Author's Note: So I was listening to Beyond the Sea by Bobby Darin (a beautiful, beautiful song that you should most definitely listen to) and thinking of an interview in which both Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman admitted that Sherlock and Watson really do make the most perfect couple and suddenly, without warning, I found myself at my computer, humming along to a playlist that included Luck Be A Lady by Frank Sinatra, Let it Snow! Let it Snow! By Dean Martin, and Beyond the Sea and typing out one of the many scenarios that I love to imagine happening at 221 Bakers Street. Oh, and there was something in this story that I meant to edit out but for the life of me I just can't find it! Ah, I'll just hunt it down later. *sigh* Johnlock, you are just so lovely, even more so in a Christmas-y setting.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC Sherlock characters or the songs previously listed, just my own imagination.

"Somewhere…beyond the sea

Somewhere...waiting for me

My lover stands on golden sands

And watches the ships…

That go sailing

Somewhere…"

Somewhere, nestled comfortably in the busy, bustling mix that was London on Christmas day, a man sat quietly in his favorite seat, sipping red wine as he reflected upon things long since passed. He tried to keep his reminiscences on a purely lighthearted, distant level but every once in a while his thoughts would drift over to something completely unexpected and rather disconcerting: love, loss, the fact that he was sitting alone on Christmas day. It's not like he didn't have anyone to spend Christmas day with; Lestrade was hosting a get together at his house and he was sure that a few of his relatives and exes (well, maybe not the latter) wouldn't mind having him over but, as it had happened, he had elected to stay home that Christmas day. However, he couldn't ignore that nagging sense of loneliness that crept up on him every once in a while. He almost wished that Mrs. Hudson would pop in, for a minute at least, and ask some trivial question about the furniture or drop some petty gossip about the new neighbors. Even the sight of Holmes pacing about the room with his violin in his pale hands and a look of pure disregard on his face would have cheered him up a bit but Holmes had stepped out earlier that day to spend his day with some killer or Mycroft, he hadn't really been paying attention when he told him. He smiled. He could almost hear the long, drawn out notes –sometimes eerily sad, sometimes uncommonly cheerful – rise and dip along with Bobby Darin's voice.

"…beyond the shore

We'll kiss, just as before

Happy we'll be beyond the sea

And never again I'll go sailing…"

He sighed. He wished (he opened his eyes and glanced behind him in embarrassment but, as expected, no one was there; the kitchen was dark and lonely as ever) that Sherlock would not go 'sailing' as often as he did. He realized that Sherlock was his own man and that he should be grateful that Sherlock even included him in his cases in the first place but there was a certain element of danger to all that Sherlock pursued. For the first time in the many months that he had known Sherlock he dared to imagine what he would do without the infuriating Consulting Detective and although he was surrounded by the inevitable answer he could not imagine his life without Sherlock. The thought was so unthinkable that it bordered on unrealistic and he chuckled. Bobby Darin growled in apprehensive delight and the tempo of the music changed as Watson raised his glass in a toast to nothing in particular.

"Merry Christmas to…you and I, Sherlock," He raised the glass to his lips and was about to take a sip when suddenly the door banged open and Sherlock rushed in looking wild and murderous. Watson jumped and spilled red wine all over his favorite sweater.

"The bag. Where is it, John? I need it."

"Ohhhh," Watson groaned as he tried to mop the liquid off of his sweater. He suddenly realized that he had been using yet another one of his favorite shirts as a towel and threw it behind him in frustration. "What bag, Sherlock?"

"The bag, the bag!" Sherlock said, getting louder with every word. Sherlock dived into a mess of papers and began tossing things everywhere. John stood up and moved closer to Sherlock, keeping an eye out for flying, possibly very heavy objects as he did.

"Well, perhaps," he ducked as a priceless Moroccan cigar case went flying over his head, "perhaps if you kept your things in one place as opposed to just throwing them around."

"What, and take thirty minutes out of my day to make sure that everything is spic and span? John, in case you haven't noticed my mind is like a spinning machine; it needs constant force to keep moving. I can't have useless tasks and theories getting lodged in the gears and messing things up. Now where is it? Ah!" John ducked again as Sherlock sprinted over the coffee table and got down on his hands and knees in front of the fireplace. John shook his head and went into the kitchen to get more wine. Perhaps I'm wrong, he thought to himself as he poured himself yet another glass. He watched, slightly mesmerized, as the crimson wine sloshed about its crystal cage. Perhaps I'd do just fine without Sherlock. And maybe he'd be fine without me, too.

