Fic for mainecoon76: A Dickens of a Tale

[lavvyan]

Title: A Dickens of a Tale.
Author: elixile22
Recipient: mainecoon76
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock / OFCs, hinted at Sherlock/Moriarty but it is at its heart a John/Sherlock story. (Plus bonus random other character interactions.)
Rating: M
Warnings: Swearing, Drug usage, Implied sexual situations, Violence, Death and some Angst
Summary: Concept based upon Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol: Sherlock is haunted by a case from the past whilst investigating a case in the present and there is also an ominous foreshadowing of *whisper it* Reichenbach Falls.
Notes: This is the author's first fic so would appreciate any and every comment to help in the future ^.^ Also many thanks to cassieingaben for being a god amongst betas (at least what you could do in the time alloted) and the mods for being patient / producing this great comm!

A Dickens of a Tale

It has often been stated that I have little capacity for emotion.

I have a diagnosis to go along with that general consensus.

Yet, whilst it is true I hold reason above all else, I am human still, and am not impervious to the rigours of feeling.

I have been subject to a particularly trying time recently; even more so than during a usual holiday season. What is staggering is that this all started with a case.

Typically a case would be a welcome distraction from dinner with Mycroft and Mummy. Typically a case at any point during the year would be like Christmas come early. I need work, without work my brain rots.

The most recent events however caused my logical processes to revolt in favour of feeling. It was a temporary madness, but nonetheless one which has led to a degree of changes and conclusions based upon what my ‘heart', in addition to my mind, is telling me.

As to why this record is being kept: I have been ‘encouraged' to commit the events of what happened to page in an attempt at a personal catharsis.

Dull.

Obviously, this is all at John's insistence (initial idea courtesy of his former therapist, making him both stubborn and unoriginal). I would have dismissed the notion immediately, had he not threatened another one of his blogs.

Firstly, I do not wish for this account to be in the public eye (thus also saving myself the tiresome task of correcting dim-witted comments John's watchers will make). Secondly, the internet does not need to be further burdened by an over-active account that borders on fiction, not fact. There is quite enough lack of substance upon the World Wide Web as it is.

I would posit John titling his own entry ‘The Hauntings of Sherlock Holmes' or something equally as florid. I will suffice with the much more accurate: "A Three Case Problem"

: - To apply my usual methods is to start at the beginning -:

However, in this instance, such a simple matter as identifying the ‘beginning' is not a precise feat; the facts being muddied into an amalgam of past, present and potential future points.

For now, I will start at one beginning: the 24th of December 2010.

Upon certain occasions after the events with Moriarty at the pool John added to the adjectives that I had attached to him the moment we had met at Bart's - staunch, brave, honourable, stubborn and loyal - with a less attractive trait, one which could only be loosely described as ‘mother-hennish tendencies‘.

And whilst my earnest Boswell believes his attraction to danger a somewhat ambiguous aspect to his character, I cannot ever consider it so. Indeed it was not until his inherent compassion became intrusive upon my nature that I ever thought of myself less than entirely comfortable with him by my side.

On this particular morning I had remained awake after an interminable repetition of this trait. It was a conversation we had shared seven times previously, and seven times it had resulted in the same outcome: I would not ‘just bloody well go to sleep' but instead lay restless, ignored his voice, turned over the thoughts in my mind and waited for when the next news would arrive.

It was 09.18am when I received the text from Lestrade.

***************

There was a layer of snow lying on the ground outside 221b Baker Street as Sherlock swept through the door, tugging his scarf and jacket tighter around himself with gloved hands. "Come on, John." his voice was impatient, punctuated with a stomp of feet that would have seemed childish, were it not for the freezing temperatures nor the shroud of blackness concealing the movement.

"I'm coming Sherlock," John grumbled, sleep still thickening and slowing his speech. Pulling on a large parka, a scarf and floppy eared deerstalker, the smaller man tracked down the stairs after his house-mate, spluttering louder as he breached the doorframe into the air "Christ, it's freezing!"

"Twenty-four point eight degrees Farenheit, minus four degrees Celsius actually."

Sherlock waved off the non-response (annoying: he had not just checked the Met on his me-phone, it had taken him many years to be able to detect ambient temperatures and humidity by mere study of the reactions from his extremities) before raising his hand higher to hail a taxi. When none came, he observed John smirking.

"There's three inches of snow on the roads and it's just past 09.40am in the morning. Even I have my limits, John."

"I‘d never've guessed." John's eyes were amused as he stood straighter at Sherlock's side and thumped his hands together for warmth "And exactly where are we headed, again?" The text was flashed towards his direction in answer. "Okay," Determination built in his tone "Right! Only one line on the tube."

The good doctor had made sure to plant his hand on his housemate's lower back as he spoke, knowing he had the unenviable task of pushing a resistant Sherlock towards the underground station.

Fifteen minutes later, and still with hand firm, he guided a scowling Sherlock out at Elephant and Castle. "It was the quickest way." John chuckled as he watched the rapidly diminishing shape of Sherlock walking brisk through Lambeth streets.

They arrived - or rather Sherlock billowed impressively through and John attempted to keep pace without falling flat on his arse - at Gladstone Road several minutes later, with its row of nicely appointed Grade II listed properties framed by streetlights and ice crystals sparkling across lines of police tape.

"Great, just who we need to bring some festive cheer." Donovan drawled as they stepped up side by side, checking her radio with a friendly nod to John and a customary glare at Sherlock. "Guv, Scrooge is here. Yeah. Yeah, I‘ll send them up." She impatiently waved both figures under the cordon, watching as they went indoors before adding under her breath. "…And this year he's even brought along Tiny Tim."

John took the stairs one step at a time; he was definitely waking up now which meant his leg was waking up too. Psychosomatic it may be, but it still hurt like a bastard in the cold. Sherlock bounded up in front of him. The world's only Consulting Detective looking positively cheerful for the first time in a while, and not at all Scrooge-like in John's honest opinion. His mind cast back to when they had met at Baker Street. What was it, again?

Yes! Brilliant! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note…

John shook his head, once more revisiting his doubts that this year would be anything like the Christmases he was looking forward to whilst in service to Queen & Country - giving presents, receiving presents; a nice roast dinner, drinks, queen's speech; crackers, company, and crappy telly. That sort of thing would have done nicely.

With a deep sigh, he finally got to the top of the stairs to see the body:

Male, late forties / early fifties, over six foot, emaciated, light haired and well dressed. At least that was what John could make out at the angle and distance.

