have you been standing there, waiting for me to wake up?"

The tall brunet rolled his eyes, plainly saying 'Don't be an idiot,' with out actually speaking.

Then he continued verbally. "I wasn't standing there waiting, that would be very dull. I was monitoring you via your laptop while I conducted an experiment on the remains of that…that costume, which you insisted on wearing. I have confirmed that it was, in fact, constructed of inferior materials. It was exquisitely sensitive to heat, sharp objects, acids, bases…

"Right, so you've been spying on me while I sleep and torturing my elf costume?" said John with a chuckle. "That should probably be setting off alarm bells, but oddly it doesn't."

Sherlock just smirked.

The blond sipped his tea and said, "I guess, it's just as well that I wasn't planning on wearing the costume again anyway."

"I should think not. I do not appreciate having to fend off the leering advances of men and women alike, while you traipse around the city half-dressed.

John groaned and covered his flaming face with one hand. "I don't traipse, and the costume was for a party."

"I don't want you wearing that sort of thing outside of the flat, John," ordered Sherlock.

"Oh?" questioned John. "And since when do you get to tell me what to wear?"

"It was my understanding that you and I have entered a formal pact, an understanding, if you will…"

"You mean we're in a relationship?" suggested John.

"We've always been in a relationship, John," said the detective beginning to pace.

"You mean we're dating?" tried John.

"No, you dated Sarah and Jezebel…"


"Whatever," said Sherlock waving his hand dismissively. "Those pointless liaisons were…dating," he said distastefully.

"Um, maybe we're in a…partnership?"

"Ummmmm," hummed the detective.

"Um, a committed partnership?" asked John.

"Precisely, which, as I understand it, gives me some proprietary rights," snapped the detective, as his trap snapped shut on the groggy, unsuspecting doctor. "Rights which would include the right not to have my boyfriend ogled by every other man and woman in London."

"You're jealous," said John, his mouth dropping open.

"You're ridiculous," said Sherlock, glaring with narrowed eyes. "Do you or do you not agree that in future, you will not go out in public undressed…"

"I was not undressed!"

"I will be happy to call up a nearly infinite number of Internet images, Tweets and e-mails that would differ with your opinion, John."

John scowled. Some of the caffeine finally began to fuel John's brain. Why was he arguing over this? He had been a bit underdressed in Mary's wretched elf costume (although calling it undressed was going a bit too far).

And if Sherlock Holmes wanted to be possessive of John Watson, well, that was just fine with John Watson.

"Okay. Yes. I'll clear all my costumes with you in future. Satisfied?" asked John.

Sherlock eyed John again, just to be certain that his blogger was serious. "Very well, John."

With this crucial matter settled, Sherlock moved on to the next item on his agenda. "Since you have chosen to sleep for nearly twenty hours…"

"WHAT?" exclaimed John.

Sherlock repeated his eye roll, although this time it clearly said, 'don't make me repeat myself.'

"…and since our Christmas celebration is long overdue…"

"What celebration? You hate Christmas. You said no presents. You said…"

"I have laid out your comfortable red flannel pajama bottoms, your hideous matching red socks that you claim must be worn on Christmas, your 'I've been a good boy this year' Christmas tee-shirt, and your favorite bland jumper."

John looked at the clothes and pursed his lips. "That's not a Christmas jumper," he complained, more out of habit than anything else.

"No, but it is as hideous as I can stand today. And I did bring the horrible socks with reindeer. Please get up; Christmas is waiting, and we shall begin with breakfast."

John finished his the last of his surprisingly tasty eggs. Apparently Sherlock practiced learned helplessness and was quite capable in the kitchen, at least with basics. The eggs were so good that John surreptitiously looked around for more. Sherlock immediately offered his.

"No, Sherlock. You promised that you would eat those eggs for me, as my Christmas present. I'll happily have some more toast…Sherlock, please sit back down, and eat your eggs!"

