(Bumping) Ugly Duvet Challenge--Christmas Edition
Sherlock pushed open the door to his old bedroom and stopped dead. Behind him, John didn’t stop in time; he hit
Sherlock in the back of his knees with their overnight bag.
“Sorry. Why’d you stop?”
“She redecorated,” Sherlock said, and nudged the door open wider so John could see. Gone was the single bed of Sherlock’s youth, replaced with a double, not as large as their bed in the flat but perfectly adequate for the two of them. Except—
John started laughing. “Oh, it’s Christmas!”
“It’s not funny, John.” Sherlock grabbed the bag out of John’s hand so John didn’t swing it into him again because he was laughing so hard.
“Yes, it is,” John sputtered. “Christmas,” he repeated. “I love your mum.”
Sherlock drew in a deep breath and held it as if he could block out the sight in front of him by not breathing. He strode into his childhood bedroom and tossed the suitcase onto the bed quite a bit more violently than necessary. The bag covered the worst of it, at least. Now the only part of the duvet that was visible was the sled and the hideous holiday background imagery: a Christmas tree, a snow-covered house, a sky that was inexplicably colored blood red. Santa and his reindeer were hidden beneath the suitcase.
“Oh, but you’ve covered up St. Nicholas,” John said, reaching for the case.
“No!” Sherlock sat on the case so John couldn’t move it. “It’s not even St. Nicholas. It’s Santa Claus. This is clearly an American bed covering.”
“Probably,” John agreed and giggled. “He sees you when you’re sleeping.”
“Oh, God, no. He will not.” Sherlock was torn between staying perched where he was and standing up so he could tear the monstrosity off the bed. They could build a fire in the fireplace and sleep under just the sheet. What if the sheets were matching? They would have to sleep in Mycroft’s room. He thought he might be sick.
John seemed to be getting himself back under control again. Good. Now that he had got over the supposed humor of the situation, he could help Sherlock deal with it.
“Come on, Sherlock. Your mum just wants to spread some cheer. Where’s your holiday spirit?”
“Says the man who thinks he packed a bag full of Christmas jumpers.” Sherlock crossed his arms and glared, still sitting atop the suitcase.
“Thinks? I did pack my Christmas jumpers. Did you take them out? You—” John launched himself at Sherlock, a surprise attack that enabled him to hit Sherlock square in the chest with his shoulder and knock him backwards off the suitcase.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Sherlock said. John was trying to open the suitcase, but Sherlock still had his legs sprawled over it; he stretched them out and caught John’s torso firmly between his thighs.
John pawed at the latch on the case for a moment, then changed his tactic and threw himself onto Sherlock, ending up full-body on top of him. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, pinning both his arms and legs in place. John lifted his head to look at him and Sherlock watched his expression change. “All right,” John said, and sagged onto him, pressing Sherlock’s upper body into the mattress.
“I am not kissing you on top of this duvet,” Sherlock said.
“Yes, you are,” John said, and he was right, of course.
A few minutes later and Sherlock had shoved the suitcase out of the way, letting it thump onto the floor. Which meant that Santa Claus was now directly beneath them. Sherlock planted on his shoes on what he hoped was Santa’s face and pushed down, thrusting up against John. “Happy Christmas,” he panted.
Above him, John grinned. “See? Isn’t it nice to come home for Christmas and enjoy a little holiday cheer?”