"What do you do for Christmas around here?"

Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him. Although, John noted, it was entirely possible he was ignoring him. It wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to disregard what he believed to be stupid questions, such as, "What do you mean there was an accomplice?" or "Have you bathed today?"

"Sherlock," he repeated, turning away from his computer to look at his flat mate. Sherlock was lying on the couch, a book open and covering his face. Sleeping. He was sleeping. Twenty minutes before he had destroyed the living room by tearing down every book on the shelf in search of one regarding 18th century agriculture - "Why do you even own that?!" John had yelled at him amidst the chaos. Sherlock, apparently dubbing that a stupid question, had not replied. – Apparently the simple act of locating the book was enough to put his mind at ease, never mind reading it. Of course, being Sherlock, that might actually be the case. Perhaps he'd simply needed the book to trigger something in that ridiculous Mind Palace of his and he'd already solved the case without bothering to tell John, which would have been except it would mean that John had spent half his evening researching the various different uses of manure in fertilizer for nothing. Sometimes he enjoyed the strange tasks that Sherlock sent him on; this one, though, he did not see any potential uses for.

Sighing, he turned and loaded his blog. If Sherlock had solved the case, he might as well start writing it up.

Aaahhhhhh.

John's fingers twitched, as they always did when he heard that ring tone. 45. 45 text messages she'd sent him now, 45 that John had heard, at least, and Sherlock had never said a word about them. John wasn't surprised, of course. If there was one thing he could say about Sherlock Holmes after living with him all this time (and it probably was the only one thing he could say with full confidence,) it was that Sherlock was an incredibly private man. And John Watson was an incredibly curious one, but he never asked Sherlock what that woman said to him. Going by what he knew of her after their first (and only) encounter, he wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

Like a shot, Sherlock's hand reached out, grabbed the phone, and brought it to his face beneath the book. Not sleeping, then, John thought with a twinge of annoyance. He set the phone back down and resumed his position.

"Sherlock, I know you're awake."

"Of course I'm awake, John, I'm on a case."

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"I did."

John rolled his eyes, unseen by his friend still beneath a book. "Not now, Sherlock, one minute ago, when I asked you about Christmas."

Sherlock lifted the book and raised an eyebrow. "About Christmas? I thought you were joking."

"Why?"

Finally, Sherlock sat up. "Because what sort of question is that? What do we do for Christmas around here? Around here? You mean in London? People buy gifts, eat dinner, talk, laugh, and are, in general, even more tedious and predictable than usual."

John rolled his eyes in full view of his friend this time. "That's charming, really charming. What do you do for Christmas?"

Sherlock's entire face twisted into some mixture of pain and amusement, an odd combination. "I'm not…entirely sure I understand. What do I do? I do what I always do."

John let out a cry of frustration. "God, Sherlock, which is what? Do you go to dinner with your family? Do you see Mycroft?" He remembered some remark of the elder Holmes about Christmas dinners.

Now he just looked disgusted. "Oh, yes, let's make this time of year even more unbearable than it already is." Sherlock obviously thought this was the end of the conversation as he prepared to lie back down.

"Unbearable? The holidays?"

His friend groaned. "Are we still talking about this? Yes, unbearable, as I said: people are more tedious than usual."

"How so?"

"Oh, I don't know, John…They talk more."

"They…talk…more?" John's lips started to raise into a smile. "How so?"

"'Merry Christmas!'" Sherlock said in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, waving his hands around. "And don't get me started on New Year's. Whoever invented the concept of New Year's resolutions should be shot. Why do people seem to think that they will be any more motivated to lose weight in January than they were in December?"

"People are tedious because they say nice things to you and set goals?"

"People are tedious because they buy into the belief that, at a certain time every year, they are required to be friendlier than usual to strangers and people they don't really like and they use that time as an excuse to fix nearly-permanent flaws that they've been ignoring all year and that 89% will resume ignoring come February because the majority of resolutions are created to change lifelong habits that would require something more along the lines of counseling or electroshock therapy to alter."

