Performance In a Leading Role (16/20) - Part Two
Part One of this chapter is located here.
“John, make it stop,” Sherlock groaned, curling into a tighter ball in the passenger seat and hugging his knees to his chest.
“I told you not to have that third piece of banoffee pie.”
“But it was so good.”
“I know it was good. My sister is a cracking cook, but with as little as you normally eat, three pieces of banoffee pie on top of two hot toddies, two glasses of wine, and a full Christmas dinner was going to give you a stomachache.”
Sherlock gave another groan. “Food is vile. I’m never eating again.”
John glanced over at him, a little tenderness creeping into his expression. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s cheek. “It’ll pass soon, and then you’ll be asking if we have any crisps.”
“Oh, God! Not crisps!”
“Or just one mint. It is wafer-thin!” John said, giggling.
“Don’t say mint! Don’t say the names of any food at all. I demand this.”
John laughed at him a bit more, and then they fell silent. Sherlock watched John at the wheel to distract himself from his gurgling stomach. He enjoyed watching John drive; he did it so competently, and with such calm confidence. Watching John do anything with confidence was becoming a bit of a hobby of Sherlock’s. He supposed it had started when he’d seen John so skillfully act the Big Scene. Whether it was cooking, or driving, or boxing at the gym, watching John in action was one of Sherlock’s favorite things to do.
His stomach was settling. “Your brothers and sisters were…enthusiastic.”
“Bit overboard, weren’t they? They just wanted us to know they’re okay with it.”
“There’s such a thing as going too far in the other direction. None of the children seemed to care at all. Well, except Liam.”
John sighed. “Poor Liam. I ought to spend some time with him, just us.”
“Is there a story there?”
“Not really. He’s always idolized me, more so than the others. Charlie tells me that he brags about me to his mates, his uncle the big-time film star. He’s just twelve, and at that age everything starts to become about what is and isn’t manly, and learning how to be masculine, and the most important thing in the world is what your mates think. Charlie said he’s been getting some crap at school about me being…well….”
“A poofter?”
“I think he feels betrayed. He doesn’t know how to act. It isn’t his fault; he’s just a kid. He’ll come round.”
“Isabelle’s rather keen, isn’t she?”
“Oh, she’s a smart one, all right. Our agent on the inside.”
They were quiet for a few more minutes. Sherlock shifted a bit, working his mind around to something he knew he had to say. “John, I’m sorry. About what happened at dinner.”
John sighed. “You’re not the one who needs to apologize.”
“I knew going in that your father might say unkind things to me, so I was prepared for it. I wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel when he said unkind things to you. He’s welcome to say what he likes to me, I don’t care. But I couldn’t sit there and listen to him malign you without speaking up.”
John reached out and took his hand. “I know.”
“It was never my wish to ruin the family dinner.”
“You ruined nothing. You sat back down, Dad shut the hell up, and we all went on with life. If it makes you feel better, Peter came to me later and said he was impressed. He said he wished he had the guts to confront Dad like that. He was so intimidating, all our lives, none of us ever really had the gumption to face up to him.”
“It’s different when it’s your father.”
John hesitated. “What about yours?”
“What about him?”
“Were you afraid of him?”
“Terrified. Until the day I realized I was much smarter than he was. Not coincidentally, that was the day he rather stopped liking me.”
“How old were you?”
“Five.”
John snorted a disbelieving laugh. “Five. Christ, Sherlock.” He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles.
“Your dad got me alone later. Wanted to chat.”
“What?” John said, alarmed. “When was that?”
“I stepped out for a moment. Just needed a bit of quiet. You were playing video games with Michael and Luke. Your dad joined me on the porch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now. No point interrupting the holiday.”
“Oh, God, what did he say to you?”
Sherlock sighed. “He said that no one’d ever dared speak to him like that in his own house. I said-quite reasonably, I think-that I wouldn’t stand by and let you be treated like that in a house you paid for.”
“Jesus. Sherlock, I….”
“Shush, John. Let me finish. Then he…well, he laughed.”
“He…he laughed?”
“As I live and breathe. He told me I had some bollocks on me, and that he was glad that at least I wasn’t one of those limp-wristed shirt-lifters. His words, not mine.”
John abruptly pulled onto the shoulder, parked the car and turned to face him. “Sorry, I just don’t think I ought to be driving when I hear this. Then what?”
“I told him that he’d had his little strop, and you’d indulged him, but that if he and your mother wish to continue to have contact with you, they’d best start dealing with it.”
“That’s just about exactly what I told Mum.”
“Well, apparently my bollocks don’t buy me much influence, because he said he’d deal with it as he saw fit. Then he went back into the house.”
John shook his head. “Just a glimmer of hope is all I’m asking for right now. I don’t ask that they do an instant turnaround. He couldn’t have talked to me instead of you?”
“He can’t talk to you about it yet, John. It’s too raw. He can’t trust himself. I suppose we ought to be thankful he said as much to me.”
“At least you impressed him, for whatever good that’ll do.” John put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.
Sherlock groaned as his stomach gave another unhappy heave. “I shall never eat banoffee pie again.”
