221B was alive with laughter, music, and the clink of glasses. John had gone all out, insisting on throwing a Christmas party this year—a proper one, with people, food, and joy. Sherlock had protested, of course. Too loud, too cheerful, too… christmassy. But John was stubborn, and soon enough the flat was filled with guests: Molly balancing plates of biscuits, Lestrade leaning against the mantel with a drink, Mrs. Hudson humming carols, Mary chatting warmly with you by the tree. And Sherlock? Sherlock sat in his chair, stiff and scowling, his arms crossed like a sulking child dragged to a school play. He’d refused mulled wine, ignored mince pies, and muttered darkly about “seasonal sentimentality.”

But then—something shifted. Whether it was John’s relentless encouragement, Molly pressing a glass into his hand, or the general warmth of the room, Sherlock finally caved. He raised the glass, sniffed at it like it might betray him, and then—hesitantly—drank.

One glass. Then another.

And then, the transformation began.

By the time an hour had passed, the famously cold, calculating Sherlock Holmes had abandoned his chair entirely. His curls were tousled, his cheeks flushed, and in his hands—dear god—was the large evidence camera he and John usually used to photograph crime scenes.

“Hold still!” he demanded, though his grin was wide, boyish, utterly unguarded. He snapped a flash in Lestrade’s face before the inspector could even blink. “Perfect! That’s the look of a man trying very hard to tolerate Christmas cheer!” Molly squealed when he swung the camera toward her, giggling behind her hands. Mrs. Hudson laughed when he posed dramatically beside her, insisting on “documenting the landlady in her natural habitat.” And when Mary dragged John into a photo, Sherlock leaned across the desk, nearly tripping over tinsel, just to capture them mid-laugh.

But the strangest, warmest surprise came when he turned the camera toward you.

He steadied it with a surprising care, his bright eyes narrowing in concentration, though his smile never faltered. “Don’t move,” he slurred, almost sing-song. “This is important. Scientific. Historic. You look—” He hiccupped, blinking. "—very good with lights behind you.”

Click. Flash. Another photo, and another, until John had to pry the camera from his hands before Sherlock wasted all the film.

Sherlock collapsed back onto the sofa, still laughing, his long legs sprawled out and his hair falling into his eyes. “I don’t like Christmas,” he mumbled, head lolling toward you, “but… maybe this one’s tolerable.”