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dameargyleTitle: "Peace and Goodwill"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
argyle4eva
Rating: R overall, G this portion.
Characters/pairing: Sherlock/John, Harry/Clara, Greg Lestrade
Series: "Being Sherlock"
Beta:yamx
Word count: ~2,800 (this chapter)
Summary: What's weirder than a vampire and a werewolf celebrating Christmas at Baker Street? Doing it while playing host to their respective families, that's what!
Author's notes – Yeah, finally getting this done: the Christmas special YEARS in the making. I have no cause to bitch at the canon team for taking as long as they did; the stories get told when they're ready, I guess. :) And, never fear, there will be an epilogue. After all, enquiring minds need to know what Sherlock and Harry really said to one another. I've made significant changes since yamx's last beta work on this chapter, so any errors are entirely mine.
John saw Harry and Clara down to the front door and closed it behind them with a sense of relief. There. Christmas obligations over. It hadn't been that bad, really. Not wonderful, but nowhere near the epic disaster he'd been having nightmares about. It was good to see Clara again, and even, in a way, good to see Harry. At least she and Clara seemed to have a shot at putting the pieces back together.
When John returned to the flat, Sherlock was sprawled in his favorite chair by the fireplace, radiating drama.
“This time of year,” he announced darkly, “makes converting to paganism an attractive prospect.”
“I thought you were an atheist,” John said, taking a box of matches from the mantel and kneeling by the fireplace. He'd laid a fire earlier, since it seemed like a Christmas-y thing to do. They hadn't used it while company was present, but no reason not to enjoy it now. He struck a match. “Wouldn't paganism be a step backwards?”
“No, because when you're an atheist, people always feel free to foist their religious celebrations onto you. Declaring paganism would put an end to all these tiresome Christmas rituals.”
“Pagans celebrate this time of year, too, you know.” John lit the fire in several places, tossed the match in for good measure and stood up, stretching, feeling the tension go out of his back muscles. He set the matchbox next to the skull and settled in "his" chair. “You'd just be swapping one thing for another.”
Sherlock made a grumphing noise. “At least it would be a change.”
John chuckled. “Yeah, it would. Maybe I should convert, too. We could start our own coven. Just imagine Mycroft's face.”
Sherlock managed to hold his annoyed expression for about five seconds longer, then burst into laughter. John laughed with him.
When they'd finished, Sherlock hitched himself up in his chair so he was sitting more than sprawling and looked much less the sullen teenager.
“Seriously, though, it wasn't that bad,” John said, wiping his eyes. “Well, except for the bit where Mycroft flipped me on my back and got his teeth in my throat. I could have done without that.”
“Mnh, yes, what was that about, precisely?”
John sighed and decided to come clean rather than letting Sherlock pry it out of him. “I was warning him off spying on Harry and Clara. He slapped me down and then went on to pretty much say we're all one big, happy family now. Which is frankly terrifying.”
“I assumed it was something along those lines. Mycroft's always had a sentimental streak.”
“If that was 'sentimental,' I hope to God I never see 'pissed off.'”
“Wise of you. And while we're on the subject of siblings and threats, your sister took me aside today and gave me the 'if you hurt John, I'll kill you' talk.”
John sat bolt upright in his chair. “Wait, Harry said what? About me? When?”
“While you and Clara were in the kitchen. It seems territoriality runs in your family.”
“Good Lord,” John said, letting his head drop back against his chair. He stared at the ceiling trying to formulate a response. “Did she really say she'd kill you?”
“Not in so many words, but that was the gist.”
With a cold chill in the pit of his stomach, John asked, “What did you say back?” He raised his head to look at Sherlock. Harry had seemed a bit quiet when they'd said good-bye, and he was starting to suspect why.
Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal. “That her concerns were misplaced.”
“Is that really what you said?” John said, leaning forward. “Is that all you said?”
Sherlock's face went completely blank, eyes mirror-pale and unreadable. “Yes,” he said.
John watched Sherlock's face very closely. “Did you threaten her back?”
A tiny shift in Sherlock's expression, almost subliminal. “No,” he said, and John believed that, at least. Possibly he was fooling himself in the hope his partner and sister weren't trading death threats this early on, but he knew he wouldn't get anything further out of Sherlock without a fight and he wasn't up to fighting – not after Mycroft and all the rest, on Christmas – so he let it go. For the moment.
