"Is that straight?" he asked, his voice muffled as he lay practically flat on the floor under the tree, adjusting the stand.
"A bit more to the right. There, that's perfect," Mary said exuberantly. She was so much fun to do Christmas things with. John had not enjoyed the holiday season this much since he was a kid. Picking out the tree and carrying it to her flat had been an adventure in joy. They had been dating less than two months, and already John could not imagine life without her. She made even the most commonplace events shine.
"Have some eggnog and bit of a rest," Mary offered, handing him a foaming mug. "I'll put the fairy lights on. I love putting lights on!" John sank into one of her armchairs and sipped the concoction which the clever Mary had whipped up herself. She handed him a plate of biscuits, also homemade. Watching her untangle the mass of fairy lights and wind them onto the branches of the tree, he smiled contentedly. Was there nothing this compelling woman could not do? John had never felt so young and alive in his life as he had these past few weeks. He and Mary had spent every possible moment together, and the more he learned about her, the harder he fell for her. John was hopelessly in love.
He floated home in a haze of warm emotion late that night to find Sherlock brooding over a half-dissected something-or-other. "About time you came back," his flatmate intoned, not looking up.
"I have just had the best evening of my life," John declared, dropping into a chair opposite his friend. With the tree trimmed and dinner eaten, he and Mary had snuggled on her sofa before the fireplace admiring their handiwork and each other for a pleasant number of hours.
Sherlock, unimpressed, sighed dramatically. "You have said exactly the same thing every time you come home from a date with Mary. This upward trend is impossible to sustain indefinitely. Eventually, you will have a mediocre evening, or even a disappointing evening with her. That is the day I live for."
John, knowing better than to be insulted, was merely amused. "Why?"
"Because then perhaps you will return to the real world and get your head out of the clouds. Really, John, you've never been so insufferably cheerful in all the time I've known you. It's annoying."
He chuckled. "Sorry. I'll try to sober up a bit when you're in the room," he promised. "I don't want my happiness to become a burden to you." He looked around at their rather unfestive flat speculatively. "We need a tree in here, and some lights. I'll work on that tomorrow. You could use a bit of holiday spirit."
Sherlock merely snorted.
"I do have a problem you might help me with," John continued.
Sherlock's face lit up eagerly. "Go on," he encouraged.
"I don't know what to give Mary for Christmas."
Eyes rolled expressively. "A scarf. Or gloves. These are obviously the most sensible choices of gift."
John smiled. "I'm not asking you what YOU want. I've already bought your present, anyway. I want to give her something more personal than that."
"Why ask me? I barely know the woman."
"You worked with her closely for two weeks, solving her father's murder. You must have deduced everything about her in that time," John insisted.
"True," Sherlock nodded. "She is fairly well-adjusted considering her difficult childhood and lack of adult role models as a child. She is highly intelligent and intuitive with superior reasoning abilities. She is adventurous and deplores boredom—which is why she is attracted to you, by the way. She finds you not-boring. She has never stayed in one location long enough to form lasting attachments and therefore has few close friends. However, none of this informs us as to an appropriate Christmas gift."
John sighed. "I agree with that assessment. You are being most unhelpful."
"Given your attraction to her, you might consider jewellery. No, too trite. I suggest lingerie."
John felt his face grow hot. "Much too personal. We've only been seeing each other a few weeks. Perhaps a book of poetry. She loves poetry. She quotes it all the time."
"Boring!" Sherlock declared.
"Perhaps you're right," John sighed. "I want my gift to mean something to her. What would be personal, but not too personal?"
"This is a puzzle beyond my abilities to solve," Sherlock admitted. "I don't believe anyone can know the appropriate Christmas gift to give to a woman. They are too . . . unpredictable in their responses."
John frowned, lost in thought. This was important. He needed to express his feelings to her with this gift, and yet not frighten her away with too much too soon. This was his greatest fear—frightening her away. Which was why he'd resolutely kept Mary and Sherlock apart since they had successfully solved her case.
Case. They had begun seeing each other because of a case. She was attracted to him because he was not-boring, and he was not-boring because of the work he did with Sherlock. Hmm.
000
Christmas morning found John once more on the sofa in Mary's flat, a roaring fire on the hearth and twinkling lights on the tree the only light sources in the room. He had already given Sherlock his gift—an impressive collection of rodent skulls. It would keep the detective busy for hours, he hoped. Sherlock, in turn, had predictably presented John with a scarf and a pair of gloves.
"Here we are!" Mary sang out, carrying in a platter of food and tea. "Christmas brunch! I know my scones can't rival Mrs. Hudson's, but I hope you like them."
"Mmm-hmm," John replied enthusiastically, his mouth full. "Excellent!"
She smiled, uncharacteristically shy, and handed him a wrapped box. "Happy Christmas," she murmured. "It's not much. But I wanted you to know how much I admire you."
It was a leather journal with his name engraved on the cover. "It's beautiful," he whispered, caressing the soft bindings gently. "It's perfect."
"You write so beautifully. I know you write online, but I thought perhaps, you might have thoughts to record that you wouldn't want on public view," she explained softly.
He smiled into her eyes. "Thank you. You're quite right. I have a number of thoughts that wouldn't bear scrutiny in a public forum. I have some I'd really like to share exclusively with you."
"Go ahead then," she encouraged him.
"I have never said this to anyone before. I want you to know that," John continued. "But, I'm falling in love with you, Mary Morstan. You're . . . perfect. Just . . . perfect."
"Oh, I'm glad!" she exclaimed earnestly. "I'm falling in love with you, too. I've never met anyone like you. The more I learn about you, the more I want to know you better. You're the most exciting person I've ever known."
"Well, I'd like to perpetuate that delusion," John chuckled. "So here's your present." He gave her a carefully wrapped box.
The book of poetry on top was a signed copy of the works of William Ernest Henley. John had made a bookmark by laminating a picture of the two them and affixing a ribbon to it; this was placed between the pages of her favourite poem, "Invictus". Mary exclaimed over this gratifyingly. Then she lifted out the object that lay at the bottom of the box and removed the tissue paper it was wrapped in. Scrutinizing it carefully, her face grew thoughtful.
"I know you don't smoke. And I'm certainly not expecting you to take up the filthy habit," John began, a bit uncertainly. "So I realize this gift is a little strange. I haven't really talked about any of our cases with you, but I do know you're interested in them."
"Oh, yes, I've read everything you've written in your blog. It's quite fascinating. Oh!" Mary cried, and pressed her fingers to his lips to stop him telling her any more. "Let me guess! It must be from one of your cases, but not something directly referred to in your write-ups." She pondered the object for a moment, then grinned in excited triumph. "I know! That case you were forced to delete as too politically sensitive! This is from Buckingham Palace. You or Sherlock went to the palace and absconded with an ashtray! Oh, that's too funny!"
John laughed. "How did you guess? You're absolutely right! Sherlock swiped it to spite Mycroft. I'll tell you the whole story one day—although, of course, I'd have to kill you then, I suppose."
Mary laughed joyously and rewarded him with a kiss. "Oh, this is lovely! An artefact from one of your wonderful cases! No one has ever been thoughtful enough to give me stolen goods for Christmas before!"
And the rest of the day, although definitely worthy of an entry in John's new leather journal, was not for public record.