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Chapter Text

Harry was making an effort, John couldn't deny that. Despite having split up with Clara only two months ago, she was trying to make his first Christmas home from the war a happy one. Which was, admittedly, not an easy task.

He felt utterly lost and useless. As if being shot hadn't been hard enough – now he had a psychosomatic limp and a shaking left hand too, and what was a doctor whose hand shook when he was treating a patient supposed to do? The symptoms didn't vanish through him "trying to deal with his trauma" either, no matter what Ella said. And, sometimes, when he couldn't sleep at night, or when he wouldn't, because he knew the nightmares of the war were hiding just around the corner, ready to pounce upon him, he admitted to himself, in the darkest hours, that he was aware why.

Being shot hadn't been as traumatic for him as every seemed to think it must be – and maybe they were right, and there was something wrong with him. The fact remained, however – despite of the pain and the therapy, despite not having been able to move his shoulder for almost a month – John wasn't haunted by the moment he had felt his flesh burn and known that he had been shot. Instead, he was haunted by the things he hadn't done.

He was haunted by soldiers who were wounded in action right now, with no chance of him coming to help them; he was haunted by fathers who wouldn't be home for Christmas because he wasn't there to offer them an exchange of free tours; he was haunted by – by the lack of action, the lack of usefulness, the lack of belonging.

Something – something that went deeper than the need to feel useful, than the adrenaline coursing through his veins in Afghanistan – was missing, he just didn't know what.

He knew very well that he shouldn't feel like this; he should be grateful for having survived, for having left the war behind once and for all. But he wasn't.

Yet, because he felt that he shouldn't think like this, he pushed the thoughts away, buried the truth, only allowing to come out in the dark hours, after midnight, before dawn, when he was only half-conscious of the things that fluttered through his mind.

And now was definitely not the time to ponder his future, or his lack thereof; it was Christmas, and he was supposed to celebrate with his family – well, with Harry, but since she'd been his only relative for some years now, so she was his family – and enjoy himself. Or pretend to. It seemed like John couldn't tell the difference anymore, and that should have scared him, most definitely would have scared him, if he didn't feel so lost and pointless.

But, still, Harry made an effort, even though she was drinking again – and John really tried to be sympathetic and understanding, but it was difficult, considering that she had been the one to leave her wife, so why should she start drinking again out of sorrow for her failed marriage?

It probably didn't help that John was quite fond of Clara, especially since she had been the one to get his sister of the booze, if only for a short while, and they had talked just a few days ago – she had sounded sad and defeated, and John had had to use all his energy to keep himself from blaming his sister.

And yet... Harry was there, and she had insisted that John spent Christmas Eve and Christmas at her place – meaning her new flat. John didn't mind; maybe he would be able to keep her from drinking too much over the holidays. They had never been close, but he loved his sister, and he wanted what was best for her.

And, at the end of December, Bill Murray would arrive in London, and perhaps he'd feel like himself again, talking with his former colleague about different times (he couldn't think "better", they'd served in the war, after all).

As he limped towards Harry's flat on Christmas Eve – he hadn't wanted to use money he couldn't afford on a cab ride, and he didn't feel like using the tube – even he wasn't immune to the Christmas spirit that seemed to put a smile on the saddest face, to make children's eyes sparkle as they had snowball fights and build snowmen. And he'd always loved a white Christmas.

The season just made people happier, friendlier, and he had nothing against feeling content with his lot for once – even if only for a short time.

Harry was genuinely happy that he was there, with her, he could tell, and all in all, his Christmas was much more cheerful than he'd thought it would be. She didn't drink too much – she drank, but she was careful, probably to spare his feelings, and he was grateful for that.

She had cooked, just when he thought he couldn't be more surprised, and when he'd teased her that he'd only give his opinion on the next day, to make sure he'd survive, she answered, "Good to see you cheerful again. That's more like the brother I remember".

On Christmas Day, she gave him Treasure Island – a book they had both loved as children and that had one day, somewhere between him leaving for university and her drinking the night away, vanished. He hugged her and smiled.

He had bought her a new watch, since he'd remembered that she'd only ever worn Clara's, and she laughed and said, "So that's it then. A fresh start."

A fresh start...

Yes, he reflected, as he walked home the next day – this is what this could be. Different and scary, but new and exciting at the same time.

And he didn't know why...

But he had the feeling that something was coming. Whether good or bad, he couldn't tell, but something was coming, something new, different, and exhilarating. He was sure of it.

Sherlock Holmes celebrated Christmas by not celebrating it at all. He had done so for a few years now, starting after Mummy's death. This wasn't because it simply "didn't feel like Christmas" without her, or for any other sentimental reason; Sherlock simply had never seen the point of it.

Mummy and Father hadn't been very affectionate, so he'd never understood why they suddenly all had to be together on Christmas Eve – Sherlock, Mummy, Father, Mycroft, and the dozens of guests Mummy decided to invite every holiday season.

True, it had been the one time of the year where he'd seen his father for a longer period of time than a few minutes a day – but even after he'd left them, having started an affair the year prior, when Mycroft had been sixteen and Sherlock nine, Mummy (who hadn't seemed very sorry) kept inviting guests and insisting on a "proper Christmas Dinner".

While he and Mycroft had certainly better got on than – well, their parents, they had drifted apart over the course of the years; Mycroft's leaving for university when Sherlock was eleven, his (well-meant but condescending) attempts to get him off the drugs, finally the detoxing in his brother's mansion, the British Government spying on him via security cameras and monitoring anyone Sherlock came in closer contact with – it didn't really make for a good relationship, and nowadays, they couldn't look at each other without insults flying about.

So they had abandoned family dinners after Mummy had died, as well as any pretence of celebrating Christmas. They had both been relieved, in a way, and Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft preferred working to spending time with his brother. He knew this because he did, too. They didn't even acknowledge the holiday; there were never going to be Christmas calls or something like it in their relationship.

Thankfully criminals didn't stop committing crimes simply because the whole world seemed to be convinced that there was something special about a date the Christian Church had picked because it was the day of a pagan celebration. Sherlock had enough to do, simply because even Scotland Yard tried to take a holiday. Sadly, that meant that Lestrade was spending the days with his wife – though it was very clear they had problems and Sherlock was convinced she had an affair – and Sherlock had to deal with Donavan on Christmas Eve, when a body was discovered – really, now, if it had been discovered twelve hours later, she would already be on the way to her family. At least Anderson was at home with his wife – which explained her being even more obnoxious than usual.

