《Events after The Great Game》vernon

7、第 7 章 Fic:

　　Fic: The Road Less Traveled (Christmas Special, Part 1/2)

　　This is the boys' first Christmas together, written as an extra, so set around six months after John's Resolution, and 18 months before Mycroft's On The Road Epilogue.

　　SHERLOCK P.O.V.

　　Something was wrong.

　　I opened my eyes, and looked down at John's sleeping face. He was curled into me this morning, both of us on our sides and facing each other, his left hand cupping my neck, my right arm wrapped around his torso under the quilt, our legs tangled together.

　　It had been too long since we'd woken like this; three back-to-back cases had left me napping on the sofa for the last fortnight, and then, when I'd finally cleared the last robbery and returned home exhausted and wanting nothing more than to pull him into our bed and wrap myself around him, John had passed me on the stairs on his way to a double shift at the surgery.

　　I had tried to talk him out of it. Well, I say talk… but John had proved even more stubborn than usual. Apparently, my having to sleep alone was less important than other doctors spending Christmas Eve with their families. Why people become even more irrational than usual at this time of year is beyond me, but John seemed determined to play his part. At least he doesn't share the nation's obsession with unnecessarily illuminating their premises.

　　We had picked him up straight from the surgery and he had slept for most of the two hour drive, leaving me to ignore Mycroft's smug expression by myself. Really, the longer John and I were together, the more insufferable my brother became.

　　My eyes roamed across John's features now, and I smoothed my hand across his back and round to his hip, frowning as my thumb brushed the edge of the last remaining dressing. The fall, a few weeks ago, had been nasty and the criminal we had been chasing at the time was lucky that the police were so close behind us when we caught him. Also, that I had not realised the extent of the damage to John until after we got home.

　　It was unfortunate that the one scrape which had become infected was just over his left hip, in exactly the place I usually rested my hand – John naturally gravitated to my left side, since this meant we both had our dominant hands free. He was far too disciplined to flinch when I pushed my fingers into the top of his pocket, but he couldn't disguise the sudden tension in his body the last time I had done it, two weeks before. Hopefully, the dressing could come off today, he had said 'the weekend' last time I asked.

　　I still had the uneasy feeling I had woken up with, an as yet uncategorised awareness that something was wrong. Of course, we were at my family home, and had the horrendous annual dinner for just about everyone Mummy had ever met to get through in a few hours time, the one event Mycroft always managed to coerce me into attending. But still, John was here, how bad could things be?

　　There was a quiet cough from behind me and I whipped my head around. My mother was sitting on the edge of the bed. The bed in which I was currently naked and wrapped around my equally naked lover. My first assumption had been correct… things were certainly less than ideal.

　　I glared at her, reluctant to speak and risk disturbing John, who had been so tired the night before he'd barely woken when I led him from the car to the bedroom and who had been out like a light again before I even got his shoes off.

　　"Now, Sherlock,you'll only give yourself a headache frowning like that," she said, irritatingly, although at least quietly. "I just wanted to make sure you were both up." She paused, and giggled. I rolled my eyes. To think, people accused me of being inappropriate. What hope had there ever been for me, with a parent like this?

　　"I'm sorry, darling," she said. "But you were so completely disinterested before John, I seem to have a backlog of innuendo." She leaned forward and patted the quilt cautiously, but I didn't feel anything - she must have got John's leg instead. He stirred slightly, his body rocking against mine until he settled again.

　　I bit back my groan, absolutely refusing to allow myself to become aroused with my mother in the room, and jerked my head towards the door, in a clear invitation for her to leave.

　　"You need to be downstairs in 15 minutes," she warned me, rising to her feet. "Both of you," she added. "And don't even think about being late, because I'll send Virginia next time – and she doesn't live up to that name any more than her mother does to hers, it seems to be a family trait."

　　On that dire threat, she swept out, leaving me wishing, as so often before, that the door of my childhood bedroom had a lock.

　　Well, if I was ever going to create some good Christmas memories for myself, it seemed that the first one I had tentatively scheduled would not be part of the set. I sighed, and re-focused my gaze on the man in my arms, bringing up my right hand to stroke his face.

　　"John," I murmured, kissing him gently. "John, we need to get up."

