The One Next Door

The Melting Heart of Ice

"So, excited for Christmas?" Mrs. Holmes asked once everyone had gotten their share of food and started on it.
"No." Sherlock sighed. "It's just an excuse to spend time with family."
"That's why I like it so much." Mr. Holmes agreed.
"Ghastly." Mycroft decided.
"What does that even mean?" Sherlock asked, very fed up with his brother's sudden need to use big words, as if he had read the dictionary just to prepare for sounding intelligent during Christmas Eve dinner. Mycroft smiled, probably feeling proud of himself for getting Sherlock to snap, but Mrs. Holmes obviously wasn't impressed.
"Please keep our family drama away from the table." She insisted.
"We try our best, but family drama usually occurs when the family is together." Mycroft added. Sherlock smiled in agreement, but continued with his lasagna.
"This is excellent Mrs. Holmes; I definitely see how the other contestants must despise it." John decided.
"Thank you very much John, you're such a nice boy." Mrs. Holmes decided.
"Not a boy mother." Sherlock snapped.
"Such a nice man." Mrs. Holmes corrected.
"I'm fine with either. Being a man means jobs, and responsibilities, and taxes. I'd rather care about superheroes and the existence of aliens." John laughed.
"More opportunities in manhood, find a career, a spouse, children." Mrs. Holmes shrugged. John laughed kind of guiltily, looking down at his plate with a blush. Here we go, she's going to ask the whole grandchildren question, corner him in the first day of meeting. Poor John.
"I'm definitely not ready for children yet." John shrugged, sounding a little bit guilty for some reason. Maybe he just didn't want to crush Mrs. Holmes' hopes so quickly.
"That's fine dear, you have to settle in with someone first, make sure you know very well that you want to stay with them forever, because children are a bond that you can't break. They always need parents." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"Mom, please, stop with the whole marriage thing. It's not that discreet." Sherlock insisted.
"I don't mind." John assured.
"How long have you two been together?" Mrs. Holmes asked.
"Around two months, we haven't really been counting though." John shrugged.
"Only two months? I would've thought it's been a lot longer, considering how much chemistry you have." Mrs. Holmes decided. Sherlock groaned, and Mycroft made a little sound of disgust.
"We've been friends for around four though." John shrugged. "Made it official around the end of November."
"That's very sweet." Mr. Holmes decided.
"Well, just follow your heart, it will tell you what to do next." Mrs. Holmes assured, and John just smiled.
"Sherlock doesn't have a heart." Mycroft muttered, taking a sip of his water sternly.
"I most certainly do Mycroft. And as much as you hate to admit it, you do as well. You're too old to make these fantasies anymore." Sherlock snapped.
"Practicality doesn't wear away with age. In fact, it's only become clearer to me the stress emotional bonds tie on oneself." Mycroft insisted.
"What can you possibly gain from separating yourself from feelings? I know you have them, I know how much you insist that you're a man of ice, that feelings and emotions just bounce off you, but I've seen the looks you've thrown at John and I. Because we're happy, and you've spent your entire life building up an image of yourself, an image of iron, just to hide how weak you really are. I grew up Mycroft; I suggest you do the same." Sherlock insisted. There was an awkward silence at the table; obviously John didn't know what to do in this situation.
"You swore to me that you'd deprive yourself from other people, that you'd remove the heart from yourself in order to protect you from pain. From the pain that you felt when you lost..." Mycroft started.
"The only way to overcome depression, brother mine, is to find a new reason to be happy. And thanks to you, it's taken me over fifteen years to find something that makes me happy. To find, someone, that makes me happy. I have a heart, and John is living proof of that. If you'll excuse me." Sherlock decided, neatly setting his fork down and going up to his room, not wanting to see that worm's face again. How dare he accuse Sherlock of not having a heart, how dare he hold Sherlock to an oath he had made when he was seven years old? Sherlock stormed up the stairs, Dudley scampering at his heels, and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door and flopping on the bed. Dudley jumped right up with him, trying to make Sherlock turn over so that he could lick his face. Sherlock was steaming, bringing up so absurd in front of John, the only person he had to impress. Now John would think that Sherlock was stone cold, deprived of emotion, that he was only in love with him to get over another loss. There was a knock on the door.
"If it's anyone other than John, go away." Sherlock snapped. "And if it's Mycroft, there's a window open and it's calling your name."
"Good thing I'm not Mycroft then." John's voice said.
"Yes, I suppose Mycroft's not one to apologize anyway." Sherlock sighed.
"Can I come in?" John asked.
"Course you can." Sherlock agreed. The door opened, and John came in, looking slightly disheveled.
"You okay?" John asked, coming over to where Sherlock was laying moodily on his side, pushing back his curly bangs with a loving smile.
"Mycroft's a meanie." Sherlock mumbled.
"Of course he is, but does that mean you have to sink to his level?" John asked.
