»»──────　JW　──────««

John woke up to a pretty unpleasant morning.

As soon as he realised that he was awake, a piercing headache struck him, the pain erupting in his temples so intensely that he didn't even dare to open his eyes.

At first, everything felt like it was happening in slow motion, and he had no idea where he was, if he was all alone or if he had company.

The room was peaceful and quiet, but John learned firsthand that silence doesn't necessarily mean no danger.

Only after a while did he realise his position and surroundings. He rested on his side, on something soft and warm. Ah, the bed, of course. Strangely, he didn't remember going to sleep...

John spread out his arms, stretching himself properly, his body still stiff from the long sleep. A familiar soreness made itself known, felt in his shoulder, exactly where the bullet had left John's body that time in the Afghanistan desert, leaving a nasty star-shaped scar. It surprised him how far he could reach out with his hands. He should be touching the wall by now –

Wait a second...

This wasn't his bed.

The doctor sprung into a sitting position as quickly as if a hornet had stung his back. The abrupt movement made his head feel dizzy, and being still weak as a kitten from last night's drinking, he swayed and nearly slammed back into the duvets. He clumsily groped around himself to recover the necessary balance, and when the room finally stopped spinning, he remembered he hadn't spent the night in his own bedroom.

Groaning, he covered his face with his hands. Jesus! He should bury himself somewhere and stay out of Sherlock's sight!

He rubbed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose to get a grip on himself.

And then he smelled it.

Cigarette smoke.

Something was wrong. Sherlock and smoking forecast problems. The last time he smoked was after Irene Adler's "death"—that is unless we count the morning when Henry Knight paid them a visit from Exeter and Sherlock sniffed him like a dog as he inhaled the smoke coming from Henry's cigarette in a fit of withdrawal.

Sherlock had been using nicotine patches since he and John agreed to abstain from smoking („I don't give a damn how many patches you need to solve the case; we have agreed on one...") and lit up a cigarette in critical situations only.

The pungent air indicated that a moment of crisis had occurred after their fight yesterday.

Something strong made John's chest contract, and a burning sense of guilt overtook him. He shouldn't have left. Yes, he was disappointed that Sherlock didn't accept the gift the way he had imagined.

John knew better than to expect odes of gratitude. Sherlock simply didn't work like that.

And when he thinks about it, Sherlock never actually said he didn't want it. "I can't take it," he had told him.

John was ashamed of himself. He had already promised Sherlock several times that he would refrain from pressuring him and forcing him to confess. Sherlock made it clear he didn't feel like discussing it.

And John did the exact opposite! He blamed Sherlock for things that weren't his fault, and then he left with a curse, without letting him know where he was going, when, or if he was coming back.

But when he thinks about it, maybe it was for the better that he hadn't stayed here last night.

It is easy for a person to say something ugly when they are angry, and it's hard to take it all back. And John had a lot to stifle. It is not for nothing that they say that it is better to have it out right away because otherwise, even a composed and friendly person catches cabin fever.

He was so fed up that everyone close to Sherlock knew what was wrong, but he didn't! As always, why was he even surprised? He didn't want to live in constant tension. Didn't want to think over every single word lest he accidentally offended Sherlock somehow. If only he could comprehend how Sherlock felt about all of this, but Sherlock was acting even more mysterious and unpredictable than ever before.

He had been so angry with him, Sherlock had truly ruffled his feathers yesterday! That was why he had deliberately ignored his phone calls and texts.

You have managed without me just fine for several bloody months. I'm sure you can handle a few hours..., John thought as he walked through the dark street. For a while, he even considered asking Harry to let him sleep over at her flat, but ended up dismissing that idea. Their argument wasn't that serious after all. John just needed to unwind a bit and cool off.

He thought of calling Greg—and then remembered that he was out of town. For most of the week, he talked about nothing but his plans for this year's Christmas, which he would spend with his brother, and nine-year-old niece, whom he was very much looking forward to.