John clucked. “Shall we stop somewhere and get you some ginger tea?”
The concern in John’s voice made him smile. “No, I’ll just suffer through.”
“Oh, of course. More fun to play the martyr.”
“Much. And then I may benefit from your caretaking for a little while longer.”
“Please tell me I do not sense any doctor/patient role-playing in our future.”
“Now there’s an idea.”
“Oh God, now I’ve done it.”
Sherlock sighed and let his eyes fall shut for a moment, his mind masticating-to use John’s word for it-on the cornucopia of new data he had about John’s family. Meeting so many people at once was always exhausting for him; he couldn’t help but read their life stories, and he had to concentrate to maintain his focus on what they were actually saying to him.
He couldn’t imagine growing up in a family of five children. He knew that the number was not particularly excessive, but as he was one of only two children, it seemed like a throng. Among John’s four siblings, their three collective spouses, and their assorted children, it had been a populous gathering. Harry had been the only Watson not to bring someone.
“Harry didn’t bring Clara,” he said.
“No, she did not,” John said, his tone speaking volumes.
“I might have thought she’d speak up a bit in solidarity.” John didn’t say anything. “She hasn’t told them yet, has she?”
“I suppose it’s easier to hide it when you’re not being tracked by Perez Hilton.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to feel about that. I can’t tell her how to live, or what to do. I can’t imagine my parents’ reaction if they found out that two of their children are in same-sex relationships.”
“They wouldn’t react to her as they did to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s already the black sheep. She’s thirty-six, she’s not married, she’s unlikely to have children, and she’s an alcoholic. Being a lesbian would just be one more strike. You, on the other hand. You’re the golden child. You’re a decorated war hero and a world-famous actor worth millions who’s always dated beautiful women and supported the whole family while allowing them to live vicariously through your fabulous lifestyle.”
“Oh, yes. My fabulous lifestyle. Making scrambled eggs on a Friday night in front of the telly.”
“You know what I mean. You had further to fall.”
“My relationship with you is not a fall.”
“They’d see it that way. No, it’s all very clear. All of them worship you. Your younger brother went into the military hoping to be like you.”
John sighed. “Peter has his own reasons.”
“You worry about him, don’t you?”
“Of course I worry. He’s just back from the Middle East and he’ll be off there again in a few months. And Leigh’s got their kids to deal with all on her own. You saw her, she looks like she’s at the end of her tether, and somehow, he doesn’t see it.” He sighed. “I’ve half a mind to hire some help for her.”
“She wants to ask you for help to pay for childcare assistance, but she can’t find the courage.”
John frowned. “How do you know that?”
“It’s obvious. She’s ashamed, as if it reflects badly on her as a woman and a mother.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous as it may be, she may never ask. We’ll just have to take matters in hand.”
John glanced at him, smiling. “We?”
“Yes, of course. Your problems are my problems too.”
They passed the rest of the drive quietly. By the time they reached the house, Sherlock’s stomach had more or less quieted, but he still felt unpleasantly full and unexpectedly grimy, as if all the excess sugar was coming out of his pores. He and John carted their gifts and leftovers into the house, dumping the whole lot in the kitchen before shuffling upstairs to the bedroom. “I’m for a shower,” Sherlock said. John nodded and said something that might have been ‘okay,’ but it was half-lost in a massive yawn.
By the time Sherlock emerged, John was in bed with the covers curled around him, eyes shut. Sherlock climbed in beside him, moving gingerly in case he was asleep. He was just about to put out the light when John spoke. “D’you want to have sex?”
Sherlock had to chuckle at the words, so drawn-out and muddled with fatigue that he could barely understand them. “I think you’re done in. As am I, actually. Let’s just get some sleep, shall we?”
“’Kay.”
Sherlock put out the light and settled back. John scooted closer and put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Love you,” he murmured, halfway to sleep.
“You, too.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead. He felt the fatigue of the day as well, but he suspected he’d have trouble falling asleep. Not only had the day given him much to ponder, but he was starting to feel nervous anticipation about the gift he would be giving John in the morning. They had both put their gifts under the little tabletop tree John had insisted they buy in Hailsham. A few small boxes, a few gifts in the stockings, but Sherlock knew that they each had a gift of some significance for the other. He’d seen the eagerness on John’s face when he’d placed a particular flat package under the tree, and he’d felt it himself when he’d put out the small box he had for John.
Sherlock knew that for most people Christmas was not just about anticipating what one was to receive, but also what one was to give. He’d never had a Christmas like this one; he’d never had anyone to share such holidays with. He’d spent all previous Christmases in his own home, or working, or else sitting in the awkward company of his brother and mother. The gifts he’d given them had been purely a matter of routine, and the ones he’d given Greg and his other staff had been (he was embarrassed to admit) selected by Sally. She’d even chosen her own gift because he couldn’t be bothered.
But now he had just spent a balls-out family-chaos holiday with the Watson clan, with all the excitement and affection and family strife that films and telly would have him believe were the norm, and in the morning he’d spend Christmas with a man he was deeply in love with, and he would give him something he’d spent considerable energy choosing. It hadn’t been an easy decision.
