Hi! Can you recommend any post 699/700 SS fics? Also I really love your blog. It keeps me hopeful about SS. 😚
Ahhh!! So glad you love my blog ;A; As for the fics, I know a lot more on tumblr than I do on FF, most of which you can find on my ‘rec’ tag (not all though, as it’s only been fairly recent–like idk a couple months–since I started using this tag to keep track of ss fics on tumblr i’d recommend). but i do know a few on ff, which are:
These assholes go nuts for Christmas, they love it
Ray likes to pretend that he’s Jewish (he’s not) to irritate the rest of them. He has three Hanukkah sweaters.
One time, in order to deck out the penthouse, Geoff literally bought an entire store to show off to get enough decorations. It looked like the entire North Pole had thrown up in there. They loved it.
If you think that there’s not mistletoe up the asshole in that place, think again. Platonic kisses constantly (and let’s be real all the shippy-mistletoe headcanons you could want but that’s a whole different post)
they get the biggest damn tree that they can find every year. It takes a few hours to decorate completely, with everything from fancy ornaments to bullet casings
Gavin always puts up the custom-made Nice Dynamite ornament Michael got him for Christmas one year
Jack, as mentioned in my other post, gets a new shitty Christmas sweater (she loves them) from Michael every year.
((this year’s may or may not have been the Hotline Bling one))
They’ve got this big golden star-shaped tree-topper, and every year they try to alternate who gets to put it on top of the tree. I say try because every year they have to do whatever they can to stop Gavin from putting the star up first, purely to be a little shit.
They always, of course, get each other gifts, but some years they like to add in Secret Santa, too, a few days before Christmas. This, obviously, results in mayhem, especially when you have Gavin or Michael buying gifts for the other (”sure, I have to be nice at Christmas, but it’s not technically Christmas yet, so”), or whenever Gavin is Geoff’s Secret Santa.
One year, overnight, six knitted stockings appeared over the fireplace. Each Crew member’s names (Geoff, Gavin, Jack, Michael, Ryan, and Ray) was embroidered at the top, and the stockings alternated colors (green for the Gents, red for the Lads). No one knew where they came from for roughly 14 hours, before they all realized that it had to be Ryan
“What, you didn’t think all my hobbies were murder-related, did you?” he says, to a forceful “yes” from literally everyone else in the room
they sing. All. The. Time. Christmas singing begins the second that Thanksgiving ends, and it doesn’t stop until Christmas is over. Some big hits included “All I want for Christmas is (Dicks)”, “O Holy (Dicks)”, and “Silent Night”. They aren’t allowed to sing or play the so-called “Dead Mom and Shoes song”, because it makes Geoff cry.
Ryan and Jack are the only two that aren’t complete shit at wrapping, so most presents small enough to fit into the penthouse are in bags or otherwise creatively disguised.
some more memorable gifts include a tank for Michael (from Geoff), a literal truckload of yarn for Ryan (from a very smug Ray), and a certain type of tea only made where Gavin grew up, that reminds him of home anytime he’s missing it (from Jack)
No heists on Christmas. No robberies, no messing with anyone else on Christmas.
Christmas dinner goes about as big as it can; ham and potatoes and gravy and booze and casseroles and anything and everything you can imagine. It takes all six of them a couple days to gather and make everything. There’s always at least one food fight on Christmas Eve.
at the end of the day, stuffed full, having watched some of their old videos (courtesy of Jack, ((in my other post)), they sit. And they talk, and talk, and laugh, and drink. And Ray gets off his DS, and Gavin calms down, and Michael doesn’t yell, and Ryan goes maskless. And it’s nice.
((literally I have so many headcanons for these assholes if you ever want more hmu))
But I’m trying hard to know what
is meant when we claim O silent night—
a night like this, when blown out is all
the blaze of the sky but not heat, not
dampness either, not even that star, alone,
like a crack in the firmament (in the levees)
and what floods in, because only it can,
is a light to make light of until we can't—
then a breeze passes, with its humanlike
moan, since it’s human I can know it, I hear it,
as I do the magnolia-shudder, the bird
-scatter, as I do the river: can’t you hear it
singing far off—?
Then not as far—?
It starts, as these things often do, right on the edges of Sherlock’s awareness. He’s not quite mastered the art of keeping some part of his awareness on John. He can manage it for an hour, maybe a little bit more, but once he’s focussed, really focussed, the reality of the world around him fades out and though John is often the last light in the fringes, the tunnel vision narrows in.
John doesn’t seem to mind. At least, not any more than he always minded, which means that occasionally Sherlock gets a long-suffering sigh and a Look, but for the most part he’ll also get a quick peck on the lips and a hand ruffling through his curls through John’s exasperation, so it seems to be okay. Sherlock will keep working on carving out a piece of his mind that can always focus on John, though. He always wants to know what John is doing.
