Because it's Christmas.

It was not Christmas in 221 B Baker Street until the Victorian walls were bathed in the soft, green light of the television, muted upon one of hundreds of festive shows and movies littering the channels, until the detective's low, baritone voice tore apart the spirit of the holiday with cold logic, dissecting everything from the mythological beginnings to the incorrect date of birth and pagan rituals resurrected for material gain (rituals which decorated the cozy flat per John's insistence), and until the doctor could relax in his chair across from the critic with a glass of Merlot in his tan, calloused hands.

The lights were otherwise low, the only other source the yellow bulbs scattered and strung across the thick branches of the Christmas tree. The sharp scent of pine bathed the room pleasantly, a welcome change from the distinct chemical odor that clung to every surface as a testament to Sherlock's experiments and Mrs. Hudson's cleaning.

"The need for a talking snowman and a mutated reindeer is nonexistent, beyond advertisements," Sherlock grumbled as an old, hazy scene graced the telly with the characters in question prancing into a quaint barn. "There's no need for them; what purpose do they serve?"

"Advertisements. Toys. Entertainment." John's gaze fixed itself upon the screen with Sherlock's as he listed the detective's previous criticisms. Elves met the reindeer and snowman merrily in the otherwise empty stables. "I never pegged you for one of those types of holiday people."

"Oh?" Sherlock replied. "What would you have pegged me as, and what are you now pegging me with, exactly?"

"I thought you'd be a Scrooge, not a guardian of Christmas' deeper meaning."

"I am neither of those people, John. I merely despise having merriment forced upon me from every angle. The only redeeming quality of the season is the music; the instrumental portion, that is." The detective sneered at the snowman as it began to sway to a muted beat.

John chuckled, and Sherlock's vivid eyes fixed upon him. "Do you remember what you told me when we first met? What you said about flat mates and such?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed curiously, the flickering lights painting his face in dancing shadows. "I remember using your phone."

"The only reason you remember doing that is because you always take my stuff." John shifted in his seat, eyes meeting Sherlock's. "You told me you were quiet, that you barely talked. I find myself cheated of that particular flaw."

"Oh, do you now?"

John emptied the remainder of Merlot. "Yes. I've heard nothing but holiday animosity from you all day. It's Christmas Eve; will you at least pretend to be joyful?"

"I assisted you with the decorations, both when you were too short to reach," John glared at Sherlock, who smirked slightly, "and when you could. I'd say I've spread enough Christmas cheer for the week."

"Be thankful I didn't throw a party this year. I could've brought in Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I could still do that, actually, for New Year's."

"That's an awful lot of effort just to get me to be quiet, John. Surely you could do better than that. A party is hardly frightening; I've weathered far worse than anything you could muster." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and leaned back in his leather chair.

John's right eyebrow quirked upward. "Oh really? You're underestimating me again, Sherlock."

"Am I? I do believe you've merely forgotten the family members I've endured at a distance, certain members that you are well acquainted with. Try to go to a dinner with him, then spend the night at the house, because Mummy won't let us go home, because it's 'pointless.' Try to endure two days alone with people who celebrate Christmas zealously."

"I'm assuming the last complaint has nothing to do with Mycroft." John shuddered slightly; he couldn't imagine the elder Holmes brother being a fan of Christmas. Quite frankly, trying to imagine it was enough to scare the doctor away from the idea of a Holmes Christmas party.

Despite this discomfort, the doctor drew up his mask of indifference. He wouldn't relent so easily.

Sherlock sensed the challenge, and his eyes gleamed maliciously. "You couldn't silence my Christmas criticisms with one of your parties, no matter how you tried."

"I could silence you with a lot less than a Christmas party."

The detective smirked. "I don't think you could, doctor," he purred. "Besides, you only want my criticisms silenced, not me fully."

"I never said that," John denied, flames igniting upon his cheeks and within his chest.

"You didn't have to."

John gulped. He had no idea how to respond to the detective's words, husky and drenched in insinuation. Fortunately, he was spared from an appropriate response by the door slamming open, and a familiar detective inspector bursting into the room, eyes panicked, flying from detective to doctor, then back to detective. Up and down the bodies the gaze searched, once, twice, before Lestrade relaxed.

"Sherlock," Lestrade hissed between deep breaths, "answer your damn phone next time. I thought you were dead, or worse."

"I was just with John," the detective unnecessarily answered, his words childlike in simplicity. It should've been insulting, how obviously nonexistent threats were when it was 'just John,' but he couldn't help feeling flattered that his presence was a source of obvious safety.

