holmesticemods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
holmesticemods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
holmestice2012-12-20 11:42 pm
holmesticemods) wrote in holmestice2012-12-20 11:42 pm
Entry tags:
Fic for ms_soma: And the bells were ringing out
Title: And the bells were ringing out
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ms_soma
Author:corialis
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief but significant mention of events in TRF, avoid if you are somehow unspoiled.
Summary: 221B attempts a traditional Christmas.
Notes: With apologies to The Pogues and thanks to prodigy.
“My therapist thinks we should celebrate Christmas together.”
John tried to express exactly what he thought of that idea in his skeptical tone.
“It's understandable that you'd still be stressed,” his therapist had said. It had turned out that having one's best friend return from the dead necessitated therapy sessions even more than said best friend ostensibly dying, especially taking into account unfortunate posthumous revelations of unrequited love. Not that he talked about that aspect of the ordeal with her, but she'd probably figured it out by now if she was any good at her job.
“Why don't you try doing something normal together? Maybe something that revolves less around death.”
“Pretty much everything normal for Sherlock seems to involve death,” he had said.
“Maybe you should try Christmas,” she'd said.
He certainly didn't expect Sherlock to acknowledge the idea given that he had in the past disdained holidays as base sentimentality and an occasion on which the lesser masses embarrassed themselves. John still regretted talking him into throwing that Christmas party.
Sherlock shrugged. “May as well,” he said. “But I'm not getting you anything.”
–
John very much regretted attempting step one of Doing Christmas alone, but taking Sherlock shopping was a nightmare at Tesco's – Oxford Street was so far out of his wheelhouse it may as well have been Afghanistan.
Actually, Sherlock probably would be more comfortable in Afghanistan than in the disaster that was Selfridges. Given that John had stayed in Afghanistan, but had only made it through one floor of the store's crowds and ceaseless carols before making a strategic retreat without buying so much as a jumper, the war zone seemed like a better choice.
He stopped by a booth someone had set up on the street and bought a funny little elf figure just to avoid going home empty-handed; at least it would give Sherlock something to talk to other than the skull. He was only slightly worried that he would name it John.
–
Clearly going it alone was not the best way, and his therapist had said that he and Sherlock were supposed to be doing this together.
“We are going to Trafalgar Square,” he announced, walking into the kitchen.
“Why?” Sherlock asked. He didn't look up from pipetting something into a beaker that was turning a rather putrid shade of yellow.
“Because we are doing Christmas together, remember?”
“Oh, right,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, still focussed on the beaker. “Could you hand me that petri dish?”
“Sherlock, is this moving?”
“I hope so.”
John sighed and handed it over, beelining to the sink to wash his hands. “Finish up. We're leaving at five.”
“What time is it now?”
Honestly. “Just finish up.”
John got an elbow in the back within their first five minutes of arriving while Sherlock muttered under his breath about the various styles in which every unhappy family was unhappy in its own way, but once they pushed their way to a slightly less busy spot, the holiday atmosphere was almost pleasant. Sherlock was looking up at the tree, hands in his pockets as the lights reflected off the water and cast dancing reflections across his face, and John felt something somersault in his chest when Sherlock turned to give him a small sideways smile.
–
He did buy a tree. Decorating was clearly an obligatory part of full nativity participation.
He also demanded that Sherlock put the star on the top, since he was less likely to overbalance and knock the whole thing over.
“Are the stockings really necessary?” Sherlock asked as John hung the second large, red, fluffy stocking from the mantle.
“Just be thankful I didn't have time to get them custom embroidered,” he said. “Besides, Mrs. Hudson will be delighted.”
--
“You can burn that one, it's from Mycroft.”
John was still walking through the door with the post but decided to open the unmarked envelope rather than consign it to the fireplace. It seemed only fair.
He nearly changed his mind once he actually opened the envelope.
“Your brother seems to think we would enjoy the London Gay Men's Chorus holiday show,” he said, feeling somewhat pleased with himself for managing to keep his eyebrows from going past his hairline.
“He remains as subtle as ever, then. I assume now that you've satisfied your curiosity you're going to take my advice and burn it.”
