Fic - Christmas Eve, 1939 - John/Sherlock - NC-17
Title: Christmas Eve, 1939
Author: lotherington
’Verse: WWII AU: Long Ago and Far Away.
Prompt: From lbmisscharlie, for the Christmas drabbles I was offering on tumblr: Anything in the Long Ago and Far Away verse would be absolutely peachy, because I love it so. Three words are: bewilderment, cabbages, and rain. I got the cabbages and rain in, not so sure about the bewilderment! I really hope you enjoy this quite-clearly-not-a-drabble, love! Thank you for your prompt. :D
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: WWII AU. December, 1939. Sherlock and John share a lazy Christmas Eve at Baker Street in the midst of the ‘Phoney War’.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2,150
Notes: I hope this makes up somewhat for the bucket-o’-angst I posted in this ‘verse a couple of days ago. I’m also behind on replying to comments, but I promise I’ll rectify that tomorrow! <3 Happy Christmas/holiday of choice, dear readers. You’re all cracking. :)
24th December, 1939
‘At this rate, neither of us will be going anywhere,’ Sherlock said, throwing one newspaper to the floor and unfolding another, snapping it out to its full size, beginning to scan the text.
‘What’s that?’ John asked, putting the teapot in the middle of the table, next to the sugar bowl that always sat there. ‘Get the milk out, would you?’
Sherlock moved one ink-stained hand behind himself and opened the door of the refrigerator, finding the bottle of milk immediately and placing it on the table without taking his eyes off the newspaper. ‘Want us all to grow cabbages,’ he muttered, ‘cabbages in Regent’s Park, bloody hell...’
John placed an egg on toast in front of Sherlock, along with the salt and pepper. ‘What was it you were saying, love?’ he asked as he sat down, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.
‘Hm?’ Sherlock lifted his head slightly, but didn’t move his eyes away from the paper.
‘You were just saying something. About us going somewhere.’
‘Oh, yes, that.’ Sherlock sniffed and cast the newspaper to one side, frowning when he noticed the meal in front of him. ‘John, I ate yesterday.’
‘A tin of corned beef consumed yesterday mid-morning does not a meal make, Sherlock.’ John pointed to Sherlock’s plate with his knife. ‘Eat your egg.’
Sighing and muttering under his breath, Sherlock took the knife and fork that John offered him, adding far more pepper than was considered normal to his egg before eating it, chasing the spilt yolk around his plate with the toast.
‘Good?’ John asked, smiling.
‘Not horrid,’ Sherlock replied with another little sniff, pouring them both a mug of tea, wrapping his hands around the pot to warm them.
‘Oh, Sherlock, your hands, you’re getting the pot filthy,’ John complained around a mouthful of toast.
Straightening his back, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and blinked a few times. ‘Talking with a mouthful of food, John, that’s utterly hideous.’
John rolled his eyes and swallowed. ‘You’re not the one who’ll end up cleaning the pot, though, are you?’
‘All the same, ‘ Sherlock murmured, pulling the newspaper back towards himself and taking his cigarette case out of the pocket of his dressing gown, ‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Oh, well, thank you.’ John’s face as he shook his head was disbelieving. ‘I forget how much you value manners. Remind me what you called Mycroft last time he was here?’
Sherlock sighed and gave John a look over the top of his newspaper. ‘We’re at the table,’ he huffed, biting down on a cigarette, frowning in concentration as he lit it. ‘There’s a difference.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘Bloody good job I’ve learnt to put up with you,’ John muttered, sipping his tea. ‘Or else you’d be haranguing another poor sod about the way they eat or the way they read aloud or tune the wireless.’
‘I wouldn’t want any other poor sod,’ Sherlock replied with an air of finality, peering down his nose at the print on the page, releasing smoke through his nostrils after a pause of a few seconds.
John attempted to fight the smile that broke across his face, but didn’t quite manage to stop it.
***
‘What was it you were saying this morning?’ John said quietly, the tip of his index finger snaking gently across Sherlock’s bare chest and stomach.
‘Hm?’ Sherlock tipped his head back and bared his throat, his eyes closed.
Grinning, John pressed a wet kiss over where Sherlock’s pulse beat quickly beneath his skin. ‘You’re a marvel,’ John sighed, trailing his lips down Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at his collarbone.
