Walking up the seventeen steps to 221B Baker Street was definitely John's favorite part of his day. He loved coming home after a long day at the clinic to find his favorite detective sprawled out on the couch, perched precariously in his chair, or bent over some experiment, likely involving mold, at their kitchen table. He loved being able to make and enjoy his after work cup of tea while Sherlock told him about his day; usually a combination of what experiments he'd conducted while John was away, and how far he'd gotten in his recent case. He loved how normal abnormal things had become, and he'd never felt a need to change it. Needless to say, John was very confused when he walked up the seventeen steps to their flat and found Sherlock sitting between their chairs on the living room floor, surrounded by five large, plastic storage bins and a gargantuan pine tree towering in the corner.

"Sherlock, what is all this?" he asked, staring slack-jawed at his roommate.

"It's a Christmas tree, John. I figured even you would have been able to deduce that," Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I can see that, thanks. I was more referring to all of this," he said, tapping his foot against one of the plastic tubs.

Sherlock sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, John. Go pick up Indian for dinner, and I'll have everything put away by the time you're back."

John raised an eyebrow and watched as Sherlock sifted through what looked like three different strands of multi-colored tree lights. "If you say so," he murmured, running a hand through his wind-ruffled hair. "I'll just get your usual, then?"

Sherlock's only reply was another dismissive wave of his arm as he started mumbling rapidly to himself under his breath; no doubt attempting to deduce which strand of lights would be best suited for their tree. Knowing that was all the information he'd be getting, John re-zipped his coat, pulled his gloves back on, and headed back down the steps to brave the cold in the name of dinner. He took the long way to their favorite Indian take-away restaurant on purpose, intending to both give Sherlock ample time to make his way through the bins, but also to allow himself enough time to sort through his thoughts.

It was no secret that Sherlock did things his own way, often at the expense of manners and social norms. So why, John pondered as he weaved through the lingering rush hour crowd, was his roommate putting a rather impressive tree up in their flat on the first of December? What had made him remember this holiday, almost a month in advance, when John usually had to remind him, often on the day, about all of the other ones? Digging out his phone to send a text, John was determined to find out.

18:03 Is Christmas spirit a Holmes tradition? – JW

18:04 Whatever gave you that impression? – M

18:07 There's a tree in our living room. And what I expect are 5 boxes of decorations. – JW

18:09 I see. Mummy's been trying to have him come home for the holidays for years. Perhaps he's had a change of heart? – M

18:10 Change of heart? He's Sherlock. What could have possibly brought that on? – JW

18:11 What could, indeed, John. Enjoy the festivities. – M

When John was sue his conversation was over, he pocketed his phone and entered the restaurant to find his usual order all ready and paid for, the young man behind the cash register smiling widely.

"Mr. Holmes called ahead. Please enjoy, Doctor Watson!" he explained, shoving a plastic grocery sack filled with far too many boxes across the counter at John.

Blinking owlishly, John took the bag and staggered back outside and headed towards Baker Street. Something wasn't quite right, but he was sure that if he was patient, he'd figure it out eventually.

When John returned home nearly an hour after he'd left, he wasn't surprised at all to see that Sherlock's mess, instead of being cleaned up and put away as he'd said it would be, had spread out over their living room floor. "Sherlock?" John called. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock looked up at John from where he was impossibly folded up between two of the plastic bins, bits of tinsel stuck to his clothes. "I'm decorating a tree," he said simply.

Try as he might, John wasn't entirely successful at suppressing his amused chuckle. "Have you ever done it before?" he asked.

Sherlock yet again waved his hand dismissively at John. "Please, John. The tradition of decorating Christmas trees dates back to the beginning of the twentieth century. Thousands of children have been capable of stringing lights and tossing tinsel for years," he said with a displeased crinkle of his nose. "Are you seriously doubting my ability?"

John shook his head and picked up a golden bauble. "No," he answered, amused. "I merely asked if you've done it before."

"Oh," Sherlock breathed.

"So?" John asked again, " Have you?"

A faint blush appeared on the bridge of Sherlock's nose. "No," he admitted after a moment, ducking his head.

John smiled warmly at him and stepped forward to hang the ornament on the tree. "Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there? Come on, let's put dinner away in the fridge and then we'll decorate the tree together, okay?"

Pouting, Sherlock rose from his spot, took the plastic grocery sack from John, and shoved it unceremoniously onto their food shelf in the fridge. "I don't need your help, John," he snarled, doubling back towards the tree.

John settled into his corner of the couch and watched as Sherlock tripped on a previously abandoned string of lights. "Sure you don't," he chuckled. "Well, I'm here if you change your mind."