He cleared his throat, about to make his way to Sherlock's side to assist in his usual fashion, when there was a sharp "I've seen enough." and his tall colleague was already pushing past him down the stairs, expression once again stony. John caught Lestrade's gaze, whose mouth was ajar in a mixture of surprise and frustration.

"Now hang on a minute, you've only just got here!" The silver-haired man snapped himself into action and shouted after the disappearing figure "You barely looked at the body, just pulled up a bloody sleeve! Sherlock? Oi, Sherlock!" Turning to face John, the doctor merely shrugged, fighting hard to keep his reaction neutral.

"Look. We need to know what he knows, John. Otherwise what chance have we got understanding all this? There's no identification, nothing on the bodies and I'm not expecting the lab-work to tell us any more than last time. He can't just keep bloody haring off without telling us anything. You see what it says on the wall,"

The DI cocked his head to the writing behind the body which clearly stated ‘Happy Christmas!' in the same writing as the ‘For Sherlock X' message that had been scribed on the previous occasion.

"This was the second one for him, and he's giving us nothing."

John nodded. He understood where Lestrade was coming from. It was not just the crime scenes that were spotless; the post-mortem and toxicology screens told them nothing of real interest either. The first victim had suffered a myocardial infarction and there were traces of cocaine in her blood, but they were stuck playing a waiting game until Molly could determine whether this man would have similar.

"Sure, I'll be in touch if I find out anything, but…" He looked at Sherlock shoving past Donovan's block with a bit more force than entirely necessary and closed his eyes briefly "I wouldn't count on it." Scrubbing a hand over his face John opened his eyes again and aimed for a light tone.

"So, you got any plans? Er… for Christmas, that is, not the case."

He had aimed for informal and pally, but, to his embarrassment, it only went and came out vaguely desperate.

***************

I had needed no more than thirty seconds to deduce what I could about the second body.

It was a figure familiar to me, though not much more so than the first victim: a thirty-eight year old woman with the surname Adler.

Both deaths were related to Moriarty, so much was clear.

Although the reasoning sitting behind the bodies was not as clear. Even a Consulting Criminal needed a good reason to dispose of two of his own. I had plenty of data stored in the hard drive, but it was not enough to deduce motivation.

The only other obvious fact was that they were a message - an incredibly personal missive.

John arrived back at Baker Street sometime after I (thus proving the tube is not always the quickest way to traverse London); the picture I had in hand was sequestered within a panel of the mantel before he had trudged the seventeenth stair. Though his very nature exuded a professional, military resignation wrapped up in empathy, I could detect a cool anger nestled amidst the expression.

I cast aside my coat, reaching for my bow and my violin, features schooled blank despite rising ire. I had no inclination to deal with his concern or his frustrations, nor the need to feel myself exposed in this instance.

"If you are going to fuss, do it elsewhere."

John shifted behind from one foot to the other then rested back to the cane. I could see him jutting his chin and pursing his lips without even the need to turn. "All right, Sherlock…" the words were battle ready and his voice pitched up at the end, expectant of a response.

"…Right. That's just- Fine." He pinched out when he had received none, prior to banging into the kitchen to make some tea.

***************

John shoved his cane into the corner of the kitchen only for it to overbalance and topple to the floor with a loud clatter. Damn that thing! The cups (plural, because he only seemed bollocking capable of two cup preparations nowadays) followed with a brittle annoyance upon the surface.

He considered himself a patient man, particularly where Sherlock was concerned, but he was feeling about as shut out as Lestrade and the other employees of the Yard.

Yes, he had been warned from the start that his then-potential-flat-mate sometimes would not talk for days, so he knew he could not really be mad with the guy for something he had already been given a heads-up about; it just seemed so chafing when it happened, particularly considering the contrast to Sherlock's usual tendency to spout off when excited.

And also, if he was entirely truthful, these mood swings of his genius - friend, colleague, whatever he was - were starting to concern him. Apparently, ‘The Game' had returned, and John was left wondering just where he fit into the rules.

He had believed his relationship with Sherlock changed since the pool incident. They had nearly died together; amidst those cold tiles, the smell of chlorine and Semtex. That must have meant something, right?

John had been prepared to sacrifice himself for that infuriating, brilliant man.

Not to mention he had already killed for him. (And, given the same time over, would do so again and again.)

Sherlock seemed grateful at first, in his own way, apparently content to allow John into his life further, to crack open that big mind up a fraction and let him in.

Even physically, though that thought still took the ex-Soldier by surprise. Truth was, they had shared a bed once or twice, out of convenience mostly (John‘s nightmares had returned and Sherlock found it all terribly fascinating upon occasion).

Though, if he admitted to himself, it felt good (more than good actually), even despite it being nothing more than lying next to each other and the occasional touch to reassure they were both still alive.

As far as John was concerned they were comrades in arms, or something like…

Brothers in bond.

Or so he had thought.

***************

John returned from the kitchen, two cups of tea and eleven minutes later. His expressions and pale knuckled grip on the cup handles told me all that I needed to know.

He had been taking the time to calm himself; breathing still being drawn in through his nose and out of his mouth. The flicker of tongue against his lips and he was considering the problem that is ‘Sherlock Holmes'. The distance remaining between us and it was unlikely he had come to any satisfactory conclusion.

He had also been considering his increased desire for physical interaction, if the high colour across his cheeks and stiff stance were anything to go by. And of course they were. I had studied him closely since he came into my life.

"So this is how it's going to be, Sherlock? Moriarty comes back on the scene and you block out everybody else? You know, Lestrade deserves more than this."

John was restrained and straight backed and spoke with precise handling of his words: It was not Lestrade that deserved more. I understand that now.

But, at the time, it was the last thing I allocated space of thought to.

I had a case, so that took precedence.

***************

"Sit down, I'm only going to say this once."

"I'd really rather stand, thanks." John bristled at Sherlock's tone, yet remained calm; the part used to following orders warring against his reticent pride and ongoing concerned annoyance.

"The first victim was an Elene Adler." Sherlock swept the violin downwards so it dangled from one hand. His other hand twitched into a fist momentarily around the bow's length. The motion was noted before it was released and John wondered what it could mean.

There was a considered pause before Sherlock slipped out a photograph from somewhere in the fireplace and threw it over, with an almost careless flourish.

