A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM LAURA AND THE BAKERSTREET BOYS!

Disclaimer: I only own Laura.

All right. Here's what's happened since I calmly left (read; angrily stormed out of) 221B about a week ago.

Sherlock and I were on speaking terms again. After he begged and pleaded for me to come back (read; I came after it became too impractical for me to remain outside-it was hailing-and had come back to the flat to find a cup of hot chocolate in my favorite reindeer mug and a first grade astronomy assignment on the coffee table with a note at the bottom saying it was both easy and stupid, but more than anything necessary. I took that as an apology), I finally came back to make sure the poor soul wouldn't do something drastic (read; find a new gorgeous, red-headed flat mate with a stunning personality and a talent for trying his patience). I, being the caring and sisterly flat mate, had to make sure he wouldn't do something we'd both regret (read; I will forever feel threatened by Amy Pond).

Anyway, since we were back on speaking terms and I had acquired a cold from standing outside during a hail storm, which was all Sherlock's fault, I was now being taken care of by the lovely ladies' man known as Doctor John Watson! That brings us to where we are now, my dear imaginary friends, as I am internally narrating everything happening from my sickbed! Er...couch.

"Laura, what on earth are you doing?" I heard. It took a moment, but I was able to focus on a face in front of me. I blinked at John.

"What?"

He sighed and I could see he almost rolled his eyes. I pouted. I thought he was supposed to be the nice one.

"You've been making odd faces at my wall for the past ten minutes and seventeen seconds," Sherlock interjected from his seat near his laptop. He turned his head and smirked at my scowl. "And it seems you haven't stopped."

I retract my earlier statement. John is the nicest, kindest man in this flat. I'll buy him reindeer socks and a jumper for Christmas. Sherlock will get nothing. NOTHING BUT COAL.

Apparently, my thoughts showed on my face (I was staring at John's clothing), because Sherlock smirked wider and said,"John, Laura's going to get you-"

My eyes widened.

"SHUT UP SHERLY ITS A SECRET!" I shrieked, lunging out of my couch burrito and attempting to slap a hand over Sherlock's mouth. Keep in mind, I was covered in blankets and Sherlock's duvet (What? It's not like he uses it. I was doing him a favor. Yep.) and dressing gown, with John's jumper underneath (so what, I take their things, shut up), trying to run.

Long story short, the living room now looked like a blanket-fort gone wrong, I tripped halfway through the pile, miscalculated where I would land, ended up sprawled on the floor with my hand twisted up behind me after my bracelet got caught in the button of Sherlock's stupid Armani suit jacket.

There was a silence.

Sherlock snickered.

Snickered.

Shooting him and John dirty looks (John had been just snorting away to himself since I had fallen. He's getting coal now, too.), I tried climbing to my feet without dislocating my shoulder (that jacket may or may not accidentally end up in the fireplace later, but you didn't hear it from me), I stood and tried to get his button out of my bracelet.

Why I have the mind of a sexually inept teenage boy, I do not know.

"John, could you get my jewelry pliers?" I asked stiffly, cutting him a glare. John's laughter cut off and he looked at me sheepishly. I looked toward the toilet pointedly. "Pliers? Please?"

He scratched the back of his head.

"Er, yeah, right. Where are they?" I sighed and gave him a small smile.

"First cupboard, third shelf, bottom right." He smiled back, nodded and left.

"Um, you're welcome?" Some people are just so ungrateful. After I took the time out of my busy schedule to give him directions! I sighed. Kids these days.

Yes, he is like ten years older than me.

"They're your pliers," Sherlock pointed out. I glared up from where I was crouched around that STUPID TOP BUTTON.

"And your point is?" He rolled his eyes. "You know what? This is all your fault," I sniffed, turning pointedly back to my bracelet. I could probably just cut the button, if I got the angle right.

"My fault?" Sherlock spluttered. "How is the fact that you tried to tackle me and missed, getting your bracelet caught in my jacket my fault?" I felt my cheeks go warm and glared at him again.

"You provoked me."

"I did not provoke you!"

"'Oh Johnny baby, I know what our gorgeous sexy flatmate who if far more intelligent than Irene Adler got you for Christmas darling!'"

Okay, so I might have exaggerated, both in voice and content, but you and I both know that's what he meant. Sherlock, meanwhile, just looked embarrassed.

"Firstly, the fact that you are implying I have romantic feelings for John is not true." I smirked.

"I wasn't implying that. People say things like 'darling' and 'babe' all the time to their friends. I say it to you guys." He flushed further.

"Yes, but you're female."

I raised my eyebrows.

Did he just.

"Sherlock, we just made up and it's Christmas, do you really want to argue right now?"

"Technically, it's Christmas Eve-"

"Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine."

"Thank you."

We sat in silence until John came back.

"Why do you need jewelry pliers anyway?"

I raised an eyebrow and jerked my bracelet arm a bit. I flinched. Ow.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know that, but you," he said, pointing to Sherlock, "could just take your jacket off so you," he pointed at me,"could just unhook the clasp."

I stared at him. "Wha-"

"I know," said Sherlock. I could legitimately hear the smirk in his voice.

I jerked my head up to look at Sherlock. "You KNOW?"

He rolled his eyes. Again. "Of course I know."

I blinked at him in confusion. "Than why didn't you say anything?"

He blinked back and shrugged, tugging my arm up slightly with his movement. Wow, his shirt is really soft. I'll have to take (ahem, borrow) it later.

"You were amusing me."

I glared. Oh. "So you decided to keep my arm trapped to your chest at a very uncomfortable angle because I was AMUSING YOU?" He looked a bit sheepish.

"Not good?" I am so taking that shirt.

I smiled through gritted teeth. "Not good."

"Maybe 'not good' will be your 'always'."

We jerked our heads in John's direction, me in horror, Sherlock in horrified amusement. "JOHN!"

He smirked at us. "Not good?"