Not So Silent Night, 1/4
Dec. 18th, 2010 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Not So Silent Night
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Originally from a kinkmeme prompt, John is actually one of those Chrismas nutcases who likes to bury their house in so much lights that it can be seen from space. He tries to get Sherlock into the Christmas spirit. This might be harder than he thought.
A/N: Thanks to the wonderfulerrantcomment and musical_lottie for beta'ing and Britpicking respectively. Thank you both so much!
Decorations and War Declarations
John Watson took a step back, admiring his handiwork. The vast majority of his flatmate’s experiments—and a few that he was sure served no legitimate scientific purpose and were there solely to test the limits of his patience—had been carefully thrown away or swept aside. The books had been neatly put on the shelves, organised by the arcane rules Sherlock insisted on and the detritus littering the main room completely cleared away. The Union Flag pillow, as well as its cousins on the sofa, had been joined by cheerful crocheted versions that boasted poinsettias and snow scenes; there was a green and red afghan tossed over the back of the couch; even the stag’s head mounted on the wall had a string of bells draped around its antlers and a bright red felt circle pasted where its nose should have been.
The coup de grace was the tree which took up an entire corner of the room, decorated with red and gold ornaments, spirals of tinsel, fairy lights winking merrily from between the branches, and a star which lit up on top. John was one of those people who always had their Christmas shopping done well before August and red-and-green tartan wrapped presents lay under the tree, waiting to be distributed and opened come December 25. He nodded with satisfaction. It was perfect. A bit drab, maybe, but he had to buy everything new this afternoon while Sherlock was out.
There was a rap on the door and he opened it to see Mrs. Hudson’s smiling face.
“Yoo-hoo, love,” she said, pushing her way in. Even she was infected by Christmas spirit, wearing a loud scarlet dress and a green bow in her hair. She held a gorgeous china serving plate in her hands, piled high with biscuits cut into trees and reindeer and other festive shapes. “I’ve just brought these by.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said graciously, accepting the plate and putting it on the newly cleaned counter. “What do you think?”
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands like a little girl. “Oh, doesn’t it look lovely! I used to trim the outside of this place with lights, you know, but… well, my hip.”
“I’ll do it,” John volunteered immediately.
“Will you? That would be wonderful, and such a help.”
“No problem at all,” John assured her, following her out into the hallway as she chattered about how she used to put them up and how festive they looked every year. She showed him where the ladder was kept and the boxes of lights.
“Are you sure this isn’t any trouble?” she asked, craning her neck to follow John’s steps up the ladder.
“Definitely not.”
She smiled. “I’ll just make us a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows for when you're done."
John whistled as he strung up the lights, occasionally a surprisingly tuneful voice bursting out of him to sing snippets such as, “But the very next day, you gave it away”, which had been Harry’s favourite song when they were younger. He remembered chasing her through the house, begging her to play something else, until she had reached her room, shutting the door in his face and blaring the song as loudly as possible just to annoy him.
He was humming happily when Sherlock walked past, seemingly not noticing John standing on a ladder above his head, disappearing into the building. Approximately fifty-five point nine seconds later, the door banged open and Sherlock reappeared, wild-eyed.
“What has happened to our flat?”
“It’s been cleaned,” John said placidly, draping more lights on the eaves.
Sherlock turned, arms hanging by his sides and staring in shock at the door as if it had personally offended him in some meaningful way, then whirled around again, craning his neck to glare at John more directly. He suddenly disappeared again, thumping up the stairs, then reappeared breathless from climbing the same flight four times in two minutes. He stared at John accusingly. “That is not clean.”
“How would you know?” John shot back. “I doubt you’ve ever had any personal experience with it.”
“Of course I have,” Sherlock said indignantly, drawing himself up. “We had maids.”
“It’s festive.”
“It’s horrid,” Sherlock objected. He ran inside a third time, and briefly John wished his patients showed the same devotion to physical exertion that Sherlock so clearly did. He didn’t have to wait long before Sherlock materialised by the foot of the ladder again.
“It looks like Harrods vomited in our flat,” he said. “There are lights. Everywhere! And a gigantic monstrosity of artificial foliage is hanging from our door.”
“It’s called a wreath, Sherlock.”
“I don’t care! It’s going.”
John finally took his eyes off the lights he was stringing and locked gazes with Sherlock, saying fiercely, “Oh, no. I put up with your experiments, and heads in the freezer, and eyeballs in the microwave, and whatever that … thing was in the bathtub last week, but for the next two weeks, you will leave the decorations alone. Are we clear?”