"What-" John cut off mid catch and blinked, fixing his eyes on a figure of a woman. She was all short dark hair, pale skin and slender curves; slightly boyish but dressed in sophisticated black and cream lingerie that clung to her frame in all the right places. He let out a low whistle. She was a looker, that was certain.

But not only that… she looked familiar somehow, "Hang on, is that the victim?" The body had not retained the same feminine shape, being as skinny as it was, but there were definite similarities in the face.

"Sister. Two years younger. That Woman," Sherlock's tone took on a curious slant as he gestured to the photograph and positioned his violin once more under his chin "is Irene Adler."

Again John wondered at Sherlock's reaction, hazarding a guess at something like a mixture of bitterness and grudging respect. He wanted to know more, but it seemed that was all Sherlock was going to say about that.

"Elene was estranged from her sister many years ago and worked as an escort. I've suspected previously she had links to Moriarty networks. Probable human trafficking from East Asia." Sherlock sniffed and a few chromatic notes were plucked, pizzicato, into the air.

"How the hell do you know that?" John sputtered out in surprise, still a bit taken aback that his ‘married to my work' flat mate had in his possession a raunchy photograph of a beautiful woman. "And why, on earth, do you have a picture of the victim's sister in her underwear? Bloody hell, they look- sorry, looked similar."

John waited for Sherlock, but the only answer he received was a roll of the eyes to the first question then a flicker of a wrist to the second. Then, quite suddenly, a build of low notes strung out began to resonate throughout the entire apartment. He could barely catch Sherlock speaking in response, as the low baritone matched pitch and vibration to a whisper almost perfectly "Hmm. Quite so."

There was something in the music that made John's breath catch in his throat, and he could feel the remnants of the notes resounding in his chest long after Sherlock had finished. Stopping to check himself and clear his throat, he continued, voice softer than anticipated and barely registering in the residuum "So… mm, what about today?"

And Sherlock‘s voice cut through the air, back to as clear and impersonal as ever. "Jack Prendergast. Navy man, charged for carousel fraud and contra-trading at the age of twenty-nine. He built up effective shipping contacts around the globe during his service days. The goods rarely left port and yet he had managed to make upwards of £3 million at each location."

"Let me guess… he got off, made a new name for himself?"

"Don't be so idiotic, John."

John scowled. It figured he would be a recipient of an insult the only time Sherlock actually deigned to register his presence more than he would the skull. "Al'right then, do enlighten me."

Sherlock drew breath before replying "He escaped. Made himself ill and broke out of the hospital with a fake chaplain's assistance."

He barely registered the 'unbelievable' face John pulled at those words before continuing.

"Years later I was… following another matter," Dark curls shook lightly as that train of words was dismissed "which happened to overlap with Prendergast. I tracked him down to Indonesia where it seemed apparent he had been the victim of maritime piracy." John's scowl mirrored itself onto Sherlock's features "Obviously, that was not the case."

"What, because he's turned up dead with a message for you?" John narrowed his gaze slightly in concentration. He had never heard Sherlock pause like that before.

"No. I was beginning to suspect as much whilst following Moriarty's movements. A name kept on appearing."

"His name?"

"No." Sherlock was starting to sound frustrated. "James Armitage, his ex-lover. A convenient pseudonym as James Armitage is… deceased."

There was that pause again.

"So both Adler and Prendergast worked for Moriarty and were both known to you in some capacity from a while back?"

"Yes!"

John hooked his cane on the back of the chair as his face creased up in concentration.

"Right, so it's personal, it's Moriarty. I get that but-" He wanted to ask about Irene, why Elene was chosen as the messenger when it seemed that her sister was the one who held more memories for Sherlock, but the words did not come out right "I just don't get why he'd kill her…"

There was a pause as Sherlock's lips formed into a familiar and perfect ‘Oh' .

***************

There are times when John assists in my work.

More helpful than the ‘Skull' to talk to; he is possessive of a certain modicum of intelligence and flexible acuity I occasionally find an aide to my own superior processes.

Sometimes a simple, straightforward mind clears through the detritus.

Of course, it was obvious: Moriarty did not kill Adler OR Prendergast. Their bodies were merely an opportunistic arrangement designed to provoke a specific reaction from me, and Elene had been a case of mistaken identity.

I crossed the room, feeling an urge to brace my hands on either side of that simple, straightforward mind and press my lips to John's forehead.

But there were new features to consider that demanded my attention, so I opened up his laptop, intent to piece together the last known actions of these two hapless ‘victims'.

What I found were two messages:

Received 10:34 December 24th, 2010

Mr Holmes. You've got mail!

Been wondering what's wrong with life? Before you despair, can't you just wait a moment - to reflect, to see - how He will wisely guide you!

God will drive you, Allow Him in, and to your heart his love flows. Death means not the end. The same love fixes mistakes and cherishes always.

It was the same brand of nonsense that had been received by James Armitage, twelve years ago, prior to his committing suicide. Not a cipher as such, just a message plucked from every other third word. It read:

You've been wrong before.

Can't wait to see.

Will you drive him to his death?

The same mistakes always.

I checked the next message.

Received 10:50 December 24th, 2010

Ohayo Sherlock,

I've been doing a little reminiscing with a friend, and do you know what I got to thinking of?

The Great Consulting Detective out played so many times before!

But, you've certainly come a long way since then - haven‘t you?

Mm, perhaps not. The pet IS looking a bit neglected.

Remember a dog is for life…

However long that may be.

Love ‘n' kisses
-M

***************

Sherlock went suddenly pale, even paler than usual, and John immediately dropped his mug on the table to make his way across the room. He had not forgotten that he was supposed to be angry but the usual flair in explanation had gone some way to easing that, even though he could sense Sherlock was telling him far less than the bigger picture.

It was something for Lestrade to work with at least.

The look on Sherlock's features however momentarily made John forget altogether; his friend's face twisted and pinched at every corner, and those exotically shaped eyes glazed over so much that they reminded John of stormy skies.

The laptop was snapped shut as John stopped in front of Sherlock and took hold of the other man's arms instinctively to stop him from bolting. He had seen panic in men's eyes within war-zones before, yet still - somehow - this seemed far worse.

This was not panic.

John wasn't even sure what this was.

"Shit. Sherlock?! Hey, Sherlock, snap out of it! What's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost…"

John's voice faded into grey noise, as Sherlock folded to the floor.

***************

Up until John there has only been one other who ever attempted to understand my conflictions: Mycroft, for all his impassivity, held me for the very last time eleven years ago, voice insinuating through a fug of overdose:

You are not a machine without a heart, and you are not a mind without a body. It is a simple matter of cause and effect, brother mine, and I will not sit idly by any longer.