"Yes. I have to beat him, of course." Sherlock decided. John just sighed, continuing to run his fingers soothingly through Sherlock's hair, trying to calm him down.
"I know, but then again, you can always be the bigger man." John pointed out.
"That's pathetic." Sherlock decided.
"I kind of thought that would be your answer. What was that all about downstairs?" John asked.
"Oh, Mycroft. He seems to think that he can't form attachments because they will be used against him on his rise to power. What he can't accept, however, is that I was even years old when I agreed to that, and I had just suffered a loss." Sherlock snapped.
"Who'd you lose? A grandmother?" John asked.
"Huh, I wish. No, it was my dog, Redbeard. He was kind of my best friend, when I had no other friends to talk to." Sherlock sighed.
"I'm sorry to hear that." John decided.
"They put him down without asking, they killed him and Mycroft taught me not to feel." Sherlock sighed.
"Like Spock?" John laughed.
"No, because my defense mechanism had holes in it, defects, I suppose, for pretty men like yourself." Sherlock insisted.
"You think I'm pretty?" John laughed.
"I think you're beautiful." Sherlock agreed with a shy smile. "But I don't want you to think that I'm deprived of emotions, because I'm quite the opposite. Once I let one emotion in, I let them all in. But my love for you outweighed the sadness, and the loneliness, and even though I pretended not to have a heart, I realize more than ever that it is the only thing I need in my life to be happy." Sherlock assured.
"I know you have a heart Sherlock, I've heard it before, I've felt its beats, I can feel them now." John insisted, sliding a hand over top of Sherlock's heart, feeling its rhythm.
"It beats for you John, purely for you." Sherlock insisted. John smiled lovingly; pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and helping him sit up.
"Want to give that lasagna another shot?" he offered.
"No, I'm not hungry. I'm fine with staying up here though, snuggling together." Sherlock decided.
"Can't do that, we came here to be with your family, kind of counterproductive to sit cooped up in the room all day." John guessed.
"I like it much better to be with you than with them." Sherlock decided.
"But I'll always be here, they won't. Come on, we're going to watch Rudolph." John insisted.
"Oh joyous." Sherlock sighed, sitting up in the bed and smiling at John.
"Can I redeem my kiss now?" John asked.
"You most certainly can." Sherlock agreed. John leaned in a pressed a loving kiss to Sherlock's lips. It was brief, but it got the message across. With that kiss, Sherlock understood that John loved him just as much as he said he did.
"Now, let's go downstairs, shall we?" John asked, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him down the steps. When they got to the living room, everyone was finishing up dishes. Mycroft, Sherlock was happy to see, had splashed soap suds all over his fancy suit, and was trying to clean the mess up with multiple paper towels.
"Done with our temper tantrum I see?" Mycroft asked.
"Still as sloppy as ever as well." Sherlock agreed, tightening his grip on John's hand and smiling tauntingly. Mycroft scowled, turning away to dry off the large pan that Mrs. Holmes had just washed.
"There's more in the fridge, if any of you are still hungry." She offered.
"I'll certainly consider it. If you hear something like a wild animal in the middle of the night, it's just Sherlock trying to get his hands on more lasagna." John assured, and Mr. Holmes laughed.
"I don't do nightly fridge raids." Sherlock snapped.
"I swear my leftover takeout is always missing when I wake up." John insisted.
"I blame Moran; he's got a master key and a massive appetite." Sherlock decided.
"Well, there's only ever two other people in my apartment when I go to sleep, and I'm sure Dudley isn't the thief." John insisted.
"Oh dear God, we don't need to know that." Mycroft decided, but Mrs. Holmes had stopped washing dishes, the water still running, in an attempt to over hear what John was saying.
"Sorry, I didn't know that our way of life was offensive to you." John said rather slyly.
"It doesn't offend me at all, but I think it's unnecessary to turn everything I say into an insult just because Sherlock's poisoned your image of me." Mycroft insisted.
"Wasn't me who did that." Sherlock muttered.
"Your image isn't poisoned." John insisted. "Maybe just a little bit, covered in suds I suppose." Sherlock laughed, and Mycroft scowled, smacking off a little spot of bubbles that had previously managed to go unnoticed.
"So, I have a tape of Rudolph from when you two were still in elementary school. Still I working order I presume. I'll make some hot chocolate, and you all get cozy. Scott dear, will you help me organize some cookies?" Mrs. Holmes asked, pulling out a large tray decorated with snowmen and reindeer.
"Certainly." Mr. Holmes agreed. So John, Sherlock, and Mycroft all went into the sitting room, Sherlock and John sitting on the love seat while Mycroft sat in a lonely recliner on the other side of the room.
"Chilly in here." Sherlock decided, pulling a blanket down and draping it over John and himself. Of course, it wasn't even the slightest bit cold; in fact Mrs. Holmes had the heat up to a drastic level. Sherlock only wanted to make Mycroft mad by sharing a blanket with John, an excuse for more cuddle time. Mycroft pretended like he didn't notice, staring at the blank TV screen, but he looked alert, as if he were straining his ears for even the slightest whisper from the other side of the room.
