The 12 Days Of Christmas

Day 12 - 25th December

Christmas Day

John turned the volume up on his speakers while Sarah opened the door to his mother and his sister.

"Hey, Merry Christmas!" His mother screeched, zipping across the room and pulling him into a hug.

"Merry Christmas, mum." John replied, struggling to breath. He could hear Sarah laughing behind him.

When his mother finally let him go she stroked him on the cheek. "I read your article, darling. It was wonderful. You said you might get a promotion?"

"Yes." Sarah answered for him. "He deserves it."

His mother smiled lovingly at him. "Your dad would be proud."

She all but whispered.

"I know." He whispered back.

"Hey, bro." Said Harry, looping around her mother to give John a hug.

"Hey," he greeted, hugging her warmly. When they broke apart, John glanced behind her. "Oh, no Clara?"

"No." Said Harry, looking a little sullen. "But forget about that," she said, brightening. "How's your love life going?"

"Err..." Began John, he had been in quite high spirits considering it was Christmas day and his party was going off without a hitch, he didn't need to be reminded of...certain things.

Harry laughed. "That good, huh?" She asked sarcastically and John rolled his eyes.

"Shut your mouth and open your present, bitch. I went to a lot of trouble finding this."

She nudged him playfully before following him to the tree, she looked around herself, taking note of the various aunts and uncles around them as well as a few unfamiliar faces.

"I don't know like, half these people." She pointed out.

"Neither do I." John admitted. "I think they're people mum's trying to set me up with."

"Well, she's nothing if not persistent."

"This is true."

"What about her?" Asked Harry, inclining her head to Sarah who was talking to John's cousin across the room. "She's cute."

"Yeah, she is. But unfortunately..."

"You're a giant flaming homosexual."

John nodded. "Pretty much."

Harry took a deep breath. "I've taught you well." She said proudly.

John couldn't help laughing.

"Oh, here come the cavalry." Harry warned.

"John!" Came his mother's shrill voice from across the room. "Come over here and meet Phillis!"

"Yeah, John. Come and meet Phillis!" Harry mocked.

John subtly gave her the middle finger whilst walking over to his mother, leaving his sister snorting behind him.

"Mum." John greeted, reaching her.

"John, this is Phillis Greene, Margaret's daughter." She said, gesturing to a woman with an unfortunate nose standing beside her. "Phillis, this is my son John. He's a reporter."

Journalist.

"Nice to meet you." She said, smiling and extending her hand.

John knew this was going to happen. It had happened every time his family got together. His mother would always pull some random girl from nowhere and would expect a proposal by the end of the night.

However, John went along with it as he had always done. Because smiling at a girl for five seconds was easier than having a 20 minute lecture on how he 'didn't want to be alone forever.'

"Nice to meet you, too." John smiled, shaking her hand warmly. "If you'll excuse me, I have a turkey to check on."

He watched his mother's smile drop as he walked to the kitchen.

"Really, John!" His mother admonished from behind him.

"Do you want me to burn the turkey?" He asked a little cheekily.

"John, I wish you would take more interest in the girls I go out of my way to introduce you to, you don't want to be alone forever."

Oh, so apparently the smiles and the lectures were coming together now.

"No, mum, I don't want to be alone forever."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

John felt a wave of unease go over him as he was forcibly reminded of how he'd told Sherlock to go to America, and how he might have stayed if John had at least tried to fight for what they had instead of letting it go.

"I don't know." He said quietly to his mother.

"John, love. Is something the matter?" She asked, sounding concerned. "You've gone pale."

Don't do this. He told himself. It's Christmas day and you have a room full of people out there. Sherlock's certainly not as upset as you. In fact, he's in America right now.

…

Sherlock was stuck in traffic on his way back to London. He'd began to travel back late last night after he'd saved his car from being loaded onto a plane.

When it got to the early hours of the morning, though, the caffeine in his system had worn off and he was forced to pull into a service station. He didn't trust snowy roads, there was no point turning up to John half-dead because he'd skidded and driven into a tree.

