Chapter One

Merry Christmas, everyone! Oh, and A Christmas Carol and Sherlock Holmes belong to Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle/BBC respectively. I'm only borrowing them.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his leather armchair at 221B Baker Street, trying and failing to turn off his emotions. Usually, it was no trouble; they were always on sleep mode. But now, he could not escape the overwhelming ache deep in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was suffocating.

But it was all for the best. It had to be. It was the only way to save Molly. It didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell.

Sherlock hadn't moved from his position since he had gotten back from St. Bart's Hospital three hours ago. And the pain had not stopped once.

Sherlock came to a stop outside of the morgue, readying himself for what he was about to do. This was going to be the most painful thing he had ever done. He just had to block everything out until it was through. He took a breath to steady himself and then pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

Doctor Molly Hooper slid one of the drawers closed, looking up as Sherlock entered. "Sherlock! Hi!" She smiled at him. "On a case?"

"Sort of," said Sherlock brusquely. "I need three kidneys. One from a male, late thirties; two from females, early twenties and mid forties."

"You came here for body parts?" asked Molly, heading to the other room to fulfill his order.

Sherlock allowed a confused frown to come onto his face. "Why else would I come here?"

Molly faltered for a brief moment before moving on into the room. "So, how're John and Mary? Haven't seen them in a while now."

Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh. "You don't have to fill these silences, Molly." He moved to the doorway to watch her.

Molly had frozen with her back to him, but she quickly resumed going through the storage for the organs. "Just trying to have a little friendly conversation." Her voice had grown quiet.

"Why?" asked Sherlock, forcing a look of disdain onto his face.

Molly turned her face towards him, frowning. She appeared confused by his sudden change in behavior. "Because that's what friends do, Sherlock. They talk, ask each other how they're doing and what's been going on in their lives."

"Sounds tedious," muttered Sherlock with a shrug.

"So, you don't care how your friends are doing?" asked Molly with a frustrated sigh as she turned back to pulling the kidneys out.

Here it goes, Sherlock thought. Point of no return.

"Depends on the friend," muttered Sherlock in a bored tone.

Molly froze completely before turning to look at him. "Meaning me. You don't care how I'm doing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion at her. "Why would I? You're my pathologist."

"I thought I was your friend," said Molly, turning fully towards him. She hesitated a moment before plowing on. "You said so yourself that I mattered."

"It was a thank you," Sherlock explained. "Nothing more."

Molly's jaw dropped as angry tears filled her eyes. "So…I mean nothing…is that it?"

Sherlock gave a humorless smile. "Hmm. You are smarter than I give you credit for."

Molly's face twisted in rage, and she immediately raised her hand and brought it across his face with a smack. She raised it again for another slap. Each one hurt Sherlock's heart more than his face, despite how well Molly could pack a slap.

Molly spun around and grabbed the three kidneys in their bags that she had pulled out. She turned back around and flung them at Sherlock's chest, not bothering to make sure he had caught them, which he hadn't.

"Take your blood kidneys!" Molly spat at him. "They'll be the last ones you'll ever get here! Or any other parts!" She turned and stormed out of the room.

Sherlock stood frozen in the room, listening to Molly banging through the outer doors of the morgue and out into the hallway. Giving her several minutes' head start, he then hurried out towards the nearest stairwell, abandoning the kidneys he had never needed. He barely made it through the stairwell door before his legs gave out. He clasped onto the railing next to him to avoid collapsing to the floor, taking in deep breaths as his heart began to ache in his chest.

Sherlock opened his eyes from the memory, the pain washing over him all over again.

Why? he demanded of himself. Why did you do it? Why did you hurt her?

Because she deserves better, Sherlock answered himself.

Even if he was able to protect her from all the criminals that would try to hurt her to get to him, she deserved so much better than him. He would never be able to give her the life she should have. He could never fully devote himself to her, putting her above all else. He couldn't work that way. To him, there was nothing more important than a case. He would only end up hurting her.

The best thing for Molly was for him to push her away once and for all. Hopefully, she would move on and find a man that could give her a happy ending. He only hoped he could be happy for her when she did.

The front door of 221 opened downstairs, and Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. He had been expecting this. Molly would have called Mary to tell her all about it, and Mary would have, of course, told her husband John all about it. This was John coming to rip Sherlock a new one. Best to just man up and take it. After all, he deserved it after what he had done to Molly.

The footsteps coming up the stairs were slow and deliberate; apparently, John was building up the tension, getting ready to aim it at his best friend. Sherlock turned his gaze towards the flat's open door as the steps reached the top of the stairwell. When the person stepped into view, though, Sherlock's jaw dropped in surprise.

"Well, Molly definitely wouldn't have called you," stated Sherlock.

"She didn't have to," replied Mycroft Holmes, umbrella by his side. "I'm here on orders."

"I decline," Sherlock immediately responded. He did not feel very much in the investigative mood tonight.

"I'm afraid that isn't an option," said Mycroft.

"For God's sake, Mycroft!" erupted Sherlock. "Haven't I done enough penance?"