"No, he wasn't homeless" Sherlock snarled for the seventh time. "No homeless person would have such perfect fingernails. The killer just wanted to make it appear like she was homeless and froze to death. I could ask my homeless network, but I'm sure they would just corroborate the only possible explanation to all the facts."

"Freak, I think we'll let the autopsy decide whether she died because of the cold or not" Donavan spat.

Sherlock sighed. There was no way she was going to give him more time at the crime scene, or with the victim. He would have to flirt with Molly again, which he abhorred. He'd never understand why people liked to utter totally pointless phrases while staring in the eyes of another person. But at least it got him body parts and access to the morgue.

The victim definitely hadn't been homeless, he mused as he walked home, because even he had trouble finding cabs on Christmas – another reason not to enjoy this holiday. But, just to make sure, he sent a text and a photo of the victim to his homeless network. She hadn't died of the cold, and not where she was found (and definitely not in the cheap dirty clothes she was found in), so she had almost certainly been killed. Most likely by some kind of poison, but he had to wait for Molly to get the body before he could think about doing anything. And Donavan would probably make sure that this didn't happen before Christmas Day – or even the day after that.

He sighed again and took out the key to the small flat he lived in at the moment. He really needed a bigger one, and he could ask Mycroft, naturally – but the thought of owing his brother anything wasn't very pleasant. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson's lodger would move out at the end of the year – in six days, to be precise – and she'd promised to wait a while before renting the flat (bigger and in a prime spot) again, so Sherlock could look for a flatmate. Even with the special deal, he couldn't afford it alone.

A flatmate. He supposed he would go through a number of them – nobody would want to live with him for a longer period of time. He didn't have any illusions about what people thought about him. And they were right. He was a high-functioning sociopath. Maybe, after enough people had tried, Mrs. Hudson would allow him to stay in the flat alone.

He sat down on the sofa and took up his violin, hoping that he could lose himself for a few hours in the music, without being tempted by his secret stash, when he got two texts.

One was from Mrs. Hudson, who was spending the holidays with her sister.

Merry Christmas, my boy.
Mrs. H.

He smiled in spite of himself, and send a "Thank you" in return, knowing that she would interpret it as a wish for happy holidays.

The second one was from a member of his homeless network, if he remembered correctly (and he certainly did) a young woman with reddish hair.

Have information. Waiting outside.

They knew not to get in, since his last landlord had kicked him out because of it. So he laid his violin aside and grabbed his coat.

She was waiting on the other side of the road and said immediately, "She was a social worker. Melanie Jenkins. I knew her; she worked in the shelter on Carnaby Street. She was nice". Her voice trembled a bit, and Sherlock realized that they must have been friends of a sort.

He nodded. "That's very useful". He wanted to take out his wallet, but she shook her head. "No. Just... please, find him, whoever did this." Sherlock nodded again, surprised because usually his homeless network took every bit of money they could lay their hands on, no matter whether they knew the victim or not. But then he looked at her. She was shivering, most likely as much from the cold as from the shock, and she looked like she hadn't eaten in a while. And she looked undeniably he took out his wallet anyway and, instead of the fifty pounds his informants usually received, he gave her a hundred pounds he couldn't really afford. He couldn't even say why he did it, but he put it in her hands with the words, "Not for the information. The Season's Greetings".

She looked on the pavement, then smiled at him and answered, quietly "Thank you. Merry Christmas". Then she was gone, turning around and walking up the street so quickly he couldn't reply, and he shrugged and decided to walk to the homeless shelter – there was bound to be some colleague of Melanie Jenkins helping the poor today.

But even Sherlock Holmes couldn't deny that, as he walked down the street, something inside him felt the tiniest bit warmer. And that, sometimes, ordinary people could actually be quite interesting and surprising.

Maybe getting a flatmate wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Chapter Text

The last eleven months had been the most exciting time of his life, and John was very aware that, considering that he had served in Afghanistan, this was more than ironic. But he couldn't help it, and he wouldn't change one moment if he could. Even though he hadn't necessarily enjoyed being kidnapped or decked out with explosives.

Sherlock and him shared a bond, had done so since the moment they met. Normally, Sherlock didn't take to other people. At least not that quickly, Mrs. Hudson being a possible exception. But he had taken to John, had started to trust John, had taken him to a crime scene, had cured his psychosomatic limp, and all in the space of twenty-four hours.

And John... Ella had been right; ever since he'd returned, he had had problems trusting people. And Mycroft (although he'd never tell him) had been right too: He'd trusted Sherlock Holmes immediately, of all people. And, right now, he couldn't imagine leading a different life. True, he'd always wanted a wife, and children, but without Sherlock –

It would all seem so dull. Of course he'd never tell anyone that, least of all his best friend. The man's ego was big enough as it was.

He had soon realized that Sherlock didn't care much for holidays of any sort – he'd only acknowledged John's birthday because Mrs. Hudson had reminded him that it ought to be celebrated. Although John had to admit he'd been rather thankful for the new (naturally unregistered) gun. He didn't want to run around carrying the one he'd used to shoot Jeff Hope – there was always the chance he'd have to use it, and what if someone like Anderson was on forensics?

But Christmas – until the beginning of December, he wasn't even sure that the consulting detective hadn't deleted the significance of the day. Or that he'd even admit that the day had any significance. However, Sherlock seemed to be at least aware what time of the year it was – since he told Mrs. Hudson that he saw "no need for silly decorations, especially not because it happened to be Christmas". Needless to say, two days later Mrs. Hudson had won and their flat was decorated. John didn't tell Sherlock, of course, but he liked it. He had never felt anywhere more at home than in 221B, and the decorations only served to strengthen the feeling of belonging.

Be that as it may, John had realized soon enough that he'd spend the holidays with his sister – who seemed to finally have quit the booze – again (Jeanette and he weren't serious enough yet to meet their families) and leave Sherlock alone, because that's what his best friend wanted. He didn't even have plans to visit Mycroft, as John found out when he casually asked him one evening, "Sherlock, are you going to Mycroft's on the twenty-fifth?"

"Why should I?" Sherlock replied, looking through his microscope. "Mycroft and I don't socialize on any other day of the year – at least not willingly – so why should I go to his house for an overrated holiday?"

"But then – you'll be all alone" John exclaimed, and wished he'd bitten himself on the tongue a moment later. Sherlock wouldn't understand what he meant, simply because he would choose not to.

