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Chapter Text

“It’s December 21st,” John remarked airily, fingers lingering on the calendar tacked to the wall of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was seated in his chair, legs crossed. He didn’t look up from his book. “Yes, and?”

“Christmas is in four days.”

“And?” Sherlock repeated.

“You don’t like Christmas?” John guessed, blinking.

“You do? ” 

“Well– I mean– It’s Christmas, ” John stuttered. “Lights, hot chocolate, family and friends…”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

John sighed as he sat in his respective chair. “Should’ve guessed I would be met with a ‘bah-humbug’ attitude.”

Sherlock looked startled and finally tore his pale green gaze away from the yellowed pages of his book. “Really, John, you can’t just go around making up nonsensical words.”

John stared at Sherlock. “What d’you mean?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ Bah humbug? Please.” He returned to his book.

“You’re telling me you’ve never heard that before?”

“I would’ve remembered a phrase as ridiculous as that one.”

John narrowed his eyes. “If I asked you who Scrooge was, or who the Ghost of Christmas Past was, or– or who bloody Charles Dickens was, would you know what I was talking about?”

Sherlock almost looked amused by now, further frustrating John. “All these names, all these ideas… you could write a book, John.”

“ It is a book! ” John cried, teetering between annoyance and hilarity. “A Christmas Carol, written by Charles Dickens in 1843!”

Sherlock turned a page uninterestedly, the amused expression still lingering on his defined features. “Never heard of it.”

John scoffed, though he felt a smirk stretch across his lips as well. 

***Four days later, Christmas afternoon***

“Oh,” John remarked, standing up from his chair with a start. “Almost forgot.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as John retreated upstairs and returned a moment later with a small, rectangular wrapped gift in his hand– clearly a book, going off its shape and size. 

He held it out towards Sherlock. “Happy Christmas,” John told him brightly. He nodded encouragingly as Sherlock reached for it.

“I haven’t gotten you anything,” Sherlock said hesitantly as his fingers settled around the gift.

John shrugged, unbothered. “Didn’t need to.” He pushed the present towards his flatmate kindly.

Sherlock gave a brief, acknowledging smile and began to unwrap it, the festive paper crinkling pleasantly under his fingers, ripping away to reveal a reddish-maroon book with gold lettering.

Sherlock actually laughed as he read the title.

“A Christmas Carol, written by Charles Dickens,” he said, admiring the neat gold lettering. Sherlock looked back up at his flatmate. “Thank you, John.”

John shrugged, though he had a warm grin on his face as well. “Thought it might do you some good.”

And so the two spent the rest of the day seated across from each other on their chairs, safe under the glow of the roaring fire, Sherlock getting lost in the pages of his book, though occasionally resurfacing from the world of spirits and magic to enjoy the reality of a smile that was always returned.

Chapter Text

“ Dads, ” Rosie whispered excitedly as she clambered onto her fathers’ bed– she collectively called John and Sherlock dads as opposed to having different names for each one, since she was, after all, only seven and found this to be quite funny– “it’s Christmas morning, wake up! ”

Sherlock only groaned into his pillow in response, his ever-persistent daughter sitting on his legs uncomfortably.

“Rosie, love, it’s five in the morning,” John explained patiently, the exhaustion apparent in his voice.

“And we agreed to sleep in till at least nine,” Sherlock added, to which John rolled over to hit his husband good-naturedly, causing Sherlock to grin sleepily to himself.

“I was kidding, Watson,” Sherlock assured Rosie kindly just as she began to protest. John threw back the warm duvet of their bed and sat up to stretch the sleep out of his muscles. Sherlock followed suit, standing up and ruffling Rosie’s hair, making her giggle and squirm away out of the room.

Sherlock yawned slowly and pulled on his silk-blue robe over his inside-out gray t-shirt and striped pajama pants. 

“Morning,” John said softly to his husband, noting how perfectly Sherlock the detective looked today, with his dark curls a poufy mess and one shoulder of the robe sliding down, the sleeve enveloping his entire arm and hand.

Sherlock turned and planted a gentle kiss on John’s lips. “Morning.”

They walked out with Sherlock draping an arm around John’s shoulders and John wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s middle, and followed Rosie into the living room, her eyes bright with young excitement as she saw their tree lit up and presents tucked invitingly underneath the evergreen. 

“Go on,” John encouraged his daughter happily, nodding towards the gifts.

The family spent the rest of the morning exchanging presents. Rosie, to her delight, received a magnifying glass not unlike Sherlock’s and inspected every item thereafter with it, John got a brand-new wristwatch, and Sherlock got a heavy book titled A Guide to Beekeeping, trying (and failing) to pass off his excitement as polite nonchalance. 

The rest of the afternoon went by in a golden haze, the yellow light filtering pleasantly through the glass windows, illuminating Sherlock’s dark-chocolate curls and the way John smiled at the sight of his husband and daughter going around the flat, lost in their world of make-believe and crime scenes and deductions.

The Watson-Holmes family ordered Chinese takeaway for the night and turned on It’s A Wonderful Life, but soon night fell and the quiet droning from the telly and warm food in her stomach made Rosie fall asleep quietly on the couch, wrapped in a knit blanket from Mrs. Hudson next to her parents. Sherlock and John grinned to each other at the sight of their daughter contentedly snoring, curled up impossibly small while using the armrest as a pillow. 

John leaned into Sherlock’s warmth, resting his head on the detective’s shoulder.

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s graying blonde hair, but the simplicity of the moment carried so much more; the life they’ve lived together, as flatmates, friends, parents, husbands, of Rosie, and the energy she brought to Baker Street, of the connection between an old Army doctor and his madman, of all the confusion and miscommunications and silently loving each other in their own ways, persevering through challenges, heartbreak, loss… but they’d made it. They made it to the life that they deserved, the life that Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were always meant to have. A life of mystery, and uncertainty, and companionship, and family. A life together.  

John shifted his weight to gaze up at Sherlock. “I love you, d’you know that?”

“Ack, romantic.” 

Sherlock cupped John’s chin and dipped his own head down to lean into the kiss, his lips twisting into a grin against John’s.

The two pulled apart, Sherlock looking down fondly at his husband, who was resettling his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder and sighing peacefully.

Soon all three of the Watson-Holmes family members were sound asleep on the leather couch, the nostalgic and magical feeling of Christmas settling through those of 221B Baker Street.