They were in bed together, naked, the Tiffany lamp alight in the corner, casting a gentle light across the room. The multicoloured pieces of glass that formed its shade glowed prettily in the dim and provided a welcome contrast from the pouring rain and darkness outside, concealed though it was by the blackout curtain.
‘Go on,’ Sherlock said with a grin.
‘A wonder,’ John murmured against Sherlock’s skin, running his rough palms up Sherlock’s side, bringing them to rest just under Sherlock’s armpits as he ran his tongue across the darker, pebbled skin of Sherlock’s nipples.
Sherlock made a gasping noise and writhed underneath John’s hands and mouth. ‘More. More.’
‘You’re a revelation,’ John purred, squeezing gently with his hands, dropping kisses on Sherlock’s chest and stomach as he moved down further. ‘An oddity.’ He rubbed Sherlock’s thigh, pressed a kiss to the soft skin to its inside as he pushed Sherlock’s legs open. ‘A treasure.’
He licked a slow path along Sherlock’s hardening shaft, inhaling deeply before whispering ‘Mine,’ against Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock nodded, drawing a shaking breath in, folding his arms on the pillows under his head.
‘John.’ His eyelids fluttered, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock and stroked in a maddeningly slow rhythm, tightening his hand every few strokes. He kissed and licked at Sherlock’s glans, sucking the head into his mouth after teasing for a while.
Pushing up the barest amount with his hips, Sherlock moaned, holding onto the iron bars of their headboard, his fingers flexing on the metal as John continued.
‘John. Oh, John, you’re...’ Sherlock looked down at his lover, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and biting down on it as he watched. The sight became all too much very soon and he dropped his head back, breath growing shallow. ‘Oh... you are...’ Sherlock swallowed, a flush creeping down his cheeks and chest. ‘You are... exceptionally... excep-- mm -- exceptionally talented at... oh, John! Oh, at... at that.’
Pulling off for a moment, John smirked, gently rubbing his jaw as he kissed the slightly damp crease between Sherlock’s hip and his thigh, nuzzled into the soft skin of Sherlock’s lower stomach. ‘Pass me the...’ John trailed off, catching Sherlock’s eye and smiling knowingly, nodding towards the bedside drawer. ‘Pass me it down.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sherlock moaned, turning onto his side and yanking the drawer open, rummaging around for the Vaseline, shoving it into John’s hands once it was found. ‘Go on,’ he said, falling onto his back again, planting his feet flat on the rickety old bed and spreading his legs wide.
‘Hang on, let’s put a towel down, where on earth’s that one I used this--’
‘Forget the bloody towel!’ Sherlock hissed, tugging sharply at a lock of John’s hair. ‘Come on,’ he said, his voice infinitely more seductive as he took himself in hand and stroked at the pace John liked, gasping and arching prettily.
Moaning, John sat up and kissed Sherlock’s bent knee. ‘Keep at that,’ he said, slicking two of his fingers up before pushing them steadily into Sherlock, twisting and scissoring them, thrusting them in and out relentlessly.
‘John,’ Sherlock pleaded. ‘John, now, now, please, I...’
‘Shh,’ John rested his right palm flat on Sherlock’s chest as his left hand continued to move in and out, in and out. ‘Let me take care of you,’ he whispered, bending to engage Sherlock in a forceful kiss as he moved his thumb in a firm circle over Sherlock’s perineum.
Moaning into John’s mouth, Sherlock wrapped his arm around the back of John’s neck, pushing his body up against John’s.
‘That’s it,’ John gasped as Sherlock writhed, thrusting his fingers that little bit deeper, thrilling at Sherlock’s breathless whine. ‘There, now, let me take care of you, let me take care of you,’ he whispered, kissing Sherlock’s jaw, his cheek, then down onto his neck.
‘John, please, please, I--’
John kissed Sherlock deeply again before withdrawing his fingers slowly, pulling Sherlock into his body and holding him close.
‘Touch me,’ John breathed, taking Sherlock’s hand and guiding it downwards. ‘Go on, get me ready for you.’
The movement of Sherlock’s fist as John tugged the sheets over both of them was quick and perfunctory: designed as a means to an end.
‘Come on,’ Sherlock muttered under his breath. ‘Oh come along, come along, I want you.’
John pulled Sherlock into a kiss with far too much tongue and too many teeth, rolling onto his back, holding Sherlock’s face.
