Another post-TRF reunion (because there just isn't enough of them!), but this time - Christmas is thrown in too! Have a good one, folks. Oh, and if you could review, or favourite, or anything, I would be most grateful and love you all forever. xx

The rain tapping furiously against the double-glazed, surprisingly rather beautifully decorated window, did little to distract John from the feeling of anguish he was experiencing at that very moment. Two years since that fateful day, the day that he had spent so long trying to come to terms with (and failing miserably, if he was completely honest with himself), little or no word from anyone in his previous life other than Greg. And now here he was, summoned to this great ponce's office, on Christmas Eve no less, for goodness knows what reason.

Christmas time was always the hardest, he mused, as he waited impatiently for the man himself to arrive. He wasn't entirely sure why, either. It wasn't as though Sherlock had been big on Christmas, although he had always enjoyed an excuse to perform any number of violin pieces to their select group of enthralled friends, and Christmas songs sounded so beautiful played by such a talented man. And the day itself was always a headache, neither of them ever having had any better plans, and so more often than not the day itself had been fraught with arguments (mainly over Sherlock's refusal to eat much of the Christmas dinner) and improved by one or another of their friends visiting for a drink at some point during the day. But... the two years since Sherlock's fall had been unbearable, and Christmas - theoretically the time when families and friends got together, spent time with each other, and 'made merry' - was so excruciatingly painful that John had avoided celebrating at all, instead hiding away in the flat, drinking himself into a stupor and refusing to see anyone.

He sighed, glancing at the clock. Once again, he had made no plans this year, but that didn't mean he had any intention of wasting time in this place. The thought of seeing Mycroft again, his slimy, insincere smile and his poxy umbrella, made him shiver. He had no idea what the man wanted with him, but he was looking forward to making it perfectly clear to him how much he wanted absolutely nothing to do with him anymore.

At that precise moment, the door behind John opened and Mycroft breezed in, barely sparing a glance at the doctor sitting hunched in the chair opposite his desk. John glared at the back of his head as he fussed over some paperwork, willing him to turn around and look at him.

"Season's Greetings to you, Doctor Watson," came that icily polite drawl that John hadn't heard in so long. He gripped either arm of the chair, gritting his teeth, not trusting himself to say anything in case he were thrown out. Despite feeling so much anger, and a trace of anxiety, he couldn't help but admit that he was curious as to why he'd been summoned in such a manner.

Mycroft turned and raised one eyebrow expectantly. "It is customary, is it not, to exchange good tidings at this time of year?"

"To people you give half a care about, maybe," muttered John, but Mycroft just smiled at him.

"But of course, John. I suppose you are wondering why I requested your presence?"

"'Requested' is a funny way of putting it," John snarled. "I'm not entirely sure what 'Anthea' would have done if I had refused to accompany her."

"She has her ways," Mycroft almost grinned, which rather startled John. "Anyway, Dr Watson. I have some news to impart. Something that you may find interesting."

John tried to school his facial features into something that resembled not caring less, but he knew he had failed substantially. Surprisingly, Mycroft had the good grace to not look all too smug about it.

"We have received intelligence that suggests that Sherlock was put in a rather unfortunate situation up on the roof... that time," Mycroft finished rather awkwardly. He cleared his throat before continuing. "It appears that Moriarty gave him the option of 'committing suicide', as it were, or allowing the three people he cared about most in the world to be killed by a sniper rifle - yourself, Gregory Lestrade and Mrs Hudson."

John's eyes opened wide, and he didn't even bother to try and mask his look of astonishment. "So... everything he said to me when he phoned me... that was..."

"Moriarty wanted Sherlock to be painted as a fake to the entire world," Mycroft explained, glancing down at a sheet of paper on his desk, looking as if he were only half-present in the room. "Sherlock needed to tell you what he did... effectively to save your life. If he hadn't done that, then you would have been killed."

There was a silence in the room as John processed the barrage of information that he had just received. Sherlock hadn't been a fake (well, this he had known anyway). He hadn't taken the coward's way out, as some nastier people had informed John over the last two years. He had...

"He killed himself to save my life," John breathed, before quickly amending. "Our... our lives."

Mycroft cleared his throat once more, and John looked up at him, catching his gaze. There was something there, something within Mycroft, but John didn't have time to think about that too much at that very moment. "I... I can't believe this..."

"Do you forgive him?"

John blinked, confused. "For... forgive?"

Mycroft looked almost earnest all of a sudden, a look that was almost alien upon his features. "Yes John. Do you forgive my little brother for his... actions, that day? I know how much you have suffered over these last two years. That suffering is something that I struggle to understand, I must admit, but I am aware that you have... grieved in a most extreme manner over his death."