John contemplated it for a moment, but he had decided to go along with this Christmas plan in the first place.
“No,” he said. “We're going to go.”
Sherlock sighed dramatically.
He was waiting for Sherlock in the lobby after the show when a blond man who'd been seated to their left started talking to him.
“So did you enjoy the show?” he asked.
“It was appropriately festive,” was the only thing he could think of to say while mentally debating whether the other man was just being friendly or secretly trying to figure out if he was that John Watson.
John held most of the population in fairly low regard these days.
The man just laughed. He stepped closer and looked like he was about to say something until Sherlock reappeared and began manhandling John toward the door with a hand on his back, saying something about volatile chemicals. John turned to wave to see the man somehow looking amused yet slightly disappointed, and added another tally to the ongoing list of John Watson's moments of accidental homosexual transparency.
–
He really should have known better than to think that there actually was a body at the ice rink when Lestrade texted them, but then, they had found corpses in stranger places.
When they got to the rink, they found Lestrade lazily circling on the ice. “Come on, boys,” he said, grinning. “It's almost Christmas.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pretended to be fascinated by one of the giant ornaments dangling nearby as John tilted his head in consideration, then shrugged.
“I'm going to be terrible at this,” he said.
“Like he isn't,” Lestrade scoffed, tilting his head in Sherlock's general direction.
Sherlock still hadn't deigned to verbally reply, but his raised eyebrows clearly indicated that he had accepted the challenge. His silence was almost alarmingly uncharacteristic of him as he swooped off to the rental booth, returning a few moments later with skates for both of them.
“This isn't my size,” John said.
Naturally they fit perfectly when he put them on. He hadn't even finished lacing the damn things up and Sherlock was already gliding gracefully around the rink with his hands laced behind his back. Humming to himself. Backwards.
John was, in fact, a terrible ice skater.
“But how did you know about this whole Christmas thing?” he asked Lestrade as he flailed at a railing to avoid toppling over.
Lestrade just shrugged. “Grapevine, you know how it goes.”
In retrospect, he probably should have noticed how odd it was that Sherlock wasn't putting up any kind of fuss about the fake case and was now smirking at him as he executed an excellent figure eight.
–
By the time it was actually Christmas Eve, John had experienced more Christmas than he had since he was approximately ten years old and was debating the best excuse for dodging the party Molly had invited them to. He was still surprised that she was even inviting them to parties at all, but she and Sherlock seemed to have reached a better understanding and he mostly refrained from insulting her new boyfriend too viciously within her earshot.
“We're not going out,” he announced from his sprawled position on the couch.
Sherlock stuck his head around the kitchen doorframe. “Oh? I would have thought that this evening's revels would be a key element of our Christmas attempts.”
“I'm done with Christmas. I am going to lie here and hope that the cosmos align and you will magically bring me tea.”
“Could you come in here for a second, actually?”
The fact that Sherlock asked rather than demanded was almost surprising enough that John didn't realize he'd broken his evening commitment to inertia until he was on his feet.
Sherlock was leaning against the counter with his sleeves rolled up and top few buttons undone. John was only distracted from staring by the fact that the tea kettle was actually magically already starting to boil on the stove.
“You did tell me once,” Sherlock said, straightening up, “that Christmas wasn't about all the silly trappings and decorations and shopping.” He stepped closer and John felt his back hit the edge of the doorframe as he unconsciously moved backward, Sherlock advancing just past a distance that would have been uncomfortable had it been anyone else, close enough for John to feel heat radiating off him.
“You said all that was just extra,” he said, leaning forward so their foreheads were just shy of touching. “And that Christmas was actually about spending time with people you love.”
“I think we've got that covered then,” John breathed.
Sherlock kissed him before he had the chance to panic about having said that aloud, though it turned out it was perfectly fine that he did.
“I hope you'll forgive the lack of traditional mistletoe,” Sherlock said, drawing back briefly, voice pitched low enough that John could almost feel it.
John grinned. “As long as you're willing to forgive our staying in on Christmas Eve.”
Recipient:
ms_somaAuthor:
corialisCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief but significant mention of events in TRF, avoid if you are somehow unspoiled.
