Christmas fireside fluff for lijahlover
Merry December, everyone! :) A gift snippet for lijahlover, who wanted some Christmas fireside fluff. I hope I’ve delivered but who knows? :)
John groaned as he shifted in his seat. It was a groan born as much of pain as weariness, his body having taken quite the beating in the latest case, one they’d only finished that evening. Christmas Eve.
It was late by the time they’d gotten home, the journey not helped in any way by the seeming flood of people everywhere and even Sherlock’s supernatural ability to get a cab not up to the task, and the flat had been dark and, quite frankly, chilly bordering on downright cold.
When they’d finally made it, the doctor had just about gotten his coat off and made it to his chair, worn out from the case, the trek home and a half-formed argument with Sherlock about how it really wasn’t on for him to disguise himself as someone’s long-lost relative when he’d deduced their history and had still decided to proceed with it.
That it had turned out well in the end was quite beside the point, it really was, no, seriously, Sherlock, I mean it. I’m done arguing with you right now.
The argument and the consequent silence hadn’t stopped him continuing to hold onto the glove-covered bony hand as he always did on their way home, however, and neither had the consulting detective made any attempt to pull away, either.
Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom once they’d gone through the door. John hadn’t minded, far more focused on just making it out of his coat and shoes and into a seated position; with the chase, the brawl and the walk home in the cold, his shoulder was bothering him, and, psychosomatic or not, his leg wasn’t above making its miserable self known.
He’d told himself he’d just sit there for a moment or two. Then he’d get up and see what Sherlock was up to. That or he’d go directly for the bathroom and take a nice, hot shower…or just get into bed straight away and not wake until noon.
But it was Christmas Day tomorrow, and…they had plans…did they have plans? He felt sure that…but maybe…
He was asleep before he’d finished the thought and long before Sherlock emerged back into the living room, in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
It didn’t take him long to spot John, nor the way he was sitting that was in no way conducive to his aches and bruises. If he kept that up for much longer, he would have trouble moving about when he woke, not to mention the pain he’d be in.
That wouldn’t do. Sherlock had plans for his boyfriend for the night and next few days, and he’d rushed to finish this case so that both he and John wouldn’t be tied up with anything to spoil it.
That and disliking seeing his doctor in pain, too. Obviously.
He stood and contemplated for a moment or two. Then he smiled.
That’d work.
He was warm. Warm in that fuzzy, cosy way that made you think you’d been covered in how your mind insisted cumulus clouds and mounds of snow ought to feel.
His covers didn’t usually make him feel warm like that but maybe he was just extra tired, and his body convinced him that it was the case to get him to stay asleep.
No, wait, hang on. He hadn’t fallen asleep in bed, had he? No, he’d never gotten that far. His chair shouldn’t feel this comfortable. Nor should he feel this warm when the flat was cold.
Waking up further, he noticed that though he was sitting, it wasn’t in a chair and the warmth he was feeling came from three disparate sources; a thick, soft blanket, one he didn’t remember they owned, covered his front, the heat of a blazing fire played on his back, his bare back, and he was sitting on and against a warm, bony yet soft, and extremely familiar body, his head resting against a shoulder.
He looked up, blinking in a concerted effort to wake up the rest of the way.
“Sherlock?” he mumbled as he surfaced.
“Who else would it be?”
“Not something I’d like to con…contemplate right now, thank you.”
He bit the bullet and rubbed at his eyes, waking up hopefully enough to deal with the other man’s shenanigans. “Why are we here? On the floor, I mean, or rug, whatever. Without clothes, too.”
“Your underwear is still on.”
“Forest, trees, Sherlock, and you didn’t answer my question.”
“You needed to warm up.”
As though that explained everything. It didn’t.
“So, the only obvious solution to that was not to put me to bed, draw me a bath or even just throw a blanket over me where I sat? You had to get me out of the chair, strip me, and yourself, get the fire going and place the both of us in front of it covered in blankets? How does that make any sort of sense?”
Sherlock wasn’t bothered by the outburst. He wasn’t even pouting. Instead, he was smiling. A smile that was both endearing and infuriating.
“You were in pain, you were tired, and you were cold. Putting you to bed would’ve solved the coldness and tiredness but not the pain. While putting you in tub would alleviate both pain and cold, the risk of falling asleep is greatly increased in males over – “
Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, I get it,” John grumbled.
He would have to admit that, despite his protests and his grumbling, that he was both warm and comfortable, practically snuggled up against his boyfriend in front of a roaring fire. He even got, once he thought about it, why they were in their underwear; conduction of heat was greatly improved when there weren’t many layers of clothes in the way.
Still, though…he couldn’t quite quell the feeling that the consulting detective had an ulterior motive. Not a sinister one, mind, but something that he ought to keep in mind.
Then again, when didn’t he? If no harm was meant, perhaps he should just leave it be.
Cupid bow lips came down to claim his own in a soft kiss, one which he was more than happy to return.
