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Chapter Text

It all starts, as most things John-related do, with the conclusion of a case.

He and John are pressed together in a tiny booth in a pub across from Scotland Yard’s finest and Sherlock is frankly appalled that he allowed himself to be subjected to something as asinine as drunken conversation.  Anyhow, John is laughing at something Lestrade’s said, face lighting up in a way that Sherlock cannot help but find delightful.  He has an expressive face, his John, and his eyes gleam midnight blue in the dim pub lighting.  Sherlock can’t look away.

“Right, Sherlock?”  John’s turned to him now, placing a hand on his arm.  Sherlock blinks, baffled, and John laughs.  

Their thighs are pressed together underneath the table and Sherlock privately thinks that spending time in this hovel might just be worth it for this sort of proximity.  Not that he’ll admit it, of course.  He’ll be complaining the entire way home; not even the Christmas spirit and its dubious existence could persuade him otherwise.

Home, because that is where John belongs now.  Sherlock has never been particularly prone to flights of fancy, but he swears that even the flat looks brighter with John around.  Dust motes caught in the sunlight across the living room carpet have never looked more delightful than when John is lounging in his chair beside them, his hunt-and-peck typing adding to the domestic ambience.  

It feels right that he’ll be here for Christmas.  Sherlock isn’t sure if he can suffer through another holiday with nothing but the skull for company.

He watches John’s profile as he downs another drink.  John’s been doing something with his hair lately, slicked it back with a little swoop, and something flutters in Sherlock’s stomach at the sight of it.  

John leans closer.  “You alright?  You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and takes a ginger sip of his beer as proof.  It tastes like chlorine.  “Having the time of my life.”

John snorts.  “Forgive me if I find that slightly hard to believe.”

“You also found it hard to believe that the woman in the green dress was the killer, yet here we are.”

John had spent the entirety of the interrogation staring at her in what he thinks is a subtle manner but is really about as inconspicuous as a neon sign declaring his heterosexuality, interest and availability.

John shrugs, unrepentant.  “To be fair, you were the only one who even suspected her.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “That’s because everyone else was too busy admiring her figure.”  Does he sound jealous?  Possibly.  Oh, dear.  Bit Not Good, that.  

Thankfully, John is probably the most oblivious man Sherlock has ever met, at least in this sort of situation.  He can determine whether or not a woman is single within seconds and then proceed to sweep her off her feet, oh yes, but the minute a man enters the equation, he’s slapped on the back and offered a pint before he can so much as drop a hint.  Sherlock would know.  Not from personal experience, mind- no, he’s had the misfortune of witnessing a few too many of their male clients flirt with John for his liking.  John, naturally, has remained unaware.  His suitors tend to give up rather soon, though, after John’s staunch heterosexuality becomes evident.  And for the slightly more persistent ones, after a bit of prodding from Sherlock.  Which is just as well- whoever ends up with John ought to be willing to fight for him.  (Which Sherlock is.  But that’s neither here nor there.)

Sally Donovan returns to the table with a clattering tray of refilled glasses and Sherlock winces at the noise.  She’s clearly inebriated, judging by the Santa hat that has made its way onto her head, and the old Sherlock would have made a comment but Sherlock now keeps his mouth shut.  She’d apologised after his return, sincerely and profusely, and it appears that the word “freak” has been left in the now-distant past.  In return, he saves his snipes about her love life.  They acknowledge each others’ competence and professionalism and sometimes Sherlock wonders if he’s taken this whole maturing thing a bit too far.

There are still giggles at crime scenes, though, and he still pokes fun at John's horribly alliterative blog titles.  There are still lazy rainy days indoors with John’s awful movies and lazy nights after adrenaline-fuelled cases with takeaway and tea.  Some things don’t change, and Sherlock supposes that it is he himself who has come back different, he who is stiller now like a lake smoothed out after a storm.  

But he has his life back now, he has John back, and even if their relationship isn’t exactly what Sherlock wants, he is more than happy with friendship again.

John nudges him with an elbow, bringing him out of his reverie.  “I don’t suppose you need a refill?” 

Sherlock looks down at his mostly-full glass.  “As always, you have a knack for asking questions with obvious answers,” he says, but there’s no heat to it.  It’s a running joke at this point- he pokes fun at John and John feigns annoyance for two seconds before laughing with him.

“Git,” John says good-naturedly, and drinks half his glass in one go.  He’ll be leaning on Sherlock by the end of the night.  (Brilliant.)

“Anyone up for a drinking game?” Lestrade calls.  He’s a loud drunk.  Sherlock mentally bangs his head against the table and delays his estimated time of departure by an hour.  

“Never have I ever?” Donovan suggests, and there are nods of assent around the table.  

“I’ll start,” the new desk sergeant says, possibly over-eagerly (wants to impress Donovan, good Lord), and giggles as she flicks her ponytail over her shoulder.  “Never have I ever gone skinny dipping.”

Lestrade drinks, unsurprisingly- the man has a dark past- as does John and another of the officers whose name Sherlock has forgotten.  

“Never have I ever Googled someone before a date,” says the officer, and Sherlock tunes everything out after that.  He hadn’t needed to Google John.  Although they aren’t dating, so the point might be a moot one.

He eyes John’s drink and wonders if it tastes any better than his.  Probably.  There’s no way even someone with taste like his would drink this rubbish.  Anderson probably poisoned his glass.

“You’re such a lightweight,” John says close by his ear all of a sudden, and Sherlock realises that his glass is mostly empty and that his vision is slightly blurry.

“‘M not drunk,” he retorts, and to his horror his words are slurred.  “Not drunk,” he says again, emphasising the “t” and “k” consonants.  John laughs and slides a hand into Sherlock’s hair to ruffle it, and Sherlock’s brain goes offline for two blissful seconds.  He’s aware that he’s goggling at John like an idiot, even after John retracts his hand, because this is not something they do.  John does not just give out casual hair-ruffles and Sherlock does not casually receive them.  Yet here they are, post-ruffle, and John is smiling in Lestrade’s direction again and he does not seem to have grasped that this is a momentous occasion for Sherlock.  Why isn’t it a momentous occasion for John, too?

His scalp is tingling and so are his lips for some reason and God he really needs to stop staring at John’s.  He tears his eyes away.

Lestrade is looking over at him with a suspiciously smug expression so Sherlock schools his face and studiously does not take another sip of his chlorine-beer.  He wonders when he finished the glass.

“Never have I ever kissed someone of the same gender,” Lestrade says with A Look between him and John, and Sherlock is uncomfortably aware of eyes on him as Donovan and the desk sergeant drink.  

(Sherlock is frankly surprised that Lestrade himself has never kissed a man, given his inordinate interest in Mycroft, of all people.  Oh, God.  Not a mental image he needed.  He shudders.  Delete.)

Take that, Lestrade.  He hasn’t drunk and neither has- 

“Fuck you, Greg,” John laughs, ruddy-cheeked.  He drinks.

The ensuing beat of silence is the longest Sherlock has ever felt.

“Well,” Lestrade says brightly.  “Whose turn is it?”

But Sherlock barely hears him over the white noise in his head.  John has kissed a man.  John, for whom being not gay is as much of his personality as tea and jumpers.  John and a man who is not Sherlock.

He grits his teeth, fingers curling into the worn seats of the booth.

Sholto.

♡

Sherlock turns the matter over and over in his head as he and John bid the Yard farewell and climb into a cab.  There is something like curdled milk in his stomach despite the (thrilling) way John is leaning against him in the backseat, and he internally curses Lestrade for bringing up the subject.  

Not Gay.  Apparently something’s happened to that self-definition because the John Watson of two years ago- hell, the John Watson of two months ago would never have freely admitted to having kissed a man.

Sherlock had picked up on his latent bisexuality years ago, that was true.  But he’d always thought that, if John ever chose to pursue a man, it would be him.

There’s always something.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” John asks, and Sherlock’s heart stutters in his chest when he turns to look at him.  John’s eyes are bright through that lazy half-lidded gaze Sherlock secretly loves (just like the stag night, oh God), and Sherlock’s fingers curl against the seat again, this time not out of anger but simply to stop himself from reaching out.

“If that was your idea of fun, I shudder to think what your idea of punishment is,” he says, injecting his characteristic snark into the sentence, and as hoped, John laughs.  It’s a crystalline sound, and Sherlock wishes he could bottle it up and keep it forever.

“You had fun, admit it.  You even got drunk.”

Sherlock scowls.  “I don’t get drunk.  The beer tasted horrible, by the way.  I hope you made Gavin pay.”

John collapses onto his side with giggles.  Sherlock likes happy-drunk John.  Happy-drunk John acts the way Sherlock imagines he would if the two of them were lovers, all unintentionally flirtatious looks from beneath his lashes and lopsided smiles that make his eyes shine like sunlight on an ocean.

He leans in closer.  “We can’t giggle, it’s a taxicab.”

And that sets them both off, for some reason, and all at once they are years younger, gasping with laughter against the walls of 221B.

I love you, Sherlock thinks, but the words form a noose around his throat.  So he thinks them in silence as London blurs past and the silver moonlight falls lovingly across John’s face in an invisible caress. 

♡

Lestrade calls them in the very next day.  There’s been a murder, a grisly case involving a dead man, barbed wire and a singed letter still enclosed in his fist.  It’s a seven at the very least, and Lestrade wants their help interviewing the solitary witness.

“You’d think the bloody criminals would cut us some slack just before Christmas,” John grumbles as he shrugs into his coat.  “My head is fucking killing me.”

Having anticipated John’s hangover, Sherlock hands him a steaming mug of tea.  John blinks down at it suspiciously.  “You made tea?”

“No, John, it’s not poisoned,” Sherlock says exasperatedly.  “If I really wanted to poison you, I’d use a method you wouldn’t anticipate.”

John squints.  “Is that meant to be reassuring?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says pointedly.  “Now drink, I’m calling a cab.”

He can feel the beginnings of adrenaline pump through his veins, and judging by the look on John’s face as they get in the cab, so is he.  They’re both desperate for excitement, it seems, despite the gruelling case they’d just wrapped up yesterday.

Lestrade is waiting for them by the interview room, a cup of coffee in hand.  He looks worse for wear; he clearly stayed out well after them last night, not having anticipated a murder the day before Christmas Eve.  His crooked tie is the same rusty red as Mycroft’s favourite; Sherlock can only hope that the universe is, for once, lazy enough for a happy coincidence.

Lestrade nods at them in greeting and hands them the case file.  “Witness is in there.  Next-door neighbour to the victim.  He found the body.  Donovan’s the primary interviewer; feel free to interject, ask additional questions et cetera.”

“Got it,” John says, and Sherlock can almost feel the energy vibrating from him.  He hides a smile.  

“Lead the way, Gerard,” he says, just to make John snicker, and Lestrade gives him an exasperated look before pushing open the door.

The sandy-haired man opposite Donovan looks up as they enter, and both Sherlock and John freeze.  The man is wearing a stylish black turtleneck rather than a military uniform and his hair has grown out from its harsh cropped cut, but his identity is unmistakable.

“James,” John breathes, and, to Sherlock’s chagrin, his face shows nothing but open delight.  

“John,” he returns warmly, pale blue eyes fixed on John as though nothing else exists, and God damn it, his chiselled features are more accentuated than ever by his new haircut.  He looks relaxed, confident, and poised, and Sherlock is almost afraid to look John in the eye for fear of seeing longing there.

Last night’s revelation returns to the forefront of his mind, conjuring image after horrifying image, and Sherlock curses James Sholto for the second time in twenty-four hours.

He comes to the conclusion that he is at an all-time low.

Chapter Text

Sholto turns out to be an exemplary witness, because of course he is.  He even knows the exact time he heard the cry from next door, because he’d just sat down to dinner and, like any respectable gentleman, he has his routine planned down to the minute.  He even withstands Sherlock’s back-and-forth questioning without changing a single thing about his narrative.

“That’s it from me,” Donovan says finally.  She looks between Sherlock and John.  “Anything else you two want to ask?”

“You seem incredibly sure of yourself,” Sherlock says neutrally.  “Most witnesses tend to question their own memories.”

Sholto only smiles.  “You forget that I was a major in the army, Mr Holmes.  Violence doesn’t shock me as much as it would a regular person.  I’m sure John would have reacted the same way had he been in my position.”

And now John is looking at Sholto with a shy, proud smile, and Sherlock curses himself for having said anything.  John’s practically glowing from the indirect compliment, and it strikes Sherlock that he can’t remember the last time he praised him.

He’s never been good at giving John the validation he deserves.  He makes a mental note to Google suitable compliments.  

Or, he thinks with a scowl, maybe John is just pleased because it’s Sholto complimenting him, Sholto with his high cheekbones and elegant air and improved fashion sense.

“No more questions,” he says shortly, and John gives him a reproachful look (undeservedly, might he add, because he wasn’t even rude), and thanks Sholto profusely.    

“Yes, thank you for your time, Major Sholto,” Donovan says, and even her tone is warm.  Sherlock hopes she knows she doesn’t have a chance in hell with him.  

Meeting adjourned, they file back out into the hallway, Dononvan heading straight for Lestrade while Sherlock, John and Sholto stand in a little awkward three-legged cluster by the door.  

“It’s wonderful to see you,” John says sincerely, and Sholto’s answering smile mirrors John’s.  “It’s good to see you too.”

It appears that the awkwardness appears to be solely on Sherlock’s part.

And then the two of them spend a small eternity gazing into each other’s eyes and it’s like Sherlock doesn’t exist.

Sholto suddenly blinks and looks at Sherlock as though seeing him for the first time.  “I apologise, I must be taking up your time,” he says, and ignores John’s hasty claims to the contrary.  “I’d best be off then.”  

He looks between John and Sherlock.  “Best of luck with your case.  Please do let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says politely (see, John?).  He even adds, magnanimously, that he ought to go check in with Lestrade and that they should carry on catching up.  

“Shall we catch up over coffee?” Sholto asks, lightly touching John’s arm, and Sherlock is fervently grateful that teeth-grinding does not produce a particularly loud noise.  When the hell did Sholto become so forward, anyway?

But John’s smile is blinding (the smile he gave Sherlock after he shot the cabbie, oh God), and neither of them notice as Sherlock spins on his heel and strides down the hallway.  

♡

Sherlock regrets not following them within two minutes of their departure.  Lestrade has just come out of his office, his mussed hair giving him the overall appearance of a befuddled owl, and he blinks at the spot next to Sherlock where John should be.  “Where’s John?”

Dononvan appears behind Lestrade.  “Catching up with his ex-boyfriend, I presume.”  

Lestrade frowns.  “Ex- oh my god, that was James?”

Sherlock barely resists the urge to throw his hands up.  “How do you know him?”

Lestrade looks sheepish.  “John talks about him sometimes.” 

Sometimes means their pub nights.  John probably gets drunk and starts waxing poetic about Sholto’s eyes or something.

“He’s definitely not bad-looking,” Donovan says, and something must have shown in Sherlock’s expression because she smirks.  “What, jealous, Holmes?”

“Shut up,” he says, for lack of a better response, and both Lestrade and Donovan laugh.  He glares.  “Do you want me to solve this case or not?”

Donovan takes a very, very long sip of her coffee in response, which Sherlock takes to mean “Yes, but I’d rather watch you lose your head over John”.  It’s not even a real answer, and John would be disappointed at her lack of social etiquette if they were friends.  Which they are not.  Sherlock is John’s best friend.

And now he’s tallying up John’s friends in his mind like a teenager, and he really should get some air.  The oxygen in here is probably contaminated with idiocy.

“Go follow him, we all know you’re dying to,” Lestrade says with a sigh.  “I’ll email you the case file.”

Sherlock tries not to look too pleased at the idea of escaping this conversation.  “Well, if you insist.”

Their laughter follows him out the doors.  Horrific.

♡

John is an incredibly predictable man.  Sherlock knew the minute Sholto suggested coffee that he would take him to the Starbucks a street across from the Met, and sure enough, when he arrives a few minutes later, the two of them are sitting in a corner booth at the back.  The table is small enough that their knees are touching beneath it.  

He can’t hear them from this distance, so he ducks into the nearby alley and pulls his emergency disguise out of his coat pocket.  The vacuum-sealed packet contains a dark brown wig, a thin black windbreaker, and a foldable backpack.  The Belstaff goes into the backpack (one of Mycroft’s team’s prototypes; it holds a surprising amount) and the windbreaker goes on over his purple shirt.  He flips the hood up so the only part of the wig visible is the fringe that falls over his forehead, then hefts the backpack over his shoulder and adjusts his gait.  He can only hope nobody thinks to look at his shoes.

Fortunately, he enters the cafe unnoticed, and he soon slides into the booth adjoining John and Sholto’s, his back to them both.  He takes a sip of lukewarm coffee and strains his ears.

“Harry is going to be absolutely insufferable,” John laughs, and Sherlock can hear the rumble of Sholto’s voice as he joins in.  He dislikes the very sound of it.

“You’ve got to tell her at some point,” Sholto points out, and John sighs.  “I know.  I think she’s always suspected it, anyway.”

“I suppose she has what the kids these days would call a gaydar,” Sholto agrees solemnly, and Sherlock listens in part amusement, part trepidation as John seems to choke on his own laughter.

“That’s not something I ever thought I would hear you say,” John admits, and Sherlock doesn’t have to see him to hear the smile in his voice.

“There are a lot of things you didn’t think you would ever hear me say,” Sholto says, softer now, and Sherlock’s heart is in his throat.  He suspects he isn’t the only one.

“I was- desperately in love with you.”  Sholto’s voice cracks slightly at the end but he soldiers on.  “I’m sorry I never said.”

John huffs a soft laugh.  “God, James,” he sighs, and something inside Sherlock curdles like old milk.  

He doesn’t remember leaving the cafe.  He doesn’t remember walking away.  But he finds himself on another street a moment later, cooling coffee cup crushed in his hand.

♡

He finds himself in front of a pet store.  A hand-painted wooden sign proclaims it to be Pet Paradise (horror of horrors) and a glass window inlaid in the rather pleasant apple-green storefront shows two hedgehogs in an enclosure designed to look like an apartment.  

