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peaceandlonglife · 7 years ago

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I Won’t Be Home For Christmas | A Johnlock Fanfiction

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Words: 2.3k Summary: John is all alone on Christmas Eve.

Read on AO3 or Read On Wattpad

*Story Below*

John sits in his beloved armchair, a cup of tea in hand, staring out his snowy flat window as his fireplace crackles in the background. From this angle, he could see into the kitchen of the house across the street. Colourful lights were strung up over the window and inside there was a family bustling about, finishing up their last minute Christmas baking.

Two small children, a boy and girl, in tiny snowman aprons, sit on top of the counter stirring a bowl as their father anxiously watches on, ready to catch them if they fall. The mother, adorned in a red holiday sweater slips another cookie sheet into the oven. It was a picturesque family evening; one that John wouldn't get a chance to have this year.

He couldn't have known.

He couldn't have known that it would be one of the snowiest London winters in decades. He couldn't have known that the trains wouldn't run. He couldn't have known all the flights were booked until February.

But he should've. And now it was Christmas Eve and he was all alone. All his family had arrived at his parent's house already, and as much as he hated to admit it, he didn't have any real friends in London. He had a bounty of acquaintances, some more friendly than others, but none close enough to justify disturbing their own holidays. And he could forget about a significant other, John couldn't recall the last time he'd even been on a date.

London was supposed to be the start of a new chapter. But John remained the same and so did his life. The nightmares didn't waver, his limp was as painful as ever and he still trembled at loud noises. The only thing that changed was his location.

Christmas was that one time of year where he could drop all his baggage on his parent's doorstep and enjoy the blissful company of family he rarely sees, and hearty home-cooked meals. Those few days he was free to unwind without any burdens of the outside world. It was his own warm, impenetrable bubble.

But just like all bubbles, they were bound to pop and this one always spits John back out, cold and alone.

John sips down the rest of his cooling tea and leans back into his trusty chair. With the tea comfortably sitting in his belly his eyes slowly begin to drift closed.

He would've fallen asleep at that moment if it weren't for the most hair-raising screech that jolted John from his chair. John would've been alarmed if the noise wasn't such a regular occurrence in his flat.

That sound came from his neighbour, who had an affinity for playing the violin at all hours. Soon he finishes what John assumes is tuning, and the screeching melts into a complex, slow melodic tune.

The song was unlike anything John had ever heard him play before, it was...emotional. The carefully bowed notes seemed to drift through the thin walls and underneath John's skin. He squirms a little in his chair from the overwhelming unplaced emotion, wondering why he suddenly felt so empathetic.

It takes another minute of careful listening until the emotions name hit John right in the heart. Loneliness.

John is out of his chair and halfway to his door before he realizes what he's doing. He stops briefly in his doorframe, glancing back longingly at the familiar comfort of his inviting chair. He could turn back now, to forget about it all and succumb back to his unhealthy self-wallowing.

Things could go back to normal. Things could stay the same.

John didn't want things to stay the same.

He takes a deep breath in and crosses the few feet down the hall to his neighbour's door. It was undecorated, unlike most on this floor, who had bountiful wreaths or small red bows adorning the deep cherry stained wood.

John knocks twice, loudly, before his anxiety could reach his hands. The song abruptly stops and John was almost sad that he wouldn't be able to hear it at its crescendo, or the last note slowly fading out into silence.

The door is whipped open. "What?" He snaps, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

John just stands there, silently. He couldn't for the life of him get his mouth to form any audible words. It didn't matter how many time they'd occasionally see each other in passing, John still could believe how dashing his neighbour was. What was his name? Something peculiar like Padlock. Sherwood?

No.

Sherlock?

Ah, yes. Sherlock.

John stares at Sherlock who seemed to be wearing nothing but a red silk dressing gown. His brown hair was an absolute mess of curls but John found that it really kind of suited him; frazzled but strangely beautiful. His eyes were red with lack of sleep if the dark bags under his eyes were anything to indicate by.

It was only when the door in front of him slowly starts closing that John regains control of his body. "Wait!"

"What?" Sherlock repeats, a little harsher.

"Do you, uh...maybe could you...would you wanna—" Okay, so he mostly gained control of his body. His brain to mouth connection was still a work in progress.

"Spit it out already, I haven't got all evening." Sherlock runs his hands back through his hair with an agitated sigh. Johns' heart swoons a little at the action. It was wholly unfair that he could remain so good looking while being so angry.

"Perhaps you'd like to come over? I-I'm a bit lonely this Christmas." John drops his attention to the floor when he realizes how pathetic he sounded. "I mean, I was supposed to be at my parents by now but, you know, the weather is atrocious, nothing is running. And since you're here too, I just thought maybe we could spend it...together. If you'd like."

Sherlock stares blankly at John. "You don't know me. I could be a murderer."

John laughs. A real, genuine laugh, something he hadn't done in years. He manages to reign in his outburst but a smile still remains. "Are you a murderer?"

"Not likely." Sherlock answers. He tries to uphold his stoic expression but it slips, giving way to John's contagious joy.

"That's good enough for me." John laughs once more. "How about you come over in a few minutes, I'll leave the door unlocked."

"Can I not join you now?"

"I'd like to think you'd prefer it if you were properly clothed." John coughs a little awkwardly into his fist. It takes everything in him for his gaze not to wander any lower than his face.

Sherlock looks down at himself and then back up at John. A soft pink blush rises to his cheeks. "Oh. Give me three minutes."

"My name's John by the way."

"I know."

•••

It was exactly three minutes on the dot, followed by three knocks on his door in rapid succession. Punctual.

John hobbles over to the door and opens it with a smile. "Come on in. I was just preparing some more tea. Would you like some?" He starts heading back to his homely kitchen.

