(A/N: So I thought, "hey, why not write a little something for Christmas, huh? That'll be fun" and then my brain gave me this. And I just couldn't rest until I wrote it out. I intend for this to be a 2 part deal and the second part should be up before too long -maybe by the end of the week- so please, read, review, and stick around :D)

Home for Christmas

part 1

Sherlock staggered tiredly into his tiny flat, pressing his back against the door to force it closed against the blizzard that was picking up outside. He unwrapped the scarf from around his nose and mouth before switching on the lights with numb fingers. The bare bulb in the center of the ceiling flickered before washing the room in wan yellow light. Sherlock set about starting a fire and, as an afterthought, turned on the radiator which sat by his bed.

Dropping down onto the couch in a flurry of dust, he began to remove his gloves and dig his mobile out of his pocket. "No news," read the message from Mycroft, dated December 24th. Today. Christmas Eve. Sherlock let his head drop to the back of the couch with a sigh. His first Christmas Eve away from John. His first Christmas Eve being dead. He ran his hand over his face, prickly, he needed to shave.

He sat in silence, listening to his radiator clank into life and the Russian winter batter against the door. He had forgotten it was the holiday season. The only thing to remind him of the passage of time was impending frostbite and the daily advancement of Moran and his men. He'd been in Moscow for a week now and it was only a matter of time before they would sniff him out and he'd be off to another country.

There was a tight feeling in his chest, an ache. A blond ache about five-foot, seven inches tall. It would have been humorous, if it weren't so despairing. Just a couple years ago, back when he was another man, that Sherlock Holmes who lived day to day and had nothing worth anything except his work would have enjoyed this. It all would have seemed like a grand adventure to that naive man.

He wondered what John was doing, where he was, who he was with. He wondered if he was happy. He was probably with Sarah by now. Mycroft had assured him that John was still living at their Baker Street address but what if he had brought her there? Would he have done that? Could he be so cruel? Not intentionally. It wasn't as if he knew what Sherlock had whispered to him last Christmas on the sofa. Last Christmas. God, he wished he could go back to that now. It was the best Christmas he had ever had.

-John-

Making conversation with Sarah was much harder than John had anticipated. Despite the time they had spent together, their relationship hadn't advanced much further than friends and John wasn't sure where he wanted this to go. Hell, he wasn't sure about anything nowadays. Not since...well. Since it happened. And Sarah was looking at him like she was expecting an answer. He'd zoned out again.

"John?"

"Christ, I'm sorry," he apologized, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I did it again, didn't I?"

She smiled gently and put a hand over his. She had been so understanding about everything and nothing but generous. Why couldn't John feel anything for her? It wasn't fair to her and it just made him angry with himself. Sherlock was dead and missing him so terribly that it made him sick, wasn't going to bring him back. He would have to learn to accept it and forget about last Christmas. Forget about...

"Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yes. No. I really don't know." He laughed half-heartedly and ran his hand through his hair. The embers of the fire glowed as it crackled merrily and John couldn't help but be reminded-

"No...you know what? I shouldn't be ruining your evening," he said, rising to his feet, "It's not anything you're doing. You're lovely, I just..."

"John. I understand, okay?" Sarah replied, "It's bound to be difficult for you since...Anyway, go home John. Take it easy."

He smiled weakly with terse nod, feeling his eyes going hot and prickly. He blinked back the sensation as she showed him out, muttering a "Happy Christmas," as he shuffled out the door. With an uneasy feeling inside him, he decided to forgo a cab for the underground. Not tonight, he thought, too many memories.

He watched the couples sitting around him, laden with last minute gifts and laughing into their Styrofoam cups of coffee. Happy. No wonder, it was the "happiest season of all" for everyone else. No, that's not fair. Surely there were other people who had just lost the most important person in their lives. God, John. When did it come to this?

Mrs. Hudson caught him on his way up the stairs. He knew she would. She had been so worried about him these long months.