One of them is looking at him rather curiously, its head tilted to the side in a surprisingly John-like manner.  What are you looking at? it seems to say.  Then, deciding he poses no threat, it ambles back towards its little red armchair.  Sherlock half expects to see a Union Jack cushion on it.

He doesn’t, of course, but something compels him to open the door and step inside.  

A blast of warm air hits him, and he realises that he’s shivering in his ridiculous disguise.  There are no customers in the shop, so he ducks behind a shelf and reverses the transformation.

The hedgehog is still looking at him when he emerges again.  You’re not very good at being covert, it says with a scrabble of its tiny paws against the glass.

And now its voice sounds like John’s, and more alarmingly, he’s conversing in his head with a hedgehog.

It’s still looking at him, its tiny eyes wide and imploring.  It is rather cute.  And he needs a distraction, anyway, doesn’t he?

So that’s how he finds himself walking up the steps of 221B with a hedgehog and the tiny red armchair from the shop display.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson calls from the stairway, then stops short at the sight of the hedgehog.  “Goodness!”  

She looks like she’s resisting the urge to pick it up with her purple oven mitt.  “Who’s this, then?”

“My new pet,” Sherlock says, watching as it shuffles around in its enclosure.  “It’s an Erinaceus europaeus.”

She frowns.  “It’s not for an experiment, is it?”

“No!”

She clicks her tongue.  “All right, all right, I was just checking.”  

She takes in the look on his face and places a gentle hand on his arm.  “Come in for tea, won’t you?  I’ve just made a batch of mince pies and cookies and things and I need someone to test them out.”

He follows her, mood much improved, even as he notes the festive decorations all over her flat and a small voice inside his head points out that John might not be here for Christmas after all.

♡

The mince pies are delicious, and Mrs Hudson’s even made hot cocoa to go with them.  She coos over the hedgehog while they eat and strokes a finger down its spiky little back.  It appears to enjoy the attention.

Mrs Hudson puts another mince pie on his plate.  “Not that I’m not pleased about it, but what on earth possessed you to buy a hedgehog, dear?  

Sherlock shrugs.  “I was bored.”

She levels a look at him that tells him she knows exactly what’s going on.  “What’s its name, then?”

The hedgehog crawls onto the armchair.  Sherlock wants to put a little jumper on him.

“John,” he says.  “And stop looking at me like that.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sighs.  “I think it’s sweet, that’s all.  Where’s John?  The actual one, I mean.”

“He’s on a date with his ex-boyfriend.”

He finishes his mince pie and moves on to the gingerbread.  It might be therapeutic to pretend that Sholto is one of the gingerbread men.

“I rather thought the point of an ex-boyfriend was that you didn’t go on dates with them again,” she says mildly.  “It’s James Sholto, isn’t it?”

Sherlock chomps down viciously on a gingerbread man.  “Does everyone know about him?”

“He was at the wedding, dear,” Mrs Hudson says placatingly, and wonderful, a reminder of the worst day of his life.

He studies the cracks on Mrs Hudson’s worn kitchen table.  He should get her a tablecloth for Christmas.  Maybe he should also buy another hedgehog and name it after himself so hedgehog-John has company and they get to live happily ever after.  Hedgehogs fortunately have neither the mental capacity nor the need to fake their deaths and ruin the best relationships of their lives.

“You don’t know that it was a date,” Mrs Hudson says, softer now.  “Why don’t you properly tell John how you feel?”

“I’d quite literally rather die, and I’ve done that already,” he says snippily.  “He’d leave, Hudders.”

She continues, unruffled.  “Even if you don’t make a move, Sholto might.”

“So you’re saying he’s going to leave me regardless?”

“That’s not what I said and you know it.”

She stands up and gets a box from the kitchen cabinet to pack the gingerbread in.  That’s his cue to leave, so he picks up John-the-hedgehog and goes to give Mrs Hudson a one-armed hug.

“You silly man,” she says fondly, patting his back.  “Don’t eat all the gingerbread in one go.  And think about what I said, all right?  John loves you.”

Sherlock does not point out that John would be the first to disagree.  He and Sholto are probably walking hand-in-hand down the street already.  Or maybe they’re at Sholto’s place, and he will get to see John’s eyes crinkle as he laughs, will get to see his eyes soften with adoration.  Sholto will get to see affectionate John and he won’t even need alcohol for it.

Back in the flat, he sinks into the sofa.  Distraction.  He ought to distract himself.  He takes John-the-hedgehog out of his enclosure and cups him in his palm.  “You love me, don’t you?” 

Sherlock gently moves his little head up and down in an approximation of a nod.  “Good.”

John is probably telling Sholto that he loves him now.  He’s going to make them both tea with mugs side-by-side on the kitchen counter and it’s all wrong because he only ever makes two cups of tea at the same time for himself and Sherlock.  He might even be running his hands through Sholto’s hair right now as he pulls him into a kiss.  

He’s probably already forgotten that he’d ruffled Sherlock’s hair yesterday and it was meant to be special but it wasn’t for him because he loves Sholto, not Sherlock, and it’s as simple as that.

And to its credit, the hedgehog doesn’t move even when Sherlock’s tears fall onto its tiny quills.

Chapter Text

Sherlock decides to get up and stop moping at around six in the evening because John should be coming home soon.  His typical date tends to last about three hours, and he’s been out with Sholto since eleven this morning.  (Of course Sholto has to be a statistical outlier.  Pompous bastard.)  

Sherlock wonders if he ought to include him in the spreadsheet.  The only other one of John’s dates whom Sherlock hasn’t tracked is Mary, so the implications of excluding Sholto from his data set means he’s indirectly acknowledging that he’s there for the long term.

That won’t do.

He’ll add him in later, he decides, because it’s almost dinnertime and John doesn’t really like eating out on a date.  Even after he’s had dinner at some fancy restaurant he would never go to otherwise, he likes to order takeaway when he comes home.  It’s mostly to ensure that Sherlock eats- John is transparent that way- but he also seems to like the routine.

Sherlock dithers between Thai and Indian- both of them love samosas but John has a particular weakness for mango sticky rice- before it strikes him that John might be making the same decision this very minute.  He might be in bed with Sholto, wearing one of his shirts while they choose what to have for dinner.  Sherlock can just see it, one of Sholto’s sleep shirts hanging off John’s shoulders as they laugh and tussle under the covers over who gets to pay.

Then he realises he’s being stupid and imagining it won’t prevent it from happening.  You can’t sabotage something via thought.

Sometimes he wonders if he still thinks sentiment is a weakness.  It compromises him time and again, what he feels for John, and it’s been exploited by most everyone they’ve fought against.  But it also brought him back to life in many ways, allowed him to feel things and see things in a way he never could before.  John’s arrival into his life was like putting on a pair of sorely-needed glasses for the first time; still seeing the same world as before but seeing it sharper, brighter, more colourful.

There’s a pumpkin in the fridge.  Sherlock blinks.  It’s not Halloween, as far as he can recall- no, Christmas is just around the corner, isn’t it- so Mrs Hudson must have put it there.  He’s never seen John eat pumpkin, come to think of it.  Maybe he should make pumpkin pasta like Mummy used to make as a special treat after exams.

He doesn’t really remember the recipe and nor does he feel like phoning her now, not when she’ll deduce everything that’s gone on from the way he breathes or something.  She’s been urging him to make a move on John for years now.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and takes out the pumpkin to wash.  It’s a bright, promising orange, and he likes the way its glossy skin feels.  It’s just the right firmness, too, not too hard and soft enough to guarantee sweetness.

After he’s set it out on the counter to dry, he goes to the sitting room to fetch the hedgehog who is currently dozing contentedly on its armchair.  Sherlock eyes its little enclosure critically.  It’ll need more furniture, won’t it?

So he brings a pot of water to boil on the counter and carefully slides in that packet of fusilli (the Fifth Northumberland Fusilli, ha!) that he and John bought at the farmer’s market last week, and while it cooks, he pops down to Mrs Hudson’s to request some dollhouse furniture.

As expected, she sends him back with an entire dollhouse, a well-crafted, three-story wooden affair with matching furniture and even blue plaid sheets for the hedgehog.  He’s long suspected that she had some sort of dalliance with a carpenter in the past.  There’s no other plausible explanation why she has all sorts of wooden trinkets about the flat.

Of course, she shoos him out of her flat when he asks, and he returns to 221B just as the pasta’s finished cooking.  The hedgehog is still fast asleep, so he transfers it gently, armchair and all, into the little sitting room of the dollhouse.

He turns back to the stove to switch it off and start on the pumpkin sauce.  There’s something calming about cooking, something rhythmic about the careful measuring of ingredients and soft-socked dance across the tiles to fetch the next tool that reminds him of rainy days in his childhood home.  He can see it now, the reflection of his younger self in the gleaming oven door of the kitchen as he sits with his head propped on his elbows, watching Mummy cook in the light of the stained-glass windows.

The onions sizzle in the pan as he drizzles a bit more oil over the top and adds a pinch of citrus salt.  Mummy swears by this; she claims the acidity of the lemons and limes she uses to make it balance out the heaviness of the pumpkin.  In goes the garlic to bubble merrily along with the onions in their frothy bath of golden-yellow oil.  