“Well done. Shows remarkable self-restraint on your part,” he said aloud.
Sherlock relaxed and changed the subject. “The gloves were a surprise.”
John knew Sherlock well enough to translate that not as another “thank you,” but as, “How did you manage to surprise me?”
He gave Sherlock an innocent smile. “I know they were,” he said, and Sherlock frowned. John continued to smile. If Sherlock thought John was giving away any clues as to how he'd kept Sherlock's gift hidden and secret, Sherlock was doomed to disappointment. After the silver bullets in the flat wall, John wasn't about to give up his new hiding places.
“Thanks for the book,” he added. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could change subjects.
Sherlock slumped and groaned, slipping back into dramatic teenager mode. “You realize purchasing that tripe was almost physically painful?”
“I can imagine.”
“People saw me.”
“I would've thought you'd use Amazon.”
“Cash paid in person is less traceable. And besides, you might have picked up the post that day.”
“If it was addressed to you, I wouldn't have opened it,” John said, more amused than offended. If nothing else, Sherlock didn't expect the rest of the world to behave any better than he himself did, so he was fair in that regard.
“I suppose not. But I couldn't take that risk.”
“Well, there goes your reputation.”
“Demolished.” Sherlock looked properly aggrieved.
“Guess I'll have to find some way to make it up to you,” John said, moving to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair. He slipped his hand under Sherlock's hand and raised it to his mouth, brushing Sherlock's knuckles with his lips. Sherlock's eyes turned hooded and predatory, sending warmth coursing through John. There'd been plenty of time since their tryst in the kitchen, Sherlock wouldn't be needing any more blood, and John had eaten a large meal besides. They were well set up for other activities. Lots of them. "I'm sure you have some ideas."
Sherlock's lips curved in a deliciously wicked smile and he was just starting to speak when there was a loud knock at the door to the flat.
John growled in annoyance, his head dropping to hang forward. Sherlock hissed under his breath and rubbed a hand across his eyes. The knock was repeated, more loudly.
"Should I see who that is?" John asked.
Sherlock began to answer in the negative but then stopped, as if having a sudden thought, and said, "It might be a case."
"On Christmas Day? Not likely."
"We can hope." Sherlock had the expression of a cat hearing a faint scratching just inside a mouse hole.
"You can hope," John said, releasing Sherlock's hand and heading for the door.
“But if it's Mycroft,” Sherlock called, “shoot him.”
“Don't tempt me!” John called back.
--
"Oh, hello," Lestrade said when John opened the door. "Is the coast clear? Everyone gone?" He craned his neck to evaluate what he could see of the flat from the doorway. "No blood on the walls, that's a good sign."
John, who'd been expecting either Mycroft, or Harry and Clara, back for some forgotten item, was momentarily dumbstruck; it seemed Sherlock might get his wish for festive crime after all.
“Greg! This is a surprise, come in,” he said, mostly by ingrained spinal reflex, stepping aside to let Lestrade step through the door.
Before Lestrade could move, there was a scuffle and thump from the fireside and then Sherlock appeared, vampire-quick - grinning like it was, well, Christmas – and crowded John out of the doorway. "Lestrade! What is it? Murder? Robbery? Terrorism? All three at once in an impossible locked room?"
Lestrade, confused, squinted at him. "What?"
"The case!"
"There's no case," Lestrade said. "I'm off-duty – it's Christmas, if you hadn't noticed. This is just a social call."
Sherlock's face fell. "What good is that?" he snarled, turning abruptly away. He stalked back to his chair and collapsed into it like a dejected marionette.
John sighed. "Don't mind him."
"Do I ever?"
John laughed. "What's up?"
Lestrade leaned against the doorframe, looking worn. "My family's being tiresome and I was hoping I could seek asylum. Thought maybe this would pay my way." He raised his hand, which had been partly hidden at his side in the folds of his coat, revealing a bottle of port. John was no connoisseur but the label looked expensive.
"Good enough for me. Sorry, shouldn't keep you on the doorstep. C'mon in." John stepped aside.
