Oneshots, imagines, and ideas, oh my! *discontinued*

Sherlock Christmas

Sherlock Christmas

Note: I love the response that Winchester Christmas got, so I'm going to keep going until Christmas. Hopefully, after the holidays I can get that first kiss preference comp. out, almost 4k reads late. I suck, I know, I'm sorry. I hope to publish one or two more Christmas things before the end of...Christmas, take them down in January, and then re-publish them next season. 

My boyfriend gave me mittens :D 

Warnings: No. 

Sherlock Christmas

"She's your girlfriend. You text her."
"If she's staying late, I applaud her devotion."
"No, you don't."
"Who's to say?"
"You're--you, you're you, and if it were anything else you'd be pouting."

Sherlock finally spared his friend a glance. John was past exasperated, from a combination of Y/n's lateness and Sherlock's apathy. It always got to him, but then, what else could one expect from a high-functioning sociopath? It certainly didn't make John any less right--if he were working a case or looking for some distraction and she was late, he'd be passive-aggressively upset with her.

While 221b was far from festive, it was primed for a Christmas celebration. While they weren't expecting a large network of friends and or family, they were two hours past expecting a certain young woman.

Sherlock had been seeing Y/n for almost a year. They weren't quite dating, but implicitly exclusive. It was the strangest thing one could witness, their fluctuations between closeness and detachment were unpredictable and surprising. He supposed that he couldn't expect any better, but often wished things were different.

Before they could resume arguing, the door opened rather loudly, cutting off all conversation. An interruptiont that was dressed in...bloody scrubs. Her hair, which she pinned up tightly for work, was frayed and messy, and she looked like death.

"God, Y/n, come in, sit down. Can I get you a cuppa?" John attempted to usher her inside, but she simply dropped her purse and trudged over to where Sherlock was sitting, hands clasped under his chin. She sank down onto the floor by his chair, half leaning on his legs. 

"It wasn't your fault." He muttered, and she made a sound low in her throat.

"What is it?" John, with her cup of tea, requested clarification. 

"Family of three, car crash."
"That's--horrible, I'm so sorry--"
"The daughter survived." Sherlock interrupted. His hand had found its way to the top of her head and it was just sitting there--like a weak attempt at comfort.

"The son, actually. Ten years old, made off with minor injuries. Well, minor in comparison."
"You did everything you could."
"Well, it wasn't enough."
"Never is. I'm sure John could help you through this."
"It's fine. I'm fine. I'm going to go...shower. And then we can do whatever."

She stood, and trudged off to Sherlock's room, leaving the sociopath to his friend's disappointment. 

"I'm sure John could help you? Your best is never enough?  What supportive words, from the world's most caring partner."

"If she were interested in garish displays of pointless affection, she wouldn't be romantically involved with me."
"She doesn't have to love every annoying thing about you."

Disappointed John still had his arms crossed when Y/n came out, dressed in her own pants and one of Sherlock's shirts. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

"So, what's on the agenda for the night?"
"Nothing much, really. Just thought it would do for everyone to be together. Dinner, and everything."
"In that case, I'm going to go to the corner shop and getting some supplies."
"What sort of supplies?"
"Alchohol and eggnog."

"Intent on drowning your issues?" Sherlock rolled his eyes lazily to meet hers, and she put her hands on her hips. 

"No. It's a Christmas tradition. And I can't help but think it might make me feel better."
"Words of true intellect."
"Hemingway was an alcoholic."
"Hemingway was sub-par."

She gasped, and pointed at him while backing away.

"Hearsay!"

"I'll go." John cut off the inevitable argument. "You stay."
"Don't worry about it, I--"
"You'll stay here, I'll go. Could use some air, anyways."

In thirty seconds, he was gone, leaving the discontented couple free to tear at one another's throats.

~~

Years would pass, and John Watson would never know what happened that Christmas Eve. Some may say it was an act of supernatural forces, others may say that the spirit of the holiday acted like a psychoactive drug. Either way, something amazing happened that night, something that everyone who observed it would remember for the rest of their lives.

John returned home thirty minutes after leaving to retrieve supplies for adult eggnog and witnessed the very first miracle that occurred at 221b. There would be several following miracles, such as the impromptu proposal between a sociopath and a nurse and a later pregnancy announcement, but this was the first. Some may say it was insignificant, but it was far from.

Curled up against one another on the couch, Sherlock Holmes and Y/n L/n were sitting silently together. An ignorant bystander may confuse it for loving cuddling, but of course, that couldn't be true. It wasn't at all possible that Sherlock had reached out to her, and though the tears drying on her cheeks suggested she had vented her sorrows to him, that didn't make any sense. And there must have been a logical reason he seemed to be holding her, shielding her from the world.

As he came in, John closed the door as quietly as he could. Sherlock glanced over to him, and carefully unwrapped one arm from her. He held a finger up to his lips, and then returned the appendage to its previous position. She was, indeed, asleep. Whether it was the long day at work, the exhaustion of her tears, or the loving hold which consumed her contrasting with the snow outside, she'd been wiped out. By the time John put the groceries away and settled in his chair, Sherlock's eyes had closed, too. 

And so the first miracle was a Christmas miracle, as cliche and Hallmark as that may be.