Christmas Ficlet Drabbles!
Over the span of the 24 hours leading up to Christmas, whenever I had time (which was unfortunately less than predicted) I wrote a few ficlets in celebration of the season. Thus, they are by no means Pulitzer prize winning material, and any and all mistakes are entirely my own and can also be blamed on Christmas punch. Nevertheless, enjoy! Also: this first one is based off of Day 23 of Sherlockology's absolutely brilliant advent calendar; I hope you were following it in the days leading up to the holiday, because, as I said - brilliant.

1. All I Want For Christmas (Is You)

"We are going to be so late," John groans, fumbling with the ends of his tie as they refuse to cooperate, and scowling at his reflection in the mirror.

Sherlock shoots him a condescending glance, turning John to face him with a sigh and impatient hands. "Relax, John," he chides, taking the tie for himself and straightening it with practiced ease. "It's not as if we're missing anything of terrible importance."

John glowers up at him. "You were invited, Sherlock. It's a nice gesture. You'd do well to answer it."

Scoffing, Sherlock steps back and passes a critical eye over his handiwork. He seems to deem it acceptable and turns his gaze back up to meet John's. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Watching the Yard's finest dissolve into an even more chaotic state of inebriation and general stupidity. Receiving gifts for which I'll never have a use. Eating. Eating fruitcake, nonetheless. Why ever would I want to miss such a thing?"

"Well, you will get to see them makes fools out of themselves. And no one will give you anything anyway, so you don't have to worry about that. And." John stops, furrows his brow. "Do people still actually eat fruitcake?"

The corners of Sherlock's lips quirk upwards. "I don't know," he admits, spinning on his heels and making for the door. John follows, head cocked to one side.

"Did you just say -"

"Oh, John, we really are going to be late," Sherlock interrupts, swinging his coat around so that it settles across his shoulders. He throws his scarf carelessly around his neck, and before John can say anything more, is waltzing down the stairs with an exclamation to "hurry up!" left hanging in the air behind him.

John purses his lips, shakes his head, and heaves a sigh as he tramps down after the madman he's come to call flatmate, and, what's stranger, friend.

"Why are we here?" John whispers half an hour later, as they're standing removed from the loud, frantic mass of bodies milling about the large room. It's festively adorned; the great chandelier in the center is crowned by softly glowing candles, and strings of light hang from it and swoop across the ceiling like a spider's web, while conifers spiral upwards from the ground in all their red-baubled glory. John, however, sees none of it. He tugs nervously at the ends of his sleeves, fiddling with the cuff links and casting his gaze around the room. "I don't think I know more than five people here."

"And those are the ones you wish you didn't know," Sherlock murmurs pointedly. Remarkably cool and collected, he sips from a wine glass, and gestures towards where Anderson and Sally are dancing on the floor, if you could call it that. His nose wrinkles in disgust.

John tsks. "Behave. All I meant was that it's not as if we're - well, not me, at least - important to the force," he says, shifting and stuff his hands in his pockets. "I'm not part of the team. I wasn't even officially invited," he laughs, somewhat self-deprecatingly, and his gaze falls to the ground.

Sherlock's eyes pass over him, swift but calculating in their intensity. "You're indispensable to my work, John," he says, a touch more softly than he'd intended. "Indispensable to me. They realize that."

"Do they?" John's eyes are suddenly fast on his own, and for some reason, it quickens the steady pulse in his throat. His feet edge fractionally closer, and just like that, they might as well be alone in the room.

His form looms over John, and he can see where his breath ruffles the downy hair at his temples, and feel the heat of the edges where their skin is just millimeters - so close, so far away - apart. "Do you want them to?" he rasps.

He can see John's throat working, all the sinews under that tanned, rough skin shifting as he swallows, but he doesn't wait for the words. His nose brushes down the side of John's face, slotting alongside his own, and he feels the velvet flutter of eyelashes against his cheek. John's breath hitches, and Sherlock breaches the final distance, meeting his soft lips with a contented sigh.

He hazily recalls the curl of fingers in his hair, slinking along the nape of his neck and raising goosebumps along the skin. Is much more focused on the warmth of the mouth beneath his own, and how easy it is to sink into each gentle press, and greedily take every exhale for his own. John doesn't mind; takes back his own in the unexpected slide of a tongue alongside Sherlock's, and the last, gentle kisses he leaves at the corner of Sherlock's parted lips, and on his cheeks and eyelids and a final one on the tip of his nose.