"That'd be lovely." Sherlock briefly smiles before taking one step in and tentatively looking around. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Pardon?" John freezes as his breathing picks up.

"There's a, um, photo over, there." Sherlock points to the framed photo sitting on his windowsill. John was in uniform, surrounded by desert. One of his closest friends at the time had his arm slung loosely around his neck. They were both mid-laugh at some no doubt ridiculous joke one of them made. It was one of the only happy moments he'd had.

"Afghanistan." John says quietly.

"Oh." Sherlock breathes, picking up on John's uneasiness. He couldn't believe his mouth was getting him in trouble again, he was just incapable of thinking before he spoke. "I'm just going to sit down now."

John's heart might be thundering against his feeble chest, but as he watches Sherlock bashfully sit down in his armchair, the crushing weight on his shoulders felt a little less heavy.

•••

"Here you are." John hands Sherlock a cup and saucer. He takes it, glad to finally have something to occupy his fidgeting hands.

"Thank you."

John nods politely in response and moves over to throw another log on the fire. He then sits down on his couch. It was strange sitting there, he felt out of place. It didn't carry the same welcoming, homey aura he was so accustomed to.

"So..." John drawls. "...Are you grounded as well?" It was a pathetic opener line, but John really couldn't think of anything else. His social skills were more than a bit rusty.

"Oh, heavens, no. I'm not going anywhere. I'd much rather spend my Christmas alone." Sherlock gives the faintest hint of a smile at the ridiculousness of the question.

"Ah, I see. Are you and your family not close?" John brushes past the slight twinge of that pain Sherlock's words had caused. Would he rather not be here? No. He was just being over dramatic; after all, he'd barely knew the guy, John had no right getting offended by his reasonable opinion.

Sherlock sips his tea. "Quite the opposite actually. My Mother and Father's favourite pastime involves unsubtle interrogation methods and my brother has the entire British government tracking my every move. It's a bit too much to be around."

John nods along like he understands, but in reality, he doesn't. He'd give anything to just see his family for an hour but then again, the hardest hitting question he ever got from his parents is 'How are you?'. "So, the entire British government? Isn't that putting it a bit harsh? I'm sure he just cares for you."

Sherlock stares at John with an intense scrutinizing gaze; it made John feel small. It was like he was contemplating whether or not to waste his breath on him.

A few moments later his scowl slips into a playful smirk and once again John was reminded of his otherworldly beauty. "It's not harsh if it's the truth."

"The truth, huh?" John couldn't stop from smiling himself. "Your brother must be one very powerful man."

"One might argue that he's the most powerful." Sherlock replies with the truth despite knowing John was taking it for nothing more than a joke. He doesn't try to genuinely convince John of this fact though.

Sherlock would never even admit it to himself, but he quite liked having the ability to effortlessly elicit joy from the unshakeably reserved man he had previously deducted during one of his many casual observations.

Sherlock had deductions of every single tenant in the building; he prides himself on knowing their schedule, their history and most importantly, all their dirty little secrets. But John didn't have any dirty little secrets, he was transparent, what-you-see is what-you-get. He was boring, and that was consequently exactly what made John the most interesting person Sherlock had ever met.

"Your music is lovely." John admits abruptly as his thoughts fall on the subject. "Even when you play at the most inconvenient of hours, although I'm not sure if the other tenants would agree on that."

"Oh." Sherlock looks up from his lap in surprise, praise was the last thing he was expecting from a stranger. Sherlock didn't do well with strangers. "Thank you. You are correct in your assumption. If the landlady wasn't so smitten with me I'd be long evicted from the number of noise complaints."

"So she fawns over you too, huh? I'm not sure how I feel about sharing." The flirt leaves John's lips before his common sense could put a halt to it and oh, God, it could've sounded like he didn't want to share Sherlock, not Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock smile was shy and lacking his usual boisterous confidence. "I'm not particularly good at sharing myself either. I like to keep things all for myself."

John falters. That couldn- did he just flirt back? He could hardly believe it, it'd been so long since anyone he'd been remotely attracted to shown any hint of mutual interest.

John makes a very sudden and irrational decision that he'd go for it. He was already so far out of his comfort zone that night that nothing seemed impossible. Besides, he hadn't had anything of value to lose for a while now.

"So, are you a musician?" John asks.

"Not by far, music is simply a hobby of mine." Sherlock brings his tea to his lips like his musical talent and original compositions weren't rivalling Bach.

"Is that so? It's hard to believe that with a talent like that you wouldn't pursue it. I would've paid a fortune to see you play even though I already get free shows from the comfort of my own home. Now, what is it that you really do?" John leans in with interest.

"I'm a consulting detective; I solve crimes. It's mostly just freelancing, but on occasion, Scotland Yard calls me when they're too stupid to spot the obvious."

"That must be very exciting."

Sherlock smiles against his stoic wishes. "Well, being a doctor certainly isn't exactly dull either."

John cocks a brow. "How did you—never mind. I want to hear all your best stories."

"Oh, posh. I'm not much a storyteller." Sherlock carefully sets his empty tea on the end table beside him.

"I don't mind. As long as you're talking, I'll listen."

So Sherlock did. He talked well into the early Christmas morning, long after the embers of the fire had lost their glow. He talked about all his cases, from the most unbelievable to the tediously mundane and John listened, sincerely captivated. When his stories became sparse are far between, John began sharing his own stories. Sherlock didn't mind the heaviness of his topics.

And when they finally said their farewells by the newly risen sun, a mutual warmth of a newly developing friendship could be felt light in their chest and high in their cheeks.

If a soft kiss was exchanged under John's doorway, it was their little secret.

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