“John, they’re hideous.”
“They’re not hideous. They’re festive.”
“They looks like a snowman’s thrown up on them,” Sherlock nudged John’s foot with his. “Why have mine got snowflakes on? Yours don’t have snowflakes on.”
John smoothed a hand down Sherlock’s thigh, pulling his skinny leg between John’s own and rubbing Sherlock’s foot between his. “They came in sets. This set had the best colours. I assumed you’d have objected to the ones with wreaths and red ribbons and fairy lights.”
“I object to you inserting your abysmal taste into my sock index at all.”
“Oi! It’s Christmas. A time to be grateful for your blessings. Blessings like flatmates who buy you warm socks because they know how cold you get in winter.”
Sherlock turned, curling around John and nuzzling into his neck. He began to hum and nip at John’s skin. “Yes, and I am grateful,” he said in the voice he used to sham at being agreeable, “it’s just that you’ve done the socks, and the fire, and the cuddle, and to be perfectly honest John, you’ve overwarmed me. You’ve warmed me to the point of being frankly too warm. I can’t imagine how warm you must feel in that awf—heavy jumper. I’m worried for my health, and yours. In fact, I think there’s really only one remedy.”
John grinned into Sherlock’s hair. “And that would be?”
“I must insist that we take off the socks. In fact, we’d better take off all our clothes. Possibly, we should even move into the bedroom, away from the fire. Just to be safe.”
“Just to be safe,” John agreed, wrapping an arm around Sherlock and sparing him a fond little pat on the curve of his bum. “We really shouldn’t take any chances with our health.”
“Hippocratic oath and all.”
“Indeed. Sherlock?”
“Hm?”
“Happy Christmas.”
Sherlock raised his head and planted a soft, closed-mouth kiss against John’s lips. “Happy Christmas, John. And thank you.”
John’s face registered his surprise. “For?”
“For always keeping me warm.”