Lestrade nodded slowly, eyes continuing to flit between the two men, hesitantly, as though he only just realized he'd interrupted something. John would've thought the D.I. would notice that nearly every time he burst into the flat he interrupted a strange moment between the two men, but it appeared that the realization hadn't occurred to him yet.

Which wasn't the worst thing, John supposed. It postponed serious action between the two, a very helpful thing when the doctor was confused beyond belief regarding their relationship and his feelings for the detective.

"What do you need?" Sherlock asked as he rose from his seat slowly, the leather cushions sighing and light grabbing desperately at his wraith-like body.

"It appears there has been a murder. We found a middle-aged man on the floor of his apartment, dead. His girlfriend swears she had nothing to do with it, but we're not sure..."

"It was probably the girlfriend, then," Sherlock replied. Rather than sink into the cushions and ignore the case, however, the detective strode softly to the door where his coat rested on a hook. "John and I will follow you there in a cab. Text me the address."

"We're going?" John asked as he hesitantly moved to grab his jacket, which dangled enticingly from Sherlock's outstretched grasp.

"But of course, John. Nothing else is good enough for our poor fellow. Besides," the detective grinned wildly, sardonically, "it's Christmas!"

John rolled his eyes and followed the detective as he fled the flat, stomping down the staircase, unaccompanied by Mrs. Hudson's comments. Lestrade trailed after the two, and, when they'd all arrived outside of the flat, he stared in incredulous silence at them under the light snowfall.

"Well, I'll see you there," the D.I. said, backing away slowly and entering his car.

"So, we're actually going to the murder scene? Isn't this a case you could've solved from our flat?"

"I felt like going by the book tonight," Sherlock lied. "Besides, John, it's the least we could do on the eve of such a fine holiday." The detective smiled cheekily again and hailed a cab.

"Bloody wanker," John muttered as he followed Sherlock into a halted vehicle.

There were two different types of cab drivers on Christmas Eve (excluding the apathetic neutral): the extreme holiday nuts, who took it upon themselves to guide their passengers merrily on their holiday destinations, and the critics, who scorned the unlucky souls ensnared within their vehicles, subjecting them to their very opinionated and very negative comments regarding their destinations.

Of course, as Fortune sided with John that night, the cabbie was of the former disposition. Upbeat Christmas carols babbled contentedly from the speakers, mistletoe hung from the mirror, and the cabbie wore an atrocious Christmas sweater and Santa hat. He grinned widely at his passengers as they entered his vehicle, Sherlock with a low, exasperated growl at the music, and John with a smug smirk.

"Where would you two fine folks like to go tonight? Got some late Christmas shopping, or a party to go to? Or perhaps you two want a quiet, cozy night in?"

"If we wanted a night in, we wouldn't need to endure the likes of you," Sherlock replied. He quickly gave the cabbie the address and sank into his seat, gaze resolutely fixed upon the outside world.

A pitiful, lisping voice whined about needing 'two front teeth' for Christmas.

"Oh! A Christmas party. That's exciting!"

"Actually, we're investigating a murder," John explained, hoping to slaughter the over-ripened Christmas spirit before it exploded messily and painfully. Even the cheerful doctor could only stand so much mirth.

"Oh a murder! Hmmm, I wonder if they were poisoned by mistletoe or poinsettias. Maybe the butler offed them!" The cabbie tapped the mistletoe twice with gusto, as though the two men hadn't noticed it before.

"The butler? Really?" Sherlock snapped as his glare bore into the back of the driver's head. "How quaint. I'll keep that in mind when I investigate."

"You should; you never know who'd done it. For all you know, I could've been the killer."

"Oh?" Sherlock leaned forward, hands clasped together before his face.

Uh oh, John thought as tension tainted the cheer. Shouldn't have done that.

"Would you like to repeat that statement for Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"N-not particularly; it was just a silly joke, Mister-"

"Holmes."

"Holmes... Holmes... Wait a second, aren't you Sherlock Holmes? And aren't you Doctor John Watson?" Gone was the hesitant solemnity from the man's voice, replaced with jubilant shock. "What a Christmas surprise! And it makes sense, since you're investigating a murder."

"I suppose?" John answered hesitantly as the whiny voice was replaced by a couple's duet, singing about the cold.

"You're my favorite duo! I read all of your posts, John. Oh, would you be so kind as to include me in this case, should you write about it?"