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and raised an eyebrow. "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment" John confirmed.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I've been alone on Christmas before. Plus, Mrs. Hudson and her sister will surely try to force biscuits and tea down my throat at regular intervals."

John smiled. This year Mrs. Hudson's sister was coming to stay with her – last year it had been the other way around, as their house – landlady had told him – and they would certainly make sure that Sherlock wasn't left on his own. But, still, the thought of him sitting alone over his experiments on Christmas...

John decided to leave that subject for another day and cleared his throat. "What are we going to give Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock looked up again and blinked. "I thought we'd buy her a laptop – because she's always using Mrs. Turner's computer to read and comment on your blog. Didn't we already discuss this?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, discussing what to give your loved ones for Christmas is part of the fun of the season."

Sherlock huffed, but wisely decided not to say anything about that. Instead, he asked, sweetly, "I thought a laptop would be nice, my dear".

"I'm going to ignore the sarcastic undertone and agree" John answered and went back to the living room to finish the book he was reading and ponder over something else.

He was rather sure that Sherlock wouldn't care, and John would receive nothing, but he wanted to give the detective something. Something for the man that had given him back a purpose.

But what? That was the big question. Sure, Sherlock would probably be happy about body parts or chemicals, but John wanted to give him something that would even get Scrooge in the Christmas Spirit.

Notes for the violin? Sure. As if Sherlock couldn't play from memory.

Books? He'd seen the detective read occasionally, but John was sure he knew every book there was about true crime by heart.

More cases? How was he supposed to do that? He couldn't very well start a killer spree.

Utterly, lost, he decided to go out for a while to clear his head. He put his book aside and called out to Sherlock, "I'm going for a walk".

The consulting detective didn't answer, but he'd probably talk to John anyway, whether the doctor was in earshot or not.

He was definitely going for a walk – at least he was until he walked by Mrs. Hudson's door. Their house – landlady opened it immediately, almost as if she had waited for him to come. "John! Do come in."

He couldn't say no – he doubted anyone could say no to Mrs. Hudson when she had decided upon something – and followed her into her kitchen, where the kettle was already boiling.

She smiled at him. "Were you going to look for a present for Sherlock, or did you two have another domestic?"

"No, we didn't" John answered, having long ago given up trying to convince Mrs. Hudson that he and Sherlock were not a couple.

"Just making sure, dear, when you leave spontaneously, it's normally because you two had a fight".

He shook his head, but smiled. It was true, in a way; normally he left because he planned to – to go shopping, to visit his girlfriend (whoever that might happen to be at the moment), to go to work; when he left "spontaneously", as she put it, he was usually angry with his best friend.

"I just don't know what to buy" he said, sitting down. "I mean, what does he want? I'm not even sure what he likes... except solving crimes".

"I don't think that would make for a good Christmas present" she answered, pouring out the tea.

"It would be easier if he would admit that Christmas is a time to celebrate, and to give each other something. I could ask him, but with his opinion..."

She shook her head. "That boy has been a Scrooge for as long as I've known him. At least he isn't greedy – I've never seen someone throwing money around as carelessly as he does."

John chuckled, remembering the fifty pounds Sherlock had given a member of his homeless network during "The Great Game".

"Maybe it's because he never had a real Christmas celebration... You know, with people who like him, and drinks, and fun" she mused, taking a sip of her tea. John, remembering Mycroft telling him "You can imagine the Christmas dinners", said nothing. But when she looked at him, and her eyes sparkled, he suddenly suspected that she had had a plan all along.

This thought was confirmed when she asked, "What do you think about a Christmas party on Christmas Day? Just a few people – you, me, Sherlock, Molly and that nice polite Inspector".

"I don't know whether they even have time, and your sister is coming early the next day..." John replied, hesitatingly, not knowing what to say. Holding a Christmas Party for once, instead of attending one, would be nice, and he could even invite Jeanette; they had been planning to spend Christmas Day together anyway, and Sherlock would at least not be alone the whole time. But he doubted the consulting detective would enjoy it.

Mrs. Hudson, as it turned out, definitely didn't think much of these objections, if she had thought about them at all. "Molly doesn't go anywhere – the poor girl didn't even know where to go Christmas Eve – and your charming Detective Inspector isn't leaving before the day after Christmas Day. He and his wife will go to Dorset, but he promise me he'd come."

Obviously John couldn't say anything but "Oh. That's good, then. I'll tell Sherlock" and she beamed at him.

He left her flat half an hour later, still with no idea what he would give Sherlock, but at least he had a Christmas party to look forward to. On the way to the shops he called Jeanette, and she was delighted. Or tried top sound delighted, it was hard to tell. He had a growing suspicion that she was jealous of the amount of time he spent with Sherlock, but that couldn't be helped.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and sighed after John had left the flat. The good doctor was terribly predictable, and he was definitely going out to buy a Christmas present for Sherlock, who had made abundantly clear what he thought about the holiday. But now, he supposed, he would have to buy John something, too. And something his friend enjoyed at that.

John enjoyed many things, so it wouldn't be difficult to find something; but, knowing his doctor, it probably had to be something "special", because Christmas was, for him, a special time of the year. For whatever reason.

It would probably be best to get it over with, so Sherlock stood up and left the house, not aware that John was currently drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson.

He went straight to a bookshop, because he knew John enjoyed reading, especially classic literature. Soon enough, to his immense relief – the atrocious Christmas songs being played on every corner, the small children running around and people laughing too loud after having drunk too much punch were getting on his nerves. But he found "The Complete Christmas Books" of Charles Dickens – it was a rather expensive and beautiful edition, and he was sure John would like it.

When he arrived at 221B, infinitely relieved, his phone chimed. Mycroft. Of course.

Buying Christmas presents now, brother? Are we finally getting sentimental?
Mycroft

He answered Just don't eat too much pudding. S and, unsurprisingly, Mycroft didn't answer.

He hid the book in his bedroom – not that he'd look for it, he loved waiting for the special day – and returned to his experiment.

John came back an hour later, carrying a laptop under his arm. "Found one for Mrs. Hudson."