Sherlock took a step back, looking almost alarmed. He opened his mouth a few times, took note of John’s seriousness, then closed it with a huff and disappeared back into the flat. John took it as a sign of surrender.
He really should have known better.
The next day, John rolled out of bed and wandered into the kitchen to get a cup of tea, pouring water into the kettle and setting it to boil. He yawned, still half-asleep, when he suddenly noticed something was different. He looked around. The pillows remained on the sofa, his mother’s afghan was still there, but… the tree. The tree’s admittedly gaudy ornaments had been replaced with tiny pipettes and silver forceps scattered haphazardly amongst the branches. With horror, his eyes slowly raised until he reached the top, where the cheerful star had been replaced with Sherlock’s pet skull.
“Sherlock!” he bellowed.
Sherlock sauntered casually into the kitchen, wrapped in his blue dressing gown. “Yes?”
“What have you done to the tree?”
“It’s festive,” Sherlock said blandly, though his eyes sparkled.
“Where are the ornaments?” John demanded. “What did you do with them?”
“Is there tea?”
Sherlock snooped around the kitchen, peering over John’s shoulder for the kettle. He reached for a cupboard but John blocked his way, hands on his hips.
“What did you do with them?” he gritted out.
“I simply replaced them with something more interesting,” Sherlock said sulkily. “It’s more fitting for our flat, anyway.”
Though John searched the place high and low, he despaired of ever finding the fragile orbs; he had a sinking feeling that Sherlock had “accidentally” smashed them all before secreting the remnants away. While Sherlock sat on the sofa, his eyes doing their best to destroy the tree through the force of his gaze alone, John finally gave up and padded into the living room in his socks to at least take down the macabre topper gracing his beautiful tree.
“Ow!” he cried suddenly, leaning one hand against the wall and hopping undignified on one foot. He pulled off his sock and found a golden shard of what used to be a merry little decoration imbedded in the thick wool. He pulled it out and held it up for Sherlock to see, who widened his eyes in an innocent expression that didn’t fool either of them.
Right, then, John thought decisively as he dug out the remains of ornament from his sock.
The war for Christmas had begun.
Special Tinsel and Tactics, 2/4
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories, 3/4
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention, 4/4
Author:
tripatchRating: G
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Originally from a kinkmeme prompt, John is actually one of those Chrismas nutcases who likes to bury their house in so much lights that it can be seen from space. He tries to get Sherlock into the Christmas spirit. This might be harder than he thought.
A/N: Thanks to the wonderful
errantcomment and musical_lottie for beta'ing and Britpicking respectively. Thank you both so much!Decorations and War Declarations
John Watson took a step back, admiring his handiwork. The vast majority of his flatmate’s experiments—and a few that he was sure served no legitimate scientific purpose and were there solely to test the limits of his patience—had been carefully thrown away or swept aside. The books had been neatly put on the shelves, organised by the arcane rules Sherlock insisted on and the detritus littering the main room completely cleared away. The Union Flag pillow, as well as its cousins on the sofa, had been joined by cheerful crocheted versions that boasted poinsettias and snow scenes; there was a green and red afghan tossed over the back of the couch; even the stag’s head mounted on the wall had a string of bells draped around its antlers and a bright red felt circle pasted where its nose should have been.
The coup de grace was the tree which took up an entire corner of the room, decorated with red and gold ornaments, spirals of tinsel, fairy lights winking merrily from between the branches, and a star which lit up on top. John was one of those people who always had their Christmas shopping done well before August and red-and-green tartan wrapped presents lay under the tree, waiting to be distributed and opened come December 25. He nodded with satisfaction. It was perfect. A bit drab, maybe, but he had to buy everything new this afternoon while Sherlock was out.
There was a rap on the door and he opened it to see Mrs. Hudson’s smiling face.
“Yoo-hoo, love,” she said, pushing her way in. Even she was infected by Christmas spirit, wearing a loud scarlet dress and a green bow in her hair. She held a gorgeous china serving plate in her hands, piled high with biscuits cut into trees and reindeer and other festive shapes. “I’ve just brought these by.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said graciously, accepting the plate and putting it on the newly cleaned counter. “What do you think?”
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands like a little girl. “Oh, doesn’t it look lovely! I used to trim the outside of this place with lights, you know, but… well, my hip.”
“I’ll do it,” John volunteered immediately.
“Will you? That would be wonderful, and such a help.”
“No problem at all,” John assured her, following her out into the hallway as she chattered about how she used to put them up and how festive they looked every year. She showed him where the ladder was kept and the boxes of lights.
