A/N: Yay! A story from me! Don't worry I haven't forgotten "A Shift in Priorities", I'm working on it. Slowly, but surely.

I made up Sherlock's number, so don't go calling it, please. 070 is the mobile phone prefix, 1881 is the year Dr Watson meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time, and 2010 is when our lovely John and Sherlock meet.

It's a bit of beast, lengthwise, at least for me. Sorry about that. Did a last minute ending that extended it for 1400 words. It wasn't short to begin with.

I usually post on Christmas, but this year is too hectic to even think about devoting the time to do it that day.

A deep hearted thanks to my beta, Old Ping Hai.

Happy Christmas all!

John kicked maliciously at the plastic snowman the surgery had put up to make it look more festive. This was the third time today that it leapt off the wall to attack him.

"Bah humbug!" he hissed at the thing. He sighed and picked it up to dust off the scuff marks from his shoe. He sighed again, more heavily.

He loved Christmas. Really. It was his favorite holiday, it just this whole year was getting him down. He was going it alone this year and he couldn't get into the Christmas spirit.

He walked to his desk and rummaged around for some white athletic tape.

"Ha!" he cried out when he found it. He took it out to the waiting room and proceeded to tape the monster to the wall.

He had used up nearly the whole roll when he heard a light laugh behind him. Sarah, his boss was nearly doubled over with mirth.

"Oh, ha ha," John growled. "At least he's not going to attack some surly old fellow with a solicitor on speed dial."

"He's only attacked you, you must have incurred his wrath somehow," Sarah replied, once she got herself under control.

John glared at her and then turned to finish his task.

"You finish your shopping yet?" Sarah asked, changing the subject.

"God no," John muttered. "Not even close."

Sarah laughed. "Yeah, me either. I still need to get you something. Anything you want?"

John turned from his task and tossed the empty roll into a nearby garbage bin. He pulled out his phone with a sigh.

"I don't know, that guy to call me?" he asked mournfully.

Sarah's expression softened. "You haven't heard from him?"

"No."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

John didn't know how he had let Mike talk him into this. It must been the puppy dog eyes set in that round, innocent face. John always thought himself to be an athletic sort, but barreling down a mountain on two thin strips of wood with only metal poles for steering was the last thing he want to do. But here he was, freezing his arse off on his way to the only ski shop that rented equipment near his flat.

He stood there looking at a pair of skis, cursing Mike with every cell in his body. He didn't want to do this, but somehow the chubby doctor had made him promise on his mother's grave. An oath he would never break.

"Downhill or cross-country?" a warm, sultry voice from behind him asked.

John turned around to see a tall, dark-haired bloke with piercing eyes and a mischievous grin.

"There's a difference?" John asked, turning back to the rack of skis.

"Oh yes," the man practically purred. "Cross-country are the long ones meant to be used horizontally across long distances; the shorter, broader ones are meant to be going down hill."

"Oh," John said. He pulled out his phone and looked at it. "I should ask."

The other man laughed. "I'm sure he means downhill, no one does cross-country for fun."

John smiled back. "Both sound like too much work to me."

"Nonsense, downhill you just keep going until reach the bottom," a grin spread over his face, "One way or another."

"You know that really isn't instilling confidence in me," John groused.

"Relax, you'll do fine. Just don't run into any trees," the man said.

"Why's that?"

"It could kill you, and that would be a shame."

"Okay...why?" John asked curiously.

A wicked grin threatened to split the man's face, "Because you are very interesting."

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and took a step back. "Interesting?"

"Oh, yes," the man breathed, far too close to John's ear to be polite. "Sherlock Holmes, by the way." He stuck out his hand to John as he exited John's personal space.

"John Watson," John supplied. "Do you work here?"

Sherlock laughed. "No, just trying to escape my brother for a few moments." Sherlock indicated behind him to a tall, stern-looking fellow who was fussing with a rather large assortment of ski clothes. "He's going on holiday with his boyfriend for the first time and is driving me insane."

John laughed. "Fair enough."

"Sherlock!" the brother bellowed.

"Well, I guess that's my cue," Sherlock said with a smirk. He pulled out a card and handed it to John. "Call me or text. Actually, text. I prefer to text."

John looked down at the card, it read:

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

070-1881-2010

John's head shot up, but the man had vanished and reappeared next to his brother like a bloody magician.

