This was just a little Christmas fluff that I wanted to write for ya'll. Set before "The Woman at His Side" and there are references to "The Pleasure is Mine, Mr. Holmes". It's nothing serious or crucial to the plot of the other stories; just fluff. Hope you guys enjoy!

Happy Christmas and hope the New Year brings tons of joy to you all.

Much love and many thanks

The Cold Never Bothered Me Anyway

"I could get him a tie."

"He doesn't wear ties."

"Oh, right, um. Ooo, a new dress shirt! He always wears those."

"Good, good, what's his size?"
"…Shit, I don't know."

"Wait, you've been dating him for almost a year and you don't know what size shirt he wears?"

"Do you, John? After all, he's your flat mate."

"Yeah, but, well-That's not really something you ask your best mate."

"…John?"

"Yeah?"

"This is going nowhere."

We have been inside this department store for God knows how long, trying and inevitably failing to find Sherlock a gift. Since beginning a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, we've never been one for cutesy couple things such as chocolates and hearts for Valentine's Day or spoiling each other rotten on a daily basis. To be quite frank, Sherlock and I just aren't those kind of people. We'd much rather spend time together working on cases then buying frivolous gifts for each other. But this is Christmas; I have to get him a present. He's the love of my life as well as my best friend. I owe him so much so getting him a Christmas gift is the least I can do in return for all that's he's given me.

But why is it so difficult?

"I don't mean to sound like a prude, Elfie," John points out, "but it is the day before Christmas Eve. I'm not quite sure what you're going to find here."

"Please don't rub it in that I waited last minute," I groan, "Look, I just got caught up with work and a few other things. I seriously thought that I had everybody covered. God, does that make the worst girlfriend ever?"

"No, I think you're the best girlfriend because, despite forgetting to buy your boyfriend something, you've decided to face the bustle of last minute Christmas shopping." John says, examining a rack of rather nice, navy blue trousers, "You know he doesn't care about presents; Sherlock's not going to love you any less if you don't get him anything."

"John, he's my boyfriend and this is Christmas." I state, putting the brown blazer I've been looking at back on its hanger, "I have to get him something. What are you getting him?"

"My share of this month's rent and I promised him the whole top shelf of the fridge to contain experiments." He replies rather happily, "They're not actual presents, per say, but I know it's something that he'd appreciate. He's that kind of a person, Fee. Actions speak louder than objects, I guess."

"But John, I can't just promise him something and then not give him anything." I say, "I'm his girlfriend. It's part of my responsibility to get him something to show him how much I love him."

"I didn't expect you to be the kind of person that takes gift giving so seriously." John chuckles, "Do you always get like this around Christmas?"

"What, agitated, annoyed and completely flustered? Of course; Magic of the holidays, I guess." I reply sarcastically. John laughs and follows me as I find a place to sit in the nearby shoe department. "This is stupid." I grumble, resting my elbows on my knees and resting my chin in my hands, "Why is this stupid? This should be so easy: Find boyfriend a present, wrap it up, give to said boyfriend and hope he likes it then, just like that, BOOM: Gift giving over and done with. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night."

"Yeah, just one little snag in your plan there," John says, sitting down beside me, "'Said boyfriend' is Sherlock Holmes: world's only consulting detective and the most difficult human being on the face of the planet."

"Thanks for the reminder." I groan.

"Well, look, why not just plan a nice Christmas evening together?" John suggests, "You're coming over to Baker Street tomorrow night, yes?"

"Yeah," I reply, sitting up, "Hattie's out of town so I'd be alone at the apartment. When I told Sherlock that he got all flustered, believe it or not; practically demanded that I spend Christmas Eve and Day at 221b."

"Then there you go. Sherlock obviously just wants to spend the holidays with you so why not make the most of it?" John goes on, getting rather excited, "Plan a romantic dinner and what not. That'll be a good gift."

I raise an eyebrow at him in complete disbelief: "I'm sorry, have you met Sherlock? He doesn't do romantic dinners."

"Okay then don't do dinner. Look, I'm leaving for my sister's in the morning and won't be back until New Years. That gives you and Sherlock the whole flat to yourselves to do whatever it is you two do that's kept your relationship going. Take advantage of that; trust me, he'd like that."

I blush and fiddle with the ends of my scarf: "Maybe I can think of some last minute thing he and I can do Christmas Eve," I say, "But give me ideas: What did you guys do last Christmas?"

"Last Christmas? Oh, hehe, that was an interesting night." John replies with a laugh, "Lets see: Few people came over, Sherlock pouted like a child, my girlfriend at the time broke up with me, Sherlock embarrassed Molly in front of everyone, oh, and Irene Adler supposedly died."

