mustbethetruth | AU: 'Twas the night before Christmas

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AU: 'Twas the night before Christmas

When Holmes was running for the past two years, he never really had a Christmas, but he never really wanted one, not when he was alone and running and hiding and far away from home and Watson and even Mycroft. Christmases have been decidedly different since Gideon, and his idea of a proper Christmas has changed significantly; he knows Mycroft still goes home for family dinners, but Holmes is no longer welcome, and he doesn't really think he'd want to, anyway. That conviction changed once or twice since he was sent to university, but since Watson, he hasn't really regretted not being able to go home, he supposes because he's found someone who truly loves him, either as a friend or a lover.

Sitting here now with a Mrs. Hudson special Christmas Eve dinner settling in his stomach and the cheery presence of Christmas decorations littering their familiar sitting room, a fire in the fireplace and Watson beside him, he couldn't think of a better way to spend the holidays, or who he'd rather spend it with. Everything seems to have found its place; everything fits together perfectly, not just himself and Watson, but certainly that too.

He sighs contentedly, pulling on his cigarette and reclining against the couch, stretching his feet out in front of him.

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Faintly surprised, Watson did lift his head, marginally. "At his home, do you mean? Surely not his club, not on Christmas."

He was, despite himself, faintly anxious about that, knew that it would be a holiday dinner with the in-laws (or as close as they would ever have). It was strange to think of being invited into Mycroft's home, too, and even if he knew rationally that they would be known and accepted under that roof... that was faintly unnerving. How open would it end up being?

Still, Watson did like Mycroft, even if he did not always know what to make of him, even if it was still strange to think that the man might be considered family (although, of course he was), and he could not have refused, not for anything.

"It sounds very splendid," Watson said, resting his head again. "You shall have your family together, then."

"Yes, at his home. It's rather nice, if a little sparse. He never paid much attention toward decorating it, but it's at least comfortable. That is a chief concern of my brother's after all," he says with a light smile. Turning his head, he presses a kiss to Watson's temple.

"And you can be sure, my darling, that we will not have much to fear there. Mycroft is very particular about who he hires to work in his house; his line of work is far too dangerous to risk a wayward maid. We may not be able to be as comfortable as we are here, but there is little need to thoroughly hide our regard."

The more Holmes thinks about it, the more eager he gets. A true, comfortable Christmas. He hides his smile in Watson's hair, kissing his temple again.

Watson shut his eyes, momentarily. An evening with family, the two of them able to be comfortable and even perhaps a little open, just as if there were nothing wrong with their relationship -- no, that was ridiculous, there wasn't anything wrong with their relationship, he knew history would bear them out on that. It was just the here and now that was a little more uncertain.

"I look forward to it, then." He let out a contented sigh. "I shall be on my best behaviour, too, to avoid embarassing you." He flashed a smile, and reached over to the sidetable to help himself to a cigarette, balancing it with his glass as he lit it.

"Oh, thank you for that," he says sardonically, finishing off his drink and setting the glass aside, so that he may now have a free hand to lightly touch Watson's thigh. "I was just about to request that you keep your bohemian tendencies under control. I can't have you being your usual disrespectful, abrupt, sometimes casually cruel self, not around my brother, not on Christmas."

Smirking, he kisses Watson's cheek, then takes another drag off his cigarette.

Watson laughed, a low chuckle deep in his throat. "You're welcome," he said, amiable and warm. He shifted to settle his head back against Holmes's shoulder, brandy in one hand, cigarette in the other.

It was wonderful, he reflected, that Mycroft was the sort of man who would invite his brother's male lover to a holiday dinner, knowing everything as he did. That sense of feeling included, of belonging, of being accepted -- it was all unspeakably valuable. He had very few complaints with the world, just then. He was warm, and comfortably full from dinner earlier, and loved, and accepted, and he had one of his favourite cigarettes and a glass of good brandy and his husband close by. What more could he want?

