A/N: This started out life as humor but ended up sweet and gentle instead. Each chapter is quite short. Hope you enjoy it.

Sherlock stared at the box that sat in the centre of the kitchen table in a patch of sunlight. So far he had catalogued its mass (estimated at 2lbs, weighed on the kitchen scale at 896g) and its dimensions (length 30.8cm, width 30.5cm, depth 8.6cm), its colour (best described as garish purple), and the sound it made when he shook it cautiously (very little). It irritated him slightly that it was not quite square, two sides being fractionally longer, but what annoyed him mostly was the fact it was tied with an elaborate cream ribbon.

"What's that?" asked John, coming up behind him and setting a plate of Mrs Hudson's biscuits at his elbow. Sherlock hadn't heard him come in, but he was never really surprised to find him there. John breezed in and out of 221b in much the same way as he had when he actually lived there, and Sherlock was well adept at picking up conversations hours, or sometimes even days, after they broke off.

"A gift, apparently," he said, wondering what else he could possibly determine about it from the outside.

"Oh, thanks, you shouldn't have."

"I didn't," Sherlock scowled, missing the teasing tone in John's voice. "It's for me. From Mycroft!"

"Blimey, is it ticking?" joked John, as he reached for the kettle. When Sherlock made no comment he looked at him curiously. "Seriously, your brother has sent you a gift? Mycroft Holmes, the only man in the universe to be less sentimental than you?"

John thought back to Christmases and birthdays they'd celebrated since their friendship began and realised he didn't recall Sherlock ever mentioning a gift from his elder sibling. John knew Sherlock always bought a gift for Mycroft because he himself had purchased, wrapped and delivered all of them, most with very little input from Sherlock who deemed himself above such dull activities as shopping! It wasn't Sherlock's birthday however, and Christmas was months away.

"Don't you exchange gifts?"

Sherlock actually shuddered at the thought. "Not since our parents stopped forcing us to spend our pocket money on pointless gaudy pieces of plastic that were meant to educate and entertain. We used to pride ourselves on finding the one object we knew the other would detest."

"They're called toys Sherlock, and they're meant to be fun. So aren't you going to open it?"

Sherlock sighed and turned his back on it, rooting around in the cupboard for clean cups. "Maybe later. I have work to do."

John shrugged and filled the teapot with boiling water. Sherlock obviously had some kind of gift-related issue he had to work out before he could commit to opening the box and hurrying him along would be counter-productive. He would just have to park his curiosity until then.