Chapter Text
Sherlock hates shopping.
Why they had to leave the flat, is beyond him. It’s not as if John doesn’t shop online. (As is evident by his browsing history. Sherlock is fairly certain that he will be getting an urban beekeeping starter kit, a pair of gloves, and some very nice tea for Christmas.)
John is still a bit sore if he moves too quickly (shot in his shoulder, again, courtesy of one of the many angry people in Mary’s past. At least Mary took the bullet that would have killed John. All is not forgiven, but the level of anger both feel towards her has been tempered. Dying can do that. Sometimes.) He’ll ache for hours.
So, when John said that they were going out to get Christmas present shopping over with, Sherlock had put on his coat without a word.
He has no idea what he's going to get John and hopes to get some ideas from this trip. It needs to be something special, something that delineates this Christmas from all others. They are inching their way to a new (old, been there since the start, but the Sherlock had buggered it up the first night and hadn't known how to fix it afterwards) phase of their relationship.
Plus, it’s fun to be out with John (well, not fun, it’s actually quite awful, people are all around and crowding in), to spend time together, to buy gifts together for their friends (together, even if they’re not together, not yet, but Sherlock knows that it’s coming. All the incidental touches that are lasting longer, all the lingering looks, all the times John doesn’t back down when Sherlock invades his personal space), gifts that will say on them ‘From John and Sherlock’ and Sherlock will make sure that the recipients know that they both were involved in the purchasing.
Beside him, John is grimly staring at a selection of scarves he was contemplating for Mrs. Hudson. Whatever initial joy he had with this trip, it's faded fast under the harsh reality of Harrods' grating holiday music and stuffy (both physically and mentally) atmosphere.
The tension is causing John to hunch his shoulders. Twenty more minutes, and his bad (mostly recovered, but now extra bad) shoulder will seize up.
There has to be a better (less aggravating) way to go about choosing presents together for their friends and family. Even one of those hideous Christmas markets might be better.
“Sir,” says an overly-perky sales woman (single, hates her job, lives with a bunch of uni students because she can't afford to live in a flat and still stay close to London) steps in front of him. “Would you like to—”
“No, I most assuredly wouldn't. Especially, not from someone who was fired from their last job for poor cleanliness standards.”
The woman fake smile freezes in place and her eyes turn hard.
“Listen, mate—”
“By no definition of the word am I any sort of 'mate' to you. In fact—”
“Excuse me,” John smoothly cuts in. “I think we'll just be leaving now.”
The sales woman glares at them until they turn the corner and head towards the exit.
“She also has an untreated urinary tract infection,” Sherlock mutters.
“I really don't want to know how you know that,” John says as they make their way into the blessedly cool street.
“It's easy to spot because of—”
“Ah! No, don't tell me!”
“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, doing up the buttons on his coat.
“Well,” John says, resignation heavy in the single word, “that was a waste of time.”
“We can do better than Harrods,” Sherlock says dismissively.
In step, they jog across Brompton Road and head towards Hyde Park. The drizzle from early that morning having given way to overcast skies and temperatures holding steady at nine degrees.
“I just don't want to leave it to the last minute this year,” John tells him, “and be stressed out ploughing through stores with hundreds of other stressed out last minute shoppers.”
Sherlock shuddered at the very idea.
“There are dozens of Christmas markets throughout London. The ones at the Barbican or Tate Modern should have something for Molly and Mrs. Hudson.”
John eyes him for a moment. “That's a really good idea. I haven't been to a Christmas market in years.”
“Eleven years, to be precise,” Sherlock says and is gratified to see John's grin. “Girlfriend dragged you along while on leave.”
“Eleven years, yes. Girlfriend, no.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes and tries to figure out where he'd gone wrong, but he just can't see any other logical reason. John's grin grows to a knowing smile, one that contains a world of smug secrets and Sherlock wants to shake him to get the answers. (No, he wanted to kiss that smile, absorb John's secrets through osmosis. And tongue.)
“Can't suss it out?” John asks, laughter coating the edges of his words.
