[COMPLETE] ??? ???? ?? ??? ??????「Sherlock」

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SHERLOCK HAD TO REPLAY ALL OF IT BACK IN HIS MIND, starting at 6:00PM. John had just finished up in the loo and the detective had hopped into the shower, the small room filling with steam, creating a watery haze in the air. 221B smelled of gingerbread and other various nibbles that Mrs. Hudson had been busy cooking and baking all day long; gleaming bottles of whiskey, rum and beer filled the fridge, ready to be cracked into when the time came for the party to move back behind the scenes. The gentleman had learned a few carols in hopes that perhaps Julia would sing, although he had left most of the music selection up to John, seeing as he had been the one to dust off the old record player after purchasing a few vinyls. The saying was quite true: it really was beginning to look like Christmas. Even despite his original doubts, he found himself genuinely eager, especially since he had gotten the phone call from Francis telling them to get ready quick.

Julia was ready and raring to go, judging by the sound of the overhead rush of water and the creaking of the pipes. He did have to wonder how she would fair for the evening, seeing as the events from the other night had been quite exhausting for a woman as delicate as she, if he did say so himself. John had suspected she wouldn't be attending, which would have certainly ruined the fun altogether, but much to their surprise she had told her boyfriend that she would be coming along after all.

The den was completely filled with cozy holiday ambience; their small and almost inadequate tree filling the entire room with its sharp aroma, its branches garnished with garland, as well as numerous balls of crimson, emerald, gold and silver. Even his skull was wearing a Santa cap, which had been completely Sarah's idea. He figured it would be best to hold his tongue. It was Christmas. "Sherlock, will you come and test the eggnog for me?" called Mrs. Hudson from the kitchen.

Mistletoe hung high above his head, directly in the archway leading into the rather spick-and-span scullery. The shelves were tidy, the fridge cleaned out and his experiments moved elsewhere for the night (Mrs. Hudson's fridge— do not tell Julia!), the vials and beakers absent from their usual place upon the dining table. He leaned over her shoulder, the creamy aroma of the yuletide drink filling his nose even before he had brought the shot glass to his lips. The moment that it hit his tongue, he was struck with a thick, rich substance, nutmeg slightly tart upon his tongue afterwards. He hummed in approval and leaned down, pecking his landlady upon the cheek.

"Magnificent as always, Mrs. Hudson," he praised, giving her shoulders a squeeze and then moving in the direction of his bedroom. Inside, he disappeared, the door shutting softly behind himself. Upon the floor laid crumpled bits of wrapping paper, his frustration from the early hours of the morning still evident. He was just thankful that Watson had a good hand when it came to wrapping. Otherwise, he would have just offered it to her in the bag. The dress, oh, the dress. He admittedly had removed it from the box on multiple occasions, lifting it up and studying every thread in order to make sure that nothing was astray. Sherlock wanted this to be perfect. John's books were wrapped thick in parchment, on the other hand, although dressed with silver ribbon to add effect. Mrs. Hudson's doing, not his own.