He and Rosie had arrived at Baker Street early, so early in fact that John wasn't sure whether he might find Sherlock still lounging around in his dressing gown - or even still face-down on his mattress. But instead, when he lugged Rosie up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock was fully-dressed, and gave the impression of having been up for hours. After taking several minutes to extricate her from her snowsuit, Sherlock kept his goddaughter entertained while John made several trips up and down the stairs with gift bags, food, and the kitchen equipment he knew for a fact didn't exist in the first floor flat (or if it existed, was likely to have seen prior action in one of Sherlock's experiments).
While Sherlock followed a toddling Rosie around the flat, John had had time to put a quick Christmas phone-call in to his sister, and make a start on his contribution towards Christmas dinner. Meanwhile, Mrs Hudson flitted in and out of the flat with more food, table decorations and unsolicited cooking advice (for someone who claimed not to be the housekeeper of 221B, she was pretty bloody territorial about the meals produced there).
Both Molly and Greg had been working late shifts on Christmas Eve and would arrive later, but all in all, it had been a pleasant morning - and just distracting enough. John couldn't help but be glad of the company; nobody had invoked her name yet, but he knew that Mary wasn't far from anyone's thoughts - nor the awareness that it was his first Christmas without her.
He had wondered, at first, whether this might have been the reason why Sherlock seemed a bit...off. It was hard to define, but something just seemed amiss. He was slightly distant, distracted. He had complied with the agreement to leave his phone alone on Christmas Day, but that hadn't stopped him from shooting it glances when he thought he had an alert. John watched him do this half a dozen times before he formulated a theory. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became.
Waiting until Mrs Hudson was occupying Rosie with a snack, John made his way over to the window, where Sherlock was idly tuning his violin, one eye trained on his phone on the desk.
"Has she texted, then?" he asked.
Sherlock's head shot up, looking very much as though he'd been caught out.
"What?"
John could swear his friend was blushing, and had to stifle a smile.
"Look, even if she hasn't," he began. "Maybe it's time you...you know, made the first move."
Sherlock stiffened, drawing himself up to his full height, as he fingered the button on his jacket.
"John, what are you talking about?"
John rolled his eyes. It was going to be one of those conversations, apparently.
"The Woman. Irene Adler. Come on, Sherlock, you've been distracted the entire time I've been here."
In response, Sherlock seemed to just stare at him for a long moment - not with the blankness of his 'buffering' mode, but with brows knit in what seemed to John like a very defensive posture. But then Sherlock swallowed, gave a small nod, and very precisely placed his violin down on the desk.
"John," he replied, clearing his throat slightly. "It is Christmas, and I'm led to believe that this is the one day in the year when I should apparently make an effort to be charitable to those around me - but I think it's very possible that your deduction skills are actually getting worse. Although still a close second to your powers of observation."
He should have expected that textbook Sherlockian response; when cornered, come out all-guns-blazing with the insults. John folded his arms, leant in closer.
"She has texted, hasn't she?"
"I wouldn't know," Sherlock replied, with raised eyebrows and a tight smile. "I've blocked her number."
At first, John thought he'd misheard this, but everything about Sherlock's current expression told him otherwise.
"Why….would you do that?" he queried, feeling his own eyebrows threatening to cross over and tie themselves into a neat little Christmas bow.
None of this made sense. After everything they'd both been through this year, he'd felt there was a decent chance that Sherlock had taken on board some of what he'd said; learned something from his mistakes and regrets. Chances were fleeting, happiness couldn't be taken for granted - but the potential rewards made it a risk worth taking. Sherlock might think that his observation skills were lacking, but John had seen enough to know that his friend was lonely, that he was...aching for something. It wasn't as though he was picturing Sherlock in a 1970s semi-detached in Hemel Hempstead, complete with Range Rover and a Majestic Wines loyalty card; a relationship with Irene Adler was never likely to be conventional, but if there was ever a woman who could keep Sherlock interested, who could meet him on his level, it was The Woman.
"I have my reasons, John," Sherlock replied. "I had assumed that those reasons were obvious...but apparently not."
He started to move past John and make his way back to the kitchen. Honestly, the man's obstinacy and refusal to allow even a chink in his bloody armour was not only infuriating, but completely self-defeating, too. How couldn't he see that?