Sherlock caught his eye and then ducked his head to hide a small smile from his brother.

John was doomed.

John looked at the postcards with a sense of amusement. He had been wandering the town trying to find the last gifts he needed to get. Out of sheer desperation he had wandered into one of those tourist trap shops with tacky souvenirs, when he noticed the rack of postcards and saw the idyllic scenes the postcards represented.

The postcards showed all sorts of festive scenes. London covered in a blanket of snow like something out of a Dickens novel. A country cottage with only the warmth of the window and the smoke from the chimney not sheathed in white.

John looked around at the greyness that smothered London these days. Whatever snow they had gotten had either melted away or turned grey, if not out-and-out black.

He glanced back to the rack and saw one of the London Eye lit up in fairy lights. John looked up, not that he could see the Eye from here, but out of all the postcards there, that one was the most true to life.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and soldiered on, braving the crowds for one last gift. With it being this late in the season, normally he would say to hell with it and just get them a card. But this was Harry, the only family he had left. Their dad had died when he was young. Their mum died right after he had been shipped out for his second tour of duty. She had been putting off going to the doctor for months and wouldn't even let John examine her. But he had gotten her to promise to just before he left.

Stage four skin cancer. She was gone in two months.

Harry had been pissed that he couldn't make it back for the funeral; still was, if he was honest.

John snorted. Pissed. In both senses of the word. She hadn't been a teetotaler to start with, but now he would call her a full-blown alcoholic.

Which of course meant that anything to do with booze was out. John sighed heavily. He had spotted a cute novelty mug, but had put it back when he realized that she would only fill it with the hardest liquor she could find.

He was about to give up when something caught his eye. There in the store window was a beautiful artist's pencil set, complete with a soft leather case. It reminded him of those old movies about archaeologists and their tool kits. He leaned in close to read the price tag.

"Yes!" he cried. It well within his budget. He went in and immediately scooped it up before anyone else could.

He was finally done with Christmas shopping, and what's best was the fact that Harry would be pleased.

She was a fantastic artist when she plied herself to her craft and it was her style, too.

He looked around and started to laugh out loud. Across the street was the burnt husk of the remains of the shop where he had met the bloke he had been chasing all year.

John had been on his way to work when the shop across the street exploded. Like literally exploded. He rushed over to start helping people away from the blaze and examine anyone who might have been hurt in the blast.

He had been looking at the forehead gash of a dazed teenager, when a man stumbled out of the burning wreckage. John was at his side in an instant.

"Are you alright?" he asked the man. Then he got a closer look at his rescue, what was that fellow's name. It had been unusual."Sherlock?" he hazarded a guess.

The man's head snapped up and sure enough, there was the ski shop encounter, Sherlock Holmes.

"John?" Sherlock asked, blinking in confusion.

"Christ!" John cursed. "Did you hit your head?"

Sherlock shook him off. "Of course not!" But that was belied by the uneasy sway the taller man gave way to.

"Right, I am a doctor," John growled. "I can tell when someone has hit their head, you dope."

John led Sherlock over to the kerb and plopped him down on it.

He was checking Sherlock's eyes for dilation when a grey-haired man in a light trench coat stormed over to them and immediately began screaming at the detective.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? I have told you time and time again, it's my case, you don't just go dashing off without telling me! That was by far the stupidest thing I have ever seen you do! It was reckless and-" he cut off as he noticed John for the first time. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," John said with a grin. "Do continue, I'm sure he deserves it."

The man just blinked at John. "And you are?"

Sherlock glared up at him. "He's with me."

"John Watson," John said. "Apparently, I'm with him."

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," the other man replied. He tilted his head to the side. "Wait..."

Sherlock groaned. "You would actually use your brain for this!"

"You're the John!" Greg exclaimed excitedly.

John looked at Sherlock, who had turned a lovely shade of pink, and then back at Greg. "Appears so."

"He never shuts up about you," Greg said.

And Sherlock promptly buried his head in his hands.

"So I've got to ask," Greg said, "because he sure the hell ain't going to." Greg jerked his head at the thoroughly embarrassed detective.

"Okay, shoot." John stood up and dusted off the knees of his slacks.

"Why the hell haven't you called?"

It was John's turn to blush. "My sister accidentally washed my wallet, his card included. I couldn't make out the name, much less the actual number."

Sherlock's hands dropped and he growled, "It's on the bloody website."