"As a murderer or a cab driver?" John joked, his words earning him a glare from the detective.

"Cab driver, if you please. To write me a murderer would send me to an iron cage, or an early grave. Oh! We're here. Have fun, you two! Happy Holidays!"

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock snarled as he paid the driver. "If you're going to shove holiday cheer down our throats, then you should at least go all the way and say the phrase properly." The detective fled the vehicle, and John followed without comment, entertained by the sudden defensiveness.

They entered the looming dilapidated building quickly, with frosty silence falling upon the men as quickly and quietly as the snowfall.

"You came to me for this?" Sherlock asked as he jabbed a finger towards the corpse gracing the couch. "Girlfriend poisoned him. Obvious."

The girl glowered but offered little resistance as the police removed her from the room, her only interruption of the solemn silence tiny, insignificant grunts. She didn't try to defend herself verbally, a welcome reprieve from the usual drivel that poured unbidden from their typical criminal.

"You didn't have to come, you know," Lestrade muttered as he followed the two out of the room. "And anyways, why did you come?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fresh air."

John scoffed. "That's hardly why you left. You didn't get much fresh air with the cab, and this is hardly an example of better breathing than our home. It wasn't to show off your intellect, because you hardly deduced anything, and this was a simple case."

"And you thought I was talking too much," the detective grumbled.

"I just don't see why we had to leave the flat," John complained. "We're going to miss the special feature, and-"

"Oh please, there's no reason to watch it; it's always trivial, repetitive rubbish. It's annoying, filled with false pleasantries, moronic commercials, insipid stories, and the music-"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "We get that you hate Christmas, Sherlock. No need to overdo it."

An awkward silence enveloped the trio as the detective inspector eyed the two with the same expression he wore the scant times he commented on their relationship. John swallowed thickly, barely suppressing a shudder. It was a subject he refused to breach with anyone, especially not Lestrade and especially not at a crime scene. Not at a place so public.

"Since we're already out, we might as well go get some food," John offered, breaking the silence. Two sets of eyes, one insinuating and one curious, pinned him to the ground. His heartbeat rose slightly under the attention, and he cleared his throat. "I'm starving," he tried to explain innocently, but it came out strangled.

"Well, I'm going home. The wife has a dinner planned, and the kids always open their stockings Christmas Eve." Lestrade smiled and all but sprinted to his car, speeding away hypocritically from the scene of illegal activity.

That left the two men standing within the leftover silence. Sherlock sighed and began walking away from the complex.

"Come along, John," the detective called, and the doctor followed. "Surely there is a restaurant open at this time of night on this particular holiday."

"Surely," the doctor echoed uncertainly. Sherlock may have been convinced that the world would be open for him that night, but John wasn't so sure. The detective's selective appetite would rule out what little remained open to the public. "Wherever that may be, however, I demand we walk to it."

"Had enough of that glorious Christmas cheer for one evening?"

"I've had enough to last me a lifetime, both of cheer and criticism."

"Well, the holiday will not be rid of either element merely to soothe your discomfort."

"Nor will a particular restaurant be open merely because you desire it to be so," John retorted, bitter about the truth within the detective's words.

Sherlock chuckled. "I think that, tonight, the place I have in mind will be open for us."

John raised an eyebrow as he met the detective's calm, collected, though not apathetic, gaze. "What, did you call in a favor or something? On Christmas Eve?"

"John, most of these people owe me their reputations, jobs, and sometimes lives. All I ask now is for one of their restaurants to be open. I hardly think that's an unreasonable request."

"It's not, I suppose, but still, we shouldn't disturb-"

John's protests were silenced by the detective's hands, one carefully touching the small of his back and the other pointing to a familiar, well-lit restaurant. The comforting scent of Angelo's food drifted to the men, who stood a few feet away, admiring the business with eyes shining in the scant light and cheeks reddened from the snow (and, perhaps, thoughts that drifted from aching stomachs to aching hearts and hands).

"Is this restaurant okay with you?" Sherlock whispered, lips innocently brushing the doctor's ear.

John nodded, not trusting his voice to betray him as he shivered. He wrapped his arms around himself to appear affected by the weather (or, perhaps, to restrain them from responding to the detective's flirtatious actions). In that moment, it was impossible for John to deny or feign misunderstanding of his emotions.

It was not brotherhood that stirred and boiled his blood like a witches' brew, nor was it mere friendship that sent his heart into frantic overdrive.