While he waits for the onions to turn translucent, he strains the pasta, puts pumpkin pieces into the still-hot pot and sprinkles in a generous amount of citrus salt before bringing it to a boil again.  He would fix everything in his life with citrus salt if he could, scatter it over the detritus of the past year like fairy dust if only it could bridge the gap between him and John.  Their relationship has miraculously healed to the point where it’s almost like before, almost, but now they feel like the bubbling water molecules in the pot, nearing the tipping point. 

He prods the pumpkin with a knife and finds it soft, so he tips in the onion-and-garlic mixture and a generous splash of milk and begins blending the mixture with that fancy hand blender Mycroft got them three Christmasses ago.  It was the type of gift that came with a snide remark about when they ought to expect a happy announcement, and wouldn’t Mummy be pleased, and Sherlock vaguely recalls physically pushing his brother out the door after that.  John had only laughed.  Perhaps he had been in a festive mood, or perhaps it had been because his not-gay assertions were primarily reserved for the uninterested public.

He wonders if John will make a blog post about his and Sholto’s rekindled relationship.  Something inside him twists at the thought that, at the thought of Sholto being added to a page that was meant to be about Sherlock.

Narcissism.  He’s always been a bit too narcissistic for his own good.  

The pumpkin mixture in the pot has become a lovely, thick orange-gold, and Sherlock’s sour mood dissipates as he adds two tablespoons of tomato purée and a decently-sized chunk of mascarpone to a separate large pan.  It smells absolutely divine, and Sherlock’s mouth is beginning to water.  He hopes John’s coming home soon; this is the sort of meal best shared.

He adds the pumpkin sauce to the pan, stirring as he does, and revels in the warm steam that rises up to his face.  The tomato and the mascarpone blend in beautifully, thickening the mixture even more, so Sherlock adds in the pasta and tosses it in the sauce, watching delightedly as it turns golden.  Cracked pepper goes on top, followed by basil leaves, parmesan flakes and chunks of mozzarella. 

He switches off the stove and John-the-hedgehog, having apparently awoken some time ago, observes him as he cleans up and sets the table.  The remaining onion needs to be chopped up and stored, and he’s just in the middle of swiping at his eyes with his sleeves when a key turns in the lock and his heart jumps.

“Sorry I’m back late,” John says, and then he looks up and freezes, either at the sight of the hedgehog or dinner, Sherlock isn’t sure.

Then John rushes over and places both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.  “Are you all right?”

Sherlock blinks.  “What?”  John’s hands are warm.  And Sherlock’s brain has possibly short-circuited.

John gently brushes Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb to wipe away a tear he didn’t realise had fallen.  “You’re crying.”

“Onions,” he blurts.  He gestures helplessly at the chopping board.  “I’m not crying.  Sentiment.  Not my forte,” he adds, slightly snarkily to make John laugh.

“You’re a rotten liar,” John says fondly, and pulls Sherlock into a hug.  Sherlock only stands there for a moment, stiff with shock, before he remembers to reciprocate and awkwardly pats John’s back.  He makes a mental note to buy John a new jumper; the wool under his palm is scratchy and he has no idea how John puts up with it.  Cashmere would do.  

“Sorry,” John laughs as they separate.  He sobers.  “Sorry.  Really.  I know I’m not very good at showing affection.  You know- you know you’re my best friend, right?”

And Sherlock is suddenly a year younger, blinking in the morning light in this very same kitchen.  “I- yes.  John, is everything all right?  Nothing’s happened, has it?”

“What?  No, no!  No, it’s just-” and here John’s gaze shifts and lands on the hedgehog.  “Seeing James again just made me realise that some things have to be said before it’s too late.”

Well if that isn’t ominous.  “Why do we have a hedgehog, anyway?” he continues brightly in a clear bid to change the subject.

Sherlock shrugs.  “I was bored.  Dinner?”

John’s smile is blinding.  “Starving.”

♡

“I can’t believe you got a pet because you were bored,” John says through a mouthful of pasta.  “And you made dinner!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Yes, John, I am occasionally capable of putting ingredients in a pot, contrary to popular belief.” 

John nudges his foot under the table.  “Prat.  I was trying to compliment you.”

“Try a little harder, then,” Sherlock says, and they both laugh.

“The pasta’s great and the hedgehog’s cute.  Happy?”  

“It’ll do,” he says haughtily, but privately he’s pleased at John’s enthusiastic response to dinner.  John had admittedly looked slightly wary when he first sat down but the first bite had quelled any doubts, judging by the ecstatic look on his face.

“What’s the hedgehog named, by the way?”  

Sherlock winces.  “John.”

“What?”

“It’s named John.”

John frowns, fork paused halfway up to his mouth.  “What?”

“I said what I said, John, don’t be dull.”

For a moment Sherlock worries he’s been too harsh, but then a slow smile spreads across John’s face and his eyes light up in a way that leaves Sherlock half breathless.  “You named it after me.”

“Yes, I did.  Are you finished gloating?”

John nudges his foot with his own under the table.  “Don’t be like that, I’m honoured.  You did buy hedgehog food, didn’t you?”

Sherlock gives him an indignant look and John laughs, holding his hands up in mock-surrender.  “I was only asking!  Fine, I defer to your expertise on hedgehogs.  Happy?”

Sherlock harrumphs.  John’s in an unusually good mood today; Sholto’s work, no doubt.  “How is your friend, anyway?”

John looks amused.  “You can say his name, you know.  He’s not bloody Voldemort.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.  I’m making you watch Harry Potter one of these days.”

They haven’t had a movie night with just the two of them in a while, and while it does sound appealing, Sherlock will take that fact with him to the grave.  “Only if we get chocolate popcorn.”

John grins at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking.  “Obviously,” he says in a clear mimicry of what he calls Sherlock’s ‘catchphrase’.  It’s ridiculous.  Sherlock’s voice isn’t that reedy.  It has gravitas, something John’s impression sorely lacks, and John only laughs and parrots “Gravitas” when Sherlock tells him so.

“I really didn’t expect to see James today,” John says during a brief lull in the conversation, and wonderful, they’re talking about this again.

“He’s…different,” he continues, and there’s a soft, contemplative look on his face that Sherlock doesn’t like at all.  “He’s done very well for himself since we last saw him.  He’s got a penthouse apartment in London, Sherlock, can you imagine?  The rent must be insane.”

That confirms Sherlock’s theory, then; they have gone to Sholto’s place.  That dampens any and all pleasure he might have felt at the way John said “since we last saw him”, like the two of them are a unit.  

“He’s rejoined the army, and he just got a promotion,” John says, and there’s a hint of proprietary pride in his voice.  “Lieutenant Colonel.”

And Sherlock can’t bear it, can’t bear the soft look in his eyes.  “I’m thirtieth in line to the throne,” he blurts, and John stops dead.  “What?”

Oh, God, why did he say that?”

“Erm,” he says eloquently.  “Mycroft and I are Earls.  We’re from a distant branch of the family.”

“The royal family,” John says faintly.  “You’re part of the royal family.”

“A very distant branch, yes.  We’re never invited to any of their soirées.”

John blinks.  “Now I’m not sure what to focus on, the fact that you’re part of the royal family or the fact that you just unironically used the word ‘soirées’ in a sentence.”

Despite himself, Sherlock laughs.  “Well, now you know.”

John gives him a look that is equal parts fondness and exasperation.  “Did you bring this up because I mentioned James’ promotion?”

Sherlock glares.  “No.”  This is a terrible time for John to decide to suddenly become perceptive.

John reaches across the table to lay his hand on Sherlock’s.  Sherlock freezes.  John coughs and looks a little to the side.  “So, um, I’m not good at this.  But I was wondering, were you maybe feeling threatened because of James?”

Sherlock’s heart drops.  John barrels on.  “You really don’t need to be, you know.  You’re still my best friend.  And I know I haven’t been the best of friends to you lately, but I promise I’ll do better.”

“I- John,” he says helplessly.  “We’ve been over this.  You apologised.  Everything’s fine.”

John gives him a lopsided smile.  “I know.  I just- wanted you to know.  That you’re important to me.  You always have been.  So you don’t need to feel threatened by James or anything.”

Damn it, he’s close yet so far from the truth.  Is this his way of saying “I’ve got a boyfriend now but please don’t fly into a jealous rage”?  

“Thank you,” Sherlock manages awkwardly.  John smiles, undeterred.  He gently pats the back of Sherlock’s hand and removes his own.  Sherlock wants to scream.

“Movie?” John asks hopefully.  “I just bought Ocean’s Eight on Blu-Ray.”

Sherlock softens.  “Of course.”

It’s John's way of saying that they won’t change even with Sholto in the equation, isn’t it?  His way of saying that their little traditions stay the same.

Best friend, Sherlock thinks, turning over the words in his head.  

He pushes lover to the very back of his Mind Palace. 

Chapter Text

John’s just gone off to work the next morning when the doorbell rings downstairs.  The sound of Mrs Hudson’s enthusiastic greeting and the heavy tread on the stairs tell him what he’d suspected; poor Lestrade is working on Christmas Eve.

He opens the door just as Lestrade reaches the landing.  “You look like hell,” he informs him, and Lestrade sighs, loosening his tie.  “Yeah, well, blame the case from yesterday.”

