Chapter Text
With Christmas fast approaching, John was starting to get slightly desperate. This was the first Christmas he and Sherlock would spend together as a couple, so he wanted everything to be perfect.
Or as close to perfect as it could get, considering his partner wasn't particularly interested about the holiday.
Still, that didn't mean they couldn't have a good time. John was positive that if he took care of the decorations, the food and everything else without getting in Sherlock's way, he wouldn't complain too much. Besides, what bothered Sherlock the most were the guests and having to talk to people. John had no intention on inviting anyone over this year, so that was one less thing to worry about.
The only problem John had left was finding the perfect gift. What could you possibly give to someone like Sherlock?
The idea came to him exactly one week before Christmas, after he and Sherlock were returning to Baker Street, having solved their latest case. Sherlock was complaining about having to buy a new scarf, since his had gotten lost in the Thames after he had jumped in after their suspect. He was a bit irritable since he would have to wait until the festivities were over, because shops were overflowing with people on this time of the year.
So, John sensed his opportunity and decided to give Sherlock a scarf. Not any scarf, though, he figured it would be better to knit one himself. He wasn't very good at it, but with the help of Mrs. Hudson he was sure he would have it ready on time.
"What happened to you?"
"What?"
"Your fingers," explained Sherlock. "They're bandaged. What happened?"
"Oh. Don't worry, it's nothing." John, upon realizing Sherlock wouldn't just let it go, continued. "I just got a bit burned. I was cooking with Mrs. Hudson the other day, and got distracted. It's fine."
Sherlock looked at him a few more seconds, before returning his attention to his experiment.
Crisis averted.
Finally, Christmas arrived. Since Sherlock was out for the day, John took the opportunity to decorate the flat and put up the tree (because, according to his partner, if the tree stayed in their living room for longer than necessary, he would set it on fire. John knew him well enough to know he wasn't kidding). After he was done, he went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's, who gave him a plate of homemade cookies, and retrieved the scarf.
The living room looked festive enough, the food was in the oven, and the scarf was placed under the tree. John paced the living room, suddenly nervous. He hoped the detective wouldn't be too difficult today. He had been in a foul mood the whole week, and loosing his scarf hadn't helped at all. John had made sure to keep the decorations at a minimum, and he even stopped himself from putting some Christmas music in the background.
Ten minutes later, he heard the door.
The detective entered the flat, a thunderous expression on his face. He stopped dead on his tracks when he saw the state of the flat.
"What the hell is all this?"
"Did you and Mycroft have another fight?" John sighed, making a mental note to kill Mycroft the next time he saw him. Did he have to put Sherlock in this state today of all days? Not that Sherlock wasn’t partially guilty; he was usually overly sensitive when it came to Mycroft, but the elder Holmes should know by now which buttons should not be pressed.
"Irrelevant. What is all this? I told you I didn't want all these... things in my flat."
"Actually, you said it was fine; you just didn't want them for too long." John knew it would be worst to face Sherlock when he was like this, be the words had escaped his mouth before he could stop himself.
John repressed a sigh and walked up to him, willing to apologize just for the sake of having a quiet evening, but stopped dead on his tracks.
"You're high." John simply stared at him; at Sherlock’s dilated pupils, at the slight shaking of his hands. And the more he looked, the more he noticed. Sherlock’s breathing was harsh, and his skin was even paler than usual.
John clenched his fists, drawing out a long breath. How bad had the fight with Mycroft been to make Sherlock seek the drugs again?
Sherlock's face shifted. A second ago he looked furious, ready to lash out at the smallest thing. Now, he simply looked detached, wearing his usual cold, distant expression that he seemed to reserve for when he was feeling particularly cruel.
This was past the ‘bit not good’ territory, it seemed.
"I don't have time for your dull holiday, John," he said, changing the subject. "I have no interest to participate in it, and I want all of these out. Now."
Sherlock went towards the tree, and John was about to stop him, afraid that the detective might just threw it on the floor in a fit of anger. Instead, Sherlock stood in front of it, his head cocked to the side, before kneeling and grabbing the small package under it.
"Oh, and what is this? You got me a gift. How considerate of you." He was now facing John, opening his gift with feign enthusiasm. He held the scarf on his hands and laughed. He made eye contact with John, the disgust evident on his features.
"This? This is your gift? If you were planning to give me a rag for Christmas, you could have at least made me a decent one."
"Sherlock, please."
"I have no use for your so called 'gift'.” He threw the scarf at John’s feet and sat on the sofa. “So take this and the rest of the stuff out of the flat."
John simply looked at him, resisting the urge to simply punch his partner in the face, and making sure to keep any traces of hurt off his face. He didn’t want to give Sherlock another reason to mock him right now.
After all, even if he was hurt by Sherlock’s words, he knew it was mostly the drugs doing the talking.
Mostly.
"You know what, do as you wish. I'm going out." John tried to keep his voice as firm as possible, though he didn’t think he had actually succeeded, if the derisive scoff from Sherlock was anything to go by.
He left without his coat, and he didn’t even spare Sherlock another glance.
He drew out his phone from the pocket of his jeans, and with a heavy sigh, dialed Mycroft's number.