The flat mates glared at one another as Sherlock finished his small portion of eggs and large portion of bacon. John nibbled at his toast more out of habit than hunger, having had three pieces of jam smeared toast already.

As soon as the eggs vanished, John was all sunshine again. "Well, that was a lovely breakfast, even if it is nearly 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Thank you, Sherlock. And since you did the frying, I'll be happy to wash up…"

"Later, John. This is officially Christmas at 221 Baker St, and now we have to do presents," announced Sherlock.

"I'd rather do the mistletoe," said John coyly.

"Later, John. Presents."

"All right?" said the doctor a bit confused. Sherlock was never interested in presents. Presents for him were always predictable, dull and useless. Presents for other people were all but non-existent, which is why John had selected 'Sherlock eats his eggs' as his present.

Sherlock led his bemused flat mate into the sitting room. John noted that there were actually some presents under the little tree which he had set up, and he felt a tiny thrill of Christmas cheer.

John now sported a thick, comfy green jumper with white trim, which eerily mimicked his elf costume. Since it was ostensibly a present from his girls, John had put it on immediately.

Then, since it seemed to annoy Sherlock, he also put on his elf hat. Mary had washed it before returning it, (and ruined any evidence, according to Sherlock). Rather like it's owner, it was a bit battle-damaged with a mended tear, stains and a red bell that was crumpled. John and Sherlock both agreed that Anderson must have trod on the hat and crushed the little, red bell.

Battle-damaged John still had bruises and two plasters on his face. At least .he hadn't needed anything more than butterfly strips for his cuts, and he had already been removed all but one of the plasters from his hands.

The two flat mates sipped at the red wine that Sherlock had given John as a gift. From their friends and Mycroft (who, according to Sherlock, was not considered a friend), they had each received some boring, predictable books and jumpers, another dull bottle of wine and some biscuits, which were, of course, from Mrs. Hudson. They agreed that the biscuits were very tasty (or not too boring, according to Sherlock).

John studied his flat mate who was bouncing with suppressed energy. This meant something, but John, not being a genius, was unsure what that something was.

"Are you bored?" asked John. "We can be done with Christmas if you like?"

Sherlock froze, as if his brother had suddenly materialized in front of the biscuits.

"What?" asked John. "Sherlock what is it?"

"John!" said Sherlock severely. "You stated, for the record, that you would celebrate Christmas, regardless of my intentions. You stated, and I believe that this is a quote, 'I plan to make a nice dinner on Christmas and I intend to eat it with or without you, Sherlock. And I will buy you a present if I want to, and I don't give a, expletive, whether you give me a present or not," finished the now stropy detective with a curiously high-pitched voice.

John pursed his lips and raised his forehead creases to irritated status. "First of all, I do not sound like that Sherlock. I do not sound like a girl. Second, the veal has gone bad and so I will not be making Christmas dinner; I'll be ordering take-away. And since when do you care about a getting a present from me?"

"I don't," said the consulting detective, becoming aloof and staring at the wallpaper. "I merely thought that you cared. I have researched the appropriate way for mixed religion couples to celebrate holidays and we are supposed to be supportive of one another's holidays. So if you want to give me a present on Christmas, I should be supportive of that."

"Wait, we're a couple?" asked John with a little smile that he quickly hid by looking at his wine.

"Obviously," said the tall man. "Now if…"

"What exactly do think our religions are, Sherlock?" asked John, wrinkling his brow in thoughtful mode.

"Dear God. If I'd known that half a glass of wine would impair your limited mental faculties, I never would have purchased the wine," said Sherlock, rolling his greenish-blue eyes.

"No really, I want to know," said John, preparing himself for the answer with a sip of the really very tasty wine.