"I'm having some of the girls over for cider and bridge if you'd care to join us...?"

John plastered on a friendly smile. "No thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Thought I'd make it an early night. Win some for me, okay?"

There was no fooling her. John knew it. She knew it. But mercifully, she let it drop with a "Happy Christmas" as John ascended the stairs. He tossed back the pleasantry and shut the door to 221b behind him. He closed the door and leaned against it, fully taking in the cold, barren room.

It was such a far cry from last Christmas that it felt like a punch in the chest. He hadn't even bothered to decorate this year. What would have been the point? No one else would see it but him and seeing everything the way it had been that perfect night...he couldn't stand it. Not now, when it still hurt so bad. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

Snow drifted down quietly outside and for a moment, John headed for the sofa. And stopped. No, not there. Anywhere but where he had told him, whispered it. Sherlock thought he was asleep but he heard. If only John had worked up the courage to tell him before he...but would it be easier now or harder? Thinking of what might have been or remembering what did? He swore he wouldn't let himself do this on Christmas but tears nevertheless found their way down his cheeks and he was left to do what he hadn't done since the night of.

He passed like a ghost through his cold house, empty house, until he was turning the knob to Sherlock's bedroom door and stumbling inside. He grabbed the shirt that had belonged to him, the purple one. That was his favorite and it smelled like him the most. He fell down onto the bed that his will had left exactly as it was and curled up into a tight ball. John shivered in the stale, frigid air and breathed deeply into the shirt, letting his sobs drown out the sounds of "I'll Be Home For Christmas" issuing from downstairs.

-Sherlock-

Sherlock dug around in his bag of essentials that he toted with him from place to place, fingers desperately searching for the familiar wool. He tugged it free of his own things and brought the soft beige jumper up to his nose. It still smelled like him, barely, but it was there. And John smelled like home because home was John. He closed his eyes and let the memories of last Christmas cover him like a blanket, his fingers idly stroking the fibers of the jumper.

-Last Christmas-

John had decided that he and Sherlock were going to have a proper Christmas. Even if they did end up fighting crime right up until Christmas Eve night...which they did. They came in laughing, as per usual, bags of Chinese take away in hand. John lit a fire and switched on the Christmas tree (he had actually gotten Sherlock to help him pick it out and decorate it- a feat in and of itself) and helped Sherlock grab the eat-off trays.

They ate and laughed-and drank a bit- and John felt more at home than he had since his parents had passed. Sherlock seemed to be truly enjoying himself and that rare smile (the one that gives him dimples) had been adorning his face all night. John loved him so much sometimes that it was hard to breathe.

They finished the evening by watching every Christmas movie known to man (John had forced Sherlock to after he admitted to having seen not a single one) and drinking tea on the sofa. They had made it about half-way through John's pre-approved list of films when Sherlock noticed he had stopped making comments. He glanced over and saw John with his head tipped forward, eyes closed and making the slightest snoring sound.

Sherlock grinned despite himself and nudged him with his elbow. "Hey, you're not getting out of this so easily, Dr. Watson. This was all some sort of ruse, wasn't it?"

John, jostled by the nudge, slipped down until his head came to rest soundly on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock froze. John dozed on. Holding his hands out so as not to disturb him, Sherlock waited for the pounding of his own heart to wake John. It didn't work. It appeared that he was in for the long haul. Sherlock carefully settled back and let his arm drape protectively over his sleeping flatmate.

An errant strand of dark blond hair tickled his nose and Sherlock lifted his head slightly and kissed it back into place, his fingers curling tighter around him. "I love you, John," he whispered quietly into his hair, "Did you know that? I adore you."

And John heard. He also heard the other man's heartbeats slow and his breaths grow deep. His fingers curled in Sherlock's shirt, the purple one, and pressed a soft kiss to a sliver of bared chest.

I'll be home for Christmas

Where the love light gleams

I'll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams