Unimaginative title is unimaginative. This is my first attempt at fanfiction that's not TF2, so please don't hate me. It'll probably take me a few chapters to get the characterization of Sherlock and the Doctor down, so bear with me. Constructive criticism is most welcome.


Sherlock Holmes wound his way down Baker Street, a hood pulled up to obscure his face. It was nighttime, 8:30 PM, on December 24th 2012. His steps were quick and even, and each movement had a purpose to it. A relentless, icy cold wind was whipping through the street, chilling him to the bone. Of course, he paid it no mind; physical discomfort didn't much matter to him anymore. Not since his outside image had been ruined. Indeed, he was practically unrecognizable from who he'd used to be. His hair, much to his personal dismay, had grown long and shaggy. He loathed it, but he supposed that it helped to keep him from being recognized. His nose wrinkled in distaste as a bit of it got in his face once again. He pushed it away and glanced around, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and making an exact 90 degree turn to the left. It was a movement that he'd found himself making more and more often as time had worn on. A very faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up at 221B. Absently, he wondered what John would say if he could see him now. Probably "Bloody hell, you look awful" or something equally mundane and utterly unimaginative.

The smile slipped slightly when he saw a familiar silhouette come to the window, peering down at the street. Sherlock watched him closely and sighed. He'd had another argument with his sister, then. He hesitated a moment before raising a hand and giving a wave. That seemed to surprise him, judging by his body language. He sighed. Still predictable after so long. He could still predict his movements to a T, it seemed. Not that he was surprised. After a second's hesitation, he waved back to him.

Just like that, the smile came back. He turned again and started making his way down the street once more, feeling a bit of warmth go through him. If he'd had the choice, he would have stayed and watched for a long while longer, or even gone inside. A Christmas gift for John. He reached up and adjusted his hood. Not that that could ever happen; he'd realized that he was a danger to them. John, Mrs. Hudson… everyone. It… wouldn't be wise to return. A life in the shadows was what he'd resigned himself to, much to his own distaste.

He paused, glancing back at the window. John had disappeared from it. It couldn't hurt to send him one message. A second's hesitation, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

The message was simple.

"Merry Christmas."

His fingers hovered over the S key before he sighed and sent it, continuing down the road.