John's mouth set in a thin line. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft laughed - an empty, bitter-sounding laugh. "Come now, Doctor Watson. You can't hide from me, you must know this by now. All lives end. You as a doctor know this more than most people. People die, their friends and family grieve. Life moves on. You, however, have been unable to move on. Perhaps because you have incorrectly identified the sort of relationship for which you are grieving?"

John could feel the anger within him beginning to rear its ugly head once more, and he took a few deep breaths before attempting to respond, not entirely trusting himself.

"There was nothing going on between Sherlock and me-"

"Oh, I'm well aware, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, smiling slightly, almost sympathetically. "Perhaps that was the problem."

Their gaze held for quite some time. John was willing him, absolutely willing him with all his might, to say it. To admit that he knew, he had seen what John had written. Because in that moment, John knew for a fact that somehow, some way, Mycroft Holmes had been spying on him, had seen his diaries, and knew.

But Mycroft did not admit anything. Perhaps he knew he'd pushed John far enough, for he suddenly looked rather resigned, passing a hand across his face. John noted, with no sympathy, just how exhausted the man looked. Maybe Christmas was a busy time for his minor role in the British Government.

"John, I just need to know one thing," Mycroft said, as John made to stand, having had quite enough of this ridiculous man. "One thing, and I shall leave you alone. Do you forgive him?"

John took one last deep breath, feeling his eyes flashing.

"Of course, I forgive him," he exclaimed, standing up suddenly, not caring if Mycroft saw his returned limp. Not caring about anything at all, other than the fact that the man he had loved more than anyone else in the world had sacrificed himself so that he could live. "I'd forgive him anything if it brought him back. Fat lot of good it'll do me though, won't it?" With an anguished noise that would have broken a heart of stone, he hobbled desperately from the room.

Mycroft was left, stood at his desk, shaking his head slightly. An amused smile formed on his face as he reached for his phone. "Oh John," he said to the empty room. "If only you knew."

Someone was busking somewhere, the lilting harmonies of Silent Night wafting through the air as John made his way slowly back towards his flat, seconds from home now. He had walked from the station, unwilling to get a taxi, wanting to feel the cool night air on his face on that crisp Christmas Eve. There was no snow, and the rain had finally stopped, and at any other time he might have almost enjoyed the walk, but the whole way home, thoughts of Sherlock and the sacrifice he had made were flooding through his brain. He didn't care that he'd basically admitted everything to Mycroft before. What did it matter now, anyway? Sherlock was dead, and John had never had the chance to explain how he felt. He would never forgive himself. Sod forgiving Sherlock - he was the one who had made the mistake. If he'd encouraged Sherlock to confide in the police more, maybe. Or maybe if he'd just said...

As the key turned in 221, John failed to notice that the Christmas tune was coming through a window upstairs that the doctor had absolutely, definitely closed before leaving earlier that day. As the door closed behind him, the music came to an abrupt stop.

"Mrs Hudson," John called through the door, as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Sorry I'm so late home, I was briefly kidnapped by that sodding Mycroft Holmes."

John had grown used to Mrs Hudson insisting on being informed where he was going and how long he'd be. He realised that she always feared the worst, that John would be suicidal too and he took great pains to assure her whenever he could. She normally called back to him but this time, he heard what was unmistakeably her scuttling towards the door, before opening it suddenly.

"Mrs Hudson, are you alright?" he asked, slightly surprised by the astonished look on her face.

"John! Oh, thank goodness you're okay. I've been so worried," she exclaimed, but the speech sounded slightly rehearsed and she didn't seem worried in the slightest. Mainly... definitely... astonished.

"Well I'm... I'm here," he said. "Do you want me to come in?" She often insisted, mothering him in such a way that he'd almost grown fond of after two years of it.

"No! I mean... no, dear, I'm quite busy I'm afraid. Christmas and everything. I've still not got anything wrapped and there's food to sort and... and why don't you just go upstairs? Put your feet up." Her eyes were shining with a new emotion now that John couldn't quite pinpoint. "I expect you'll be doing your usual this year, will you?"

"What, getting drunk and ignoring everyone? Pretty much," John replied sourly, then stepped back in alarm as Mrs Hudson made a noise as if she was about to erupt.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned now. It had been an odd, tiring day and he was desperate to get upstairs and rest, but he still wanted to make sure that his landlady, who'd been so good to him over the years, wasn't completely losing it.

She managed a smile that looked almost manic. "Tell you what, dear. Get up those stairs and I'll be up in a minute to do you a brew. Okay?"

John suddenly felt very much like he was being forced upstairs. He wondered briefly if Mrs Hudson was hiding someone - a man? Whatever it was, he suddenly decided he didn't want to know.

"No, you're okay," he said, summoning up a smile for her. "I'll see you over the next couple of days. Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson."

"Ohh, John." She ran at him then, and he was rather taken aback as her wiry arms wrapped around him. "Merry Christmas to you, my love." She then pulled away and, before John could say anything, she disappeared into her flat and slammed the door.

