A little bit of Christmas fluff. Merry Christmas everyone!

Sherlock Holmes was pacing. And arguing. He enjoyed a good argument at the best of times, but at present Kate was absolutely his favourite person to argue with. He was enjoyed working out the complex paths that her mind would take, predicting her arguments before she spoke. John had always been a slightly disappointing sparring partner; too placid, too difficult to provoke a reaction, and too logical. It was easy to predict his reactions, but with Kate there was always that delicious twist of the unexpected.

'Why not?' Kate asked, perching on the arm of the arm chair, watching him as he paced backwards and forwards, her head moving from side to side as he did so, like a spectator at a tennis match.

'Because they're pointless.'

'So are many things. So is your skull.'

'That's not pointless. It used to encase and protect a man's brain, and now on occasion it helps to stimulate mine, as well as proving a useful hiding place for all manner of things that you would feel uncomfortable hearing about. And if we're being literal about this, it does in fact have two points, or styloid processes, situated directly anteriorly to its mastoid processes; therefore proving that both literally and figuratively it is, in fact, not pointless at all.'

Kate groaned. 'That's scraping the barrel, and you know it. Beside, if we're talking about functionality, then there are many things in this flat which are pointless. The pictures for a start.'

'They have a purpose also. That skull picture for example was left by a previous tennant, but serves to cover a rip in the wall paper, where one of the previous occupant of this flat threw an ash tray at his girlfriend's head, and fortunately missed.'

Kate frowned, went over to the skull picture, lifted it up, and discovered that there was indeed a dent in the wall, with an overlying rip in the wallpaper, which had been somewhat clumsily repaired.

'How on earth can you know that?'

He gave her a look, 'The linear dent in the wall, deep at one end, shallow at the other, indicates a heavy object, hitting from an angle of approximately two hundred and eighty five degrees, so launched from above, and the wall broke it's flight: one edge is slightly jagged indicating that the object was not uniform, cut glass is the most likely, plus there are traces of cigarette ash in the dent. If it had hit her, then it's trajectory would have altered, and some of the force would have been lost.'

'You analysed it,' Kate said, trying not to smile.'You analysed the dent for cigarette ash. You probably even worked out what type it was'

'Of course, he said, straightening the jacket that he hadn't yet got round to taking off.

'You were really bored weren't you,' she said, with a grin now. 'Was that before John moved in, or after?'

'Before,' he said, 'and stop changing the subject.

'I'm not. You could have just asked Mrs Hudson, you know.'

'I did, eventually,' he said casually, 'just to confirm my suspicions, of course.'

'Aha! Thats how you knew it was the man who threw it at the woman, not the other way round.'

'Not at all. the depth of the dent indicates that it was much more likely to have been caused by a man. He must have been five foot ten inches tall, and weighed seventy six kilos, given a kilo or so either side. It's difficult to be precise. Now can we get back to the topic at hand? I was proving that the picture had a purpose.'

'That one does, it would appear. But what about the cushions? Or were they John's additions?'

'They came with the flat.'

'The Periodic Table on your bedroom wall? That didn't come with the flat.'

'That's practical. I find it useful.'

'Because you don't know it off by heart anyway?' Kate was enjoying is argument now. She knew that she wouldn't win, Sherlock was too intransigent, but it was fun to try.

'Of course I do, but sometimes looking at it helps to order my thoughts.'

'Then why not just look it up in a book, or have a poster; why have such a nice version, and framed no less.'

Sherlock looked at her with interest, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He liked it when she challenged him, made him look at things differently, forced his mind to work at a different angle. He found it - refreshing.'

'I will concede that I enjoy looking at it.'

'And I enjoy looking at Christmas trees.'

'Why? There's no order to a Christmas tree, no structure. Trees belong outside, not brought into a house to die. They're pointless

'They're not pointless at all, they're aesthetically pleasing.'

'In what way?'

The lights - they're -' she screwed up her face, knowing that she would be shot down in flames. 'Pretty?' she tried lamely.

His look said it all, 'Beautiful?' She tried again. 'Oh come on, they can be beautiful. The really well done ones, with white lights and a few tasteful decorations. You have to concede that.'

Sherlock stopped pacing. 'Firstly, there is no such thing as a tasteful Christmas decoration,' he told her sternly, 'Secondly, if you had meant beautiful then you would have said beautiful. You did in fact mean pretty, which in addition to being a horrible word, implies insipid, throw away, cheap tack, of the type of saccharine sweetness that makes your teeth rot.'