Sherlock sighed, indicating that his partner's low IQ was painful to him, but he would nonetheless answer, "Despite your apparent rejection of organized religion you have fallen for the fallacious doctrine of Christianity. I on the other hand, am an atheist, which is the only logical…'

"And your research said that it's okay to pretend that your religion is logical and mine is fallacious?" interrupted John, more amused than offended. Well, he was a tiny bit offended but still…

"Ah, well no. I am supposed to be supportive. The point is, your religious and cultural traditions indicate that gift giving…

"Gift giving? Again?" John's brows lowered as he thought very, very hard.

"OH MY GOD!" yelled John, startling the younger man. "Oh my God! You know. How? How did you find out? How?" He stood in front of his boyfriend with hands behind his back at parade rest and chin thrust out. Even his wrinkles stood at the ready.

"Do you feel that that pose makes you look somehow taller or more intimidating," said Sherlock, attempting to deflect.

"You know. You know, and you've already seen it. You've seen my present to you. Haven't you? Well? Haven't you?" demanded John.

"Molly spilled the beans," said the detective, generously sharing the blame. "I admit that I did have to check on the, um, gift to make sure that the freezer was correctly installed."

John was silently chewing his lip. Not the best sign, but then it was better than John yelling thought Sherlock.

The detective continued his explanation, "You were missing; in fact, you were kidnapped, John. Someone had to check on the freezer. And anyway, I only had time to look briefly, very briefly. And can we go downstairs now," he said bouncing up and down on his toes again.

John scowled at the floor. John had really wanted to see the surprised look on Sherlock's face. On the other hand, why take it out on Sherlock? It was mostly Roberts' fault for kidnapping John and his girls and ruining everyone's Christmas. On the other, other hand, why on earth did anyone need to 'check on the freezer'. On the other, other, other hand, Sherlock had really tried very hard to make a belated Christmas for John. Sherlock had bought John some wine. And Sherlock ate his eggs as promised. And he made tea for John twice. And the tall brunet looked rather adorable all flushed and bouncy and excited. Which meant that he liked John's present…

"Yesss, we can go down to 221 C," said John slowly. Sherlock whirled around ready to go. "But we need to wear something warm. It gets cold and damp down there, and I refuse to get chilled again."

"John," said Sherlock tugging his flat mate. "You are wearing hideous but warm red-flannels and wool socks. You've put on your hideous, new, imitation-elf, wool jumper. You even wearing that repulsive hat. I am quite sure that you will be warm enough in 221 C; now come on, John."

John allowed himself to be tugged, snagging the wine bottle on the way to the stairs. "Hey, Sherlock, do you know what's happened to my copper pipe?"

"Your what?"

"My all-purpose tool and weapon, my trusty, copper pipe!"

"Evidence, John! It was taken in for evidence."

John nodded and pretended not to be disappointed. Maybe he could get another pipe, just to use temporarily until his all-purpose pipe was released?

The shorter blond was dragged into the newly refurbished basement flat, which John had re-painted himself. He noted with a shake of his head that Sherlock must have picked the lock.

The lab tables were already covered with a good bit of lab-clutter: chemicals, beakers, a test tube rack, some bones. A tall stool stood at ready, in front of Sherlock's microscope.

A fume hood, which John had salvaged from a school remodel, held the shredded, burned and melted remains of the elf tunic.

As Sherlock liked to say, so far so expected. However, John was more than a bit surprised to see a fire in the fireplace. And a Persian rug had been placed in front of the fire with two comfortable old chairs. There was even a battered end table, with a lamp and medical journals on it.

The fire warmed the far end of the room and even made the wallpaper seem lovely and homey (It was more of the same Victoriana-style paper that graced 221 B).

John turned, and tilted his head questioningly.

"The lab was…is perfect John. I have never…received a better present," said the taller man. "But, I did not imagine that it would be suitable for my assistant without some creäture comforts," the detective, looked down with raised brows at his slack-jawed boyfriend. For just a moment, the detective was afraid he had bungled yet again and somehow offended his John.

