To commemorate John's birthday, Sherlock had presented him with a severed hand. They had spent several happy hours dissecting it, admiring the work of a renowned orthopaedic surgeon who had reattached the fingers after they had been torn off during an industrial accident.
When he had returned to the morgue Christmas week, thinking that perhaps he could repeat his earlier success by finding an equally interesting specimen, Molly had frowned at him with disapproval and, taking him by the elbow, firmly escorted him away from the fridges. She had then gathered up her handbag and coat and announced they were going shopping. Sherlock doubted the bright lights and piled counters of Oxford Street could offer anything as interesting, but she assured him, as they exited Barts, that they would find something much more appropriate to the festive season. Now, surrounded by harried shoppers, desperately seeking their own idea of a perfect gift, (preferably at a bargain price), Sherlock was absolutely positive that Molly was wrong.
Though he tried to conceal his misgivings, Molly must have seen them anyway. She smiled up at him gamely, looked around the sales floor, and tilted her head. "Let's try the Men's section."
Skirting around a pair of women determined to have the same novelty umbrella, and several unattended children pretending to be cows, or maybe they were reindeer, the one was going on about its red nose and antlers, they retreated to a relatively less populated section of the department store. Most of one wall and a large amount of floorspace was dominated by displays of ready made suits. Another section contained casual jackets and trousers. There were shirts of all description on rails. A long counter was dominated by ties, scarves, and leather accessories. Compared to the main floor it was a haven of serenity with only a few shoppers frowning over the merchandise.
A tape-measure clad shop assistant chatted with a couple inspecting dinner jackets, whilst another assistant showed off a selection of gloves to a young woman. Sherlock raised a contemplative eyebrow. John's black leather gloves could stand replacing. He started to drift towards the counter when Molly called his name.
She was standing next to a display of cashmere jumpers; mostly unsuitable V-necks, but there were a few promising crew and turtle necks as well. There was one in coal grey that seemed to be in John's size. Perhaps he could purchase an entire B & E ensemble; gloves, jumper, trousers and balaclava to replace the items that had been damaged on their last case.
Molly tracked his eye-line and frowned. "I think this rust colour would complement his colouring better," she said gently, as if she didn't want to question Sherlock's taste, but felt it necessary to do so.
"You don't break into a building wearing something that bright," Sherlock replied sharply, because even to Molly something like that should be obvious. "There's no way you could blend into the shadows, and do I have to mention how well that would show off on CCTV?"
She shushed him and glanced around. Both shop assistants and their customers, as well as a number of other random browsers were looking at him strangely. "Well it would," he said emphatically before sighing in aggravation at the staggering lack of common sense amongst the general populace.
"Maybe we should try some place else," Molly whispered as the clerk behind the counter picked up the telephone receiver. She grabbed Sherlock's hand and practically yanked him off his feet in her haste to leave.
Feeling frustrated, Sherlock glanced around main display area of the department store as he was dragged through it a second time. Scarves, wallets, belts, cologne and shaving kits, they were all just things. Things were fine for most people, but he wanted to give John something different. Something he wouldn't shove into the back of his bureau or only wear on special occasions or stick on a shelf to collect dust.
Still, he could use those gloves.
"Molly, there was a pair of gloves back there." He tried to turn back towards the Men's section. Two store security officers were heading their direction. Molly saw them as well and yanked on his elbow once more.
"I know another place. Just down the street. And the gloves are much nicer," she said nervously as she dodged around a gaggle of bargain hunters and ushered him out the door.
She didn't let go of his arm until they were ten shops away, and even then she looked anxiously down the street to make sure they weren't being followed. She scanned the street, taking her bearings, and then touched his arm. "It's just up here."
The shop specialised in leather goods. And, as Molly promised, the quality was surprisingly high, considering that the stock was ready made. "See?" she said, smiling. "Lots of gloves to chose from."
Feeling the need to placate Molly, Sherlock inspected the selection. He tried on a pair of kid gloves that fit like a second skin and deemed them acceptable. "I'll need a pair to fit this hand." He snatched a flyer off the counter, turned it over and sketched.
