Interlace: — vb
1. to join together (patterns, fingers, etc) by crossing, as if woven; intertwine
2. ( tr ) to mingle or blend in an intricate way
3. to change the pattern of; diversify; intersperse

It was his first christmas back with his old acquaintances and John had insisted on having the christmas party at his and Mary's flat. The invitations had made it clear it would be a Secret Santa event. Sherlock scoffed when he had read it, he would be able to deduce whose presents they were within seconds. He didn't understand the need for this type of secrecy.

He had bought Lestrade a new leather wallet, the last time Sherlock had picked his pockets he noticed Lestrade's current one was threadbare, falling apart at the seams. For Molly he had selected a finely knit cardigan. For Mrs. Hudson there was a set of tea cups and an intricate teapot since Sherlock broke her last one and neglected to replace it. For Mycroft there was a tie, as usual. The Holmes brothers never celebrated christmas as adults. They were both too busy to bother with their play of cold distance. Too many crimes were committed during the holiday season and terrorists never stopped scheming either. Mycroft would probably not attend in the first place.

And then there was Anderson, who above all miracles had taken a far more friendly stance towards Sherlock in the last couple of weeks. The man even listened to Sherlock every now and then. He still found him incompetent so a copy of Essential Forensic Biology lay packed on the bottom of the stack. It wasn't as detailed as Sherlock would have wanted for himself but for Anderson it would do fine. Why John had invited him to attend the party in the first place was beyond him.

All Sherlock had left to do was getting a present for John and Mary. It was important for John to know he put effort into selecting the right gift. He knew the cognitive bias known as the Ikea Effect would make his present more valuable, labour enhances affection after all. Sentiment. He despised it as much as he longed for the praise of a job well done. Or in this case, a present well selected. The one thing John still didn't have after all these years was a good scarf. It was the perfect opportunity for Sherlock to create a present himself. After all, people knitted all the time, how hard could it be?

But this was different. This present wasn't for someone whose opinion didn't matter. It was a gift to the only one who did matter. John had Mary now, Sherlock could never tell him the whole truth. He had been afraid to say it before and now it was too late to say it out loud. It didn't matter though, he could make his actions speak for him.

He picked up the needles and inspected them. No visible marks the yarn could catch onto. He slid his index finger and thumb over each of them, feeling no inconsistencies. Twirling the needles around he got used to the weight of them. Picking up the first ball of yarn he set to work. Trying to keep his attention on the work instead of fussing over John. A slip knot made his first stitch. He pulled the thread over the needle and started casting on.

Slipping the needle into the first stitch he continued to knit a couple of rows. Downstairs the doorbell rang and Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson open it to a loudly talking Mrs. Turner. Must be time for their weekly round of biscuits and gossip. The noise of their easy banter disappeared into Mrs. Hudson's flat easily. Three rows later Mrs. Turner's voice became louder again as the door opened. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson judging by the inconsistent tapping. Carrying something then.

"Woohoo, Sherlock?"

Sherlock continued working as she opened the door with difficulty. Slip the needle in, yarn over, pull the needle under and slide the yarn off. As Mrs. Hudson opened the door she looked completely baffled. Sherlock Holmes, knitting? She straightened her face in the blink of an eye and kept walking towards the table.

"Mrs. Turner said this package was delivered to her address. It's quite heavy shall I put it on the table?"

"Kitchen please Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock continued working without looking up.

"Right then. Do you have any tea dear, I seem to be out. And do you need more milk from Tesco? Mrs. Turner is taking me shopping."

Sherlock stopped knitting now. He looked at his landlady and saw nothing but quiet amusement over his project. Crumbs on her blouse showed Mrs. Turner had brought her own biscuits along. Her stance told him she was proud of him. The tight muscles under her right eye clear indicators of concern. The twitch in her right hand proof of her nervous anticipation. Had she guessed this was for John?

"Tea is in the top left cupboard. I have enough milk for now."

Sherlock resumed working without looking at what he was doing. Mrs. Hudson said her goodbye's and walked downstairs. A minute later the landlady accompanied Mrs. Turner out the door.