Grumbling, Sherlock ignored him and went back to his version of decorating.

John sat in silence for a while, leafing through one of Sherlock's cold case files. As a "thank you" for solving their last case, Lestrade had arranged for a filing cabinet filled with unsolved mysteries to be delivered to their flat. Sherlock had been nearly maniacal with his unrestrained glee, even going as far as hugging a woefully unsuspecting D.I. before he seemed to remember himself and calm down. Now, files were scattered around their flat, and John couldn't help but look.

"John?" Sherlock murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Yes?" John answered, looking up from some of the more gruesome evidence photos that had caught his attention. Sherlock's annotations were written on yellow post-its and stuck to the sides.

"Perhaps some guidance wouldn't be amiss," Sherlock admitted, his expression lost as he eyed the open boxes with distain, the same string of lights from earlier clutched in his large hands.

John nodded his head as he rose from the couch. "Right then," he said decisively. "Let's get the lights up first."

Sherlock toed one of the ornament boxes away and bent to pick up a second string of lights. He grunted in frustration as he tried to wrap both of the plastic cords around the fattest part of the tree. "John," he said. "I can't reach."

John laughed and settled a hand soothingly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Of course you can't reach. You picked a frankly enormous tree. You'll need to either go in circles or pass it behind to me."

Sherlock frowned, stood up straight, and attempted to wind the lights around the tree in a perfect circle. "John," he wheezed from the back. "It seems I cannot get the lights to stay put."

Stepping over the assorted decorations scattered on their floor, John went to the other side of the tree and took the strand of lights from Sherlock's hands. "Better?" he asked as he stepped back, tucking the lights carefully between different pairs of branches. "You want to hide the cord as much as possible," he explained as he handed the string of lights back to Sherlock. "Then all we see is-"

"The lights," Sherlock finished for him, deft fingers artfully mimicking John's earlier actions. "Why didn't I think of that? There's always something."

"If it's any consolation," John said, "you're doing much better than I did when I decorated my first tree. I must have been four or five, and Harry told me I had to wrap the lights around my body to keep them from tangling. Turns out, she just wanted to decorate me instead. Mum found me a few hours later, plugged into the wall with ornaments and tinsel hanging from my clothes. Harry even taped the bloody star topper to my head. It ruined my favorite jumper, but everyone thought it was hilarious."

"Really?" Sherlock asked.

"Mmhhmm," John replied. "Mum even took pictures. I bet she still has some. After all, it was the family Christmas card for years."

They worked in a comfortable silence until the lights were successfully draped around the tree. "Well," Sherlock said, stepping back to look at their work. "Is that it?"

John laughed and picked up a bag of tinsel. "Not even close, Sherlock. Tinsel is next. It's a bit tricky since it likes to stick together," he said, plucking a few strands away from the package. "So just get a few pieces and drag it across the branches like this," he explained, dragging his hand gingerly across the side of the tree, making sure to catch the tinsel in the pine needles.

Sherlock nodded, grabbed a handful of the silver and gold tinsel, and smeared it across the tree, watching horrified as it fell in clumps to the floor.

John hummed softly and bent to retrieve the fallen tinsel. "Like this," he said, placing a bit of it in Sherlock's hand. Instead of pulling back, John guided Sherlock's hand forward, their fingers tangled together, and added more tinsel to their tree.

The rest of the tree was covered in a similar manner, John guiding Sherlock's hands as their tree was slowly covered with the tinsel. When they were done, John couldn't help the smile that tugged the corners of his lips up. Even though they were only half way through with the decorating process, Sherlock looked awed at what they'd accomplished. John had always thought that Christmas trees held a specific charm that was able to put even the grumpiest people into a cheerful mood. It was nice to see that Sherlock seemed affected by that charm, too.

"Time for the ornaments now," John murmured, his hand rising to settle at the back of Sherlock's neck.

Time seemed to freeze as Sherlock turned to look at John. "Ornaments?" he asked.

John licked his lips. "Yes," he confirmed. "You must have some more in those bins. I feel like we've barely touched the decorations that must be hiding in them."

"Right," Sherlock said, turning to reach for the bin John had pulled the golden bauble from earlier. He opened it and stared at the multi-colored spheres, biting his lower lip as he seemed to consider the best way to get them from the box to the tree.

"Everything okay?" John asked, watching as Sherlock, hovering half-hunched over the bin, pulled out a red and gold striped bauble.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to attach them," Sherlock admitted after a moment, turning the bauble over in his hands. "Will you show me?" he asked, looking up at John.