"It's been ages since I've seen this movie." John decided.
"My parents love to watch cheesy Christmas movies on Christmas Eve, and since there are only about four that anyone actually likes, they go on a loop." Sherlock sighed.
"That's such a nice family tradition. We didn't have an overabundance of traditions over at my house, it was more like get a gift, family meal, and go back to whatever you do every other night of the year, except with an ugly Christmas tree in the corner." John shrugged.
"Haven't had a proper Christmas then?" Sherlock asked.
"They were proper enough, my mom made sure of that." John assured.
"Well, maybe next year, we can have the most extravagant, aggressively festive Christmas ever, decorate the entire apartment building." Sherlock offered.
"You can't even afford bread." John pointed out.
"We can split the funds." Sherlock shrugged.
"Maybe by next year we won't be in the apartment building anymore." John offered.
"Where would we go?" Sherlock asked, making sure to raise his voice a little so that Mycroft could hear perfectly.
"Maybe we could move out of the apartments, get a little house of our own, out of the city." John suggested.
"I'd like that." Sherlock agreed.
"Molly could come too; her and Tom could be out neighbor." John insisted.
"It's not a party without Molly." Sherlock agreed.
"Well, usually it's not a party with Molly, but she can be fun once she's had some drinks." John shrugged.
"Her parties involve more punch and party games." Sherlock shrugged.
"Those are fun too, sometimes." John agreed.
"Here we are, cookies and hot coco." Mrs. Holmes said proudly, carrying a large tray of hot chocolate with a bag of oversized marshmallows. Mr. Holmes was carrying a large tray of Christmas cookies, frosted to look like Santa, snowmen, and gingerbread men.
"That's so sweet." John decided, thanking Mrs. Holmes for his rather large mug of hot chocolate. He plopped one of the marshmallows into the drink as well, which fizzed a little bit, but made sipping it very difficult.
"Sorry, they were all out of mini marshmallows; I guess they're in high demand over the holidays." Mrs. Holmes shrugged.
"No need to apologize, it's lovely." John assured.
"We couldn't help but overhear your plans for next Christmas, are you two seriously considering moving in together?" Mrs. Holmes asked, sitting down and munching on a cookie.
"Next Christmas is a whole year away." Sherlock pointed out.
"If everything stays on track, we'll have you all over for the holidays, at our house." John agreed, pulling Sherlock into a one armed hug that made Mrs. Holmes smile in approval.
"That would be splendid." She agreed, looking very strained to keep her excitement under control. IT took them another ten minutes to figure out how to get the TV to play the video ("It's this remote!" "Press that button!" "See, it's on the wrong component!") but finally John jumped in and pressed all the buttons on the video player manually, so very soon they had that weird talking snowman guy sliding around with bad Claymation on the screen.
"Oh, I simply adore this movie." Mr. Holmes decided. Sherlock sighed in annoyance, but John handed him a cookie shaped like a snowflake and he was a little bit better. So they watched Rudolph, Mrs. Holmes adding commentary about when the Holmes boys were little, and how Mycroft would always cry when the Abominable Snowman came, and how Sherlock put on a performance of Silver and Gold complete with childish ballet choreographing. It was humiliating of course, but gave Sherlock an excuse to cower just a little bit closer to John when the snowman came, as if he were actually afraid of a hunk of clay with cotton balls glued to it. By the end of the movie, Sherlock was curled in a ball, his head on John's shoulder, lazily sipping his hot chocolate and hogging most of the blanket they shared. Of course, it was only around seven when the movie ended, so Mrs. Holmes put in Frosty the Snowman. Sherlock could admit, the villain with the pointy nose and demonic laugh still creeped him out to this day, and couldn't help shivering every time he talked.
"Poor Karen. I'd hate to see my best friend die right in front of me." John decided after the movie was over.
"You don't even have friends." Sherlock insisted.
"Oh, ya I forgot." John agreed with a little laugh. By this time it was eight o'clock, these children movies didn't last longer than a TV show, in order to keep kid's attention. So Mrs. Holmes turned on the Hallmark Channel, where bratty middle aged women found their one dream guy and shared a magical Christmas with him. It was all so cheesy, but Mrs. Holmes started crying when hunky man with mild stubble got sick and died the day after. Sherlock was disgusted, not by the heteronormativity of it all, just the fact that someone would actually spend time, money, and resources on a movie so bad that it made him cringe. So, when nine thirty came around, Sherlock made an excuse that he was tired from the trip over, and decided to go off to bed. Of course, the moment he got up, John faked a yawn and decided that it just happened to be his bedtime as well. With a round of goodnights, and even a chorus of "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite" sung extremely off key by both Holmes parents, John, Sherlock, and a very sleepy Dudley lumbered up the stairs to their bedroom.