Summary: 221B attempts a traditional Christmas.
Notes: With apologies to The Pogues and thanks to prodigy.
“My therapist thinks we should celebrate Christmas together.”
John tried to express exactly what he thought of that idea in his skeptical tone.
“It's understandable that you'd still be stressed,” his therapist had said. It had turned out that having one's best friend return from the dead necessitated therapy sessions even more than said best friend ostensibly dying, especially taking into account unfortunate posthumous revelations of unrequited love. Not that he talked about that aspect of the ordeal with her, but she'd probably figured it out by now if she was any good at her job.
“Why don't you try doing something normal together? Maybe something that revolves less around death.”
“Pretty much everything normal for Sherlock seems to involve death,” he had said.
“Maybe you should try Christmas,” she'd said.
He certainly didn't expect Sherlock to acknowledge the idea given that he had in the past disdained holidays as base sentimentality and an occasion on which the lesser masses embarrassed themselves. John still regretted talking him into throwing that Christmas party.
Sherlock shrugged. “May as well,” he said. “But I'm not getting you anything.”
–
John very much regretted attempting step one of Doing Christmas alone, but taking Sherlock shopping was a nightmare at Tesco's – Oxford Street was so far out of his wheelhouse it may as well have been Afghanistan.
Actually, Sherlock probably would be more comfortable in Afghanistan than in the disaster that was Selfridges. Given that John had stayed in Afghanistan, but had only made it through one floor of the store's crowds and ceaseless carols before making a strategic retreat without buying so much as a jumper, the war zone seemed like a better choice.
He stopped by a booth someone had set up on the street and bought a funny little elf figure just to avoid going home empty-handed; at least it would give Sherlock something to talk to other than the skull. He was only slightly worried that he would name it John.
–
Clearly going it alone was not the best way, and his therapist had said that he and Sherlock were supposed to be doing this together.
“We are going to Trafalgar Square,” he announced, walking into the kitchen.
“Why?” Sherlock asked. He didn't look up from pipetting something into a beaker that was turning a rather putrid shade of yellow.
“Because we are doing Christmas together, remember?”
“Oh, right,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, still focussed on the beaker. “Could you hand me that petri dish?”
“Sherlock, is this moving?”
“I hope so.”
John sighed and handed it over, beelining to the sink to wash his hands. “Finish up. We're leaving at five.”
“What time is it now?”
Honestly. “Just finish up.”
John got an elbow in the back within their first five minutes of arriving while Sherlock muttered under his breath about the various styles in which every unhappy family was unhappy in its own way, but once they pushed their way to a slightly less busy spot, the holiday atmosphere was almost pleasant. Sherlock was looking up at the tree, hands in his pockets as the lights reflected off the water and cast dancing reflections across his face, and John felt something somersault in his chest when Sherlock turned to give him a small sideways smile.
–
He did buy a tree. Decorating was clearly an obligatory part of full nativity participation.
He also demanded that Sherlock put the star on the top, since he was less likely to overbalance and knock the whole thing over.
“Are the stockings really necessary?” Sherlock asked as John hung the second large, red, fluffy stocking from the mantle.
“Just be thankful I didn't have time to get them custom embroidered,” he said. “Besides, Mrs. Hudson will be delighted.”
--
“You can burn that one, it's from Mycroft.”
John was still walking through the door with the post but decided to open the unmarked envelope rather than consign it to the fireplace. It seemed only fair.
He nearly changed his mind once he actually opened the envelope.
“Your brother seems to think we would enjoy the London Gay Men's Chorus holiday show,” he said, feeling somewhat pleased with himself for managing to keep his eyebrows from going past his hairline.
“He remains as subtle as ever, then. I assume now that you've satisfied your curiosity you're going to take my advice and burn it.”
John contemplated it for a moment, but he had decided to go along with this Christmas plan in the first place.
“No,” he said. “We're going to go.”
Sherlock sighed dramatically.
He was waiting for Sherlock in the lobby after the show when a blond man who'd been seated to their left started talking to him.
“So did you enjoy the show?” he asked.