"So I see" Sherlock replied, wondering if John had given up on getting him anything. John smiled to himself as he put the laptop away; it had been a good idea to leave the present – he'd finally found something for the detective – at Mrs. Hudson's. After an hour of wandering around aimlessly, he had found a shop that sold only books that had come out seventy to a hundred years ago (and an antiquarian who looked as if he might be considerably older), and had long since gone out of print. Which meant that Sherlock couldn't have "The One Hundred Greatest Murder Mysteries of the Eighteenth Century". True, it sounded utterly sensational, but so were most books Sherlock read. And it didn't seem very christmasy (a word Sherlock would most certainly have abhorred), but he would wrap it in the most childish paper he could find as compensation.

After having put away the laptop, he went to the kitchen to make some tea and said in passing, "Sherlock, we are going to have a party on Christmas Day".

He would forever cherish the memory of the look his best friend gave him, he was sure of it. Sherlock looked up from the microscope so fast he almost upset his experiment.

"What?"

"You heard me perfectly. Mrs. Hudson has already invited Lestrade and Molly, and she is not going to take "No" for an answer. You could play us a Christmas Carol on your violin!"

Sherlock started to protest, but John interrupted him. "It means a lot to her, Sherlock. It's just one evening. Then you can spend the rest of Christmas all alone playing Frankenstein, I promise."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

And, John had to give him that, when Christmas Day came around – he behaved, if only for a little while. At least he behaved better than their abortive try at Christmas shopping together would ahve indicated (it made for a good blog entry, so maybe he shouldn't complain). Sherlock played a carol (though he'd not allowed Mrs. Hudson to put the hat on his head, the skull was wearing it) and he even greeted Lestrade somewhat politely.

Then Molly arrived, and of course Sherlock had to embarrass her. And not only her, but everyone except Mrs. Hudson. As if it was not enough that he couldn't even remember the name of his girlfriend.

Plus, it seemed like Greg's marriage was doomed. Well, he wasn't surprised, judging from the way the DI had looked at Molly.

And he could have done without Sherlock belittling Harry's tries to quit the booze for good.

John had seen immediately that Molly's present was for Sherlock, but at least, the consulting detective apologized. Right before Irene Adler decided to die in a way that would ensure their Christmas Eve was ruined for good.

As was his and Jeanette's relationship, but he couldn't leave Sherlock alone on a danger night, so he and Mrs. Hudson searched the flat and he texted Harry; while the nights were the most critical, Mycroft had hinted that his brother better not be left alone on the day following one of them as well.

He hadn't expected to get an answer but was positively surprised when she wrote him she'd come to Baker Street the next day.

And at least Mrs. Hudson had been happy about the laptop.

Sherlock wasn't mourning for Irene Adler, no matter what John or Mycroft or anyone thought. He was mourning for quite a few interesting cases that would undoubtedly never come to pass, now that she was dead. And he was –

In a way, he felt guilty because it was obvious John had looked forward to Christmas and his girlfriend had broken up with him.

John all but begged Sherlock to behave the next morning, and Sherlock nodded. It owed it to him, in a way.

Neither of them had thought about Christmas presents the previos day - too much had happened. So Sherlock decided to make up for it by being extra-cheerful and considerate.

Before Harry came around, he went into his bedroom and came out with John's wrapped (he was rather proud that he'd thought of that) present, and his friend was surprised, but delighted. "How did you know I liked Dickens? Silly question, forget it. Sherlock – this edition is beautiful! And all the Christmas Books too!"

He beamed and Sherlock decided that, maybe, Christmas wasn't such a waste of time after all.

John would never forget Sherlock's face when he realized that John had actually got him something that he liked and didn't already have (after frowning about the paper, which showed Santa Clause and his reindeers); for a moment, he looked just like a little boy, and John smiled.

Then Sherlock cleared his throat. "I – thank you".

"You're welcome".

Harry came after lunch – well, after John had eaten lunch – and Sherlock decided to greet her and then spend the time until she left in his room reading, which was probably the most polite thing he'd ever done for John.

Or so the doctor thought until, in the evening, when they were both reading their gifts in front of the fire, Sherlock asked, slowly, "Does your sister know that her new partner is cheating on her?" and John realized that his best friend had actually held back a deduction for him.

So he simply answered "No, I don't think so", and they went back to reading.

And, despite everything, John couldn't help but feel that it was the best Christmas he had ever had.

Chapter Text

John knew that his first thought, when looking forward to Christmas, shouldn't have been „Sherlock will have been dead for over six months", but he couldn't help it.

Especially since all he could think about was the last Christmas, when even his best friend had enjoyed the holidays in the end. How different his life had been then.

A whirlwind, constantly running and chasing and being chased, holes in the living room wall, body parts in the fridge, being kidnapped on a regular basis, spending far more time at Scotland Yard than at work, never stopping, never slowing down –

He'd loved it.

He couldn't deny it; he'd loved every minute of it. Sherlock had saved him, from a meaningless life, from depression, from... everything. And now he was gone, and...

John was aware that he shouldn't be sad just because his fridge in his new, small, completely ordinary flat contained nothing but food. He should be contend that there were no concerts in the middle of the night, that no one took his gun (safely tucked away in his bedside drawer) to shoot at the wall or other pieces of furniture, that he wasn't dragged out at all times to catch a murderer –

Sometimes, he was simply numb. Didn't feel anything. He couldn't even really remember moving out of 221B; he just knew that he'd said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and then suddenly been sitting on the bed in his new, small, utterly conventional flat, still feeling numb.

He'd been numb especially the first month after Sherlock's death, when the funeral, dealing with Mycroft, making his statement to the police –

It had all been too much.

So he'd welcomed the numbness. For a while. The numbness, and the – the fact that everything that had happened was unbelievable. Sherlock couldn't be dead. He couldn't imagine a world without the consulting detective, a world in which he got enough sleep and had a real job and a girlfriend that lasted for longer than a month.

It seemed like his life was split into two parts: the Before, and the After.

Before Sherlock jumped, his life was good. Unusual, weird, but good.

After Sherlock jumped – there was the numbness. For a whole month.

Then he'd felt angry.

Sherlock had left him alone. Made him watch. Made him hear his final goodbye. Made him – made him an accomplice to his suicide, in a way.

The anger was helpful when he decided to move out, to start a new, normal life – and pretended this was all he'd ever wanted.

But it couldn't last.

The grief, the true, real grief, that he'd felt right after Sherlock had jumped and he'd felt his pulse – realizing that the heart of his best friend (the heart he'd never admitted he had) didn't beat anymore, would never beat again, had to come back, because that was how grief worked.

