Not So Silent Night, 4/4
Dec. 18th, 2010 11:40 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, 1/4
Special Tinsel and Tactics, 2/4
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories, 3/4
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention
John and Sherlock returned to their flat in fuming silence, neither of them even looking at each other from across the small backseat of the cab. John followed Sherlock up the steps, nearly running into him when Sherlock suddenly stopped short after opening the door.
“What is it?” he asked peevishly.
Sherlock stepped aside, allowing John a look. The vast majority of tacky kitsch had been carted off, only the barest bones of the decoration riots still hanging around the flat. It looked almost tasteful. Sitting on the sofa were Molly, Sarah, and Sally Donovan. Mrs Hudson sat chatting to the three younger women, while Lestrade took the place of honour in the armchair.
“Oh, finally,” Lestrade said, standing. “We’ve been waiting for you to get home for ages.”
“How did you get in?” Sherlock demanded. “Mrs Hudson?”
“I let them in, dear,” Mrs Hudson said placidly.
“Another drugs bust? On Christmas Eve? How very tactful of you.”
“Not a drugs bust, an intervention.”
“A Christmas intervention,” Sarah chimed in. She looked at John with a mixture of disappointment and bewilderment. “What on earth were you thinking?”
John shrugged sheepishly. It wasn’t his fault that Sherlock brought out the worst in him. It was like living with Harry all over again, an endless competition of stubborn, childish wills.
“Aha! Finally, voices of reason,” Sherlock said smugly.
Lestrade held up his hand. “Oh, no, we’re here for you, too. We’re all quite tired of this little feud you two have going on. You,” he pointed to John, “are not allowed to order anything else online or visit any more shops. I don’t even want to know how much you spent buying all of this rubbish. And you,” he turned his attention to Sherlock, “are going to grit your teeth and pretend to like it for one night. It won’t kill you, and frankly, we might, if you keep this Scrooge act up. Are we quite clear?”
There was tense moment of silence.
“Yes,” John said finally.
Lestrade glared at Sherlock until the man heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”
“Good. Now help yourself to some mulled wine, have some biscuits, and act merry, dammit.”
John felt his lips twitching and looked over to see Sherlock having the same problem. Without warning, they both burst into giggles, leaning against each other helplessly as the fit took them. Even Lestrade’s serious face broke and he grinned at them, exposing his snaggle-tooth.
The tension caused by the impromptu intervention dissipated under the heady weight of companionship and camaraderie, eased heavily by Mrs Hudson’s “special” Christmas punch, which had been further helped along by a flask Sally had smuggled in.
Halfway through the celebrations, John disappeared into his room, brandishing one last present wrapped in his hands. He offered it silently to Sherlock, who unwrapped the paper delicately, pulling out a box with his prized skull resting inside.
“If you would do the honours,” John said, nodding to the tree.
With quiet dignity, Sherlock stretched his arms and balanced the skull carefully on the uppermost spire of the tree. The group of people stood silently, glasses held loosely in their hands, and silently admired the twinkling lights, the pipettes lit from behind, the warm glow reflecting softly off the forceps. Even the human skull looked somehow strangely appropriate, mounted on top of the tree like a particularly gruesome angel.
“I suppose this is where one of us says something horribly saccharine, like, ‘Merry Christmas to all of us, each and every one’,” Sherlock broke the silence.
John nudged him with his elbow, not even bothering to take his eyes off the centrepiece of the room. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
Sherlock let out a low baritone laugh and slowly everyone resumed chatting quietly amongst themselves, carols crooning faintly from the radio in the background. For a brief, shining moment in that little flat of 221 B Baker Street, there was a moment of peace on earth and goodwill to one’s fellow man.
Until next year, that is.
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, 1/4
Special Tinsel and Tactics, 2/4
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories, 3/4
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention
John and Sherlock returned to their flat in fuming silence, neither of them even looking at each other from across the small backseat of the cab. John followed Sherlock up the steps, nearly running into him when Sherlock suddenly stopped short after opening the door.
“What is it?” he asked peevishly.
Sherlock stepped aside, allowing John a look. The vast majority of tacky kitsch had been carted off, only the barest bones of the decoration riots still hanging around the flat. It looked almost tasteful. Sitting on the sofa were Molly, Sarah, and Sally Donovan. Mrs Hudson sat chatting to the three younger women, while Lestrade took the place of honour in the armchair.
“Oh, finally,” Lestrade said, standing. “We’ve been waiting for you to get home for ages.”
“How did you get in?” Sherlock demanded. “Mrs Hudson?”
“I let them in, dear,” Mrs Hudson said placidly.
“Another drugs bust? On Christmas Eve? How very tactful of you.”
“Not a drugs bust, an intervention.”
“A Christmas intervention,” Sarah chimed in. She looked at John with a mixture of disappointment and bewilderment. “What on earth were you thinking?”
John shrugged sheepishly. It wasn’t his fault that Sherlock brought out the worst in him. It was like living with Harry all over again, an endless competition of stubborn, childish wills.
“Aha! Finally, voices of reason,” Sherlock said smugly.
Lestrade held up his hand. “Oh, no, we’re here for you, too. We’re all quite tired of this little feud you two have going on. You,” he pointed to John, “are not allowed to order anything else online or visit any more shops. I don’t even want to know how much you spent buying all of this rubbish. And you,” he turned his attention to Sherlock, “are going to grit your teeth and pretend to like it for one night. It won’t kill you, and frankly, we might, if you keep this Scrooge act up. Are we quite clear?”
There was tense moment of silence.
“Yes,” John said finally.
Lestrade glared at Sherlock until the man heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”
“Good. Now help yourself to some mulled wine, have some biscuits, and act merry, dammit.”
John felt his lips twitching and looked over to see Sherlock having the same problem. Without warning, they both burst into giggles, leaning against each other helplessly as the fit took them. Even Lestrade’s serious face broke and he grinned at them, exposing his snaggle-tooth.
The tension caused by the impromptu intervention dissipated under the heady weight of companionship and camaraderie, eased heavily by Mrs Hudson’s “special” Christmas punch, which had been further helped along by a flask Sally had smuggled in.
Halfway through the celebrations, John disappeared into his room, brandishing one last present wrapped in his hands. He offered it silently to Sherlock, who unwrapped the paper delicately, pulling out a box with his prized skull resting inside.
“If you would do the honours,” John said, nodding to the tree.
With quiet dignity, Sherlock stretched his arms and balanced the skull carefully on the uppermost spire of the tree. The group of people stood silently, glasses held loosely in their hands, and silently admired the twinkling lights, the pipettes lit from behind, the warm glow reflecting softly off the forceps. Even the human skull looked somehow strangely appropriate, mounted on top of the tree like a particularly gruesome angel.
“I suppose this is where one of us says something horribly saccharine, like, ‘Merry Christmas to all of us, each and every one’,” Sherlock broke the silence.
John nudged him with his elbow, not even bothering to take his eyes off the centrepiece of the room. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
Sherlock let out a low baritone laugh and slowly everyone resumed chatting quietly amongst themselves, carols crooning faintly from the radio in the background. For a brief, shining moment in that little flat of 221 B Baker Street, there was a moment of peace on earth and goodwill to one’s fellow man.
Until next year, that is.
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Date: 2011-01-20 06:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-01-25 10:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-03 01:57 am (UTC)