"Then I suppose I must only ask that the criminals of London leave us in peace for a day or two. Surely that's not too much to ask?"

"Surely not." He kisses Watson's forehead, and he has to admit he is rather impatient for Watson to finish with the things he holds in his hands because Holmes would much rather have those hands to himself.

"It is not too much to ask, but it may be far too much to give. Crime does not take a holiday, I'm afraid, my darling, but perhaps it will allow us some rest for the next two days. And even if Lestrade does come knocking, well. It will have to be a very pressing case. Perhaps it will be something we can make a few hours' work of in front of the fire, and then the good inspector can be on his way, and then we can make our own few hours of work in front of the fire." He grins mischievously.

Watson smiled. He drained the last of his brandy, and set the glass aside, before settling back down again to work on the remainder of his cigarette. "Now that," he said, "sounds rather pleasant an interruption, if we must have one. You do realise, I hope, that I am always game for a little work in front of the fire."

He puffed a little, before putting his hand up to touch the side of Holmes's face. "Hours, really?" he asked, smirking faintly.

"Really," he says unashamedly, smirking; he catches Watson's hand and turns his face to kiss the palm, turning it into a very serious occupation. He kisses each of Watson's fingertips, and then places a kiss square on his wrist, where all the veins come together.

"I believe our stamina is up to the task. It certainly has been in the past." He flashes another predatory smile, comfortable and rather at peace with Watson nestled against his side. This is what Christmas should be every year. Since he's left home he's not always been completely satisfied, if he's honest, with the way Christmas turns out; something always seems to be missing, or he still manages to feel alone at the end of it all. He doesn't feel alone now, to be sure.

"But if you object, then... I suppose we could find other ways to spend our time. Reading, quietly, alone in our own chairs, keeping our hands to ourselves..."

"What utter rot," Watson scoffed. He found himself watching Holmes kiss his wrist, his expression fond, faintly wondering. It was still so precious to see this, to experience it. "Why should I object? I am not so foolish. I shall always place a few hours work in priority over anything as frivolous as some quiet reading."

Watson smiled. He sat up enough to flick the remains of his cigarette into the fireplace, neatly over the grate, and settled back down, not having removed his other hand from Holmes's grasp. "No, I merely wish to be certain that you are not taunting me with plans you have no intention of following up on."

"My darling, I would never," he returns, sounding shocked, and he smooths his hand over Watson's chest once he returns, instantly pressing closer to him.

"Certainly not when it comes to plans of this nature." He smirks as he leans in to kiss Watson, tasting brandy and cigarettes and Watson and it's all so very wonderful that for a brief, terrible moment it feels too wonderful to be real and he's seized with a fierce fear that he is, in fact, dreaming on a cot in Tibet.

He draws out of the kiss perhaps prematurely, reaching his hand up to touch Watson's cheek and trace the line of his jaw, the sudden and ridiculous, he realizes, fear abating.

"I do love you," he says, voice hushed.

Watson could not help but lean fractionally forward, when Holmes drew back to speak. He laid his hand over Holmes's, ran his fingers over his, then slid his hand around and up Holmes's arm. His fingers finally came to rest at the back of Holmes's neck, his touch very gentle.

"I love you too," he whispered back. "My love, my husband, my other half." He closed the distance between them, finishing that seemingly interrupted kiss. This was the Christmas he had dreamed of for years, everything as it should be. He laughed when he broke the kiss. "My literary muse. What else can I call you?"

"Hmm," he murmurs, drawing out of the kiss and leaning his head back against the couch as he thinks. "Your genius, your mentor, your flatmate, which isn't quite as noble as the first two." He grins at Watson, casually tracing the edges of Watson's waistcoat. He actually isn't in a hurry to have sex; he is quite enjoying just having Watson to himself, all their attention on each other.

"Your Father Christmas, for that matter. What do you think, my dear; have you been a good boy this year?" he asks with a teasing glint in his eye.

Genius. The complete lack of modesty in that made Watson smile. He couldn't help it; the idea of Holmes as being his genius was ridiculous and charming.