He spent months feeling helpless, and lost and guilty, sitting on his bed in his small flat, thinking bitterly that, really, nothing had changed, and everything was like the way it had been before Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock.

Except for the fact that he cried on a regular basis and visited his best friend's grave every week. Except for the fact that, for one and a half years, he'd known a different life, a crazy, wonderful , unusual life, and he didn't know how to cope with losing that life again.

He hadn't gone to work again since it – since it happened, and frankly, he didn't think anyone would want to be treated by a doctor whose hands were shaking. Or who had a psychosomatic limp – it had reappeared after he'd said his final goodbye to Sherlock, after he'd begged him not to be dead.

John knew that the grief couldn't last forever. He knew that he'd get over his best friend's death. But, until that happened –

He was stuck, and he was lost, and he didn't know what to do.

Sherlock –

Sherlock had given him a new purpose, had filled his life, that had become grey after the yellow and red that had dominated it in Afghanistan with the brown of his violin, the blue of his dressing gown, the green of his eyes. And every other colour John could think of.

Even after the numbness and the excessive grief had left him, there were moments, when he was buying tea, or sitting in the tube, when he'd suddenly remember that Sherlock was dead, and it would send a stab through his heart. Suddenly, his eyes would be filled with tears again, and he'd have trouble breathing, and he couldn't understand how the world could go on, how people could go to work and on dates and simply live like nothing had happened, when the foremost champion of law of his generation and John's best friend was lying in a box under the ground.

He visited him every week. He had to. Everything he had ever needed without realizing it had died on the same day Sherlock had, and a rather tasteful headstone was all that was left.

That didn't mean the world stopped turning, as hard as it was to comprehend.

And Christmas was coming, just like every year.

It was difficult not to think about last year; their disastrous party that still had turned out to be fun – somehow, John wasn't sure why – the next day when they'd exchanged presents, and –

It was difficult not to think about Sherlock being alive. That was it.

Harry had been great; she'd finally got off the booze (and it was almost impossible not to hear a voice in the back of his head exclaiming "Nope") and called him every week.

She's also insisted, or tried to insist, that he spend Christmas at her flat. But he'd finally convinced her to be satisfied with Christmas Eve.

Christmas Day –

He had to make a few visits on Christmas Day.

He had promised Mrs. Hudson that he would drop by.

He was rather sure that Molly and Greg would be there.

And then –

He couldn't leave Sherlock alone on Christmas. Not when he'd only just taught him last year that you could actually celebrate the holidays.

Only when he was walking – limping to Harry's did he realize that he hadn't even bothered to look for presents this year. It all just seemed so pointless.

She understood, or tried to understand, it was all the same for John, but when he realized she'd really given up drinking (hands not shaking, no extra-bin for bottles in the kitchen anymore, place were bar used to be now holding a book-case – he stopped there because he realized who he'd started to sound like) he made an effort to be cheerful.

She gave him a watch and he smiled a real smile, and she looked relieved suddenly.

After dinner (even better than the one two years ago) she looked out of the window and all but squealed, "John! It's snowing!" and he had to smile, because he remembered another Christmas, years ago, when an eight-year-old- girl had greeted the snow with the same enthusiasm the grown woman before him did.

When she turned around, he was already putting his jacket on and grabbing his cane, because he knew what she'd want, and she beamed.

They walked in silence, through the streets, passing families who'd gone out too just so their children could watch the snow fall, and John felt happier than he'd been since before – it happened.

When they reached a park, they sat down on a bench, never minding the cold, and watched the tress slowly turning white.

Then Harry decided to speak.

"You miss him a lot, don't you?" she asked softly.

He didn't need to ask her what she meant. "Yes" he simply answered, looking at the trees. "I know it's been over six months, but – "

"You loved him".

He sighed. He wasn't homosexual, no matter what everyone thought, and he was rather sure that Sherlock had been asexual. "Harry..."

She turned to look at him. "John. Don't get me wrong. Do you really think I wouldn't know if my own brother was gay?"

He smirked.

"See. But you loved him. There are different types of love. He was your best friend. So you loved him. Easy."

Maybe it was, John thought. Maybe it was just easy, maybe he had every right to grieve for as long as he had to, maybe nobody could understand what he'd lost, and it didn't matter.

He smiled at his sister. "Thanks".

"No problem." She smiled back and they continued watching the snow fall, until it grew cold and they returned to her flat.

As he had predicted, Molly and Greg were at Mrs. Hudson's flat when he visited her the next day. Molly hugged him – though there was a look in her eyes he couldn't identify – and Greg stood in the background until John shook his hand, smiling at him. He knew the DI blamed himself for what happened. But it wasn't Greg's fault, and he tried to tell him as much without saying it. Judging by his smile, Greg understood.

Mrs. Hudson fussed over him, naturally, stuffing him with tea and biscuits, giving him a new jumper, and waving away his apologies.

He stayed for two hours before excusing himself. He wanted to visit Sherlock in daylight.

He had the suspicion that they knew where he was going, but didn't say anything.

The cemetery was deserted. He had expected it; most people didn't like to be reminded of death at Christmas. He didn't mind. In fact, he preferred it.

A single red rose lay on the grave, and it was so elegant and so perfectly placed that it didn't take a genius to figure out who'd put it there. Mycroft. The man who, John suspected, made sure that there was always enough money in his account. He bit his lip. Mycroft had lost his brother. Maybe he should, one of these days, give him a call. Maybe. Or maybe not.

All that he knew as he was standing in front of Sherlock's grave was that life went on.

And that it would, despite everything, be sweeter for the memory of the consulting detective by his side.

Sherlock knew that, when you were stalking the boss of a human trafficking syndicate, you shouldn't be thinking John would love it here.

But he couldn't help it.

Vienna was beautiful at Christmas time. Especially the "Innere Stadt" – the old part of town – with its streets decorated and illuminated.

And the "Christkindlmarkt" in front of the city hall – a market where you could purchase Christmas decorations, handbags, jewellery, something to eat and lots of punch – had a special atmosphere to it as well.

Vienna was a simply fascinating town. Still in love with its past – and enjoying every minute of the holidays.

He didn't know what had possessed him to go out and look at it on Christmas Eve. John really must have influenced him more than he'd thought.

He wouldn't be able to do anything until Boxing Day – the syndicate was going to transport another group of people through Vienna, and he had to catch them red-handed. Or rather, he had to make sure the police did. He was certain his directions were good enough – even Anderson could have followed them. But still – the waiting was driving him crazy.