A giant knot suddenly develops in my stomach and I have to look down at my feet to hide my face from John. Was that really just last Christmas? That was the night when Sherlock came to my flat, smoking a cigarette, and asked me…no, he practically pleaded with me to come back to 221b with him because he couldn't be alone. That was when he told me had feelings for me, more than just general we're friends feelings, actual I like you more than a friend feelings. We kissed that night and, at the time, I thought we were going to make it work.

We didn't. Irene Adler got in the way.

Was that really just last Christmas?

"You okay?" John asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine." I reply, standing up suddenly, "I…I think that maybe we should head out. I think shopping today was a failed effort, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, yeah, I agree." John says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Hey, points for trying and, who knows? Maybe you'll have some sort of an epiphany and run back here to buy him something."

"Doubt it." I say as we exit the store. The bitter cold London air hits my face while the grey clouds up above start to bellow the signal of an oncoming storm. I wrap myself up as tight as possible in my large coat and stuff my hands deep into my pockets. "God, it is too cold." I groan, slipping on my brown cap, "I can't stand it."

"And you've lived in London for how long?" John teases

"Shut up," I reply, playfully hitting his shoulder.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"Sherlock, you in?" John shouts up the stairs when we step into the flat after escaping the horrible weather. We failed to get a cab and John suggested that since we weren't that far away, we could walk back to Baker Street. It was good idea until it started to rain…and then that rain became harder rain…and then that rain turned into a complete downpour. Needless to say that over the course of our walk we became soaked to the skin.

"What the hell do you want? I'm busy!" Sherlock screams from the flat. God, he can be so loud. He's not even at the top at the stairs and I can hear him perfectly. Must be working in the living room, or quite possibly laying on the couch moping because he doesn't have a case.

"Your girlfriend's here!" John yells back, heading up the stairs with me at his heels, "The storm out side got a bit brutal and we're drenched. I'm bringing her up to dry off."

"Honestly, John, I'm fine." I sniffle, "There really is no need for this."

"So what you were just going to ride a cab home, soaking wet?" John asks, "You're going to be over here tomorrow morning anyway so why not just spend the night. I don't want you catching a cold at Christmas."

"Stop! Wait! Don't bring her up! Just give me...UGH, HELL!" Sherlock yells and suddenly we hear a mixture of awful coughing and small profanities coming from Sherlock. John and I exchange a look of confusion then scurry up the stairs.

"What the hell is going on up…" John starts to ask but then gives out an annoyed groan, "Oh, now I see. I told you to stay in bed this morning."

"What? What is it?" I ask, walking around him to look inside the living room. What I see kind of takes my breath away; the flat is completely decorated for the holidays (most likely Mrs. Hudson's doing) but it is absolutely spotless; papers that are usually strewn about are in organized piles on the desk. The mantelpiece and its many odd ordainments show absolutely no sign of dust and there is even a small fire going in the fireplace.

Sherlock, on the other hand, does not look as spotless. He's curled up into a ball in his armchair, dressed in his pajamas with a large blanket wrapped around his whole body making only his face visible from the nose up. His eyes are watery and his usually pale cheeks are slightly flushed. Used tissues are scattered about under and around the chair and a half empty cup of tea is at Sherlock's feet.

"I said not to come up," he groans, nuzzling even further into his man-made cocoon, "Go away."

"I told you not to push it, Sherlock." John says, going to his friend's side, "You were to stay and bed and get well not clean the entire flat. Don't tell me you did all of this yourself?"
"And…what if I did?" Sherlock challenges, in between coughs, "The flat was…a mess."

"So you start to do chores when your sick: dully noted." John grumbles, setting a hand on Sherlock's forehead to which the sickly detective only pushes aside then pulls he blankets up over his head completely. John then turns back to me; "Forgot to mention your boyfriend has a cold," he says, "Sorry."

"I don't mind," I reply, rubbing my nose on my sleeve, "When did this start?"

"Just this morning," John replies, "and it should just pass if he stays still and doesn't push himself."

"Dull." Comes an almost unintelligible groan from Sherlock's blanket. John rolls his eyes and then goes to the kitchen to make some tea. I remove my jacket and hang it over by the fire to dry. Chills are running all through my body and my skin is covered in goose bumps. Rubbing my hands up and down my forearms I head over to kneel beside Sherlock. I lean over him and gingerly pull the edge of the blanket down so that his eyes meet mine. He looks like a child with his curls all matted and messy and his nose all shiny and red. It's kind of, dare I say, cute.

"Hey," I whisper, sweetly placing a kiss on his forehead, "Merry Christmas."

"You're drenched," he replies, "and you're sniffling. You should step back; I am far to ill for anyone to be near me."

