Christmas at Baker Street
Two steps, key inserted, door unlocked, welcome home, John Watson.
I opened the door and closed it behind me, feeling my energy recharge in the presence of the familiar flat.
It was a bloody long day.
I was worried sick because Sherlock had disappeared. Again. Not even Lestrade could find him. He was gone for a whole week, and I had no idea where he was. I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep for the last two days, so I was completely exhausted as well. The worst part was that it was early October, the start of the coldest time of year.
The only thing I could do was hope that, wherever Sherlock was hiding, he would be clever enough to try and not freeze to death.
I trudged upstairs and came into the living room, only to find a tall and slender figure somehow fitting his whole mass into a thinking position on the armchair, making him look one third of his actual size.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” I demanded, internally relieved to see him sitting there, but fuming on the outside.
“Looking for a case.” Sherlock replied casually, still not moving a muscle.
“Looking for- you mean you weren’t even on a case? You’ve just been wandering around London for the last seven days?”
“That about sums it up, yes.”
I shook my head, striding over to where the other man was sitting. Dark circles ran around his eyes, indicating how exhausted he was. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold. I grabbed Sherlock’s icy wrist and tugged up the sleeve, checking for needle marks.
“Oh for God’s sake, John, I’m clean!” He declared in an irritable voice. I confirmed the absence of needle marks and nicotine patches to fit with Sherlock’s occasional honesty.
I suddenly felt a prick in my nose, and only then noticed the horrid smell coming from Sherlock.
“I think you should take a bath.” I stated simply. I left Sherlock on the chair and went to prepare him one.
When the bath was full, I returned to the living room, seeing Sherlock in the exact same position I left him. “I’m going to get some chinese takeout. Meanwhile, you can go get yourself warm and cleaned up.” I announced, already turning to leave.
“Why should I?” Sherlock challenged, and I didn’t even bother turning back to answer him.
“One, because you smell like death, and two, I’m a doctor. I happen to understand and care a lot about personal hygiene.” I retorted over my shoulder and left without another word.
Damn him and his clever antics.
I got three takeaway meals, two of which I was going to feed to Sherlock, because I could see he was as hungry as a homeless man.
I returned to the flat, and found that Sherlock was still in his chair.
I dropped the bag on the kitchen table, and went back towards him. “Well come on then. If you’re not taking a bath now, we can just as well eat.” I said and ushered him to the kitchen.
Sherlock hesitantly took a bite, then gradually started eating normally. He didn’t touch the second meal, but I was happy that he finished the first.
“Alright, now go take a bath.” I instructed and started clearing away the plates. Sherlock again hesitated, but left without complaint.
Only minutes later, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.
I read it once, then twice. I blinked. “A duck? Seriously?” I mumbled and I typed a reply.
For what would you need a duck? And why do you have your phone in the bath?
I heard the message go through to Sherlock’s phone in the bathroom.
It is best not to question it. I have a rubber duck in my bedside cabinet, and I need you to fetch it for me.
I sighed with exasperation. If he needs a duck, I’ll get him his ruddy duck. As long as he gets rid of that awful stench.
The duck was exactly where he described it to be, and I knocked on the bathroom door.
“Who is it?” I heard him say in a bored voice.
“The queen. Who do you think it is?” I replied sarcastically. “Come in.”
I opened the door and felt a wave of humidity hit my face as I entered.
“Here’s your du- what- you didn’t even undress?”
“Why should I? This is comfortable. And I’m washing my clothes in the process.”
“For God’s sake Sherlock, that’s what laundry is for! That’s it, I’m taking this into my own hands. Climb out and take everything off. I don’t want to see a sock left on your foot.” I started rolling up my sleeves, prepared to wash him like a dog if I had to.
“Oh, so you’re going to bathe me now?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“What are you, my nanny? Don’t be ridiculous, John.”
“Well you seem incapable of taking care of yourself.”
“I can take care of myself!”
Sherlock stayed silent after that. I went out so he could undress, and when I reentered he was naked in the bathtub with a sulky expression on his face. As a doctor I was completely unfazed by his nudity, so I tugged my sleeves up higher.
“That’s better.” I stated, grabbing some shampoo. I took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and started rubbing it into his thick, greasy auburn curls, massaging out all the built up dirt and oil from the last week.
I then took a spongeful soap and began washing his body. He sat perfectly still as I cleaned his arms, legs, chest, and back. His back was the worst to look at.
His ribs were more pronounced and stood out under his skin, and old gut-wrenching scars ran all over his back, each one a different shape and size.
“Sherlock, where did you get all these scars?” I asked quietly, running a hand over them. “It was from when I went undercover.” He said shortly, as if wanting to drop the subject. I didn’t ask him anything further.
When he was finished, I left the room so he could dry himself. I wasted no time putting on my pajamas, since the thought of sleep seemed to become increasingly tempting to me.