Lestrade moved forward – and stopped as if he'd hit an invisible wall, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked up at the wheat weaving above the door. "That's new," he said.
"My sister-in-law made it," John said with pride.
"It's good work," Lestrade said, nodding in approval, before stepping through the doorway without further incident.
"Have you eaten yet?" John asked. "We've plenty of leftovers."
"There was Christmas dinner, but I didn't get much of it before I left. I'd appreciate a bite to eat."
John led the way to the kitchen (playing host, since Lestrade knew his way around the flat, having searched it on more than one occasion) and rummaged for a clean plate and utensils, which he set out on the worktop. "This is most of it," he said, opening the fridge and gesturing to the newest layer of containers. "Roast goose and all the fixings. Take what you like. The microwave's guaranteed eyeball-free for the day."
Lestrade nodded thanks, then grinned. "First time I've ever been here to raid your refrigerator," he quipped.
"Mmm," John said. "That reminds me, stay away from anything with a red lid. You'll be glad you did."
Lestrade studied the mass of containers (and their random mix of red and blue lids) with fresh trepidation, but all he said was, "Ta."
While Lestrade served himself and Sherlock sulked, John washed and dried three wineglasses – otherwise they'd be drinking port out of teacups, and even John's hazy domestic standards balked at that.
Lestrade, seated at the table with John keeping him company, ate with a will, pausing now and then to compliment the chefs. John said, “Thank you.” Sherlock didn't say anything. John and Lestrade ignored him.
When Lestrade's dishes were cleared away he and John moved to join Sherlock at the fireside, where flames were crackling merrily. John ushered Lestrade, as the guest, into John's usual spot, while John brought over another chair for his own use. Sherlock watched them sidelong, with stealthy interest. The sulking was starting to get boring, John interpreted.
When Lestrade opened the bottle and measured out three servings of port, Sherlock accepted his glass without comment, acting as if he'd been part of things all along. John smiled to himself. Sometimes Sherlock reminded him very much of a great, bipedal cat.
John swirled his port, watching the rich, red liquor coat the glass, and, playing the cat himself, let curiosity get the better of him.
“About your family,” he remarked to Lestrade, “you said you might have stories to tell, over drinks, sometime . . .” He trailed off and raised his eyebrows (and his glass) encouragingly.
Lestrade groaned. “I know what I said, but not tonight, please. I came here to get away from all that. Make it your Christmas present to me: an evening of talking about anything but family.”
“Fair enough. I think we both know how you feel.” From the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock's nose wrinkling at the couple-y “we,” but Sherlock didn't dispute the statement.
What followed after was one of the more pleasant evenings in John's recent memory, warmed by good port and a dancing fire. Light conversation turned to reminiscing about past cases (“D'you remember Wilbur Whatley? Now there was a piece of work!” “Lord, yes, I'd almost forgotten about him . . .!”) and sharing of past adventures. (“That reminds me of the time I came home and found a wanted murderer hiding in my bathtub.”) At first it was just John and Lestrade speaking, but Sherlock could never keep quiet when there was a chance for one-upmanship, and soon he was telling outrageous stories along with the others.
Sherlock had a clever way with words that kept the others in suspense or stitches, depending on the subject; Lestrade had a keen gift for observation and a sly, understated wit; John, well, he thought he held his own – writing blog posts had taught him a thing or two about storytelling, no matter what Sherlock might say.
At one point, Mrs. Hudson, taking a brief break from her own holiday celebrations, flitted through with a fresh tray of mince pies and (since Harry was safely gone) a Christmas cake that probably contained more alcohol in one slice than a glass of Lestrade's port. Mrs. H giggled when her baking skills were toasted by the entire company, blushed when Lestrade flirted gallantly with her, and then bustled off to Mrs. Turner's for some landladies-only event. Otherwise, apart from Lestrade pouring a bit more port now and then (supplemented for variety with a nice red wine from John's stash), or John getting up to tend the fire, the three of them seemed wrapped in their own little frozen bubble of time.
It was an illusion that shattered when, in the distance, the first chimes of midnight rang out. The thee of them had fallen silent, as good friends will do, each lost in his own thoughts while the fire burned down to dim, rippling coals. John had been remembering Christmases past, before and during Afghanistan – some rougher and less festive than others, but most often containing a kernel of warmth and pleasure regardless of circumstances – until the last, which hadn't truly been a Christmas at all. Just a day when the world stopped and the only thing left was staring at the walls . . .