"It's just a cold, love," I say, cupping the side of his face with my hand, "stop acting like your going to die. And as for my sniffling, I'm fine."

"You say that now," he groans, taking my hand into his. We lock eyes and both smile. Even when he's sick I can still get him to show some human emotion. I lean in close and place a kiss on his warm cheek. Sherlock turns his head just ever so slightly causing my lips to land on the corner of his mouth; "You weren't supposed to come by until tomorrow," he whispers, holding my head a bit tighter, "Why are you here?"

"John and I went out shopping and on our way home it started to downpour." I reply, sitting on the armrest of the chair, "He wanted me to come up and dry off and then, since I'll be here tomorrow anyway, just spend the night."

"Mmm," Sherlock moans in reply. He gives my hand another squeeze and then situates himself so that his head is resting on my thigh. I simply smile and use my free hand to run my fingers through his curls. "What were you doing shopping the night before Christmas Eve?" Sherlock yawns, closing his eyes again, "That's just…idiotic."

"I, um, I was actually shopping for you." I admit, "I-Look, love, I…I haven't gotten you a gift yet and I'm really sorry but I'll-"

"It's fine," Sherlock mumbles, "don't care."

"…Really?" I ask, genuinely surprised, "You don't care that I, the woman who you profess to love and loves you back, forgot to buy you a gift until this morning and rushed out to a department store to grab you something?"

"I don't see why you went through the trouble," he goes on, stretching out a bit, "I don't need anything. I don't want anything. I'm fine."

"So…so you're not mad?"
"Why would I, because you didn't buy me something? Please." Sherlock lets out another cough and then sniffles a bit as he nuzzles himself closer to me, clutching onto his blanket and bringing it up to his cheeks. I gently rub his back and I can hear his breathing become more relaxed; "The truth is, love," he says almost in a whisper, "If I had 'wanted' something for Christmas…it would've been in vain."

"What do you mean?" I ask

Sherlock lets out a content sigh and places a kiss on my thigh: "I already have everything I could possibly need right here beside me." He whispers.

My cheeks turn pink and my heart starts to flutter. This must be the cold talking because Sherlock is never this sentimental. Hell, Sherlock just isn't sentimental. Period. "Th-thank you," I reply with a giddy giggle, "That's oddly sentimental of you to say, Sherlock."

"Hmm, consider it a Christmas miracle." He mumbles, "Now, go put on some dry clothes from my room down the hall."

"I'm fine, really." I say, "I'll dry off in a bit."

"You hate the cold and hate being cold," he counters, "Go change and then come back; I can't sleep on a damp pillow."

"Only because it's Christmas I'm letting you use me as a pillow," I say, rolling my eyes. I then slowly stand, rest Sherlock's head on the armrest, then turn to head toward his bedroom to grab a warm pair of clothes. To my surprise, Sherlock reaches out and takes my hand. I looked down at our hands and then at him.

"I meant that by the way," he says, eyes now open about halfway, "You're my gift this year; don't worry yourself about buying me something. Promise?"

"That's sweet of you to say, love," I reply, kissing his knuckles, "and I promise I won't worry. Now go to sleep."

With a heavy nod, Sherlock sniffles then closes his eyes again, his hand gently slipping out of mine as he drifts off to sleep. I manage to find a pair of grey sweat pants and a baggy black t-shirt to change into then I head back to the living room. Placing my wet close by the fire, I tip toe over to Sherlock's chair and decide to cuddle up beside him instead of returning to my spot on the armrest.

"You'll get sick," Sherlock breathes out, not even opening his eyes as he drapes the blanket over me as well.

"I don't care." I reply, nuzzling my head beside his, "A little cold won't hurt me, I promise." Curled up in a tight ball, wrapped in each other's arms, Sherlock and I then drift off to sleep as the rain outside picks up it pace once more.

0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0

"Now, you've got everything you need? I left the cough medicine as well as some paracetamol on the desk in case either of you feels feverish. Mrs. Hudson is just downstairs if you need anything; She said something about bringing soup up in a few hours. Oh, and in the kitchen, there's water in the kettle ready to boil when either of you feels up to making tea. Alright?"

I rub my watery eyes and give John a small nod, pulling the hood of my sweater up over my head and curling up into a tiny ball under my blanket. My nose is completely clogged and my head is aching from a phantom pressure pushing against both sides of my skull. My throat is raw from the endless coughing that kept me up half the night.

In short, I'm sick.

I am sick on Christmas Eve.

The day in which I was supposed to plan a romantic dinner and what not is ruined due to the fact that I let myself get drenched in the rain then cuddled with my already sick boyfriend. Instead of dinner, I will be spending my evening right here, sniffling, sneezing, coughing and moaning on the couch of 221b. John insisted that since both Sherlock and I have colds he would stay here, but I told him to go to his sisters. No point in risking him catching this.