John hadn't noticed that Sherlock had suddenly gone very quiet, so wrapped up was he in his own disheartening thoughts. If he had noticed he would have immediately become suspicious and, upon turning around, would have found Sherlock stalk still, half-raised on his knees, with a look of curious concentration upon his face.

"What is this?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"Hmm? Oh," Watson had completely forgotten about the music playing in the background. "Bobby Darin, an American singer."

"Really?"

"Really," John said tiredly. He knew that this was yet another piece of useless information that would probably get lodged in Sherlock's gears or whatever and he resigned himself to the fact that maybe this Christmas wasn't going to be as pleasant as he thought. But, when he turned around, John Watson found that the world was filled with unutterable surprises, some of which were so odd and contradicting that they were beautiful, just so beautiful.

Sherlock was dancing.

Well, not really dancing, more like stepping in time with the rhythm with arms outstretched and the same look of curiosity on his handsome face. For a while, the most that John could do was open and close his mouth and try to turn the many squeaks and whimpers that came from his throat into proper words of surprise. He didn't even notice the wine that spilled from its bottle and onto the kitchen floor instead of its intended destination.

"Sh-sherlock…" he said, stepping forward. Sherlock did a full turn and looked at him with glinting eyes. So that's amore, John thought to himself as a blush redder than the wine that pooled at his slippers began to spread over his cheeks.

"I like it," Sherlock said in a low voice as he spun again, narrowly missing the desk. What with his blue satin button up shirt and black trousers he really could have been some kind of dancer if only he learned to smile, at least once. He hopped over a tottering pile of books and beckoned John over with a large, pale hand. John stared at him in confusion until suddenly the meaning of Sherlock's gesture hit him. His eyebrows shot up on his forehead and immediately he began to back away.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Me, dance? No, Sherlock, I'll have to put my foot down on this one." Sherlock sucked his teeth in disgust.

"Oh John, at least put it down in time with the music. It's so delightful. Aren't you always telling me to find the hidden beauty in even the simplest of things? The car, for example, parked across the street is, to the pedestrian mind, on the level of the Mona Lisa when you really think about it?"

"Well...perhaps. But didn't you once tell me that where others see beauty you only see sin and sinister potential? Sherlock," John said angrily when he saw that Sherlock was advancing upon with a very determined look in his eyes. He quickly scrambled around the desk but Sherlock was too quick for him. Sherlock grabbed his hands and raised them until they were at level with his shoulders, interlacing their fingers as he did so until, with so simple and meaningless a connection, John felt utterly trapped and rather breathless as he stared into Sherlock's eyes with desperation. His next words were little more than a whisper. "I don't dance."

"Neither do I. But given the circumstances…" Sherlock's voice trailed off and evaporated into a failed nothingness.

"What circumstances?" Sherlock looked pointedly at him as Bobby Darin began to sing of meetings beyond the shore, reminiscent kisses, and a sailor's death beyond the sea. John could only stare back with lips parted around lost words of confusion. He didn't understand why Sherlock was acting the way that he was. Or was he really acting? He could always tell by Sherlock's eyes whether the man was lying or whether he was telling the truth and now, looking into them he saw the very man that swore that, though he may be on the side of angels, he was not one of them, the man that proclaimed with a certain pride that he didn't care if the earth revolved around the sun or if the sun revolved around the earth. Looking into those eyes, John knew that Sherlock wanted him to dance with him and that he would not have it any other way.

"John," Sherlock said in a voice that was at once demanding and desperate, "dance with me." John took a breath in.

"O-okay,"

He cleared his throat and slipped one hand to Sherlock's waist. He didn't know why he did it, but it just felt right. Sherlock didn't object but instead put his arm around the shoulder opposite from their clasped hands, forcing them to move in impossibly close to each other. John knew that he should have felt awkward or at least faintly uncomfortable (this was his flat mate, for God's sake!) but Sherlock's shirt felt so silky against his chin as he rested in on his shoulder and his rising and falling chest against his own was so warm and lulling. Okay John, he told himself as they began to rock side to side, forward, backward, moved wherever there stumbling feet took them, this is nothing. Just a little…Christmas Spirit….just a little…Christmas…slowly, his thoughts faded into a satisfied blur as they found their rhythm. What a sight they must have been: two men clinging to each other, one in a wrinkled sweater and another in a silk shirt, rocking, turning, stepping, navigating carelessly around piles of forgotten items as if they had done this many times before. But, as it was, the song faded into a silence; the last of Bobby Darin's voice trailing away into an understanding farewell. Watson knew that he should have let go but he had found Sherlock's heartbeat: a calm, peaceful rhythm that beat in time with his and this, above everything else, he just could not bear to part with. Finally, after another sigh and a sleepily whispered observation, John slipped his fingers from Sherlock's and dropped his hands slowly to his sides. He didn't know where to look, so he just stared at the little plastic button right in the middle of Sherlock's chest; a single soldier cursed with the job of keeping two taught pieces of fabric from pulling apart. Why was it that that lucky button got to sit upon Sherlock's chest all day and listen, if buttons could listen, to that beautiful, beautiful rhythm…

