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keep_countingThird in my not-so-secret-Santa gift-fics ;) this one is the first of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thymelady's, with the prompt: John/Sherlock: Christmas cleaning and decoration. . A bit different than what you probably had in mind, but I hope you still like it ;)
Title: Of Chairs and Skulls
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, mentions of others
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash, overload of fluff. Didn't have time to properly go through my mistakes, so sorry for any typos!
Genre: Friendship/Romance/Fluff
Word-count: 855
A/N: Christmas prompt forthymelady
Disclaimer: I am sadly not Mark Gatiss and have no claim whatsoever on this series
Summary: Yes, Christmas. Always fun when Sherlock is sulking and there's a tree to be decorated. Especially when they're missing a star for the top
”You’ve never decorated a Christmas-tree before?” John mutters as Sherlock yet again refuses to put the ornaments on properly.
“Of course I have,” he huffs. “Every year as a child. When I turned ten I was tall enough to put the star on top standing on a chair. Mycroft needed a whole ladder.”
He sounds incredibly pleased at this fact. John rolls his eyes.
“But it’s boring now,” Sherlock grumbles, flipping himself down in one of their chairs. “Christmas is boring. Everyone is so nice at Christmas, even nice to each other!”
“Well, that is the point of Christmas,” John says, smiling at Mrs. Hudson as she enters with another box of decorations. Really, the woman must have the whole building filled with them, shelves and cabinets of little toy-santa’s and balls in a multitude of colours everywhere. It had even been her idea that they get even get a Christmas-tree, otherwise John doesn’t think they would have. He feels too busy these days, and Sherlock could care less.
Still, he’s glad that they have now its standing there, glistening red and silver and green in the middle of their living room. It gives him a warm feeling of home, and it is only enhanced by the fact that he can see the skull trough the outer-branches. They haven’t found a star or angel to put on top yet, and he almost snickers to himself wondering if he should ask Sherlock if they could put the skull up there instead.
He wonders when he became so morbid, and then wonders when he stopped caring about it.
But it’s Christmas and he’s just happy, and really doesn’t have time for thoughts like that.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any more stars for the top,” Mrs. Hudson says, looking worriedly at the tree. John shrugs, reassures her that it’s fine and manages to get her out of the flat before she begins a proper row with Sherlock, after his scathing comments about the traditions of Christmas.
“Really, did you have to do that?” John mutters as he closes the door. “She’s nothing but nice to you,”
Sherlock pulls a face. “You are henceforth not allowed to use that word anymore.”
“What word?”
“’Nice’”
“Well, why the bloody hell not?”
“Because it’s so… nice,”
“And nice is boring, right I get it, I get it,” John is used to Sherlock’s moods. Really, he is. But it’s Christmas, and he’s tired and really, he just wants to have a lovely evening at the flat with Sherlock, no murders, no sulking, nothing. A normal and nice evening.
“You know what? I’ll just go down to the pub. I’d like to tell myself that I fall into the ‘nice’ category, so I’ll get out of your hair straight away.”
If he slams the door behind him, well that’s neither here nor there.
Sherlock isn’t home when John gets back, and he briefly texts Lestrade to find out that apparently some youngster has gone missing and though it would not normally be a case that sparked the consulting detective’s interest, one really cannot afford to be picky when apparently everyone is being so nice.
He eats dinner in front of the telly, calls up Harry to chat and then goes to bed early, deliberately walking into his old bedroom – he hasn’t slept in here for weeks, not since he and Sherlock became lovers and they’d moved to the closer-located bedroom downstairs. It isn’t that he’s mad at Sherlock, exactly just… however much he loves this, their lives together, sometimes it is very infuriating that the man cannot even enjoy Christmas like a normal, decent person.
He falls asleep quicker than expected, and then it’s morning and John blinks drowsily at the light streaming in through the window, almost a hundred percent sure that he pulled the drapes last night.
He gets up and sees that it has been snowing, London covered in sugar-toppings of glistening white. It gives him some of the joy back, memories of snowmen and ice-skating from when he was little doing a bit to put him back in Christmas-mood.
Still, it’s with trepidation that he walks downstairs, because at best Sherlock won’t be there and at worst Sherlock will have turned the entire flat upside down in his boredom.
It’s neither. No, Sherlock is sitting quietly on the couch with a newspaper, eating biscuits and looking for all the world like he hasn’t moved one inch ever since John last laid eyes on him the night before. Nothing in the flat is messier than it usually is and the Christmas-tree…
The Christmas-tree has the skull placed neatly on the top, secured with a piece of string and wire so it won’t fall off and shatter or hit someone.
John’s smile is wide and he practically bounces over to press a kiss against a smirking Sherlock. Really, he’d much rather have a Sherlock who is smug about something like this, than one who is still in a black mood.