Sherlock put on his pajamas as well and went to bed without a word. I had no energy left to do anything else, so I climbed into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Hours later, I woke up to someone knocking on the door. “Come in.” I said groggily, turning on the bedside lamp. 01:33 AM read the alarm clock.
A boquet of jet black curls rolled in from the other side of the door, followed by a clever head and sharp face. A pair of restlessly blue eyes stared at me. “Sherlock, what now?”
“You mean you can’t sleep.”
“No, I… Yes.” He admitted, rubbing his eyes irritably.
“And you think I can solve this problem?”
To be quite honest I didn’t actually expect him answer like that, and it caught me by surprise. “Wha- how?”
“Human companionship often helps to fix sleeping patterns. I think that sleeping in the same bed as you can fix my sleeping problem, John.” He replied honestly.
I sighed. Not even sitting up, I patted the other side of the bed as an indication for him to climb in.
The tall creature shuffled closer and flopped into the bed, his back facing me. I turned off the lamp the moment he was settled. I lay still for a few minutes, listening to Sherlock’s uneven breaths, and finally fell asleep.
The next morning when I woke up, Sherlock was already out of bed. I walked into the kitchen, and found him making breakfast with miss Hudson. “Good morning, John.” He said in a cheery voice, and turned around with an inviting cup of coffee in his hand.
“Um, good morning.” I replied, taking a seat and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Sleep well, miss Hudson?” I asked, and she smiled at me with a kind face.
“Oh yes. I had simply the loveliest dream.”
A few days passed, and neither I nor Sherlock spoke about the fact that we slept together one night, but when said day was over and we were both back in the flat, Sherlock asked me if he could sleep in my bed again.
I felt a little jump for joy when he asked me, because it did feel nice to be in the same bed as him, and it did seem to fix both our sleeping patterns.
I woke up with the same routine, to find Sherlock already up and awake.
I could easily see how his physical health was improving. But his mental health was a different case. He was biting something back, keeping himself from saying something, and it was driving him mad.
He started asking me more and more often to sleep in my bed, until it gradually became a nightly routine for us to sleep together. We never spoke about this outside of the flat.
It became so patterned that Sherlock didn’t even ask anymore, and just strolled in when he was ready to go to bed.
One night I woke up to find Sherlock out of bed. I heard no sounds from the bathroom, so I became paranoid that he ran away again. I quickly threw on my bathrobe since the flat was bloody cold, and moved to find him.
I checked his room only to find the duvet missing. Did he take it for warmth? I went to check the living room next.
I heaved a sigh of relief when I found him sitting before the window, wrapped in his duvet and staring out at the night sky.
I shuffled closer to him and sat down next to him. “I thought you weren’t interested in space.” I murmured with a smirk.
Sherlock looked over to me, his eyes the colour of a nebula, and raised a brow. “Just because I’m not interested in space, does not mean I cannot appreciate its beauty.” He replied softly, echoeing those same words he used so many years ago. I nodded. “Fair enough.”
Sherlock moved an arm with his duvet, indicating for me to come closer. I shuffled against him as his arm wrapped around my shoulder, sharing his body heat with me. He leaned his head onto my shoulder, and I rested my head on his.
“Tell me about the stars, John.”
“But I thought you deleted all the data of space from your head?”
“I’m not saying I’m going to bother remembering it, but I want to listen to you talking about it.” He said, and I felt heat crawl up my neck and tint my ears red.
And so I started to tell him about the stars. Everything I knew about them. How they shine so bright, how they keep burning for millions of years, how the visible ones are specially arranged to create beautiful constellations, which was fascinating since the whole galaxy is constantly spiralling around the giant black hole in the center, and how big and vast the universe was.
Soon Sherlock fell asleep to the sound of my voice, and I watched the sleeping figure, with his lips slightly parted. His eyelids were gently concealing his beautiful, intelligent eyes, like the curtains of a stage hiding the masterpiece of a performance behind them, and his curls were messily covering his forehead. In this very dim and soft light, I couldn’t help but find him quite graceful.
Smiling at the light snores he made, I pressed a soft kiss to his hairline, feeling my eyelids grow heavy. Eventually I fell asleep against him.
I woke up the next morning to find myself in the bed, and not on the floor. Sherlock was already up and busying himself with experiments in the kitchen. Did he carry me to the bed? Did I dream the whole thing? The extra duvet on the bed convinced me otherwise.
Neither one of us ever spoke about this, but I knew we both remembered it quite well. And so, the cycle continued normally of sleeping in the same bed. The days of solving cases and keeping Sherlock busy were just as normal. I knew he had feelings for Molly, so I tried my best to keep it platonic.
Although, I started to wonder how long this would last… Would we continue this? Would we stop this? Would we take it a step further? Could this develop into something new? Am I going mad?
These questions kept on bouncing around in my head each night like an obnoxious child in a theatre, but I didn’t dare ask. Pretty soon though, Christmas eve rolled around and my questions were answered.
Lestrade was hosting Christmas dinner, and Sherlock and I went together. We started having an argument about Sherlock keeping himself locked up in his feelings. We kept bickering all the way up to the front door.