Material things seemed inadequate. Jewelry was right out. John didn’t wear decorative jewelry, and Sherlock refused to buy him any sort of ring except the sort that comes with vows attached, and it was not yet time for that. An extravagant purchase like a vehicle felt smarmy. He’d considered giving him a trip, but they already had tentative plans to do some traveling once awards season was over-whenever it ended for them-if their schedules permitted.
All hand-wringing aside, he was happy with what he’d eventually chosen. He couldn’t wait to see John’s face when he opened it.
I must have been a very, very good boy this year.
John smiled to himself at the cliché, but it was true. His karma must be extra-shiny these days for him to deserve to wake up on Christmas morning in a bucolic country house in Sussex with a gorgeous lover shagging his brains out.
He pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders and managed to flip them both over without disengaging, then settled into Sherlock’s lap with a groan of pleasure. “Oh, yeah, that’s it,” he sighed. Sherlock tossed his head back and grabbed at John’s hips; John let his head droop forward as he shut his eyes, concentrating on the sensation, on Sherlock inside him, on the slow tidal motion of his own hips and the practiced ease of their lovemaking. They’d been good together from the start, fortunately, but in the months since then they had found their groove. Sherlock could read in John’s movements how he wanted Sherlock to respond, and John knew by the tension in Sherlock’s body how close he was.
He bent forward over Sherlock’s chest and kissed him. Sherlock braced his feet, cradling John’s hips against his thighs, and wrapped his arms around him. Their kisses grew harder and deeper as Sherlock hit that spot inside John over and over, driving every thought from his mind save one, Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. John hissed in a quick breath, feeling the flush rise to his chest and face. Sherlock was watching him. “Yes, John,” he whispered. He reached between them and stroked John’s cock with a practiced hand, and John went off like a booster rocket.
“Oh Christ,” he gasped, burying his face in Sherlock’s damp, warm neck, spilling between them as the orgasm washed over his whole body with a shuddery flash. He went limp in Sherlock’s arms and could do nothing but lie there and breathe while Sherlock thrust into him, faster, harder, until he finally came into John’s body with a bitten-off cry of his own.
They lay there catching their breath for a moment. John wiggled back against Sherlock’s sated cock, still tucked inside him. Sherlock chuckled. “Was that the wake-up you wanted?”
John propped up on one elbow. “Perfect.” He kissed Sherlock again, taking his time about it. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighed, his eyes full of the emotion that John knew was still strange to him. He wondered if Sherlock would ever get used to it. “Yes, it is,” he said. “A very happy Christmas.”
They stayed where they were and snogged for awhile, no intention of taking it further, just enjoying the closeness. John looked up at one point and his eyes widened. “Sherlock! Look!”
Sherlock twisted and sat up a little, looking where John was indicating. “Hmm. Looks like we have someone’s blessing, anyway.”
John grinned out the bedroom window at the sight of a gentle snowfall. The shrubs were frosted like cupcakes, and the world looked serene and perfect. “I wish we could stay here forever,” John blurted out. He blinked, not quite sure where that had come from.
Sherlock met his eyes. “We could, you know.”
John considered that for a moment. “What, stay here and never be seen again?”
“Why not?”
“Because we’d get bored and kill each other.”
Sherlock chuckled. “You’re probably right. In that case, we’d better get out of bed and see if Father Christmas came.”
They made it downstairs in a tumble of pajama-finding and quick tooth-cleanings. “Oh, drat. Still just the presents we already put there,” John said, eyeing their little tabletop tree.
“Perhaps we weren’t such good boys after all,” Sherlock purred into his ear, one hand sliding south to cup John’s arse.
John giggled and gave him a shove. “Breakfast before presents. That was the rule at our house. Never in their lives have five children eaten porridge faster.” He went into the kitchen to make toast and coffee. Sherlock wandered off, and in a few moments the sound of Christmas music filled the house from Sherlock’s iPod speakers. John recognized George Winston playing “The Holly and the Ivy.” “That’s my favorite carol,” he said.
“I know. That’s why I put it on my playlist. Are you still surprised that I know these things about you?”
“Not surprised. Just pleased.”
John spread butter and jam on their toast and walked carefully into the living room, balancing two plates on one arm with two mugs of coffee held in his other hand. Sherlock relieved him of half his burden, exchanging his plate and mug for a kiss, which John gladly bestowed.
John munched on his toast, looking around at the decorated house and the twinkly lights on the little tree. “This really is quite nice,” he said. “And that Irving Berlin snowfall is just the topper, isn’t it?”
“I’m rather more enthusiastic about the fantastic orgasm you gave me just now, actually.”
“So you’re not dreaming of a white christmas?” John teased him.
“Oh, it’s pleasant enough. But if it were disgustingly foggy and rainy, I’d still be here with you, and that’s all I care about.”
John shook his head. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Turn one of your annoying cerebral spasms into a charmingly backwards expression of affection.”
