(And if you didn’t love it, there are some wonderful pilot!verse blogs. John remembered them stumbling up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock bustling around the kitchen preparing yet more drinks.
When he appeared again in the door from the kitchen to the sitting room, John recalled the way he had felt- awed. Sherlock’s curls were disheveled from his bar fight, and his cheeks had a high and rosy blush from drinking so much alcohol.
He wore a look of dopey happiness, and he swayed slightly to and fro like he was standing on the deck of a boat. Striding across the room in his long coat, he had kneeled down next to John, handed him his drink, and kissed him.
As unpredictable as a lightning storm, Sherlock had giggled, wiped his mouth and sat down in his chair like nothing was wrong. That is, until a few months after, when John had been thinking the night over, and the view of Sherlock’s gently closed eyes and long, sloping nose had suddenly flashed through his thoughts.
Some cheeky bastard had tacked a sprig of mistletoe over their doorway where it couldn’t be avoided. Sherlock’s face went hot, couldn’t seem to form words.
John dropped his bag and wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s lean frame, one hand on the back of his neck, the other at the curve of his waist. John’s arms tightened into a fierce hug, and Sherlock was on the verge of cracking wide open, his heart displayed, everything he felt for this man there for all to see.
Then John turned his head, and pressed a single, slow kiss to Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. “Don’t worry,” John whispered, his voice pitched low.
Sherlock’s watched in a daze as John picked up his bag and left. His head swam with the heart-pounding intimacy of the moment, his cheek burning with the memory of John’s lips.
He stared at the spot where John had stood, silent, trying to process, when a thought occurred to him: Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall with a pained groan.
It’s a nice laugh, long and low, his eyes crinkling at the corners. We may be the worst people qualified to determine what makes Christmas significant apart from the religious celebration associated.
You could make it a blog post: Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Missing Christmas Spirit.” John cast him a dark glare, pitching another bulb into the bin and slotting a new one in its place.
‘Yesterday, after you set fire to the jumper my mother knitted for me.’ John ramped up the tone of accusation. Sherlock was abysmal at empathy, but if you pushed hard enough, it was still possible to send him on a very minor guilt trip.
Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes took in the stately majesty of the Christmas tree, which was already filling the flat with the fresh scent of pine. It had been carefully placed a safe distance from the fire, and while John felt marginally bad for sacrificing a living tree for the sake of Christmas, he didn’t feel contrite enough to go out and buy something eco-friendly and made of plastic.
'I don’t see the point,’ Sherlock muttered, reluctantly getting to his feet and accepting a bundle of fairy-lights from John. 'It’s tradition.’ John looped a strand around Sherlock’s neck, trying to stop the string from getting tangled as he slotted in the plug and grinned in satisfaction when they lit up beautifully.
Sherlock’s skin was cast in gemstone hues: blues and reds and greens all adding festive cheer to his highly skeptical expression. 'John, dear, you’re meant to be decorating the tree, not Sherlock, ’ Mrs Hudson pointed out as she bustled in with a tea tray, some mince pies, and a considerable amount of sherry in a bottle.
Books, scarves, a new alarm clock for his bedroom when his old one started to get fussy around the snooze button. Last year he’d gotten him a pass to an underground, top secret shooting range, so he could practice with his gun and a couple of other firearms, in exchange for five solid favors for Mycroft.
John had taught Sherlock how to stand and shoot, correcting his stance with a hand on his shoulder and on his hip, and the silence in the empty shooting range had been deafening, and three days later John had gone to Sherlock’s parents’ house and pretended to forgive his wife. This will be the first Christmas since John had kissed Sherlock months ago, so gentle and cautious and hopeful, in the rain outside 221B, the day he’d come home for good.
And Sherlock stands there, in the middle of a Christmas market as John hums along to Silent Night, John’s hand warm in his with fingertips a little gritty from the cinnamon-sugar doused churros they’d shared, and thinks, oh, that’s–that’s an idea, isn’t it? It’s blazing in…” He trails off as his eyes take in the state of the flat, dawning confusion on his face.
Sherlock swallows and works up his courage with a deep breath. But John looks warmly, softly beautiful in the flickering firelight, and sod the dinner, just sod it all, and he takes John by the hand and leads him to his chair.
Condition of what?” A little curl of suspicion is starting to form on John’s face, and he looks for a moment like he can’t decide whether to laugh or make a run for it. “Kiss me again,” Sherlock demands, because he’s out of words for the first time in his life and his chest is tight, and he’s ready to crawl out of his skin with anticipation.
Sherlock closes his eyes, heart hammering in his ears and waits, waits, barely breathing until John finally kisses him softly, achingly slowly, his other hand sliding around the back of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair. Hello,” Sherlock slurs up to him with the most agonizingly exquisite smile, his voice lazy and beautifully thick as he miraculously achieves what the doctor has asked, “You were correct, John, Christmas has come early.
“You,” John says with a dismaying twist of his own lips as he carefully brushes his fingertips against the inside of Sherlock’s white wrist, as he almost had done so many times before, “are higher than bloody a kite right now.” “You love me and I have an internal organ of yours.” Sherlock says up to him as if it’s the most groundbreaking deduction of his life, his eyes practically ablaze with very heavy painkillers, “It’s Christmas.
That includes films from Basil Rathbone’s defining decades-long run accessorized with the deerstalker hat, Robert Downey Jr.’s blockbuster take, and Sherlock‘s modern spin with Benedict Cumberbatch. Critics Consensus: Guy Ritchie's directorial style might not be quite the best fit for an update on the legendary detective, but Sherlock Holmes benefits from the elementary appeal of a strong performance by Robert Downey, Jr.
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