“Are you sure this isn’t any trouble?” she asked, craning her neck to follow John’s steps up the ladder.
“Definitely not.”
She smiled. “I’ll just make us a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows for when you're done."
John whistled as he strung up the lights, occasionally a surprisingly tuneful voice bursting out of him to sing snippets such as, “But the very next day, you gave it away”, which had been Harry’s favourite song when they were younger. He remembered chasing her through the house, begging her to play something else, until she had reached her room, shutting the door in his face and blaring the song as loudly as possible just to annoy him.
He was humming happily when Sherlock walked past, seemingly not noticing John standing on a ladder above his head, disappearing into the building. Approximately fifty-five point nine seconds later, the door banged open and Sherlock reappeared, wild-eyed.
“What has happened to our flat?”
“It’s been cleaned,” John said placidly, draping more lights on the eaves.
Sherlock turned, arms hanging by his sides and staring in shock at the door as if it had personally offended him in some meaningful way, then whirled around again, craning his neck to glare at John more directly. He suddenly disappeared again, thumping up the stairs, then reappeared breathless from climbing the same flight four times in two minutes. He stared at John accusingly. “That is not clean.”
“How would you know?” John shot back. “I doubt you’ve ever had any personal experience with it.”
“Of course I have,” Sherlock said indignantly, drawing himself up. “We had maids.”
“It’s festive.”
“It’s horrid,” Sherlock objected. He ran inside a third time, and briefly John wished his patients showed the same devotion to physical exertion that Sherlock so clearly did. He didn’t have to wait long before Sherlock materialised by the foot of the ladder again.
“It looks like Harrods vomited in our flat,” he said. “There are lights. Everywhere! And a gigantic monstrosity of artificial foliage is hanging from our door.”
“It’s called a wreath, Sherlock.”
“I don’t care! It’s going.”
John finally took his eyes off the lights he was stringing and locked gazes with Sherlock, saying fiercely, “Oh, no. I put up with your experiments, and heads in the freezer, and eyeballs in the microwave, and whatever that … thing was in the bathtub last week, but for the next two weeks, you will leave the decorations alone. Are we clear?”
Sherlock took a step back, looking almost alarmed. He opened his mouth a few times, took note of John’s seriousness, then closed it with a huff and disappeared back into the flat. John took it as a sign of surrender.
He really should have known better.
The next day, John rolled out of bed and wandered into the kitchen to get a cup of tea, pouring water into the kettle and setting it to boil. He yawned, still half-asleep, when he suddenly noticed something was different. He looked around. The pillows remained on the sofa, his mother’s afghan was still there, but… the tree. The tree’s admittedly gaudy ornaments had been replaced with tiny pipettes and silver forceps scattered haphazardly amongst the branches. With horror, his eyes slowly raised until he reached the top, where the cheerful star had been replaced with Sherlock’s pet skull.
“Sherlock!” he bellowed.
Sherlock sauntered casually into the kitchen, wrapped in his blue dressing gown. “Yes?”
“What have you done to the tree?”
“It’s festive,” Sherlock said blandly, though his eyes sparkled.
“Where are the ornaments?” John demanded. “What did you do with them?”
“Is there tea?”
Sherlock snooped around the kitchen, peering over John’s shoulder for the kettle. He reached for a cupboard but John blocked his way, hands on his hips.
“What did you do with them?” he gritted out.
“I simply replaced them with something more interesting,” Sherlock said sulkily. “It’s more fitting for our flat, anyway.”
Though John searched the place high and low, he despaired of ever finding the fragile orbs; he had a sinking feeling that Sherlock had “accidentally” smashed them all before secreting the remnants away. While Sherlock sat on the sofa, his eyes doing their best to destroy the tree through the force of his gaze alone, John finally gave up and padded into the living room in his socks to at least take down the macabre topper gracing his beautiful tree.
“Ow!” he cried suddenly, leaning one hand against the wall and hopping undignified on one foot. He pulled off his sock and found a golden shard of what used to be a merry little decoration imbedded in the thick wool. He pulled it out and held it up for Sherlock to see, who widened his eyes in an innocent expression that didn’t fool either of them.
Right, then, John thought decisively as he dug out the remains of ornament from his sock.
The war for Christmas had begun.
Special Tinsel and Tactics, 2/4
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories, 3/4
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention, 4/4
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-18 06:56 pm (UTC)I actually think the skull is a perfect tree topper. Perhaps they could compromise and put some twinkly lights in the eye sockets - or add a pipe cleaner halo or something.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-18 07:02 pm (UTC)I think some twinkly lights in the eye sockets would be quite cute, actually! :)