"Actually, I'm afraid I've been naughty," Watson said, as innocently and as casually as he could. "Very naughty, come to think of it. And woefully unrepentant. I must be quite a disappointment. There shall be no presents for me, I must assume?"

... well, it's hard not to take Watson in his arms and carry him off to the bedroom when he talks like that. He does have a weakness for Watson when he's being particularly lewd just because it's such a striking contrast to his usual friendly self, and it reminds Holmes of how deep Watson's passions run.

"Oh, to be certain, especially since you are so unrepentant about it all." He gives a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "You would be very sad indeed come tomorrow morning." He smiles now, slowly, feeling very much like the cat he is in this relationship. "But thankfully I am not the usual sort of Father Christmas, and your kind of naughty behavior is precisely the sort that will get you presents on Christmas."

"What a relief that is," Watson murmured. He slid close, running a hand around Holmes's waist and catching his mouth with his own. The lewd joking had come so easily, feeling quite the natural thing to say, but now that he had started it... well, it was easy to continue along in that vein of gentle and distinctly sexual teasing.

"I have thought of something else you can be to me," he said against Holmes's skin, smiling, almost laughing. "You can be my Christmas gift. Or I can be yours."

He suspects Watson has had too much brandy by this point, and Holmes really can't find any complaints with this. He still seems enough in his right mind that Holmes can enjoy these proceedings guilt-free, and so he reacts fluidly to Watson's attentions, pressing closer to the hand on his waist and gingerly beginning to undo Watson's collar.

"I think both is acceptable. We can unwrap our presents at the same time," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Watson's newly exposed throat, "and even begin to try them out at once. Unless you would rather us go one at a time." He drags his teeth lightly against Watson's throat, fingering the top button of his waistcoat.

"Simultaneous shall be just fine," Watson said, rather thickly, already working on Holmes's buttons. It was at times like this that he felt completely devoid of self-control, although he couldn't say it was an unpleasant affliction. He also was beginning to suspect he might have overindulged just slightly tonight, enough to relax him and make him warm and affectionate, and in this company there was no need to work at restraining himself any.

It was hard to think of reasons to not crawl into Holmes's lap at the moment and paw at him, anyway.

He slipped his hands inside Holmes's shirt, kissing him. "Just what I wanted," he murmured, still teasing.

"Then I believe we have come to an agreement. How nice, to be agreeable at Christmas," he murmurs thickly, and while he could drag this joke out a little bit longer, he can't find any of it more important than giving Watson a long and studied kiss as he finishes off the last of Watson's buttons and pushes the fabric aside.

By the time he's done that, he can't think of much that would be important enough to keep him from dropping his mouth to Watson's collarbone and leaving a series of kisses along it.

"And how nice to have just what I wanted, as well," he manages finally, lifting his head to kiss Watson again.

Running his fingers through Holmes's hair, Watson pressed himself very close, leaving trails of kisses wherever his mouth could reach. "Well, then. What a splendid Christmas we two shall have."

Slipping in further underneath Holmes's clothing, Watson shut his eyes, letting out a sigh of absolute contentment. "Do you plan on making use of your Christmas gift at once?" he asked, dipping his head to catch Holmes's earlobe gently between his teeth.

"Oh yes," he says, his voice bordering on a very hushed moan, and he arches into Watson's touch, rather shamelessly allowing himself a moment to enjoy Watson's attentions. "Yes, I have never been very good at waiting until Christmas morning to open my presents."

He slides a hand into Watson's hair then and tugs his mouth up for a kiss, very possibly not being very gentle on purpose; the kiss is heated and a little bit rough.

"Of course," he says, breathless as the kiss breaks, "I do generally deduce them beforehand."

Holmes's track record at being able to guess at the contents of his Christmas packages continues on through this evening, as once he is finished unwrapping Watson, he is not very surprised but nonetheless exceedingly pleased at what he finds inside. This is equally true for Watson and Holmes would bet good money that Watson positively scintillated that evening and deduced his own present as well.