‘Go on,’ he whispered, drawing Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth first, then the top one. ‘Go on, how you like it.’ He smiled, rubbing their noses together as Sherlock groaned in relief and settled himself on top of John, holding him steady then sinking down with a hitching gasp.
The lamplight softened both of their features, the half-light making everything that much more intimate. Sherlock sighed and shifted his hips once he was fully seated, swallowing before tipping down to press his lips to John’s, coaxing John’s mouth open with an insistent tongue. He began to move up and down slowly, running the backs of his fingers of one hand up John’s jawline.
A chill wind whistled down the chimney, causing Sherlock to shiver, despite the sheets and blankets wrapped awkwardly around his legs and the small of his back.
‘C’mere,’ John whispered, pulling Sherlock down, holding him close. He ran warm, work-roughened hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, the lines and planes of his back. ‘We don’t want you catching a chill.’
‘I’ve caught worse,’ Sherlock replied, tucking his face into John’s neck, moving his hips in short, shallow thrusts.
‘Mm,’ John agreed, tightening his grip on Sherlock then rolling over so that Sherlock was beneath him, shock of dark hair spread out across the pillow they usually ended up sharing if it was a night Sherlock was actually sleeping.
‘Oh!’ Sherlock gasped at the first slow, deep thrust from John, arching his back and closing his eyes. ‘Oh, more.’ His neck and back were damp with sweat, as were John’s.
Frowning in concentration, John gripped one of Sherlock’s thighs and pushed it back a little way, thrusting inwards again. ‘Sherlock,’ he moaned, moving his hips at a steady pace, his fingers tightening on Sherlock’s skin, tight enough to form a bruise. ‘Sherlock, please, I need you to...’
Eyes closed in bliss, Sherlock nodded, stroking himself distractedly, gasping for breath as he shoved his hips up to meet John’s thrusts. ‘John,’ he groaned, fisting his free hand in John’s hair, pulling him down into a desperate kiss. ‘John, I... I... oh...’
Trembling throughout his climax, Sherlock dug his nails into the back of John’s neck, pushing up against John’s body, his release spattering across both of their stomachs and chests. ‘Go on,’ he gasped, smearing his lips against the side of John’s face. ‘Come on, John, come on, I...’ another un-coordinated kiss, ‘Mm, I...’
Half a minute later and John went over the edge, his hands an iron grip around Sherlock’s hips, his spine a perfect curve, his head thrown back as he moaned, his thrusts growing slower and shallower as he spent inside Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled, reaching out for a cigarette, lighting it with slightly-shaking hands before taking a deep breath in. ‘I love the way your hands feel,’ he said, pushing against John’s unyielding grip on his hips.
John released his breath in a deep sigh, tightening his hands briefly as he came back to himself, gently pulling out of Sherlock and collapsing on the bed next to him.
‘You’re wonderful,’ he breathed, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder as he moved closer, wrapping a strong arm around Sherlock’s waist. ‘And I love you, I love everything about you.’
‘Mmm,’ Sherlock sighed happily, pulling John’s head onto his shoulder and running long fingers through John’s hair. ‘Topping.’
***
‘What is it you were going to say this morning?’ John asked a couple of hours later, after Sherlock had smoked his way through most of a pack of cigarettes and John had got everything ready for his early shift at the hospital. ‘About us going somewhere?’
They were curled around each other in bed again, hands and lips brushing across bare skin as the rain fell on the ugly world outside.
‘Oh, in the newspaper?’ Sherlock asked, hand spread on John’s waist, thumb moving slowly back and forth. ‘Do you know, I really can’t remember.’
‘It couldn’t have been important,’ John said with a lazy smile.
‘No. No, I don’t think it was.’
They were silent for a while as they looked at each other.
The clock in the hall downstairs struck for midnight.
‘Happy Christmas, Sherlock,’ John whispered just after the twelfth chime had sounded.
‘Happy Christmas, John.’
They kissed, closing their eyes, moving closer, holding on tighter.
Elsewhere, machines tapped and clicked and beeped and flashed as they spat out code after code, warning after instruction after message. Elsewhere, armies marched and bombers roared and other men screamed as they fell, wounded, to the ground. Elsewhere, just for tonight, just for now, the war raged, and nothing came to disturb the pocket of quiet and happiness and love that was a small flat in the middle of London.
