A/N: Hello, everyone! Another semester is over and I'm on vacation till the middle of next month :D Thank you all so very much for the lovely and kind-hearted reviews, follows, and favorites :) I had planned to write a Christmas Eve special sooner, but time ran away from me. Whoopsie... Enjoy!

Chapter 20: A Tedious Problem.

-SH-

John awoke somewhat unpleasantly.

His forehead was sticky with sweat and his heart was pounding in his chest, making each breath come out unsteadily.

But still, John couldn't deny that the feeling felt much more pleasant than waking up from a war nightmare. In order to escape them, John had to either die in that reality or be startled awake by Sherlock.

Thankfully, Sherlock was rarely quiet. Which was obnoxious any other times except these.

John heard a loud thump and immediately shot up in bed, grabbing his gun and rushing downstairs.

It was the middle of the night. A loud pounding sound at night was always more worrisome at that time because it meant that Sherlock had blown up something or the flat was being burglarized. It also sometimes concluded an attack, but from the sound of the thump, he doubted they were dealing with their type at the moment.

Aiming his gun straight at the back door, John quickly turned the handle and swung it open in one move. No one was there. There wasn't even a sign of split wood or evidence of any struggle whatsoever.

A bang…

The army doctor rushed down the steps and low and behold, there was Sherlock. A light dusting of snow on his dark curls and Belstaff coat, and the intrusive but pleasant scent of pine hung in the air. Sherlock's hands held the trunk of the 10-foot culprit, complete with plastic netting wrapped around the green parts, tying it all together.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Grab the front of it and help me carry it up," Sherlock spoke quickly, staring at John in an inpatient manner when he didn't move within the next few seconds.

"Why are you moving a Christmas tree in the middle of the night?" John asked, puzzled.

"Couldn't sleep."

Naturally.

Yawning into the back of his hand, John defeatedly slid his gun in the back of his knickers and walked down the last few steps, taking the front end of the tree and lifting it off the ground in sync with Sherlock's.

Together, they managed to pull the entire tree inside the door.

John caught Sherlock smirking at it as soon as they managed to shut the door, which was understandable, considering a few branches had snagged on the door frame for the longest time going in.

John's equaled smile disappears when he turns around.

The doctor had forgotten about the 17 step lug they would have to do in order to reach their flat. And with a tree that he wagered to be about 60 pounds, it wasn't going to be easy.

Resigned to his fate, John acceptingly started to walk backward up the stairs, careful to not trip on any of the branches following.

Sherlock let out a hiss of pain a few moments later when they were about to turn the corner into the flat.

John questioned him in his doctor voice. "What happened?"

"The trunk slipped."

Oh, he had a splinter. Thankfully he didn't sprain a finger, which the doctor first thought. "We'll get that out as soon as we reach the sitting room," John quickly replied. The less talking, the better.

"We? John, I lived alone for many years before you were my flatmate. I can handle removing it alone."

John resisted an eye roll and unflexed his arms briefly to rest them. "Whatever, let's just get this mastodon inside already."

Sherlock complied, and with the combination of their strengths and occasionally needed wits, they were able to lug the tree inside the flat and plopped it down near a barren corner of the sitting room.

"This seems like a good place, yeah?" John asked.

Sherlock replied from the kitchen. "It's a fine place."

It was then that John remembered the detective's dilemma. But he also remembered Sherlock's 'I can survive on my own' speech as well. Glancing to Sherlock readying a few tools on the counter, John decidedly sat down and pulled his laptop from its hiding place under the chair. A little pocket of the material that had split sometime during the move was wide enough to conceal his laptop from the bored detective.

As far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't the wiser, and he wanted it to stay that way.

In truth, he didn't want to stay up on his laptop at all. John really just wanted to go to bed, but the nightmare had been too realistic and frightening not to continue where it left off if he attempted it. Besides, the tree moving had woken him up. He couldn't sleep now.

Opening the lid, John began responding to comments on his blog, which for the middle of the night, was a surprising 300.

100 replies later, John heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock plopping down into his seat.

John didn't exactly want to give him the satisfaction of eye contact, so he spoke while fixing them to the screen. "Get it out?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply, opening his laptop as well.

John was partially satisfied. There still remained the small matter of time. John was more experienced in removing unwanted things from the body than Sherlock, so he would have removed the splinter much faster. But if Sherlock desired to take two hours, then that was all his decision and John wasn't going to throw it back at him.

John proceeded to type up the last comment as a reply to a fan who was apparently up and bored enough to ask him a dozen questions as to why the army doctor was awake. Though, about a half hour later, the number ended up growing too far more than he expected to be perusing his blog at that hour of the night.

There was another oddity to this night, though. Sherlock.

Well, technically Sherlock was always odd. But he never let his hands be silenced quite like this before.

John had been observing the unusual quiet atmosphere for a while now. Glancing to the detective, John saw he had a hand on the trackpad, his other resting in the chair.

"How deep was it?"

This time it was Sherlock's turn not to make eye contact. "Not very."