　　He turned his head away to yawn, stretching his arms and rotating his bad shoulder to ease it. "Excellent idea," he muttered, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him, one hand pushing into my hair, and the other stroking down my spine. "Mmm… Sherlock, it seems like forever…" he said, as he kissed along my jaw line.

　　I was calculating in my head, but there was no way to make this work. With huge regret, I levered myself up and away from John, my body immediately feeling cold and bereft. It was too big a step to leave the bed completely; I moved to the side instead, as John turned his head to face me, confusion, disappointment and lust chasing each other across his features.

　　"We have to be downstairs in 15 minutes," I told him.

　　"Or what?" he asked, his tone making me think unaccountably of playgrounds.

　　"Or my second cousin Virginia will be joining us," I told him. "Which will be far from the first time she's tried to sneak into my bed and, believe me,your presence will do absolutely nothing to discourage her."

　　John's eyebrows were rising, but he sat up without further complaint. "I think you need to tell me a bit more about your family," he said. "At least the ones I'm going to be meeting so soon."

　　He was still muttering names and connections under his breath as we walked down the main staircase together some 13 minutes later. Virginia was half way up the first flight and looked extremely disappointed to see us. "John," I introduced him with reluctance, "This is Virginia, daughter of my mother's cousin Serena."

　　John held out his hand, tentatively and Virginia swooped on it, taking it in both of hers as she looked him up and down. "Well," she drawled, "I'm just dying to find out what makes you so special, John." She flicked a glance at me, just as John flinched and I saw that she was scratching his palm with one of her long red fingernails. I clamped my hand over her wrists until she released him.

　　"Virginia," I warned her. "John is not, and never will be, available."

　　She raised her eyebrows and looked at John, who shrugged. "Hi," he said, taking my hand again and moving to skirt around the annoying relative in his path. Sometimes, John was just particularly perfect.

　　The pre-dinner drinks seemed interminable. I introduced John only when it was unavoidable, which sadly seemed to be all too often, as Mummy seemed intent on making sure everyone knew that her youngest son had managed to 'find somebody' at last. She swanned around, murmuring 'Sherlock's partner' to all and sundry, while I cast glares at Mycroft whenever the opportunity arose.

　　I didn't let go of John, and I could feel the residual tension from earlier buzzing beneath our skin to the point where it sometimes became hard to focus on the other people in the room.

　　Finally, a little while before dinner, we found ourselves fortuitously placed next to the door to the drawing room. John glanced at the door handle, then at me and I nodded. Carefully not looking at anyone, or at each other, we each slipped though the door, finding the room shrouded in darkness, curtains still drawn against the harsh winters day, the only light coming from the tree in the corner, which, like the others which seemed to have infested every room in the house, was adorned with a preposterous number of bulbs, many of them flashing unnecessarily.

　　I looked at my lover, as he closed the door and turned to me. "How is it so long since I've really kissed you, John?" I asked him, taking a step closer.

　　"You kiss me all the time," he pointed out, but I could see his pulse rate rising. It was odd; logically one would expect that we would have got used to each other after six months of, with the exception of the last couple of weeks and a few more similarly intense occasions, exceedingly frequent sex. I would certainly not have anticipated this level of desire being maintained, but I had yet to observe any indications of it waning, either in myself or in John. Indeed, in many ways, it seemed to be getting stronger.

　　He stepped back to lean against the door, tilting his head to look up at me and I smiled.

　　"Stop it," he said. I smiled wider and he frowned at me. "That's your 'John is short' smile," he observed, with his usual accuracy– he had come to read my expressions extraordinarily well, it was quite startling at times. "I'm not short," he objected, not for the first time. "You are just ridiculously tall."

　　I quirked a brow at him, leaning forward and resting my hands on either side of his head. Statistically, of course, he was two inches below the national average, and I was three inches above, but I had discovered that facts were not always helpful in these situations.

　　"Do you wish I wasn't?" I queried, lowering my head and breathing the words into his ear. He shivered. "Would you like to change me, John?" I asked him, as I pressed my mouth to the corner of his jaw and his hands rose to my chest.