So he went to the pub, accompanied only by his anger. The 'Grafton Arms' was usually full to bursting, but this place happened to be unusually empty yesterday. No wonder; normal people passed that festive evening drinking delicious eggnog while enjoying the Christmas holidays—only a few of them would spend Christmas Eve alone, bent over the pint of beer or a shot of something stronger!

In the end, he found a sympathetic soul that lent him an ear. More or less...

The barman obediently supplied him with alcohol and even seemed interested in what had driven John to the pub on this festive day. But as the shots kept vanishing in John's throat, his willingness to serve him subsided, and he looked relieved when his friend appeared at the door and announced that he was taking him home, breaking the one-sided conversation about the said friend.

It was Sherlock who had gone, guided him home, and even given up his bed and entire bedroom, although it was John's fault that he'd gotten drunk like a lord.

And on top of that—as if Sherlock already hadn't done enough for him—he had prepared a buttery croissant, a package of ibuprofen, and a piece of paper with his elegant handwriting on his bedside table.

John blinked and then leaned forward for the note.

It said:

Merry Christmas and the shortest hangover possible, Sherlock

PS: I know it won't replace the one I had broken, so I didn't even try. I could have gotten you the same mug, but I thought the unique present would please you better. I hope you like my design :)

John didn't expect Sherlock to cover the present with decorative wrap, judging by his approach to Christmas itself, so it didn't surprise him that Sherlock actually hadn't bothered with it. He didn't hold it against him; only the thought that the detective thought of him and gave him a present made his heart flutter.

And maybe Sherlock didn't wrap it on purpose—it would be quite difficult for him to drink from a wrapped mug after all...

Indeed. On the bedside table, right beside the note, there was a mug full of tea, still steaming.

It probably wouldn't exactly attract one's attention with its rather plain shape. The design, though, looked unlike any other.

There was John's name in the middle. The mug was scattered with lots of little pictures, all over the girth, from the top to the bottom.

He could randomly name, for example:

The pink phone. The gun. The Black Lotos logo. The beige jumper. The ashtray stolen from Buckingham Palace. The RAMC sign. Bluebell, the rabbit. A syringe. Chinese number one. John's cane. The gingerbread man. A laptop. The yellow smiley face. U.M.Q.R.A (in spite of Sherlock still hadn't figured out what it meant–if he'd known, he wouldn't have had it printed... at least John hoped not). A lucky cat. A cup of tea. A flash disk. A clarinet. 221B. And much more.

And if John turned it upside down (preferably without the tea), he would find Sherlock's initials peeping out from below, as well as his famous, and rather disliked, deerstalker.

To put it simply, it was John Watson's mug.

Every picture either described John or represented a case he and Sherlock solved. Even the print Sherlock had tailored to John's dominant (left) hand, so he could see his own name every time he raised it to his mouth.

John watched the mug in silent astonishment, then reached out, and took it in his hand. He was reluctant to believe his own eyes; it didn't occur to him that he could receive something like this. A gift so genuine, unique, and extraordinary. He had to admit that after that rather insulting essay Sherlock had written for his birthday, he had some doubts about the detective's gifts. Sherlock does nothing halfway, much less boringly. In short, he did things his own way. And he outdid himself in choosing the Christmas surprise this time, in the best sense of the word.

John's mouth opened in a mighty yawn, and he decided it wouldn't hurt to have another doze. He grabbed a packet of pills, popped one into his mouth, and gulped it down with tea. Hoping to wake up next time without the awful migraine, he slid back into bed and fell into a restful sleep.

»»──────　SH　──────««

Ping.

Sherlock brushed string after string for the last time, making sure they were perfectly tight and placed the tuned instrument in his lap. He reached for his phone and checked the last notification that had beeped a moment ago. The screen lit up, showing 16:05.

One new message notification sat under the digital numbers of the clock.

He unlocked the phone and clicked on the text message. After reading it, he frowned and was about to delete the text immediately, as he always did when he found out that the sender was his friend at the police. His thumb stopped just a few millimetres from the glass, hesitating above the trash icon.

Sherlock threw an uncertain look at the black coat, thrown across the armrest of the sofa, which seemed to attract his attention, prodding him to consider Greg's text.