“But Sherlock, you can’t possibly expect me to believe that Molly’s feelings have gone to waste!”
“John, how much is it going to take to convince you that I’m not into Molly? The woman is not my taste. Is Irene Adler not enough evidence for you?”
“Why are you always so stubborn? Give the girl a chance! Why don’t you-” I couldn’t say anymore because Sherlock’s warm lips were crashed against mine, kissing me furiously.
His hands were cupping my face and he moved against my lips in a smooth arch that set my nerves on fire. I had no idea what to do, but I found an overwhelming sense of desire coursing through my veins.
By the time I started to kiss back, Sherlock broke away, his hands still cupping my face. “That’s why.” He stated softly and simply, dropping his hands to his sides, and leaving me speechless.
Sherlock shook his coat back into position, opened the door and greeted everyone as if nothing had happened. I was left standing at the front door in a bewildered, sexed-up state.
Only then, when I looked up to somehow try and absorb what just happened, did I notice the bush of Mistletoe hanging above the door.
The rest of the evening went normally, but Sherlock and I didn’t speak a word with each other.
When the night came to an end and Lestrade had a little too much to drink, we took a cab home and went to bed. Sherlock in his own bed.
I woke up on Christmas morning to see Sherlock sitting at his edge of the bed, as if contemplating something. He was waiting for me to wake up.
“John, you wanted to know how I got these scars…” He said in a tone that indicated how much he was aching to say this.
“Well, yes, I did, but… You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” I said reproachfully and inched closer.
“No, no, I need to tell you. Honesty is an important factor in a relationship like ours. When I was pretending to be dead, I untangled Moriarty’s criminal network. This you know of. I tracked down and eliminated anyone who could have been a threat. To Lestrade, to miss Hudson, to you…”
Sherlock paused for a long while, in which I sat closer to his back. I didn’t know if he was aware of my movements, but he continued to speak. He told me, in detail, of how he was tortured when captured, demanded information, and whipped when he refused to speak.
“Show me.” I replied softly, and he did. He slowly pulled off his shirt. I approached his scarred back and carefully laid a hand between his shoulder blades. I traced one of his scars and felt him tense up at my touch.
“All of these, I did it all, I took it all for you.” He said carefully. My heart nearly beat out of my chest at these words. “God, Sherlock.” I whispered.
“But I’m afraid to admit that there have been consequences to my actions. There are so many people who died because of me. I’m… I’m practically… a monster.” He said, on the verge of tears. This man was breaking down and I needed to help him rebuild himself.
Before he finished speaking I was at the other side of the bed, crouching before him. I cupped his face in my hands and stared straight into his ocean blue eyes.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don’t you dare reduce yourself to such worthless words. You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. All the things I can tell about you… The selfless scars on your back, the ridiculously prominent curls on your head, your deep and intelligent voice when rambling on with your deductions, the smiles you make when you think no one’s looking, I…”
I didn’t know I was ready to say the words, but they came so much easier than I expected. I knew that Sherlock kissed me last night for a reason, be it a way to make a confession or a way to make me shut up.
“I… God, Sherlock, I love you.” I blurted out, my gaze constantly shifting between his blue eyes. Sherlock was completely silent for a few seconds, scaring me into thinking I said something wrong.
But then, the unexpected happened. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, to take it all back, the smooth and warm lips of Sherlock Holmes brushed against mine once more and planted a much softer kiss on my lips. This time I was ready, and I started kissing him back. His hand moved up and gently caressed my cheek.
Our lips made a sound when we parted. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that…” He whispered, his colourful irises gazing straight into my eyes.
My lips were still tingling from the kiss, and I was more than ready for another one. Our foreheads were pressed together and I felt his light breath tingling on my skin.
“How- how long?” I asked in my flustered state. Sherlock paused.
“The day you reacted differently to my deductions than others, calling them amazing instead of rude.”
And slowly I came to realise that it- “That was the day we first met.” I said. “I know.” He replied softly, and we both giggled ourselves silly.
This time, I moved in and pressed my lips against his, harder. Sparks erupted in my chest, and I felt adrenaline rush through my veins.
Our lips moved against each other in soft, tender strokes, nostrils flaring for breath and our heart rates accelerated. He kissed me slowly and sweetly, as if trying to absorb, analyze and memorise each and every little detail.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless. Panting against each other’s faces, we started laughing again. We laughed for a solid five minutes before deciding to make breakfast.
I jumped up from the bed and jogged to the kitchen. I cracked a pair of eggs into a pan and started frying them, when I felt two strong arms quickly wrap around my waist and lift me, causing me to jump in fright. His warm chest breathed against my back as he whispered in my ear. “Merry Christmas, John.” He said and pecked my cheek.
“You arse, I’m going to burn breakfast!” I scolded him, but he just chuckled with his deep voice.
“I’m guessing that we are… What others may call… Lovers?”
“Let’s go with… Together?”