And yet, perhaps another could be added to that list.

Moriarty has been watching me for a very long time. Even as far back as Carl Powers, when he could barely have been but ten years old himself.

The Consulting Criminal certainly was someone worthy of my interest before, but I suspected he had really outdone himself this time…

***************

John watched as Sherlock slid downwards, still managing to look graceful as he did so; though such thought passed fleetingly to be superseded by Doctor's instincts. He resumed a grip, and grimaced from the pain in his leg as he joined the taller man upon the floor.

Two fingers found the pulse point at Sherlock's wrist, noting it was a little faster than was usual, before lifting at the sharp angle of Sherlock's chin to see pupils dilated and an uncharacteristic unfocused stare.

"Sherlock?"

John was gentle and firm as he guided Sherlock into recovery position, fingers brushing soft hair from his friend's forehead in a slow and calming fashion.

As soon as he was able, John swore to find out exactly what was on the laptop that made Sherlock react this distinctively. For now however he found he could not move from the other man's side; smoothing out hair and listening to Sherlock talking under his breath.

He made out "This wounds my pride, Watson- Victor he-"

***************

To skip further back and to another beginning: twelve years previous, and my second go-through at University:

Victor Trevor entered my life through accidental injury; target practice with a Tavor (TV-21) that bit into my ankle viciously and laid me up for just over two weeks.

I was extremely bored.

He was extremely lonely.

It was a perfect match for the time.

Plain, russet haired Victor: Police Surgeon in the making. We were nothing alike but held some common ground, most notably interest in criminal psychology, pathology and forensic sciences. A sense of obligation had him visiting initially; soon he was staying for longer periods, until it was not uncommon for me to wake from sleep induced by painkillers to have him lying besides me.

I told him that I considered myself, if not married to my work - for that was yet to be established - then less interested in the physical over the mental. Victor acquiesced all too easily, as was his general manner, but proceeded to invite me to stay with him and his father over the Holidays.

Mummy was overjoyed. (And I was still bored).

He was the closest thing I had to a friend.

It was a novel concept.

When I arrived I found that Victor's father was far more magnetic in his manner than I had anticipated; shorter in stature than his son, with piercing eyes, a moustache and a bluntly effective intellect. Well known for his magnanimity in the courts it was clear Victor wished to impress strongly upon his father, as most Cambridge students did.

And whilst I had begun to enjoy myself with the freedoms I felt in Victor's company, it was so very tedious to be paraded as a tool in this patronisation.

The older man's responses made me reconsider.

He recognised clear cause and effect, was able to follow deductions from my observations and marvelled at my talents. He suggested that I had a career ahead of me and gave me words of encouragement, with a considered response, no matter the content of our conversations.

In retrospect, it was obvious he wanted to be uncovered entirely.

And, one evening, in front of a roaring antique Victorian fireplace, he gave me ample opportunity to do just that.

Amongst other clues I located a scar from a laser removal operation in the crook of his elbow (JA), and another at the line of his hip (JP). I told him of my observation and deduction of the facts.

He paled first, but then, and with guilty laughter, pulled me roughly to him.

He was my first real case, but it was Victor that gave me my first Game.

***************

John's fingertips slowed their movements to stopping, twined amidst hair, then rested upon Sherlock's scalp. He let out a breath he had not realised he was holding and stroked down one clammy cheek with his other hand, before cupping Sherlock's jaw.

The Doctor knew the ins and outs of physiological reactions to stress. But, as with everything to do with Sherlock, this was something altogether different and unique.

Leaning closer, John exhaled against a hollow of pale skin "You glorious- frustrating- beautiful bloody idiot. C'mon, Sherlock, I said snap out of it!" The only response was another jumble of his name, Moriarty's name and other words John could not quite clearly make out.

"Sherlock, I'm right here. Not… moving anywhere, in fact." He smiled then for comfort and joked "Well, not until you're back and conscious enough to have your arse kicked proper."

John suddenly felt foolish for smiling so grimaced instead. The man in his arms was completely out of it, likely from sheer exhaustion. Sherlock had not let up for barely a moment since Moriarty had escaped.

"Look, just… make sure to come back to me, okay?"

***************

It is not common, but I had been exposed to possibilities I had entirely not anticipated.

As such, I could not make out my usual logical steps.

I was locked in confusion - nightmarish, due to it's long past familiarity. My memories were coming back to haunt me, and feelings I had suppressed were once again re-emerging.

Through the confusion I felt lips against mine and I thought again of Victor Trevor.

***************

John had the wind knocked out of him before he realised what had happened: Sherlock was pinning him to the ground.

Moments passed where one blinked furiously whilst the other did not move, not even to flicker just one muscle.

Eventually, something snapped.

An icy feeling wracked through John as Sherlock leaped to his feet with something alike a low, repressed snarl. In one quick motion the laptop and skull were plucked from their resting places before Sherlock turned, disappearing out of the room without even a glance back. An almighty slam followed moments later.

John breathed again, and every breath felt painful.

It was a long time he lay in the silence before he pushed himself slowly from the floor. With a characteristic grim determination he hobbled to his own room. His solitary suitcase was hoisted onto the bed and filled; precisely packed with all his inoffensive, plain and reliable clothes.

***************

Victor had confronted me immediately upon leaving the lounge, using his full body weight to block me against the wall as he smashed his mouth against mine. I unhooked my arms easily from under him, as he had not employed his stance effectively, and pushed him off by his shoulders.

I observed then that his face was ruddier than usual and there was moisture in the corners of his eyes. It was obvious that he had witnessed my exchange with his father.

"You've been crying and your skin tone denotes continued emotional reaction."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Victor trembled, unaccustomed to raising his voice. "What the fuck was all that? You- told me you weren't interested in- in-" he hiccupped, seemingly stuck.

"In the physical over the mental," I helpfully finished his sentence. "Have you lost the ability of recall?"

I had little time to register the movement before Victor's fist connected with my jaw, blood spilling warmly into my mouth. He blanched like he had been the one to receive the hit instead, immediately backing further away stammering "God- God- I didn't- Fuck! Fuck-" until he swivelled on his heels to wretch into a plant pot.

"Victor," The swelling had begun to affect my speech and my words came out sounding uncharacteristically wounded "I told you the truth." He glared at me then and I realised that he was entirely too unintelligible to understand.

