This fic is inspired by MarieLikesToDraw's delightful Sherlock and John Christmas drawing, That Winter Feeling: marielikestodraw (dot) tumblr (dot) com (slash) post (slash) 13330844539 (slash) that-winter-feeling-this-is-my-christmas-card.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and John aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to feed them and take them for walks and give them back when I'm done.

TW for mentions of drug use and war violence.

Sherlock and John's case is a reference to ACD's The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.

Thanks to you for reading.

The snow swirled around them as they walked back home from their latest case, a debacle involving a Christmas goose and a precious gemstone. The fluffy, white flakes blanketed the whole of London, silvering the edges of the buildings and trees. They walked in a comfortable quiet, side by side, arms nestled in their thick winter coats. The streetlamps and shops were decorated with fairy lights, casting their faces in a warm, sparkling glow.

John broke the soft silence. "You know, I never thought I'd be here."

"Hmm?" Sherlock said.

"Walking with you in the snow, after chasing down a thief in the middle of a poultry market. If someone told me last Christmas, when I was walking around London with a cane all by myself, that I'd be here with you, I would have laughed."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

"My Christmases the past few years haven't been all that special." John's blue eyes faded as he spoke. "Last year I spent Christmas alone in that old flat. I thought about buying a tree, but I didn't have enough money for it. Tried to call Harry, but she was still split up from Clara, in that drunken stupor. Christmas before that I was still in Afghanistan. Firefight happened in the morning, took out half of my company." His face drew taut and thin, flushed red from the cold. "I spent Christmas Day up to my arms in blood. And my mum and dad never had much growing up. We just had little trees. A few presents. We stopped celebrating much after Harry started drinking. Didn't exactly make for the best Christmas dinners. And then when my dad died...everything just fell apart. I didn't really have a family after that."

John let out a quiet, shaky breath. "Sorry about that. Don't know where that came from."

Sherlock shifted closer to John as he walked. "Hmm. Blame it on the cold weather. It's gone to your head." John playfully smacked his arm.

"My Christmases were a bit different growing up," Sherlock said. "Mummy always had the house decorated, all firs and lights and trees everywhere. We were positively drowning in tinsel. Mycroft and I kept trying to light the trees on fire, to see what types of firs were most flammable."

John snorted out a giggle. Sherlock's face wrinkled in confusion. "What?"

"You, causing havoc even on Christmas Day." John tried to bite back his laughter, without much success. "I bet you could deduce what the presents were before you even opened them."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I could. Although Mycroft was better at deducing which gifts involved food."

John's laughter finally broke from his throat, sparkling and fine. "Maybe we could start our own Christmas tradition. This is our first Christmas together, after all."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "'Together.' You should be more careful how loudly you say that, John. Mycroft is watching. The next thing you know, he'll be congratulating us on a 'happy announcement.'"

John smirked, glancing up at the CCTV camera on the corner of the building and sticking out his tongue.

"Well, what shall we do, then?" Sherlock asked. "We've already decorated the flat, and set up a tree, as you wished. And you insisted on putting that ridiculous Santa hat on my skull."

"I thought it was festive!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, John. At least try to show the poor person whose skull we own a little respect."

John crossed his arms in mock indignation. "This, coming from the man who talks to the skull and tries to use it for experiments."

"I talk to the skull to help me think. And besides, I don't want the skull to get lonely, or die of boredom, or feel as if it's not useful to me."

Now it was John's turn to raise a brow. "Really, Sherlock?"

"Really. It was just the two of us together, for the longest time." Sherlock's voice grew suddenly quiet. "It was just us. Me and the skull together in the flat." His eyes went dull for a moment, flickering like a broken fairy light. "I never celebrated Christmas on my own. It seemed...unnecessary."

John swallowed and licked his lips. "Why?"

"Because I was alone. And, according to everything I've read and seen and learned about the holiday, it is meant to be spent with one's family. Mycroft and I grew apart after a time. Mummy was furious with me because of the drugs, so I wasn't welcome at home. And I was always working cases. Crime never stops for a holiday. All that sentimental claptrap never seemed to matter to me. But now, I think I might be mistaken." Sherlock stopped in the middle of the pavement, gazing at John, his eyes dark pools of silver, mouth upturned tenderly. "It might matter to me very much."

John turned to Sherlock, a gentle smile crossing John's face. Slowly, John pulled off his gloves, cupping his bare hands in the snow, the flakes dissolving into the warmth of his skin. His face went soft and distant. "Amazing things, snowflakes," John said. "No two alike. Precious things. So fragile, so beautiful. I used to try to catch them on my tongue when I was young. I remember, one day, I wanted to catch a snowflake in a box and put it in the fridge so I could keep it all year round. But every time I tried, it would melt before I could get it inside. I never thought in my life I'd be able to keep something so rare, so beautiful that it might shatter apart. Something so unique and amazing." He looked up at Sherlock's face, his eyes soft with snow. "Not until now."

Sherlock's breath bloomed white in the air, mingling with John's warmth. "I could be your family, if you want," John said. "I could hold onto you. Try to keep you safe. You wouldn't have to be alone anymore."

"You couldn't try to be my family, John." When John's face fell, Sherlock's wrinkled in a touch of amused annoyance. "You already are."

John's eyes shone in the fairy lights as he grinned, snowflakes sparkling on his eyelashes. "I think I have our tradition."

"Yes?"

"This," John said. "A walk. Every Christmas. Just the two of us."

Sherlock's eyes glittered in the snowlight, his face crinkling into a tiny smile. Carefully, Sherlock took John's arm in his, warming John's hands with his own. "Together?"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand as they began to walk, arm-in-arm, back to Baker Street. "Together."