“I will. I always do.” But, he can't. There is no other scenario that makes sense. Harry is (was) hardly the Christmas market type (or any market type). And John wouldn't have gone alone; it just wouldn't have occurred to him.
As they enter Hyde Park, Sherlock is vibrating with not knowing.
“You went because there was a vendor there selling something specific that you wanted to buy your girlfriend for Christmas.”
John's laughter rings out and for all that it's because Sherlock is wrong, Sherlock cherishes the sound. It's been far too long since he's heard John laugh so freely.
“Making shit up to try and see if it fits?”
Sherlock not answering is answer enough and John continues to chuckle. The tension that was coming off him in waves inside Harrods has completely dissipated.
They pass the Serpentine with Sherlock no closer to figuring out why John would have gone to a Christmas market.
“Want a hint?” John asks.
“No!” Seconds later, “Yes.”
“You were right about there being a specific vendor I was going to the market for.”
“But it wasn't for a present?”
“No,” John answers.
At a complete loss, Sherlock ponders the possibility that John was working at the market. It would have been some sort of favour to a friend while he was home on leave and not a regular occurrence.
But, no. No one in their right mind would leave John in charge of any sort of retail store where he would have to deal with the public's idiocy all day long. (Then again, most people only see John as an affable doctor who also happened to have been a soldier. Most people are oblivious morons.)
“Fine!” Sherlock concedes with little grace as they near the edge of the park. “Tell me.”
“The bloke I was seeing had a stall where he sold all sorts of leather goods.”
John rattle off a list of the goods, but Sherlock doesn't hear.
He's stopped walking, might have stopped breathing. 'A bloke I was seeing'. John's words more than implied that he was romantically (sexually) involved with a man.
The idea that 'not gay' doesn't exactly mean straight has been growing in the back of Sherlock's mind for some time. (Exponentially so after John's wedding, but by then it didn't matter any more.)
However, while Sherlock is fairly sure what is building between them is going to be (very, extremely, locked away for days) sexual, he thought that it would be John's first time in a committed romantic relationship with a man. (That John had sexually been with a man (men?) in the Army is something that Sherlock concluded after meeting Major Sholto. Though, Sherlock is unsure if he and John ever consummated the obvious attraction they shared.)
“Hey! Sherlock!” John calls, standing directly in front of him. “Good, you're back.”
“I didn't go anywhere.”
“Yeah, you did, but that's okay.” John is looking at him searchingly. “Everything alright?”
“'Bloke'? You were seeing a man?”
John looks at Sherlock for a long time, his expression unreadable. If John had a Mind Palace, Sherlock is sure that John would be redecorating at this moment. Between them, they were quickly rebuilding the reality they shared. It might be an idea to compare notes to see what the final structure is supposed to look like. (Maybe discuss in detail as to what exactly the foundation is made up of.)
“Oh, yes. Jacques.” A little smile flits across John's lips. “Haven't thought about him in years. Wasn't too fond of the Army. Didn't last long.”
Sherlock simultaneously hates and adores the fact of Jacques.
Questions, theories, wild fantasies flood Sherlock's mind. So many of them that they (thankfully) prevent him from speaking.
This new facet of John opens up so many other avenues that Sherlock didn't even know were possibilities.
“Fancy getting some lunch?” John asks. “What am I saying, we're getting lunch. You skipped breakfast and even if you don't want lunch you can watch me eat mine.”
“Fine.” Sherlock is still rooted to the spot. A man. John had dated a man. All of Sherlock's subtle plans to make sure they are together before Christmas change and reorder. It will be less persuading and more wooing, he thinks.
He wonders if anyone has ever perused John in that manner and thinks it's going to be interesting to find out. There are shelves of plans that need to be scrapped, archival units that need to be opened and studied.
“Coming?” John asks, eyebrow quirked.
“Yes.”
“Shifting some stuff in the Mind Palace?” John asks, bumping his right shoulder into Sherlock's left bicep.
“Some minor adjustments.”
“Good,” John says with a firm nod. “That's good.”
And with that, they start walking again, all the while Sherlock is trying to figure out how soon will be too soon.