"Your father is an interesting man. He was allowing me to hone my skills using himself as a template." I was positive that was concise enough for an understanding.

"I'm going to become the World's Only Consulting Detective." I added, in case I was not being fully clear (and, admittedly, feeling a sense of pride in the revelation; it was a seminal moment for me, after all).

Now, I have witnessed hysteria several times over the course of my lifetime, and can effectively mimic it where necessary. However Victor's reaction caught me by somewhat by surprise, as he violently collapsed against the wall in a fit of noise that was not clearly either laughter or sobbing.

I stood there, unable to judge the correct reaction for the occasion. Eventually I crossed over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

He told me to piss off and get out.

His father contacted me six months later in despair. Victor had become a changed man, he said, and because of this he found himself unable to readily provide Victor with the information I had uncovered. James assured he did plan to explain all to his son. However, before the opportunity arose to do so, a former colleague called Hudson arrived at their home.

Victor was registered as a missing person two days later.

James asked me to use my skills to find his son and thereby provide him with the opportunity to explain his past to his only living family.

I followed a trail all the way back to Prendergast, who, being exceedingly rich, lavished Victor with as much attention as he no doubt did his father. The transactions were easy enough to obtain. However, I could not determine a location.

Then, as James' last confidence in my abilities began to falter, he received a ransom notice, tied up in a simple message encoded in every third word.

I finally honed in and flew to Indonesia but all I found were the charred remains of three bodies, one of which had been decapitated prior to immolation.

It was surprisingly easy to smuggle the skull which belonged to Victor Trevor, according to all available documentation, back to London. James Armitage hung himself days later.

I returned to drugs. They helped me to contend with the feelings threatening to overwhelm me, that were threatening to hold me back.

I had to up my game, or risk abject failure before even properly starting.

***************

Even though no words had been spoken, John had seen a lot from Sherlock's eyes - far too much, in fact - and his own nerves were too raw to stay and suffer any more within that lightening bolt of vehemence and feeling.

At least, not for the night.

Though, honestly, John was not entirely clear when he could deal with this, full stop.

Despite all he had experienced in life it had been a long time since he had felt anything like this sort of sensation; pain fusing anger and god knows what else into a tight knot at the bottom of his abdomen. It caused him to scrunch his eyes tight before clearing his throat.

It sounded too loud, too clumsy and his eyeballs stung like they were covered in the sands of the desert once again. He pulled the suitcase from the end of the bed and walked slowly downstairs.

Halfway down, he stopped, dropped his head and shoulders, turned and walked back up, only to pause outside Sherlock's door. "Sherlock."

There was no answer.

John had guessed that would be the case but, as the other man had just collapsed on him, he felt an obligation to push open the door to make sure everything was okay. Physically anyhow.

Sherlock was perched at the far edge of the bed, intently scrutinising the pale dome of the skull. His hair was a mess, stuck up in angles from where John had just laid his fingers. This, of course, made what John needed to do a whole lot worse.

But then he noticed traces of white powder next to a flat razor upon the sideboard and his vision swarmed red. The remaining rational part of John's brain told him to turn and go, for fear of what he might do or say next.

And so, he did precisely just that.

***************

I had been clean for four years.

I have known since childhood that my intellectual capacities are at a higher level than others, Mycroft notwithstanding. Additionally, usually under certain conditions, I am also of the opinion that my emotions are developed more keenly than most. Although, naturally, that supposition is more difficult to define as truth for I never defer to feeling before reason by choice.

However, as I was swift finding myself returning to the conflicted balance of my past, greatly exacerbated by what had just occurred, I made the decision to alter my mood synthetically.

That way it could be predicted and controlled then channelled with greater ease.

This would allow me time to ascertain if what I had deduced was correct. It was regrettable I had to hurt John in the process, but I could not have him by my side at that particular moment.

I had been sent another message and would be off to Hyde Park at midnight.

***************

John attempted to pull out his phone as he made his way outside but the cold caused his hand to drop it in the snow.

"Fuck. Bollocks. Crap."

It was now 10.30pm on Christmas Eve and John was stood, freezing cold on the streets, wanting to shout, to scream until his lungs burned, because he had just realised: he is more than likely in love with the world's biggest frustrating, self-destructive, self-important brilliant bastard; he can't even hold a phone because of a tremor that also ‘handily' (har har) functions as a Thanatosometer; not to mention that his life overall reminds him of a big old television drama that often makes him want to tear his own bleeding head off!

John picked up the phone.

Then, carefully, he shook of the snow and hit a random contact, convincing himself he had not got the capacity to really give a flying toss anymore.

"Hi John. Sherlock talking yet?"

Well, perhaps that had been a bad idea.

"Er, kinda yeah, but- ugh, it's complicated. Listen, can I come over?"

"Now's not really the best time…"

"Oh, yeah, guess you're right, it is Christmas Eve… look, just ignore that."

There was a pause where John could hear something tapping hard upon a surface and then a muffled conversation being conducted away from the speaker.

"No, it's al'right. It's me you should be ignoring, come on over for a drink, though I've got to abstain. Hate working Christmas."

"I used to think I'd never mind it, actually."

"Oh? Change of heart?"

John sighed and looked up; it was starting to snow and that reminded him of alleys and Sherlock and slips of starry sky the man used to know nothing about. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Hm. Well, I'll text you the address."

"Thanks, Lestrade. I owe you."

"Just don't judge is all I ask. I've had no time to clean up and I've got company."

Company turned out to be Mycroft Holmes and his assistant. John made all kinds of assumptions, some verbally in surprise (and a smidgeon of anger) though the large majority were kept non-verbal. Which was probably for the best.

Lestrade looked extremely put out whilst Mycroft explained, all the while with his ‘nice face' on and 'Anthea' tapped away at her Blackberry. It was not until a couple of moments later John realised she was wearing a black silk nightie. He raised an eyebrow at Lestrade just as Mycroft finished with "If you had rung the number I provided you with, I would have sent for a car."

John shook his head, feeling a little woozy about everything. "Erm… I think I should… go to a hotel. Sorry to be such a bother, and thanks for the offer Lestrade, but it's not right. I mean it's fine, everything's fine, but really… I should go."

"I was just leaving myself." Mycroft loomed into John's periphery.

"N- Thanks, but- No." His lips shaped around the last word for polite emphasis "I‘m really fine getting myself around."