Sherlock blinks.  He’d completely forgotten about it.

“Come in.  Any updates?” he asks instead of admitting it, and it’s a testament to Lestrade’s exhaustion that he doesn’t suspect a thing as he sinks down on the sofa.

“We interviewed the victim’s girlfriend.  She was completely distraught; we didn’t get much out of her.”

Sherlock flaps a hand and sits down next to him.  “Not her.”

Lestrade frowns.  “Why?”

Sherlock takes the case file from him.  “Look at the pictures of the apartment.  In every single photo of the victim with his girlfriend, she has nail extensions on.  That and dyed hair suggests vanity.  Barbed wire is tricky to handle, certainly not a weapon someone like her would have chosen.  It would have left scratch marks on her nails.”

“They could have been press-on nails.”

Right, Lestrade has a daughter.

“Look at this photograph over the mantel,” Sherlock instructs.  “The one where she’s holding an ornament in her palms.”  The crime scene photographer had been competent for once, and all the photographs are glossy and high resolution.  Extremely helpful as he hasn’t been to the scene himself.

“Press-ons tend to be more reflective of light because they’re made of plastic.  Nail extensions are thicker and glossier.  This picture shows the underside of her nails quite clearly.”

Lestrade gives him a long look then.  “You know, there was always a rumour going around that you went to uni in drag.  Is there any truth to that?”

He glares.  “Gavin, I always knew you weren’t particularly intelligent, but this, as you plebeians say, really takes the cake.”

Lestrade laughs, unfazed.  “All right, all right.  I should’ve known better than to ask.”

In truth, he’s not as far off as Sherlock’s insinuated.  He did go out in drag at one point in life; it just wasn’t during his university days.  He always assumed he’d successfully passed off his extensive knowledge on fashion as expertise gleaned from previous cases, but apparently he hasn’t been as subtle as he thought.

“And what of the letter found in the victim’s hand?” he asks, desperate to change the topic.

“Most of it is burnt beyond recognition.  We can make out that the writer signed it off with the word “Love”.  There are a few legible snippets here and there that suggest it’s a love letter but the girlfriend denied having written it.”

“The logical conclusion is an affair.  I assume you’ve found some evidence to the contrary?”

Lestrade sighs.  “Yeah.  Girlfriend swore up and down that he would never do anything like that.  He’s somewhat of a hermit, apparently, and we checked his phone and couldn’t find anything remotely suspicious.  Hell, there are only five contacts in his phone and his mother and his girlfriend are the only female ones.  We even traced the numbers; they correspond to the contact names.”

Typical of the Yard, Sherlock thinks, to immediately conclude that he must be having an affair with a woman.

“Who are the other contacts?”

“His father and his two colleagues.  He’s the cook of a small coffee shop he runs with the two of them.  According to his girlfriend, he stays in the kitchen and rarely interacts with customers.  We’re going to interview the colleagues in-” Lestrade glances at his watch- “about an hour.  Want to come down to the station?”

“Sure.”  Sherlock takes another look at Lestrade’s wrinkled shirt and the ink stain on his sleeve and decides to take pity on him.  “Coffee first?”

Lestrade gives him an amused look.  “I see John’s finally managed to teach you some manners.”

“He’s not my keeper,” Sherlock huffs, and stalks into the kitchen to make his coffee.  Next time he’ll leave Lestrade to the awful swill at the Yard.  See how he likes it then.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lestrade protests, following him in, then stops short at the sight of John-the-hedgehog in his dollhouse.  “I- wow.  Who’s the little guy, then?”

“He’s a hedgehog.”

Lestrade gives him the sort of unimpressed look perfected by teenage girls everywhere.  “I gathered that much.  What’s his name?  And why do you have him?”

Sherlock turns to the coffee machine so Lestrade can’t see his face.  “His name is John.  And I was bored.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, sounding thoroughly exasperated, and Sherlock refuses to turn to him as he goes to get the mugs.  “What.”

“There’s a pool going round the Yard about the two of you, you know.”

“And I maintain that it’s a waste of time and money given that we’re not actually together.”  Sherlock sets their mugs down the table harder than strictly necessary.  “Now drink your coffee.”

Lestrade sighs.  “Are you ever going to tell him?”

“No,” he says flatly.  “There’s nothing to tell.”

“In denial, then, I see.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  “And what of your relationship with my brother?”

Lestrade abruptly blushes like a schoolgirl, and it’s such an uncharacteristic look on him that Sherlock stops dead for a moment.  “Good grief.  What did you get him for Christmas?”

Sherlock didn’t think it possible, but Lestrade turns even redder than that.  “A goldfish pendant.”

Sherlock fights the sudden urge to laugh.  Oh God.  “I- well.   Best of luck.”  

That’s as much of a blessing as he’s ever going to give.

“Ta,” Lestrade says awkwardly, and clears his throat.  “All right, back to the case.”

Sherlock tamps down a grin.  They’ll be good for each other, Lestrade and Mycroft.  God knows his brother needs the companionship.  And, as the icing on the cake, Lestrade has now been successfully diverted from the issue of Sherlock and John’s relationship.

“What else did the girlfriend say about the colleagues?”

As Lestrade flicks through the file again, he can’t help but wish that John were here, too, bumping elbows with him as they pore over the photographs and string red thread between them on the bulletin board.  Assembling the evidence board is one of his favourite parts of investigating.  John had gotten them the oversized board from that quaint little stationery shop on Marylebone a while ago, and now they have a habit of propping it up on the coffee table as John force-feeds Sherlock takeaway and Sherlock gets to watch the pieces come together.

He imagines, sometimes, that crimson thread unwinding itself from the thumbtacks to curl around their pinky fingers instead, like their very own string of fate.

♡

Disappointingly, John doesn’t text back when Sherlock messages him about the interviews, so it’s only Sherlock and Lestrade sitting across from the colleagues, the first of whom is profoundly uninteresting.  The first one wears a plaid shirt and appears to have strong opinions on quiche. 

“Not him,” Sherlock says once the door’s closed behind him.  “Call in the other one.”

The other colleague, as it turns out, is extremely interesting.  His dark hair is slicked back into a spike and there’s a challenge in the arch of his eyebrows when he stares across the table at Sherlock.  

“Hello, Mr Holmes,” he says, and between the practised drawl of his voice- nervous, wants to hide something- and the faded stamp of a nearby gay bar on the back of his hand, Sherlock soon puts the pieces together.

“He was having an affair with the victim and the girlfriend,” he tells Lestrade, who blinks at him like a goldfish.  “The victim found one of his love letters to the girlfriend so he burned it and killed the victim in a panic.  The barbed wire is likely from the construction site near his house.”

“I- wow,” Lestrade says.  “I’m not even going to bother asking you how you got all that.”

Sherlock sighs.  “Just arrest him.  Point out the tattoo on his forearm and he’s unlikely to deny it.”  He shrugs into his coat.  “That was barely a three, Gavin.”

“So sorry to disappoint,” Lestrade says drily, and sees him to the door.  “Thanks for your help.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in response.  “Merry Christmas.  And good luck with Mycroft.”

He revels in Lestrade’s gobsmacked expression before sweeping out the door.  He’s feeling rather pleased with himself, anticlimactic case aside; that was the quickest he’s solved something in a while, even something as mundane as a three.  It’s half past three now, and John always gets off work early on Fridays.  No one is going to stay any longer than necessary on Christmas Eve, anyway.  

Walking down the street is surprisingly pleasant even in the bitingly cold weather.  Everything is blanketed in thick, soft snow, and every building is lit up with Christmas lights.  He can smell cinnamon in the air as a vendor sells hot chocolate nearby.  He debates getting a cup for John.

He slides his phone out of his pocket, already regretting his decision not to wear gloves today.  His fingers feel like they’re freezing off.

There are two new texts from John.

Hey!!  Sorry, just saw your text.  How were the interviews?  Any breakthroughs?

Going out for a quick drink.  Be home by 6 :) 

And just like that, Sherlock’s mood drops.  “Drinks”, plural, means his colleagues or his army mates.  “Drink” singular means a date.  And Sherlock is fairly certain he knows who that is.

He doesn’t text back.  He knows he shouldn’t feel like this.  He knows it isn’t fair to John that he goes off in a jealous rage whenever Sholto’s name is so much as mentioned.  It isn’t fair to John that Sherlock simply assumed that if he were to ever be with a man, it would be Sherlock.

The heart wants what it wants, he thinks moodily as he fits the key into the lock of 221B.  

“Sherlock, is that you?” Mrs Hudson calls, and he opens the door to find her beaming in the middle of a freshly-decorated entryway.  There are garlands over the stairs with red ribbons and pine cones, fairy lights are hanging from the low ceiling, and Mrs Hudson’s even dragged out a little side table to put a wreath with candles on it.  

“Don’t you like it?” she exclaims, clapping her hands together.  “I really should have done this earlier but I was too caught up with the Christmas baking, you know.”

Sherlock smiles at her, suddenly overcome with affection for her.  “It looks lovely, Hudders.”

She pats his cheek.  “Stay right here.  I’ve got something for you, dear.”