“Midnight,” Lestrade observed. “It's Boxing Day.” He doled out the last of the port, upending the bottle over John's glass. “I think that calls for a toast.” He looked at the others expectantly. “Any suggestions?”
John's mind was filled with so many faces, of people living and dead, so many memories – and a great sense of gratitude for the present. A year ago he'd never have thought there'd be a Christmas like this again. All he'd been able to see then were loss and pain and war: a bleak, lonely future, unending.
“How about, 'To peace and goodwill'?” he suggested. “That's a classic.”
“It is indeed,” Lestrade declared, clicking John's glass with his. They turned to Sherlock . . . and encountered a forbidding scowl. Sherlock's glass, rather than being raised in agreement, was resting solidly on the arm of his chair.
“What?” he said in response to the others' expectant looks. “You realize you're asking me to drink to unutterable boredom. Without chaos and malfeasance there'd be no crime, and without crime I'd never have any cases worthy of my attention.”
Lestrade groaned and John couldn't help laughing. “Come on,” Lestrade wheedled, “just for one day?”
“Christmas is over, as you yourself pointed out. Therefore, multiple days are implied.”
John laughed even harder. Really, Sherlock and Lestrade should go into Vaudeville. Still, probably time to intervene . . .
“Look,” he told Sherlock, “just humor us. You can roll your eyes and cross your fingers if you like, but once we're done all the tiresome Christmas rituals will be over and we can put off starting the coven for another year.”
“Coven?” Lestrade asked, intrigued. John and Sherlock ignored him.
“Please?” John asked, quietly.
After a moment, Sherlock sighed. “Fine,” he said, sounding very put-upon. “To peace – and goodwill.” He raised his glass, touched it obediently to the others', and they drank.
John savored the nutty-sweet flavor on his tongue. A fleeting pleasure, as all things were, but here and now he could finally believe that there would be many such moments in the future.
It was the best Christmas gift he'd ever received.
Author:
argyle4evaRating: R overall, G this portion.
Characters/pairing: Sherlock/John, Harry/Clara, Greg Lestrade
Series: "Being Sherlock"
Beta:
yamxWord count: ~2,800 (this chapter)
Summary: What's weirder than a vampire and a werewolf celebrating Christmas at Baker Street? Doing it while playing host to their respective families, that's what!
Author's notes – Yeah, finally getting this done: the Christmas special YEARS in the making. I have no cause to bitch at the canon team for taking as long as they did; the stories get told when they're ready, I guess. :) And, never fear, there will be an epilogue. After all, enquiring minds need to know what Sherlock and Harry really said to one another. I've made significant changes since yamx's last beta work on this chapter, so any errors are entirely mine.
John saw Harry and Clara down to the front door and closed it behind them with a sense of relief. There. Christmas obligations over. It hadn't been that bad, really. Not wonderful, but nowhere near the epic disaster he'd been having nightmares about. It was good to see Clara again, and even, in a way, good to see Harry. At least she and Clara seemed to have a shot at putting the pieces back together.
When John returned to the flat, Sherlock was sprawled in his favorite chair by the fireplace, radiating drama.
“This time of year,” he announced darkly, “makes converting to paganism an attractive prospect.”
“I thought you were an atheist,” John said, taking a box of matches from the mantel and kneeling by the fireplace. He'd laid a fire earlier, since it seemed like a Christmas-y thing to do. They hadn't used it while company was present, but no reason not to enjoy it now. He struck a match. “Wouldn't paganism be a step backwards?”
“No, because when you're an atheist, people always feel free to foist their religious celebrations onto you. Declaring paganism would put an end to all these tiresome Christmas rituals.”
“Pagans celebrate this time of year, too, you know.” John lit the fire in several places, tossed the match in for good measure and stood up, stretching, feeling the tension go out of his back muscles. He set the matchbox next to the skull and settled in "his" chair. “You'd just be swapping one thing for another.”
Sherlock made a grumphing noise. “At least it would be a change.”
