Fics like Christmas

Sherlock is very clearly drunk. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the extra tail of fairy lights from their small tree is draped through his hair and across his shoulders, giving him the very (unrealistic) appearance of having a halo. His cheeks and the tip of his nose have warmed a lovey pink from the liquor, and in the muted light of the sitting room, backed by sparkling fairy lights and the shine of ornaments, he looks soft and ethereal, as if he came from another plane of existence. Rumpled t-shirt and worn pyjama pants aside. John feels a lump rise in his throat, and it hits him, again, that this beautiful, infuriating creature is his. Completely, one-hundred percent his. “John, Mycroft wasted his money. This is aw—” Sherlock looks up to find John staring at him, open-mouthed. “What?” He asks, his nose crumpling again in that way that is only his, a way that always makes John want to press his lips between his eyebrows. “Nothing, love,” John smiles slightly. “But you’re adorable. Terrible scotch aside.”

Fics like Christmas

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