Sherlock laughed. “It’s a skill that I’ve had to develop so as to avoid you stomping off in a huff on a regular basis.”
John finished his last bite of toast. “Presents now!” he exclaimed, jumping up. Sherlock quickly swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and joined him at the tree. “All right, this one’s for you, and this one, and this one…and I’ll just keep this one till the end.” He tucked the special present into the pocket of his dressing gown with a little smile.
“Funny, I have a for-last present for you, too,” Sherlock said, secreting a slim box in his own pocket. “But these first.”
They set about opening their gifts, taking turns. John got a cashmere jumper in a lovely shade of blue, Sherlock got a new wallet. John got a tie pin engraved with his initials, Sherlock got a vintage copy of Mother Night, signed by Vonnegut. They opened the chocolates, the woolen hats, the new driving gloves, and the mongrammed luggage tags until only the Presents of Significance remained.
They sat and stared at each other. “You go first,” John said, holding out the package.
Sherlock looked as though he were debating whether he should insist that John go first, but then he took the package and tore the wrapping off. John had to sit on his hands, he was so excited. Sherlock seemed to take forever opening the box and the layers of tissue, but finally he lifted out a flat black envelope, embossed with a raised seal. “John, I…” John saw his eyes widen as he read the words on the seal. “What is this?”
John grinned, unable to contain himself any longer. “I set up and funded a charitable foundation in your name that will provide a full scholarship to one student each year from SFSA and from LaGuardia. It’s a fully-licensed charity, so you can make further contributions yourself or put out the word for donations. It’s completely funded for the first two years. Two students each year who couldn’t have afforded it can go to film school or drama school.”
Sherlock was gaping at him, mouth open. Of all the astonishing things that had happened to John in the last few months, the sight of Sherlock speechless had to be near the top of the list. “John…I don’t know what to say.” He opened up the flat envelope and stared down at the Holmes Foundation documents for a moment, then tossed the papers aside and lunged across the sofa at John. He hugged him hard, then pulled back and kissed him. “Thank you. My God. It’s the most perfect gift anyone could ever….” He shook his head. “You really thought about this, didn’t you?”
“I did. I wanted to get you something that would have meaning.”
“It does, God, it does.” Sherlock beamed a wide, happy smile. “I’m overwhelmed.” He kissed him again. “No one’s ever…. I just….” He took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
John blinked hard. Sherlock’s reaction was all he could have hoped for. He was alight with excitement and seemed bowled over that John had gone to the trouble (and it had, in fact, been quite a lot of trouble) to set it all up. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”
Sherlock gave him a mischievous smile and drew the small package from his pocket. “I believe it’s your turn now, Mr. Watson.”
John took the package, deadly curious about what it could be. He opened the wrapping and lifted the box’s lid to find-a pen. “Oh,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. It wasn’t even a particularly fancy pen. A nice pen, but an ordinary pen. “It’s a…pen.” He looked for an inscription or something, trying to be subtle about it, but there didn’t seem to be one. “I’m…it’s a pen,” he repeated.
Sherlock grinned. “Relax, John. I didn’t get you a sodding pen for Christmas. But you will be needing it to sign these,” he said, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a flourish from where he’d hidden them behind one of the couch cushions. He handed them over.
John put the pen aside and began to read them. It was the deed to a house. His eyes widened as he realized that it was the deed to this house. It was newly printed, and at the bottom of the signature page were the names of the owners. Sherlock Holmes, and…John Watson. “Sherlock, what…it’s the deed to this house.”
“It’s our house now, John.”
“You…what did you do?”
“I asked my brother to relinquish his half-ownership of this house and sign it over to you.”
“And he just did it?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
John cocked an eyebrow. “Sherlock, you bought him out of his half, didn’t you?”
Sherlock sighed. “All right, yes, I did.”
“I can’t believe this. We own this house? Together?”
“As soon as we’ve both signed these papers, we do.” Sherlock took the papers from him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen handy, would you?” he asked, smirking.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” John laughed, and handed him the ridiculous pen. He watched as Sherlock signed his name and then handed him the papers. “This is beyond….” He couldn’t finish; he just signed the deed. “Sherlock, you must let me pay for my half.”
“What sort of a Christmas gift requires the recipient to reimburse the giver?”
“But this isn’t a leather jacket or a new balaclava, it’s a house!”
“Yes, John. The house were we became us. It ought to be ours, our home, a place where we can always escape to. And I want to give it to you.”
John stared down at the title, tears blurring his eyes. “Our home,” he said. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Why not?”
John looked up at him. “Oh, no, it’s not…it’s not that I can’t, it’s that I’m amazed that you did.” He leaned forward and kissed him. “Thank you,” he whispered against his lips.
He felt Sherlock’s lips curl in a smile. “Happy Christmas, John.”
“Happy Christmas. The first of many.”
“Not many.”
“Hmm?”
“The rest. We’ll have the rest of our Christmases together. Won’t we?”
John drew back so he could see Sherlock’s eyes. “Quite right,” he said. Jumpers and tie-pins were nice, and half ownership of this house was mind-boggling, but nothing could ever come compare to what Sherlock had already given him.