　　"Because I wouldn't change you," I told him, gradually working my way down the side of his neck. "I wouldn't change a single thing about you..." I reached the juncture of his shoulder and bit down, gently.

　　He groaned and slid both hands up over my shoulders, and along the sides of my neck until he could raise my head enough to look at me. "You don't play fair," he said, which was hardly the revelation of the decade. "Just once, it would be nice to win an argument with you."

　　He pushed his hands into my hair, tugging gently and I closed my eyes, pressing into the movement. "Perhaps that's something you might give me for Christmas?" he suggested. "Let me have the last word, for once?"

　　I looked at him again, my gaze narrowing on his mouth as he talked. "I told you," I reminded him, leaning further until my lips were just touching his. "I don't do Christmas." I moved my head from side to side so our mouths were lightly brushing together. "I come to this dinner ever year to get Mycroft off my back, but that is it. No more, and we can go straight back home afterwards."

　　He used his grip on my hair to force me back slightly. "Yes,you've told me you don't 'do Christmas'," he agreed. "But you haven't really explained why?" He was trying to keep focused on my eyes, but his attention kept dropping to my mouth, which made him easy to distract. I ran the tip of my tongue along my bottom lip and his hands tightened.

　　"John," I said, in the husky voice I knew affected him the most. "John, I don't want to be talking." I adjusted my balance so that just my left arm was supporting me, and dropped my right hand to his hip, quickly pulling his smart shirt out of his trousers and stroking my palm over the bare skin of his back, my fingers dipping below the edge of his waistband.

　　His lips parted and I seized my chance, taking his mouth fiercely. His head thudded back against the door as I pressed forward, tilting my head and running my tongue along the inner edge of his bottom lip before delving further to explore him more thoroughly.

　　It felt so good to be kissing him properly again. I resolved that two weeks was far too long for us to be constantly working, either together or separately. On the other hand, the period of enforced abstinence had certainly added an edge to this experience. I considered that for a moment, with the part of my brain which wasn't completely engrossed by the taste and feel of John. Sometimes it seemed that part was getting smaller. Be that as it may, I quickly decided that abstinence was too high a price, even for this.

　　Although I usually took the lead, John was far from submissive and he soon responded more aggressively, moving one hand round to the nape of my neck and dropping the other straight down to my backside, tugging my hips forward sharply until I was pressed against him.

　　I pulled my head back and glanced quickly around – this was why I was so fond of cupboards... there was always something for John to stand on, or even a bench or table I could sit him on, or lean him over, which made our height difference manageable. Although, having said that, I wouldn't actually choose for him to be taller, despite the logistical difficulties. There was something about the way he looked up at me, the angle at which he tilted his head, which caused an odd ache in my chest, although it was far from an unpleasant sensation. Indeed, it seemed I had developed a particular smile in response to the feeling, which John had, of course, been quick to pick up on.

　　Considering how seldom I had smiled before he came into my life, he certainly seemed to have an extensive catalogue now, ranging from the first one he had named, the so-called 'Can I have a hug?' smile, to his least favourite, which he described as my 'I've blown something up, do you still love me?' smile.

　　My eyes lit on a large nearby table, which had the added benefit that Mycroft often used it as a desk when he was at home – it would be nice to think of this the next time I saw him going through his correspondence. I pulled my hand out of the back of John's trousers and reached round to turn the key in the door we had come in by, then put both my hands on his hips and pulled him away from the door, lowering my head to kiss him again, as I turned us both and started backing him towards the table.

　　He was reaching behind himself with one hand, clearly aware of my destination and ready to lever himself up, but that was too slow for me. I waited until he had one hand supporting himself then bent forward, wrapped my hands around his thighs, and simply lifted him. He growled at me, as he always does when I pick him up, and bit my bottom lip quite hard. He often does that too. Perhaps, one day, he might realise that neither of those things are in any way a deterrent to me – quite the reverse, in fact.

　　In the meantime, I moved my hands back to his hips and pulled him right to the edge of the table, stepping forward between his legs so that we were pressed together. We both groaned. Perfect.

　　I leaned my forehead against his for a moment, just revelling in the contact, rocking my hips gently against him as he brought both hands to my shirt and started undoing the buttons, far enough to expose my chest to his eyes. Then he spread it open and placed his fingertips on my shoulders, before starting to drag them downwards, skirting my nipples at first, before abruptly changing direction and rubbing his thumbs over them.