The detective withdrew from the doctor, who shivered entirely from cold this time, the loss of body heat striking him swiftly. Ignoring the aching sensation, John trudged beside Sherlock up to the restaurant, into the warm room.

Angelo smirked widely as he clapped eyes on the men, the only two customers. "You've come just in time, my friends. Dinner is almost ready, so, please, sit anywhere you'd like, and I'll be out with your food momentarily." He winked at John before disappearing behind a set of white doors.

The two men stood in silence for a moment, waiting for the other to move, when Sherlock stepped forward and claimed a table within the center of the room. He motioned for John to follow him and pulled out a seat for the doctor, who, face flaming, accepted the gesture silently.

Sherlock's hands brushed John's shoulders lightly as they slid off of the chair, and he slunk to the other side of the table. "Is this all right?"

"Perfectly all right, thank you," John replied as Angelo returned from the kitchen to place a candle upon the table between them, followed swiftly by their meals. It was John's favorite, and he noted this with shocked happiness as he began to eat.

It occurred to him that this was something planned, that Sherlock hadn't called upon Angelo within the hour.

It occurred to John that perhaps there was more to the evening than a mere desire for a change of scenery. Or, perhaps, a different change was desired than switching cozy, private walls for bloodstained flats and diner windows.

They ate in silence, the clinking of the silverware mixing pleasantly with the silence. Angelo interrupted once to motion towards the candle, whether or not it was necessary, though neither man made a move against its presence. The chef winked at Sherlock before withdrawing into the shadows.

When their plates were empty, Angelo swept in once more to remove the dishes.

"Thank you," John murmured as he met Sherlock's eyes over the dancing flame. The detective smiled as the chef grunted and departed, smirk still stretching across friendly features.

"Better than your feature?" Sherlock fiddled with the remaining silverware, eyes hooded as they met John's.

"Much better; you were quite silent about Christmas," John answered, hoping to distract the detective from his husky voice and flushed face.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, a light, predatory smirk gracing his features. "My silence was voluntary. You've yet to silence me yourself."

John cleared his throat awkwardly, gaze flitting over the room, touching anything and everything but the detective, who leaned forward, eyes gleaming in the low light. The candle's flame flickered and danced, kissing and caressing the detective's angular face.

The doctor's attention snagged onto the door frame above the entrance. How had I missed that?

He suddenly found himself able to meet the detective's hooded gaze and grin, matching them with his own. "Angelo, may I please have the check?"

"John, it's on the house." John opened his mouth to protest, but the chef cut him off. "Please, I insist. It was payment enough seeing the two of you again, alive and well."

"Come along, John; let's go. Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock rose from his seat, and John followed.

"Maybe I'll still be able to catch the last few minutes on the telly," John mused aloud as he reached for his coat. Sherlock stepped forward and helped him into it, softly brushing the doctor's shoulders and arms as he did so. Once the detective finished, John mirrored his actions, assisting the detective into his coat. It was a bit awkward, due to the height difference, but it was worth it to touch Sherlock, to feel the heated fabric of his dress shirt, to glimpse the slight flush tinging his cheeks and the strange gleam in his eyes...

There was a moment of hushed silence, of frozen touches with John reaching and Sherlock ready to reciprocate, before the doctor cleared his throat and pulled away. Another moment lumbered by before they thought to move, to exit, and they walked side-by-side to the entrance, arms brushing every so often, Sherlock's gaze fixed upon John, John's upon the door frame.

"Hopefully not; I'll not be listening to that drivel if I can help it," Sherlock replied, the harshness of his tone clashing with the softness of his touch. "It's moronic, you know that, John. They'll say most of the same things in the New Year's feature, excluding of course the romantic fantasies that taint the holiday we celebrate. Honestly, the materialistic obsession doesn't mix well with the religious implic-"

John leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's, successfully silencing the prattling detective. Sherlock barely hesitated before reciprocating, before his lips moved against John's rhythmically, slowly. Hands rose to gently clasp hips and necks, though whose was whose remained lost in the moment. It hardly mattered which touch was which, not when they were finally, finally, kissing.

"Told you I could do it," John retorted when they pulled away, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed. "Told you I could silence you."

Sherlock merely grinned as he glanced up at the plant above them. "Mistletoe, really? You know it's just a parasitic plant, right?"

John rolled his eyes and kissed Sherlock again, this time quickly, a mere press of lips. The restaurant's clock chimed softly, the twelve interruptions signifying the arrival of a new day. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

(Merry Christmas :))