They are both so eager about their unsurprising presents that they do, indeed, try them out immediately until they are both exerted, rather shamelessly lying together on the floor, with the fireplace blazing on.

Holmes turns, molding himself against Watson's side and throwing a leg over Watson's as he settles his head against Watson's shoulder.

"I do believe you are better than the actual Father Christmas," he murmurs with a smirk, idly running his thumb over Watson's chest. "As that was the most satisfying present I have received for Christmas in all my life."

Watson laughed, breathily, deep in his chest. He put his arm close about Holmes, over his back, and then let his hand wander to the back of his neck. "What a wonderful sentiment," he breathed. "I share it entirely. What a very satisfying present that was. I hope to get a good deal of similar use out of you in future, although I doubt that will be a problem. You seem to find it so agreeable, after all."

He sighed, contentedly. To be stretched out on the floor like this, shamefully undressed, was unwise for several reasons. They would quickly get chilled despite the fire, the floor was not going to be comfortable for very long, it was damnably incriminating. In the meantime, though, it was nice to enjoy the moment.

He rubbed his fingers gently over Holmes's neck. He loved Holmes like this, all warm and languid and close, cat-like. "All joking aside," he said, very softly, "I cannot imagine wanting anything more than you."

"Nor I you, my dear," he murmurs, softly kissing the nearest patch of skin he could reach; once the moment seems to be safe enough to break, he smirks, tracing Watson's collarbones now with his fingertips.

"But just in case you should tire of me on occasion, I did get you some other presents." He kisses Watson's skin again, pressing closer. "I do hope you do not want me to return them."

This is a very bad idea, laying around like this. This is precisely the sort of thing he should not be encouraging because this is how he has met his end before -- well, not precisely like this, but with careless slip-ups of intelligence. What holds him back, and what holds him back still, is a fierce determination that there is nothing wrong with them and they should be able to lay about however they like -- even if that's naked on the floor of their sitting room. Though perhaps other people wouldn't find William Blake's example as a suitable pathway to follow.

Edited 2010-12-16 08:31 (UTC)

"Oh, you may save yourself the trouble." Watson turned slightly, the better to bury his face momentarily into Holmes's hair. "I have other presents for you, as well, and I really don't wish to go to the bother of returning them. I'd rather just give them to you."

He pressed a kiss against Holmes's head, and sighed. In a perfect world, they would be able to lie here indefinitely, and it was damnably unfair that they could not. They had known that freedom, too.

"I suppose we ought not to lie around like this," he murmured. "Although I am surprisingly comfortable on the floor. Sometimes I wish more than anything," Watson added, rather suddenly, "that I might confess to everyone how very much in love with you I am. Why should I feel ashamed for it?"

This, he thinks, is a very encouraging sentiment for Watson to convey, and Holmes hugs him tighter for it. He could almost smile were their situation not so troubling; instead he kisses Watson's shoulder before he begins to answer, hugging Watson to him again.

"You should not, as there is no shame in it. I think we have learned that, at least, in our time on the island. I am most grateful to that place for what it showed us of the future for other men, if not ourselves." He pauses to kiss Watson's shoulder again, sliding his hand down to squeeze his hip.

"I am very familiar with this feeling. It is exhilarating and maddening at once, and in that respect it is very much like love itself." He shifts so that he can kiss Watson, brushing his thumb against his hip bone.

"If we must get dressed again, and I suppose we must, I propose we exchange our regular clothes for pyjamas."

"That," Watson said, kissing Holmes warmly, "is a very splendid idea. If we cannot quite reach 'entirely respectable' then 'halfway respectable' shall have to do." He ran a thumb over Holmes's cheek, merely smiling at him for a moment or two, almost trying to drink him in, to memorise this moment.

He shifted to get up, rather reluctantly, kissing Holmes again as he did so. "Shall I get us some things from your room, then?"

AU: 'Twas the night before Christmas

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