Sherlock was deep in thought. Barely registering what he was doing. The yarn a luxurious mixture of alpaca and silk wool. The soft string hand dyed into a deep forest green that would bring out John's eyes.

Slipping the knitting needle into the next stitch Sherlock noticed there was a knot in the yarn. He sighed and put his work to the side for a moment. His fingers adeptly plucking at the thread to unfurl the mess. He took one bit of yarn and pulled. Half of the knot came free while the other half pulled tighter into itself. Sherlock picked the free needle up and slid it carefully into the knot, pulling one of the threads to loosen it. The yarn was freed from the knot and Sherlock resumed knitting.

He thought back of their first christmas together. He had hurt Molly's feelings and was the indirect reason John's girlfriend broke up with him. The boring teacher wouldn't have lasted long anyway. Good riddance. At least Mary wasn't as dull as the others. Mary was good for John. It hurt to acknowledge it, even in silence but Sherlock could not ignore the influence Mary had on his friend. She helped him when Sherlock wasn't able to let John know he was still here. Mary had even come along on one of the cases Sherlock was working on with John. More importantly she helped solve the case where he had been unable to do so.

Sherlock was shocked out of his reminiscence as the ball of yarn fell from his lap under the sofa. He put his work away and stood up to retrieve it. As he lay flat on his stomach with his arm under the sofa he heard Lestrade's distinct footsteps bounding up the stairs. He put the ball next to his project. It will have to wait for now, there was a new puzzle to solve and apparently it was a good one.

Sherlock only came home 32 hours later. He had solved the murder and found the guilty man within twenty minutes but when the suspect got hauled into New Scotland Yard he saw the man couldn't have pulled off the crime. There was always something he missed. In this case there was a twin brother involved who had Sherlock running around like a nutter.

He needed sleep more than anything. He walked straight into his bedroom and didn't even bother undressing as he fell face first into his pillows. Sherlock was on the brink of a deep slumber as he heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs squeal in delight. John! John was here. Sherlock jumped out of bed and ran into the living room, shoving his knit work under a pillow just as John opened the door. It was lucky he had his back towards Sherlock and the living room or he would have seen Sherlock scrambling to rearrange the pillows.

"Yes I'll give it to him, Mrs. Hudson. I'll give Mary your regards. Thank you. Good night Mrs. Hudson."

John closed the door behind him, sighing in relief. He held out a bag to Sherlock. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had bought some more milk anyway.

"Mary asked me to check up on you. She said you never called her back. Since when do you call people, you always prefer to text." John quirked an amused eyebrow.

Sherlock swayed and let out a jaw splitting yawn. John knew what was up and ordered him to sit as he made Sherlock a cup of tea. John got a beer for himself. Sherlock always seemed to have a few bottles ready, Mrs. Hudson secretly restocked his refrigerator in case John would come by. He took the cup from John's hands and took a scolding sip.

"You solved a new case then?" John smiled as he sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock told John all about it. Halfway through he pulled his feet up on the sofa and tucked them beneath his long legs. His words started to blur together as he tried to finish telling John what happened. Sherlock didn't even notice John grinning at him as Sherlock leaned back against the sofa cushions and slowly fell asleep.

Sherlock stirred in his new found slumber. A soft snore escape his mouth and John laughed.

"For a genius you are terrible with basic biological needs, you know that right?"

Sherlock let his head fall to the side. The dead weight uncomfortable and he shifted around until he hit John's shoulder. John contemplated waking Sherlock up and sending him to bed but he knew from experience it would be better to let Sherlock sleep. He was afraid to move, afraid to wake his friend. The warmth felt comfortable and John decided he didn't need to move for a little bit longer as he too doze off.

With a start John woke up, disoriented at first with Sherlock draped all over him. He untangled the mess of limbs carefully so he wouldn't throw Sherlock to the floor and stood up. He heard a metallic clang as his foot hit the floor and bent down to investigate. In the twilight of dawn he could make out it was a long sort of needle and John feared the worst. He picked the needle up and let out a soft exasperated giggle as he understood it was no more than an ordinary knitting needle. There was a big difference between a thick knitting needle and one of the slim hypodermic kind and as a doctor John should be able to see the contrast even in the weak light.