Next Chapter
“John, make it stop,” Sherlock groaned, curling into a tighter ball in the passenger seat and hugging his knees to his chest.
“I told you not to have that third piece of banoffee pie.”
“But it was so good.”
“I know it was good. My sister is a cracking cook, but with as little as you normally eat, three pieces of banoffee pie on top of two hot toddies, two glasses of wine, and a full Christmas dinner was going to give you a stomachache.”
Sherlock gave another groan. “Food is vile. I’m never eating again.”
John glanced over at him, a little tenderness creeping into his expression. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s cheek. “It’ll pass soon, and then you’ll be asking if we have any crisps.”
“Oh, God! Not crisps!”
“Or just one mint. It is wafer-thin!” John said, giggling.
“Don’t say mint! Don’t say the names of any food at all. I demand this.”
John laughed at him a bit more, and then they fell silent. Sherlock watched John at the wheel to distract himself from his gurgling stomach. He enjoyed watching John drive; he did it so competently, and with such calm confidence. Watching John do anything with confidence was becoming a bit of a hobby of Sherlock’s. He supposed it had started when he’d seen John so skillfully act the Big Scene. Whether it was cooking, or driving, or boxing at the gym, watching John in action was one of Sherlock’s favorite things to do.
His stomach was settling. “Your brothers and sisters were…enthusiastic.”
“Bit overboard, weren’t they? They just wanted us to know they’re okay with it.”
“There’s such a thing as going too far in the other direction. None of the children seemed to care at all. Well, except Liam.”
John sighed. “Poor Liam. I ought to spend some time with him, just us.”
“Is there a story there?”
“Not really. He’s always idolized me, more so than the others. Charlie tells me that he brags about me to his mates, his uncle the big-time film star. He’s just twelve, and at that age everything starts to become about what is and isn’t manly, and learning how to be masculine, and the most important thing in the world is what your mates think. Charlie said he’s been getting some crap at school about me being…well….”
“A poofter?”
“I think he feels betrayed. He doesn’t know how to act. It isn’t his fault; he’s just a kid. He’ll come round.”
“Isabelle’s rather keen, isn’t she?”
“Oh, she’s a smart one, all right. Our agent on the inside.”
They were quiet for a few more minutes. Sherlock shifted a bit, working his mind around to something he knew he had to say. “John, I’m sorry. About what happened at dinner.”
John sighed. “You’re not the one who needs to apologize.”
“I knew going in that your father might say unkind things to me, so I was prepared for it. I wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel when he said unkind things to you. He’s welcome to say what he likes to me, I don’t care. But I couldn’t sit there and listen to him malign you without speaking up.”
John reached out and took his hand. “I know.”
“It was never my wish to ruin the family dinner.”
“You ruined nothing. You sat back down, Dad shut the hell up, and we all went on with life. If it makes you feel better, Peter came to me later and said he was impressed. He said he wished he had the guts to confront Dad like that. He was so intimidating, all our lives, none of us ever really had the gumption to face up to him.”
“It’s different when it’s your father.”
John hesitated. “What about yours?”
“What about him?”
“Were you afraid of him?”
“Terrified. Until the day I realized I was much smarter than he was. Not coincidentally, that was the day he rather stopped liking me.”
“How old were you?”
“Five.”
John snorted a disbelieving laugh. “Five. Christ, Sherlock.” He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles.
“Your dad got me alone later. Wanted to chat.”
“What?” John said, alarmed. “When was that?”
“I stepped out for a moment. Just needed a bit of quiet. You were playing video games with Michael and Luke. Your dad joined me on the porch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now. No point interrupting the holiday.”
“Oh, God, what did he say to you?”
Sherlock sighed. “He said that no one’d ever dared speak to him like that in his own house. I said-quite reasonably, I think-that I wouldn’t stand by and let you be treated like that in a house you paid for.”
“Jesus. Sherlock, I….”
“Shush, John. Let me finish. Then he…well, he laughed.”
“He…he laughed?”
“As I live and breathe. He told me I had some bollocks on me, and that he was glad that at least I wasn’t one of those limp-wristed shirt-lifters. His words, not mine.”
John abruptly pulled onto the shoulder, parked the car and turned to face him. “Sorry, I just don’t think I ought to be driving when I hear this. Then what?”
“I told him that he’d had his little strop, and you’d indulged him, but that if he and your mother wish to continue to have contact with you, they’d best start dealing with it.”
“That’s just about exactly what I told Mum.”
“Well, apparently my bollocks don’t buy me much influence, because he said he’d deal with it as he saw fit. Then he went back into the house.”
John shook his head. “Just a glimmer of hope is all I’m asking for right now. I don’t ask that they do an instant turnaround. He couldn’t have talked to me instead of you?”
“He can’t talk to you about it yet, John. It’s too raw. He can’t trust himself. I suppose we ought to be thankful he said as much to me.”
“At least you impressed him, for whatever good that’ll do.” John put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.
Sherlock groaned as his stomach gave another unhappy heave. “I shall never eat banoffee pie again.”