"You have a website?" John and Greg asked together.

"Doesn't everyone?" Sherlock sniffed. "It's called the Science of Deduction."

"Here," John said, thrusting his hand under Sherlock's nose. "Give me your phone."

Sherlock pulled out the device and unlocked the screen before handing it over.

John fumbled with it a few moments before handing it back.

As expected John had sent himself a message, but what wasn't expected was that he saved the contact info as THE John.

Sherlock laughed outright and showed it to Greg, who chuckled.

"Look, I'm really late for work," John said after looking at his watch. "Text me, we'll do lunch, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. John said his goodbyes, fully confident in the knowledge that he would see Sherlock again.

John kicked at an errant pile of snow. They had actually got their Christmas miracle, and it had snowed properly.

But just thinking about Sherlock made him feel frustrated. Not only had they never made it to lunch, John had missed a perfect opportunity in the summer, too. Sherlock had invited him to go sailing on his boat. His boat. He had been excited.

That hadn't been his fault. He had spent the weekend tending to heat stroke and the nastiest sunburn an Englishman could get.

One of his mates had decided to play a prank on him in the form of swapping out his sunblock with Harry's coconut oil, resulting in one fried John Watson, who had spent the entire time bathing in aloe and cursing his friend.

John had got the ultimate revenge though. The guy's girlfriend came over to apologize and stayed for Harry.

Apparently, Clara was a closeted lesbian who came out for the younger Watson sibling.

They were still dating. It was one of the reasons he turned down their invite to come out for Christmas. He couldn't take seeing them so god damned happy and raining on their parade wouldn't be a very brotherly thing to do.

But then he had turned down all of his other invites as well, telling them that he already had plans. All of them assuming he was going to be with one group or another, when the truth was that he just didn't want to go anywhere. He just wanted to do Christmas right this year, without all the trappings and glitter.

He looked up at the snow falling to the earth and his bitterness melted like the flakes on his warm skin.

How could he not be excited? He got Christmas snow. Really, what could better than that?

John wasn't a fan of Halloween as whole. Well, to be honest, he was British. The idea of a Halloween party was mostly American, but like many American things, it had slowly worked its way across the pond.

But then the idea of playing dress-up and dancing the night away with Sherlock Holmes more than appealed to the ex-army doctor. It sent a thrill down his spine that he could not begin to describe.

The Yard had been hosting a party and they both thought it would be great way to meet up. It had sounded like a good idea at the time. But by the fourth proposition to have a quickie in the loo, he was really starting to regret it.

Although, the costume might have been a factor. He dressed deliberately provocatively. He had been trying to impress a certain consulting detective. He had dressed as a "pirate," complete with tight pants, cutlass, eyepatch, and boots. The shirt was white and billowy and probably showed far too much of his chest.

He hadn't been the only one who had dressed to impress. He had a lot of persistent people trying to hit on him, but none more insistent than Catwoman.

She had been dressed in the grey cat suit of the 1960's American TV series, her black hair styled after that of Eartha Kitt. John figured that the only other alternative for a black Catwoman was that horrible film with Halle Berry, so he would have gone with Eartha Kitt, too.

"Well, hello there," she purred.

And even though he had been waiting for Sherlock, John took the time to look her over appreciatively.

"Hello."

"You looking for a particular booty to plunder, or are you out to pillage indiscriminately?" she asked with a wink.

John laughed. "You must have been wracking your brain all night to come up that."

She blushed a little under her mask. "Maybe a little, yeah."

John shook his head. "Waiting for someone, sorry."

Her look turned seductive, "You could play with me for awhile, I'm sure she won't mind."

"'He' actually," John corrected.

She backed up a bit, "You're gay?"

John shook his head, "Bisexual."

She lit up almost immediately. "Well, he'll never know."

Again John shook his head. "I'm pretty sure he would. Probably read it off my shoes or something."

That brought her up short. "You're waiting for Sherlock?"

John nodded.

"Wait, you're John? God, I thought Greg was just being nice, playing along when he said that he had met you."

John frowned. "Excuse me?"

She crossed her arms in front her chest. "Look, you seem like a nice bloke, stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?" John's frown deepened.

"He's a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored. One day, we'll all be standing around a body and he'll be the one that put it there."

"Look, whoever you are-" John began furiously.

"Sgt. Sally Donavan," she said with more than some pride.