'Saccharine doesn't make your teeth rot,' Kate retorted quickly, 'as you well know.'

'I said that it was saccharine-sweet, not saccharine itself. Saccharine makes your brain rot, which is more permenant, and can be less easily fixed with good dentistry.' Sherlock finished hid sentence with a flourish as he took off his jacket, hung it up and threw himself into his favourite, semi-recumbent position on the sofa.

'Please?' Kate tried, aware that she wasn't going to win this one on logic.

'No,' Sherlock said, eyes closed, looking as if he was considering a self-congratulatory nap.

'Why not?'

'Because we have agreed that they are pointless, tacky, and have no aesthetic merit . In addition they drop needles everywhere, and within three weeks you are left with the challenge of disposing of a dead tree. In short, they are a tacky, pointless waste of time, money and effort. Would you like me to continue?'

'If I say traditional,will I get a lecture on Prince Albert and the manufactured nature of Victorian Christmas traditions?'

'Of course. And that will just bore us both, and achieve nothing.'

Kate sighed. 'Okay, okay, no Christmas tree,' she said, trying to hide her disappointment. She had had the perfect place for it. In the corner, next to the fireplace. But it was Sherlock's flat after all. '

'How about Christmas cards with pictures of Christmas trees on them,' she asked, intrigued to see how far this dislike went. 'Are they permitted?'

'Pictures of Christmas trees are fine, if you must. I'm not Christougenniatiko dentrophobic, Kate. I just don't like Christmas trees.'

'Is that even a word?'

'Of course it's a word,' he said indignantly. 'Fear of Christmas trees. It's quasi-Greek. Dentraphobia is of course, fear of trees, or forests. The Christougenniatiko part was, I imagine, someone's poor attempt at a joke, but unfortunately it seems to have become absorbed into popular culture.'

'Popular?' Kate repeated. Then when he failed to react. 'What's fear of Father Christmas then. Does that have an equally long name?'

'Santaphobia,' Sherlock told her solemnly, eyes closed again. 'Disappointingly unimaginitive, isn't it?'

'Lights then?' she asked hopefully. 'Round the fireplace?' Do you mind if I...'

'Lights are fine,' he said with a hint of amusement at her almost childlike need to decorate the flat. Kate loved the trappings of Christmas; not the day itself, that was usually a huge anticlimax in her experience, but the build up to it; the lights, the decorations, the brass bands on the street, the Christmas hats, the snowmen and the santas and the tacky throw away toys and comedy hats; the Christmas parties and more than anything the camaraderie and good will that it bred.

That was why she never minded working on the day itself. Christmas Day in A&E was always far easier than a day with her family, and a life saved at Christmas had more meaning than at any other time of year. The dead were dead, she knew that, but deaths at Christmas ruined the Christmas season for the families for the years to come. Ten, twenty, even thirty years down the line, Christmas for them would be tinged with sadness at the anniversary of the death. Better to work then, to do what she could. And yet this year, she couldn't help but think that spending it with Sherlock, and maybe a few friends might have been a more pleasant option than a day dealing with drunks and vomiting children who had eaten too much chocolate for breakfast.

But if he wasn't actually phobic about Christmas trees, then perhaps she could get one of those tiny ones to put on the mantelpiece. Perhaps...

'No tree Kate, not even a one inch high one.' came Sherlock's voice from where he was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, hands temples.'

'How did you...'

'Your thought processes are often transparent.'

'Are they now?' she asked, amused despite herself.

'And no Singing Santas,' he said, eyes still closed, as she walked over to him, then, 'What are you doing?'

'Trying to persuade you that Christmas tat is sometimes a good thing,' she said, sitting next to his prostrate form on the sofa and kissing his cheek. Then when he failed to react, she got up and silently sat on top of him instead, pinning him to the sofa with the weight of her body. His eyes remained closed, although his lips curved into a smile, as his hands came up to her waist, hands sliding inside her top, warm against her back.

'Won't work', he murmured.

'Tap-dancing penguins?' She asked, dropping a soft kiss on her neck.

'Definitely not,' he said, wrinkling his nose with distaste, as his hands slid further up her back.

'Reindeer?' she asked, sitting up. 'Just a small one. No music, no dancing. Everyone loves a Christmas reindeer surely?'

He opened his eyes and looked up at her, 'Kate?' He murmured.

'Yes?' she replied hopefully.

'Shut up, will you?' he said with a smile as he pulled her, giggling, down towards him.