John Watson eyed himself in the mirror. "I look like a bloody idiot," he said, pursing his lips and fiddling with his cuffs.

"How you feel about the attire is completely irrelevant," Sherlock Holmes grouched, slumping over the fitting room's plush armchair with his legs slung over one side. He had been dreadful company the last few days; Christmas, it seemed, turned the boy genius into a true and proper Grinch. Staring at John's reflection, Sherlock sighed, "If it's any consolation, I think this is your best look to date, aside from the one where you're not wearing anything at all." Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's nanny, made a scandalized noise and John blushed horribly, but Sherlock ignored them both, dropping his head back and saying, "And I hate wearing the accursed things myself. But it's either tuxes or dress robes, and I refuse to wear a dress robe."

Mrs. Hudson tutted. "I think you both look terribly dashing. My boys! Oh, Sherlock. Look at the mess you've made of your jacket!" She fussed with him for a moment, making him sit up straight and trying to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. John watched them amusedly for a moment before switching his gaze back to himself. His mum would get a kick out of this, certainly, if she were here, but John…well, John mostly felt like a poor kid in a tux.

Sherlock stood and stretched out to his full lanky length, brushing away Mrs. Hudson's admonishments with a huffy air. Now that was how you wore a tuxedo; Sherlock looked as though he'd been born to wear his crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks, smart trousers and perfectly tailored jacket. He looked lovely; no, more than that: he looked flawless. Well, aside from the ridiculous pout he was wearing as Mrs. Hudson tried to attack him with a comb.

John reached up and fiddled with his bow tie. It was just a New Year's party, or so he kept trying to remind himself. How bad could it be?

x

Thinking back, John couldn't remember a time he'd felt more out of place.

The Holmes manor was bursting with life; witches in pretty dresses and magnificent robes flitted around the house as wizards in tuxedos or dark, stately robes stood clumped together, chatting in low tones. John stood in one corner of the ballroom with a champagne flute in his hand and watched the menagerie from a safe distance, his eyes round. Apparently having human (rather than house-elf) servants for a party was rare; everyone kept chatting about it in excited, slightly stunned tones. The house was beautifully decorated with floating candles and real, actual fairies (all of them frozen in artful poses, only their eyes moving to make sure they were being properly admired) and there were a cluster of instruments in each room, all of which were seemingly playing themselves.

No one was sparing John a second look, naturally. In fact, he'd been confused for a member of the waitstaff several times during the evening, despite the fact that they were all in uniform and he clearly wasn't. It seemed like most of the guests knew each other, including the several ghosts that floated amongst the partiers, mingling and laughing and being very careful not to pass through anyone. John recognized the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady from school, but those were just about the only familiar faces he'd seen all evening (save a few Slytherin students who didn't seem to notice him at all). Mycroft was too busy toadying to just about everyone in the room to talk to him; Sherlock's mother was snotty and distant and clearly disliked him; even Sherlock had buggered off somewhere early in the evening, leaving John to tug at his collar and sip whatever fizzy concoction was thrust at him, entirely alone.

This is probably the most dreadful party I've ever had the misfortune of attending, John thought bitterly, tossing back the last of his drink and setting the glass down on a little table. A lot of people were doing shots of felix felicis, John noticed, but he didn't much relish the idea of using it himself. Sighing, John threaded slowly through the crowd and made his way outside, tired of the stuffiness of the ballroom and the distant, hollow chatter of strangers' conversations.

That was better. The air was cool and refreshing, and the garden was blessedly devoid of most guests. John did pass a couple quietly snogging, and an old woman who was digging around in a rosebush and crowing, "Tessabelle, Tessabelle!" but once he'd walked far enough no one else was around. He eased down on to one of the garden benches and undid his bowtie, unbuttoning his collar and relaxing against the cold wooden slats. Yes, much better. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back as he took off his cufflinks and tucked them into his pockets.

"Hello," Sherlock said, and John's eyes flew open. How long had the other boy been perched there, sitting on the back of the bench with his feet on the seat? Surely he hadn't been there already when John sat down?

"Oh," John said slowly, "Sherlock. Hey."

Sherlock climbed down and stood out in front of John, holding out his hands and leaving John no choice but to take them and get hoisted to his feet. "Dance with me," Sherlock said, pulling John into his arms.

John chuckled and let Sherlock sway him gently. "There's no music, you berk," he said, his voice fond.

"I shall give you my very best rendition of Brahm's waltz," Sherlock smiled. He tugged John closer and pressed his cheek against John's temple, humming under his breath and spinning them in slow circles, leading John effortlessly. There was something strangely comforting about the tune Sherlock carried and John let his eyes fall closed, feeling the vibration of Sherlock's voice against his chest. They moved together for several long moments, Sherlock's hand warm in John's, before the hum faded away and their feet stilled. John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him curiously.