　　My whole body shuddered at the sensation and I slipped one hand around his waist, but moved the other to the back of his head, as I started kissing him again. He was moaning into my mouth, pushing back against me and still teasing both of my nipples with his hands, rubbing them, rolling them between his finger and thumb, pinching them until I had to release his mouth in order to tip my head back and just focus on the sensations, a worryingly loud groan escaping my lips as he persisted, driving me on, pushing my incessant thoughts further away until the constant noise which filled my head, the static which drove me mad at times, was just a distant hum and there was nothing but John in my world.

　　I had to move this along, or I was going to end up embarrassing myself. I kissed him again, waiting until he had wrapped one leg around me and was lost in the sensation, then pushed him backwards, leaning against him so his hands were trapped between us and tightening my grip so that I could support his weight. He resisted for a moment, tensing his abdominal muscles, but I pressed on and he relaxed, allowing me to lower him to the table.

　　I pushed his shirt up and unfastened his belt and he groaned, then propped himself up on his elbows, the flashing lights from the tree creating a pattern over his face as he stared at me, different features being illuminated moment by moment. I wondered how that would look over his whole body.

　　"Sherlock, wait," he said, his voice breathless and clearly wanting. "We can't do this now, and we certainly can't do it here, with half the landed gentry of the county right next door."

　　I moved my hands lower, stroking him through the material of his trousers and he gasped, his head falling back for a moment. "Sherlock, stop. Really," he said, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. I lowered my head and started kissing along the edge of his waistband, surreptitiously unfastening his top button one-handed as I went.

　　It took a few seconds before the rattling of the door registered, but then John sat up sharply and pushed me away, sliding off the table and tucking his shirt back into his trousers. I frowned.

　　Focusing, I could hear my mother's voice muttering, "Oh, for goodness sake," then the door rocked slightly– perhaps she was leaning against it. Her voice sounded again, louder this time, "No, they're not here, Virginia. Perhaps they stepped onto the terrace?" I couldn't hear the response, but then Mummy spoke again. "Yes, I know it's freezing. Don't worry, Mycroft will find them. After all," she added, and there was a slight thud, as if she had kicked back at the door, "it's time for Christmas Dinner."

　　John jumped as the door in the far corner opened, the one which led to the library. It seemed he hadn't realised there was another door, hidden as it was behind the festive monstrosity. He looked at me accusingly and I shrugged. What did he want me to say? Two weeks was too long.

　　Mycroft walked in and rolled his eyes. "Did it have to be my desk, Sherlock?" he asked. "Really?" He shook his head. "Hello, John," he added, but John didn't respond, other than to turn even redder, which I hadn't actually thought was possible.

　　"Virginia won't be far behind me," he warned. "You'd better fasten your shirt if you don't want a repeat of the bathroom incident."

　　I grimaced and set to work, noticing that John looked even more unhappy– he should be grateful I'd managed to keep him away from my family for this long, I thought.

　　Christmas Dinner dragged on indefinitely, accompanied by the ongoing racket of chemically impregnated card strips, which inevitably resulted in a deluge of alleged 'jokes' which amused only those who had made an early start on the sherry.

　　There were many new irritating questions this year, including several enquiries as to whether I was entering into the 'Spirit of Christmas', now that I had someone to buy for; which struck me as both illogical, and also offensive to my immediate family, both of which points I attempted to make clear.

　　I took John's hand under the table; he didn't object, but he seemed subdued. I was not surprised. This sort of forced interaction with people one spent the rest of the year quite reasonably avoiding, was a sad trial indeed. I pictured our flat in my mind. Next year, I would stand firm against Mycroft, I determined. It had been over 20 years after all, and Mummy seemed fine. Enough was most definitely enough. I squeezed John's hand.

　　On the plus side, Virginia had been seated at the other end of the table, although she suddenly appeared opposite us just at the end of the meal, slipping into Great Aunt Adelaide's seat while she was off topping up her flask again.

