A/N: This little plot bunny got hold of my brain and would not let go.
Disclaimer: Not mine, it all belongs to the BBC.
"I do wish you'd let me help, John," his former landlady said worriedly as John struggled to carry three large shopping bags full of wrapped presents of various sizes up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.
"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson, I've got it," he said determinedly, his voice muffled by the presents directly in front of his face. The door to the sitting room was ajar, John kicked it open all the way then barely made it into the room before the presents slipped from his hands and fell to the floor.
"I do hope you didn't get Mary anything fragile," came Sherlock's disinterested voice from the direction of the kitchen.
"There could be some of yours here, you know," John muttered as he started picking up the presents a few at a time and setting them on the coffee table. He prayed that the coffee table bending under the weight was just his imagination – surely he didn't buy his wife and baby daughter that many gifts.
"None of those are for me," Sherlock declared as he approached the mountain of presents, a cup of tea in each hand. "You wouldn't be stupid enough to hide my presents in my own flat. Also, you wouldn't have bothered with having my presents professionally wrapped." He gave John one of the cups.
"Thanks." John wrapped his cold hands around the warm cup as Sherlock sat down at the table and turned on someone else's laptop. At least, John hoped the laptop belonged to someone else – the white laptop with holly-shaped rhinestone decals definitely wasn't Sherlock's style. "Client left that behind, yeah?"
"Left behind, yes," Sherlock said distractedly as he started typing. "Client, no. Now, to get to the bottom of this little mystery." He smirked as he clicked on something and started scrolling.
"If it wasn't a client, then who?" John asked as he came around to Sherlock's side of the table, sipping his tea.
On the screen was the laptop owner's iTunes account, Sherlock was currently scrolling through the playlists. Titles like "Bedtime" and "Workout Songs" went by. One of them made John do a double-take.
"Creature of the Night?" he asked, confused.
"Molly was a professional wrestling fan in her youth," Sherlock replied disinterestedly, "but that's not important right now."
"Hang on, this is Molly's? You hacked into Molly Hooper's laptop?" John decided Sherlock needed another lecture on personal boundaries, and soon.
"Hardly hacked – her password only took two guesses." Sherlock smirked. "I knew it had to be my name – capital S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k didn't work, capital S-h-three-r-l-zero-c-k did. Molly's never more obvious than when she's trying to be clever."
"You do know she's going to murder you, right?"
Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal. "She left here a few minutes before you arrived."
"Why was she here? You were complaining this morning that you don't have any cases. Did something come up?"
"If only," he sighed. "The criminal classes seem to have taken a holiday. As I haven't been to Bart's in days, Molly assumed boredom had set in."
"A reasonable assumption," John noted.
"She came over ostensibly to show me the first draft of her latest pathology paper, but really to check on me. With that unnecessarily large bag she carries, she won't notice her missing laptop until she gets back to her flat. That will take twenty minutes. It will take her another half-hour to get back here and reclaim it. That gives me plenty of time to identify this bloody song."
John blinked in surprise. "What bloody song?"
"The bloody song Molly has been humming daily since mid-November." Sherlock paused his scrolling to look up at his friend, scowling. "Surely you've heard her."
"Unlike you, I'm not around her almost every day." John smiled a bit. "You still haven't asked her out, have you?"
Sherlock went back to scrolling, scowling in irritation. "I don't know what you're talking about."
It was John's turn to smirk as he sat down across from Sherlock. "Sure you don't." He sipped his tea. "The first person you called when you got out of rehab wasn't me, Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson, it was Molly."
"I needed to apologize to the person I hurt the most," Sherlock said defensively, not taking his eyes off the screen.
"Molly's not the only one you hurt," John said, just as defensively. "And there's some debate as to whether she's the one you hurt the most."
Sherlock shot his best friend an apologetic look then went back to scrolling. "It has to be here somewhere."
John rolled his eyes. "You said this started last month?"
"Yes, just after we saw a Christmas display at Harrods."
"You really are thick sometimes – it must be a Christmas carol."
"You mean one of those horridly sentimental songs that are completely inescapable this time of year?" Sherlock asked, aghast. "Molly would never…" he trailed off.
John grinned. "Never what? Never like such a thing? This is Molly Hooper we're talking about, right? The same Molly Hooper who likes to wear fruit patterns on her clothes, who puts holly decals on her laptop, and who would drop everything just to help a certain consulting detective we both know?" John thought he saw a slight flush to his friend's cheeks but decided it must be his imagination. "Believe me, Molly loves everything about Christmas."
Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Here's her Christmas playlist." He started down the list, playing just a few seconds of each song before moving on to the next.
John reached out and turned the laptop so they could both read the screen. "I assume if she hums it every day, it must be her favorite." He pointed to one song. "There, that must be it – 'The Christmas Waltz.' She's played it thirteen times, more than any of the others."
"'Carol of the Bells' must be her favorite," Sherlock countered. "She has seven versions of that and only one version of each of the others."