John chuckled. “Yeah, it would. Maybe I should convert, too. We could start our own coven. Just imagine Mycroft's face.”
Sherlock managed to hold his annoyed expression for about five seconds longer, then burst into laughter. John laughed with him.
When they'd finished, Sherlock hitched himself up in his chair so he was sitting more than sprawling and looked much less the sullen teenager.
“Seriously, though, it wasn't that bad,” John said, wiping his eyes. “Well, except for the bit where Mycroft flipped me on my back and got his teeth in my throat. I could have done without that.”
“Mnh, yes, what was that about, precisely?”
John sighed and decided to come clean rather than letting Sherlock pry it out of him. “I was warning him off spying on Harry and Clara. He slapped me down and then went on to pretty much say we're all one big, happy family now. Which is frankly terrifying.”
“I assumed it was something along those lines. Mycroft's always had a sentimental streak.”
“If that was 'sentimental,' I hope to God I never see 'pissed off.'”
“Wise of you. And while we're on the subject of siblings and threats, your sister took me aside today and gave me the 'if you hurt John, I'll kill you' talk.”
John sat bolt upright in his chair. “Wait, Harry said what? About me? When?”
“While you and Clara were in the kitchen. It seems territoriality runs in your family.”
“Good Lord,” John said, letting his head drop back against his chair. He stared at the ceiling trying to formulate a response. “Did she really say she'd kill you?”
“Not in so many words, but that was the gist.”
With a cold chill in the pit of his stomach, John asked, “What did you say back?” He raised his head to look at Sherlock. Harry had seemed a bit quiet when they'd said good-bye, and he was starting to suspect why.
Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal. “That her concerns were misplaced.”
“Is that really what you said?” John said, leaning forward. “Is that all you said?”
Sherlock's face went completely blank, eyes mirror-pale and unreadable. “Yes,” he said.
John watched Sherlock's face very closely. “Did you threaten her back?”
A tiny shift in Sherlock's expression, almost subliminal. “No,” he said, and John believed that, at least. Possibly he was fooling himself in the hope his partner and sister weren't trading death threats this early on, but he knew he wouldn't get anything further out of Sherlock without a fight and he wasn't up to fighting – not after Mycroft and all the rest, on Christmas – so he let it go. For the moment.
“Well done. Shows remarkable self-restraint on your part,” he said aloud.
Sherlock relaxed and changed the subject. “The gloves were a surprise.”
John knew Sherlock well enough to translate that not as another “thank you,” but as, “How did you manage to surprise me?”
He gave Sherlock an innocent smile. “I know they were,” he said, and Sherlock frowned. John continued to smile. If Sherlock thought John was giving away any clues as to how he'd kept Sherlock's gift hidden and secret, Sherlock was doomed to disappointment. After the silver bullets in the flat wall, John wasn't about to give up his new hiding places.
“Thanks for the book,” he added. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could change subjects.
Sherlock slumped and groaned, slipping back into dramatic teenager mode. “You realize purchasing that tripe was almost physically painful?”
“I can imagine.”
“People saw me.”
“I would've thought you'd use Amazon.”
“Cash paid in person is less traceable. And besides, you might have picked up the post that day.”
“If it was addressed to you, I wouldn't have opened it,” John said, more amused than offended. If nothing else, Sherlock didn't expect the rest of the world to behave any better than he himself did, so he was fair in that regard.
“I suppose not. But I couldn't take that risk.”
“Well, there goes your reputation.”
“Demolished.” Sherlock looked properly aggrieved.
“Guess I'll have to find some way to make it up to you,” John said, moving to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair. He slipped his hand under Sherlock's hand and raised it to his mouth, brushing Sherlock's knuckles with his lips. Sherlock's eyes turned hooded and predatory, sending warmth coursing through John. There'd been plenty of time since their tryst in the kitchen, Sherlock wouldn't be needing any more blood, and John had eaten a large meal besides. They were well set up for other activities. Lots of them. "I'm sure you have some ideas."
Sherlock's lips curved in a deliciously wicked smile and he was just starting to speak when there was a loud knock at the door to the flat.
John growled in annoyance, his head dropping to hang forward. Sherlock hissed under his breath and rubbed a hand across his eyes. The knock was repeated, more loudly.