She disappears into her flat- from what he can make of it through the open doorway, it’s entirely covered in decorations- and reappears with a small glass jar with white dough inside it.  

“It’s sourdough discard,” she explains at the look of confusion on his face.  “I’ve been making my own bread for Christmas dinner and this is a bit of starter I’ve neglected.  It’s very handy for making doughnuts and such.”

Sherlock frowns.  “I’m not much of a baker.”

She flaps her hands.  “Oh, shush, John texted me pictures of that pasta you made yesterday.  It looked delicious.”

Sherlock finds himself flushing at that unexpected piece of information.  “Oh.  Really?”  He hadn’t known John had liked it that much.  

She gives him an indulgent look like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.  “Really.  Raved about it.  Best pasta he’s ever had, apparently.”

“Now I know you’re making this up,” he grumbles, and takes the jar out of her hands.  “I’ll see what I can do with this.”

“You’re welcome,” she says pointedly, and he rolls his eyes.  “Thank you, Hudders.”

“He’ll love the doughnuts, trust me!” she calls as he goes up the stairs.  His phone buzzes once, twice, and he pulls it out to see she’s sent screenshots of her conversation with John.

He turns his face so she can’t see his smile.  

♡

The flat looks almost unrecognisable when he steps inside.  Mrs Hudson’s truly outdone herself this year; the Christmas tree twinkles merrily by the window, two festive stockings hang from the mantlepiece, and even Billy the skull’s got a Christmas hat on.  And, naturally, because it’s Mrs Hudson, there are garlands over every possible surface.  There’s even a cheeky sprig of mistletoe above the entryway to the kitchen.  Sherlock tries to ignore the mental image that provokes.

It’s cosy, he has to admit, especially with the snow falling down outside.  He crosses over to the kitchen, mood much improved.  John will be back for dinner, at least, and he’s got a few hours to bake them doughnuts for dessert.  Mrs Hudson will be coming upstairs with a veritable buffet, like she does every year, and John will bring back Christmas crackers and something from Marks and Spencers’.  They’ll watch one of those Hallmark movies John always insists on putting on and Sherlock will play his violin for the two of them until Mrs Hudson feigns drowsiness and goes back downstairs.  Then it’ll be him and John again in their chairs in front of the fire, a bottle of whisky between them and time will seem to bend as everything is awash in soft colours and a haze of laughter.  

The Christmases he had with John before he left were the best of his life.  It’s John’s first one back since that entire debacle with Mary and Sherlock will do whatever he can to make sure it’s perfect.  Even if it means playing nice while John gushes about Sholto.  At least John has to be here to talk about him.

He places the jar of sourdough discard on the kitchen counter and feeds John-the-hedgehog, who appears to have settled in quite nicely in his new house.  There’s a little bundle of cotton wool on the bed that wasn’t there before, and Sherlock smiles at the mental image of John rooting around in his first-aid kit just for this.

“You’re lucky Mrs Hudson didn’t get it in her head to make you an ugly Christmas jumper,” Sherlock tells him.  The hedgehog blinks up at him.

Right.  Sourdough doughnuts.  Sherlock wracks his brain for ideas as he opens the fridge to scan its contents.  They’ve got a bottle of apple cider, funnily enough; Sherlock doesn’t recall having bought it.  Or, more accurately, he doesn’t recall John putting it away.  

Might as well put it to good use, he decides.  Apple cider doughnuts it is.

He mixes brown sugar and butter in a bowl, then cracks in two eggs and adds a generous dollop of sourdough starter.  Mummy’s never properly measured her ingredients when she bakes- ironic, given that she’s a mathematician- but Sherlock supposes she has the eye for it.  She can probably tell the weight of a bowl of sugar down to the exact gram just by looking at it.  Sherlock can’t, not really, but there’s something freeing about it, doing what feels right.  (Maybe he needs to stop using cooking as a metaphor for his life before he gets too sentimental.  Mycroft is apparently not the expert on remaining unattached, though, not anymore; Sherlock smiles at the idea of Lestrade presenting him with his goldfish charm.  Honestly.)

He stirs in apple cider, flour, baking powder, cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg.  It’s starting to smell a little bit like mulled wine; he’ll have to make that tomorrow.  It’s funny.  He never used to care about food before he met John.  It only took one exchange- “Dinner?” “Starving”- for him to decide that he must find the best restaurants in London to take John to, if only to see him smile the way he did that first night.

He’s getting maudlin in his old age.  He gives the batter one last mix before piping it into the doughnut pan and sliding it into the oven.  He’ll top them with powdered sugar later.

Satisfied with his work, he sets the oven’s timer and goes to get changed into his thickest dressing gown.  In the living room, he conducts a variety of Google searches about how one might win back their friend from a terrible ex, but the articles that pop up unfortunately seem to be geared towards teenage girls.  Why on earth aren’t there academic journals about this?  “Have a sleepover and chat” doesn’t feel like it would apply given that they were flatmates already.  The other options similarly range from unfeasible to ridiculous.

He must lose track of time, as before he knows it, he hears John’s familiar tread on the stairs.  The key turns in the lock as Sherlock scrambles to fix his hair in an attempt to look as though he has been deep in contemplative thought the entire time.

The door opens.  “Hey,” John says, and there’s a smile in his voice.  There’s a rustle as he hangs up his coat.  “Flat looks festive, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock hums.  “Mrs Hudson’s work.”

John snorts.  “I knew that much.”  He sniffs the air.  “Hey, have you been baking?”

“Apple cider sourdough doughnuts,” Sherlock informs him, and privately delights in the way John looks impressed.  “Sounds amazing.”

He crosses the room and stops a few inches in front of Sherlock.  He’s slightly flushed, Sherlock notes in fascination.  Then he reaches out and gently ruffles Sherlock’s hair, and then it’s Sherlock’s turn to blush.  “Um,” he says eloquently, and John laughs a bit self-consciously.  “Sorry.  You just looked very- cuddly, like that.”

Sherlock stares.  “Cuddly?”

The tips of John’s ears are red.  “You know, in your dressing gown and all that.  And I thought- I thought you liked it when I did that at the pub the other day.”

Oh God, had he really been that transparent?

“I suppose it wasn’t intolerable,” Sherlock manages at last.  He can’t look away from John.  His eyes are darker than usual, or perhaps that’s a trick of the light.

John smiles.  “No?”

Then, before Sherlock can reply: “Go get dressed.  We’ve got reservations for dinner.”

Sherlock blinks.  “We do?”

John’s ensuing smile is unfiltered delight.  “Oh my God, did I actually manage to surprise you?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock concedes, and they both laugh.  “Where are we going, then?”

John only grins.  “Wear something nice,” he says in lieu of an answer.  “I’m going upstairs to change.”

Sherlock stares at his retreating back for a full minute.  It’s not a date.  Of course it isn’t.  It’s just his best friend surprising him on Christmas Eve with a nice dinner.

He wears his best shirt anyway, the purple one that always seems to make John’s eyes linger on him a little longer than strictly necessary.  He tells himself that the flutter in his stomach is excitement for the holiday season.  Certainly not nerves; certainly not hope.

And then John comes down the stairs in a midnight blue suit that fits him like a glove and whatever thoughts he might have had evaporate like mist.

“Dinner?” he asks with a mischievous grin.  The suit matches his eyes.  

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.  “Starving.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock spends the cab ride staring at John’s profile.  He’s done the thing with his hair again, slicked it back with what Sherlock suspects is Tesco-brand gel, and he looks much more relaxed than he’s been in a while.  Sherlock was right in the end, wasn’t he, about the presence or absence of product in one’s hair being a fairly good indicator of their sexual orientation.

He’s not saying that aloud, of course.  Despite popular belief (see: John’s continued insistence that he has a death wish), he actually rather values his life.  Twenty-year-old him would be flabbergasted. 

It hasn’t stopped snowing since this afternoon.  Fluffy snowflakes land on the window panes of the cab and Sherlock wonders what they would look like intertwined in John’s hair.  He can't stop staring at him.  God, that suit is a menace to society.  He wouldn’t be surprised to find that Mycroft’s involved in all this somehow.  John would never buy himself a suit more expensive than anything at the sale section of Marks and Spencers’, he thinks affectionately.

Unless he bought it for Sholto?  Cold dread twists in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.  What if Sholto bought it for him?

He forces himself to relax.  No, he realises, scanning over the stiff lines of the suit.  Undoubtedly new.  And, given the way John is holding himself in perfect military posture, it’s the first time he’s wearing it.  If it were for Sholto, it wouldn't be Sherlock sitting in the cab right now, would it?  It is Christmas Eve, after all.

Pleased at his conclusion, Sherlock sits a little straighter.  

John turns from the window to smile at him fondly.  It appears he’s been caught staring.  “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

“Calculating the probability that Mycroft was involved in the purchase of your suit.”

John laughs.  “What, because it’s too nice for me to have picked it out myself?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Oi!”

They both laugh.

“Am I right, then?” Sherlock can’t help but ask.  

John raises an eyebrow.  “When aren’t you?”

Sherlock preens a little at that.  “I can’t argue with that.”

“Prat,” John says, but it’s fond.  “You’re right, obviously; this arrived in the mail this morning.  I haven’t the foggiest why Mycroft suddenly decided to send such a nice present this year.  We have to get him something back, you know.”