He'd planned to get a few hours sleep, refill on the coffee and carry on for London but, being an idiot, had accidentally woken up at 10am, cursed loudly at the clock on his dashboard and sped out of the service station and back onto the motorway.

He'd only had about 100 miles to drive by then, and that's when the traffic had struck, leaving Sherlock Holmes perpetually motionless on one of the busiest roads in the country.

He looked at the clock on his dash again, it was nearing 2pm in the afternoon. He swore again, loudly, surprising himself as he wasn't usually one for road rage.

Frustrated, and realising he shouldn't be doing it, he pulled his phone out to call John, tell him he was trying to get back but the Fates were working against him. He pushed the unlock button on the top of his phone and the usual lock screen page flashed with a little warning.

Warning

you have (3%) battery remaining

"What?" Exclaimed Sherlock. "I do not have 3% battery remaining!" He quickly unlocked his phone and watched it die before his eyes.

"What?" He repeated. "No, no, don't do that!" He stuffed the phone back into his coat pocket. "Bloody technology." He cursed quietly, resting his hands on the steering wheel again.

The traffic began to lighten up and Sherlock finally began to make headway when he saw a whisper of smoke rise from his bonnet.

"Please be steam." He murmured to himself.

It wasn't steam.

Sherlock stared at his burning engine on the side of the road with his arms crossed, the noise of cars deafening him as they whizzed past.

"Come on," he said, unsure who he was talking to. "It's Christmas."

He pulled his coat tighter around himself as it began to snow lightly around him, he grimaced as he felt the flakes melting in his hair.

The AA turned up around 15 minutes later.

"Unlucky timing." The mechanic said when he hopped out of his van.

"You wouldn't believe the half of it." Sherlock told him.

The two mechanics began to examine his engine, Sherlock looked out across the motorway, the tops of the cars slowly turning white with snow.

"Know much about cars?" One of the mechanics asked, grabbing Sherlock's attention.

"Err, no." Sherlock admitted, turning back to them. "What's wrong with it?"

"Engine overheated." He replied.

Sherlock frowned. "What, in the snow?" He quickly did the physics in his mind. "Oh, the snow casing. Right, I understand. Can you fix it?"

"Not here." The other one said. "We'll have to tow it back to the garage, do you wanna hop in the cab?"

Sherlock looked in the direction towards London.

"No," he said, "I have something important I need to do."

"More important than getting your car fixed?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Okay, fine. Whatever you like, what are you going to do?"

"Just, take it back with you, I'll figure something out."

The two men kept giving him weird looks while they attached his car to their truck and towed it away, leaving Sherlock on the side of the road.

Sherlock looked around himself, the snow was getting heavier now. He waited by the side of the road for ten minutes before he saw an empty cab go by.

"Hey!" He called out. "Stop!"

Seeing him, the cab driver pulled up right in front of him, steering through a melted puddle of snow that cascaded over Sherlock, drenching him.

He sighed heavily.

…

Harry hesitated before putting the turkey in her mouth. "Should I be eating this?" She asked sceptically.

"Well, it's breast. You should be fine with it." John replied coolly, taking a sip of wine.

"John!" His mother smacked him lightly whilst Sarah snickered into her glass.

"This is lovely, John." She said when she'd finished laughing.

"Yes, lovely, John." An uncle commented.

The table erupted into various compliments and John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Oh," began Phillis from across the table, seated with her mother, "I think John deserves a toast for his amazing article on the great Sherlock Holmes!"

"Yes, here here!" His mother called out, and everyone applauded him.

John smiled but felt his heart begin to race.

"Who wants another drink?" He said over the din. "I'll go and get the champagne."

He stood and left the table swiftly. Sarah watched him go with concern and stood up too, saying she was going to see if John needed any help.

John pulled the bottle out of the fridge as Sarah came up next to him.