John clucked. “Shall we stop somewhere and get you some ginger tea?”
The concern in John’s voice made him smile. “No, I’ll just suffer through.”
“Oh, of course. More fun to play the martyr.”
“Much. And then I may benefit from your caretaking for a little while longer.”
“Please tell me I do not sense any doctor/patient role-playing in our future.”
“Now there’s an idea.”
“Oh God, now I’ve done it.”
Sherlock sighed and let his eyes fall shut for a moment, his mind masticating-to use John’s word for it-on the cornucopia of new data he had about John’s family. Meeting so many people at once was always exhausting for him; he couldn’t help but read their life stories, and he had to concentrate to maintain his focus on what they were actually saying to him.
He couldn’t imagine growing up in a family of five children. He knew that the number was not particularly excessive, but as he was one of only two children, it seemed like a throng. Among John’s four siblings, their three collective spouses, and their assorted children, it had been a populous gathering. Harry had been the only Watson not to bring someone.
“Harry didn’t bring Clara,” he said.
“No, she did not,” John said, his tone speaking volumes.
“I might have thought she’d speak up a bit in solidarity.” John didn’t say anything. “She hasn’t told them yet, has she?”
“I suppose it’s easier to hide it when you’re not being tracked by Perez Hilton.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to feel about that. I can’t tell her how to live, or what to do. I can’t imagine my parents’ reaction if they found out that two of their children are in same-sex relationships.”
“They wouldn’t react to her as they did to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s already the black sheep. She’s thirty-six, she’s not married, she’s unlikely to have children, and she’s an alcoholic. Being a lesbian would just be one more strike. You, on the other hand. You’re the golden child. You’re a decorated war hero and a world-famous actor worth millions who’s always dated beautiful women and supported the whole family while allowing them to live vicariously through your fabulous lifestyle.”
“Oh, yes. My fabulous lifestyle. Making scrambled eggs on a Friday night in front of the telly.”
“You know what I mean. You had further to fall.”
“My relationship with you is not a fall.”
“They’d see it that way. No, it’s all very clear. All of them worship you. Your younger brother went into the military hoping to be like you.”
John sighed. “Peter has his own reasons.”
“You worry about him, don’t you?”
“Of course I worry. He’s just back from the Middle East and he’ll be off there again in a few months. And Leigh’s got their kids to deal with all on her own. You saw her, she looks like she’s at the end of her tether, and somehow, he doesn’t see it.” He sighed. “I’ve half a mind to hire some help for her.”
“She wants to ask you for help to pay for childcare assistance, but she can’t find the courage.”
John frowned. “How do you know that?”
“It’s obvious. She’s ashamed, as if it reflects badly on her as a woman and a mother.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous as it may be, she may never ask. We’ll just have to take matters in hand.”
John glanced at him, smiling. “We?”
“Yes, of course. Your problems are my problems too.”
They passed the rest of the drive quietly. By the time they reached the house, Sherlock’s stomach had more or less quieted, but he still felt unpleasantly full and unexpectedly grimy, as if all the excess sugar was coming out of his pores. He and John carted their gifts and leftovers into the house, dumping the whole lot in the kitchen before shuffling upstairs to the bedroom. “I’m for a shower,” Sherlock said. John nodded and said something that might have been ‘okay,’ but it was half-lost in a massive yawn.
By the time Sherlock emerged, John was in bed with the covers curled around him, eyes shut. Sherlock climbed in beside him, moving gingerly in case he was asleep. He was just about to put out the light when John spoke. “D’you want to have sex?”
Sherlock had to chuckle at the words, so drawn-out and muddled with fatigue that he could barely understand them. “I think you’re done in. As am I, actually. Let’s just get some sleep, shall we?”
“’Kay.”
Sherlock put out the light and settled back. John scooted closer and put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Love you,” he murmured, halfway to sleep.
“You, too.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead. He felt the fatigue of the day as well, but he suspected he’d have trouble falling asleep. Not only had the day given him much to ponder, but he was starting to feel nervous anticipation about the gift he would be giving John in the morning. They had both put their gifts under the little tabletop tree John had insisted they buy in Hailsham. A few small boxes, a few gifts in the stockings, but Sherlock knew that they each had a gift of some significance for the other. He’d seen the eagerness on John’s face when he’d placed a particular flat package under the tree, and he’d felt it himself when he’d put out the small box he had for John.
Sherlock knew that for most people Christmas was not just about anticipating what one was to receive, but also what one was to give. He’d never had a Christmas like this one; he’d never had anyone to share such holidays with. He’d spent all previous Christmases in his own home, or working, or else sitting in the awkward company of his brother and mother. The gifts he’d given them had been purely a matter of routine, and the ones he’d given Greg and his other staff had been (he was embarrassed to admit) selected by Sally. She’d even chosen her own gift because he couldn’t be bothered.
But now he had just spent a balls-out family-chaos holiday with the Watson clan, with all the excitement and affection and family strife that films and telly would have him believe were the norm, and in the morning he’d spend Christmas with a man he was deeply in love with, and he would give him something he’d spent considerable energy choosing. It hadn’t been an easy decision.
