Hi there! Welcome to my first serious story, in which Sherlock and John are up against Moriarty in a series of Christmas killings. But will Sherlock and John realise how they feel about each other?

Thank you so much to anyone who reviewed "Trick or Treat", you guys are amazing! I'll stop dithering now and let you read the story, shall I?

Glad tidings from the Cryptic Nymph.

It was bitterly cold. John Watson turned the collar of his coat up against the freezing wind and struggled down the street. It was icy that day and he had already fallen, so needless to say he was somewhat disgruntled to find his flat mate melting his laptop speakers on the kitchen table.

"What the bloody hell are you doing Sherlock?" John yelled, glaring furiously at him.

"I'm bored."

"It doesn't mean you can melt my fucking speakers. You're paying for new ones."

"Ugh, fine." Sherlock rose out of his chair and collapsed onto the sofa, scowling at the ceiling. Without looking away, he stuck his hand out onto the coffee table and scrambled to find what he was looking for.

"I've hidden the gun." John said simply, sitting down in an arm chair and taking out the paper.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Why ever would you do such a thing?"

"Because I always end up paying for the repairs on this flat Sherlock, and I have no desire for any more bills. Understand? No more shooting indoors."

"Well someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning."

"Ugh." John put his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm in a crappy mood and it's been a- hang on? Why am I apologising? You're the one being unreasonable!"

"There's no need to be dramatic. I hope you're not like this just because of a simple fall John."

He didn't bother to ask Sherlock how he knew he had fallen. "No it's not just because of that."

"Care to tell me?" John looked up, slightly shocked. Sherlock's voice was… caring wasn't the right word, Sherlock didn't care about trivial matters… he seemed intrigued. True enough, when he glanced at Sherlock's face it was somewhere between nervousness and curiosity.

"Well…" he started, unsure where to begin and worried that Sherlock would think him an idiot. "It's Sarah…"

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling again, his expression blank. "Yes?"

John hesitated. Did he really care or was he humouring him? "She… Well, we're just going through a rough patch."

"Because…?"

John sighed. Sherlock either knew little of social cues and when someone wanted to end a conversation, or he was deftly ignoring them. He suspected the latter. "She… She says I'm… That I'm…"

"Spending too much time with me?"

John gazed at Sherlock, incredulous. "How did you-"

"Contrary to popular belief, I know how women work. You spend an enormous amount of your day with me and very little time going out with her, and in those infrequent moments you often leave her to come help me. It's hardly difficult." His eyes had not left the ceiling.

John felt a twinge of annoyance at the word. Trust Sherlock to make him feel inadequate. "Well, yeah. So I'm pretty sure she's going to dump me soon and I have no idea what to do."

"Well, do you like this girl?"

"Of course I like her!"

"Then show her you care."

John snorted. "Since when have you been the romance expert?"

"Since it became necessary for my line of work. Just because I don't date doesn't mean I don't know how."

John glowered. "Whatever. I thought I'd ask you this now to save me time later, what do you want for Christmas?"

Sherlock blinked and turned to look at John. "I don't do Christmas."

"How can you not do Christmas? It's… Christmas!"

"I'll tell you again- not necessary John."

"Well, aren't you even going to decorate the flat? What about a tree?"

Sherlock sat up, laughing derisively. "Decorating the flat? Why would I do that? What would be the point?"

"You… You just do that kind of thing at Christmas. Everyone does."

"Not me."

"Well I'm doing it if you're not, so what do you want for Christmas?"

Sherlock looked oddly touched. "You want to buy me a present?"

"Well yeah." John said defensively, getting a little hot under his collar. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing…" he said, looking a little punch drunk. "I've just… I've never had a Christmas present before…"

"You've never had a Christmas present?" John said, disbelieving.

"As you may have noticed I do not come from the closest of families. We didn't do the whole family," he spat the word as if it was diseased "Christmas deal."

"What about your friends?" There was genuine concern in John's eyes that made Sherlock feel uneasy.

"I told you, I don't have friends. Didn't have friends."

John stared. "So we're… friends?"

"Err… I like to think so?" Sherlock felt deeply uncomfortable putting himself out there like this.

John smiled. "Good," he said softly. Sherlock found himself smiling back. He had a friend… How unusual a feeling it was. There was a quiet knock at the door that caused Sherlock to come back to earth. "Come in," said John.

Mrs Hudson smiled brightly at Sherlock as she entered, holding a small package in her hands. It was a dark purple box with a black ribbon tied around it, and a gift tag.

"This arrived for you just now dear."

Sherlock took the box, bemused. Mrs Hudson bustled back downstairs.

"I thought you said you didn't do presents?" said John, surprised to find himself feeling a little miffed that someone else had bought Sherlock something.

"I don't." He looked at the present suspiciously, and glanced at the gift tag.

To Sherlock Holmes

Just a little gift from me. Call it an early Christmas present.

Call me x

Sherlock stared at the box, confused and annoyed. John had been reading it over his shoulder. "You've got yourself an admirer," John was grinning, much to Sherlock's dismay.

"This isn't right…"

"What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock's long slender fingers tore at the ribbon, and he practically wrenched the lid off. Inside there was a single Polaroid. It was the corpse of a man, with his throat brutally cut. Below, someone had written the number 12.

"There's been a murder,"

John took the photo from him, looking shocked. He turned it over, and suddenly went pale. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"It's from Moriarty."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. He snatched the photo and saw the words: With all my love, from Jim. Jim Moriarty… The man who had sent him all those little puzzles, all those little games for him to figure out whilst some poor bastard was strapped to a bomb. After the swimming pool…

There was thudding on the stairs. Before Sherlock or John could turn to look, Lestrade burst through the door of the flat.

"Sherlock," he gasped, catching his breath. "You've got to come look at this."

"I think we already know…" He held out the photograph for him to see. "We're right behind you."

Lestrade hurtled back downstairs and Sherlock and John soon followed suit, stepping into the black taxi and praying to God that Sherlock would be able to solve this one soon.

OOO, Tension. In a very loose sense of the word.

Did you like it? Tell me what you think! Thanks for reading!