John ran the string of lights through the branches of the Christmas tree in the living room of 221B, occasionally humming along with the music coming through the radio, Billie Holiday belting out "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm." It was a week before Christmas, and John was relishing in the spirit of the holiday, taking every opportunity to enjoy it. Sherlock had acted unaware, as always. Holidays meant nothing to him. John thought he should consider himself lucky that Sherlock even knew what month it was. He probably wouldn't even notice the decorations until Christmas Eve, when he would be forced into being at least remotely sociable at a small gathering of their closest friends.

Even as he was thinking it, he heard the door downstairs crash open. Sherlock never could make a quiet entrance. John heard his quick footsteps racing up the stairs. He bounded into the living room, whipping his scarf off and tossing it on the table. He only glanced at John before sitting down in front of his laptop. But then he stopped, turning his gaze again. He looked the tree up and down, and then cast a slow, if slightly disparaging, look around the flat.

"Christmas already?"

"I'm amazed you noticed." John resumed twining lights around the branches.

"Difficult not to, what with that excessively cheerful music and the overbearing smell of evergreen," he muttered.

"Don't forget everyone's coming over Christmas Eve. Try not to humiliate Molly this year."

"She does rather set herself up for it."

"Be nice, Sherlock."

"Nice is boring. I do hate these social summons. I see these people often enough. There's no reason to see even more of them." He turned back to his laptop.

John wrapped the last of the lights around the top of the tree. "You really are the paragon of holiday cheer. You have a case?"

"Yes, Lestrade sent me some crime scene photos. Triple homicide. Best kind of Christmas gift."

"Don't expect such a morbid gift from me." John could just see the slight twitch at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Your dedication to a modified pagan celebration is amazing, John."

"Try as you might, Sherlock, you are not going to crush my holiday spirit."

"I had no such intention."

"You don't have to have that intention. It comes naturally to you." John gave him a pointed look. It was difficult to forget the travesty that was their previous Christmas together. In the shadow of Irene Adler's first "death," and because of the cringe-worthy things that Sherlock had said to Molly, that Christmas had at least set the bar very low for this one. It wouldn't take much to be an improvement.

"What time is that party thing you and Mrs. Hudson insist on having?"

"I think we have it set for seven right now. Why?"

"I have to know the time frame in which I'll be required to act like a decent human being, don't I?"

John sighed and shook his head. At least he had the intention of acting decent. Of course, John knew what intentions were worth when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sat in his chair, reading and mostly ignoring the other guests. There weren't too many, of course. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mike. Sherlock couldn't help but notice the lack of John's most recent girlfriend. Another woman, left in John Watson's wake.

The others were all talking, laughing. Sherlock didn't like it. The noise was annoying him. But he had at least shown up, against his better judgement. And John did look terribly happy that he had yet to alienate anyone.

John caught Sherlock watching them. As he did, the detective promptly turned his eyes back to his magazine, a gift from John, a new subscription to a scientific journal that Sherlock had been wanting. Sherlock had actually smiled upon seeing it, a true expression of emotion from a man whose usual setting was a condescending glare.

There had been lots of gifts exchanged that evening. Molly had been understandably hesitant, given how her last attempt at gifts had gone, but she had toughed it out, kept things simple, and Sherlock had not made a fool of himself again. Still, Molly was notably quieter, and not decked out as she had been last year. Instead she sat curled up on the sofa with Lestrade, glass of wine in hand, dressed in jeans and a cozy looking jumper. Lestrade was in a better mood this year, too. He was convinced things were going well with his on-again, off-again wife, and it had him quite pleased. (Sherlock had informed John in the kitchen that things were not, in fact, any better, and that she was still cheating on him, and John told him to keep his mouth shut about it this time. Sherlock grudgingly agreed.)

Sherlock heard the buzz of his cell phone. A text. It read: Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes. IA Sherlock smirked. He had heard from Irene on occasion since the incident in Karachi. Any time he would get one of her texts – he still never replied to them – he would consider telling John that she was alive. Sherlock still loved that John had tried to protect him. But he was convinced that if he brought up Irene that it would only lead to a very intense fight between the two of them, and Sherlock didn't want to ruin John's mood. Especially not during Christmas.

