A Christmas Miracle: Johnlock

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock! Look, Father Christmas came!" Mycroft was bouncing on the edge of Sherlock's bed, beaming with excitement. "I bet I got that set of night vision goggles!"

"Hey! I was the one who wanted those!"

"Too bad! They're all mine!" Mycroft's voice grew deeper, and his face began to change into another all-too-familiar face.

"Moriarty? How'd you do that?" Sherlock squeaked.

"I owe you a cookie, Sherlock,"

"What?"

"Sherlock, wake up! You're yelling in your sleep again!" John's voice roused Sherlock from his sleep.  He sat up, spreading his long arms above him, yawning loudly. His pajama bottoms had little penguins on them. Sherlock wondered why Mycroft had given him the trousers, but they were flannel, and very warm. Sherlock's mind was devoid of all emotions, a clear slate, as usual. Today's Christmas, he realized. No wonder he had dreamt so festively. But Moriarty refused to leave his dreams, always present in one way or another. He had stopped shooting himself, though, and that was good. Molly had told him that the chaotic dreams were a result of his trauma on the roof of St. Barts, but Sherlock had scoffed and told her that he hadn't had any traumatic experience. After hiding out with Molly for so long, he had begun, however tentatively, to trust her, as much as his sociopathy could allow. Then, once he had dismantled Moriarty's criminal web, he had revealed himself to John. After few good blows to the head from John, and a surprising amount of hugs from his Scotland Yard colleagues, life returned to normal unexpectedly quickly. Avoiding the media was a bit of a challenge, but nothing a few good deerstalkers couldn't help. Sherlock was content, whether he realised it or not. He grabbed the robe from the hook on the back of the bedroom door and went down to sit in the kitchen, where John was drinking coffee, no sugar.

"Morning, Sherlock. Happy Christmas."

"Mmmmhhhrgh." Sherlock was never quite capable of conversation first thing in the morning.

"Nice to see you too. Hey, want some tea? I bought some Madagascar vanilla red, 'cos I know it's your favorite."

"Only if there's a biscuit."

"Morning boys! Happy Christmas!" Mrs. Hudson rushed into the flat, her arms full of wrapped gifts and food. She kissed each man once on the cheek, and dumped the armload of presents on the table. "I've brought some biscuits if you want, but you'll have to eat some breakfast first, Sherlock. You'll get an upset stomach."

"Sure, Mrs. Hudson."

"I suppose I'll make oatmeal, then." Sherlock stood up in his chair and jumped down with a thud.


"No!" Mrs. Hudson and John shouted in unison.

"You burn everything." John stated.

"Well, how am I supposed to improve on anything if you do not let me practise?"

"What I don't understand is how you can work so many science experiments perfectly yet can't boil an egg on your life."

"I hardly think there is going to be a point where my life depends on cooking."

"Figure of speech." Mrs. Hudson set a bowl of yogurt in front of Sherlock. She left the flat, saying that she had to go visit a recently-wedded niece. Sherlock ate the yogurt slowly.

"Marraige. So dull."

"What's dull about it?"

"Spending all of your time with one person, living with them, arguing about trivial things like using all of the hot water, washing each others' dishes, that sort of thing."

"You do realize you just described us perfectly, but you never do any washing."

"Yes, I suppose you're correct."

"That's rather hypocritical."

"No, hypocritical is the fact that you're cooking oatmeal right after you told me not to."

"There's a difference. I can actually cook."

"Fine. Lots of sugar in mine." John laughed, suddenly realizing how much of a married couple they really were. He finished up the oatmeal and ladled the gooey cereal into two bowls. He sat down across from Sherlock and began to eat.

"Not bad, if I do say so myself."

"Yes, it is rather exquisite."

"Oatmeal? Exquisite? You joking?"

"I don't joke. You are an excellent cook." John grinned slightly at this proclamation. Compliments from Sherlock were still very rare. He would frequently go out of his way for Sherlock, doing things that were quite irritating, often highly inconvenient, and would receive no aknowledgement, let alone praise, yet little things such as cooking oatmeal grabbed Sherlock's attention faster than anything. Adds to the old married couple dynamic, he thought. They finished their breakfasts in a comfortable silence, then John rose to take all three of the bowls to the sink to wash. After he had finished, he went into the living room to join Sherlock on the couch, where he was playing Auld Lang Syne saccharinely on his violin.

"You do realize..." he began, but stopped himself. Sherlock looked happy.

"What?" asked Sherlock, not putting down the instrument.

"That's not a Christmas song. Try 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' instead."

"God." Sherlock smirked at the idiotic idea of a 'god'.

"You're celebrating Christmas, there you go with the hypocrisy again."

"I'm celebrating Christmas because that's what people do, and it gives me an excuse to buy stuff."

"You? Buying stuff?" John realized that he hadn't really expected a present from Sherlock.

"Yes. I bought Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, even Anderson a present."

"Anderson?"

"I got him a mug that says 'I'm stupid'."

"How...thoughtful. And Lestrade?"

"I got him a 'not my division' mousepad." John laughed.  

"Hey, I got you something." John went to the mantelpiece and took down a small present wrapped in shining burgundy paper with gold ribbon. He prided himself on his ability to wrap small items so well. He handed the gift to Sherlock, who held it in his hands, turning it over. "You already know what it is, don't you," said John as sat he back down.

"Yes. But John- thank you." Sherlock looked subdued, apologetic almost. He turned and looked at John, a tiny glimmer of gratitude in his eyes that would have been too small for anyone but the compact little blond man to notice. John smiled with his entire countenance, not exactly sure why. His focus was pulled from Sherlock's eyes as he caught sight of a glittery white snowfall through the window.

"Hey look, Sherlock! It's snowing!" Sherlock started, his previously humbling look gone instantly.