But what was a knitting needle doing on the floor of the living room? It must've been for a case somehow, John was certain of it. Sherlock hummed peacefully in his trance-like sleep. John moved to get the old quilt on the end of the sofa and draped it over Sherlock. The pillows at the end fell on the floor and they revealed Sherlock's intricate knit work.

John was stunned, he couldn't stop staring at the lush green colour. He reached out and slipped his fingers over the scarf. It felt incredibly soft and John wondered why Sherlock had hidden away his efforts. It surely wasn't because he felt ashamed of knitting, Sherlock being ashamed of anything was a ridiculous notion. Sherlock had hidden the scarf away though, John wasn't supposed to see it. Hesitantly John picked up the pillows and placed them back on the end of the sofa. He wrote Sherlock a quick note telling him he went home and left as quietly as possible.

Sherlock awoke early in the evening all stiff from the awkward angle he had slept in. It took him a while to remember what had happened but the note scribbled in barely legible doctor's handwriting made the memories resurface quickly. He had fallen asleep on top of John! That was not the way Sherlock was supposed to show his sentiment.

He started pacing around like a mad man. Trying to remember what had happened right before sleep took him away from John. He could only think of what John would now think of Sherlock. Was he angry over the sudden exclaim, did he even think more of it other than Sherlock simply having drifted off? And if he had been able to deduce anything, was there a possibility John shared the feeling? Did John experience the light feeling in his stomach whenever he saw Sherlock? Did the world tune out, leaving nothing but the two of them?

It was ridiculous. Sherlock knew better than to get so worked up over an emotional state that made him vulnerable. He had never understood what it meant to have such strong affections for another human being and starting now was not a clever idea. John had Mary. He liked Mary, actually he liked Mary immensely and the idea of John being happy with her didn't hurt nearly enough as it should. It hurt thinking of John and some boring nobody, at least Mary was intelligent. He made a mental note to get Mary a fitting gift as he sat down on the sofa again.

He rubbed his hands over his face and picked up the knitting. He needed to get the feel of the routine back before he was at top speed once more. Before he knew it a full hour had passed and full darkness had set in. It wasn't too big of a problem since Sherlock could see just fine in the dark but he noticed he started to slip the needle in a wrong stitch a couple of times. He stood up to turn on the lights and the ball of yarn dropped on the floor once more.

Sherlock walked back to the sofa with the yarn in his hands. He dropped it next to him and started working again. With every stitch he finished he noticed the wool pulling tighter and tighter. He looked away from his work and without fully realising it he yelled for Mrs. Hudson.

The green thread spilled everywhere. Big knots made it impossible to continue working and Sherlock felt panic rising in his gut. He needed to finish this scarf. The party was in two days and he needed this present to be perfect. John deserved a good present and this was the only way he knew to get a present that was worth more than the material worth.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out again, the cracking of his voice giving him away.

He started to pick the knots out of the green yarn without looking what he was doing. He pulled a piece of string high over his head and dropped it, the thread landing in his hair. He huffed and started pulling the knots frantically, releasing little angry noises when he got stuck and little content hums when he pulled the right pieces. It bothered Sherlock more than anything that his usual keen eye and sense for puzzles had left him completely. He could easily imagine John laughing at the sight Sherlock made, ruffled clothes, threads of wool in his hair and draped over his arms and legs. There was even a piece that clung to a rough patch on his shirt.

He had given up on Mrs. Hudson coming to his rescue, she frequently didn't hear him in the first place. With a grunt that wouldn't be out of place coming from a lumberjack, Sherlock pulled the final piece free and started knitting again at a brutal pace. He was so immersed in finishing the scarf he didn't notice time flying by.

Sherlock slipped the needle in the last stitch and casted off. The scarf was finally finished. Birds were chirping outside to signal the coming break of dawn and Sherlock still had a few hours to spare before the party. Mary still needed a present and Sherlock needed a long shower before he would head out.

He picked up the plush scarf and inspected it. It was clear to Sherlock's keen eye that he made a few mistakes and even though John would not notice it, it made Sherlock feel disgruntled. How could he give John a gift that wasn't impeccable? He couldn't do that. John deserved more, deserved better than faulty work and flawed promises. This gift was supposed to show John how he felt. How much he cared for him and how much he regretted the time they had forcibly spend apart.