With a heavy sigh escaping his mouth, he got up from the armchair. He set the violin on the stand with dedicated care and came to the couch. As in a trance, Sherlock reached out and stroked the warm trench coat as tenderly as if he was caressing a living being. And at that very moment, he knew he was lost. There was no use in denying it, he needed it. He needed to feel its warm fabric on his skin. To let the new, yet so familiar garment embrace his body like a devoted lover. To shield himself from the unpleasant weather and people...

Coming out of the flat without his beloved Belstaff coat, an inseparable part of him, was like living without a hand; he felt bare, naked, and vulnerable.

Sherlock timidly approached the mirror above the fireplace, the coat in his hands. Is this a good idea? What if this is the ultimate proof that he no longer has a right to proclaim himself a Consulting Detective?

Well, it's not like you've had that right so far, is it?

In the worst case, the coat won't fit. There are no lives dependent on a piece of clothing, right?

Breathe, he reminded himself and inhaled a large gulp of air to gather his courage. Only after he finally put it on.

Slowly and ceremoniously, he buttoned it up, cherishing every button as if he were dressing up in some kind of vestment. At least, that's how it seemed to him. His coat has always been a very important part of his personality—and not just for the public eye.

The coat was of great importance to him from the day he had first laid his eyes on it. Mycroft had given it to him back then for his successful rehab from drugs, and Sherlock, who had immediately fallen in love with it, hardly ever set his foot out of the flat without its warm weight on his shoulders.

Let's get on with it. Snatch it like a plaster off the wound.

Sherlock raised his eyes to his reflection in the mirror.

Fortunately, he had gotten used to himself enough that there was no danger of him irreversibly getting rid of any shiny surface on which he could catch a glimpse of himself.

A surprised exhale swept through his lips.

It didn't seem as disastrous as he had feared.

Although he was a long way from his former slim, tall silhouette, he would otherwise allow himself to evaluate his appearance as "relatively acceptable".

The coat fit him perfectly as if tailored for his body... which seemed very possible.

Its flowing, quite loosely fitting cut drew no significant attention to his protruding tummy. The half-belt gathered the black wool together, narrowing the garment in the lumbar region and creating a flattering back curve. The bottom hem ended at his knees, so it partially hid his thighs as well, which Sherlock really appreciated.

The detective ran his hands over the fine wool, enjoying the texture under his palms. It felt amazing. So comforting and domestic. That is, domestic for Sherlock. Every stroke reminded him of a case he and John had solved, with flashbacks of crime scenes and adrenaline-filled chases around London flashing in his mind.

Sherlock was slowly losing hope that he would ever wear it again. Or wear it so soon, at least. He didn't dare to buy it himself; he'd have to deserve it first.

But his friends must have had a reason to give it to him.

He blushed for suspecting them of trying to force him into something, or even mocking him with their generous present.

Maybe he didn't have to do everything on his own when he had people around him who tried to help him and whose trust filled him with energy and self-confidence. It was because of them that Sherlock saw a point in leaving the house and trying to fit back into place.

"Sherlock? Thank you for the mug and the breakfast, and— oh-"

Sherlock jerked, startled by another reflection in the mirror.

John.

John was standing behind him, looking at him somewhat in surprise.

"You're welcome, it was no big deal," Sherlock waved it off, trying to conceal his embarrassment of being walked in on at such an exposed moment.

John raised his hands, palms first, as a sign of apology for the abrupt interruption. "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit surprised you actually took it. You didn't seem thrilled about it yesterday."

John looked much better today. Fifteen hours of sleep seemed to do him good and rid him of the unpleasant reminder of last night. His face smoothed out, and the dark bags under his eyes almost faded. The scleras around his dark blue irises shone in a pure white again, with no trace of red veins. His words didn't sound angry or disappointed. No, not at all. Just as if he wished to understand what was running through Sherlock's head.

Sherlock shifted his weight from one leg to another. He believed he should say something, as if he owed something to John.

