ficlet: home: where christmas is at
Title: Home: Where Christmas Is At
Rating: G
Genre(s): gen
Word Count: ~490
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John, Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock forgets about Christmas. Written for a bonus challenge at thegameison_sh, originally posted here.
They're sitting in their respective armchairs in comfortable silence, John reading the newspaper and Sherlock's laptop on his lap, when John brings it up.
"So... what are your plans for tomorrow?"
Sherlock types furiously, eyes glued to the screen. "Should I have any plans for tomorrow?"
"Well. It's Christmas."
Sherlock suddenly looks up, his hands stilling on the keyboard. "It's what?"
"Christmas," John repeats.
Sherlock stares at John for a beat, and then,
"Oh bugger."
*
"You forgot about Christmas?" John says disbelievingly, watching Sherlock dash around the flat as though there's a crocodile sharp on his heels.
"Of course I forgot about Christmas!" Sherlock snaps irritably, darting into the kitchen and retrieving a bottle of wine John swears he's never seen before. "It's Christmas!"
"For someone who works as a consulting detective, you're extremely unobservant of the Christmas decorations around London," John comments smartly. "Why are you running around like a maniac?" he then sighs when Sherlock ignores him, folding the newspaper up and putting it on a table. "Sorry, I mean, why are you running around like even more of a maniac than usual?"
Sherlock doesn't register the sarcasm in John's voice either. "My mother believes in the inaccurate and pointless festivity of Christmas. She expects us every year for at least two days," he explains, grabbing his coat and throwing it on.
"And what if you don't turn up?" John asks, curious; he's never seen Sherlock so worked up about being somewhere on time before. Normally he travels at his pace and no one else's, unless, of course, a life is hanging in the balance; and even then, Sherlock likes to take his time.
Sherlock throws John a dark look. "I forgot a few years ago - too busy with a case, most things are more important - and, well." He pauses with a half grimace on his face. "Yes. Well. I'd rather not re-live that experience. Suffice to say, I now heed Mother's warnings and go for Christmas. Painful as it may be, it's preferable to the alternate option."
John has to resist a smile at the thought of Sherlock being afraid of anything - especially his mother, who he's heard little about, but who he is so very intrigued by nonetheless.
"Where're you travelling to?" John asks, craning his head to look out of the window as Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck. "You're lucky there's no snow yet."
"Countryside," is Sherlock's short answer. "It'll be a few hours on the train." He swipes the bottle of wine up from where he'd placed it on the floor. "I'll be back in the early hours of the 27th. Merry Christmas, John."
With that, Sherlock flees the flat. John stands up and watches him hail a cab from the window, which eventually fades into the abyss of Christmas Eve night.
"Well," John murmurs to himself, and moves to put his coat on, "I guess I'd better head home myself."
Rating: G
Genre(s): gen
Word Count: ~490
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John, Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock forgets about Christmas. Written for a bonus challenge at thegameison_sh, originally posted here.
They're sitting in their respective armchairs in comfortable silence, John reading the newspaper and Sherlock's laptop on his lap, when John brings it up.
"So... what are your plans for tomorrow?"
Sherlock types furiously, eyes glued to the screen. "Should I have any plans for tomorrow?"
"Well. It's Christmas."
Sherlock suddenly looks up, his hands stilling on the keyboard. "It's what?"
"Christmas," John repeats.
Sherlock stares at John for a beat, and then,
"Oh bugger."
*
"You forgot about Christmas?" John says disbelievingly, watching Sherlock dash around the flat as though there's a crocodile sharp on his heels.
"Of course I forgot about Christmas!" Sherlock snaps irritably, darting into the kitchen and retrieving a bottle of wine John swears he's never seen before. "It's Christmas!"
"For someone who works as a consulting detective, you're extremely unobservant of the Christmas decorations around London," John comments smartly. "Why are you running around like a maniac?" he then sighs when Sherlock ignores him, folding the newspaper up and putting it on a table. "Sorry, I mean, why are you running around like even more of a maniac than usual?"
Sherlock doesn't register the sarcasm in John's voice either. "My mother believes in the inaccurate and pointless festivity of Christmas. She expects us every year for at least two days," he explains, grabbing his coat and throwing it on.
"And what if you don't turn up?" John asks, curious; he's never seen Sherlock so worked up about being somewhere on time before. Normally he travels at his pace and no one else's, unless, of course, a life is hanging in the balance; and even then, Sherlock likes to take his time.
Sherlock throws John a dark look. "I forgot a few years ago - too busy with a case, most things are more important - and, well." He pauses with a half grimace on his face. "Yes. Well. I'd rather not re-live that experience. Suffice to say, I now heed Mother's warnings and go for Christmas. Painful as it may be, it's preferable to the alternate option."
John has to resist a smile at the thought of Sherlock being afraid of anything - especially his mother, who he's heard little about, but who he is so very intrigued by nonetheless.
"Where're you travelling to?" John asks, craning his head to look out of the window as Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck. "You're lucky there's no snow yet."
"Countryside," is Sherlock's short answer. "It'll be a few hours on the train." He swipes the bottle of wine up from where he'd placed it on the floor. "I'll be back in the early hours of the 27th. Merry Christmas, John."
With that, Sherlock flees the flat. John stands up and watches him hail a cab from the window, which eventually fades into the abyss of Christmas Eve night.
"Well," John murmurs to himself, and moves to put his coat on, "I guess I'd better head home myself."