"Should I see who that is?" John asked.
Sherlock began to answer in the negative but then stopped, as if having a sudden thought, and said, "It might be a case."
"On Christmas Day? Not likely."
"We can hope." Sherlock had the expression of a cat hearing a faint scratching just inside a mouse hole.
"You can hope," John said, releasing Sherlock's hand and heading for the door.
“But if it's Mycroft,” Sherlock called, “shoot him.”
“Don't tempt me!” John called back.
--
"Oh, hello," Lestrade said when John opened the door. "Is the coast clear? Everyone gone?" He craned his neck to evaluate what he could see of the flat from the doorway. "No blood on the walls, that's a good sign."
John, who'd been expecting either Mycroft, or Harry and Clara, back for some forgotten item, was momentarily dumbstruck; it seemed Sherlock might get his wish for festive crime after all.
“Greg! This is a surprise, come in,” he said, mostly by ingrained spinal reflex, stepping aside to let Lestrade step through the door.
Before Lestrade could move, there was a scuffle and thump from the fireside and then Sherlock appeared, vampire-quick - grinning like it was, well, Christmas – and crowded John out of the doorway. "Lestrade! What is it? Murder? Robbery? Terrorism? All three at once in an impossible locked room?"
Lestrade, confused, squinted at him. "What?"
"The case!"
"There's no case," Lestrade said. "I'm off-duty – it's Christmas, if you hadn't noticed. This is just a social call."
Sherlock's face fell. "What good is that?" he snarled, turning abruptly away. He stalked back to his chair and collapsed into it like a dejected marionette.
John sighed. "Don't mind him."
"Do I ever?"
John laughed. "What's up?"
Lestrade leaned against the doorframe, looking worn. "My family's being tiresome and I was hoping I could seek asylum. Thought maybe this would pay my way." He raised his hand, which had been partly hidden at his side in the folds of his coat, revealing a bottle of port. John was no connoisseur but the label looked expensive.
"Good enough for me. Sorry, shouldn't keep you on the doorstep. C'mon in." John stepped aside.
Lestrade moved forward – and stopped as if he'd hit an invisible wall, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked up at the wheat weaving above the door. "That's new," he said.
"My sister-in-law made it," John said with pride.
"It's good work," Lestrade said, nodding in approval, before stepping through the doorway without further incident.
"Have you eaten yet?" John asked. "We've plenty of leftovers."
"There was Christmas dinner, but I didn't get much of it before I left. I'd appreciate a bite to eat."
John led the way to the kitchen (playing host, since Lestrade knew his way around the flat, having searched it on more than one occasion) and rummaged for a clean plate and utensils, which he set out on the worktop. "This is most of it," he said, opening the fridge and gesturing to the newest layer of containers. "Roast goose and all the fixings. Take what you like. The microwave's guaranteed eyeball-free for the day."
Lestrade nodded thanks, then grinned. "First time I've ever been here to raid your refrigerator," he quipped.
"Mmm," John said. "That reminds me, stay away from anything with a red lid. You'll be glad you did."
Lestrade studied the mass of containers (and their random mix of red and blue lids) with fresh trepidation, but all he said was, "Ta."
While Lestrade served himself and Sherlock sulked, John washed and dried three wineglasses – otherwise they'd be drinking port out of teacups, and even John's hazy domestic standards balked at that.
Lestrade, seated at the table with John keeping him company, ate with a will, pausing now and then to compliment the chefs. John said, “Thank you.” Sherlock didn't say anything. John and Lestrade ignored him.
When Lestrade's dishes were cleared away he and John moved to join Sherlock at the fireside, where flames were crackling merrily. John ushered Lestrade, as the guest, into John's usual spot, while John brought over another chair for his own use. Sherlock watched them sidelong, with stealthy interest. The sulking was starting to get boring, John interpreted.
When Lestrade opened the bottle and measured out three servings of port, Sherlock accepted his glass without comment, acting as if he'd been part of things all along. John smiled to himself. Sometimes Sherlock reminded him very much of a great, bipedal cat.
John swirled his port, watching the rich, red liquor coat the glass, and, playing the cat himself, let curiosity get the better of him.