Material things seemed inadequate. Jewelry was right out. John didn’t wear decorative jewelry, and Sherlock refused to buy him any sort of ring except the sort that comes with vows attached, and it was not yet time for that. An extravagant purchase like a vehicle felt smarmy. He’d considered giving him a trip, but they already had tentative plans to do some traveling once awards season was over-whenever it ended for them-if their schedules permitted.
All hand-wringing aside, he was happy with what he’d eventually chosen. He couldn’t wait to see John’s face when he opened it.
I must have been a very, very good boy this year.
John smiled to himself at the cliché, but it was true. His karma must be extra-shiny these days for him to deserve to wake up on Christmas morning in a bucolic country house in Sussex with a gorgeous lover shagging his brains out.
He pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders and managed to flip them both over without disengaging, then settled into Sherlock’s lap with a groan of pleasure. “Oh, yeah, that’s it,” he sighed. Sherlock tossed his head back and grabbed at John’s hips; John let his head droop forward as he shut his eyes, concentrating on the sensation, on Sherlock inside him, on the slow tidal motion of his own hips and the practiced ease of their lovemaking. They’d been good together from the start, fortunately, but in the months since then they had found their groove. Sherlock could read in John’s movements how he wanted Sherlock to respond, and John knew by the tension in Sherlock’s body how close he was.
He bent forward over Sherlock’s chest and kissed him. Sherlock braced his feet, cradling John’s hips against his thighs, and wrapped his arms around him. Their kisses grew harder and deeper as Sherlock hit that spot inside John over and over, driving every thought from his mind save one, Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. John hissed in a quick breath, feeling the flush rise to his chest and face. Sherlock was watching him. “Yes, John,” he whispered. He reached between them and stroked John’s cock with a practiced hand, and John went off like a booster rocket.
“Oh Christ,” he gasped, burying his face in Sherlock’s damp, warm neck, spilling between them as the orgasm washed over his whole body with a shuddery flash. He went limp in Sherlock’s arms and could do nothing but lie there and breathe while Sherlock thrust into him, faster, harder, until he finally came into John’s body with a bitten-off cry of his own.
They lay there catching their breath for a moment. John wiggled back against Sherlock’s sated cock, still tucked inside him. Sherlock chuckled. “Was that the wake-up you wanted?”
John propped up on one elbow. “Perfect.” He kissed Sherlock again, taking his time about it. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighed, his eyes full of the emotion that John knew was still strange to him. He wondered if Sherlock would ever get used to it. “Yes, it is,” he said. “A very happy Christmas.”
They stayed where they were and snogged for awhile, no intention of taking it further, just enjoying the closeness. John looked up at one point and his eyes widened. “Sherlock! Look!”
Sherlock twisted and sat up a little, looking where John was indicating. “Hmm. Looks like we have someone’s blessing, anyway.”
John grinned out the bedroom window at the sight of a gentle snowfall. The shrubs were frosted like cupcakes, and the world looked serene and perfect. “I wish we could stay here forever,” John blurted out. He blinked, not quite sure where that had come from.
Sherlock met his eyes. “We could, you know.”
John considered that for a moment. “What, stay here and never be seen again?”
“Why not?”
“Because we’d get bored and kill each other.”
Sherlock chuckled. “You’re probably right. In that case, we’d better get out of bed and see if Father Christmas came.”
They made it downstairs in a tumble of pajama-finding and quick tooth-cleanings. “Oh, drat. Still just the presents we already put there,” John said, eyeing their little tabletop tree.
“Perhaps we weren’t such good boys after all,” Sherlock purred into his ear, one hand sliding south to cup John’s arse.
John giggled and gave him a shove. “Breakfast before presents. That was the rule at our house. Never in their lives have five children eaten porridge faster.” He went into the kitchen to make toast and coffee. Sherlock wandered off, and in a few moments the sound of Christmas music filled the house from Sherlock’s iPod speakers. John recognized George Winston playing “The Holly and the Ivy.” “That’s my favorite carol,” he said.
“I know. That’s why I put it on my playlist. Are you still surprised that I know these things about you?”
“Not surprised. Just pleased.”
John spread butter and jam on their toast and walked carefully into the living room, balancing two plates on one arm with two mugs of coffee held in his other hand. Sherlock relieved him of half his burden, exchanging his plate and mug for a kiss, which John gladly bestowed.
John munched on his toast, looking around at the decorated house and the twinkly lights on the little tree. “This really is quite nice,” he said. “And that Irving Berlin snowfall is just the topper, isn’t it?”
“I’m rather more enthusiastic about the fantastic orgasm you gave me just now, actually.”
“So you’re not dreaming of a white christmas?” John teased him.
“Oh, it’s pleasant enough. But if it were disgustingly foggy and rainy, I’d still be here with you, and that’s all I care about.”
John shook his head. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Turn one of your annoying cerebral spasms into a charmingly backwards expression of affection.”
Sherlock laughed. “It’s a skill that I’ve had to develop so as to avoid you stomping off in a huff on a regular basis.”