"Listen, John..." he said without thinking and gave his lippy, traitorous mouth a mental slap. He swallowed strenuously, then forced himself to continue. "I didn't want yesterday to turn out the way it did..." he blurted out. Right, this didn't count as an apology, even Sherlock himself could tell.

But John Watson, his good-hearted John, surprised him again.

"Let's forget about it, okay? I didn't treat you very well either. I shouldn't have said what I said... And the alcohol was the last straw. God, I'm so sorry..."

John rubbed his forehead, and his rosy cheeks showed he felt genuinely abashed by what he had done last night. Sherlock sympathised with John. Alcohol (and especially his father's and sister's alcoholism) was apparently quite a delicate subject in the Watson family.

What he couldn't get his head around, though, was why John looked so guilty. John had done nothing wrong. It was natural that he snapped last night—that was expected, considering his tendency to bottle up his emotions instead of dealing with them...

So what if he went a little overboard with the alcohol? John was too hard on himself. After all, nothing so terrible happened. True, they could've been caught by the journalists. With John intoxicated the way he had been, they would have a hard time escaping the greedy cameras or phones.

But none of those scenarios, to their immense luck, had happened, so the only thing left for John to deal with was a nasty hangover, which Sherlock considered sufficient "punishment". Not to mention that the hangover was almost behind him by now.

"Sorry you had to see me like that... I'm normally under control, you know..."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's fine... Someone had to make sure that you don't choke on your own vomit."

John didn't appear very convinced. And so Sherlock swallowed his pride and tried to formulate a proper sentence that John deserved to hear.

"John... I know I have... changed. That I'm not as fun as I used to be. And I won't be for a while, if ever again," admitted Sherlock so quietly that one might think he had misheard himself. John, on the other hand, seemed to hear him very well as he gave him a mirthless smile and his eyebrows lowered the way they always did when Sherlock said or did something to move him.

"However, I want you to know that I don't think your blog is stupid. Nor boring... And I would be very happy if you continued to write..." the detective said as he noticed John taking a breath. Most likely to disprove Sherlock's words.

John closed his mouth, blinked several times, and for a while seemed to struggle to comprehend what Sherlock's words meant.

"Wait! You—you have a case?"

"We have a case, John...", the detective clarified, emphasising the first word, and despite a slight blink of uncertainty, he enjoyed how sweet the sentence tastes on his tongue. "But if you're this observant at the crime scene, you won't be much of a help..." he said, rolling his eyes dramatically, trying to put away an obtrusive pinch of nervousness somewhere behind his belly button.

Attending the investigation meant an uncompromising exposure to the public eye. This time, he probably won't avoid the newspaper articles and photos.

But if he was to pull himself together, he had to do something about it. For John, at least, if not for himself. He wasn't the only one who struggled with his demons, the last night was proof of that. John no longer trusted him as unconditionally as before. Sherlock understood his reasons and wouldn't even think of blaming him for being vigilant. It was time to demonstrate once and for all that he never intended to leave John again.

And some nice little murder could cheer them both up.

Silence. Why wasn't John saying anything? Did he do it wrong? Again?

John just stared at him in astonishment.

Sherlock's spirits dimmed. Had he miscalculated John's intentions? Maybe John doesn't want to be seen in his presence, not like this. Oh God, he had done it again. He had taken him for granted, as someone he used to command and make decisions for. John could do whatever he set his mind to—it was none of his duty to listen to him like a well-trained dog. After all, he didn't even have to be here, given the way Sherlock had treated him.

"But... You don't have to go with me, of course. I can go on my own, if you'd prefer to stay at home," Sherlock backed out of his offer. The idea of investigating without his faithful companion didn't seem as appealing as before, but he had already texted Greg that he would come, and promises were to be kept, right?

The pleasing feeling that his coat had elicited, abated.

Yes, he might look like a famous detective again, but what use is that going to be if things go wrong? When the murderer flees from him because he wasn't able to hunt him down?

He didn't want to disappoint John, Sherlock realised as he warily looked at the blonde doctor, waiting for his response. He got it, but nowhere near the one he had anticipated.