　　She warmed up with a barrage of what she no doubt felt were 'pleasantries', before moving in for the kill. "So, John," she batted her false eyelashes at him, flicking her unnaturally blonde hair back over her fake-tanned shoulder. "What's your secret?"

　　I glanced quickly at John, who looked less than impressed. "I'm sorry, what?" he enquired, politely. "I don't think I have much in the way of secrets, certainly not from Sherlock." There was an odd note in his voice which drew my attention, but his expression was bland.

　　"Ah,yes… Sherlock," she replied, smirking. "Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Her gaze ran over me and I curled my lip. "Untouchable, uninterested Sherlock." She turned back to John. "Tell me, John," she leaned forward over the table, the front of her dress weighted down by an excessive quantity of silicone. "How did you worm your way into my dear cousin's bed?"

　　There were a few gasps from the surrounding chairs and I opened my mouth with an angry retort, but John straightened his shoulders and looked her in the eye. "I find waiting to be invited is generally a good tactic," he replied, making his feelings on her behaviour perfectly clear.

　　Her eyes narrowed malevolently and I tensed, glancing at Mycroft in warning. Virginia was a superficial bitch, but she was sharp, and she had an unerring instinct for which buttons to push.

　　"Do you know why he hates Christmas,your Sherlock?" she asked John now, and his questioning glance to me only confirmed her suspicions. She pressed on. "Has he told you whyyou won't be getting a present? Why there will be no tree in your flat? Why he'll be on his way back to London before the last coffee is drunk?"

　　John was pale, but he answered. "Christmas is irrational," he repeated the only answer or explanation I had given him.

　　Virginia laughed. "Oh, it's irrational, alright," she replied. "It's..."

　　"VIRGINIA!" My mother's voice silenced the room, but she was smiling sweetly. "Virginia, my dear, I think we're ready to move into the main parlour for coffee," she said, rising to her feet and moving towards us. "Won't you join me?" She linked their arms together as Virginia stood, reluctantly, and they moved away. "Now,you must tell me how your dear sister, Temperance, is managing at that dreadful place..." they walked out, and people began to follow, but John didn't move.

　　"John?" His head turned towards my voice, but he wasn't really focused on me. I took his elbow. "Come on," I tugged and he rose to his feet, then Mycroft was there.

　　"I need to leave in an hour," he told me, his eyes repeatedly flicking to John, who looked blank. "Why don't you both go and get packed? I'll make sure you're not disturbed." He held my gaze for a moment. 'Fix this!' his look said. I nodded.

　　As we walked up the stairs, I was becoming anxious. I had noted before that, while physical trauma or danger made John more alert and enhanced his concentration to something approaching even my levels, emotional upset seemed to almost shut him down, especially if it was connected to me.

　　There had been disagreements over the last six months, of course there had, outright arguments even. There had been several times when John had withdrawn from me, becoming very quiet and remote. If I did it, he would say I was sulking, but it would be inaccurate to use that term with him, it was more as if he was... re-evaluating. He always shook it off eventually, although sometimes there was a shadow in his eyes for days afterwards.

　　I looked at him again. This was a bad one.

　　When we got to my room, he seemed to recover a little. "So, what was she going to tell me?" he asked, his tone still quiet. I would have preferred belligerent, in the circumstances, but I was glad he was talking.

　　I clicked the door closed and turned to him. "Something to do with my father, I would imagine."

　　He looked taken aback, which was not surprising as I had never mentioned even having a father before.

　　"My father left at Christmas," I explained. "Christmas Day, to be precise. I was ten, almost eleven years old. Mycroft was eighteen and away at University, he hadn't come home for the holidays – the onlyyear he ever missed."

　　John sat down on the edge of the bed. "Your father left?" he repeated. "Just... walked out?"

　　"He was gone when we woke up," I elaborated. "There on Christmas Eve, gone on Christmas morning. Nothing suspicious about it – he left a note."

　　"What did it say?" John asked, sounding as if he were afraid to hear the answer.

　　I shrugged my shoulders. "No idea," I told him. "Mummy wouldn't tell me." I thought back. "I looked for it, of course. Natural curiosity." It was strange to remember how fixated I had been on it at the time. I shook my head. "But she must have given it to Mycroft, because I never found it."