"Nonsense. It's snowing, you've obviously left Baker Street in some manner of confusion as you have a suitcase but no winter coat and I have a car at my disposal. Please, do reconsider, Doctor."

John glanced at Lestrade who merely looked sympathetically back at him "I guess I don't have a choice."

Mycroft smiled that smile which always reminded John disturbingly of a hybrid between shark and ferret before he added to Lestrade "I'll let you know what Sherlock said about the bodies some other time then, yeah?"

"We'll do this some other time, definitely. But a proper drink, don't worry about the case for now, just take care of yourself..."

"Come along now, Doctor. I don't have all night."

"Merry Christmas, Lestrade."

"And a Happy New Year, right, John."

John settled his leg straight out when he sat back into the leather of Mycroft's car and groaned audibly "I already told you at the start, I'm not going to inform on Sherlock."

"Yes, you were quite clear. I'm just… a little concerned." Mycroft waved a hand in a silencing gesture in a manner so similar to Sherlock yet so very different it made John's head hurt. "My brother can get rather wilful around this time of year."

John kept silent, and stared at his hands in his lap. Both steady. Damn it.

"Do you know he has a meeting scheduled in for 12am, Hyde Park?"

John snapped his head upwards to meet Mycroft who was looking at him, apparently calm and nonchalant, though John knew different. He was being assessed for every flicker and there was no way he could keep the answers from his features. Not feeling like this.

He could only think of one person Sherlock would willingly run to in the middle of the night, hopped up on coke, after crashing in spectacular style (not to mention everything else). The thought crushed the air out of his lungs.

This obsession with Moriarty was killing him, it was destroying John and Sherlock was so bloody blind. But none of that mattered now, could ever really matter. John's decision locked in his eyes. "Get me there."

"I would have got you there sooner if you had not dawdled. London is on alert because of severe weather conditions," Mycroft pursed his lips.

"Look I don‘t care!"

"Well I do. Constantly. Tell me, John, would the level at which you care be any different if I were to tell you - it is not Moriarty that my brother is meeting."

***************

Victor Trevor was waiting for me, upon the Serpentine.

He had lost just over four stone, his former complexion had been replaced by a fake tan and his hair had been cut back. His clothes were expensive, as I had anticipated.

I approached him slowly, feeling the lack of traction underfoot. He looked over me and his breath fogged heavily in a deep exhale. "Glad I got your attention at last."

"Victor, you're looking unwell."

"Always the charming fellow, aren't you Sherlock? Though… I must say I don‘t actually mind if you are angry at me, it‘s good to know you feel something at least. Or that you feel something for me, and me alone."

Victor's turn of phrase had changed significantly since we last spoke. He had retained his accent, though I could detect inflections - phonetic and grammatical shifts - carried over from recent positioning in North-Eastern Europe.

I replied simply, "I'm not angry."

Victor evidently was. His father had been correct; he was a changed man.

Then again, he had always been suggestible. His voice constantly shifted and it reminded me of another. "Of course you are! Just like before. I so adored watching you almost self-destruct. It was a thing of beauty, Sherlock."

As I thought, he had followed me back to London at least for a short time after I had returned. This reinforced my initial deductions made regarding the targeting of Irene. She had become my next case after Victor; the situation tainted with an element of personal interest that seemingly motivated the other man.

I considered telling him he had been wrong in the identity of the first victim. However, I remained silent and let Victor speak, as he seemed intent on exposing as much as permitted. This of course would only be to my benefit.

"…And all because you never believed that sweet, stupid Victor could outsmart you. You even killed my father with your incompetence! How does it feel, Sherlock? To know you got it all wrong?"

"You didn't kill them, did you?" I kept him talking.

"No, no, of course I didn't. You already know they died of natural causes. I just wrapped them up all prettily for you. I ah, wanted to see you again, I got told by a little birdie that you had got better, gotten more… comfortable. Where is he?"

His voice softened to a pitch similar to what Victor had held in the past. "Where‘s who?" I encouraged further.

"Doctor John H. Watson. Oh, oh Sherlock! Don‘t tell me, you‘ve actually managed to drive him away? You have, haven't you? Hah! Jesus Christ! That's going to piss him off."

Moriarty.

I scrubbed a hand through my hair, pulling it tight and relishing the way it prickled at my scalp. My physical sensations were pleasantly heightened from the drug but it was not providing its usual sharpness in thought.

Could it be possible I had made another mistake?

"You never quite got it, did you?"

"You have to be clearer than that, Victor. What was it I was supposed to ‘get'?" I droned, urging this towards conclusion.

"What it means, Sherlock, to want you. God! I remember it now… I was- so very terribly confused back then."

I felt a brief pull of muscle contraction around the edge of my right eye. Victor continued, completely oblivious.

"And whilst you may have been the Freak you couldn't of-"

"Have. Couldn't have."

"-have really understood what it was like to be someone like me - never being noticed no matter how much you sucked up or played nice to men like Sebastian or struggling with all these expectations and desires only to have them always be denied. Then, of course! I just had to fall for a man who'd prefer to fuck my father for sport than touch me, who careens off each time there's a whiff of suspense. Bloody hell, Sherlock…"

Victor dropped his head into his hands, took four deep breaths and raised his face to scrutinise me closely for the second time that night.

His facial features softened first; then contorted.

"…Well it's a shame about John, really, I was very much looking forward to meeting him, being as I can empathise with the old chap. Plus, I suppose, you know, rivals for your affections and all that. I had planned to kill him." A manic smile formed on his lips "But then again… You let him go just to come after me!"

That's when I knew I had him.

"Don't flatter yourself, Victor. Where's Moriarty?"

Victor reacted as if I had kicked him and he blanched once again. It was exactly the effect I was expecting. I slipped into closer proximity.

"I admit I was fooled. I still have what I thought to be your skull at home. You know, I even used to talk to it before John arrived." He shuddered as I stroked a hand down a gaunt cheek.

"But, you aren't at this level, my dear Victor. Even all those years ago, it was Moriarty that pulled your strings.

It‘s only him I‘m interested in."

The words felt strange in my mouth and it was then I realised something of great significance. The confliction between thought and feeling unravelled, loosening the bondage such a war had imposed upon me. It brought with it such a rush of clarity I could not now ever conceive of obtaining from any other substance.

God, John. How could I have been so blind?

Victor was crying or laughing softly. I felt the need to apologise, to vocalise that I was sorry, for truly I was, but as I opened my mouth he cut me off with a strangled sound.