"Sally," John corrected. "Who the hell do you think you are telling me who I can or can't meet up with? You're not my mum."

He was about to really lay into her when his phone rang. "Excuse me, I have to take this."

"Yes," he greeted. He immediately brightened up, "Oh, Sherlock, hi."

Sally rolled her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, just listening to your biggest fan expound on your virtues," John replied sarcastically.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "Tell Sally that if she's going to shag a married man, she could do a damn sight better than Anderson."

John repeated the comment and she stormed off in a huff.

"Ta! thanks for that. So when are you going to get here?"

"I-" Sherlock began, when there was the sound of a brief struggle and he heard a different voice come through the line.

"John, it's Greg, you remember me?"

"Oh, of course, how are you doing Detective Inspector?"

"I've been better, although if looks could kill, I'd be dead with the glares I've been getting from Sherlock."

"Okay, so what's up?" John asked slowly.

"You see it's my fault, there was this crime scene I just wanted Sherlock to take a peek at, and well..."

"Oh for god's sake!" Sherlock could be heard in the background. "Just tell him!"

"We're on the other side of London and my beater has given up the ghost. There is no way we'll get to the party in time."

John closed his eyes. "Oh."

"I'm sorry, John. He didn't want to go. I made him. It's entirely my fault." Greg sounded dreadful.

"John?" This time the voice was Sherlock's.

"Yeah?"

"I'm so sorry."

"You'll call me?" John asked.

"Of course."

But of course, John hadn't heard a damn thing from Sherlock. After a couple of weeks of trying to get ahold of him, John had given up.

Forget about it, John thought sternly to himself. It's Christmas. Just let it go, just let it die with the year. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He nodded firmly to himself as he turned on the oven.

He began washing and preparing his turkey. John scoffed. As if: this thing could barely be called a chicken, it was that small. But he was only feeding himself and even then it was still too much for one person.

John popped the bird into the oven. Starting to take stock in what he needed to finish the meal, he hit himself in the head with his palm.

He looked out at the falling snow and sighed. He really didn't want to go without it, it's what made Christmas dinner for him. His mum's recipe was divine.

He turned the oven down a bit and then pulled on his winter gear to brave the snow. John dashed to the only all-night grocery nearby. He scoured the shelves and finally found one can tucked away behind some green beans.

John took his prize to the queue and cursed his luck. He was stuck behind this tall chap. He blinked.

With dark, curly hair.

Oh god.

"Sherlock?" John asked, praying that it was him.

The man turned around, and John thanked every one of his lucky stars, individually and by name. It was Sherlock.

"John?"

He nodded.

"I'm spending Christmas alone this year," Sherlock said. "This year has been insane."

"Me, too," John agreed. "But why are you...?" Sherlock turned fully around and John spotted the can in his hand. "You mean you forgot cranberries, too?"

The two of them started laughing and laughing.

Once they had stopped, John sighed happily. "I have a turkey in the oven, you want to come over, have dinner together?"

Sherlock's face lit up in a soft smile. "I only have the leftovers my landlady left before she went to visit her family."

"That's settled then." John handed Sherlock his can of cranberries. "You take care of the cranberries and I'll take care of the rest."

"Sounds like a plan," Sherlock agreed. "It's a date."

"Finally."

John rushed home to tidy up the flat and get everything ready for his first actual date with Sherlock.

What if they ended up hating each other, or worse, decided it was best just being friends? Before the cycle of self-doubt fully crept into his head, there was a knock on the door. Startled out of his dark spiral, he dashed to get it.

There standing on the other side was Sherlock Holmes, with both cans of cranberries and a very nice bottle of scotch.

"For after dinner," Sherlock explained, holding up the bottle.

John took it from him with an open look of awe, "Thank you. Come in, come in."

Sherlock followed him.

John set the bottle on the coffee table and then took the cranberries.

"Everything smells good," Sherlock commented from the living room, as John wandered into the kitchen.

"Thanks," John said, opening the cans. "You can put your coat in the bedroom." John jerked his head to a small door behind him.

Sherlock nodded and then did as he was bid.

He came out shaking his curls with his fingers to get out the damp snow.

"Where did you learn to cook?" he asked, leaning over John's shoulder to watch him work.

"My mum," John explained. "She was grateful for the willing subject, heaven knows Harry never wanted to learn."