“We get him a red wine every year,” Sherlock points out, secretly delighting in the way they’re saying we as though the two of them are a unit.  “Actually, haven’t we already gotten him one?”  It’s probably in one of the wrapped boxes beneath the tree.

John pulls a face.  “Seems a bit cheap now, doesn’t it?  What do posh people like for Christmas?”

They bicker about it for a while, with John jokingly suggesting an umbrella stand and Sherlock whole-heartedly endorsing the idea as long as they get the ugly toad one he saw in the vintage shop across the road from Angelo’s.

“We are not getting your brother a toad for Christmas.  Or any amphibian, for that matter.”

“What’s wrong with amphibians?” Sherlock demands, and John’s mouth twitches like he’s desperately reining his laugh in as the taxi comes to a stop.

They’re outside the Savoy.  Still not a date, Sherlock reminds himself firmly.  Still not a date.

“Come on, then,” John says with a bit of a self-conscious laugh.  “The new restaurant is really good, apparently.”

Sherlock follows him up the path, dazed.  The front of the hotel is regal, as always, and an arch of cherry blossoms has been placed over the doorway with sparkling silver lights woven between the branches.  Inside the foyer, the chandelier casts a warm glow over what seems like a small forest of Christmas trees.

It’s like walking into a fairytale.  John turns to smile at him, and warmth pools in his belly.  “The decorations are nice, aren’t they?” John says, but Sherlock can barely concentrate with the way the light from the chandelier falls softly over his hair and makes it look like spun gold.  

John has made him a sentimental fool.  But it’s Christmas, and he’s here, with the person he loves the most, instead of sequestered away in a cold room in rehab as he’d been ten years ago.  He’ll take sentiment; he’s not going back there.

As they exit the elevator and walk down the corridor to the restaurant, the back of their hands brush, and Sherlock represses a shiver.  There’s something electric in the air tonight, something warming him down to his toes despite the freezing cold outside.  It feels like they’re on the edge of a precipice, just about to tip over into something frightening but beautiful.  It’s not like standing on the edge of a rooftop at all, cold phone to his ear.  This is warm, a curling heat building up from his stomach to his chest, or that’s how it feels, anyway.  When John’s hand brushes his once more, Sherlock swears he can see sparks fly.

They arrive at the restaurant.  It’s dimly lit, cosy with a rustic feel, and Sherlock is charmed.  He and John settle in their surprisingly plush seats and John smiles at him- nervously?- across the menu.  

“Should we pick a couple things to share?”

Sherlock hastens to agree; he probably would have agreed to share cyanide at this point.  He’s dimly aware that everyone else at the restaurant is a couple of some sort.  Across the room, a man reaches out to take his partner’s-husband’s?  Yes, a ring- hand across the table.

Sherlock swallows.

“You’re quiet tonight,” John remarks after the server’s taken their orders.  “Something on your mind?”

Sherlock only shrugs.  “It’s been a long year,” he says simply.  And it has.  He tries not to think about it too much, Mary and the morgue and the baby who’d turned out to be yet another lie, after all.  Quite frankly, it’s a miracle that he and John are still here.

John softens.  “I know.  I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “Don’t be.  I’ve made many mistakes in the past three years.  Having our friendship- having you back is more important to me than anything else.”

John’s eyes shine, visible even in the low light.  “I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly.  He’d said the same thing the first time he’d properly apologised to Sherlock, and Sherlock realises with a start that he still somehow believes it.

Sherlock holds his gaze.  “You saved my life.  We’re here, and Mary, Moriarty, all of that, they’re behind us now.  Look forwards, not back.”

There’s a strange smile tugging at the corner of John’s lips.  It’s soft and fond and altogether not unlike his smile that very first night as they collapsed against the wallpaper of 221B, giggling like teenagers.  “You’ve matured,” he says, then laughs ruefully.  “I mean, you always were wise, but you seem- more emotionally insightful.”

“Oh.”  Sherlock pauses, suddenly wrongfooted.  “Thank you?”

John laughs.  “You’re right, though.  You always are.”

“Glad you’ve realised,” Sherlock says snarkily, just to prove that maturity has not meant the loss of his sense of humour.

Their first dish arrives then, a charcuterie board with ham and cheese and melon arranged in the shape of a rose.  As if on cue, Sherlock’s stomach rumbles audibly, and they both laugh.

John immediately heaps a small tower of cold cuts onto Sherlock’s plate.  “You need to eat more.”

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock murmurs, and they share a fleeting, thrilling moment of prolonged eye contact.  John’s eyes are dark sapphire in the lamplight.

John clears his throat, and the spell is broken.  “Well, then- bon appétit.”

Sherlock echoes the sentiment, then takes a long sip of his wine to cover up his flush.  Judging by the way John’s gaze lingers on his neck, he doesn’t entirely succeed.

“I solved the case, by the way,” he says as they begin to dig in.  “It was barely a three, in the end.”

John perks up.  “Oh?”

Sherlock fills him in on the details and basks in John’s ensuing (and entirely undeserved) compliments.  

“It was only a three,” he deflects when John comments on the brilliance of his having noticed the girlfriend’s nail polish.  “And any idiot marginally more clever than the Yard would have noticed that, anyway.”

John looks like he’s torn between laughing and wanting to appear stern.  “Stop insulting Lestrade’s intelligence, my God, you’re going to give him self esteem issues one of these days.”

Their next course arrives, creamy mushroom soup with fluffy garlic bread.  John takes a deep breath and makes a noise of profound appreciation.  “Holy shit, they weren’t exaggerating about this place.”

Sherlock can’t help but smile.  A happy John has always been his weakness; he’s surprisingly easy to please, given that one knows what he likes.  Sherlock adds mushroom soup from Savoy to his mental list.

He sips his own soup and nudges John’s foot under the table.  “Don’t look now, but the man behind you is wearing lingerie under his suit.  You can see the lace under his collar.”

Of course, John turns to look then, just as the man’s business partner puts a hand on his shoulder dangerously close to the aforementioned lace and Sherlock is rewarded with the sight of John’s face screwing up as he tries desperately not to laugh.  “I shouldn’t laugh,” he gasps.  

Sherlock grins at him.  “You and I have a longstanding tradition of laughing in inappropriate situations.”

“That we do.”  John dips the garlic bread into the soup bowl to gather the last dregs and eats it with relish.  “Fuck, I think Angelo might have some serious competition now.”

“Don’t ever let him hear you say that.  He’d be heartbroken to find he’s been replaced.”

John laughs.  “I never said replaced.  The food here is good, but Angelo’s has always been our place.”  He shrugs, looking sheepish.  “Sentimental value, I suppose.”

Sherlock’s heart is beating double-time.  “Yes,” he croaks, then clears his throat in horror.  “Sentiment.”

John’s gaze softens.  “Do you remember our first meal there?”

It’s all fine.

I know it’s fine.

As if he could forget.

“Yes,” Sherlock says in a half-whisper.  

“Things have changed since then,” John says.  He’s a little red in the face, although that could be from the wine.  “Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Yes.”  It’s definitely a whisper now.

Then their waiter comes over with their main dishes and they both fall silent.  They’ve ordered lamb with potatoes au gratin for Sherlock and pasta with citrus-glazed chicken for John.  They both begin to eat, and Sherlock can almost feel the tension crackling in the air, both of them keenly aware of the other’s proximity.  

“Things have changed for the better, I’d say,” John continues when they’re both about halfway through.  He twists a strand of pasta around his fork.  “Try some of this, by the way.  It’s delicious.”

And then he stretches his arm out and Sherlock’s heart just about stops in his chest.  He opens his mouth automatically, and there’s a brief moment when time seems to stop as John feeds him the pasta.  He’s blushing, he’s aware, and he can barely taste the pasta, creamy though it is, through the ringing in his ears.  

“Good?” John murmurs, and he can only nod.  

The corners of John’s eyes crinkle.  “Good.”

Sherlock’s heart is thudding in his chest.  “Try- try some of mine,” he blurts, and apparently it was the right thing to say because John’s smile widens.  “Okay.”

He feeds John a chunk of his lamb, and valiantly tries and fails not to stare at the way John’s lips close around the fork.  

They’re flirting.  Aren’t they?  They have to be.  They’ve long strayed past the border of platonic affection; this, Sherlock is certain, despite his social ineptitude, is not something mere friends do with each other.  (He’d certainly murder Lestrade, quite happily, if he attempted anything like this with John.  And he likes Lestrade.)

And what of Sholto?  Is this something they do, too?

He resolutely pushes that thought away.  Not tonight.  Tonight is about them.

“Hey,” John says, and Sherlock tears his eyes away from John’s throat.  “You have something- here-”  And then he reaches out to gently swipe some sauce from Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock’s brain short-circuits.

“...Sherlock?”

It’s a romantic cliché.  It’s a romantic cliché.  Oh God oh God oh God.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks and the room swims back into view.  John looks concerned.  “Are you all right?  I’m sorry, did I-”

“I don’t mind,” he interrupts, and is suddenly brought back to the stag night, John’s hand on his knee bleeding heat through the fabric of his trousers.  