Just for tonight.
Just for now.
Author: lotherington
’Verse: WWII AU: Long Ago and Far Away.
Prompt: From lbmisscharlie, for the Christmas drabbles I was offering on tumblr: Anything in the Long Ago and Far Away verse would be absolutely peachy, because I love it so. Three words are: bewilderment, cabbages, and rain. I got the cabbages and rain in, not so sure about the bewilderment! I really hope you enjoy this quite-clearly-not-a-drabble, love! Thank you for your prompt. :D
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: WWII AU. December, 1939. Sherlock and John share a lazy Christmas Eve at Baker Street in the midst of the ‘Phoney War’.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2,150
Notes: I hope this makes up somewhat for the bucket-o’-angst I posted in this ‘verse a couple of days ago. I’m also behind on replying to comments, but I promise I’ll rectify that tomorrow! <3 Happy Christmas/holiday of choice, dear readers. You’re all cracking. :)
24th December, 1939
‘At this rate, neither of us will be going anywhere,’ Sherlock said, throwing one newspaper to the floor and unfolding another, snapping it out to its full size, beginning to scan the text.
‘What’s that?’ John asked, putting the teapot in the middle of the table, next to the sugar bowl that always sat there. ‘Get the milk out, would you?’
Sherlock moved one ink-stained hand behind himself and opened the door of the refrigerator, finding the bottle of milk immediately and placing it on the table without taking his eyes off the newspaper. ‘Want us all to grow cabbages,’ he muttered, ‘cabbages in Regent’s Park, bloody hell...’
John placed an egg on toast in front of Sherlock, along with the salt and pepper. ‘What was it you were saying, love?’ he asked as he sat down, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.
‘Hm?’ Sherlock lifted his head slightly, but didn’t move his eyes away from the paper.
‘You were just saying something. About us going somewhere.’
‘Oh, yes, that.’ Sherlock sniffed and cast the newspaper to one side, frowning when he noticed the meal in front of him. ‘John, I ate yesterday.’
‘A tin of corned beef consumed yesterday mid-morning does not a meal make, Sherlock.’ John pointed to Sherlock’s plate with his knife. ‘Eat your egg.’
Sighing and muttering under his breath, Sherlock took the knife and fork that John offered him, adding far more pepper than was considered normal to his egg before eating it, chasing the spilt yolk around his plate with the toast.
‘Good?’ John asked, smiling.
‘Not horrid,’ Sherlock replied with another little sniff, pouring them both a mug of tea, wrapping his hands around the pot to warm them.
‘Oh, Sherlock, your hands, you’re getting the pot filthy,’ John complained around a mouthful of toast.
Straightening his back, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and blinked a few times. ‘Talking with a mouthful of food, John, that’s utterly hideous.’
John rolled his eyes and swallowed. ‘You’re not the one who’ll end up cleaning the pot, though, are you?’
‘All the same, ‘ Sherlock murmured, pulling the newspaper back towards himself and taking his cigarette case out of the pocket of his dressing gown, ‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Oh, well, thank you.’ John’s face as he shook his head was disbelieving. ‘I forget how much you value manners. Remind me what you called Mycroft last time he was here?’
Sherlock sighed and gave John a look over the top of his newspaper. ‘We’re at the table,’ he huffed, biting down on a cigarette, frowning in concentration as he lit it. ‘There’s a difference.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘Bloody good job I’ve learnt to put up with you,’ John muttered, sipping his tea. ‘Or else you’d be haranguing another poor sod about the way they eat or the way they read aloud or tune the wireless.’
‘I wouldn’t want any other poor sod,’ Sherlock replied with an air of finality, peering down his nose at the print on the page, releasing smoke through his nostrils after a pause of a few seconds.
John attempted to fight the smile that broke across his face, but didn’t quite manage to stop it.
***
‘What was it you were saying this morning?’ John said quietly, the tip of his index finger snaking gently across Sherlock’s bare chest and stomach.
‘Hm?’ Sherlock tipped his head back and bared his throat, his eyes closed.
Grinning, John pressed a wet kiss over where Sherlock’s pulse beat quickly beneath his skin. ‘You’re a marvel,’ John sighed, trailing his lips down Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at his collarbone.