The shop assistant nodded. Measured. Searched among the stock underneath the counter. And finally held up a pair of identical black gloves sized to fit the drawing. "Shall I wrap them as a gift, sir?" he asked, automatically tearing off a sheet of cheery red gift wrap off the roller.
Sherlock sighed, reached for his wallet, and felt an almost palpable sense of relief when Molly's phone rang, calling her back to work for a priority autopsy.
Though it didn't seem possible, as he left the shop, Oxford Street seemed even more crowded. Sherlock greeted the throng with a sour expression and shouldered his way through them until he came to a useful alleyway. Gratefully, he retreated into its dingy shadows and watched the sea of Santa-hatted, snow man-jumpered traffic for a long moment before taking a circuitous route involving more alleyways and the rooftops.
John was waiting, putting the finishing touches on a pan full of pineapple slices and gammon steaks. He took in Sherlock's somewhat less than pristine appearance and asked, "Where were you?"
"Shopping." Sherlock pulled the gift wrapped package from the pocket of his greatcoat. "This is for you."
John shut off the cooker before accepting the slightly worse for wear box. "Shouldn't I wait until Christmas?"
"They're gloves. Yours got damaged when we blew that safe, so I figured I should replace them. The wrapping is down to the shop assistant," Sherlock said wearily. "Think of them as an additional treat, if you must attach any holiday significance to them at all."
"Okay," John replied slowly as he tore the paper from the box and lifted the lid.
He made an appreciative noise and lifted the gloves out of the box to inspect them more closely. "They're perfect, Sherlock." He looked up and smiled. "Really nice."
Hungry and in need of a drink after his pointlessly spent afternoon, Sherlock nudged John out of his way and retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. "I'm glad you like them." He glanced over at the pan on the cooker. "Can we eat now?"
John nodded. A shadow passed over his face and he said, "I'll get the plates."
Molly's emergency autopsy required they have a look in. Sherlock and John greeted Lestrade at the back entrance to the pathology lab and they waited together for a mortuary attendant to wheel out the corpse.
"It all seemed routine," Molly explained as she handed over a preliminary autopsy report to Lestrade. "Sudden death. A heart attack seemed likely given his age and physical condition. But then I noticed this." She rolled the cadaver's neck to the side and exposed a wound just under its hairline. "Nasty. It caused a cerebral haemorrhage. Whoever did that was able to get up close and personal. Toxicology's still running analysis, but the preliminary tests show no sedatives or alcohol in the bloodstream and yet he didn't fight back."
"Murder weapon?" Lestrade asked.
Molly shrugged. "If this was a century ago, I would have said a hat pin. These days? Whatever it was, it was longish and thin, by the size of the wound."
Sherlock picked up the cadaver's arm. "And could be hidden amongst an acupuncturist's needles perhaps?"
Molly smiled grimly and pointed out additional markings on the victim's feet. "Yeah, I thought you'd pick up on those. He seemed to be an aficionado."
"An alternative medicine trained physiotherapist with a grudge?" John speculated.
Sherlock grinned at him, delighted. "There you go, Lestrade, your murder is solved. You have the means and the method, now all you need is the motive. Your suspect should be self evident. Now if there's nothing interesting going on, John and I have somewhere to be. Happy Christmas!"
Leaving Lestrade gaping, Sherlock strode out of the autopsy theatre with John hurrying behind him.
"Sherlock," John said as he hung up their coats. "About Christmas."
The room was chilly, and Sherlock planned on staying up late to play his violin and hope for inspiration. He knelt at the fire and put a match to the gas jet. His hand jumped as John brought up the subject that had been preying at his thoughts.
"What about it?" Sherlock replied guardedly. Just on the edge of his peripheral vision he could see John trying to nerve himself up.
