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i.
John would say two weeks wasn’t a long enough time to get truly comfortable with someone. Then again how many hours after they met had it been when John kill a man for Sherlock? Definitely not enough hours to be even a modicum of normal (as normal as such an act could be). This is part of how John justifies their current position to himself. He and Sherlock are sprawled on the apartment's lone couch together. Obviously they were on opposite ends but their legs were still tangled together, knotted and looping like string.
Honestly, John wasn’t usually big on touch, especially with men. Especially with men he’d only know for half a month. But with Sherlock it didn’t feel like anything usual. Sherlock was the most unusual thing that had ever happened to John so maybe the fact that their calves were currently pressing together wasn’t that big a deal. John wanted to smile, he could almost feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body seeping into his own. Fuck, he could probably fall asleep right here…
“John.”
“Hmmm?”
“I’d like a cup of tea and my laptop, if you’d be so kind.”
John’s response was only just audible as he grumbled, “do it yourself.”
“But I’m very comfortable on my couch,” Sherlock argued.
“So am I,” John countered. “And it's our couch.”
For a few minutes they lapsed back into silence. The tranquillity of the moment only briefly interrupted by one of the two wiggling their legs or shifting their shoulders. Again John feels sleep creeping up to him. He begins to close his eyes. It has been a day and a fucking half and all he needs is to sleep a bit.
“John, I really am parched.”
“Sherlock, I am going to sleep.” The exasperation behind the words was so clear even Sherlock must have heard it.
“You’re boring when you're asleep.”
“I’m peaceful when I’m asleep. So either go make your own tea or shut up.” Sherlock sighed, forcefully removed his legs from the heep they had been in with John’s and left to make tea.
The coach felt colder without him.
ii.
Sherlock considered John a necessity for his work. A vital, vital necessity. He finds it impossible to work without him. Honestly John doesn’t contribute much in the way of deductions but Sherlock doesn’t expect him to. Deductions aren’t what John’s here for.
“Any revelations, Sherlock?” Lestrade is looking down at him as he thoroughly inspects the body on the floor. Lestrade used to look at him with mostly annoyance behind his eyes but since he started bringing John along with him that annoyance has mellowed into something resembling reluctant affection.
“Many more than any of your lot could come up with.”
“Solved it already?”
“Pretty much.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. John was, as was his habit, staring at Sherlock like he was doing the most amazing thing in the world. “John, what do you think of this?”
John stepped towards the body, leaning over Sherlock, scanning for clues with his eyes. Sherlock smirked, he’d taught John fairly well.
“Well, I’ll go out on a limb and say it was strangulation,” John spoke into his ear, it wasn’t a whisper, nothing suggesting the intimacy that Sherlock feels behind the action. He almost laughed at John’s deduction. If the strangulation had not been obvious from the tiny haemorrhages on the face, discoloration of the skin and engorgement of blood then the bruising on the neck (in the shape of two hand prints) definitely gave it away.
“Obviously,” said Sherlock. He turned his head to look up at John and for a moment their eyes connected. Sherlock watched as the corners of John’s eyes crinkled and he laughed quietly as though that laugh was only meant for Sherlock.
“Well, that’s all I’ve got for you.”
“Shame.”
“Well, we both know you don’t keep me around for my detective skills.”
“No, I certainly don’t.” Sherlock smiled lope-sidedly. The huff of breath John let out skimmed over Sherlock’s face, warm. They were still close, bent at the knees, hovering. Sherlock felt suspended for a moment. He was typically so hyper-aware, especially at a crime scene but John often tampered that.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice broke through whatever had been forming. John jumped back. Right, murder, yes.
“It was her physiotherapist. Last appointment she let slip that her husband had left her, knowing there would be no one waiting at home for her. Our killer seized the opportunity. Fit of the moment but clearly something she’d wanted to do for a while.” Sherlock straightened himself out and walked over to Lestrade. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Good, John lets go. I personally wouldn’t mind trying out that new Italian that’s opened up. It claims to be authentic but it isn’t.” As he left Sherlock couldn’t quite understand why the prospect of eating with John was more exciting than the crime scene he was leaving.
iii.