The song changed to something that John knew well and loved just as much as Beyond the Sea but he barely paid any attention. Sherlock was silent, watching John with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Oh the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful

And since we've no place to go

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…"

"Well, that wasn't that bad, was it?" Sherlock asked playfully but, without a smile, his words seemed dark and accusing.

"It could have been worse," John admitted. Suddenly he smiled. "For a minute there I thought that I had crippled you for life," he nodded at Sherlock's feet. He had stepped on them quite a few times. Sherlock smiled.

"Who says you haven't? I was in so much pain the whole time. I was just being nice."

"Mm, really? You, nice?"

"Contrary to popular belief, it is possible."

"So is that why you were squeezing me so tight? You were in excruciating pain?"

Although he tried to suppress it, Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. John watched as the Consulting Detective's face lit up, his own heart falling when he realized that after all of this was said and done for he probably wouldn't see Sherlock smile for a very long time nor would he ever get to hold him in the way that he had only a few seconds ago. However, these thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind when he noticed a new decoration that Mrs. Hudson, in her sweetly oblivious ways, must have installed earlier that morning.

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"How about I put my foot down one last time?"

"I don't understand….what you…," silently, John took Sherlock's hands in his and stepped forward, his eyes trained upon something above Sherlock's head. When he was satisfied he lowered his gaze back down to Sherlock's and opened his mouth. He wanted to do it. Three glasses of wine and getting this far with Sherlock had emboldened him but he felt it necessary to give Sherlock some sort of prelude before he took his possibly foolish chance.

"Sherlock, do you know what we're standing under?"

"What do you mean? Of course I do. We're standing under a ceiling."

"No," John shook his head, "lower than that, go lower." Sherlock looked up without moving his head.

"Seems to be a branch of some sort tied with a ribbon. Mrs. Hudson's doing, I'd imagine."

"Sherlock, that's mistletoe…" Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, obviously at a loss as to what John was implying. This may be harder than I thought, John thought to himself as his heart began to beat painfully fast in his chest. With every second he was losing hope but he knew that he had to go through with what he had started. "Do you know what people do underneath mistletoe?" Sherlock shook his head slowly and it was then that John realized that the man never really blinked. "They kiss," he said quietly.

"I don't…I don't understand…"

"Then use that spinning machine of yours and deduce what I'm trying to tell you," oh, to hell with it. John leaned forward and pressed his palms against Sherlock's chest, brushing his lips ever so slightly against Sherlock's bottom lip. He was surprised to find the Detective's breath so steady, so warm as it washed over his skin.

"Do you…want me to…kiss you, John?" Every flutter, every twitch of Sherlock's lips as he spoke those words was like a taunt, a sweet, sweet taunt to him and John longed to dive in but he felt it necessary to respond.

"I danced for you, it seems fair…" he was so close, so ready and yet…and yet…

He pulled away, but not before giving Sherlock a peck on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said in a defeated voice as he settled back into his chair. Suddenly he didn't feel very spirited anymore, he just felt very tired and very stupid. Now it was Frank Sinatra's turn to add music to their flat and, with a wild, classy voice he did his best with John's other favorite, Luck Be A Lady. Any other day he would have stood up and tottered awkwardly about the place (provided Sherlock, or anybody else for that matter, was nowhere near) but he just didn't have the heart for it.

Meanwhile, Sherlock checked the contents of the bag with a drifting mind thought what it drifted towards he could not tell. He looked up at John, and then down at the bag, and then back up at John, and then at the mantelpiece before finally making his decision. He stuffed the bag in a pocket inside his coat and walked over to where John was sitting. Before the man could look up, Sherlock bent down and kissed him full on the lips. Neither man had ever imagined reaching this point with the other nor had they ever felt so contented, so right. It was almost as if their lips were the final pieces of a large, complex puzzle of funny romance and things of the like. Originally, Sherlock had planned on giving John a quick kiss on the lips, wishing him a merry Christmas, and continuing on about his way but, as Dean Martin had reminded him, the weather outside was frightful and the fire sparked to life by their lips was just so delightful. He didn't mind basking in its warmth for just a little while longer.