“Yeah?”  John’s smile has turned bashful.  “Okay.”

And this- yet another diversion from the script.  This is not how they interact.  This is not something they do.  And yet.  Hope swells in Sherlock’s chest.  And yet.

Dessert arrives, cherry pie with a generous serving of vanilla ice cream.  One slice with two spoons.  Sherlock is starting to think the universe is conspiring to make everything about tonight as romantic as possible; they’ll hear no complaints on his end.

Some part of him wishes John would feed him the pie, but he doesn’t try anything else this time.  Sherlock’s hands shake with the effort of not reaching out.  (The pie is delicious, though.  He wonders what the combination of vanilla and cherry would taste like on John’s lips.)

♡

“That was wonderful,” John sighs as they walk out of the restaurant.  Sherlock fervently agrees.  Though he must admit that the company, rather than the food, played a larger role in making the evening enjoyable.

The December air hits them like a blast to the face as they walk out the sliding doors, and John shivers, then grimaces.  “Shit.  I left my jacket in the restaurant.  Get us a cab, would you?  I’ll go get it.”

He disappears back into the hotel just as a familiar face rounds the corner.  James Sholto, smiling as though it’s the happiest day of his life, is holding hands with a handsome, dark-haired man.  Sherlock’s stomach plummets.

The pair reach the taxi stand a few yards from where Sherlock is standing, and Sholto gives the man a slow, lingering kiss before helping him into a cab.  “Good night,” Sherlock hears, and then Sholto straightens and his gaze lands on Sherlock.

He smiles easily and strides over to him.  “Mr Holmes.  Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock arches a brow.  “Major.  Is John aware that you’re seeing another man?”

Sholto’s laugh is low and a bit too knowing for Sherlock’s taste.  “Yes, Mr Holmes.  He was the one who encouraged me, in fact.”

Sherlock blinks.  “What?”

“John and I aren’t together.  I thought you’d have pieced that together by his behaviour tonight.”

Sherlock’s heart begins to beat faster.  “I see.  I wasn’t sure.”

Sholto smiles at him, rather warmly, and Sherlock is once again wrongfooted.  Damn him.  “Your jealousy is visible a mile away, Mr Holmes.  Rest assured, I have no designs on John, nor he on me.  After all, we took different people out to dinner tonight.”

He inclines his head as John comes out of the doors.  “Ah, there he is.  Make your move; I’m sure he’ll be quite responsive.  Merry Christmas.”

With that, he strides off into the night, a far cry from the broken man at John’s wedding.  

John jogs up to where Sherlock is.  “Hey!  Was that James?”

Sherlock blinks, still half-dazed.  “Yes.  He had a date with him just now.”

“Did he?”  John’s grin is genuine and delighted.  “That’s wonderful!”

A cab drives past and Sherlock flags it down.  “I thought the two of you were involved,” he says as they get in.  “Aren’t you- I don’t know, jealous or something?”

John’s laugh is disbelieving.  “Involved?  Me and James?”

“Well, how was I to know?  I heard his declaration of love to you at the coffee shop, you know,” Sherlock says crossly.  Internally, however, his stomach is doing backflips as he replays Sholto’s words in his mind.  Make your move; I’m sure he’ll be responsive…after all, we took different people out to dinner tonight.

Dinner.  That has romantic connotations, doesn't it?  Irene Adler was the prime illustration of that.

“Of course you were eavesdropping,” John says exasperatedly.  “And no, it wasn’t a declaration of love.  It was closure.  Yes, we were involved back in Afghanistan, but we certainly aren’t now.”

“You keep going out with him, though,” Sherlock points out, and to his horror he sounds almost petulant.  Your jealousy is visible a mile away, Mr Holmes.

The side of John’s mouth quirks, as though he can tell what Sherlock’s thinking.  “We were swapping advice, actually.  About the people we do want to be involved with.”

Sherlock’s heartbeat is roaring in his ears now.  “I see,” he rasps.  His throat is dry.  The hope that has been flickering in his stomach the entire night has fanned into an inferno.

The rest of the cab ride is spent in silence so charged that Sherlock fears he might just get electrocuted.

Finally, finally, the cab pulls up in front of their front door, and John wordlessly pays.  “Come on,” he says, and Sherlock follows him up the stairs, almost tripping in his haste.  He fumbles with the keys and John laughs, his bare hand closing around Sherlock’s gloved ones.  “Here, let me.”

Sherlock shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.  They stumble into the foyer, drunk on endorphins and the surreality of it all, and in one moment John turns to look at him, eyes half-lidded, and in the next Sherlock finds himself pressed against the wallpaper, John’s lips on his.

It’s- magical.  It’s a massive cliché, but Sherlock swears he can see fireworks bloom behind his eyelids as they kiss.  John’s lips are warm, and they taste like red wine and cherries (he knew it!) and home.  That’s what they taste like.  They taste like coming home after two long years away, coming home after death and deception and so much pain.  He stifles a sob.

“Hey,” John breathes as they break apart.  His hands come up to cup Sherlock’s face.  “You okay?”

His eyes are gentle and Sherlock can’t help the tear that slips down his face.  “John.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John says tenderly, and kisses away the tear.  “I love you.”  His cheeks are flushed bright red, visible even in the semi-darkness.  He’s never looked more beautiful to Sherlock.  “I love you so much.  Please- please tell me I haven’t been reading this all wrong.”

“No, no,” Sherlock says hastily and fists a hand in his collar to pull him closer.  “I love you too.  I’ve wanted- I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, and his voice cracks at the very end but it doesn’t matter because John leans in to kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Sherlock’s lips.  “I’m sorry we wasted so much time.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “Don’t worry about that now.  We’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

His nerve endings are singing.  It was him, all along, him, not Sholto.

I love you.  The sound of that will be enshrined in his Mind Palace forever.

John beams up at him.  “My wise detective.”

And that, apparently, has the same effect on him as the feeling of John swiping sauce off his lips, because he feels himself flush all the way down to his neck.

John laughs and twines their fingers together.  “Come on.  Let’s go upstairs.”

Back in the flat, he’s reluctant to let John’s hand go even as they hang up their coats.  They kiss again, and Sherlock can’t stop smiling even as they briefly part to go change into their pyjamas.

John hasn’t come back downstairs when Sherlock ventures back out into the living room, so he busies himself with taking out the doughnuts from the oven.  They’ve turned out beautifully, fluffy and golden, and Sherlock puts one on a plate for them to share and sprinkles it with powdered sugar.

John-the-hedgehog looks on avidly from his dollhouse and Sherlock can’t help but smile, again, at how different things are now.  

“It’s going to be wonderful,” he whispers, stroking the hedgehog’s little quills, and he could swear it gives him a knowing look.  

John comes down, then, and comes to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist.  “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sherlock breathes, twisting around to kiss him.  “I made doughnuts.”

“I saw.”  John threads his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and he represses a shiver.  “Want to go settle down on the couch?  I’ll make us some hot cocoa and we can put on a film or something.”

Sherlock privately thinks that the film will be the last thing either of them focuses on, but he agrees nonetheless.  He brings the plate with the doughnut to the coffee table and fluffs up the cushions.  If he were prone to over-romanticised descriptions, he would say his stomach is filled with butterflies.  As it is, he is a man of science, so he settles for the statement that there is a slight fluttering sensation in his abdomen, completely unrelated to any nervousness he might be feeling.

John returns clutching two mugs and hands one to Sherlock.  “Here you go, love.”

Sherlock barely manages not to upend the entire mug in his lap.  He can feel John’s shoulders shaking with repressed laughter as he sits down next to him.  “Idiot.”

Sherlock pinks.  “Shut up.”

“Mm, make me.”

And what else can Sherlock do with so blatant an invitation?  He closes the gap between them, sighing contentedly as John’s hands slide down to his waist.  “Best put that down, love,” John murmurs between kisses, taking the mug from Sherlock’s hands to put it on the coffee table.

Sherlock shivers.

John half-smiles, half-smirks.  There’s a knowing glint in his eye.  “Cold, love?”  He grabs the jumper folded on his chair and hands it to Sherlock.  Sherlock silently applauds himself for not immediately burying his nose in it to inhale his scent.  He pulls it on, instead, and revels in warmth that in all honesty has very little to do with the garment.

John plants a kiss to his jaw.  “Like pet names, do you?”  He raises his gaze to grin at Sherlock.  “Love.  Sweetheart.  Honeybee.”

Sherlock buries his burning face in John’s neck.  “John.”

John laughs and slides his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  “Sorry, sorry.”

“I like it,” Sherlock tells the nape of John’s neck.  

Then there are gentle fingers beneath his chin as John tilts his face up to kiss him again.  “I love you, honeybee.”

Sherlock’s face likely resembles a beetroot at this point.  “I love you too.”  John begins peppering kisses down his neck, and in the interest of preserving what little of his dignity is left- he can’t possibly burst a blood vessel in his face from blushing, can he?- he hastily looks around the room.  “Oh, John- should we- the film?  Or presents?”

He doesn’t want John to stop, though.  They both know it.

John’s laugh in his ear is soft and low and full of promise.  “If it’s all right with you, love, I think the presents can wait.”

Sherlock has never agreed with anything else more.