And maybe it hadn't been a good idea to come to a Christmas market when he was feeling more alone than he'd ever been in his whole life.

Every around him where happy people, smiling people, people who were looking forward to spending Christmas Eve with their families – Austria, he remembered, the celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day – and just enjoying the atmosphere before returning home. Of course, he'd seen several tourists as well, but none of them seemed to be alone.

He was alone.

Then, again, he supposed, alone and lonely didn't mean the same thing.

He was both.

He was alone, and lonely, and – much as he hated the cliché, it seemed fitting – dead to the world. At least to his world.

And he was standing in a foreign country on Christmas Eve, Christmas cheer all around him, with a desperate desire to call John.

But he couldn't do that. John was fond of him, and he'd most likely betray the secret – and put all his friends in danger. He couldn't let the doctor know that he was still alive.

But thinking about letting someone know –

He bit his lip.

A thought crossed his mind that had become increasingly difficult to ignore. He could let Mycroft know that he was alive. He could ask for – help. But he didn't know if he was ready yet.

Only Mycroft could have told Moriarty all he wanted to know, and Sherlock knew that he shouldn't blame him for it. The entire Holmes family had always thought with their brains, never with their hearts.

But still –

He would have thought that his brother would be a little more protective (and the irony wasn't lost on him) of his reputation. Of the life he'd somehow managed to build for himself.

But Mycroft might be useful. Help him in bringing Moriarty's web down.

He was interrupted in his thoughts when an elderly, stout woman suddenly pressed a plastic cup in his hand.

He raised an eyebrow and realized that he'd been standing next to a punch booth the whole time. He was just about to protest – in German, of course – when she shook her head.

"You look like you could use a little Christmas cheer".

Even Sherlock had to listen very carefully to understand her – she had a strong Viennese dialect – and she seemed to realize he wasn't a native speaker.

"Oh, I'm sorry" she exclaimed in English with a heavy Austrian accent, "did you – "

"Don't worry, I speak German" he answered. "I'm just not used to the dialect."

She laughed, talking in German again, though, to her credit, she tried to keep her dialect at bay. "Yes, I guess it can be a little bit difficult to understand". She smiled at him. "Anyway, I just wanted to give you something to cheer you up – nobody should look sad on Christmas Eve".

"And you think a cup of punch would help?"

"It's very good punch" she replied good-naturedly.

He smiled, simply because he couldn't help it. The woman reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. Always looking after others. Though he did wonder how she could leave the booth at such a busy time.

She seemed to read his mind. "I needed a break. And my daughter can serve the customers for a while – plus, we're closing at five. Time to get home to the family. What about you?"

He swallowed. "My family's living in Australia". It wasn't a good lie, it wasn't even a good story, but the passport he'd managed to buy last week declared him to be "Tobias Grensley", Australian, so it was the easiest to simply pretend he was a tourist.

"Oh, so you are going to be alone on Christmas Eve?"

"I'm used to it."

"No one should be" she answered, and he had to hide his smile, because she reminded him more of his house – landlady than ever. And, at the thought of Mrs. Hudson, and 221B, and John, there was suddenly a lump in his throat. He took a large gulp of the punch and had to admit that it was really rather good.

"Told you". The woman beamed. "Anyway, I have to get back and help my daughter. I hope you can at least call your family. Merry Christmas".

"Merry Christmas" he answered and watched her walk back into the booth.

He couldn't deny that he felt a little better after the talk and the punch. Her words still rang in his ears. "I hope you can at least call your family".

He could. But he didn't know if he should. Or if he wanted to.

If you considered John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg or even Molly – who at least knew he was alive (but, still, calling her could put her into danger) – his family...

Mycroft was another matter.

As he walked over the market towards the court theatre, the booths slowly closing down, he realized that he could decide whether or not to contact his brother after he'd made sure the trafficking syndicate was gone. Maybe, just maybe, he could have a little bit of peace, for just one night.

Christmas Eve seemed to be just the right time for it.

He actually managed to sleep that night, in his small hotel room.

The next morning, he woke up to realize that it was snowing. It was rather early, and not many people were out on the streets – but those who were seemed to enjoy the feeling of snow on their skin.

So he grabbed his coat – not the one he'd worn on that fateful day, not the one that reminded him of ho – London – and went out too.

He'd already told the police everything they needed to know. There was nothing to do except wait. And taking a walk in the snow.

John had told him once that Harry used to love doing that, as a child, and that he'd always accompanied her. Maybe he'd have gone out with Sherlock today, too, if he'd been there –

He shook himself. He couldn't waste time with thoughts like that. He had to think about the next step.

Because, and of that, he was absolutely sure –

One day, he would return home.

Chapter Text

John didn't know what he'd expected.

All in all, he preferred it that way; he preferred the craziness, he preferred the strangeness of this whirlwind that was his life once again to the predictability that had been his constant companion in these three years after Sherlock had disappeared.

Even life with Mary had been – and he knew he was once again thinking like his best friend, but he was long past caring about that – utterly normal and, for lack of a better word, dull. He'd loved her, but he'd soon realized that she wanted more – marriage, children. He wouldn't have been able to give her that. He had been broken by Sherlock's death, and, even though he'd once been convinced that a family was all he wanted from life, he hadn't been so sure about that after he'd buried his best friend. He would have been happy to just stay with Sherlock for the reminder of their lives; he would have been happy with changing girlfriends, if it just meant living this unusual life.

But that had been taken away from him.

Or so he'd thought.

Because, just a few days after the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, he'd reappeared, just by knocking on the door of John's flat.

He'd slammed said door in his face.

Stared at it for a moment.

Opened it and hit him.

Slammed it again.

And then, because there wasn't anything else to do, he'd opened it and pulled him inside and hugged him. Before tending to his bleeding nose.

Sherlock had spent the whole night telling him why he'd disappeared, and how he'd done it (though he hadn't talked about what he'd been doing, other than "destroying Moriarty's web), and John had understood that he'd been given a choice.

Sherlock would have let him be, if he'd chosen. He would simply have walked out of John's life again, if the doctor had decided it wasn't worth it.

But it was. If the three years had shown him anything, it was that he couldn't live without Sherlock.

Two weeks later, after they'd caught Moran and rehabilitated Sherlock, he'd moved back into 221B. Just because he couldn't imagine not to. Needless to say, he'd not only made himself and Sherlock (who'd actually said so) happy, but Mrs. Hudson as well.