John stared at him, mouth slightly agape. "Happy holidays to you, too, mate."

Sherlock shrugged. "You asked. I ignored. You continued to ask so I gave you a response. It's not my fault you don't like it, although I assumed you wouldn't, which is why I ignored you in the first place. Next time, kindly allow me to ignore you in peace."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, cleared his throat, and said, "Well, I usually celebrate." No comment. "With people." Still nothing. "A dinner, maybe, some drinks." More silence. "What would you say to that?"

Sherlock blinked at him, flung himself back on the couch, and placed the book on his face once more. "Have fun with that."

John, who had only asked Sherlock what his plans were because Mike Stamford had invited him to dinner and he hadn't wanted to leave his flat mate alone, made a sudden change in plans. He decided to interpret Sherlock's remark to mean: Sure, invite whomever you like.

"You're telling me that the farmer did it?" Lestrade scratched the back of his head with his pencil, dumbfounded.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"The farmer?"

"We've established that."

"What'd he do with the body?"

"He ate it."

"What?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He buried it on the farm. For God's sake, what would you people do without me?"

Lestrade looked down at the notes John had given him moments before. "So…just to be clear…he didn't eat it?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but at that moment John heard a muffled Aaaahhh from his pocket. Lestrade didn't seem to have caught it, though, and Sherlock quickly turned and opened the door. "Why don't you run that theory by the press. I'm sure they'll bite." With an overly dramatic swish of his coat, he was gone. Before John lost sight of him, he saw him pull out his phone. 47.

Greg sighed and leaned back. "I was just double checking. The way he says things, sometimes you can't be too sure."

John nodded. "I understand." What he didn't tell the detective inspector was that he still didn't understand the murder either, but was sick of Sherlock snapping at him about how obvious it was and why couldn't he comprehend and God, it must be so boring not to be Sherlock freakin' Holmes.

"Ah, well, this is why I put up with him, I suppose. Whatever else he may be, he's damn good at this stuff." Lestrade reached into his desk and removed a box of doughnuts, offering John one, which he gladly accepted.

"He enjoys it," John said between bites.

"Yeah, well, I don't know what he'd do without it." Lestrade paused, then winced. "Actually, I probably do know. Better this than the alternative. Better for both of us."

John nodded but didn't pry. He knew that Lestrade had known Sherlock when he was using drugs. It wasn't something any of them discussed.

"Any Christmas plans? Or are you just sticking around with Jolly Old Saint Nick out there?" Lestrade asked, pointing in Sherlock's general direction.

John swallowed his last bite and wiped his powdery hands on his sweater. "Actually, I thought maybe you'd like to come over to the flat. We're having a bit of a get together." When Greg didn't respond, he continued. "You know, just a few people."

"Like who?" He asked, dumbfounded.

"Uh, well, me, and Sherlock, obviously, and, uh, you."

Greg stared at him for a moment then laughed. "That's not a get together, John, that's work. We just did that."

"Mrs. Hudson, then, too. She'll be there." Greg sat smiling and shaking his head. "Look," John lowered his voice and leaned forward unnecessarily; Sherlock obviously wasn't coming back. "there're only a few people that…"

Greg nodded, his smile turning a little sad. "He can only handle so much, I get it."

"And only so many can handle him."

Greg sat back and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking out his office window towards the man in question. "Yeah, yeah, I understand. I'll be there, John. It'll be…fun," he finished politely.

"JOHN!" They both turned towards the impatient voice in the hall.

John smiled. "It'll be memorable."

"One more time: you want it…how fresh?" Molly asked again.

"No more than six hours." Sherlock responded, surprisingly patient given the number of times he'd repeated his instructions (though, in Molly's defense, they were rather odd.)

"Um, yeah, I can do that." She ran a hand nervously through her hair, apparently forgetting that it had recently been holding a human liver. "How should I contact you?"

Sherlock grabbed piece of paper and scribbled something on it. "Here's my number."

Molly blushed and John felt a pang of sympathy. He wished, for Molly's sake, that Sherlock wasn't so oblivious. And that he wasn't such a jackass.