"You're such an idiot!"

Before he could even part his lips to ask what he did to deserve such a nickname, John opened his arms, and in a second, Sherlock found himself in the embrace of his blonde flatmate.

Sherlock turned into a chunk of stone. His arms pressed alongside his body, fingers balled into fists, as he tried to recover from the unexpected embrace. Not that Sherlock found it intolerable. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted to be this close to John. To feel the warmth of John's compact body, to smell his scent, to sense his presence. To his surprise, a brief part of him screamed at him to wrap his arms around John's waist, to press against him, and enjoy the gratifying proximity of his best friend.

And he would probably implement these thoughts... if only he had somewhere to hide his prominent belly.

'It's just a trasnport,' he scolded himself.

It shouldn't bother him to this extent, much less influence him like this.

But it did.

He cared about John's perceptions of him. What he thinks of him. What he sees when he looks at him. He didn't want John to take him for a pathetic, weak, vulnerable creature, as squishy as an overripe apricot.

Sherlock was painfully aware that his stomach expanded with each inhale and poked John's ribs. Therefore, he clenched his abdominal muscles (or at least what was left of them) and sucked in his belly as much as he could.

John must have noticed, without a doubt. Fortunately, he refrained from any comments; instead, his grip grew a little stronger, and he ran his palm across Sherlock's back. John's warm hand not only caressed his shoulder blade, but seemed to pass through his solar plexus and touch his heart as well.

It was only after that nonverbal assurance that the detective raised his arms and reciprocated the hug, if somewhat stiffly.

It was strange. Unusual. Lovely...

They never treated each other like this. Neither of them would have thought of doing what John just did back then. Their friendship didn't work like that. Sherlock never considered himself a tactile person and usually had better things to do than to lower himself to something as mundane as showing feelings.

And John—well, let's say that he relied heavily on how the public perceived them (why else would he try so vehemently to prove to everyone that he's not gay?).

Did he look so desperate it made John think he needs to treat him differently, with such an apprehension as if he would dissolve into thin air? Or was there something else?

Before he had time to explore that thought, John pulled away, and his eyes sparkled with tiny, dancing flames of happiness. "Of course I want to go with you, silly!" John said with a beaming smile.

Sherlock, still a bit dazed from that unexpected, yet not unwelcome, display of affection, gave John a cheeky grin. "Someone needs another hit, I see..." he threw in a sarcastic remark, walked out the door, and headed downstairs. Behind him, he heard the rustle of the jacket John had just slipped his hands into, the footsteps following him to the ground floor, and a sarcastic "You're the one to talk..."

Sherlock grabbed the keys from the main entrance and was about to set out on the street.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

The detective turned to John in confusion. "If you mean that annoying hat, then the answer is no," he replied to John, who sneered and shook his head.

Slowly and predictably, giving Sherlock a chance to withdraw, John stepped into Sherlock's personal space.

Sherlock cast a long, confused gaze at him, searching for the slightest clue that would tell him what John was up to.

John's closeness was disturbing his concentration, but he trusted John more than anyone else, so he waited in a state of forced calm to see what would happen next.

John raised his hands to caress the stiff fabric of the down-turned collar before squeezing it in his fingers and flipping it upwards in one swift motion—just the way Sherlock used to wear it. Then he stepped back and looked at him approvingly.

A wide smile spilt on the brunet's lips, and his face lit up. "Come on, John. The game is on!"

"You don't even know how long I've been waiting for you to say that..." the doctor whispered, more to himself than to him, and followed Sherlock into wintry, slightly snowy London. 

AN:

Hello, my dear readers!
Aaaaaand here we have a case! What kind of Sherlock fanfic would it be if it didn't involve murder, right? I have to say I'm very proud of Sherlock. It wasn't an easy decision for him, but the feeling of being needed is very important to him now. What do you think?😁

I can't help but feel as if I'm doing something wrong. Is my story invisible? Or boring? I'd love to receive some response, I would be happy to know what do you think about the story. Please, share your opinions with me.😇

Thank you for reading and for your reactions❤

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02