"You don't have to mollycoddle us, John," Sherlock says from the hallway entrance, wrapping the duvet that he's taken from his bedroom around his body a tad tighter, "We are grown human beings."

"Get back to bed, Sherlock," John scolds, "You have a fever and I don't want you getting Elfie anymore sick then she already is."

"'M fine." I mumble, lying face first into my pillow, "Just a…cold."

"You see? She's fine." Sherlock groans, making his way to his armchair, "Now go away but shut the curtains before you go; it's too damn bright in here."

"It really isn't." John grumbles, but he closes the curtains anyway making the living room nice and dim; the only light really seems to be coming from the red and green lights around mantelpiece and the fire John was kind enough to make in the fireplace. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Sherlock plop down at the foot of his chair, obviously to tired to actually climb in it, and lean back against it, making a sort of makeshift cocoon of warmth around himself. I can't help but giggle at the sight but that only sparks another coughing fit. God, this sucks. Merry bloody Christmas, I guess.

"The storm is bloody awful out there," John says, half to himself as he heads to the archway to pick up his bag, "Maybe it's a good thing you two will be stuck inside; it'll force you to rest." Both Sherlock and I groan to which John just sighs heavily; "Well, unless there's something last minute you want me do, I'll be off. Merry Christmas, Elfie."

"Merry Christmas, John." I moan, lifting a heavy arm to wave goodbye, "Have a good time."

"I'll try," he replies, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Mhm," comes the reply from the lump of duvet on the floor. He's given up on lying against the chair; he's just laying on the middle of the floor now. John just rolls his eyes, gives me a cordial kiss on the forehead then heads out of the flat. The rain outside echoes through out the now quiet flat and it is bitterly cold. I wrap my blanket around me even tighter but it doesn't seem to be doing any good. I sneeze and a sharp shiver runs up my spine. This is horrible.

Slowly, I manage to lift my head up from my pillow and prop myself upright on a shaky elbow: "Sherlock," I hoarsely whisper, but I don't get a reply. I pick up my pillow and chuck it at the sick consulting detective.

"What the hell?" he grumbles, popping his head up and turning to look at me, "What?"

"Is it warm down there?" I ask.

"What?"

"On the floor? Is it warm?"

"Er, um, sure."

"Good."

I then slink off the couch and crawl over where Sherlock is lying. Very much like a cat, I decide to curl up on my side beside the fireplace and let the warmth emitting off of the flames to affect my aching body. To be honest, I don't know if I'm really comfortable but I'm too sick to care. I close my eyes and try my best to ignore how awful I really feel. Suddenly, there is new warmth incasing and pulling me back a bit. I open my eyes but then smile.

"You hate the cold," Sherlock states as he finishes wrapping me up in the duvet with him, "The fire won't be enough."

"Thank you." I sniffle, nuzzling into our little makeshift sleeping bag as much as I can. Sherlock takes the pillow I through at him and rests it under our heads as we silently lay as close to each other as possible, both watching the flames of the fire fade. This wasn't how I pictured my first Christmas with Sherlock to be, but for some reason I don't mind. I mean, sure, I don't want to be sick but being this close to him and just taking in the quietness of the flat…it's actually really very nice.

"Bit different from last year," Sherlock whispers, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Hmm?" I ask, already starting to fall asleep.

"This," he goes on, "You and me. Together, actually together: nothing at all like how we were last Christmas."

I sigh heavily and turn around to look him in the eyes: despite being sick, those eyes of Sherlock's still seem to sparkle that mysterious sea foam green that I love so very much. "Let's not talk about last Christmas," I whisper, stroking his cheek, "that was-Things were just…Let's just not think about it, okay?"

Sherlock nods then strokes some stray strands of hair out of my eyes: "I have to tell you," He whispers, "I must apologize."

"For?" I ask, furrowing my forehead in confusion.

"It seems that you weren't the only one who fell back on Christmas shopping this year." He replies rather bashfully.

I sigh and just shake my head, smiling lovingly at him: "But you did give me something," I say, nuzzling my head under his chin and wrapping my arms around him.

"I highly doubt this cold counts as a gift," he says and I just roll my eyes.

"I was going to say you, you bastard." I chuckle, "Your Company, your constant caring for me, your wonderfully crazy adventures you drag me along on…your heart." I raise my head again and our eyes meet in a deep gaze: "Thank you, love."

"And you call me sentimental," he replies with a cough. I just smile and hold each other close, both slowly drifting off to sleep while listening to the sound of the pouring rain outside.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

"Merry Christmas, my darling, darling girl."