"Fine," John said, as they both came to a stop in the middle of the living room. "But you do realise that if you keep this up, mate, we're going to end up sharing a room in a care home in forty years' time, squabbling with each other until Rosie and her kids come to take us out for a walk - or until I kill you with my Zimmer frame. Pretty sure they don't let you incinerate eyeballs in those places, either."
Sherlock glanced towards where Rosie was kneeling up at the table, happily chomping on a gingerbread biscuit, before turning back to him with a sigh.
"Contrary to what you might think, I have been giving some thought to the future, and I-"
But he didn't get any further, because they were interrupted by a knock at the front door. Sherlock swivelled around, his mouth instantly clamming shut, and it was immediately obvious to John that this conversational thread had run its course. For now.
Greg was first through the door, bearing a bottle of wine and almost hidden behind his gigantic present for Rosie – John had mentioned that Rosie liked unicorns, and Greg seemed to have taken this to its most extreme conclusion. Molly arrived a few minutes later, gift bags hanging off both arms, a pink glow to her cheeks. To John's surprise, and without prompting, Sherlock went over to relieve her of the bags; he then practically vaulted down the stairs to retrieve the rest of her things, waving away Molly's attempt to give him money for the cab.
Mrs Hudson had immediately gushed over Molly's outfit, and it was true, John thought; she looked really nice. Under a smart wool coat that he'd never seen before, she was wearing a dark green dress with a belt, and a fluffy sort of short cardigan, the latter quickly becoming a firm favourite with Rosie. Nothing fancy or expensive, John supposed, but it was the fact that Molly looked relaxed and happy that really made it.
Before long, everything was in full swing, and John found himself carried along the wave of Christmas Day. Lunch - although a slightly patched-together team effort - was excellent, and once stuffed to the gills, there were presents to be opened, with Rosie taking a lead role in attacking the wrapping paper on everyone's gifts. Although fairly subdued by his standards, John had to admit that Sherlock was remarkably well-behaved; he hadn't tried to escape, he had been gracious to everyone, and he'd even surprised them with a couple of Christmas songs on the violin that he'd learned especially for the occasion. He'd followed 'Silver Bells' and 'Deck the Halls' with a rendition of 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' - ostensibly for Rosie's benefit, but John had noticed Molly's bright, attentive smile while Sherlock played. Sherlock being Sherlock, he of course had to append the song with the observation that, reindeer being colour-blind, the redness of Rudolph's nose was entirely redundant - but he was at least good-natured about it when he was shushed by Mrs Hudson and heckled by Greg.
John was especially pleased at how careful, how mindful, Sherlock was being with Molly. The two of them really seemed to have recovered their friendship after Sherrinford, for which John felt particularly proud of his friend - and grateful; he couldn't bear the thought of them losing Molly's friendship, for her to fall away from their little circle (and he knew that Mary would have had a few choice words to say about it, too, if either man had allowed it to happen).
Across the room, Sherlock had gathered all of the discarded wrapping paper into a large cardboard box, and settled Rosie down in the middle of it; she was shrieking with delight as she tried to throw all of the paper out, and Molly tried to stuff it back in again, while Sherlock's gaze drifted between them both. Smiling, John quickly poured himself another drink before going across to join them.
0000000000
It had been dark for a while now, and the day was gradually drawing to a close. Molly had kindly offered to give Rosie a bath while John finished the dishes (Sherlock should have been pitching in, too, but John had instead found him leaning in the bathroom doorway, assuming the role of 'towel holder') - and John then managed to persuade an exhausted Rosie into the travel cot up in his old room. Lestrade had left a while ago to catch up with the traditional Scotland Yard Christmas Day pub crawl, and now Mrs Hudson was about to take her leave, too.
"I'll help you, Martha," Molly offered, setting down her drink and getting to her feet.
Mrs Hudson thanked her.
"Bless you, dear. It would save my old hip another journey," she said. "If you could bring those presents, Molly, I'll carry the leftovers."
"I should be getting home myself," Molly smiled. "If you don't mind waiting for me to just get my coat on and grab my things, too."
"I thought you didn't have to work tomorrow?" Sherlock suddenly interjected.
Molly looked around at him, questioningly.
"What I mean is," Sherlock continued, blinking. "It's still fairly early."
John rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Sherlock," he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Molly's got better things to do than spend the dying hours of Christmas Day with a pair of bickering, middle-aged curmudgeons and a bottle of Glenfiddich."