"There's only one way to settle this," John said. He clicked on "The Christmas Waltz" and it started playing. After just a few seconds, John saw his friend's eyes light up in recognition.
"That's it!" Sherlock listened carefully, his confused scowl deepening with every line. "This song is idiotic – it's nothing but seasonal hazards and lies."
"What are you on about?" John asked as he finished his tea. He noticed Sherlock hadn't even touched his own.
Sherlock restarted the song then sang along with the first line. "Frosted window panes, candles gleaming inside, painted candy canes on the tree." He hit the Pause button. "Frost on the windows is indicative of improper insulation and candles are a fire hazard."
John smiled a bit. "What, you don't have an objection to painted candy canes?"
Sherlock ignored him as he pushed Play and sang the next line. "Santa's on his way, he's filled his sleigh with things, things for you and for me." He hit Pause again. "Santa – merely the first lie that parents tell their children."
John raised an eyebrow, amused. "One a scale of one to ten, how difficult of a child were you?"
Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "eleven." He hit Play again. "It's the time of year when the world falls in love." He scoffed. "Love, the next big lie, but this is one we tell ourselves. We make ourselves believe that all our hopes and dreams, our very happiness, is dependent on one other person. Sentimental nonsense."
It didn't escape John's notice that Sherlock seemed to be including himself in that statement. "And I suppose your feelings for Molly are just another lie you're telling yourself? And that my feelings for Mary, and hers for me, are also lies?" John felt his ire rising. He wanted to punch Sherlock in the nose but a quiet sound just outside the door stopped him. He turned to see Molly standing in the doorway, staring at Sherlock, her cheeks pale. One look back at Sherlock told John he hadn't seen her yet.
"How can Molly like something so insipid?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.
The annoyance turned to shock as a pair of small, delicate hands snatched the laptop away. Both men looked up to see Molly standing there with tears in her eyes, which were fixed on Sherlock.
"How dare you?" she demanded. "'The Christmas Waltz' was my mother's favorite… She was always singing it this time of year…" Molly swallowed hard. "Her last Christmas, Mum was in hospital. She was too weak to sing it, or even hum it, so I sang it to her… I was ten, my singing voice wasn't very strong, but my mother still died happy…" The threatened tears started to fall down her cheeks but her eyes turned from sorrowful to furious. "Sherlock Holmes, you have no right, no right at all to criticize something you know nothing about!"
Sherlock quickly rose from his chair and there was no way John could mistake the look of panic on the man's face. "Molly, I …," he started weakly.
John held his breath, praying his genius friend wasn't about to say something utterly stupid, but his prayers were in vain.
"I wasn't expecting you for another fifteen minutes."
John groaned in frustration while Molly stared at Sherlock. "That is all you have to say to me?" she asked, incredulous.
The panic in Sherlock's eyes was gone with his next blink, replaced with something like contrition. He murmured, "I'm sorry, Molly. Forgive me." He leaned to kiss Molly's cheek, reminding John instantly of that disastrous Christmas Eve party years before.
Molly must have been reminded too - she quickly took a step back, glaring at Sherlock. "Saying you're sorry isn't enough this time, Sherlock." She swallowed hard, tears threatening again. "Every time … every time I think you're becoming a better person, you break my heart… This is the final time. I don't want to see you again until you know what it's like to feel an emotional connection to something … anything."
John watched as Molly stormed out of the flat then heard her noisily descend the stairs. He turned to see Sherlock at one of the windows, looking out at the street with an unreadable expression.
"This has to be an extreme example of Not Good," John said quietly, irritated. "You'll need to do something big to get back in her good graces, mate."
Sherlock turned to look at him, his expression as lost and sad as John had ever seen him. "I need specifics, John. What do I do?"
"What she said – find an emotional connection to something. A Christmas carol, that'll show her you're making up for being such an arse." After a moment's thought, he got on his own laptop and started typing.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
"Dragging you out of your comfort zone." John ignored Sherlock's presence just over his shoulder as he typed out the email.
Everybody,
I'd like to cordially invite you to hot chocolate at Baker Street tomorrow night at 9. Please bring biscuits to share and your favorite Christmas album – we're going to help Sherlock find a favorite carol.
John
"Exactly who are you inviting to my flat?" Sherlock asked, and John knew from the tone of his best friend's voice that his eyebrow was raised.
John smiled a bit as he started typing in the email addresses. "I'm sending this to Mrs. Hudson, Greg (that's Lestrade in case you forgot again), Anderson, and for the hell of it, Mycroft. Mary I'll ask in person." He clicked Send then turned to look up at his friend, saying firmly, "You are going to invite Molly yourself. I don't care if it's in person or over the phone, but do not text her."
"Obviously, eleven months of listening to Rosie cry has damaged your hearing – Molly said she doesn't want to see me until after I've made this 'emotional connection.'"