John was not entirely convinced this was really happening. Out of every insane thing to happen to him since meeting Sherlock this really took the cake. Sherlock was grocery shopping with him.
It was rather sweet. Sherlock may be a genius but he seemed to find the actual activity of grocery shopping confounding.
“John, I understand we need tea but what type do you usually buy?” Sherlock asked, several boxes of tea bags (varying in type, brand, caffeinated or decaffeinated) in his arms.
“Just get a box of Yorkshire and a box of Earl Grey.”
“Caffeinated or-”
“Of course I buy the caffeinated ones, Sherlock. Do you think I’d be able to get through the whole day on decaffeinated tea?” Sherlock was far too invested looking at every single type of sugar Tesco's had to offer to appreciate John’s joke.
“People have grown far too trusting in the phrase ‘variety is the spice of life’,” Sherlock muttered disapprovingly. John rolled his eyes and began guiding Sherlock towards the cereals.
“I’ve been sticking to Shreddies lately, do you fancy a change?”
“What about these?” Sherlock was holding up two boxes of what appeared to be disgustingly sugary cereal meant for children.
“No.”
“But John-”
“Absolutely not. You have enough unhealthy habits as it is and with the amount of biscuits we both eat! No, no, pick something less… chocolatey.” Sherlock huffed in a manner that was not dissimilar to a petulant child but he did, eventually, put the boxes back on the shelves.
“We can stick to the Shreddies,” Sherlock conceded.
The shopping continued. With Sherlock accompanying him John found himself making a series of rash and needless buys. Fancy chocolates and a nicer set of mugs, truly a terrible influence on him.
They paid (Sherlock mainly paid, thank you rich family members) and set off back home. As they strolled down the pavement to their home John couldn’t help but wonder.
“Why did you want to come shopping, Sherlock? I mean - don’t get me wrong - I’m happy you did but you hate all that stuff.” John watched as Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunched together, the face of concentration Sherlock made when he genuinely had to think about how to answer a question.
“I don’t know… I suppose I just didn’t want to be away from you.”
iv.
No cases, no nicotine, no John. This was the worst type of day Sherlock could possibly imagine. John's absence would be sorted out later once he’d come back from work but the other two were more permanent. Criminals appeared to be taking the holiday season off in London. Humbug… The ‘no nicotine at Christmas’ rule was another absurd attempt of John’s to get Sherlock to go completely cold turkey. Not even patches! No patches!
He needed to do something. Anything. Sweeping his eyes over the room Sherlock suddenly remembered how terribly messy the whole apartment was. But why was it in such a state when they were supposed to have people over for a Christmas party in a few days? John would hardly have time to tidy the whole place.
No time. John. Bored. Anything…
He can tidy the house. Easy, boredom solved.
And so the process of rearranging, dusting, polishing, hoovering and dusting again began. It was a tedious task but the amount of physical exertion needed for it was reasonably effective in distracting him. Besides, the bookshelf organisation system needed a revamp.
When John arrived home the entire place was spotless.
“Sherlock!” John yelled. “I got some mince pies and mulled wine but don’t eat them all. I want to save some for the party.” John placed several shopping bags down on the kitchen table. Sherlock waited for the penny to drop. “I could murder a cup of tea.”
Sherlock made his way into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
“How was work?” Sherlock asked.
“It was good,” John responded hesitantly. “Are you alright? Why are you making me tea?”
“I’m being nice.”
“Yes, but why are you being nice?”
“I felt like it, what mug do you want?”
“Whichever one that’s clean.”
“They’re all clean.” John turned to him, visibly confused. Then he took another look around the room.
“You tidied the whole place?” John’s voice was soft with affection.
“Well, you weren’t going to have time to do it before the party and I was feeling restless.” Sherlock felt embarrassed by the way John was staring at him. Was it really that important to John that Sherlock tied up for once? He should probably do it a bit more often then. John really was easy to please.
“Thanks, Sherlock. I’ve been putting that off for ages,” said John.
“I probably wouldn’t have done it at all if I’d had a case or a pack of cigarettes.” In spite of his deflections John still smiled at him. Moving to grasp his shoulder John squeezed it.
“Still, thank you.”
v.