"Yes," John breathed, pausing to clear his throat. "Of course." He found himself unable to look away from Sherlock, entranced by the hopeful gleam he'd never seen before glimmer in his mesmerizing eyes.

"John," Sherlock said after a moment, pulling John's gaze from his eyes to his lips. "The baubles," he breathed.

"The baubles," John parroted, dropping his eyes even further to focus on the ornament in Sherlock's hands. "Right, then. There should be a package of hangers around here somewhere."

It took a few minutes for John to find the plastic container containing the hangers that had been wedged down the side of one of the storage bins. It took a few more minutes for John to wiggle the container up and out of the bin, murmuring expletives under his breath as he worked it free.

They were quiet, as Sherlock pulled out each ornament and hooked the hangers through the end before handing it to John, who, in turn, placed them all around the tree. Once the first set was up, Sherlock went to a second box and opened it up, continuing to carefully attach each ornament to its own hanger.

It took John a moment to work out why some of the ornaments looked familiar. Wrapping his hand around an ornament decorated like a football, John traced a calloused finger across faded writing. John's fifth Christmas.

"Sherlock," he called out. "How?-"

Sherlock rose from his spot and approached John, his large hands wrapping unsurely around John's smaller ones. "I wrote to your mother and asked for them. She was happy to send them here for you," he said.

John looked up at him and bit as his lower lip. "Okay," he murmured.

"A bit not good?" Sherlock asked, plucking the ornament from John's hands to hang it on the upper half of the tree.

"N-no," John replied. "It's fine. I just wasn't expecting it, I suppose."

They finished decorating the tree in complete silence. They didn't speak as Sherlock's fingers brushed against John's with a quiet familiarity as each ornament was handed off. They didn't speak when John finally dug out the star topper and stretched to attempt to place it on the top of the tree. They didn't speak when Sherlock wrapped one bony hand around John's hip to steady him as the other easily plucked the topper from his hand and reached to secure it on the top of the tree. They didn't speak when John bent over to plug in the lights. And they definitely didn't speak when their pinky fingers entwined as they both stepped back to admire their evening of hard work.

"It's beautiful," Sherlock whispered, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes it is," John quietly agreed, threading his fingers boldly through Sherlock's.

"John," Sherlock breathed, swallowing thickly as his eyes fluttered shut.

"Why did you do this?" John asked, gesturing to their messy sitting room.

Sherlock breathed evenly beside John for a moment, his hand going slack in John's. "Because you love Christmas," he admitted.

"Yes, but you don't," John countered.

Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on one of the open boxes. "I've never had a reason to," he admitted.

"And now you do?" John asked.

"And now I do," Sherlock agreed.

"And what is that reason?" John asked, turning to look at him.

"Because you love Christmas," Sherlock repeated. "Honestly, John, don't you listen? You know I hate repeating myself."

"Sherlock, that's no reason to suddenly jump head first into the Christmas spirit. You don't have to like things just because I do, you know. It's okay for flatmates to like different things"

"I know," Sherlock said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Then, why? I'm afraid I don't understand all this," John asked again, gesturing widely to their living room.

"It is because you love Christmas," Sherlock murmured, his eyebrows furrowed with frustration.

"Sherlock, you don't have to-"

"And because I love you." Sherlock finished, dropping John's hand to stare awkwardly out the window.

John felt his mouth close audibly on its own. "Sherlock?" he whispered after a moment.

Sherlock cleared his throat and bent to close up a half-empty box. "Forget I said anything, John. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. I'm sure I'll get over it soon enough."

"Sherlock-"

"There's a reason I don't do feelings. You're not obligated to say anything about it. Just pretend I didn't say anything."

"Sherlock-"

"Of course, if you do feel uncomfortable, I'm sure Mycroft could help you find somewhere else to stay until you can find more suitable lodgings. Mrs. Hudson might even let you stay in 221C for a bit if you asked."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock went still and stared at the box at his feet.

John stepped up behind him and carefully settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You're an idiot," he said warmly. "Why would I ever leave here?"

Sherlock froze. "Because you don't feel the same," he said, his voice uneasy.

"Oh, Sherlock," John said. "To use your words, 'as always, you see but you do not observe.'"

"John? I'm not sure I understand."

"Look at me, Sherlock."

Slowly, Sherlock turned around and looked at John, his hands shaking at his sides. "What?"

"You absolute idiot," John said, raising his other hand to smooth the upturned lapel of Sherlock's suit. "I love you too."

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it quickly a few times, as if he was attempting to formulate a response that refused to come.

