christmas for sociopaths
Pairing: Sherlock/John (not heavily implied)
Warnings: N/A
Synop: Short ficlet; Sherlock gets a Christmas present from John
Prompted by an anon on Tumblr
A fire burned in the grate, and Sherlock was, of course, complaining about the heat; whining that it was too hot, and getting on John’s nerves. It was all he could do not to push the sullen detective into the firepit and ditch the impending crime scene.
As it were, he took a deep breath, prayed for patience, and made his way over to where Sherlock lay sprawled across a throw-rug in front of the fireplace.
“You know, maybe if you didn’t lie in front of the bloody thing, you wouldn’t be so hot?” John offered; received a dark sigh and answering pout in return for his troubles.
“But then I would be cold, John,” Sherlock insisted, tone implying that his flatmate was quite mentally incompetent. John sighed; closed his eyes and prayed for patience.
“Well, I can see that you’re quite busy with your sulk, so I guess you don’t want your present.” He offered flippantly, turning around slowly. At once, Sherlock was sitting upright, hand held out and fingers twitching impatiently.
“Give.”
John turned back with raised eyebrows. “Manners?”
“Definitely not.”
“Sherlock.”
“John.”
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock huffed and sighed and pouted, then said: “Fine. Please give.”
John shook his head; pushed his fingers through his cropped hair. “Close enough.” He dropped the small package in Sherlock’s hand and waited, watching as his flatmate stared at the box, brought it close to his face, nose almost brushing the red and green wrapping, and stared some more.
“Well?”
Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What.”
John snorted. “Gonna open it or what?”
Sherlock turned up his nose. “Don’t rush me, John.” He shook the box tentatively, frowning, his ear pressed against the wrappings.
“You know, if you just opened it-” John began again, but Sherlock’s glare stopped him.
“And where would the fun be in that?” He demanded. After several minutes of turning the box over in his hands, carefully running his fingers over the metallic, plastic bow on top, he made a sound of frustration; tore off the paper and popped off the lid. He looked inside and frowned; raised his eyes to John.
“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John said softly, and Sherlock dropped his eyes back to the gift. Fitting long fingers into the box, he pulled out a soft wool scarf, striped dark and medium blue. He held it up to the light, studied it, then wrapped it around his neck, tying it with deft fingers.
“Thank you.” He said, oddly quiet, and looked up at John again. John smiled-an expression that lasted a fraction of a minute, and was wiped away by Sherlock’s impending whine:
“Now I’m much too hot!”