They were in bed together, naked, the Tiffany lamp alight in the corner, casting a gentle light across the room. The multicoloured pieces of glass that formed its shade glowed prettily in the dim and provided a welcome contrast from the pouring rain and darkness outside, concealed though it was by the blackout curtain.
‘Go on,’ Sherlock said with a grin.
‘A wonder,’ John murmured against Sherlock’s skin, running his rough palms up Sherlock’s side, bringing them to rest just under Sherlock’s armpits as he ran his tongue across the darker, pebbled skin of Sherlock’s nipples.
Sherlock made a gasping noise and writhed underneath John’s hands and mouth. ‘More. More.’
‘You’re a revelation,’ John purred, squeezing gently with his hands, dropping kisses on Sherlock’s chest and stomach as he moved down further. ‘An oddity.’ He rubbed Sherlock’s thigh, pressed a kiss to the soft skin to its inside as he pushed Sherlock’s legs open. ‘A treasure.’
He licked a slow path along Sherlock’s hardening shaft, inhaling deeply before whispering ‘Mine,’ against Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock nodded, drawing a shaking breath in, folding his arms on the pillows under his head.
‘John.’ His eyelids fluttered, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock and stroked in a maddeningly slow rhythm, tightening his hand every few strokes. He kissed and licked at Sherlock’s glans, sucking the head into his mouth after teasing for a while.
Pushing up the barest amount with his hips, Sherlock moaned, holding onto the iron bars of their headboard, his fingers flexing on the metal as John continued.
‘John. Oh, John, you’re...’ Sherlock looked down at his lover, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and biting down on it as he watched. The sight became all too much very soon and he dropped his head back, breath growing shallow. ‘Oh... you are...’ Sherlock swallowed, a flush creeping down his cheeks and chest. ‘You are... exceptionally... excep-- mm -- exceptionally talented at... oh, John! Oh, at... at that.’
Pulling off for a moment, John smirked, gently rubbing his jaw as he kissed the slightly damp crease between Sherlock’s hip and his thigh, nuzzled into the soft skin of Sherlock’s lower stomach. ‘Pass me the...’ John trailed off, catching Sherlock’s eye and smiling knowingly, nodding towards the bedside drawer. ‘Pass me it down.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sherlock moaned, turning onto his side and yanking the drawer open, rummaging around for the Vaseline, shoving it into John’s hands once it was found. ‘Go on,’ he said, falling onto his back again, planting his feet flat on the rickety old bed and spreading his legs wide.
‘Hang on, let’s put a towel down, where on earth’s that one I used this--’
‘Forget the bloody towel!’ Sherlock hissed, tugging sharply at a lock of John’s hair. ‘Come on,’ he said, his voice infinitely more seductive as he took himself in hand and stroked at the pace John liked, gasping and arching prettily.
Moaning, John sat up and kissed Sherlock’s bent knee. ‘Keep at that,’ he said, slicking two of his fingers up before pushing them steadily into Sherlock, twisting and scissoring them, thrusting them in and out relentlessly.
‘John,’ Sherlock pleaded. ‘John, now, now, please, I...’
‘Shh,’ John rested his right palm flat on Sherlock’s chest as his left hand continued to move in and out, in and out. ‘Let me take care of you,’ he whispered, bending to engage Sherlock in a forceful kiss as he moved his thumb in a firm circle over Sherlock’s perineum.
Moaning into John’s mouth, Sherlock wrapped his arm around the back of John’s neck, pushing his body up against John’s.
‘That’s it,’ John gasped as Sherlock writhed, thrusting his fingers that little bit deeper, thrilling at Sherlock’s breathless whine. ‘There, now, let me take care of you, let me take care of you,’ he whispered, kissing Sherlock’s jaw, his cheek, then down onto his neck.
‘John, please, please, I--’
John kissed Sherlock deeply again before withdrawing his fingers slowly, pulling Sherlock into his body and holding him close.
‘Touch me,’ John breathed, taking Sherlock’s hand and guiding it downwards. ‘Go on, get me ready for you.’
The movement of Sherlock’s fist as John tugged the sheets over both of them was quick and perfunctory: designed as a means to an end.
‘Come on,’ Sherlock muttered under his breath. ‘Oh come along, come along, I want you.’
John pulled Sherlock into a kiss with far too much tongue and too many teeth, rolling onto his back, holding Sherlock’s face.