"Don't- Just don't. Don't make this mistake again…" The volume of his voice rose urgently. "Sherlock, he wants to ruin you, can't you see that? I'm sorry- I just thought… No! I don't know what I thought..."

Victor's words were tumbling from his lips.

He did not even notice the red dot flickering across the ice.

"I'll tell you what I know, right? It's not much but- Would you like that, Sherlock? You would, I know you, and I just… well, I just want to make you hap-"

"Victor!"

The shot rang out and Victor stilled completely, before folding heavily to the surface. Blood leaked from his temple, slithering quickly along the imperfections of the ice. I looked around, checking the trees first.

I could not locate the sniper before more shots arrived and heralded in a deafening creak. I moved too late, scrabbling uncoordinated towards the bank. The ice shattered and I fell.

The water roared in my ears, and I thought of John Watson.

I was contained under the frozen water for an imprecise amount of time before being dragged clear. Pain was registering under numbness and my thoughts were slowed to an excruciating level. I could hear myself groan, feel the reverberations, before a pressure at my shoulder focussed my thoughts.

An oscillating pitch filtered and settled its way into me. "Ah, ah, don't get up on my behalf, Sherlock." The pressure turned into pain. It was not the voice I was expecting.

I struggled but could not speak, nor could I move; hypothermia was setting in and it was not John but Moriarty that was there, cold as ice that burned.

"Tsk. Don't fret so, it doesn‘t become you. I haven't been able to kill Johnny boy, yet. Waaas sorta hoping your floating friend over there might help with that. Oh well, c'est la vie.

Just thought I'd drop by, say hi... have a little chat. Let's see…Oh yes! Because you can't stop- constantly- sticking- your- nose- into my- business, I'm afraid things have to get serious now."

Words were punctuated by a shock of pain repeating in my shoulder. It was highly probable he was stamping on me into the snow.

"I'm going to give myself just a teensy-tiny head start. I'll go visit a few folks, knock back a few, maaybe a cracker or two will be pulled. But I will be waiting for you. And I just know you'll come running to me again."

There was a giggle "I'm touched, really I am," before I heard a faint moan, realising belatedly that the latter had escaped from my own lungs.

"Gorgeous noises there, love - well, I do have that effect on people…" He crooned, close, far too close "You and I, Sherlock, we make a great pair. It's just a crying shame that all great things must come to an end..."

I lost consciousness.

***************

John heard the shots as they approached the closed park gates. He jumped out of the back of the moving vehicle, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. As he got to the metal work he hauled himself over the fence and dropped to his feet on the other side.

Mycroft shook his head, sat back and studied a perfectly manicured fingernail. His driver got out, shut the door and returned to the driving seat before continuing further around. The gate opened as the vehicle arrived.

John carried on running, scouring the perimeter first. Then, on finding nothing, moved inwards. He was torn between needing to shout out for Sherlock and the stupidity of calling attention to himself when there was a sniper around.

Sod it. If it could possibly help him find Sherlock faster…

"Sherlock?! Sherlock!" He skidded on the snow, righted himself and carried on running. Eventually he got to the edges of the Serpentine and saw the dark bump of a body lying amidst white.

"Sherlock!" When John slid to the side of the other man he was relieved to see he was alive and with no external entry or exit wounds, but it was clear that Sherlock was wet, freezing and certainly suffering from hypothermia.

Checking a very sluggish pulse John pulled Sherlock into his arms, wrapping as much of himself around as physically possible for body heat. "Unconscious again, this is… not good. Not good. Damn it, Sherlock."

John would swear he had never been so relieved to see Mycroft's black vehicle snaking towards him.

Mycroft actually took the effort to open the door for his younger brother and the driver helped John bundle Sherlock into the back. He started to undress Sherlock quickly, ripping the buttons off a crimson silk shirt that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. "Mycroft I need blankets, mats, foil, anything for cover. He needs dry insulation and heat, but not too much at once, so- Don't touch the thermostat!"

John was sure that Mycroft's face whilst he jabbed a finger at him and barked commands probably would have been funny under different circumstances, but the doctor was too busy concentrating on removing the remainder of Sherlock's clothes to notice. "Bloody brilliant. I get to see you naked when you're dying on me. Well you're not gonna die on me, Sherlock, right? I'm not going to let it happen."

Orange blankets appeared in his vision and John rolled Sherlock into one, tugging up the corners around the shoulders to lift then cover entirely. He checked rate of pulse again, pried open Sherlock's eyelids and shook his head.

"Better not jump me again for doing this…"

John moulded his lips against Sherlock's, flushed pink on cyanotic blue, and exhaled, spilling as much warmth as he could possibly give back into this impossible man.

He continued to breathe with Sherlock intermittently until the car arrived back at Baker Street and he had to let go. Last check and Sherlock's pulse was increasing in rate and strength.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson!" The older lady came out as John called her, fingers raised to her mouth in surprise as the driver bundled Sherlock past. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock has hypothermia; can you pour him a bath?"

"Oh! Dear. I'll get on it right away…" She tottered up the stairs at a pretty sprightly pace for an older woman, John thought. "Not too hot!" He added in a shout before finding himself smiling at the reply that wafted down the stairs "I know dear, my husband had the hypothermia once, you know."

John turned to Mycroft who was waiting on the doorstep. "Um, thanks." He nodded, suddenly feeling a touch embarrassed. "Ignore what I was nattering about. It helps people sometimes, talking rubbish to them. Sherlock‘s… well, he's going to be al'right."

Mycroft returned the nod, a barest hint of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He swung his umbrella once, twice as he returned to his car. "Tell Sherlock when he wakes up, Mummy is expecting us at 2pm."

***************

As I started regaining consciousness I noted the smell of car seat leather, the sound of John's voice wittering away some nonsense, and the rough scratch of blankets.

As I placed myself undeniably in the back of Mycroft's car I could still taste the dank of the Serpentine in my mouth.

Yet, as I was about to make an effort to open my eyes, the flavour of sour sediment was replaced by the taste of warmth and breath.

John tasted alive.

I decided I could forgo my final sense a little longer, and so continued to breathe.

I later found out that being bathed is also rather pleasurable, especially as each time I made a deliberate noise John wrapped himself closer, soaking clothes to warm skin underneath, and pressed words to my forehead with his mouth.

My head was still extremely groggy, and I was far from being my usual self, however, as John next checked my pupils, I knew the game was up. I permitted myself a lazy smirk and commented,

"I was wondering how long it would take you to realise, John."