　　"Maybe she burned it?" John suggested. "She might have been angry."

　　"Perhaps," I agreed, but I didn't think it was likely.

　　He thought for a moment, then looked up at me. "So this is whyyou don't like Christmas?" he asked.

　　I rolled my eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John," I told him. "Christmas is irrational. The blatant consumerism makes little enough sense if you're a Christian, but for an atheist it is ludicrous in the extreme. The information about my father is, no doubt, what Virginia was going to tell you, but her assumption was erroneous, it was your response which was the correct one."

　　"So your father leaving has nothing to do with it?" he asked again.

　　I moved to sit beside him, but maintained a slight distance, for now. "My father leaving is simply the reason I come back for this horrendous family dinner everyyear," I explained. "Mycroft forces me into it, says we have to be here for Mummy's sake – points out that he's organised all manner of international crises around this one commitment, the least I can do is make the trip from London once a year."

　　"That sounds like Mycroft," John agreed, but he still had that blank look on his face. I reached for his hand, but he stood up and took a few steps away before I could touch him.

　　"You don't have to tell me everything, Sherlock," he spoke with his back to me. "That would be impossible anyway, with everything that goes on in your brain." He made a sound a bit like a laugh, but not.

　　"You are entitled to privacy, to have secrets if you want to. But some things – things that other people know... if we are going to go forward with this relationship then I should know those things too."

　　I could feel my face paling. If? IF? This was way beyond 'Not Good'. I rose to my feet. "John, I..." I trailed off, not sure what I wanted to say, and he turned to face me.

　　"I don't have secrets from you, Sherlock, it's impossible," he said, although there was a slight flicker of his eyelid which made me wonder. "You knew almost everything important about me within a few days,you can't help it, and that's fine with me, it's not a problem."

　　"But I can't do that, Sherlock," he continued. "I can work out how you're feeling, and often whyyou feel it, sometimes better than you do, I think. But I can't deduce the facts – I might be able to work out that there's something I don't know, but that's it. I only know what you tell me, can only share in what you choose to reveal to me, only walk through doors you open for me." He paused and looked at me, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

　　"You did it on purpose, earlier, didn't you?" He held my gaze for a moment, before looking down. "When we were in the drawing room and I asked you again about whyyou didn't like Christmas,you deliberately distracted me. You used your knowledge of me to keep me from learning about you." He shook his head, sadly. "You manipulated me, Sherlock." He turned away. "And then you made me feel like a fool."

　　I didn't know what to say. What had happened in the past surely had no bearing on our relationship? It was irrelevant. "Can we go home?" I asked him. "Will you come home with me?"

　　He shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked small, but I didn't feel like smiling. "Sure," he said. "Let's go home." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I think I'll get changed first."

　　He moved towards the wardrobe and pulled out his jeans and a jumper, starting to unbutton his shirt without seeming to be aware that I was watching him. As he pulled off the smart trousers, I noticed the edge of the dressing sticking up from the waist of his shorts.

　　"John," I spoke softly, but he still flinched, as if he was lost in a world of his own. I pointed to the dressing. "Can that come off now?" I asked. "You said the weekend."

　　He looked down and his face tightened. For a moment he actually looked as if he might cry– surely the wound could not be that bad? Had the infection spread? I stepped forward, worried and his head jerked up.

　　He held my gaze for a moment and then his mouth twisted. He pushed down the side of his shorts to expose the whole dressing and beckoned me forward. "You may as well do the honours," he said.

　　I was only too eager to inspect the damage for myself and moved forward quickly, dropping to my knees in front of him. I gripped the corner of the dressing and started to ease it off gradually, but John grunted. "Just rip it off," he said, so I did, keeping his flesh taut with my other hand in order to minimise the pain.

　　The dressing had left a sticky square on his skin, but there was a clear mark still visible in the centre. I stared at it. It wasn't a scar, or a scrape, infected or otherwise. John had managed to keep a secret from me, after all.

　　I glanced up at him; he was biting his lip and didn't meet my eyes. I looked back down. It was a tattoo – just a small one, perfectly plain, in neat black ink, right at the place on his hip where my hand so often rested. It read: 'SH'.

　　"Merry Christmas," said John.