Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Thirty Five - Christmas, Part II

A/N: what was supposed to be yesterday's update ooOPS. basically pretend this happened first lol (John punched Pickard in the face remember)

John

John woke up in a tizzy, he about collapsed when he left his bedroom, then rushed to put on his jacket and sneakers. He was going to see Sherlock today... and the day after that, and the day after that.

When John got there, Sherlock's mum was cleaning.

"Oh! John. You're here." She seemed unsurprised; Sherlock must have informed her earlier. "He's in the living room," she said.

When John arrived in their enormous lounge, he'd found Sherlock with no shirt on, wearing a sheet round his shoulders. John blushed fiercely, sat down next to him, and tried not to look down. Tried not to look at all, in fact. 

"Are... are you wearing anything under that?"

Sherlock shook his head once, then, nonchalantly, "Want some tea, John, Mum just made some."

"Never pass up an opportunity to get tea," John mumbled. "I don't think I need to tell you that I'm holding a Christmas present, though. Yours."

Sherlock looked at John. John looked at the sheet, and then at his box, and thought of something dirty. Then he stopped thinking.

"Well, John, give it."

"Oh! Oh, yes, I..." John handed him the box, biting his lip, and waited for Sherlock to open it. It was covered in scrap wrapping paper from his present; Santas and mouses and sparkly snowflakes. Sherlock carefully unpeeled it, and then looked at the box before opening that too. Then he reached inside - and out came a book.

"Catcher in The Rye," Sherlock murmured. "Edition five. Edition five."

John nodded. "I, uhm, thought you'd like it."

"Oh, John..." he looked up at him. "It's gorgeous."

It really was; inscribed letters, binding strong, pages crinkled... And oh, God, it smelled like books. They cover was hand painted, watercolor, of a bird flying, and in small, curly letters the artist's name was at the bottom.

Sherlock opened the cover, and John's heart plummeted. "I..." Sherlock trailed off as he read what was inside, and looked at the picture tucked neatly next to the note.

Shit. John was blushing, and Sherlock was blushing, too - his eyes wide and skin flushed.

"I'm sorry, I... I got carried away..."

"No, John," Sherlock said incredulously. "This is brilliant. You never said you painted."

"I don't. It's really just a pastime. I used to. Not anymore."

Sherlock looked up. "Not anymore? I've got shitloads of paints that I never use. What possessed you to stop?"

"Because I got poor," John laughed.

Then, Sherlock smiled. When he smiled too much, his cheeks made perfect triangles and his eyes almost disappeared into bright blue slits. "Come on," Sherlock said, standing up in only his sheet. "I need to show you your present."

John followed Sherlock up into his room, and followed him to the bed, where he promptly swung his legs over the head of it, closing his eyes. He didn't want to see Sherlock with a sheet on, naked underneath, peering down at him. He did not want to get even the semblance of an erection. Plus, he was pretty sure Sherlock would know immediately, and then it'd be embarrassing for both of them. Especially when they were giving each other Christmas presents, for God's sake.

Sherlock handed John the first package. "This is from my Mum. It's cologne. Never wear it, please." Then Sherlock took out the second one. It was pretty small. "It's rather impersonal. But, I feel as if it's a necessity. Understand that I'm paying the dues, and you don't have to take it if you wish... I just..."

John took the box and shook it, then unwrapped it as carefully as was possible. It was a phone. A beautiful phone.

"Latest model I could get. It also has unlimited call and text. I prefer to text, though. Bit less time consuming."

John blinked as Sherlock sat on the bed next to him. "It's... it's honestly perfect."

"My number's already in there."

"We don't need to keep the door open, do we?"

"No. No, we don't, because you're a boooy," Sherlock drawled. He got up, closed it, then sat back down, bouncing slightly. And then he jumped again, "Damn, it nearly slipped my mind..." He began to rummage in one of the shelves of his bookcase, watching for what seemed to be...

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Oh, the intimate present, you know, the one that's supposed to make you faint..." Sherlock paused. "Have you ever fainted before? I believe that's utter horse shit."

"Uh, um, no," John sat, and he waited as Sherlock mumbled, "Where is it, whereisit, whereisit?"

"Have you found it yet?"

"God, you really are an idiot, aren't you? No, I haven't. If I had, it would probably be in your hand." Sherlock dug a little more, then pulled out a tiny gray box.

"Here," he said. "Open it." Sherlock smiled like John was the sun.

John took the box, and slowly, opened it, then took it out. It was a ring; a gold ring, cool against his skin. Sherlock took it for a moment, and inspected it. "I hope it's what you wanted, as I have not ever been in a relationship quite so endearing. There was Molly Hooper, but I never quite liked her, you know, she was a bit..."

"Not me."

"Yes, that's the point I was attempting to make. Anyways. I know it's a tad... overenthusiastic. Gold plated rings, I know, but I was hoping it was unnoticeable enough that only you would know it was there-"

"Sherlock." John smiled.

"I can understand if you can't take it."

Of course John couldn't take it.

But by God, he wanted it.

Sherlock

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was being so completely sentimental right now, but by God, he didn't care.

He should have gotten the pen that he saw in that store at the mall, that was worth two thousand dollars and had a calligraphy set to match, or he should've gotten something quiet, or subtle, like a book. He should've done something that couldn't be shot down quite so hard.

But Sherlock didn't feel for him like he felt for a book. He paid extra for the fine engraving in the inseam, letters burning into John's skin. Letters that spelled his name. John always said he liked Sherlock's name.

"I kept the receipt," he said.