The scarf wasn't a complete disaster. It would seem perfectly finished to anyone but a highly skilled knitter. It was soft and warm and he couldn't bring himself to throw it out. Mary. Mary still needed a present as well and she frequently wore a baby pink scarf. The green would be a better pair and she would love it. It was a safe bet. Mary would have a present that she would enjoy and Sherlock would be able to get John a better present while he still had the chance.

Sherlock was nervous. This never happened to Sherlock and he wondered if it was a lingering thought of his apprehension towards John liking the scarf. A sense of calm ran over him as he rang the doorbell. Mary opened and gave him a big hug. She smiled as she took one of his bags filled with gifts. Sherlock could hear music and chatter coming from the living room.

"Everyone else came a bit early. Tea?" Sherlock nodded his response.

Mary walked towards the kitchen while Sherlock entered the living room. Lestrade's voice was booming through the small space.

"Why couldn't the christmas tree stand up? Because it doesn't have any legs!"

Mrs. Hudson clearly had too much to drink already as she couldn't stop giggling at the dreadful joke. John walked up to Sherlock with a cup of tea. He handed it over and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder to tell him he was glad he was here. Sherlock smiled and took a sip of tea. He tried not to stare but John was standing so close and yet all he wanted was to close the distance completely. To let go of his cup and pull John with him, away from the people Sherlock had to share him with. Instead Sherlock let the moment pass and quietly drank.

Mrs. Hudson was still enjoying Lestrade's awful sense of humour and Mary was talking to Anderson about his wife. If only the evening was done with and he could go back home and mope around in silence. That moment Mary decided it was time for the presents. Good, that would speed up the proceedings. Now that John was on the other side of the room next to Mary, the empty space next to him felt vast.

Half of all the presents where opened when Mary and John grabbed the presents Sherlock had selected for them. A flash of dread ran through Sherlock's spine. He had spend an almost obscene amount of money on John's present while Mary's gift was decidedly more sober. Sherlock felt torn. Mary deserved better than a flawed everyday object while said ordinarity was also more unique than any other present Sherlock was to give. John's present may have been expensive and had a limited availability, it wasn't very personal.

Mary unwrapped the paper and grinned. She drew in breath and ran her fingers over the scarf.

"What is it dear?" Curiosity got the better of Mrs. Hudson.

Mary dropped the gift-wrap and draped the scarf around her neck. She couldn't stop running her hands over the soft yarn. She grabbed the end and ran it over John's face.

"Feel this, John! I am never taking this scarf off, this feels amazing!"

John grinned at Mary and then he turned to face Sherlock. He didn't say anything but there was no need to do so. John was confused. Perhaps Sherlock hadn't hidden his knitting as well as he thought when John came over. He knew. John knew Mary was not the intended recipient, yet he seemed happy about it. He had been scared Sherlock didn't take to Mary and he had been proven otherwise time and again. John's eyes softened and he broke contact with Sherlock.

"I think there is someone here who hasn't opened a single present yet." John grabbed a different present and handed it to Sherlock.

"Merry Christmas."

John's voice was a near whisper made it clear this present came from him. His fingers brushed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock briefly wondered if anyone else could hear the crackling of his nerve endings as John's fingers retreated, leaving a hot trail in their wake. Sherlock looked at his hand and expected to find visible marks though he only saw the package. Neatly wrapped, bow handmade, handwriting female. Definitely Mary's. Sherlock opened his present with slightly shaking hands.

He held up his present with a careful grip as if to handle a frail piece of art. Safety goggles, clearly not the dime a dozen kind found freely on the market. The glasses itself were unremarkable but the shields on the arms made them special. They were crystal clear polycarbonate with an intricate engraving of the words S. Holmes.

Sentiment blurred everything that came in the next ten minutes. He barely registered the rest of the gifts he received and only snapped out of his quiet pensiveness when John opened the last present left, Sherlock's present which he had put down in favour of handing Sherlock his gift. John didn't dally about, quickly tearing away the packaging and holding up the new watch. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had given him an expensive watch but the Tag Heuer Monaco got smashed when John got hit by the cyclist in order to distract him from Sherlock's fake death.