After the others left a few hours later, John went to the kitchen for another drink, and Sherlock stood and followed him.

"Have you talked to the dull nurse today?"

John started at the voice and turned to face him. "You mean Cathy?"

"Whatever her name is," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"No, I haven't."

"I thought she would be here tonight."

"She was busy."

"Work?"

"No, just...busy." John was suddenly suspicious. "Why do you ask?" Sherlock never took an interest in other people's personal lives.

Sherlock shrugged and took John's drink right out of his hand and downed it. "I'm making an effort to be normal, as per your request."

"I asked you to not make anyone miserable at the party tonight, and you succeeded. You don't have to pretend to care about things like my ex-" John stopped himself as soon as he realized what he had said. He gave a quick shake of his head and reclaimed the glass from Sherlock, refilling it for himself.

"No longer with the dull nurse, then?"

"No."

"Why?"

"The usual reason." John finished the drink and set the glass down on the counter with a clatter. He walked back to the living room, beginning to clean up the flat. Sherlock knew what the usual reason was without John saying. It was always Sherlock's fault, even if only tangentially. Their lifestyle was not conducive to lasting relationships. But John never blamed him for it.

"Oh. That does make my efforts at taking part in this holiday a tad in bad taste." John brushed past him back into the kitchen, putting the dishes on the counter and the remaining food in the fridge, which was blessedly lacking in body parts, for a change.

"Since when do you do anything for Christmas except play some carols on the violin and sulk over 'everyone being too blinded by the holidays to commit a few murders'?"

"I told you I was making an effort."

"Going above and beyond the call of duty?"

"Something like that." Sherlock pulled an envelope out of his jacket and held it out. "Something small, but I am rather new to this gift thing." John stared quizzically at the envelope, part of him wondering if it were some twisted new experiment, primed to explode when he opened it. But he reached out and took it all the same.

Inside was what looked like a debit card and two movie tickets. He looked up at Sherlock for explanation.

"I thought you and the dull nurse could have an evening out over the holidays. I know you wanted to see that one movie that came out a while back, what was it?"

"The new Bond movie?"

"Yes, that franchise you love so much despite its multiple glaring scientific and technological inaccuracies. You haven't had time to see it since we've had so many cases the last couple of months. The card is loaded, naturally. I assumed you would be taking the dull nurse to dinner beforehand. That's what people do, isn't it? Of course, it appears I should have paid closer attention to your current standing with her. Perhaps the doctor instead? You still talk to her, don't you?" Sherlock walked off to the living room and picked up his violin, but he didn't start playing. He just stared out the window, like his mind had been momentarily derailed by a new train of thought.

John was quiet for a very long time. "Thank you."

"For what?"

John smirked. "For trying to be normal, as you put it. Really, though, Sherlock, this is nice. And it wasn't a case of you not paying attention. Cathy and I only broke up a few days ago. I didn't mention it."

"Some idea about not spoiling the holiday spirit?"

"Something like that," he said, echoing Sherlock's earlier reply. "You did good tonight, you know. You even said a few nice things to Molly. It made her really happy."

"You asked me to be nice," he said matter-of-factly. Sherlock paused, picked up his bow. "And although it's unfortunate that the dull nurse won't be able to join you, I'm sure you'll find someone to go with."

"Yes, get your coat."

Sherlock stopped, bow hovering right above the violin strings. He slowly turned around and found John pulling his own coat on. "What are you talking about, John?"

"My gift, yes? I can choose who I spend it with. Come on. We can catch the late showing. You've never seen a Bond movie all the way through, and we really must fix that."

Sherlock stood there in silence for a long time, trying to decide John's motivation. Was it the alcohol? Was it annoyance at the dull nurse? Finally, he quit trying to figure it out, set down his violin, and reached for his coat and scarf.