Hmm, interesting.

"And what did you use?"

"Tweezers." And the tip of a small knife, but that didn't need to be said.

"You do know you took two hours, right?"

Sherlock gave him a bored look. "Yes, John, but I got it out. Now can we please drop the subject?"

"Not yet. There are more factors I need to take into consideration." John put his laptop in his seat and rose up. As he approached his flatmate, Sherlock tensed, his eyes following him.

John spoke pensively. "Sherlock, why are you surfing the web?"

"To learn. Why else would I surf the web?"

"What about, "this world produces few scrapes of new knowledge and whatever is recently birthed, has inevitably been recycled from regurgitated genius." John paused.

"That's the reason you prefer to acquire your own knowledge. And you even complain when you have to clean your mind palace from all the doldrums of useless knowledge you occasionally overhear. So I don't believe that you're stooping to the abyss yet," John finished strongly.

"The flesh is too tender for me to type right now, so I'm surfing the internet. Subject dropped."

"Alright, sod this." John firmly pulled Sherlock's hand out of the cushion and examined it. His face was quizzical a moment later.

"See, I told you, there's nothing-"

John pulled his other hand toward him a second later. "Oh, yeah. Because I'm just hallucinating the scratch marks with dried blood on them and the three-centimeter long splinter underneath." John sighed. "Sherlock, why did you try to hide this from me?"

Sherlock ripped his hand away and laid back, staring at the ceiling. "Because it's uncomfortable to be poked and prodded with a sharp metal object."

John spoke softly. "Sherlock, whatever your past experiences. I can promise that you won't be nearly as uncomfortable with me."

The detective shook his head. "No, it's too deep. Even you wouldn't be able to get it out without putting me under. I'll just have to let my body dissolve it over time. It should only take a few weeks."

"You don't trust me," the doctor replied, sounding a touch hurt.

"Don't be sentient," the detective bit back.

Sentient? I'm a bloody doctor! I help people. That's my job…" John continued in a lighter tone. "and my privilege... I took an oath."

Sherlock's silent, but then speaks. "You really care about this, don't you?"

John replied, somewhat calmer. "Apparently a great deal more than you."

A huff cleared the silence.

"Alright."

"Alright, what?"

"You can do it."

John didn't say another word andwalked into the kitchen, bringing the necessary tools and setting them on the coffee table that he moved over to the sofa.

John offered his hand to Sherlock who took it and then followed him to the sofa where they sat down. The doctor thought he saw a flash of fear when his flatmate surveyed the table, his smoaky-grey eyes always calculating. But soon a mask of indifference replaced it. Sherlock would always put one on when he didn't particularly like a coming experience.

The army doctor reassured him. "Don't worry, performing surgeries in the environment of a battleground without anesthetic has made me an expert at doing this. You should hardly feel it."

He saw Sherlock relax a little.

He continued speaking, narrating his every move for some reason. "Now generally, I would have used the nail clippers to trim a little excess skin to make the process faster, but since you've hacked up a lot of that layer and then some, I'm going to be using this sterilized needle." John held it up for him to see.

Sherlock gave him a sarcastic look at the reference. But he gave John his hand and laid his head against the back cushion.

First, John prepped and examined the area for a clear and unmangled place to start. He hadn't been exaggerating the level of damage and it was no surprise his flatmate had tried such tactics.

The splinter was buried too deep to use anything but a needle now.

Sherlock winced as John gently applied the alcohol. After sterilizing the area and waiting a sufficient amount of time for the skin to dry, John began lightly scraping the first layer of skin directly over the lodged sliver of wood.

"Thank you, John."

Well, that was unexpected. John would have looked over his shoulder expecting a bubbly pathologist walking towards them carrying a murder file if the detective hadn't addressed him and if it wasn't the middle of the night.

John replied. "Yes, well someone has to step in and save you from your own stupidity from time to time. Since we're flatmates I figured that the poor sod might as well be me." John smiled lightly as did Sherlock.

Almost through to another layer of skin, John was reflecting on the night's events. "Where did you get a tree at this time of the night?" he didn't believe he cut it down himself.

Sherlock replied without turning his gaze from the ceiling. "Where else. A Christmas tree sale."

John creased his brow. "But there was no one there to accept your purchase, how did you-

"I grabbed a tree and set the money in their collection box.- Then I came here."

Of course.

A/N: While Sherlock's splinter wasn't the required depth to need last resort measures, I did find out something pretty neat when it comes to removing deeper ones. Epsom salts were proven to remove a deep thorn from a guy's hand, witnessed by his wife, in 3 days. She says it's worked on splinters and thorns alike, painlessly. Now don't get me wrong. While this may be the pain-free method, it's also a very slow method. But if you're into the waiting, then I say go for it. For the rest of you, a clear head and sterilized needle and tweezers are all that are required most of the time.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter and if any of you have some splinter stories of your own you don't mind sharing, I'd love to hear them :D The next chapter will be posted, Christmas Day!