Molly smiled politely.
"I, um, well it's not that," she replied. "But I should probably get back for Toby. I think he's scared of his new cat tree, so he's probably still hiding behind the sofa."
Sherlock seemed to accept this, and instead offered to help both Molly and Mrs Hudson with their things. John bade both women goodnight, telling Sherlock to put the kettle on, before he headed upstairs to check on Rosie.
She was soundly asleep in the cot, her small fist curled around the beautiful ragdoll that Molly had given her for Christmas. It was definitely going to be strange to be sleeping under the roof of 221B again, even if just for one night. As John bent down to tug the cover more snugly over his daughter, he hoped that Mary would think he'd done a decent job at Christmas; as far as surrogate families went, theirs might be a strange one, but John would have challenged anyone to find one that worked harder. They each needed it in their own way, and for their own reasons.
When he arrived back downstairs, he noted that he could neither hear the kettle boiling, nor detect the aroma of brewing tea. In fact, the living room and kitchen were both empty. John called through the flat, but got no reply from Sherlock. He wandered through the kitchen and into the hallway; the bathroom was unoccupied, and when he tapped on Sherlock's bedroom door, which stood ajar, he got nothing in response. Oh God, surely he hadn't gone chasing after a case on Christmas night? If Greg had sent Sherlock something, he was going to kill the Detective Inspector the next time he saw him.
...or maybe...was it possible…?
As he stood there with his hands on his hips, John felt his face quirk into a smile.
Could it be that Sherlock had finally decided to take a fragment of his advice for once, and had gone to get himself that piece of happiness? Realistically, phone number or no phone number, he knew how little effort it would take for Sherlock to track down Irene Adler if he really wanted to - and let's face it, John reflected, if the alternative was to spend the rest of the night playing increasingly antagonistic games of Cluedo with him, he knew which option he'd choose.
John sauntered back into the kitchen and filled the kettle from the tap. While he was waiting for it to boil, he noticed that Mrs Hudson had left her reading glasses on the kitchen table. It then occurred to him that if he took them downstairs, he could possibly grab a piece of Christmas cake to go with his tea at the same time.
He made it as far as the top of the stairs when he spotted signs of movement in the darkness below him. A stab of alarm passed through John, his first instinct to suspect danger - and his second thought, that he probably wasn't going to be able to repel an intruder armed only with an elderly woman's specs. Holding his breath - and doing all he could not to trigger a squeaky floorboard - he took another step.
And stopped again. Because as he peered over the banister, and his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realised what he was seeing. Or at least what he seemed to be seeing. But it couldn't be? Halfway up the stairs, perched side by side, Sherlock Holmes was kissing Molly Hooper. His arm was around her waist, his other hand cradling her cheek as he leaned into the kiss; although John could barely see Molly, he could see her fingers twisting through Sherlock's hair. In almost eight years of knowing Sherlock, John had witnessed plenty of unexpected things - but this one was almost surreal. Surreal, and pretty magnificent. This was in no way, shape or form a polite goodbye kiss; this one had intensity and intent.
It was as John stepped carefully backwards, retreating from the scene, he suddenly understood that intent more clearly. Something had caught the light spilling from the living room of 221B, something that could be traced to the hand now caressing Sherlock's neck - something that was quite unmistakably a diamond was gleaming from Molly Hooper's finger. The hand at Molly's waist, John realised, was still loosely clutching a small jewellery box.
Bloody hell.
As though a switch had been flicked, everything now fell into place; the improbable now seemed not only incredibly obvious, but inevitable. Sherlock was right - his deduction skills were bloody appalling. And John almost felt as though he owed them both an apology, particularly Sherlock, who clearly knew his own heart far better than John gave him credit for - not that this would have been a particularly good time to interject with that admission.
As he stepped quietly back across the threshold of Sherlock's flat, John couldn't help but feel the biggest grin of both joy and disbelief spread across his face. God, if only Mary could have seen this. Or perhaps it wouldn't have come as such a surprise to her? She always was several steps ahead of him. He took a mug down from the cupboard, and wondered just how long his friends were planning to spend out there on the stairs, whether Molly's plans to get home early had now changed - and whether it was too early to start sketching out his Best Man speech.
One thing was clear, though - he was going to have to rethink that care home idea.
END