Right now, Sherlock is bent over an enormous piece of graphing paper, plotting out mathematical formulas for an experiment he’s planning to run after the new year comparing household acids and their effects on the soles of popular trainers, and John is coming into his mind, sneaking and slipping past the barriers Sherlock’s focus unwittingly erects against his surroundings.
It niggles along the line of Sherlock’s mind, just the soft, casual sound of it, and the questions in his mind about control groups and storage containers give way to it. What song, what’s he doing, where is he, is he happy, John?
Sherlock looks up. John is in the kitchen, doing some of the washing up. He’s humming absently, smiling to himself as he does it, a familiar tune that seems sort of quick and joyful and almost childish, the sort of thing year threes manage at nativity plays. He can anticipate the tune, he can even note the moment when John reaches the end of the verse and begins humming a new song, but he can’t remember the words to this one either, and his brow furrows as he watches John finish stacking up the dishes to dry.
John comes back toward the sitting room. When he sees Sherlock, come out of his mind palace and watching John intently as he hums, he grins, and takes a next breath, and sings the next line: “Don we now our gay apparel, fa la la, la la la, la la la.”
Sherlock laughs, but still can’t remember the words. John comes over and kisses his temple before going on, “Troll the ancient Yuletide carol,” and Sherlock joins in on the fa la las, the two of them poking at each other’s tummies and shoulders in an unspoken tease about the quality of their singing voices.
Actually, they’ve got a nice match-up for singing, Sherlock thinks, and John’s voice is warm and a bit scratchy and makes Sherlock feel like he’s just taken a very large sip of hot chocolate.
“Got some carols stuck in my head while I was out at the shop,” John explains. “You done with this for now?” He gestures at Sherlock’s graphing paper.
“Could be,” Sherlock says with a wry smirk. “Look at you, doing the shop, doing the washing up. My god, John, you’ve become domesticated.”
John laughs and swats at the hand Sherlock’s got on his waist. “Watch your mouth,” he warns playfully. “There was mould growing in some of those dishes, it was disgusting. We are revoltingly bad at domestication.”
“Not really our style, is it?” Sherlock agrees, and he tips his head back so John will give him another kiss. One kiss becomes two, and then three, but before Sherlock can really sink down into them and let them all smooth together, John steps away.
“Why don’t you play me some carols,” he asks, stepping away and shooting at glance at the violin case behind Sherlock, “so that when we go to bed tonight, they won’t be in the back of my mind, hm?”
John goes to sit in his chair, but he stays on the edge and leans his elbows on his knees, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock knows what this is about, and he takes out the bow and prepares it with rosin carefully, slowly, looking over at John with half-lidded eyes as he strokes the rosin over the hairs. It’s a slow seduction, of sorts–Sherlock will play, and John gets to watch the line of his body as he sways to the music, and how his fingers move over the strings, along the neck, and it is, for both of them, a delicate suggestion of something that might come later.
Sherlock realises with a jolt that this is nearly exactly the moment he’d planned for the proposal. The night is dark around them, and the fire is crackling, and John is looking up at him affectionately and requesting that he play, and a shiver of anticipation runs up Sherlock’s spine. It’s to be a proper rehearsal, then: a chance to see what he has to do to create the perfect conditions on Christmas night.
“Any requests?” Sherlock asks as he picks up the instrument, and John shakes his head with a soft, fond smile, so Sherlock plays O Tannenbaum, and Silent Night, and Jingle Bell Rock, which makes John sit back and giggle and wiggle his hips in his seat.
After about a half an hour, John stands again and comes closer, sitting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, but he doesn’t reach out to him. “Can you do O Holy Night?” he asks. “That was my mum’s favourite, growing up.”
Sherlock can, and he does, playing as sweetly as he can, making the violin swell and sweep out the crescendos, disallowing the quiet melancholy that the song can sometimes have. It’s a song of triumph, after all, a song of glory, a song about beauty and divinity coming into the world, the promises of redemption in the birth of an infant. Sherlock isn’t religious, but he doesn’t have to be in order to appreciate the hope of it, the prayer that one might be forgiven for the darkest parts of themselves by a man who saw them as they truly were and loved them anyway.
When the song ends, John is there, with a very soft smile, already taking the instrument out of his hands. “That was beautiful,” he murmurs, and he kisses Sherlock gently, gently. It doesn’t feel like sadness, though. It feels like wonderment. It feels like reverence and it catches Sherlock by surprise, lodging something big and prickly in his throat, and he clutches John a little bit closer. John wraps an arm around him in return, pressing their bodies together. “You’re beautiful. Thank you.”
For a while they stand there, trading quiet kisses and whispering to each other, holding the moment crystalline and preserved between them for as long as possible, and Sherlock is awash with how much John loves him, and he can only hope that soon–soon, soon, soon–John will know that Sherlock loves him just that much in return.
Here is a rendition of O Holy Night for those of you unfamiliar with the song.
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