"I hate parties," Sherlock said after a moment, his voice soft. "Mycroft's parties, especially."

"Me too," John admittedly honestly, making Sherlock smile.

"Good." Sherlock nodded and dipped his head, whispering into John's ear: "Then you won't object to calling it a night?"

John swallowed, his body tensing in anticipation automatically. "God, no," he breathed, gasping a little at the kiss Sherlock planted on his neck. "Not in the slightest."

x

John woke up in Sherlock's bed on the first of January, his fancy clothes a rumpled mess on the floor and his bare arse freezing in the mid-morning air (why in God's name did Sherlock have the window open?), to Mrs. Hudson tapping her knuckles on the bedroom door.

"Ho-ho," she called, cracking the door open a touch. "Are you boys decent?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called, even though John definitely was not. John yanked the blankets over himself and shot a look at Sherlock, who was sitting in the window seat with his thumbnail between his teeth and petulant cast to his features.

"Oh, heavens," Mrs. Hudson said, looking at John. John pushed his face into the pillow and tugged the blanket entirely over his head. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything, dear. Only I was told to bring up your breakfast."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock huffed. John heard Mrs. Hudson set down a tray and fuss over the dishes for a moment before Sherlock said, "Is that all, Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock's nanny clucked. "Now, now. Manners, Sherlock dear. You boys having a bit of a domestic?"

"Out," Sherlock said, chasing Mrs. Hudson from the room. "Out, for Merlin's sake. And leave us alone until I call."

Pushing the blankets down, John sat up and glared at Sherlock. "What in the hell was that all about?"

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case," Sherlock sniffed, gesturing vaguely towards John's trunk.

John cleared his throat. "Yeah. Most of it, anyway. Kept some things under wraps, of course. Did you like it?"

"Ummm…no," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and settling back into the window seat. He pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, his gaze wandering somewhere outside. John looked out, too, thinking of his first day at the manor, when Sherlock had taken him for a tour of the grounds, lamenting the state of the garden in the crisp winter frost and letting him pet the hippogriffs in the stables. John had been dazed by the immensity of the place, by the rows and rows of books in the library and the beautiful view from the astronomy tour. It seemed like the estate stretched out forever, rolling hills that must have been lovely in summer but were still breathtaking even with the grass dried and the ground sprinkled with snow. He had always known Sherlock was wealthy, of course; no one could look at the boy and think anything but. Still, it was one thing to guess at a person's affluence and a completely different thing to see it all in beautiful, mind-blowing detail. Sherlock brought John's mind back to the present as he shifted in the window seat, pulling his dressing gown more tightly around him, and said, in a very quiet voice, "Do you really think so little of me?"

John blinked. "What? What do you mean?" He tried to think of what he'd written for his Inter-House Challenge essay but his mind was drawing a blank. "I…honestly, I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."

Dear God. Sherlock had memorized the damn thing. John stood up and started tugging on his clothes, not relishing the idea of a having a row in the buff. He zipped his trousers and put his hands on his hips, his shirt crookedly buttoned and one sock still dangling in his hand. "Now, hang on a minute," John said, "I didn't mean that in a-"

"Oh," Sherlock drawled, glaring at the picturesque countryside view, "you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way." He crinkled his nose. "I don't know who won the Quidditch House Cup last year and I don't at all care who was snogging whom in the Owlery-"

"Or that Muggles have been capable of flight for over a century," John said pointedly. That had been an interesting conversation.

"It doesn't matter to me," Sherlock snapped. "Nothing matters to me besides the work." Turning his frosty glare on John, he said, "You make me sound like some sort of ridiculous, defenseless child half the time and a crazed buffoon the other half. Is that really what you think of me, John?"

"Back up," John said, his jaw clenching. "What do you mean, 'nothing matters but the work'? I don't matter to you?"

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock said snottily, examining his fingernails.

I've never felt like this, said Sherlock's voice in John's memory. Never. John's hand tightened around his sock. "I think you care about me," he said slowly, "and I think it scares you a bit. But it shouldn't, Sherlock, honestly. Because I care about you too."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "A lovely sentiment," he sneered, "but unsurprisingly wrong as usual. This was only ever about sex. I don't feel anything." He lifted his chin defiantly. "So put that in your stupid essay, or better still stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

John was dumbfounded. He didn't believe Sherlock, not really (because last night was still lingering on his skin and in his mouth, and the look in Sherlock's eyes out in the garden hadn't been fake, he knew it), but that didn't make the words any easier to swallow. It hurt, this, and John wasn't even sure why he was being rejected in the first place. He took a deep shaking breath and turned, yanking open the bedroom door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock said, turning away from the window and looking him over, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Out!" John said, not pausing. "I need some air." He pulled the door closed behind him a little more roughly than necessary and took the stairs down to the foyer two at a time.