Ever since then, they'd been what they'd always been: best friends, flatmates, partners in crime. He'd given up his job at a surgery – not St Bart's, of course, he couldn't have worked there after watching Sherlock (apparently) jump from the rooftop – to be able to help Sherlock all the time. Or assist him. Or keep an eye on him. He wasn't sure how to explain what he did, only that he never wanted to do anything else in his life ever again. Sherlock seemed contend with that too.

Sherlock had changed, though John didn't think most people would notice. He was still smiling happily at crime scenes (and John, after having missed this for so long, couldn't bring himself to chastise him for it), he was still solving cases, he was still insulting people he deemed "stupid and dull" (in other words, a large part of the population).

But –

He was more considerate, or tried to be, as far as his friends were concerned. He told John and Mrs. Hudson where he went, he made sure to keep his best friend informed of his movements, he tried to be quiet when John was exhausted after a case.

He even called their DI "Greg". John smiled as he remembered their friend's face when Sherlock had called out at a crime scene, for the first time, "Greg, come here". He'd been less surprised; by this time, Sherlock had explained everything to him, and he'd referred to Lestrade as "Greg".

Sherlock even called Mycroft now and then, without a reason, and had actually invited him to tea one memorable day, when the British Government had arrived slightly out of breath and panicking because his little brother had decided he wanted to see him. However, John could tell Mycroft was grateful for the opportunity to fix their relationship. It was a slow process, but they were getting there.

Not all changes were for the better, though.

Sherlock had woken up John by screaming quite a few times in the first three months after his return, and John knew from the start why his friend was screaming.

Nightmares.

Sherlock had nightmares.

Every time this happened, John had walked down to his room and woken him up. Sherlock hadn't said anything. At least at first. After two months of this – he usually had nightmares every time he slept – he began to talk, and John, who knew he should probably be scared or angry or both, just wasn't. He'd known that Sherlock had had to do things he'd rather forget, and he was aware of the reason.

Sherlock had done every single one of these things so his friends would be safe.

John had told him as much, and, strangely, from this day on, the nightmares ceased. Maybe Sherlock had just needed reassurance. Now and then, he was still haunted by the memories, but he talked to John, who was always ready to listen, about it.

So all in all things had got back to normal – or as normal as their lives were ever going to be, and John couldn't be happier.

Still, he hadn't known what to expect from the first Christmas after their reunion.

Sherlock wasn't exactly a Christmas person – but, judging from the one Christmas they'd spent together, he wasn't really the "Scrooge" Mrs. Hudson had called him once either. John didn't know if the three years spent alone had changed his perception of the holidays, however.

He'd spent the last three years celebrating with Harry – who was finally of the booze for good, it seemed – as well as visiting Mrs. Hudson, seeing Molly and Greg and, occasionally, Mike, and going to the cemetery because he hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock alone. In a way, the Christmases had all been the same, though not bad. Just like his life before Sherlock returned.

His best friend hadn't told him anything about the Christmases he spent travelling around the world but John was sure they couldn't have been very cheerful.

And he wasn't sure whether this would have made Sherlock appreciate Christmas at home more, or find it more annoying than ever.

However, while he'd thought quite a lot about this in the past few weeks, he hadn't been expecting to come downstairs shortly after the beginning of advent to find their flat decorated.

Mrs. Hudson (it could only have been her) had outdone herself this time. The skull wore his Santa hat, of course, but everywhere hung gold and green and red. John had to admit that it were very tasteful decorations too. There was even a corner that had not been decorated and was quite clearly waiting for a Christmas tree (John thought Mrs. Hudson might be a bit optimistic concerning that, seeing as Sherlock would probably set in on fire just to measure the time it took to burn to ashes). On an impulse, he looked into the kitchen and had to bite back a laugh when he saw that even Sherlock's chemistry set hadn't escaped the holiday spirit; there were bows wrapped around the beakers and a glittering ornament sat on top on one of the bigger ones.

Sherlock would be very happy about that, John was sure.

Then he realized that it was almost eleven o' clock – really, ever since he gave up his job, he was becoming more and more like Sherlock, who always rose late, if he didn't stay up the whole night – and that he hadn't seen or heard the consulting detective.

He looked into his room, already knowing he wouldn't be there. The flat was too quiet; when Sherlock was at home, there was always a certain stir in the air, and right now, this stir was missing. Sherlock was not in the flat, and he hadn't told him where he was going, and it made John nervous. He know, of course, that Moriarty was gone and that he shouldn't worry just because Sherlock had decided to go – somewhere, maybe for a walk or to St Bart's without bothering to tell him, but –

After three years of missing him, mourning for him, maybe he was allowed to worry when the detective decided to disappear without a trace.

Not disappear, he reminded himself. He would come back. Maybe he'd come back any minute.

He heard someone on the stairs, but before he could get his hopes up, he recognized the step.

Mrs. Hudson... Has already been to the stores, therefore she moves a little slower, determined, so she wants to know something...

He shook his head. He was really spending too much time with Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson knocked and came in before he'd even had the chance to say "Enter".

"John" she beamed. "Do you like the decorations?"

He smiled; there was really nothing else to do. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson." He cleared his throat, preparing himself to tell her that the decorations on Sherlock's lab equipment would have to go when she looked around and exclaimed "Oh, it really does look lovely... I'm so glad Sherlock decided to decorate the flat this year."

"Sherlock? He asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes. He insisted. And, quite frankly, I had nothing against it – you know, my hip..."

"You don't happen to know where he's gone?" John interrupted her, because usually, when it came to things she liked to do, her hip didn't bother her, and he had a suspicion that she would gladly have helped Sherlock decorate their flat.

"He went out about an hour ago, when I returned from the stores. He said something about inviting his brother for Christmas..."

John smiled and shook his head. Wonders would never cease. Then he went to the kitchen to make tea for both of them, already thinking about what to get Sherlock for Christmas.

Sherlock smirked when he saw Anthea looking surprised for once and didn't even pause. He simply entered Mycroft's office without knocking. His brother, naturally, was busy looking over some report.

When he saw Sherlock, he raised an eyebrow.

"Brother dear" he said, "I assume you have a reason for barging into my office in this manner". Sherlock knew Mycroft well enough to know that he was worried and hid a smile.

"Yes, there is a reason". Mycroft tensed, and Sherlock took pity on him. "What are you doing on the 25th?"