“It was appropriately festive,” was the only thing he could think of to say while mentally debating whether the other man was just being friendly or secretly trying to figure out if he was that John Watson.
John held most of the population in fairly low regard these days.
The man just laughed. He stepped closer and looked like he was about to say something until Sherlock reappeared and began manhandling John toward the door with a hand on his back, saying something about volatile chemicals. John turned to wave to see the man somehow looking amused yet slightly disappointed, and added another tally to the ongoing list of John Watson's moments of accidental homosexual transparency.
–
He really should have known better than to think that there actually was a body at the ice rink when Lestrade texted them, but then, they had found corpses in stranger places.
When they got to the rink, they found Lestrade lazily circling on the ice. “Come on, boys,” he said, grinning. “It's almost Christmas.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pretended to be fascinated by one of the giant ornaments dangling nearby as John tilted his head in consideration, then shrugged.
“I'm going to be terrible at this,” he said.
“Like he isn't,” Lestrade scoffed, tilting his head in Sherlock's general direction.
Sherlock still hadn't deigned to verbally reply, but his raised eyebrows clearly indicated that he had accepted the challenge. His silence was almost alarmingly uncharacteristic of him as he swooped off to the rental booth, returning a few moments later with skates for both of them.
“This isn't my size,” John said.
Naturally they fit perfectly when he put them on. He hadn't even finished lacing the damn things up and Sherlock was already gliding gracefully around the rink with his hands laced behind his back. Humming to himself. Backwards.
John was, in fact, a terrible ice skater.
“But how did you know about this whole Christmas thing?” he asked Lestrade as he flailed at a railing to avoid toppling over.
Lestrade just shrugged. “Grapevine, you know how it goes.”
In retrospect, he probably should have noticed how odd it was that Sherlock wasn't putting up any kind of fuss about the fake case and was now smirking at him as he executed an excellent figure eight.
–
By the time it was actually Christmas Eve, John had experienced more Christmas than he had since he was approximately ten years old and was debating the best excuse for dodging the party Molly had invited them to. He was still surprised that she was even inviting them to parties at all, but she and Sherlock seemed to have reached a better understanding and he mostly refrained from insulting her new boyfriend too viciously within her earshot.
“We're not going out,” he announced from his sprawled position on the couch.
Sherlock stuck his head around the kitchen doorframe. “Oh? I would have thought that this evening's revels would be a key element of our Christmas attempts.”
“I'm done with Christmas. I am going to lie here and hope that the cosmos align and you will magically bring me tea.”
“Could you come in here for a second, actually?”
The fact that Sherlock asked rather than demanded was almost surprising enough that John didn't realize he'd broken his evening commitment to inertia until he was on his feet.
Sherlock was leaning against the counter with his sleeves rolled up and top few buttons undone. John was only distracted from staring by the fact that the tea kettle was actually magically already starting to boil on the stove.
“You did tell me once,” Sherlock said, straightening up, “that Christmas wasn't about all the silly trappings and decorations and shopping.” He stepped closer and John felt his back hit the edge of the doorframe as he unconsciously moved backward, Sherlock advancing just past a distance that would have been uncomfortable had it been anyone else, close enough for John to feel heat radiating off him.
“You said all that was just extra,” he said, leaning forward so their foreheads were just shy of touching. “And that Christmas was actually about spending time with people you love.”
“I think we've got that covered then,” John breathed.
Sherlock kissed him before he had the chance to panic about having said that aloud, though it turned out it was perfectly fine that he did.
“I hope you'll forgive the lack of traditional mistletoe,” Sherlock said, drawing back briefly, voice pitched low enough that John could almost feel it.
John grinned. “As long as you're willing to forgive our staying in on Christmas Eve.”
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
*snort* Well put!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Also, totally sympathise with John here. But the time Christmas actually comes around it's easy to be exhausted by it!
no subject
John is just overwhelmed by everything these days. I suspect the holidays were never really his forte.
no subject
♥
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
That John tries to have a normal Christmas and both fails and triumphs is lovely. It feels in so IC; I can't imagine him experiencing much in the way of Rockwellesque holidays in his youth, or in the army.