John was freezing. He was absolutely freezing, soaked to his bones, and he was having worryingly murderous thoughts about his partner who was happily prancing up the stairs to 221b.
'Why the bloody hell are you cheery?' asked John through gritted teeth. Sherlock turned to face with the biggest smile on his lips, teeth and everything.
'Well, it was a successful case, I am in the mood for celebrating, that's all,' he replied smoothly, even though could see he was freezing to the very core just like he was.
John rolled his eyes and kept following him up the stairs, ignoring the excited comments about the case. He really didn't care anymore. In fact, John stopped caring the minute his very unaware self had been thrown into the Thames. It was not only that he was cold, but apparently he broke the ice that had begun to form on the surface of the river, and how his entire right side was sore. Merry fucking Christmas, he thought.
All John wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with Sherlock and a cuppa, open some presents, watch one of those ridiculous Christmas specials the BBC loved to put on, maybe even some Doctor Who in the evening to take the edge off, have some lazy and comfortable Christmas sex and go to sleep.
But no. No. He had to go chasing after some crazy murderer, get shot at three times, and then thrown into the sodding river.
Now all he wanted was a hot shower, sleep and to forget everything about this horrible day.
Sherlock threw his coat on the hanger, then stood in front of John expectantly. He seemed nervous.
'You were acting rather odd today, John,' he said. John sighed and put his own drenched coat next to Sherlock's.
'Well, I wasn't really looking forward to going out at all today, Sherlock, let alone to chase after a criminal,' John toed off his shoes with barely contained annoyance and moved away from his partner, walking towards their bedroom to get his bathrobe. Sherlock just stood there, watching his back, probably trying to deduce the source of his irritation. That only made John more irritated as he slammed the door of the bathroom shut and proceed to take care of his warm shower.
Twenty minutes later, John was feeling a lot better. He was warm and dry, and the whole day seemed a lot less horrible. Now all he needed was a cuppa and he could go to sleep.
He stopped in his tracks, though, when he saw Sherlock standing by their Christmas tree with an odd expression.
'What's wrong?' he asked, walking towards him, feeling less hostile. Sherlock's head snapped in his direction and he seemed confused. 'Everything okay?'
Sherlock had already changed into his pyjamas, his red dressing gown was hanging from his shoulders, bare feet fidgeting on the rug. He swallowed and looked back at John.
'You were looking forward to Christmas,' he said. John nodded and sat on the arm of the sofa.
'Yes,' he replied, even though it hadn't been a question.
'You wanted to spend the day inside, in the warmth,' Sherlock continued, looking pale and a bit sick. 'And you got me one of those horrid Christmas jumpers… Then I dragged you out and we got thrown in the Thames.'
With a chuckle, John nodded. He really wasn't that upset anymore, now that he was cosy and prepared for bed.
'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said, finally. John gaped at him. In all the years they'd been together, Sherlock still seldom apologised, only when he truly meant it, when he truly thought he'd done something horrible.
John smiled at him. 'It's fine. Really… Let's just forget about this day and move on, yeah?'
Sherlock shook his head. 'No.' He picked up his present that was still lying half-unwrapped by the tree, and moved to their bedroom. John raised an eyebrow, not sure if he was supposed to follow. A few seconds later, though, Sherlock appeared again, carrying a quilt, wearing a pair of socks decorated with snowmen and reindeer - which Harry had given him the year before as a gag gift - and sporting the jumper John had given him, a hand-made, navy blue jumper with a beautiful reindeer pattern, and snowflakes. He threw the quilt in John's arms, then moved to the kitchen. John was still shocked, so he didn't move, just held the quilt, trying to understand what was happening.
A few minutes later, Sherlock reappeared, carrying two steaming mugs. The whole flat started to smell of cinnamon and chocolate. John looked into his partner's face and smiled.
'What are you doing?' he asked in an amused voice.
'We're enjoying the last of our Christmas…' Sherlock replied sheepishly. 'Come on, sit on the sofa.'
John obliged, adjusting himself comfortable under the quilt and making room for Sherlock, who handed him one mug, then proceeded to make himself cosy against John, snuggling close against him under their cover. He picked up the remote, turned on the telly - right on time for Doctor Who, John noticed with a grin - then nuzzled his nose on John's neck.
John wrapped on arm around Sherlock's shoulder - his wonderful detective loved being the little spoon, even though he was much taller - and took a sip of his hot chocolate, which was perfect as always. Over the years, John noticed Sherlock was only good a making three things in the kitchen: mashed potatoes, bread and hot chocolate.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, John pressed a kiss on the top of that mass of black curls. 'Thank you,' he whispered. Sherlock looked up at him, stretched a bit and place a chaste kiss on his lips.
'Drink your hot chocolate, John.' And, really, there was nothing else John would rather do.