You do feel better, though.”
To others it would’ve sounded like a confident statement of fact, but John had known Sherlock long enough and had paid enough attention to hear inflections in the baritone voice and there was a soupçon of hesitation and questioning in there.
“I do, actually, yes.” He leaned up for another kiss. “Thank you, love.”
“You’re welcome.”
They stayed like that for a moment or two. Then John started to get up. Or rather, he made the attempt. He didn’t get very far, though, before Sherlock pulled him back down.
“Sherlock, let go.” He tried again, with the same results.
“No.”
“Sherlock, I appreciate what you did. Really, I do. But I’m still tired and we’ve got somewhere to be tomorrow, so I need some sleep.”
“No.”
“Sherlock.”
“No, we don’t have anywhere to be. I cancelled it.”
“What – you can’t just do that, you idiot! We promised we’d be there.”
“They accepted my reason without question and wished us a merry Christmas.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t I believe that for even a fraction of a second?”
“I can show you the text, if you refuse to trust me. I told her we hadn’t seen each other in weeks and wanted to make up for it on Christmas.”
“That’s a lie.”
Sherlock shrugged the shoulder John wasn’t half-leaning against. “A truth with modifications. We haven’t seen much of each other in the last fortnight, you’ll have to admit.”
That was true enough. With the extra shifts at the clinic for John – who’d taken them as much to be sure he got Christmas off as for the extra money to spoil his boyfriend a little – and Sherlock having the rare instance of two cases being equally interesting and so instead of doing one or the other, he’d done both at the same time, they really hadn’t had much time together.
Regardless, I still need sleep.”
You did fine just now.”
“Are…,” John asked, his expression one of smiling disbelief, “are you really saying that you want me to…what? Kip in your lap in front of the fire?”
“Not in my lap.”
“Oh, alright, then. Problem solved, no remaining issue whatsoever!” He would’ve said more but then he got a proper look at Sherlock’s expression and the words died in his throat.
Sherlock was…he was just trying to be considerate. And sweet. And romantic, too, probably, in that uniquely Sherlockian way.
And to be honest, there was something alluring about sleeping in front of the fire and then waking up on Christmas morning like that, together. It would probably also be hell on his abused body and the fire was sure to die down before they woke.
Still…the idea had merits and even it hadn’t, how could he say no in a situation like this?
“One condition,” he said, watching Sherlock as his ears metaphorically perked up, even though he’d never admit it.
“Yes?”
“You find every blanket, duvet, and pillow that we own and bring it here. I’ll put some more wood on the fire and maybe find that bottle of mulled wine I bought earlier, provided you haven’t used in some sort of experiment or other.”
Sherlock frowned. “What do we need wine for?”
John smiled, his eyes sparkling, and not just because of the firelight reflecting in them. Then he leaned up for a kiss, one he deepened, licking his way in and then around, caressing what he could reach.
“You figure that one out,” he whispered when he pulled away. “I’m sure you can come up with an idea or two.”
With that, he did get up then held out a hand to help Sherlock up, too. The bastard grinned, ignoring the hand, got to his feet easily and, more annoyingly, gracefully.
Then he leaned forward and stole another kiss. “I’m looking forward to it.”
One would have to give Sherlock that with a task to do with the proper motivation behind it, he didn’t do things by half.
Every single piece of warm, soft thing in the flat had been found and arranged in front of the fire, furniture moved out of the way to make room.
John couldn’t deny that with it all gathered, quite artfully so, it looked beyond comforting and inviting. It no longer seemed even a remotely farfetched or ill-advised to sleep like this.
In one hand, he held the bottle of mulled wine, sworn to not have been tampered with by the brunet, and in the other, he had two wineglasses. Just in case they’d need them.
Of course, it certainly didn’t detract from the scenario that there was one lithe, gorgeous body reclining on one arm on top of the makeshift bed, looking like a bloody cover model, the warm light from the fire playing over pale skin in patterns of heated gold.
It would be jealousy-inducing if it wasn’t so bloody hot and alluring. Well, that and the knowledge that it was a body only being offered to him mitigated it greatly, too.
If this was his Christmas present, he certainly wouldn’t complain.
He couldn’t help it; he felt his boxers get rather uncomfortably tight at the sight, something which didn’t escape pale eyes, as he could see them travel down his body, stopping at a rather tell-tale angle.
If asked, he’d have expected to get a smirk at that, possibly raised eyebrows. Certainly a comment on the baser needs of humanity, even if it was accompanied by a lustful look; Sherlock wasn’t above indulging in the more carnal side of their relationship, even if it didn’t occur quite as often as John might’ve wished for. It occurred more often than he’d expected, that was for sure.
What he hadn’t quite expected was the intensity of the hunger in them, or the effect on him.
“Get over here,” Sherlock almost growled.
Well, how could he refuse?
I could’ve written more and I know it’s likely cliffhanger-y but it wasn’t meant to be long and I knew it’d spiral otherwise. :)