"Molly was angry and hurt when she said that. She'll want to see the effort you're making, trust me." John glanced at the clock. "Give her another hour to calm down then ask her. Be contrite, but more importantly, be sincere."
Sherlock looked dubious, but when it came to matters of the heart, when didn't he?
John turned back to his laptop. Replies soon started coming in. "Greg says he might be late but he'll be here. Mrs. Hudson will definitely be here. Anderson can't make it but he sent me a link to a YouTube video of his favorite carol." John grinned as he read the next one. "Mycroft says he'll be here, with your parents. He says he made the mistake of mentioning the invite to them."
Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft has never made a mistake in his life – he wanted our parents to know."
"Did you know they're in town?"
"If I did, I deleted it."
"Are you okay with them coming?"
"I'm not 'okay' with anyone coming, but if I try to disinvite my parents now, I'll never hear the end of it."
John grinned. "Good. I like them, Mary does too. They haven't even met Rosie yet." He glanced at the clock again then decided to call Mary.
She picked up on the third ring. "Hi, love. I just started dinner. How's Sherlock?"
"Being his usual irritating self," John replied, smirking.
Sherlock rolled his eyes then walked back to the kitchen, his tea still untouched.
"Who did he piss off now?" Mary asked, amused. "It can't be Greg - there haven't been any 'interesting' crimes in the news for days."
"No, it was Molly." John described what happened between the consulting detective and the pathologist, and his solution.
He heard Mary chuckle. "Sherlock was overdue for putting his foot in his mouth around Molly. I love your idea and I definitely want a front row seat, but we'll have to get a sitter for Rosie – it'll be past her bedtime."
"We couldn't make an exception just this once? Mr. and Mrs. Holmes haven't met her yet, and everyone else will be happy to see her."
"John, we both agreed she needs a regular bedtime. Since neither of us want to deal with a cranky baby the next day, we won't be making an exception. Besides," John could hear the fondness in his wife's voice, "you have so many photos on your phone that it'll be almost like she's there with us."
"Can I help it if she's as photogenic as her mother?"
Mary's laugh warmed his heart. "Flattery will get you out of doing the dishes. You'll be home soon?"
"I'm practically out the door."
"Good. I love you."
"I love you too, Mary." John hung up then went into the kitchen, where Sherlock was heating a mug of what looked to be blood in the microwave. He raised an eyebrow. "It's things like this that fuel the 'Sherlock is a vampire' internet rumors."
"It's an experiment. Is Mary coming?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, but Rosie will be home with a sitter." Sherlock looked like he was about to say something so John cut him off. "And no, you are not babysitting her, you'll be in the thick of things here. Everyone's taking time out of their busy holiday schedules to help you, Sherlock."
The microwaved dinged then Sherlock removed the mug and peered at the warmed blood, which John could see had taken on a bright orange tinge.
"I won't even ask," he muttered.
"Best not," Sherlock agreed. He sighed quietly. "Mycroft isn't doing this out of the 'goodness of his heart' – he relishes every opportunity to remind me that he is superior."
"Your mother will make sure he behaves." John smiled a bit. He watched as Sherlock viewed a few drops of the orange blood under the microscope, muttering to himself. Knowing his best friend had stopped listening to him, he grabbed the kitchen timer, set it for forty-five minutes, then put the timer on the kitchen table next to Sherlock's phone. He scribbled out a quick note on a Post-It – call Molly – then stuck the Post-It to the phone.
John went back to the sitting room and took the gifts a few at a time upstairs to his old room, hiding them under the bed. By the time he was done, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, typing on his phone.
John said firmly, "I said no texting."
"I'm not texting her, I'm deciding what I'm going to say to her. I want to get it right."
John smiled, satisfied. "Well, then, have at it. I'll see you tomorrow." He didn't wait for a response, as he knew there would be none coming.
As John left the flat, he prayed the following night's get-together would go smoothly, but he knew his friends. "At least let there be no bodies."
Sherlock waited more-or-less, mostly less, patiently for the time John indicated, then he called Molly.
She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding out of breath. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Why do you assume something's wrong, Molly?"
"Because you never call me. I had your ringtone set as Gerry Rafferty's 'Baker Street' but it's been so long since you last called that I had forgotten about it. The saxophone solo was almost over before I realized it was you calling. Sherlock, why aren't you texting?"
"Because John said I shouldn't."
"Okay, so why are you calling me if nothing's wrong?"
"I'm having a…," he grimaced, "get-together at Baker Street tomorrow night. You were right, I need to find emotional connections to … things. Everyone will be there – Mrs. Hudson, John, Mary, Graham…"
"You mean Greg?"
"Er, yes, Greg. Even Mycroft and my parents. You haven't met them yet but you'll love my father. My mother is rather … difficult."
"I already know how to deal with two difficult Holmeses, what's one more?"
"That's the spirit," he said approvingly. "Tomorrow at 9. You can bring biscuits if you want."
He could hear the smile in her voice. "I think I will."