John paused then bolted even more upright than his usual military bearing dictated.

"What? You… You utter bastard, Sherlock Holmes! How long have you been conscious for?! I was starting to get really worried!"

"I would estimate about sixteen minutes, give or take. I'm afraid my brain speed must be matching yours right now… Besides, I thought you would notice. You did say you were a good Doctor."

John groaned and his face, already weathered by every moment of his existence, further screwed up with emotion.

I had never witnessed such an attractive sight.

"Very good, in fact. Though I'm considering breaking my Hippocratic Oath right now…"

"Hm." I tried to think of something to say, anything that would make John react. I wanted to observe in detail his expressions to see if they matched what I anticipated. Instead I only managed a nasal sounding "I'm cold."

I blame the hypothermia entirely, though it was not entirely without merit: I was drawn quickly out of the bath and John too clambered out of his clothes with remarkable speed, for they were indeed sopping wet.

Another "I'm cold" was all it took to be bundled up, hair vigorously towelled and hurried along to John's bedroom.

I suppose I could get used to being fussed over, upon occasion.

The rest of the day has been spent in bed wherein this private account has been produced.

I shall leave it for you, John, to read at your leisure. I must see to Mycroft, who is about to knock on the door. I will return in an hour.

Oh, and I have been reliably informed that tea is generally considered to be a warming drink…

CUT: Epilogue

John had finished off his blog, which turned out only to be a few sentences long because frankly there was not much that he could actually make sense of, let alone publish.

All he knew was that the events of the past couple of weeks had been a bit of a rollercoaster and Sherlock, of course, had been the source of all the major loopy bits. But it had been a good ride… eventually.

And, whilst Sherlock was still very much Sherlock, he seemed more relaxed somehow. More receptive, or balanced, or something like that. Whatever it was, and for however long it lasted, John was feeling great about himself, his flat-mate and this crazy thing they had going on between them.

In fact, this was probably the best Christmas Day John had had, despite being tired and starving for a good roast dinner.

Sherlock left the bedroom, presumably to go to the toilet, but after ten minutes when he had not returned John started to fret. Panic settled when there was no response to his calls from the landing and he ran back to grab Sherlock's laptop from the bed.

There was no message he could see. No dire scheme being hatched or master-minding criminals poking him online. The phone in his pocket vibrated and he pulled it out:

Received: 18:27, December 25th 2010.

Don't panic - read doc. Am with Mycroft.

If not back: 20mins, assume insanity. Find at Mummy's.
-SH

John laughed with relief, flicked the open document to full screen and started to read.

Eighteen minutes later Sherlock, after having finally shaken off Mycroft, walked up the stairs stealthily, avoiding the fourteenth as it squeaked. He watched John reading, tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth before asking "No tea?"

"Oh! Jesus, Sherlock, you frightened the crap out of me!"

"I'm still cold."

"I'm not getting up to make you any. I've just got this spot warm. I‘ll make some later."

"Cold, John."

"Nhn, come here then, get underneath the quilt."

Sherlock climbed in next to John and skirted his fingers around his warm stomach. "Argh! They're like bleeding icicles… No, no, it's fine, leave them there… just gave me a shock is all."

"There is a more efficient way to produce the sufficient body heat required to meet my needs."

Sherlock grinned. John's expressions were always so varied and complex, but he was, at the same time, so simple and straightforward, strong and warm. It was all in balance, perfectly co-existent, much like John was to him.

After the surprise wore off, John grinned back at Sherlock. "You sure?"

"When have you known me not to be?" Sherlock held up his hand and added, haughtily "…Don't answer that. Yes, John, I'm sure."

Everything was taken into consideration; each thought filed alongside feeling and each sensation prolonged and processed until soon John's skin was warm and slightly sticky to Sherlock's touch. It reminded Sherlock of when he first held a vital organ in his hands. But this heart was alive and thrummed under his fingertips.

Sherlock reached up and hooked one hand around the dome of John's head, pulling him closer. Leaning upwards he spoke firmly but softly into the other man's ear "John, listen to me."

"Christ, please don't say you've changed your mind, for God‘s sake..." The strain was evident yet somehow John managed to force himself to completely still, but for a tremor at his arm where he was holding himself up and the inevitable twitch inside.

"Don't stop." Sherlock ran his free hand over John's back, sensing the tremor in the scarred shoulder and relishing it more than he ever could with rational thought alone. He pulled in closer again "John… I need you to understand I have to finish this with Moriarty."

John froze and Sherlock could actually sense his anger, his fear. He had never been close enough to someone to be able to experience their emotions through his own. It was a strange feeling.

Underneath the anger however that steady rhythm continued, so steady, so undeniably John, it had Sherlock grasping at it through muscle and sinew until he registered movement again.

"You have to trust me. I've briefed Mycroft. If you must-"

"Sherlock."

"I know how he expects this to end, but I won‘t let it. He thinks I am at a disadvantage because of you, John, but he‘s mistaken."

"Sherlock"

John ambushed Sherlock's lips with his own before he could continue. John mumbled ‘shut up' and let out a brief chuckle into the kiss as he felt the warm body beneath him contract.

Sherlock's grip tightened.

The pulse that was under his fingertips and that which roared in his ears drowned out any remainder of the night. That same rhythm grew stronger and louder, stronger and louder until he found himself teetering on the edge of a senseless precipice.

Sherlock fell into the abyss, and cried out but one name.

Then, with a triumphant smirk usually only seen at the conclusion of a case he then swiftly impressed himself tight against John again and purred out "I'm going to Switzerland tomorrow. Will you come?"

John pushed Sherlock back into the mattress in return and answered with absolutely no hesitation; gasping as if the very words were giving him air "Oh god, yes- Sherlock. Yes."

Sherlock found himself delighted that he had not predicted that particular expression at all. It was singularly for him and that one moment alone.

John flopped onto his back and caught his breath. Sherlock had his hand firmly clamped over his chest and would not let go, so there had to be a little negotiation to get cleaned up. But he managed it somehow and now he was feeling incredibly drowsy. Content and drowsy.

"John?"

"Mmhm?"

"Merry Christmas."

"Mm, you too."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"And a Happy New Year"

John chuckled out "You too, Sherlock."

"John?"

"What?"

"You did process what I said earlier? I understand that sometimes normal people get a little distracted when-"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Just bloody well go to sleep."

Sherlock smiled and his hand at John's heart squeezed a little tighter in answer.