It was a crisp, cold night. The streets were fairly empty, most of the usual crowds either out of town or safely tucked away in their homes. There was a coating of snow over the ground. Sherlock always preferred the aftermath of snow more than the actual snowfall itself. After the fact, snow left everything calm and empty, always providing a sharp contrast to the conditions inside his brain.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "This sort of weather is wonderful. It always empties the streets of a large percentage of people, and therefore, a large percentage of stupid people." Sherlock saw John smile out of the corner of his eye. "So where are you dragging me to?"

"New Thai place nearby. You haven't eaten at all today, have you?"

"The extent of my consumption has been limited to alcohol."

"Well, we're going to change that."

"Must we?"

"Yes, Sherlock." John led him a few more blocks and turned into a small restaurant. It was the sort of place they always loved to go to. Tonight there were only a few other people there. On any other day, it probably would have been filled to the brim. John took a seat at a table by the window. Sherlock sat opposite him, against the wall. He always preferred his back against the wall, literally and figuratively. He stared out the window as the waiter passed their table.

"One moment, and I'll get some menus for you and your date," he said to John. Sherlock waited for the inevitable rebuttal. But it never came. When he looked at John, he was picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth. He was trying to keep his face blank.

The waiter brought their menus, and later, their food.

"I am sorry, John." John looked up at him, fork half way to his mouth, brow furrowed, confused. "About the nurse."

"Don't be."

"I know it was because of me. It always is. The women, they all get annoyed with how you're always on a case with me instead of getting a nice stable job at a clinic somewhere. It always poisons them against you."

"Not your fault, Sherlock. I could get a clinic job if I wanted to. But that's not the kind of life I would want to live."

"You think you'll ever come across someone who understands that?"

John laughed. "No. I can't imagine there being a woman who would understand. And I can't blame them, I suppose. But it's not your fault."

"So you and the dull nurse didn't split up because of me?"

"No, we did split up because of you."

"Case in point."

"It had nothing to do with me being away on cases, Sherlock. It was because of you, but not your fault. It was mine. Now, quit beating yourself up, and eat."

They walked to the theater, mostly in silence. John never minded silence with Sherlock. When he was with any member of his procession of girlfriends, he always felt like the silence needed to be filled, that the absence of conversation was just making the tension build between them. But with Sherlock, every silence was comfortable. There was no malice in it. Sherlock of all people knew how unnecessary empty talking was. It was a trait that had initially thrown John off guard. He was not accustomed to peace and quiet in his life. And then he'd moved in with someone who could literally go the entire day without uttering a word. And he'd discovered he enjoyed it.

Sherlock watched John's eyes light up when the movie started. He was so thrilled. Sherlock felt rather proud of himself for knowing how much John liked this franchise. He'd seen the DVD box set in his bedroom one day when he'd gone to ask John something. Sherlock thought it was rather amusing that John, who had such an attachment to these spy movies, would end up leading a life much like it, constantly running after criminals and assassins, with his ever-present concealed firearm. Sherlock smiled.

And although he loathed to admit it, Sherlock rather liked the film himself.

"If we lived in that universe, you would be Q," John said, chuckling to himself as they walked down the hall of the theater.

"Don't even start," Sherlock replied, failing to suppress his grin. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the cold with John.

"Oh please, I know you liked it."

"It exceeded my expectations, although that isn't saying much." They stood outside the theater on the sidewalk, the few other people out at that ungodly hour walking past them, off to their own homes.

"Thanks. A good choice of Christmas gift."

"Not quite how I imagined it going, though."

"Honestly, I had a better time with you than I would have had with Cathy."

"You can't know that, John. Inadequate data." They started walking back to Baker Street. John was quiet. Sherlock looked down at him and saw a sort of tenseness on his face. "What?"

"You know why Cathy and I split?"

"You said it was due to me."

"Yeah. Well, remember last Christmas? Jeanette, the one you called the boring teacher? She said I was a good boyfriend, and then she said 'Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.' We split because she felt like she was competing with you."

"So?"

"So, that's more or less the same conversation I had with Cathy. And I realized that I'd been having some version of that conversation with every woman I've gone out with, and they've all been right. None of them are ever going to compare."