"Hey," she said softly, nudging him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he nodded, taking a deep breath. "I'm fine. There's no point in being upset, Sherlock's in New York right now, he's probably forgotten all about me. He's probably in his new flat, relaxing in comfort."

…

Sherlock did his best to wring out his scarf and shake the water out of his damp curls before he climbed into the cab.

"You look like you're having a good day." The cabbie said sarcastically as Sherlock grimaced at his wet clothes.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Sherlock mumbled.

"You're lucky I was on the road, I don't usually come down here."

"Trust me, right now, you're my Christmas angel."

The cabbie grinned. "Where to mate?" He asked.

"London, 221B Baker Street."

"Oh, I was just headed to London."

"How far away are we?"

"About 25 miles or so, shouldn't take more than an hour." He said, before he set off. Sherlock peeled up a wet sleeve and looked at his thankfully working watch. It was nearly 5pm.

When they reached 221B, Sherlock's watch read 5:54pm, as he climbed out of the cab he thanked the driver profusely again.

He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and handed the cabbie a handful of notes. "Here, keep the change. And thanks again."

"Much obliged, Sir." The cabbie nodded before driving away.

Sherlock opened the door and ran up the steps, taking them two at a time. He planned to get a change of clothes, grab some cash and then head straight for John's.

He hurried into his living room and stopped.

Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Irene and Molly were all seated around the table with turkey in front of them, staring at him.

"Oh." Said Sherlock, realising then just how out of breath he was. "Hi."

"Sherlock, what happened to you? You look like you've been dragged backwards through a hedge!"

"Pretty much," Sherlock nodded, trying to catch his breath. "Sorry for bothering you, go back to your dinner, I've got to go." He turned away.

"Wait," Lestrade called after him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock stopped and, remembering John's words, and turned back to them.

"You know what," he began, "I have insane feelings for John Watson that I can't quite understand and I've struggled all the way back to London to beg him to take me back."

The faces that greeted him were priceless.

"John Watson?" Irene said, forehead creased. "The journalist?"

Sherlock grinned. "He's so much more than a journalist. He's a treasure."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the room.

All four of the dinner guests turned to each other, wondering exactly what had just happened.

Until they heard noise on the stairs again and turned as Sherlock stuck his head through the door. "Oh, and by the way, I hate New York." He said quickly before leaving again.

When he was outside, he realised that he had no money left to call a cab.

Shaking his head, he calculated the quickest possible route to John's flat and made a run for it.

As Sherlock turned a corner, a car came out of nowhere and for a split second he thought the car was going to hit him but right at the last second it careened to the side, honking it's horn loudly, and driving straight through a puddle that splattered Sherlock. Again.

He hummed out a cute little tune of complete and utter soul destroying, murderous rage before breaking into a sprint again, slipping slightly in the snow.

When he came up to John's door, he actually couldn't believe he was really there.

It seemed like a surreal moment as he stared at it.

In that moment, Sherlock suddenly realised how nervous he actually was, he felt his heart rate increasing and berated himself.

Taking a few, slow breaths he reached out and rang the door bell. There was no answer and Sherlock couldn't believe that John would be out, especially on Christmas day.

Maybe it was a sign? Maybe someone had tried to stop him getting here for a reason?

He suddenly shook his head at himself. He was still Sherlock Holmes, and he didn't necessarily believe in fate.

He reached a hand out and tried the door again, it was open, John was definitely in.

He opened the door and jogged quickly up the steps.

Inside the flat, John was handing out nibbles to people and the music was loud and a lot of people were getting tipsy. Sarah passed John some Champagne and his mother had begun asking her how she and John met when the entire party turned around in shock.

Confused, John turned to see what everyone was staring at and he nearly dropped his glass.

Standing in the doorway was a very bedraggled Sherlock Holmes, looking a little wide-eyed.

"Oh, I forgot about this." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock?" Began John, coming forward, "what happened to you?" He asked, shocked, taking in Sherlock's wet clothes, heavy breathing and damp, slightly frizzing hair.