Sherlock straightened up and John immediately missed the warmth of the detective's body so near his.

"She must have been so disappointed having two boys."

John laughed. "Harry is short for Harriet," he replied with a smirk.

"Sister!" Sherlock hissed.

"It's okay, you aren't the first to make that mistake, and won't be the last."

Sherlock still grumbled.

John popped the cranberries into the fridge to chill and began to work on the vegetables and dressing.

"You want to help me make a salad?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked. "Sure."

And they worked side by side, preparing the finishing touches for their meals in tandem.

John pulled out the bottle of wine he had been saving all year and poured them each a glass, bringing Sherlock's to where the detective WAS carving the turkey. Sherlock put down the fork and took a brief sip.

"Hmm, very good," he purred and then set it on the counter to finish carving up the bird. Sherlock handed him a piece of the white meat and John took a bite, instead of just taking it from him.

John moaned around bite. "Very good, apparently I'm a better cook than I thought."

Sherlock chuckled.

They sat down at the table, chatting about their year and how chaotic it had been.

John could almost feel the connection cackling between them, but he had to ask.

"Why didn't you call after Halloween?"

Sherlock ducked his head. "That case Lestrade wanted me to look at ended up taking nearly three weeks to solve and I figured by that point you'd be too upset to speak with me." He looked up through his lashes. "I thought you were going to start in on me in the store earlier tonight."

John shook his head. "I was too happy to see you again."

Sherlock's face lit up and the rest of the meal was spent in easy silence.

After dinner, they sat on the sofa sipping the scotch Sherlock had brought. They were sitting so close that John could have sworn that they were cuddling.

As the night wore on and the alcohol loosened them up, they dropped all pretense of trying not to cuddle and were fully entwined with each other. Hands stroking and caressing, while legs were wrapped together.

John wasn't sure who leaned forward first, but soon caressing became kissing. Soon he was panting for breath as the kisses became more heated.

Hands were grasping at clothes and moving them out the way to get that first touch of skin on skin. Shirts were dispatched with haste and Sherlock barreled John into the sofa. John gasped at the heated expression and then gasped again when Sherlock ground down.

All of John's nerve endings lit up like the Christmas tree. He hastened to get their trousers and pants off as quickly as he could.

Sherlock pressed their bodies together and started to do amazing things with his hands and tongue.

"If you keep that up, this is going to be over very quickly," John panted.

"That's the plan," Sherlock growled. "I assure you, next time I'll be more patient."

John's brain went offline at the thought of doing this again, and he came abruptly, with Sherlock not far behind.

They cleaned up and went to sleep in John's bed.

The next morning John was up and making breakfast when Sherlock came out, wrapped in a sheet from the bed.

John accepted the detective's kiss with a smile of amusement.

"You could have used one of my bathrobes," John said, indicating the sheet with a nod of his head.

"No, I couldn't have, it would have barely covered my arse," Sherlock groused, pouring himself a cup of coffee that had been brewing since John woke up. "Why are you so short?"

"Why are you so bleeding tall?" John shot back with a grin. He put down the spoon he had been using to make the beans and brought Sherlock in close for a kiss. "I still think you should have worn the robe, that way I could see those incredible legs of yours."

Sherlock blushed.

All throughout breakfast they couldn't keep their hands off each other. They even had to stop in the middle when things got too heated and they ended up back in the bedroom.

It was almost noon by the time they had finally finished their Christmas brunch.

They were on the couch watching old Christmas movies, when John cursed.

"I got you a present. I saw it when I was looking for a gift for Harry and thought of you," John explained.

He dashed to the tree and began rummaging around the presents he'd been given to look for Sherlock's gift.

"Ah ah!" John cried and turned around to see Sherlock holding out a small, narrow box.

John handed him his small box.

They exchanged boxes.

John's gift was a beautiful antique stethoscope.

"Sherlock, it's gorgeous."

The detective blushed and ducked his head to open his present. Inside was a small leather pouch.

He looked at it in confusion.

"Look inside," John prompted.

Sherlock pulled out the object and gasped. It was a dual magnification magnifying glass.

"It's wonderful."

John pulled Sherlock in for a kiss.

"Happy Christmas, John," Sherlock murmured into John's lips.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he replied, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist, burying his head into the broad chest of his partner.

John smiled and sighed happily. Despite it all, the chaos and the missed opportunities, this was the perfect ending for the year.