"O-okay," she stuttered. The three stood in the lab, waiting for someone to do something. Most interactions with Molly, he'd noticed, ended like this. Awkward. Sherlock had to know the effect he had on her. And yet, the way he spoke to her sometimes…John couldn't imagine talking that way towards anyone, let alone someone who had feelings for him. Once, when Sherlock was particularly cruel, John had actually wondered if Sherlock was, in fact, completely aware of Molly's opinion of him, but was trying, in his own way, to dissuade her. John quickly brushed that aside, though. Even Sherlock couldn't be that inhuman.

John ended the uncomfortable silence. "What are you doing for the holidays, Molly?"

She smiled at him slightly, aware of what he was doing and grateful (and perhaps a bit embarrassed) for his intervention. "Nothing, really. My mum's away – it's better for her health to be somewhere warmer – and with dad gone…it'll be quiet." John admired her attempt to remain upbeat about her rather desolate situation.

"Do you want to come to Baker Street? We're having a little…gathering, get-together, whatever you want to call it."

"You are?" She asked, sounding surprised.

"You are?" Sherlock asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes," John replied to both of them. "We are." He addressed Molly then. "Just us, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, that sounds lovely," she said, positively beaming. "Much more appealing than watching Christmas specials with my cat. Should I dress up? You know, look nice? Should I bring anything?"

John shook his head. "Just you. Just bring you and look like you, which is always nice."

She nodded eagerly, smiling still, running her hand through her hair again. John wondered if he should remind her…nah. "Yes, alright, thank you. I'm really looking forward to it." She was speaking to John. She was looking at Sherlock.

"Since which are we having a 'get-together?'" Sherlock said it like a dirty word, using air quotes for emphasis. "Only old women and pre-teen girls have 'get-togethers,' John."

"Gathering, then. Do you like that word better? Or party?"

Sherlock tightened his scarf against the wind as John waved down a taxi. "I don't like any of those words, actually. I prefer 'quiet night in my flat, alone.'"

"Since when?" John asked incredulously, opening the taxi door.

Sherlock scooted in beside him, brushing the snow out of his hair. "Never, that was a complete lie, I just don't want tedious people in my flat."

"Our flat," John emphasized. "And they are not tedious people, Sherlock. It's Mrs. Hudson, who lives with us and cares for us and essentially keeps us fed and alive; Lestrade, who we work with on a regular basis and provides us with fun murders to solve; and Molly, who we also work with, who would otherwise be alone, and whom we like."

Sherlock was determined to refute his every point. "Mrs. Hudson is our landlady, not our housekeeper, I'd hardly say we work with Lestrade, since we do all the work, and Molly seemed perfectly content to be alone until you pressured her into attending our 'get-together.'" Out came the air quotes again.

John shot him a look. "She was not content and you know it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't know why; I would be. In fact, I was, until you decided to have a party in my flat without telling me."

"Our flat."

"Whatever."

They didn't speak the rest of the taxi ride, Sherlock pouting and staring petulantly out the window, John thinking. As John watched his flat mate ignore him, he noticed his fingers tapping away on his knee, something John had never seen Sherlock do, but something he remembered Harry doing as a girl, right before she had to give a big presentation at school.

Harry had been terrified of giving that presentation.

Sherlock wasn't angry – he was nervous.

He was anti-social, yes, John had always known that. But words that John had never associated with Sherlock suddenly sprang up in his mind, words like "awkward" and "shy" (closely followed by "he would kill me for even thinking that.")

Sherlock needed this party as much as Molly did.

Sherlock paid the cabbie – unusual for him – and they made their way into 221B. John walked into the kitchen and put on some hot water for tea while Sherlock headed towards his room. Just before he closed the door, he called back, "We're not inviting Mycroft! A line needs to be drawn somewhere!"

This is my first attempt at a non-Series 3 Sherlock story and, I admit, I thoroughly enjoyed writing petulant, rude Sherlock. I don't own anything (but I sure wish I did.)