John smiled softly up at him and took another step forward, closing the gap between them. "I'm going to kiss you now," he murmured, one of his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the back of his neck while the other hand rose to gently cup his cheek. "Unless you'd rather me not."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, his tongue swiping out to lick at his lips. "John, yes."

John stared at Sherlock for a few heartbeats, watching as Sherlock's breath came in irregular bursts. When it hitched, he finally leaned up and, very gently, pressed his slightly chapped lips to Sherlock's.

Time stopped as John's lips slid delicately across his own, and the air seemed to freeze in his lungs. He spent entirely too many seconds attempting to deduce the type of chapstick John used based on the way their mouths were joined. Then, John tilted his head to the side, pressed a little bit closer, and Sherlock's brain fizzled out completely.

When John broke the kiss a few moments later, he grinned stupidly at Sherlock, rose up on his tiptoes, and pressed another, chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Was that okay?" he asked, his voice breathy.

Sherlock nodded and opened his eyes. "Is it always like that?" he asked.

"What, kissing?" John asked. "Or tree decorating?"

"Both," Sherlock said.

John smiled and took Sherlock's hand in his. "Only if it's with someone you love," he answered. "Now, come on. Let's have dinner and then we can put a film on."

A few days later, John noticed another ornament had appeared on their tree. Curious, he took it down and cradled it in the hand not holding his steaming tea mug. It was similar to all of the milestone ornaments John's mum had gotten for him as he'd grown up. Instead of being something sports related like so many of John's had been, it was a small bird perched on a tree branch with a small engraving worked into the bark. Squinting, John studied the words. "Our first Christmas," he whispered, his thumb tracing the letters. He let a soft smile spread lazily across his lips as he hung the ornament back up, sipping his morning cuppa as he stared. Turning his head, he looked at Sherlock, sprawled out on the couch, yet another cold case file opened across his chest.

"You like it then?" Sherlock asked, looking up from what John would later find out was an autopsy report.

"Yeah. It's nice," John replied. "Why the bird though? Do you like them?"

"It's a partridge," Sherlock said. "I thought it was fitting, it being our first Christmas and all."

John chuckled. "I'm not sure I follow that train of thought, but okay."

Sliding off the couch, Sherlock closed the file and dropped it neatly down on their coffee table. "It's like the song," he said.

"The song?" John asked. "Sherlock, what are you on about?"

Sherlock smiled and plucked the ornament from John's hand, returning it to it's rightful place on the tree. "On the first day of Christmas," he recited, "my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree. Granted, we don't have a pear tree, and I didn't think you'd approve of a real partridge in the tree, but I figured that you, with all your romantic tendencies, would still appreciate the sentiment."

John smiled. "Only you, Sherlock," he murmured affectionately, turning to press a kiss to his partner's cheek. "Thank you. It's perfect. Happy Christmas."

Sherlock pouted and sniffed disdainfully. "It's not Christmas yet, John."

John hummed happily as he took a drink of his tea. "Sure it is," he said. "It's the first day of Christmas, just like you said."

Sherlock sighed and retrieved his case file before dramatically draping himself across the couch. "Tea, John. I need tea if I'm to solve this case."

Chuckling to himself, John puttered back into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. He grabbed his favorite mug from the cupboard and added too much sugar and one of Sherlock's favorite tea bags. When the tea was finished brewing, John took the bag out, added a splash of milk, and carried it into the living room, setting it on the coffee table before bending to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I'm off to the clinic now. Don't blow up the flat while I'm gone," he said, pulling his coat on.

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible under his breath and waved a hand at John, completely ignoring the mug of tea on the table.

John just shook his head and made his way to work, hoping for a quiet day filled with sore throats and runny noses. That night, when he finally made his way up the seventeen steps to 221B Baker Street, John sighed in relief as he walked through the door. Sherlock was pacing and muttering in front of the lit Christmas tree, pausing mid step to look up when he heard the door.

"John," Sherlock said, pausing mid-stride, his voice tinged with surprise. "You're home."

"Yup," John said, hanging his coat up on the hanger beside Sherlock's Belstaff. "It's good to be home."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side. "You've had a rough day, then?"

John nodded. "Coming home has always been my favorite part of the day," he admitted, crossing the room to loop his arms around Sherlock's waist and press a kiss against his lips. "I guess it's because you're here. I've always loved coming home to you."

Sherlock smiled down at him and bent his head to steal another kiss. "Well then, welcome home, John."

John hummed happily and kissed back. "Mmm. Definitely my favorite part of the day."