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Sherlock hated Christmas. He really, really hated Christmas. It wasn’t just the fact that he was obliged to be more polite to people than usual, or the hideously repetitive Christmas carols or the disgustingly terrible decorations. No, it was so much more than that. So much more and so much worse.
It was those stupid family Christmas dinners.
Every year, Sherlock did everything possible to get out of them. Why wouldn’t he? They were very possibly the worst night of the year. Spending three hours surrounded by his meddling mother, pain in the backside brother and infuriating aunts, uncles and cousins gave him a migraine rivalling the ones he would get while detoxing. But every year, Mycroft managed to hold something over him to black mail him into going, Sherlock having no choice but obliging.
Trudging from the cab through the snow up to the Holmes manor, he growled at the cars lining the long drive way and how the air smelt and even tasted different to the city; he hated the country and had barely waited until he was eighteen before leaving for London. It was the only time of year he came back, and there was only one reason it was bearable- the hope buried deep within him for a repeat of the year before. And the silence.
But it only lasted until he made it up the marble stairs to the entrance of the manor, the heavy oak door pulled open before he could even knock. Standing before him was one of his aunts, wearing far too much makeup and trying to hide the fact that she was sleeping with the gardener. What followed was, for Sherlock, one of the most painful experiences of his life, shaking hands with far too many uncles, husbands and older cousins, hugging and kissing too many aunts, wives and pretty little girls in their best Christmas gowns. By the time he had made it out of the entrance hall, he already felt like escaping to the backyard and smoking a few cigarettes to wash away all the chatter and tedious family gossip, because he just didn’t care.
The suit he wore was uncomfortable and overly warm, the lights were too bright and the classical piano piece playing was far too loud. His mother was smart enough to judge by his facial expression that he wasn’t in any mood to talk so left him alone after just a peck on the cheek. The two Holmes’ brothers had gotten their intellect from their mother, an only child. This was his father’s family and they were all so dull. Even Mycroft looked uncomfortable, and Sherlock couldn’t help but imagine a different expression on his face, like the one he’d seen last year. This was the only time he ever even let himself think about last year.
Sherlock always timed his arrival just right so there was hardly any time after he arrived before dinner was served, being allowed to sit in silence, putting it down to the fact that he was eating for why he wasn’t speaking. Otherwise he would have rattled off every deduction he could make, just to make them all shut up. He chewed on his vegetables slowly, making sure his mouth was never still so nobody engaged him in conversation, but even he reached his limit after about an hour of sitting between two cousins speaking about the latest boy band they loved. It was too much.
Shoving back his chair suddenly and standing up, he marched towards the stairs, heading up so he could block out the sounds of the party beneath him. He found himself in his old childhood bedroom, not pausing to reminisce before he went into his en suite bathroom, pushing the window open and relishing into the blast of icy hair that turned his breath into fog and calmed his raging mind. Sherlock’s lean and pale fingers pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket, leaning against the windowsill with eye closed as he took a drag, the hot smoke burning his lungs and warming him from the inside out.
He could barely hear anything from downstairs, finally lost inside his own world, not having to worry about social cues and smiling at jokes and passing the gravy when someone asked for it. He just had himself, his cases and his Mind Palace where he didn’t have to worry about such trivial matters. He let his thoughts wander to the same evening a year ago, to the warm hands on his body, the pleasure surging through him, the quiet moans and the final whisper of ‘Merry Christmas’ before the person was gone. Even after seeing his brother all through the year, not letting it affect their professional relationship, he didn’t even think about it. Not once. But tonight…tonight was the only night he permitted it.
Sherlock had almost given up hope that it would happen again, since now would be the only time it would occur, just as it had the year before, when there was a change in the air behind him. He didn’t turn, didn’t say anything and didn’t falter in his movements as he smoked, just let the slightest of smirks settle on his lips as quiet footsteps came towards him, a strong arm wrapping around his chest from behind, hand splayed over his heart. Gloved fingers tapped against his chest in time with the beat of his heart, a warm body pressing against his back, the free hand moving to rest gently on his hip, fingering at the hem of his shirt.
They didn’t have time for foreplay, for teasing and whispered words of reassurance, and Sherlock was thankful. He didn’t know how he’d handle that, the emotional side of this. He just needed the physical, the warm touches and muffled cries of pleasure. And it was enough to get him through the following year.
The warm body behind his was shifting against him, rutting against his body as two gloves were dropped to the ground by their feet, now bare flesh pressing into his hip where those fingers worked, pressing in under his shirt to stroke his pale skin. The arm around his chest continued to hold him steady as the other hand caressed and wandered slowly towards his belt buckle, shivers of anticipation moving up and down his spine. His fingers gripped the white painted windowsill hard as that warm breath was on his ear, those lips brushing against the shell of it and telling him to relax as his trousers were worked loose and pushed down his thighs.
The icy snowy air was cool against his now bared flesh and a shiver went through his body, but it didn’t last long as he was once again covered by that warm body. The arm around his chest dropped away as the sound of a zipper being lowered and a belt buckle being undone broke the silence, that wandering hand moving to gently wrap around his erection. Sherlock caught the first sight of his partner then as an elegant wrist and hand came into view to retrieve the bottle of coconut oil from the shelf beside them. There was a huff of breath against his dark curls and a low moan as the liquid was applied, Sherlock knowing what he had to do now.
He lowered his shoulders and pressed his backside into the air, legs spread as far as they could while still trapped inside his trousers. He knew it would hurt as much as it would feel good, but he was prepared for it this time. And he was anticipating it. The almost hot fingers stroking him slowly kept moving as his partner pressed against his entrance, both men letting out long breaths and quiet moans as he moved into him slowly, stretched and filled him completely.
Sherlock was struggled to hold back the noises he so badly wanted to let out, but didn’t dare to, rolling his hips back against him to try and take him deeper. The pain was almost mind-numbing but he didn’t dare stop, the sensation centring and calming him, allowing him to be still and silent for once in his life, his mind blissfully blank as the man began to move, long pulls and pushed into Sherlock’s body, that strong arm going around his chest and pulling him up so they were pressed together as he moved inside him.
And it wasn’t long before Sherlock stumbled upon his release, biting his lip hard as he shuddered against his partner, the older man following shortly after, his cry muffled by the curls at the back of his neck.
No words were spoken and Sherlock didn’t turn as he pulled out, wiped Sherlock’s groin and behind clean, washed his hand in the sink behind him. Sherlock had almost believed he was alone until that gentle hand was on his hip, those soft lips against his ear.
“Merry Christmas, baby brother.”
And then he was gone, leaving Sherlock panting and shaking as he tugged up his trousers and rebuckled them, not turning even once as he pulled out another cigarette to smoke, staring out the open window across the snowy fields and up at the starry sky. A small smile played on his lips as he stubbed out his cigarette and flicked the end out the open window, airing out the smoke before pulling the glass shut. He smirked at the two gloves left on the floor, Sherlock tucking them into his back pocket.
By the time he made it downstairs, everyone had migrated into the living room for the gift giving. Sherlock walked right past his brother without so much of a glance but only just heard the quiet chuckle of the man when he spotted the gloves hanging out his back pocket, a silent and secret promise for next year to be the same. And it was almost a thank you as well.