Sherlock turned this over in his mind for a minute or two.

"Irene's alive."

"I know. Witness Protection. I'm the one who told you."

"No, she's in Geneva. I know you told me she was alive because you believed she wasn't. You were trying to protect me."

"Wait, she's actually alive? For real?"

"Yes." Sherlock waited for John to get angry, but he didn't.

"I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised. Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because, when I last saw her in person, she said that even though I helped save her that if I was ever in a situation where it was her or you, that I would choose you without hesitation. She wasn't offended by it, just stating a fact. In fact, she accurately stated that I would choose you over anyone. It would appear the women in our lives are more observant than we are."

"A humbling remark coming from the most observant man in the world."

They took the route by Hyde Park on their way back. It was like being transported into a Christmas card. The snow crunching under their feet, the blue lights strung around the skeleton branches of the trees. Sherlock waited for John to talk again, to process everything. He was afraid he'd ruin things if he spoke.

John was still thinking on the strange turn the night had taken when he felt a hand very tentatively grab hold of his. He didn't even have to make a conscious decision to grab it back. It was an unexpectedly perfect moment in its simplicity. How could something as commonplace as two hands clasped together have such a powerful effect? John felt like he had proof of something he'd always suspected, that sometimes talking really was unnecessary. Sometimes it was what was left to silence that said more than any attempt at words could.

"Why have you never done anything for Christmas in the past, Sherlock?" They were sitting in their chairs in Baker Street, each with their hands wrapped around a mug of tea, thawing out in front of the fire.

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't have cause to. Growing up, our family was very formal, and Christmas was not particularly enjoyable. When I was older, I spent most Christmases alone. It's not as if I had a warm reunion with Mycroft every year. Holidays are supposed to be about spending time with loved ones, yes?"

"Yes."

"I had none."

"And I'm a loved one now, am I?"

"I endured a James Bond movie for you, didn't I?" Sherlock said with his characteristic smirk.

"I'm glad I decided to drag you with me tonight."

"Why do you like those movies, John?"

"They're a good escape. I still say you remind me of Q." He grinned.

"You share some similarities with 007 yourself."

"Oh, please."

"Strong, loyal, a tad morally ambiguous. And-"

"And what?"

Sherlock unfolded himself from his chair and knelt in front of John's. John set his tea down on the side table and eyed the detective with some suspicion. But he trusted Sherlock, so he didn't move.

Sherlock reached up to the top of John's shirt and undid the top button. He pushed the material to one side and John saw his eyes suddenly grow pensive. The detective ran his hand along John's shoulder, right below his collarbone, and then John understood. He looked down and saw the familiar long fingers tracing the remnants of the gunshot wound, like someone reading braille for the first time after going blind.

"You both have your scars," he said, his voice trying to remain analytical. He had seen glimpses of the scar on John's shoulder in the past, but it was something John always guarded carefully, like he did his sister. There were few things that bothered John enough that he felt the need to stay quiet about them, but the scar was near the top of the list. Sherlock rested his hand over the scar, nearly covering it completely. "But your scars don't change you. You still remain, in essence, who you always have been. And you heal."

John laid his own hand over Sherlock's. "You helped with that."

Sherlock looked up at him, grey eyes mostly obscured by dark pupils. "It's a rare occasion that I improve a situation as opposed to ruining it."

John smiled and leaned forward, his face inches from Sherlock's. He took Sherlock's hand, moving it away from his shoulder, and held tight to it, their hands resting between them, fingers laced.

"You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you knew exactly what you were doing this whole time. I find it difficult to believe that you hadn't deduced that I'd split with Cathy."

"Would that bother you if that were the case?"

"Not in the least."

"Thank god," Sherlock mumbled, using his free hand to pull John's face those last few inches closer, sinking into a kiss. They could feel the breath pass between them. John sighed, and he felt the curve of Sherlock's lips against his as the detective smiled. "The Christmas gift sufficed, then?"

"Absolutely. I rather like this one as well."

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."