‘Go on,’ he whispered, drawing Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth first, then the top one. ‘Go on, how you like it.’ He smiled, rubbing their noses together as Sherlock groaned in relief and settled himself on top of John, holding him steady then sinking down with a hitching gasp.
The lamplight softened both of their features, the half-light making everything that much more intimate. Sherlock sighed and shifted his hips once he was fully seated, swallowing before tipping down to press his lips to John’s, coaxing John’s mouth open with an insistent tongue. He began to move up and down slowly, running the backs of his fingers of one hand up John’s jawline.
A chill wind whistled down the chimney, causing Sherlock to shiver, despite the sheets and blankets wrapped awkwardly around his legs and the small of his back.
‘C’mere,’ John whispered, pulling Sherlock down, holding him close. He ran warm, work-roughened hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, the lines and planes of his back. ‘We don’t want you catching a chill.’
‘I’ve caught worse,’ Sherlock replied, tucking his face into John’s neck, moving his hips in short, shallow thrusts.
‘Mm,’ John agreed, tightening his grip on Sherlock then rolling over so that Sherlock was beneath him, shock of dark hair spread out across the pillow they usually ended up sharing if it was a night Sherlock was actually sleeping.
‘Oh!’ Sherlock gasped at the first slow, deep thrust from John, arching his back and closing his eyes. ‘Oh, more.’ His neck and back were damp with sweat, as were John’s.
Frowning in concentration, John gripped one of Sherlock’s thighs and pushed it back a little way, thrusting inwards again. ‘Sherlock,’ he moaned, moving his hips at a steady pace, his fingers tightening on Sherlock’s skin, tight enough to form a bruise. ‘Sherlock, please, I need you to...’
Eyes closed in bliss, Sherlock nodded, stroking himself distractedly, gasping for breath as he shoved his hips up to meet John’s thrusts. ‘John,’ he groaned, fisting his free hand in John’s hair, pulling him down into a desperate kiss. ‘John, I... I... oh...’
Trembling throughout his climax, Sherlock dug his nails into the back of John’s neck, pushing up against John’s body, his release spattering across both of their stomachs and chests. ‘Go on,’ he gasped, smearing his lips against the side of John’s face. ‘Come on, John, come on, I...’ another un-coordinated kiss, ‘Mm, I...’
Half a minute later and John went over the edge, his hands an iron grip around Sherlock’s hips, his spine a perfect curve, his head thrown back as he moaned, his thrusts growing slower and shallower as he spent inside Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled, reaching out for a cigarette, lighting it with slightly-shaking hands before taking a deep breath in. ‘I love the way your hands feel,’ he said, pushing against John’s unyielding grip on his hips.
John released his breath in a deep sigh, tightening his hands briefly as he came back to himself, gently pulling out of Sherlock and collapsing on the bed next to him.
‘You’re wonderful,’ he breathed, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder as he moved closer, wrapping a strong arm around Sherlock’s waist. ‘And I love you, I love everything about you.’
‘Mmm,’ Sherlock sighed happily, pulling John’s head onto his shoulder and running long fingers through John’s hair. ‘Topping.’
***
‘What is it you were going to say this morning?’ John asked a couple of hours later, after Sherlock had smoked his way through most of a pack of cigarettes and John had got everything ready for his early shift at the hospital. ‘About us going somewhere?’
They were curled around each other in bed again, hands and lips brushing across bare skin as the rain fell on the ugly world outside.
‘Oh, in the newspaper?’ Sherlock asked, hand spread on John’s waist, thumb moving slowly back and forth. ‘Do you know, I really can’t remember.’
‘It couldn’t have been important,’ John said with a lazy smile.
‘No. No, I don’t think it was.’
They were silent for a while as they looked at each other.
The clock in the hall downstairs struck for midnight.
‘Happy Christmas, Sherlock,’ John whispered just after the twelfth chime had sounded.
‘Happy Christmas, John.’
They kissed, closing their eyes, moving closer, holding on tighter.
Elsewhere, machines tapped and clicked and beeped and flashed as they spat out code after code, warning after instruction after message. Elsewhere, armies marched and bombers roared and other men screamed as they fell, wounded, to the ground. Elsewhere, just for tonight, just for now, the war raged, and nothing came to disturb the pocket of quiet and happiness and love that was a small flat in the middle of London.
Just for tonight.
Just for now.