Hosting a Christmas party was already a complicated affair but co-hosting a Christmas party with Sherlock is even more complicated. It wasn’t a big party (Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and miraculously Mycroft whom John had deliberately invited behind Sherlock’s back) but after carefully dealing with every single tasteless deduction Sherlock made and still having to take care of all the food, John was more than a little stressed. Admittedly pigs in blankets weren’t exactly complex pieces of culinary cuisine but, still, the responsibility of it was all on John’s shoulders.
“Do you need help?” Sherlock appeared behind him like an apparition of one of the many murder victims John was semi-convinced haunted them. The way Sherlock asked the question made it clear to John that he was just using this as a means to get away from the guests who had commandeered their living room. John appreciated the offer still.
“No, they’re almost ready to go out,” said John. “If you could carry a tray that would be much more helpful.”
“‘Course.”
When they came walking out together with the much anticipated food they were met with titters of laughter. Odd. John had no idea what could cause their appearance to provoke such a reaction unless he’d really made a mess of the pigs.
“Thought I’d put up a bit of mistletoe,” Mrs Hudson giggled. Looking up John realised the cause for laughter. He and Sherlock had happened to stop in tandem under said mistletoe. He really was never going to beat the gay allegations.
“Very funny, Mrs Hudson. However I’m sure Sherlock would rather not kiss me-”
“Tradition is tradition, John.” Sherlock looked far too happy as he made this point.
“Since when have you given two shits about ‘tradition’!” John half yelled. Fuck, his face felt hot. Was he blushing?
“I don’t but I know Mrs Hudson goes in for that sort of thing,” said Sherlock. “Besides, where is your festive spirit?” John rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock would degrade himself to kissing John for the sake of further tormenting him.
Putting down the trays John sighed, “fine. I will give you one kiss! On the cheek!”
The room cheered. Mrs Hudson seemed very pleased with herself and John was sure Mycroft would be finding some way to capture the kiss for blackmail. Surprisingly even Molly had a smile on her face. Sherlock looked normal. Maybe a tiny bit red in the face but nothing in comparison to the tomato shade John was certain he was currently sporting.
“You better appreciate this, you twat,” warned John.
“Oh, I’m sure a will,” said Sherlock, leaning down slightly so John could comfortably reach his cheek.
The kiss was quick. Quick, yet John felt every moment that his lips touch Sherlock’s skin in vivid detail. Soft, smooth and warm. Sherlock was a fire that blazed whenever John got too close. He pulled back and John mourned for that lost heat as it dissipated into the air and as everything else faded back into view. It was the quietest thing in the world: kissing Sherlock.
“Merry Christmas, dickhead,” whispered John.
“Merry Christmas to you too, John.”
+i.
“Another gift arrived!” John announced as he made his way upstairs. “Feels heavy.”
“It's the posh glasses you wanted and it's from Mycroft.”
“Go on,” laughed John, “tell me how you know.”
“Only Mycroft would send us wedding gifts after our actual wedding and the company that makes those glasses usually takes three days to deliver to London. It's been three days since our wedding and I know my brother well enough to determine he would only remember to buy us a wedding gift once he was at the actual ceremony. Ergo: glasses, Mycroft.”
John put the box down on the kitchen table, not bothering to open it, and made his way to sit with Sherlock on the couch. Leaning into each other both husbands felt like two halves finally brought together. Whole.
“It is going to be a nightmare to try and plan any sort of romantic surprises for you,” John muttered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“I didn’t think we were the ‘romantic surprises’ type?”
“No, I guess we’re not,” John chuckled and shifted further into Sherlock’s arm which was currently holding him in a loose embrace. “You happy?”
“With our marriage? It's only been three days, seems a bit pre-emptive to come to my verdict on its goodness now.” John elbowed him but it didn’t have any real force behind it. “Of course I’m happy. The only time I’ve ever felt truly happy has been with you, John. You are the only person that’s been able to make the world feel tangible for me, my link to a perfect reality,” Sherlock smiled down at him, “I am as happy as I could ever be.”
“Good,” said John, “because there’s no way I’m letting you keep those eyeballs in the fridge and since I make you so happy I’m sure you’ll be happy to move them.”
“But John, they're for an experiment!”
“And half our wedding cake is in there with them, Sherlock! I want them out!”