Mycroft looked at him, and Sherlock appreciated the confused look on his brother's face.

"I..." the British Government swallowed and regained his composure. "I don't have plans for this day as of yet."

As if Sherlock didn't know his brother would spend the day alone in his mansion drinking brandy.

"We are going to have a Christmas party. I've come to invite you".

Mycroft seemed taken aback, then he answered, "Of course I'll come, if you – "

But Sherlock was already turning around. "I'll text you the details, and please don't start a war before Christmas. It would keep you from attending."

With that, he strode out, not bothering to look at his brother's face, but informing Anthea, who uncharacteristically beamed, that she had to keep his brother's calendar free on the 25th of December.

On the way home, he stopped for presents for Mrs. Hudson and John, as well as Molly and Greg (who, he was sure, would attend their party together this year).

Mrs. Hudson's present was surprisingly easy; she'd dropped a few hints over the last few months that she'd like an Ipod.

Molly and Greg, with their mutual love for music of the 1920s, were easy enough too. But he had no idea what to get John.

Before he realized what his doctor would most likely appreciate more than any other gift, and he smiled and went home.

John was waiting for him, and of course trying to appear busy reading a book, even though he hadn't turned one page in an hour.

"Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson told me you wanted to invite Mycroft for Christmas..."

"Yes, I did. And Molly. And Greg. Mike and his family will spend Christmas at their home, of course, with Davey not two years old, but maybe we could invite them to dinner somewhere between Christmas and New Year."

John looked at him as if he'd gone insane, and perhaps he had. Either way, he was rather amused at the reactions he was getting.

"You – you are sure you want to have a Christmas party?" John laughed, apparently at himself. "Of course you are. You wouldn't say so otherwise. So – Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg – "

"Harry" Sherlock interrupted him. "If she wants to come, of course."

John blinked. "I'm rather sure she will – I think she'd be rather angry if we didn't invite her".

"That's settled then."

John smiled and waved a hand. "Thank you for the Christmas decorations. I didn't think you liked them".

Sherlock shrugged. "It was, paradoxically, one of the things I missed most. Christmas at 221B". It was true. At every Christmas, he had felt even lonelier than before, and he'd wanted nothing more than to tell his friends that he was alive. He'd called Mycroft after his first Christmas alone, not only because his brother would be useful (though he was, of course), but also because he'd missed him (though he hadn't told him that), missed his old life so much. Sentiment. It never ceased to surprise him.

John smiled again. "And how are you going to conduct your experiments?"

"I've decided to keep my experiments at Bart's until the New Year."

"Of course you have". John put his coat on.

"Since you are apparently already done with Christmas shopping, I'm going to go look for presents now."

"I already got Mrs. Hudson's Ipod, and gifts for Greg and Molly" Sherlock replied, lost in his thoughts.

"So you do listen to our friends from time to time, or do you just deduce what they want?" John teased, already opening the door.

"John..." Sherlock said, slowly.

His doctor stood still. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Could you..." Sherlock bit his lip. "Could you buy some brandy for Mycroft, while you're at it? I forgot." He hadn't, of course. He just hadn't been sure whether his brother would appreciate a gift, but he'd decided just a moment ago not to care.

John grinned. "Of course".

The doctor left the flat, knowing for once – already what to buy Sherlock. This particular gift had been on his mind ever since the detective had returned.

Christmas came quickly; they solved several cases during the days leading up to it, and John would have been worried that they'd be busy on Christmas Day, too, if Sherlock hadn't told him once in passing that "It's called "holidays" for a reason, John".

They spent Christmas Eve together at 221B, just the two of them and the peace of the evening. They decorated the tree that had magically appeared on their doorstep in the morning - Mycroft's doing, no doubt - and managed to do so without too much bickering. Sherlock played a few melodies John didn't recognize on his violin – he'd composed them, he thought – and told him about his first Christmas alone, when a woman in Vienna had decided he needed a cup of punch.

John was glad he hadn't been all alone, though he didn't say it.

Sherlock knew what John was thinking but didn't acknowledge it.

The next day, Mrs. Hudson was the first to arrive, telling them happily that her sister would come the next morning. She was followed by Molly and Greg, who tried to act like they hadn't arrived at the same time, but gave up the act when Sherlock told them that it was "futile". Harry came in shortly after the two of them and actually greeted Sherlock politely. He returned the greeting just as polite and John tried to hide his grin, but didn't really succeed.

Mycroft – since Sherlock had told him that the party started at five o' clock – arrived at five o' clock sharp and was a bit unsure what to do and how to act at first, until Mrs. Hudson took pity on him and decided to talk to him.

He seemed rather surprised at receiving a gift from Sherlock and actually had to clear his throat before thanking them for the brandy. He then informed them that he'd taken the liberty of making Sherlock an "official consultant" of Scotland Yard, with John as his assistant, so that Anderson or Donavan would have no reason to complain about his presence at crime scenes anymore, which led Greg to complain that his gift of a fake ID was rather devoid of meaning now, but Sherlock just snorted and thanked him anyway, because Mycroft certainly hadn't provided Ids for them, since his brother knew that he loved bending the rules and sneaking unto crime scenes. John could have sworn that he saw Mycroft smirk at that.

Molly simply told John that she'd put some body parts aside for Sherlock and that she'd made him promise not to experiment with them in 221B, which he greatly appreciated.

Greg gave John ammunition for "the gun he didn't know he owned", and they left it at that.

Harry had bought the books John had told her to buy – they were grateful all the same, especially as John could tell, from Sherlock's glance, that he'd been right, his sister had finally stopped drinking for good.

Sherlock and John, by some silent agreement, didn't trade gifts until everyone else had left – Mycroft with the assurance that he'd invite them to dinner soon.

Sherlock was prepared to explain what he'd got John, but the doctor's eyes began to sparkle as soon as he unpacked the CD.

"You – you composed something for me?"

Sherlock tried not to smile, but failed. He shrugged. "You didn't suppose you're less important to me than Irene Adler?"

"No, of course not". John beamed.

Sherlock carefully unwrapped his present to find notes for Igor Stravinsky's "Firebird Suite" for the violin. He raised an eyebrow as John blushed.

"You know, a phoenix – it just seemed appropriate".

Sherlock grinned. "It does." And then, without another word, he started practicing, John watching him, smiling at his enthusiasm, and feeling that there were many more Christmases to come, just like this one.

Sherlock, John, and their friends.

And, for the time being, that was all that mattered.