Fic: Happy Christmas, You Arse - 1/2
Rating: PG
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Warnings: None
Summary: “Ah yes. Christmas isn’t Christmas until you’ve called someone a - how does it go? Scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot?”
“My thoughts precisely, John,” Sherlock says.
In which evidence is presented that disqualifies Sherlock from being the Grinch, and everyone's shoes fit them perfectly well, thank you.
Notes: Thanks to snogandagrope and kennilworthy-thisp for the speediest betaing and britpicking jobs known to man. This is unabashed, unapologetic Christmas schmoop. Because it's Christmas(ish), and I can.
Livejournal: Part 1 | Part 2
Archive of our Own: here
“Don’t they get bored of hearing the same five songs over and over?”
John sighs and makes towards the punch bowl. This is one of Sherlock’s favourite rants. He can indulge in it countless times for really, very impressive lengths without repeating himself once, so deep and varied are the reasons for his hatred of Christmas music.
Sherlock follows after him, chattering away at him as if he cares. “It’s as if they want their brains to atrophy. Is that what they want? Are they, by means of an overindulgence in Wizzard’s greatest hits, attempting to induce brain failure? Because, John - and I mean this very seriously - I think it might work. I can feel my brain cells dying as we speak. One more chorus of I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday and I might actually lose all brain function. ”
“Drink your punch,” John says, instead of answering, pressing a glass of it into Sherlock’s hands. “And don’t pretend I didn’t hear you humming along to Fairytale of New York earlier.”
The great consulting detective sniffs, primly, and with his nose ever so slightly in the air he says, “That’s different. The Pogues are as yet the only popular music group to truly captured the spirit of the holiday season.”
“Ah yes. Christmas isn’t Christmas until you’ve called someone a - how does it go? Scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot?”
“My thoughts precisely, John,” Sherlock says, but John can tell he’s joking by the the tiny crow’s feet around his eyes. “I’m not sure why you made me come here in the first place. Certainly you can’t be expecting me to socialise.”
“That’s exactly what I expect from you,” John says, raising one eyebrow. “It can’t hurt, Sherlock. You work with these people - it’s in your best interests to be nice to them, at least once a year.”
Sherlock snorts and sips at his punch while John wonders if Sherlock would be friendlier or more recklessly cruel if he were to get a bit tipsy.
“Very well, John. On your head be it, though. I wash my hands of any of the results of this ill-advised outing.”
“Fine,” John says. “But behave yourself!”
“Yes, dear,” Sherlock twitters, rolling his eyes. He takes John’s empty glass back to the punchbowl and fills both of them to the brim.
“I see Anderson has spotted new prey,” John says, conversationally, nodding towards the corner of the room where Anderson is leaning against one wall, chatting to a young female officer from the transport pool. She looks young enough to be his daughter, doe-eyed in the face of his seniority, and entirely too drunk to do anything about his wandering hands.
“Ah. His wife must have stayed home, then,” Sherlock says, following John’s gaze. “Shame. Constable Condon has potential. Anderson will stop that dead in its tracks, I suppose. Can’t rise to the top if people assume you’re sleeping your way there.”
John winces, watching the two from across the room. He notices Sergeant Donovan in another corner of the room, watching the same scene with thunder in her eyes.
“Sally isn’t too pleased,” John says.
“She wouldn’t be, I expect Anderson never bothered to break it off with her - simply fails to return her calls.”
Scowling in Anderson’s general direction, John sips at his punch. Sherlock’s smirk doesn’t go unnoticed, though; John nudges his flatmate with an elbow to his skinny ribs.
“Knock it off,” John mutters. “You look like the cat that’s got the cream.”
“If your looks were as deadly as your aim, John, I believe you’d have been arrested for murder just then.”
“Sherlock,” John hisses. They don’t bring up the Gun Thing, not in public and certainly not in the middle of New Scotland bleeding Yard.
“Oh relax, John,” Sherlock mutters.
“I’d just like to avoid the court case, if possible,” John mutters right back at him.
“Lestrade wouldn’t dare arrest you,” Sherlock says, finishing his punch with a flourish. “If he did, he’d have to deal with me all on his own, and we both know he could never do that anymore.”
John simply rolls his eyes. Near the tables holding the rest of the booze, Lestrade is talking to Molly. The little (no, really, tiny) black dress she’d worn to their Christmas do those years ago is making reappearance tonight, and to high critical acclaim, if the flush across Lestrade’s cheekbones is anything to go by.
“They’ll be shagging within the week,” Sherlock murmurs. “Engaged within the year; expecting within two. Obvious. Dull.”
“Lovely,” John corrects. “They look happy.”
Sherlock scoffs once more.
“Sherlock, if you don’t cheer up, you’re going to find yourself being visited by ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, though I suppose if you’re very lucky, you’ll get the muppet versions instead of the harrowing Dickensian nightmares.”
“Nothing you ever say makes any sense, John,” Sherlock complains.
“I’m saying, it’s Christmas, lighten up for a change.”
The detective sniffs and continues to watch Lestrade and Molly flirt, both of them awkward but clearly infatuated, over plastic cups of wine that came out of a box. (John particularly enjoyed watching the look of horror on Sherlock’s face when he’d entered the room and clapped eyes on the boxes of wine on the drinks table.)
“Urgh,” Sherlock says, and shakes his head as if to free it from unpleasant images. John makes a face at him. (He can’t quite understand what would be unpleasant about it. Molly is a very attractive girl and Lestrade’s title as the silver fox of Scotland Yard is not at all undeserved. If Lestrade were even as much as a two or even a one on the Kinsey Scale, John would’ve had a go, but the man was so firmly heterosexual it had surely made stronger men than John Watson weep for their collective loss.)
“Urgh,” Sherlock says, again, grimacing this time at John. “Oh, John, please, that’s revolting.”
“What?” John says, glancing suspiciously at his punch, wondering if he’d accidentally said any of that out loud.
“You! You and your slathering thoughts about Lestrade. He’s a Kinsey zero, you know.”
“I know,” John says, with a little sigh. He ruefully drains his glass. “Isn’t it a crime?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“Oh, come on, Sherlock, you can’t honestly tell me you’ve never been attracted to him. I mean, blimey, just look at the man.”
“I know what he looks like,” Sherlock grouses. “Are you drunk? Is that what’s bringing this on?”
“You brought it up!” John protests. “And no, I’m not drunk. Yet. Which is, I think, also a crime. Punch?”
Sherlock’s sigh is so deep and put upon that John is surprised he doesn’t expire with it, as it certainly sounds like he’s used the last of his life force up and is running now on the fumes of squandered vitality.
“Oh, fine, yes, I suppose so,” he says, finally.
“Great, give me your glass, I’ll just-“
“No, I meant … what you said. About Lestrade.”
“Aha!” John grins at him. “I knew it!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “For a grown man, John Watson, you do a very striking impression of a teenaged girl. I wasn’t in love with the man, just … there were times when I was more aware than others of the, er, strikingness of his general - aesthetic -qualities.” By this point in time, John has lost the valiant battle against his giggles and is sniggering into his glass; Sherlock’s cheeks have flushed bright red, though his eyes are dancing in time with John’s laughter. “Oh, come off it, John.”
“Sorry, sorry,” John gasps. “For a moment there I had the distinct impression we’d fallen into a Jane Austen novel. The strikingness of his general aesthetic qualities indeed. Sherlock! You know you could’ve just said you think he’s fit, I wouldn’t have been offended by your crude use of language.” John smirks at him.
“I don’t know why I continue to put up with you when you delight in tormenting me,” Sherlock sniffs. “I’m sure I could find another blogger who wouldn’t take such delight in my sensibilities.”
“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” John says, and laughs some more. He bumps Sherlock’s shoulder with his own, a small apology of sorts, an I’m only kidding, and I know you wouldn’t change me for the world sort of nudge. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling behind his glass.
“More punch,” John declares, and heads towards the bowl. He arrives at the same time as Lestrade, who cuts in front to fill Molly’s glass and pass it back to her over John’s shoulder.
“Alright, John?”
“Alright, thanks. Nice little party, thanks for inviting us.”
“Oh, you know.” Lestrade shrugs. “Been trying to get Sherlock here for years. How did you get him to come? Or do I not want the details?”
It’s John’s turn to flush, now.
“I just asked, to be honest,” he says. “Well, alright, and I threatened to confiscate his skull and ruin several experiments. Worth it, though.”
“Do you remember the last Christmas, before -“
“-All too well,” John says, darkly, cutting Lestrade off before he has the chance to say it: before he fell, before he left.
Lestrade reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “He’s back now,” he says. John nods, and smiles. That’s very true. Sherlock is back now, has been for two years now, and it’s Christmas, and for the first time in a very long while, John can’t muster any resentment or anger about the lost years at all.
Lestrade darts another glance over at Sherlock, who has since been accosted by an eager young constable and is clearly having to work very hard not to break his promise to John and go off on a tear at him. “Are you two-?”
John winces and shakes his head. “Us? No. No, that ship sailed, a long while back.”
“What, you mean-“
“We decided it was best not to risk it.” John shrugs. His eyes drift back to Sherlock, still suffering under the constable’s lashings of attention, and he smiles. He’s honestly not unhappy. He spends his dayswith Sherlock, job permitting, and his nights as well, and maybe it’s because he’s getting old and he probably has more grey hair than not, but he doesn’t think that he could be any more satisfied even if they did spend all their time shagging. With Sherlock, the value added from spending time with him is not contingent on the amount of clothes they’re wearing - which has been patently not the case with many (if not most) of the men and women John has dated. And they’ve talked about this, made a mutual, informed decision to acknowledge the mutual attraction that sometimes blazed between them but never to act on it, their easy partnership fall as collateral to the flames. John is aware it was the right decision to make, though sometimes his heart (and other organs) get the better of his head.
John turns back to Lestrade to find himself being watched with careful, assessing eyes. He shrugs.
“It’s fine,” he says, and he really does mean it. “It’s all fine.”
“What’s all fine?” Sherlock asks, having finally extricated himself from his adoring fan’s clutches and made his way over to John’s side.
“You,” John says, winking at Lestrade before rounding on his flatmate. “Being an enormous berk and not getting me a Christmas present, ever. I’m used to it by now.”
Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow. “And what makes you so certain I have not broken with tradition this year?”
John snorts. “You hate Christmas. You think, and I believe I quote, ‘it is a rampant case of the capitalist constructs of our modern society turning our entire social world into a savage, consumption-driven zoo, where every social interaction for two months is dictated by tinsel and slathered in deceit and greed.’ It was such a classic quote I wrote it down. And then I committed it to memory in case anyone asked me whether or not you were actually the Grinch and then asked me to prove my point.”
“I couldn’t be the Grinch. My shoes are tailor made, John, and as such fit me perfectly.”
Lestrade’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “You know The Grinch?!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and waves his hand loftily. “I never got around to deleting that one.”
Feeling equally surprised but wanting to hide that fact, John snorts - which soon turns into a snigger and in no time at all becomes an outright guffaw. Someone has probably spiked the punch, but that’s okay, because it’s Christmas, and Sherlock is alive and remembers The Grinch, and Johncould not be happier if he tried.
Even that awful Pogues song coming around on the loop again can’t dampen his joy, which is apparently so infectious (or the punch was spiked with something more than your bog-standard alcohol) that even Sherlock - usually so set against displaying any sort of spectrum of human emotion - cannot help but join his laughter. Lestrade wipes at tears of mirth and John, without thinking about it, slips an arm around Sherlock’s waist and squeezes.
Sherlock looks down at him and smiles, and Christ, maybe they are all drunk, because Sherlock doesn’t extricate himself, but instead slings his arm around John’s shoulders and returns the press of the sideways hug.
Lestrade’s eyes are twinkling as he makes a feeble excuse to turn back around to Molly, leaving the two of them to their own devices once more.
“You know,” Sherlock says, quietly, his arm still around John’s shoulders. “This song isn’t as bleak as you think. Have you never listened to the final verse?”
“The one after they’ve finished telling each other how much they hate each other now that they’re old and their dreams are all shattered? No, I usually switch off. I just don’t like it, Sherlock, it’s just a bit miserable for Christmas.”
“Bad things happen at Christmas too, John,” Sherlock points out, “but that’s not what I meant. In the last verse, here, listen.”
Over the constant hum of party talk, Shane MacGowan is growling out the final verse of what has always been John’s least favourite Christmas song. He can’t help it - he knows he should like it, knows that he is a bit of a miserable bastard most of the time and it should be right up his street, but dammit if he doesn’t like to take Christmas as an opportunity to have a bit of good fucking cheer once in a while.
Sherlock relinquishes his hold on John’s shoulders and refills their glasses - hands completely steady, the git - murmuring to John all the while.
“You think the song is miserable, that it’s about two miserable people who have lost it all, but actually they’re happy in their own way. They start as any young optimistic couple start, full of hopes and dreams. And then life happens, the world gets in the way, and they realise they aren’t perfect, their partners isn’t perfect, and that nothing happens the way you plan. They’re tired, and cheated, and angry enough to spit, but at the end of the song, they go on together because even if they’re not as happy as they once thought they would be, they can’t be separated, because they’ve built their lives around each other, and being apart would be worse than being together.”
John’s head feels slightly fuzzy from the punch, and he has to stare at Sherlock for quite a while before he can parse his own reaction to that little monologue.
“How is that happy? Being together because being apart would be worse.”
“It’s realistic, John,” Sherlock says, his eyes slightly glassy with drink. John has only rarely seen him like this: tipsy, passionate, his usual inhibitions loosed slightly like an over-tight necktie at the end of a bloody long day, allowing him just enough freedom of breath to get worked up about things like popular Christmas songs. “That’s the point. That there isn’t such a thing as - as a perfect fairytale romance, that it’s the ordinary, constructed things - the ones with the ugly faces, the things that are hard work - that are real. They don’t have glitz, and glamour, or - or big flashy cars, but they have bells at Christmas, and, alright, yes, love, after a fashion, even if it is a bit battered around the edges.”
John gapes at his flatmate - he’ll admit it, he actually gapes.
“Sherlock - Sherlock Holmes, are you secretly a Christmas romantic?!”
Sherlock narrows his eyes and sloshes a small amount of punch out of his glass with his knee-jerk dismissive gesture. He tries to scoff, but it doesn’t quite come out right, and ends up more as a gargle.
“Oh my God, you are, you actually are!” John crows. “You like Christmas!”
[[ Part 2 Continues Here]]