"Thank you, whoever this came from. Much appreciated!"

John deliberately ignored Sherlock while Mary caught Sherlock's eyes and nodded when a quick smile crossed her face and lit up her eyes.

Greg was the first to come and thank Sherlock for his present. It was obvious he had no idea which present came from Sherlock but that didn't make the Detective Inspector any less genuine. Mrs. Hudson and Molly came around together, his landlady inviting him over for tea on the condition he would behave himself and not smash her elegant teapot. Sherlock thanked them in turn for their presents, which he wasn't able to recall in the slightest since he was still in a bit of a daze.

When Anderson scurried across, Sherlock was fed up with the whole ordeal. He wanted to talk to John but he was being kept away, kept busy every time John was free from company. Sherlock turned to walk over to Greg but all attempts proved futile.

"I know the book came from you, Holmes. I, uh... Thanks, I guess."

"Let's just hope your endeavor of solving crimes will become less strenuous." Sherlock retorted.

"Oh yes, if that means you won't show up to kick me off my own crime scene anymore I'd gladly take it. But I am being serious here don't spoil it. Thank you and I hope the Erlenmeyer's and Petri dishes will come in handy. Since you break them often according to Dr. Hooper."

And with that Anderson left the party, leaving Sherlock behind who muttered his thanks while he set out to join Lestrade and John. The conversation was incredibly boring but it gave him the time to think about what he wanted to say to John. What he wasn't prepared for however, where the pair of gentle hands turning Sherlock around and into a dance.

"Excuse me dear mister Holmes, but I was under the impression you were quite the dancer."

Sherlock laughed at Mary. A genuine, delighted laugh as he started to spin her around.

"How about we try to make my husband a little jealous? I'll bet he'd be craving a dance by the end of it."

After a bit Mrs. Hudson joined in with John while Greg and Molly were swaying in place. As Sherlock and Mary danced around at a leisurely pace they both stole glances at John in turns.

"Thank you for the scarf Sherlock, it is stunning."

"Here's to it keeping you warm. I'm exceedingly pleased to have received such a rare gift myself."

"That's what we hoped for, love. John told me they were strong enough to stop a bullet."

Right on cue John appeared at their side to cut in and dance with Mary. John's hand rested on the small of Sherlock's back as he leaned in to kiss his wife. The touch reverberated through-out Sherlock's entire body as he stood aside and talked to Lestrade.

Sherlock's first chance to talk to John was ruined by the arrival of the taxi to take Mrs. Hudson and Molly home safely. The second time Harry decided to show up, alternating between yelling how much she loved her brother and sobbing how much she hated him. Apparently she was still on her best behaviour and Lestrade offered to bring her back home.

While Mary showed them out it dawned on Sherlock he still didn't know what to say to John. How to convey the feelings that had been plaguing him for so long. It turned out John wouldn't let him say anything at all. They locked gazes for what seemed like an eternity. John nodded and smiled as he went about cleaning the flat.

Sherlock stayed and cleaned with John and Mary, feeling bewildered and dizzy. How much did John actually know, was Mary aware too? The possibility seemed very real but Sherlock wasn't able to deduce the answers off either of them. When John let out an enormous yawn, Mary send him off to bed as she and Sherlock continued to clean.

They were done a mere five minutes after John had gone and they fell into easy banter and enjoyable conversation. They talked about Sherlock's recent cases, the foray into knitting and the ways Sherlock and John taunted Mycroft. But through all the laughter he shared with Mary there was a sadness. The point of the evening was to share his attachment to John and he had failed. He had been too late in the first place and now he fell short again. And here was Mary, sensing something was the matter as she tried to keep him occupied, to take his mind off things.

All the while they didn't notice the night passing by quietly, only aware of the time when John walked into the living room again, still drowsy and all tousled hair and clothes. He petted Sherlock's curls and gave Mary a kiss. Mary smiled at the both of them and Sherlock realised then and there that he wasn't too late and the previous evening hadn't been a disaster at all.