"Oh, God, no, Sherlock." John smiled. "Never return this. It's lovely."

"Will you wear it?"

"Always."

Sherlock held on to the back of his neck nervously, trying not to display too much eagerness in his eyes. "Now?"

"Yes. Yes."

Sherlock slipped it on his left ring finger (it obviously fit fantastically). Maybe that was why Sherlock bought it, so he could feel the tremor when the gold closed around John. He'd fantasized about this, honestly, the way it'd feel to hold John's hands in his as he tried the ring on.

Sherlock leaned close, so his breaths were hot on the shell of John's right ear. "It's got my name engraved into the inside... Narcissistic, I know, but it's just in case you forget about me."

"Sherlock..." John whispered, "You're wearing a sheet."

"I'll take off the sheet, if you'd like," Sherlock said, poking at John's side.

"You're awful," John said. "This is all absolute rubbish."

John

They were sitting in the kitchen, playing checkers, although Sherlock despised it: "This requires about as much skill as it takes to breathe!"

John kept on losing. He'd lost maybe ten times in the last twenty minutes, followed by a triumphant tilt of the head from Sherlock.

His mum was washing dishes next to him. She asked how Christmas was, and he'd replied fine.

"What did you have for the dinner, darling? Turkey, or ham...?"

"Turkey," John responded. "There were peppermint cookies involved."

"Oh, then you'll just have to give me a recipe, or else I will turn monstrous," she joked, wiping her hands on a towel.

"I'm afraid I don't even know what it is, ma'am. It's German."

"That's where you get your hair, darling. It's so blonde."

John blushed, and turned away.

"It really is, quite," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, and then John kicked him under the table. "Too long for my taste," Sherlock grunted, pushing at John with his feet.

He wasn't wearing socks.

"Too long, eh?"

"Yes. Much too long."

When Sherlock asked about his Christmas, John had said he ate. Quite a lot: mashed potatoes and turkey, which was, of course, delicious, and when his mum brought out the cookies that they tasted like him.

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders when John asked about his, but he didn't want to pry; he wanted to see Sherlock smile, so he told a joke about what Harry had said about Daniel Craig doing Casino Royale. He laughed, which was nice to hear, as always.

"Do you think that your parents would be alright with me if it wasn't for your step-father?"

John scratched his increasingly stubbly chin. "I mean... I don't know. No, I don't think so." John grabbed onto his ring and tugged, just to remind him Sherlock was there.

John spent the entire rest of the vacation at Sherlock's house. His father didn't seem to mind, although God knows what he was doing to Sherlock while John was gone, and his mum was always asking him to stay for dinner.

John's mum thought he was spending all that time with Greg Lestrade. "Don't overstay your welcome, John," she'd said once. "You know, he can come over sometimes, too," which they both knew was a joke.

No one had any friends over anymore. No one even had friends. Well, his mum used to.

Back when their parents were married, they used to bring over men and women, usually newlyweds, finding themselves with the help of their most trusted buddies - the Watson's.

And even when his parents split up because of an embezzlement scandal that wasn't even especially Rory's fault, Emma brought even more people around, crocheting and baking and whispering all hush-hush about their ex-husbands and their sister's new baby... And occasionally (not really), they would discuss the gorgeous, brown eyed post man; God, was he spectacular.

Pickard had started as one of those stories. It went like this:

Every day, his mum used to bicycle to work in a stunning summer dress and Vans, her hair up in a long ponytail that was perfectly shaped. One day, Pickard saw her. Her bicycle wheel had popped, and she had no means of transportation. Well, he lent her a pump, and soon, he saw her every day on the way to work, bicycling her way through the town.

One day, he pulled over, and said she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen, and gave her his number.

John had first heard of him while painting on the couch, getting the blue watercolor everywhere, and sipping on lemonade. He wasn't eavesdropping, really. He was just... listening while they were unawares.

If John was quiet, they forgot he was in the room. If they drank, they didn't care.

"Never trust anyone who doesn't like to dance!" they'd shouted at him. "Especially if it is a man!"

"Oh, if John likes men-" a woman started.

"No, GOOD GOD, WOMAN!"

"Blaphmesy!" they chorused, too drunk to realize they'd mixed up a few letters.

John decided that day he would never be a drunk, or a gay, lest Emma's friends come back and haunt him with chants of anti-religious movements.

When his mum told them that Pickard had said she was prettier than the dawn off the foggiest mountains, they'd all sighed and begged for her to elaborate.

Course he said that, John had thought. She undoubtedly is.

John was twelve, and couldn't imagine anything other than Rory's kind blue eyes watching over his mum.

He never knew that there was anything known as a bad husband.

Anyway. John always tried to leave before dinner, just in case his mother was right about overstaying his visit. 

Harry started to drink again, unfortunately, and John decided to take a break from her and all her trivial excuses she had for failing her classes and at her life. John kept down the patronizing glares to a minimum, simultaneously balancing the art of Sherlock and balancing the art of running out of his house before dinner was ready.

He had to do that, so he could take a shower before Pickard got home; there still was no door to the bathroom, and it was really hard to do everything when his mum was humming in their tiny kitchen about Jesus and whatnot. He once heard her screeching Amazing Grace, and John tried his absolute best to not cry.

He was thinking about showering in the locker rooms, but Anderson only got worse as time went on.

He'd caught him starting to write "fag" all over John's locker in gym, like Moriarty did to Sherlock, but John had kicked his legs out from under him and twisted his arm back. He started to whimper; that's how awesome John was now.

God, he was gangster.