Pulling back, he notes the flush on Sherlock's cheeks with a distant sort of pleasure, still too caught up in the taste of Sherlock on his tongue to really register anything beyond their foggy embrace. He wonders if it will ever get old, and though they're still new in this, he thinks it safe to say that it won't. Not ever.

"Well, they know now." They hadn't ever made plans for telling anyone of the significant... progress, of their relationship, but this seems like as good a time as any. Liberated by the kiss, John feels much more at ease when he slides his arm around Sherlock's waist and presses them together, as they survey the party side by side. A few sideways glances sent in their direction let them know that the recent episode didn't go entirely unnoticed, but for the most part, the atmosphere of the room is entirely unchanged.

"Hmm. Expected more of an uproar. That's -" John turns his head up to Sherlock's, but narrows his eyes at the altogether too casual way in which he takes another sip from his glass. He chokes a little under the scrutiny, risks a glance at John before his silver eyes dart in the opposite direction again. " - odd," he finishes slowly. "Sherlock -" he begins, tone warning.

"They may have already insinuated that you were my...date, for the evening."

"They, or you?"

"I simply went along with it," he shrugs, but grins nonetheless at John's crestfallen face. "Oh, come now -"

"I - I think I would have liked a more proper announcement, is all," he offers as a joking explanation, but remains snugly at Sherlock's side, and he doubts it really does matter at all.

Should have known better than to say anything like that in Sherlock's presence, though, because it is not ten seconds later when Sherlock leans into him and whispers, "You want an announcement? I'll give you an announcement." The words, full of determination, should not be that frightening, but they are.

And rightfully so, because before he can protest, John is watching in abject horror as a gleeful Sherlock mounts the stage. The brass band looks mildly bewildered as the strange, hyper man orders them to stop playing whatever inane carol they were on about and takes the microphone for himself.

"Karaoke!" someone shouts from the crowd, and the look Sherlock shoots in that direction has killed before.

"No one wants to hear you yodel in that off-key terror they call your vocal chords," Sherlock sniffs, and John already has his head in his hands. "Rather, I wanted to make an announcement. This party was not as terrible as I originally imagined, and you all are considerably more pleasant to be around when alarmingly green punch is involved. However, I've found that you're all just as stupid at this time of year as in any other, so I'd like to make it very clear that yes, John and I are fucking. It's been a fantastic holiday, and I hope - but doubt - that you all can experience the same joy. Merry Christmas, and various other formalities that are proper to the season." And with a wave of his hand, he is off the stage and sauntering back easily to John.

"I really, actually didn't mean that," John whispers through fingers covering his mortified face.

Sherlock's brow furrows. "Then what did you actually mean?"

"I don't know, I -. Oh, god. I've offended you," he sighs, catching sight of the frown on Sherlock's face through his hands.

Sherlock shifts uncertainly. "I thought that's what you wanted."

Rolling his eyes, John releases his head and instead cinches his arms around the taller man's waist. "All I want is you, you miserable sod; to hell with them or the way they find out." Sherlock's confused eyes abruptly soften at the edges, and then he's kissing him again and the last of John's embarrassment drains out through his toes. But oh, they will definitely have a chat about this tomorrow. Unless he can drink enough of the holiday punch to forget it all completely. And convince everyone in the room to do so as well, including -

He stops. Pulls back, and his tongue tastes along his lips. "Sherlock," he says slowly, "how much of the punch have you had?"

"It is surprisingly good," he admits. "Is it alcoholic? I usually don't drink."

John works to hide his smile. "I sort of guessed. C'mon, let's get you home."

At home, when John is proving just exactly the extent of how much he wants him, Sherlock receives a text.

WEHRE RE YOOU? YOU''RE MISDING THE PARTY ADN THHE FEE BOOOZE!1! - LESTRADE

Sherlock, too preoccupied to read it, let alone answer it, doesn't tell him that he had very much enjoyed the free booze. Enough to prove his point anyway, and get rid of all John's silly little notions about what anyone else thought or expected.

Oh, yes, he's very much enjoying the product of that party. Must send Lestrade a thank you. Not anything resembling alcohol, though. Lestrade's normal texting habits were terrifying enough as it was.

And they hadn't even gotten through the New Years' party yet.

(Though he wasn't lying when he said that the punch was surprisingly good. It's just that some things, like the feel of warm hands in his and a smile pressed against his own upturned lips, were better.)