He gestured behind him. "I...ran." He said a little stupidly, hand falling uselessly to his side. Seeing John had made his brain a little slower than usual.

"What are you doing here?" Asked John slowly, unable to comprehend that Sherlock was stood in his living room when he should have been in America.

"Umm," began Sherlock, feeling suddenly awkward with all the people around him, he then heard the music become quieter and that made things even worse.

He quickly shook it off, it didn't matter anymore.

"I came to say that I'm sorry." Sherlock admitted. "I'm sorry for acting like an arrogant prick just to satisfy everyone else when the only persons approval I ever really wanted was yours."

Sherlock saw John's face go lax and carried on before he regretted it. "I've never met anyone like you, John. And I mean, someone that tried to get to know me. I thought you were only speaking to me the way you did because you were trying to get information for your article, but you didn't print any of the stuff we talked about when we weren't being...professional. The stuff that made me realise that, despite the fact I've only known you for 12 days, you've been closer to me than anyone ever has. And you made me understand things about myself, and about the world that I'd never understood before." He laughed slightly. "You made me not want to be alone at Christmas. For the first time. But more than that," he felt moisture gather in his eyes. He cursed himself. "I'm sorry for making you feel like you weren't good enough," his voice cracked. "Because you've influenced every single decision I've made since I met you. You became the voice in my head, making me think twice about being arrogant or doing superstitious crap I don't even believe in." He found himself laughing slightly at his situation, he gestured at himself. "I've given up everything, because I realised you were the most important thing." Sherlock finished talking, taking in a slow breath. He knew every eye in the room was on him but all he could see was John placing down his glass and walking slowly towards him.

"You missed a flight to America to tell me you're sorry?" He asked lightly, swallowing.

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. But," he fished John's article out of his pocket, grimacing when he saw that it was slightly damp. "Um, I saw your article. I saw what you wrote about me and it made me realise that, despite everything I said, despite everything I did, you still...love me, just the way I am."

Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation, he watched as John's eyes filled with tears and a small, shy smile broke out across his lips.

"You never have to hide around me, Sherlock. You never have." A tear slipped down John's cheek. "I'm sorry too, for what happened. And I understand. I get it, I get why you had to pretend, but you don't have to do that with me. The slightly cynical, shy, sweet, stubborn Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, that's who you are. And I love you, I do."

Sherlock let out a shocked sigh of relief. "I love you, I love you too, John Watson." He breathed out. "I'm not going to America," he could feel his own tears pricking at his eyes again. "It's not worth losing you, and it's not worth losing me, either."

John charged at Sherlock across the room and captured his mouth in a kiss. Instinctively, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and kissed him back. Feeling all at once completely comfortable and yet like everything was completely different at the same time.

John sighed ever so softly, he thought he'd never get to have this feeling again, this feeling of complete and utter contentment. Sherlock Holmes even had a smell that John instantly recognised, he couldn't believe he'd never noticed it before, he couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed it was gone.

When Sherlock finally pulled away, he looked at John and felt the ever present knot in his stomach unravel completely. He noticed the moisture teasing the contours of John's face.

"Oh, sorry," he said quietly, wiping away the liquid with his fingers. "I'm wet."

"Did I say I cared?" John said, laughing, running his hand through Sherlock's damp curls. "I'm just glad you're here."

"So am I." Sherlock replied through a small smile.

The pair stood like that, wrapped in each other and simply looking into the other's eyes, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. It was.

Sherlock studied John's hazel-coloured orbs for a moment, feeling like he'd never known a pair of eyes better in his life.

"Merry Christmas, John." Sherlock said softly.

John smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." He replied. "And a happy new year."

Sherlock smiled, too. "A new year," he echoed, eyes alight. "I like the sound of that."

John laughed before pulling Sherlock down into another kiss.

The group of people around them suddenly erupted into applause and cheer, John would have felt like he was in the middle of a cheesy Christmas film if everything wasn't so completely perfect in that moment. Sherlock laughed against John's lips as he detected a scent of mistletoe in the air.

THE END