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The first time Natasha Romanoff celebrated New Year's Eve, it was with a dead man.
A dead man only in name, at least. Sherlock Holmes was very much alive, tucked into a safe house far away from the hustle and bustle of Moscow's New Years Eve celebrations.
They'd met several years before, when Natasha had still been an agent for the Russian KGB and Sherlock still hadn't undertaken the title of world's only consulting detective. They'd been dark times for both of them. And in that darkness, they'd found a kindred soul in each other.
She slipped in through the window and into his safe house on silent feet, carrying only a hard case and an overnight bag. She closed the window behind her to keep the chill outside, only then risking a glance at the bed in the middle of the darkened room.
Sherlock was still fast asleep. Shirtless beneath the covers and in need of a shave, but his curls had been freshly cut. His eyes were pinched closed, lips just slightly parted. He looked so much younger than he did awake.
Natasha removed her boots, coat, and scarf without making a sound, leaving the overnight bag but still carrying the hard case with her. She set it down on the floor beside the bed and very carefully crawled in next to him. He smelled like soap and him and she breathed in his scent, tucking herself against his side.
"Hey stranger," she whispered into the silence.
Sherlock didn't startle or snap his eyes open, only breathed in and pulled her close. "I'm dreaming," he stated more than asked.
Natasha had to bite back a smile. "No, you're not, and I come bearing gifts," she whispered again.
Sherlock turned to face her, pulling her closer still underneath the bed covers and half opening his eyes. His lips curled in a drowsy smile. "Is it Christmas already?"
"New Year's eve, actually." Natasha smoothed her hand down his chest and met his eyes. "It's almost midnight, too. It took me longer to find you than I would've liked."
"Mm, well, you're lucky to have found me at all." Sherlock drew the covers down just enough that she could see the bruises left on his chest and ribs.
Natasha's smile faded. "Well if I'd known that, I'd have brought you their dead bodies instead," she said seriously.
Sherlock huffed a tired laugh. "What did you get me, then?"
She met his eyes one more time, then reluctantly rolled away from the heat of him to retrieve the hard case from the floor where she'd left it. "I know you miss the city. And John, and Molly, and everyone," she explained, sitting up a bit to set the case down on the bed. Sherlock sat up too, sharp blue eyes darting between her and the case. She nudged it towards him. "I thought it'd be nice for you to at least have your violin. I can take care of it if you have to leave it behind after tonight but I thought maybe just for a little while..."
Natasha watched Sherlock for a reaction. For a long time, he just stared at her, that intense blue stare that made her heart stop and her breath catch. He finally tore his eyes away to reach for the case, long fingers reverently running over the surface before he popped it open. "You brought me my violin," he repeated.
"Yeah," she said, a little uncertainly. "Is that okay? I figured it wouldn't be a problem, as far as being recognized—" Sherlock's lips were on hers before she had a chance to finish, hot and soft and tasting faintly like mint. She wasn't sure when he pushed her back on the mattress or when he shoved the case out of the way, but suddenly he was on top of her and she couldn't see or breathe or think past the feel and taste of him. Outside the window, way out in the distance, a clock chimed twelve and there were sounds of cheering and celebration.
Natasha was too buzzed and dizzy to care by time Sherlock pulled away. "You like it, then," she quipped, following it with a husky, breathless laugh.
"I like it," he panted back. He rose off of her to retrieve the violin from inside the case along with the bow. Natasha resisted the urge to yank him back, instead propping herself up on her elbows to watch him.
She smiled when their eyes met, a smile that was all softness and warmth, just for him. "Play something for me."
Sherlock winked, shifting on the bed to a more comfortable position. "As you wish, princess."
Hours later, after Sherlock had put away his violin, and after they'd slipped beneath the covers in a tangle of needy kisses and eager hands and danced their way into the new year, Sherlock pulled Natasha to his chest and buried his face in her messy red hair.
"Happy New Year, Natalia," he breathed in perfect Russian.
Natasha broke out in a smile he couldn't see. "Happy New Year, my Sherlock Holmes."