He blinked several times, not entirely sure what had just happened, before reaching the handrail and making his way slowly up the stairs, bracing himself for a miserable few days in his flat. At least he'd prepared and got all the essentials in - and not just the whiskey. He could avoid all human contact for quite some time. Then, in the new year, he would make a fresh start. Make an effort to get back out into the world, and move on once and for all.

His newfound resolutions, being made in double-quick time, were instantly shattered into millions of tiny fragments as he reached the penultimate step to his flat. Placing his foot down, he heard the unmistakeable sound of the scrape of a bow across a violin string, the note elicited from it sounding more beautiful than any note he had heard in the last two years. He shook his head, as the note continued, being replaced by another, and then another. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. That's what it was. That's exactly what it was. Being played, on a violin.

In. His. Flat.

With trembling, suddenly clammy hands, John lifted his key to the lock, but he knew, somewhere within the abyss of his mind, that the key would not be needed. He pushed down on the handle, and screwed his eyes tightly shut, praying to a god he didn't much believe in that the person who was somehow in his flat, playing a violin, on Christmas Eve, was the person he wanted it to be more than any other in the world.

The door opened, as John opened his eyes.

When people had said to him before that 'time stood still', he didn't believe them. He thought it was just a turn of phrase. But in that second, in the proceeding seconds, he completely understood. It probably helped that the music that had been playing so beautifully ceased at that moment too. The bow stilled on the strings, the hand gripping tightly to the bow stopped moving. The head raised slightly, eyes meeting John's. Eyes that he hadn't seen in so bloody long. Eyes that he thought he would never see again.

The violin and the bow dropped down to either side. He watched him.

And then, John could see no more, because somehow, inexplicably, his face was buried in that shirt, that purple shirt, had he put it on especially? his arms were wrapped around him, he felt himself being encircled by his arms plus a violin and bow, he felt the relief flood out of his chest as he exhaled, his head resting against his own, his breath against his cheek, breath that he thought had died out two years previous, and now here he was, here, back in the flat, back with him, on Christmas Eve.

"Sherlock."

"I'm sorry."

"I forgive you."

"I know."

"You're still an idiot."

"I know."

"Mycroft told you."

"I can explain everything."

John pulled back a little and allowed himself to look, really look, at his best friend, back from the dead. Yes, there was anger there, but right now it was being firmly squashed by all the other more positive emotions he was feeling. Relief, hope, excitement, joy, amazement. He could see how nervous Sherlock was, how he had feared John's wrath.

He couldn't help himself, raising one hand to rest it against Sherlock's face. To his complete surprise, Sherlock practically nuzzled against it, and John realised how much he, too, had been missed. He allowed his fingers to stroke that cheekbone, so much more pronounced now.

Sherlock sensed his sudden worry. "I've been doing a lot of travelling to break up Moriarty's circle," he explained quietly, his eyes still closed, still pressing his face into John's palm as John ran a thumb across his cheek. "I have had even less time to eat than usual. I presume Mycroft has filled you in on the basics."

"Fuck Mycroft," John said softly, and before he knew what he was doing, he pressed his lips against Sherlock's, doing nothing more than allowing himself to accept the reality. Sherlock was here, he was back where he belonged, and he was not pulling away.

Sherlock was, in fact, doing practically the opposite of pulling away, as violin and bow were dropped behind him and he felt Sherlock's hand against the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing his body against his as he returned the kiss. Closed mouths still, but John could sense the urgency, the passion within him, and he was quite startled. The only passion he'd ever seen Sherlock have for anything before was a dead body, and now that attention, that fire was directed entirely at him. It was a little overwhelming for someone who, up until ten minutes ago, had thought the man urgently kissing him was buried six feet under.

They parted, and John gasped, staring up at him. Sherlock looked slightly nervous, but completely unrepentant.

"I missed you?" he asked, causing John to grin.

"I take it there was a reason why Mycroft had cause to rifle through my diaries?" John queried. "Not that he actually admitted it..."

"I needed confirmation," Sherlock interrupted. "I'd suspected that my feelings were returned, but for this to work..." he gestured between them and the violin, indicating John's discovery of his still being very much alive, "...I needed to know that you felt the same for sure."

John nodded slowly. "We're mad."

Sherlock grinned suddenly. "Could be dangerous," he quipped.

"Could be the most dangerous thing I've ever done," John smiled, nestling himself back in Sherlock's arms, feeling a desperate urge to be close to the man. Sherlock once again wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer.

"I didn't realise what I had until I was forced to leave you," Sherlock whispered, and John almost choked with the lump that suddenly formed in his throat.

"You know, for a self-proclaimed sociopath, you can be a right soppy bastard," he replied.

"Well, it is Christmas," Sherlock smirked into John's hair, holding him tightly.

END