“About your family,” he remarked to Lestrade, “you said you might have stories to tell, over drinks, sometime . . .” He trailed off and raised his eyebrows (and his glass) encouragingly.
Lestrade groaned. “I know what I said, but not tonight, please. I came here to get away from all that. Make it your Christmas present to me: an evening of talking about anything but family.”
“Fair enough. I think we both know how you feel.” From the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock's nose wrinkling at the couple-y “we,” but Sherlock didn't dispute the statement.
What followed after was one of the more pleasant evenings in John's recent memory, warmed by good port and a dancing fire. Light conversation turned to reminiscing about past cases (“D'you remember Wilbur Whatley? Now there was a piece of work!” “Lord, yes, I'd almost forgotten about him . . .!”) and sharing of past adventures. (“That reminds me of the time I came home and found a wanted murderer hiding in my bathtub.”) At first it was just John and Lestrade speaking, but Sherlock could never keep quiet when there was a chance for one-upmanship, and soon he was telling outrageous stories along with the others.
Sherlock had a clever way with words that kept the others in suspense or stitches, depending on the subject; Lestrade had a keen gift for observation and a sly, understated wit; John, well, he thought he held his own – writing blog posts had taught him a thing or two about storytelling, no matter what Sherlock might say.
At one point, Mrs. Hudson, taking a brief break from her own holiday celebrations, flitted through with a fresh tray of mince pies and (since Harry was safely gone) a Christmas cake that probably contained more alcohol in one slice than a glass of Lestrade's port. Mrs. H giggled when her baking skills were toasted by the entire company, blushed when Lestrade flirted gallantly with her, and then bustled off to Mrs. Turner's for some landladies-only event. Otherwise, apart from Lestrade pouring a bit more port now and then (supplemented for variety with a nice red wine from John's stash), or John getting up to tend the fire, the three of them seemed wrapped in their own little frozen bubble of time.
It was an illusion that shattered when, in the distance, the first chimes of midnight rang out. The thee of them had fallen silent, as good friends will do, each lost in his own thoughts while the fire burned down to dim, rippling coals. John had been remembering Christmases past, before and during Afghanistan – some rougher and less festive than others, but most often containing a kernel of warmth and pleasure regardless of circumstances – until the last, which hadn't truly been a Christmas at all. Just a day when the world stopped and the only thing left was staring at the walls . . .
“Midnight,” Lestrade observed. “It's Boxing Day.” He doled out the last of the port, upending the bottle over John's glass. “I think that calls for a toast.” He looked at the others expectantly. “Any suggestions?”
John's mind was filled with so many faces, of people living and dead, so many memories – and a great sense of gratitude for the present. A year ago he'd never have thought there'd be a Christmas like this again. All he'd been able to see then were loss and pain and war: a bleak, lonely future, unending.
“How about, 'To peace and goodwill'?” he suggested. “That's a classic.”
“It is indeed,” Lestrade declared, clicking John's glass with his. They turned to Sherlock . . . and encountered a forbidding scowl. Sherlock's glass, rather than being raised in agreement, was resting solidly on the arm of his chair.
“What?” he said in response to the others' expectant looks. “You realize you're asking me to drink to unutterable boredom. Without chaos and malfeasance there'd be no crime, and without crime I'd never have any cases worthy of my attention.”
Lestrade groaned and John couldn't help laughing. “Come on,” Lestrade wheedled, “just for one day?”
“Christmas is over, as you yourself pointed out. Therefore, multiple days are implied.”
John laughed even harder. Really, Sherlock and Lestrade should go into Vaudeville. Still, probably time to intervene . . .
“Look,” he told Sherlock, “just humor us. You can roll your eyes and cross your fingers if you like, but once we're done all the tiresome Christmas rituals will be over and we can put off starting the coven for another year.”
“Coven?” Lestrade asked, intrigued. John and Sherlock ignored him.
“Please?” John asked, quietly.
After a moment, Sherlock sighed. “Fine,” he said, sounding very put-upon. “To peace – and goodwill.” He raised his glass, touched it obediently to the others', and they drank.
John savored the nutty-sweet flavor on his tongue. A fleeting pleasure, as all things were, but here and now he could finally believe that there would be many such moments in the future.
It was the best Christmas gift he'd ever received.