"It's just. Well, the truth is, Sherlock, that you're really hard to shop for. I mean, I could get you a set of replacement reagents for your chemistry set or a folio of antique sheet music but I feel like those are just … I don't know, things. I wanted to get you something really special this year. I've been racking my brains for ages, but Christmas is just a couple of days away, and I've come up completely blank. "
Sherlock began to smile. And then he began to chuckle. "At least you didn't buy me new strings for my violin only to find out I'd sold it."
John went blank for a moment, and then he sputtered. "Like in O. Henry?" He gaped as Sherlock nodded. "You've actually read O. Henry."
Sherlock shrugged in reply. "There was a case the Christmas before I met you, a murder/suicide. The story was referenced in the note left behind."
"That's sad." John's expression sobered, his surprise at Sherlock's literary knowledge extinguished when its source was revealed.
"As it happens, John, I've found myself pondering a similar dilemma." Sherlock smiled crookedly as he rose to his feet, feeling rather gratified that John considered him just as difficult to shop for. "The gloves were down to Molly, or rather her insistence that I do my shopping on the high street, and not at her morgue."
"Like my birthday," John said with a smile. "That was fun. A bit weird, but fun. No one's ever given me a body part before. At least not one that wasn't ..." He looked away, blushing, and then shrugged. "Well, you know what I mean."
"Exactly!" Sherlock crossed the room and collapsed dramatically onto the sofa. "It was a singularly unique gift."
John grinned, shoved Sherlock's splayed arm out of his way and sat down as well, leaning in against Sherlock's shoulder. "No topping a severed hand. So what will we do? I can't not get you a present this year."
"Nor I you."
They turned their shared problem over in silence.
"First thing that comes into your head," John said abruptly. "If Father Christmas materialised in front of us, and promised to grant you one wish, what would you ask for?"
"A deluxe train set. Engine and a full compliment of rolling stock." Sherlock shrugged at John's surprise. "What? He owes me from when I was six. That was the last thing I asked for before Mycroft told me there was no such person. What about you?"
"A dog. A Bulldog. I'd call it Gladstone." John looked wistful. "And then I'd ask Santa to make the me not allergic to pet dander. And before you ask, I tried the shots and they didn't work."
"Mrs Hudson doesn't allow pets anyway," Sherlock said.
"Like you would play with a toy train." John sighed. "Actually, you might, just to annoy Mycroft. Okay, answer me again, seriously this time."
"John, there's nothing Father Christmas could pull out of his bag that I haven't already got." Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders.
"What?" John pointed at his chest. "Me?"
"You." Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead. "I got all my Christmases and birthdays the night you decided to give us one more chance. If I were to ask for more, I'm afraid I'd tempt fate."
"Says the man who jumped off a building without a safety harness."
"I'm serious, John." For the first time Sherlock truly realised why every other gift he'd considered seemed inadequate. He pressed his lips against John's, this time poring all his emotions into the kiss. "There's nothing else I want but you," he whispered as they parted.
"Then you better have me." John took Sherlock's hand in his. "I, John Watson take you, Sherlock, to have and to hold. For richer or poorer. For all the days of our lives."
Sherlock studied their twined fingers. "You realise this isn't legal."
"You realise that's not the point," John replied. "If you want to stand up before a congregation, we can do that later. Until then, I'm making you a promise."
Sherlock considered his next words carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally denigrate John's heartfelt pledge of love and devotion, but he still had serious misgivings about going public with their relationship. "And if I don't want to stand up before our friends and families?"
John shrugged as if it didn't matter one way or the other to him. "Then I'm still making you a promise. This time I'm sticking with you for keeps."
Sherlock met John's eyes, saw the sincerity in their depths, and felt his worries instantly put to rest. "Then I, Sherlock Holmes, take you, John, to have and to hold. For richer, for poorer. For all the days of our lives." He smiled at John crookedly. "An occasion such as this demands the exchange of at least a token gift and yet I still have nothing to give you but myself."
"Same here." John kissed Sherlock's knuckles. "But I'm okay with that if you are." He grinned. "But if you change your mind, there's still two shopping days until Christmas, and I'm sure somewhere out there is a toy train set with your name on it."
Happy Christmas!