“You didn’t even have to use a chair to reach, did you?” he asks and Sherlock’s smile turns wider.
thymelady's, with the prompt: John/Sherlock: Christmas cleaning and decoration. . A bit different than what you probably had in mind, but I hope you still like it ;)Title: Of Chairs and Skulls
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, mentions of others
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash, overload of fluff. Didn't have time to properly go through my mistakes, so sorry for any typos!
Genre: Friendship/Romance/Fluff
Word-count: 855
A/N: Christmas prompt for
thymeladyDisclaimer: I am sadly not Mark Gatiss and have no claim whatsoever on this series
Summary: Yes, Christmas. Always fun when Sherlock is sulking and there's a tree to be decorated. Especially when they're missing a star for the top
”You’ve never decorated a Christmas-tree before?” John mutters as Sherlock yet again refuses to put the ornaments on properly.
“Of course I have,” he huffs. “Every year as a child. When I turned ten I was tall enough to put the star on top standing on a chair. Mycroft needed a whole ladder.”
He sounds incredibly pleased at this fact. John rolls his eyes.
“But it’s boring now,” Sherlock grumbles, flipping himself down in one of their chairs. “Christmas is boring. Everyone is so nice at Christmas, even nice to each other!”
“Well, that is the point of Christmas,” John says, smiling at Mrs. Hudson as she enters with another box of decorations. Really, the woman must have the whole building filled with them, shelves and cabinets of little toy-santa’s and balls in a multitude of colours everywhere. It had even been her idea that they get even get a Christmas-tree, otherwise John doesn’t think they would have. He feels too busy these days, and Sherlock could care less.
Still, he’s glad that they have now its standing there, glistening red and silver and green in the middle of their living room. It gives him a warm feeling of home, and it is only enhanced by the fact that he can see the skull trough the outer-branches. They haven’t found a star or angel to put on top yet, and he almost snickers to himself wondering if he should ask Sherlock if they could put the skull up there instead.
He wonders when he became so morbid, and then wonders when he stopped caring about it.
But it’s Christmas and he’s just happy, and really doesn’t have time for thoughts like that.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any more stars for the top,” Mrs. Hudson says, looking worriedly at the tree. John shrugs, reassures her that it’s fine and manages to get her out of the flat before she begins a proper row with Sherlock, after his scathing comments about the traditions of Christmas.
“Really, did you have to do that?” John mutters as he closes the door. “She’s nothing but nice to you,”
Sherlock pulls a face. “You are henceforth not allowed to use that word anymore.”
“What word?”
“’Nice’”
“Well, why the bloody hell not?”
“Because it’s so… nice,”
“And nice is boring, right I get it, I get it,” John is used to Sherlock’s moods. Really, he is. But it’s Christmas, and he’s tired and really, he just wants to have a lovely evening at the flat with Sherlock, no murders, no sulking, nothing. A normal and nice evening.
“You know what? I’ll just go down to the pub. I’d like to tell myself that I fall into the ‘nice’ category, so I’ll get out of your hair straight away.”
If he slams the door behind him, well that’s neither here nor there.
oOo
Sherlock isn’t home when John gets back, and he briefly texts Lestrade to find out that apparently some youngster has gone missing and though it would not normally be a case that sparked the consulting detective’s interest, one really cannot afford to be picky when apparently everyone is being so nice.
He eats dinner in front of the telly, calls up Harry to chat and then goes to bed early, deliberately walking into his old bedroom – he hasn’t slept in here for weeks, not since he and Sherlock became lovers and they’d moved to the closer-located bedroom downstairs. It isn’t that he’s mad at Sherlock, exactly just… however much he loves this, their lives together, sometimes it is very infuriating that the man cannot even enjoy Christmas like a normal, decent person.
He falls asleep quicker than expected, and then it’s morning and John blinks drowsily at the light streaming in through the window, almost a hundred percent sure that he pulled the drapes last night.
He gets up and sees that it has been snowing, London covered in sugar-toppings of glistening white. It gives him some of the joy back, memories of snowmen and ice-skating from when he was little doing a bit to put him back in Christmas-mood.
Still, it’s with trepidation that he walks downstairs, because at best Sherlock won’t be there and at worst Sherlock will have turned the entire flat upside down in his boredom.
It’s neither. No, Sherlock is sitting quietly on the couch with a newspaper, eating biscuits and looking for all the world like he hasn’t moved one inch ever since John last laid eyes on him the night before. Nothing in the flat is messier than it usually is and the Christmas-tree…
The Christmas-tree has the skull placed neatly on the top, secured with a piece of string and wire so it won’t fall off and shatter or hit someone.
John’s smile is wide and he practically bounces over to press a kiss against a smirking Sherlock. Really, he’d much rather have a Sherlock who is smug about something like this, than one who is still in a black mood.
“You didn’t even have to use a chair to reach, did you?” he asks and Sherlock’s smile turns wider.