"Sher…" John looked down and swallowed, "Sherlock. That is…." John nodded. "Yes. That is very…um. Thank you. I mean, just you wanting me to um, be with you in your lab is…nice." John nodded again.

"So," continued John, trying to suppress his unruly emotions, "you've been using the lab already? For how long?"

"I only started using it after we got back. It was dull just watching you sleep."

"Didn't you sleep at all?" asked John.

"Yes of course. I slept for a bit when you wouldn't let go of me," said the brunet with a smile twitching at his lips. "After that, I decided that it would be logical to make sure that the lab was all right."

"Ah. And is it?"


"The lab, is it really, all right?" asked John nervously.

"Yes. Actually, it's a bit…perfect, John," said Sherlock, accidentally repeating himself. "And if you could occasionally accompany me or even assist me, well, that might make it more perfect."

Sherlock loomed over his blogger and then guided him backwards, until they stood on the rug, in front of the fire.

"Merry Christmas, John." said the tall brunet, placing a chaste kiss on the blond.

John stood with his bottle in one hand and another on Sherlock's waist. He smiled but still looked a bit befuddled.

The consulting detective tsk'd loudly. "Oh for God's sake, look up, John. Mistletoe! This is one of your socio-religious traditions. It was your idea; you went on about it all last week and…"

John got over his confusion. He knew what to do with mistletoe. He reached up with his free hand and brought his detective's face down within easy reach.

They shared a long slow kiss. John's hand reached up further to bury itself in Sherlock's unruly curls.

Sherlock was in bliss. He had his blogger all to himself, in his own personal lab that was full of specimens for examination. But it was the presence of John that brought him peace, John who loved him and understood him like no one else.

He licked John's lip and gently sucked on it; somehow it was John that was the most important thing in this room. He deepened the kiss and was rewarded with a moan from his blogger.

Sherlock extracted the wine bottle from John's loose grip and set it aside. Then he gently guided his blogger down to the rug. He was mindful of John's bruises and cuts, so he stretched out in front of the fireplace and pulled his elf on top of him.

The bells on that ridiculous hat dangled in front of him and he batted them out-of-the-way. Then he lifted his head up off of the floor and slid his lips over John's neck and chin, trailing up to those pink lips.

John was glad that they ended up on the rug in front of the fire. Sherlock's kisses had been making him dizzy. Now, he was stretched out on top of his love, safe and warm. They leisurely tasted each other's lips, caressed cheeks and nibbled under ears.

John contentedly laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder; he hummed softy as the detective examined and kissed each abraded finger and each bruised knuckle.

Then Sherlock rolled them over, so that they lay on their stomachs stretched out in front of the fire.

"All right John Watson," said Sherlock, "I can tell you are falling asleep. How is that possible when you slept for twenty hours already?"

"I dunno Sherlock," said John, who leaned into the gentle hand that caressed his face.

"You can't sleep down here, your shoulder…"

"I certainly can sleep down here," protested John. "I want to stay with you."

"Mmmm," hummed the consulting detective. "Well, that suits me then. Merry Christmas, John." he added, gently kissing his blogger's cheek.

John looked away from the hypnotizing flames to return the kiss, and he whispered, "Merry Christmas, luv."


A/N Thank you for hanging in there with me. This is another fic that got away from me. fortunately, I had the help of an ex-army elf and a consulting genius. Together we whipped this story into shape and managed to finish it…for now. I have a this sicky-sweet, treacly feeling that there might be mini-fluffquels to follow. (Fluff+sequel=fluffquel, obviously :{) LOL :{

Thank you to everyone who read, followed and favorited this fic.

Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to review my story including : DrGregor, Lysbethrachael, raspberriesandrum, dana-san, Quiet Time, starrysummernights, SamuelE8688, Erenem, power0girl, and anyrei1 (she who created the cover art which can be viewed by googling anyrei/Tumblr or sendaiv/Tumblr)

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK. I did not get the rights for Christmas, RATS!