John finished his last bite of toast. “Presents now!” he exclaimed, jumping up. Sherlock quickly swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and joined him at the tree. “All right, this one’s for you, and this one, and this one…and I’ll just keep this one till the end.” He tucked the special present into the pocket of his dressing gown with a little smile.
“Funny, I have a for-last present for you, too,” Sherlock said, secreting a slim box in his own pocket. “But these first.”
They set about opening their gifts, taking turns. John got a cashmere jumper in a lovely shade of blue, Sherlock got a new wallet. John got a tie pin engraved with his initials, Sherlock got a vintage copy of Mother Night, signed by Vonnegut. They opened the chocolates, the woolen hats, the new driving gloves, and the mongrammed luggage tags until only the Presents of Significance remained.
They sat and stared at each other. “You go first,” John said, holding out the package.
Sherlock looked as though he were debating whether he should insist that John go first, but then he took the package and tore the wrapping off. John had to sit on his hands, he was so excited. Sherlock seemed to take forever opening the box and the layers of tissue, but finally he lifted out a flat black envelope, embossed with a raised seal. “John, I…” John saw his eyes widen as he read the words on the seal. “What is this?”
John grinned, unable to contain himself any longer. “I set up and funded a charitable foundation in your name that will provide a full scholarship to one student each year from SFSA and from LaGuardia. It’s a fully-licensed charity, so you can make further contributions yourself or put out the word for donations. It’s completely funded for the first two years. Two students each year who couldn’t have afforded it can go to film school or drama school.”
Sherlock was gaping at him, mouth open. Of all the astonishing things that had happened to John in the last few months, the sight of Sherlock speechless had to be near the top of the list. “John…I don’t know what to say.” He opened up the flat envelope and stared down at the Holmes Foundation documents for a moment, then tossed the papers aside and lunged across the sofa at John. He hugged him hard, then pulled back and kissed him. “Thank you. My God. It’s the most perfect gift anyone could ever….” He shook his head. “You really thought about this, didn’t you?”
“I did. I wanted to get you something that would have meaning.”
“It does, God, it does.” Sherlock beamed a wide, happy smile. “I’m overwhelmed.” He kissed him again. “No one’s ever…. I just….” He took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
John blinked hard. Sherlock’s reaction was all he could have hoped for. He was alight with excitement and seemed bowled over that John had gone to the trouble (and it had, in fact, been quite a lot of trouble) to set it all up. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”
Sherlock gave him a mischievous smile and drew the small package from his pocket. “I believe it’s your turn now, Mr. Watson.”
John took the package, deadly curious about what it could be. He opened the wrapping and lifted the box’s lid to find-a pen. “Oh,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. It wasn’t even a particularly fancy pen. A nice pen, but an ordinary pen. “It’s a…pen.” He looked for an inscription or something, trying to be subtle about it, but there didn’t seem to be one. “I’m…it’s a pen,” he repeated.
Sherlock grinned. “Relax, John. I didn’t get you a sodding pen for Christmas. But you will be needing it to sign these,” he said, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a flourish from where he’d hidden them behind one of the couch cushions. He handed them over.
John put the pen aside and began to read them. It was the deed to a house. His eyes widened as he realized that it was the deed to this house. It was newly printed, and at the bottom of the signature page were the names of the owners. Sherlock Holmes, and…John Watson. “Sherlock, what…it’s the deed to this house.”
“It’s our house now, John.”
“You…what did you do?”
“I asked my brother to relinquish his half-ownership of this house and sign it over to you.”
“And he just did it?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
John cocked an eyebrow. “Sherlock, you bought him out of his half, didn’t you?”
Sherlock sighed. “All right, yes, I did.”
“I can’t believe this. We own this house? Together?”
“As soon as we’ve both signed these papers, we do.” Sherlock took the papers from him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen handy, would you?” he asked, smirking.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” John laughed, and handed him the ridiculous pen. He watched as Sherlock signed his name and then handed him the papers. “This is beyond….” He couldn’t finish; he just signed the deed. “Sherlock, you must let me pay for my half.”
“What sort of a Christmas gift requires the recipient to reimburse the giver?”
“But this isn’t a leather jacket or a new balaclava, it’s a house!”
“Yes, John. The house were we became us. It ought to be ours, our home, a place where we can always escape to. And I want to give it to you.”
John stared down at the title, tears blurring his eyes. “Our home,” he said. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Why not?”
John looked up at him. “Oh, no, it’s not…it’s not that I can’t, it’s that I’m amazed that you did.” He leaned forward and kissed him. “Thank you,” he whispered against his lips.
He felt Sherlock’s lips curl in a smile. “Happy Christmas, John.”
“Happy Christmas. The first of many.”
“Not many.”
“Hmm?”
“The rest. We’ll have the rest of our Christmases together. Won’t we?”
John drew back so he could see Sherlock’s eyes. “Quite right,” he said. Jumpers and tie-pins were nice, and half ownership of this house was mind-boggling, but nothing could ever come compare to what Sherlock had already given him.
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