"Dull." He pocketed the still-wrapped gift, hunched back into the couch, and stared at the wall in a perfect display of his blunt mood swings.

"Actually no, it's quite nice. C'mere." John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him down the stairs out on to the street. Neither of them had a jacket on, and it was quite cold. People were walking to and fro, talking and laughing. There was a homeless man playing festive music on a French horn. The snow was piling up on the cars and buildings. A little girl, undeterred by the cold, was playing with a brand new jump rope. John and Sherlock stood under the awning and watched. John was smiling.

"Hey, let's go give that guy a couple quid. It's Christmas, after all,"

"Jewish," Sherlock mumbled to himself, instantly reading the homeless man. But, he thought, John should have his little good deed. John walked off in his slippers, leaving Sherlock alone and shivering. As John returned, Sherlock wrapped his arm around his shoulder. John stared.

"What- Sherlock-" he began, then seemed to decide it was better not to point anything out. Sherlock would probably just attest the gesture to body heat. John leaned into the awkward embrace. He felt warm and filled with happiness. His detective was back, and it was his first joyful Christmas in years. A white Christmas, at that. He walked with Sherlock back through the door to 221B, expecting him to break apart as soon as they returned indoors. But the flatmates climbed the stairs, still embracing, John somehow managing to keep up with Sherlock's long-legged strides. When they got to the flat, Sherlock finally removed his arm and reached for the doorknob.

"John! We're locked out!" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're so forgetful." A pause. "It's kind of endearing."

"Endear- What?" John stammered.

"Endearing. As in, cute, makes me like you more, adorable, like that stuttering thing-"

"Cute. Adorable."

"Isn't that what people usually say?"

"Sherlock, you do realize we aren't actually married?" Sherlock sat down on the step outside of the flat. John joined him, rather taken aback by his flatmate's sudden...affections, as it were. He decided not to mention it anymore. "So, when do you think Mrs. Hudson will be back?" Sherlock smirked. He hugged his arms to his chest. It was quite cold in the stairwell. John tentatively placed his arm on the other's shoulders, sliding closer. "Body heat," he said, a bit too loudly. Sherlock turned to John, the same glint of affection he had seen earlier returning.

"John..." Sherlock's face was unreadable. "You're lying."

"What?"

"This has nothing to do with body heat." John blushed. Sherlock felt something buried deep in his chest stir. It scared him. He looked at John's face, reading it, deducing. John's hair was ruffled, but only on his left side, which meant that was how he had slept. He had a day's worth of stubble on his cheeks, but more on his chin, which meant he had shaved his cheeks but not his chin yestrday. There were two tiny parallel cuts on his neck, roughly three days old, which meant he was distracted while shaving. Hs ears were bright red, which meant that he was, in fact, cold, but the red tint on his cheeks told Sherlock that he was lying. He had slightly dark circles underneath his eyes, but less than usual, which meant his vacation from work was doing him some good. The last things Sherlock looked at were the warm hazel eyes. The pupils were dilated. Sherlock knew very well that pupils dilated in the dark, with someone you hated, or with someone you loved. It was bright in the stairwell, and John certainly didn't hate him. That meant...love. Sherlock's chest twinged, a sensation that was uncomfortable and amazing all in one. He turned to face forward in the stairwell, running sets of definitions through his mind. Love: verb. To feel immense passion or desire for someone or something. Noun. The possession of strong feelings for someone/something, usually romantic. Romantic: adjective. Relating to romance. Romance: noun. The expression of attraction or strong love for another. Love: noun. Sherlock's definitions were not helping him. What did people normally do in love? Images whirled in his head, images of actors kissing, of strangers kissing, images of greeting cards, images of sex scenes. Images of John. Sherlock could feel his heart slamming, a feeling so alien it gave him goosebumps. He knew exactly what he had to do. He looked at John again. John was still looking embarrased.

"Sherlock..."

"Shhh." And Sherlock leaned foward, pressing his mouth to those rough mauve lips he had deduced so many times. Such a lovely shade of mauve, he thought as John uttered a small squeak, muscles stiffening before wrapping his arms hesitatingly around his flatmate's shoulders, leaning into the kiss. Sherlock wondered why people liked to put their lips on one another, when John began to smile into the kiss. Ah, he thought, that's why. Plus, John tasted absolutely amazing, like tea and brown sugar, like a cold winter day and a ray of sun all in one. Sherlock squeezed John tighter, wondering how on earth he hadn't kissed anyone before. It was downright blissful. He could smell John's eau de toilette, could taste his minty mouthwash. Sherlock's chest felt overloaded at these emotions. Too many emotions. He wanted to scream and pull away, but at the same time, he also wanted never to let go. Tasting John's smile. He wanted to stay there forever. He could feel his partner's heart beating, the rhythm calm and steady. Sherlock's, however, was racing, skipping here and there, the results of hormones and endorphins which he did not know he was capable of producing. I love John. I am in love with John, he thought. Me, Sherlock Holmes, a sociopath, in love. With John.

Suddenly, somebody cleared his or her throat. Sherlock tore abruptly away from John and looked at Mrs. Hudson, standing at eye level a few steps down, a knowing smile on her face.

"It's about time, too."

"Mrs. Hudson." John said reproachfully.

"We're locked out, so if you could just let us in, we'll be out of your hair." Sherlock felt as if his face was on fire. He leapt up and led her to the door, unable to bear her smirk. She unlocked it, winked at them and went back outside, saying something about a sister. The two men entered the flat, their hips bumping awkwardly. Sherlock was overcome with confusion. He just didn't do emotion. But that was changing rapidly. And, he thought as he gazed at John's sandy blond hair, maybe that's not such a bad thing. It was, by very definition, a Christmas miracle.