Work Text:
The list was haphazardly taped to the wall above the skull on the mantelpiece—this may not have been the best place for it considering how often people were in the flat, in full view of what was supposed to be a surprise. Somehow, no one seemed to notice.
It was written on the back of a slightly crumpled sheet of paper that had been torn from one of John’s hideous crime-thriller novels (“What the hell, Sherlock? I was reading that!” “The gardener stole the necklace from the woman’s nightstand at the same time that the youngest daughter was murdering the butler in the shed. Hardly difficult, John.” “Goddamn it!”). Each time a new addition was made, it was done with the closest writing utensil that the writer could find, giving the list a hodgepodge, unorganized air, much like the rest of the flat around it.
At the very top were the words 221B Xmas List.
“So we can figure out what we’re going to get everyone,” John had explained with a grin when he’d first taped it up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Xmas, John? Really? I hardly think it would have taken you too much effort to actually spell out the word Christmas.”
“Oh shut it, you.”
--
When the list was first put up, it remained depressingly blank for about a week. This wasn’t anyone’s fault. There happened to be an extensive locked door murder/theft case around the same time, so the inhabitants of 221B all but forgot about the little slip of paper.
It wasn’t until he was approaching the skull with the intention of wrapping it in tinsel (Christmas decorations, of course) that John remembered what he’d been trying to use the list for. Staring in silence at the paper for a moment, John reached out for the black pen on the coffee table to scrawl a few lines under the title.
scarf for Mrs H?
new gloves for Greg
John paused for a moment, wondering who else they might be expected to buy a gift for. His first thought was Mycroft but then he frowned. ‘What the hell do you get a man like Mycroft for Christmas?’ he wondered silently. ‘A new brolly? A sense of humor? A toupée?’ Shaking his head slightly and grinning at the mental image of Mycroft in a wig, John added another word to the list and then set the pen down on the mantle beside the skull.
Mycroft??
--
John didn’t mention anything to Sherlock about the changes in the list. He knew Sherlock would notice it within seconds and he didn’t think Sherlock would care in the slightest. His mad genius of a boyfriend wasn’t much for gift giving (or receiving, for that matter), so it stood to reason that he’d have no interest in helping John decide what to get for their friends.
It was this assumption that led John to be surprised when, a day later, he passed by the list on his way through the living room and had to pause when he noticed an addition that he hadn’t made. Mycroft’s name had several lines running through it and two words written underneath.
a cake
Grinning fondly (and realizing that maybe this wasn’t so surprising after all), John called out, “Sherlock, we aren’t getting your brother a cake for Christmas!”
“Spoilsport,” Sherlock answered back from the kitchen. John could hear the amusement in his voice.
--
Less than an hour later, John took a shower. When he left the room, Sherlock had been experimenting on a few mould cultures in various petri dishes in the kitchen (they smelled like unwashed feet. John wasn’t pleased). When he came back, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John called out and, unsurprisingly, received no answer. Making his way back into the living room, he moved over to the dining table where he’d left his phone, intending to text Sherlock. He paused when he noticed the list lying innocently beside his phone and then rolled his eyes at the new item on the list, written in glaring red ink and underlined three times for emphasis.
Triple murder!
John spent a moment searching for a pen and finally found an old green one between the sofa cushions. He wrote out an answer for Sherlock and then took the list into the kitchen so that he could place it over the cluster of covered petri dishes on the kitchen table.
Sherlock you cannot have a murder for Christmas!
Smiling to himself, John headed back to the living room for his mobile so that he could track down his elusive boyfriend.
--
Bright and early Monday morning, John wrenched himself away from sleep and shuffled into the bathroom to start getting ready for work, still only half awake. Sherlock, who hadn’t slept properly in nearly a week, had finally succumbed to his body’s demands late last night (thanks in part to John thoroughly wearing him out first) and was still sleeping peacefully in their bed. John envied him.
Letting out a jaw cracking yawn, John rubbed sleep from his eyes as he stepped into the bathroom and then paused, confused as to why there was a piece of paper on the mirror above the sink. It took a few seconds before he realized what it was and then he leaned in to read a very Sherlock response.
Why not?
John gave a huff of amusement and then wondered if there was something wrong with him that he found Sherlock’s callousness endearing.
Quietly stepping back into their bedroom, he took a pen from Sherlock’s desk and approached the mirror, not bothering to take the paper down before responding the same way he usually does when Sherlock asks him why.
It’s a bit not good.
Stifling another yawn, he dropped the pen into the toothbrush holder and turned to start the shower.
--
John spent the next few days anticipating the placement of the list in a new location; he kept expecting it to pop up whenever Sherlock wasn’t around. But no matter how much he looked, nearly three days went by without a trace of the list anywhere. Finally, he had to concede that Sherlock had probably just gotten bored of the little game they’d been playing. He thought it was to be expected, really. After all, why would Sherlock continue to do something so mundane and, well, silly?
John decided to put it out of his mind. It’s not like they ever really needed the list anyway.
--
It was just past one in the morning when John was woken up by the sound of Debussy coming from the living room. He used to get upset when his sleep was interrupted by Sherlock’s violin. But over the years, he’d gotten used to it and, while he’d never admit it, he actually enjoyed the quiet midnight concerts. He suspected Sherlock knew that though.
Snuggling down into the warmth of his blankets, John rolled onto his side, prepared to get comfortable and just listen. His face came in contact with something decidedly not bed-like and he jerked his head away, trying to see in the dim light from the curtained window. Frowning, he reached over to the pillow beside his own and his hand came in contact with a sheet of paper that he recognized immediately.
John stretched his arm out so that he could flip the switch of the lamp on the bedside table in order to read Sherlock’s new addition to the list. The room was flooded with light and he squinted at the paper.
Fine. A kiss.
A silly grin stretched across his face and he marveled at the fact that self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock Holmes could write him something so…well, adorable. Pushing himself out of bed, he located a pen to write his reply and then left the room, heading toward the soft, low sounds of the violin.
Sherlock’s bow slowed to a stop when he noticed John entering the room. The shorter man gave him a wide smile and brandished the list as he stepped closer, as if Sherlock didn’t know why he’d gotten out of bed.
The violin and bow were set gently on John’s armchair just before the man himself stepped in close to Sherlock and placed a hand on his chest.
“You sap,” John murmured, tossing the list over his shoulder and grinning as Sherlock bent to meet his lips in a kiss. The paper fluttered to the ground as the two men became wrapped up in each other.
okay :)