He had been forced to take every case the British government had given him in return for his freedom after Magnussen. After Moriarty's fake return had been dealt with, Mycroft had presented this new arrangement, which would stay in effect until they determined he had repaid his debt.

Mycroft merely smiled smugly in a way that had Sherlock second-guessing himself—which he really did not like.

"Not those kind of orders…brother dear," said Mycroft, sneering the last two words at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, making his next deduction. "Must Mummy keep checking on me? I am fine."

"Not those kind either," stated Mycroft.

Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down before turning his head away and closing his eyes. "I thought you hated freelance." He opened his eyes to look back over at his brother.

Sherlock froze as he gave a startled jump, finding Mycroft in his face. Mycroft was leaning over him, his hands on the arms of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock stared in shock; he hadn't even heard his brother move.

"Listen closely, brother dear," said Mycroft in a low voice. "You are headed down a dangerous path, a path that we cannot afford you to go down. I have been sent here to stop you."

Sherlock frowned, opening his mouth to speak. "What are you—"

Mycroft's hand came up in front of Sherlock's face, his palm facing him and his expression stern. "You will allow me to speak without interruptions, understand?"

Sherlock was frozen in indecision and confusion. There was something about Mycroft that wasn't quite right. Something was wrong.

"By now, I'm certain you have guessed that I am not your actual brother," said Mycroft. "I only took on his form because he is the one person in this world that you look up to."

Sherlock scoffed. "Look up to—"

Mycroft snapped his fingers in the detective's face, effectively shutting him up. The ominous presence Mycroft was exuding in this moment had a strange effect, one that rendered Sherlock incapable of contradicting him.

"I believe I said no interruptions," Mycroft practically growled out.

Sherlock's jaw snapped shut despite himself.

Mycroft leaned his arm once again upon the armrest. "Yes, look up to. Ever since you were a child, you have admired Mycroft's intellect, wanting to be like him, wanting to be better than him."

Sherlock's frown deepened. What the hell is going on?

"It only seemed right that he be the one to turn you around," Mycroft went on. "You have recently made a very grave mistake, a mistake that will affect each and every person you care about."

Sherlock looked closely into Mycroft's eyes, trying to deduce what was going on. This can't be real…

"No, Sherlock, I am not a figment of your mind palace," Mycroft told him, "nor am I a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep or ingestion of narcotics or chemicals." He smiled sweetly. "Questions?"

Finally given permission to speak, Sherlock latched onto the only thing he could think of. "What mistake?"

Mycroft's smile deepened, as though pleased with the question. "Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's frown dropped into a blank look of shock. His mind had been so thrown through a loop in the past five minutes that the whole incident with Molly had been completely driven to the back of his mind. Those two words had brought it all back, grating at his heart like sandpaper.

"You have decided to cut her out of your life, severing one of the last ties you have to the world and your humanity," said Mycroft. "Soon, you will have no friends left to keep you on the straight and narrow, and we all know what happens then."

Sherlock did indeed know: drugs, obsessive crime-solving, desperate attempts at fighting away the boredom.

"You have chosen to subconsciously follow in big brother's footsteps," Mycroft went on. "The problem is, you were never meant to be big brother." He finally stood up out of Sherlock's face. "You were meant to be Sherlock Holmes." He straightened his suit as he walked towards the door. "So to that effect, you will be visited by three spirits." He stooped to grab his umbrella from John's chair as he went. "Hopefully, they can turn you around."

Mycroft stopped at the door and turned back, giving Sherlock a hard look. "I pray you heed their warning." And with that, he turned and headed down the stairs.

Sherlock sat in stunned silence for a moment before he jumped to his feet and sped to the window, only to find Mycroft's car had already pulled away. He immediately pulled out his phone, skipping the text option and going straight to the source.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Mycroft answered coolly.

"Just what was the meaning of all that?" Sherlock demanded.

"All what?" asked Mycroft.

"Don't play dumb with me, Mycroft," Sherlock spat.

"I don't need to when you're doing a perfectly good job of it on your own," said Mycroft.

"Your little intervention!" Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock, I can honestly say this time that I have no idea what you're talking about," said Mycroft calmly.

"Did you or did you not just visit my flat, spouting nonsense about Molly and spirits and my humanity?" Sherlock demanded, wanting an answer once and for all.

There was a momentary silence on the other line.

Mycroft gave a tired sigh. "Back on the sauce yet again, are we?"

With that answer, Sherlock had his: Mycroft had not just been here. It was all Sherlock's mind palace playing at his guilt.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock bit off. "You know I'm not. I must just be tired."

"Do I need to send John over?" asked Mycroft in a bored tone.

"No, I'm fine," said Sherlock. "Goodbye."

"Get some sleep," Mycroft told him as he hung up.

Sherlock tossed his phone into his armchair, placing his hands in a prayer position in front of his mouth. He glanced all over the flat, looking for any evidence that someone had been there: a moved throw pillow, a shifted groove in the rug, a shoeprint in the dust on the floor. But there was nothing. And yet, Sherlock had the distinct impression that someone had been there all the same.

Sherlock glanced down at his steepled hands to find them shaking.