A/N: Hi everyone! This is a story that I wrote for my friend for Christmas/New Year's. I hope you all love it as much as I do (I put my soul into it), and please review to let me know what you think!

Love,

Allie

It was -5 degrees outside of 221B Baker Street, and the one and only consulting detective had a cold.

"John, I refuse to take that insufferable medicine you call 'cough syrup.' It is nothing more than sugar that makes me drowsy. And I do not sleep." Sherlock turned his nose up at the bottle of medicine that was being offered to him and turned to face the back of the sofa. John thought that he rather looked like a cute little kid, buried underneath all of those blankets. He had only gotten him to lie down through the promise to bring him a few cold cases after work.

"Sherlock," John sighed, slightly exasperated. "Please. You'll stop hacking. No offense, but it's really annoying."

"Well, I'm sorry that my antibodies temporarily decided to be useless, but seeing as it's a virus, it is untreatable." Sherlock sniffed, and John handed him a tissue. He took it, but didn't use it.

"Alright, well, I'm going to work. I'll see you later." John grabbed his bag and headed out the door.

"Don't forget my cold cases!" Sherlock yelled as the door closed. The wreath on the back jingled a bit. It was Christmas Eve. He didn't get the point of all the trees and decorations and presents, but John had insisted that they put up at least the usual things because they were going to have people over. This had meant that Sherlock had to unpack ornaments and go shopping with John. People stared at them. Just get a present for Mrs. Hudson, John had said. It'll be quick, John had said.

Three hours later, John was still deciding between which jumper to get Harry and they'd spent a total of one point two hours in line. Sherlock was rather cranky by that point, and he was ready to go home. They made it home in time to see Mrs. Hudson before she went to bed. Needless to say, Sherlock was not happy.

His mobile rang and Sherlock practically jumped to answer it. "Hello?"

"Sherlock, we need you and John down here now. We've just had another murder."

"Another?" Sherlock asked, sitting up, quite interested, all thoughts of his cold forgotten.

At that moment, John walked back in. "I forgot my-" he started, but Sherlock held up a finger.

"Yes, we've had two already. I called John, hasn't he told you?" Lestrade sounded confused.

"No." Sherlock practically glowered.

"Well, I told him we didn't need you quite yet. But this looks like a serial killer."

"Fantastic!" Sherlock said, standing up and anxiously pacing the room like he always did when he got excited about a case. "We'll be down in a bit."

"Come straight to the scene." Lestrade gave him an address and Sherlock quickly hung up.

"John, we've got a case! A serial killer!" Sherlock exclaimed. He picked up his coat off of the floor and put it on. "Let's go! Lestrade needs us at the scene."

"Sherlock," John said, giving him a look. "It's minus five outside and you're sick. There's no way I'm letting you go. I'll go and bring you back some pictures."

"John, I have to go." Sherlock said. "A little measly cold isn't going to stop me."

"You're really quite sick, Sherlock. Just a minute ago when I left, you were huddled under those blankets like you were dying."

"Oh well." He waved his hands, annoyed. "Hurry up."

John gave up trying to get Sherlock to stay home and instead grabbed a pair of gloves. "Here, put these on. At least try to keep yourself warm. And wear this hat, too."

Sherlock made a disgusted face. "No, John, people will scoff. Let's go."

John took the gloves along but ditched the hat, and they caught a taxi to the crime scene. They arrived, much to John's surprise, at a house, very quaint and very normal. "Are you sure this is the right address?"

"Of course, John, I don't make mistakes."

The two got out of the taxi and John knocked on the door. Sally opened it. "Oh, hello. Lestrade is in the back, he's waiting for you. Go on in." She paused. "Sherlock, you look awful."

"That's a lot of talk for someone who just broke up with her boyfriend," he remarked snidely, and strode through the hallway with a confident air, no sign in his mannerisms that he was feeling ill.

There was apparent hurt in Sally's eyes, and she shut the door softly.

"I'm sorry, Sally," John said. "He's in a bad mood today, although the serial killer may cheer him up a bit."

"How did he know?" she asked, clenching her fists and resignedly following Sherlock.

John shrugged and continued on with them. He emerged into a large living room where there was a wall of shattered windows and a dead man on the floor. Sherlock was anxiously crouching next to it, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Come take a look," he said without turning around to know John was in the room, making a 'come here' motion with two fingers. John walked over and took a quick look at the body.

"Well, obviously, he was shot." he said, looking up at the window. "By someone outside the window. Some of the shrapnel contributed to his cuts, here, on his arms and face. But the main cause of death was the bullet, it passed clean through him." He wrinkled his nose. "It must have hit a main artery." There was an awful lot of blood on the otherwise pure white carpet.

Sherlock would have normally sighed and made some comment about his thoughts being ordinary or obvious, but today he was in a good mood. "Correct!" he said, standing up and facing John, his expression lit up. John smiled back at him out of habit, to encourage his happy behavior. "His wife was found in the bedroom, same bullet wound, same angle. Someone took care to make them identical." He paused and turned on his heels to face the (ex-)window. "But who?"

Sally walked into the room. "Sherlock," she said. "Mrs. Hudson wants to see you."

Sherlock had his hands on his chin. "Tell her I'll be back in an hour, I'm thinking, Sally."

"She's in the kitchen."

"Oh." His face showed only a hint of surprise and annoyance at not knowing that arbitrary fact. He crossed the room, John falling into stride next to him. They found her in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and quietly consoling a weeping woman both men assumed to be related to the victim. She was crying, so Sherlock took a step back.

Mrs. Hudson wiped her hands on her apron. "Anything yet?" she asked.

"No," John said, as Sherlock was too busy staring at the crying woman.

"Find him, or her, or it. I can't stand to see Shirley this way. It was her son, you know. And his wife was pregnant. She was going to be a grandmother." She sighed. "They were selling the house. I'm not sure if anyone will want to buy it now."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too." Mrs. Hudson said, as the kettle came to a screeching boil. She hurried over to take it off and poured it into two waiting mugs.

A man listened from behind the wall. He looked quickly, then looked away. She was too close. "We will have to get rid of her," he whispered.

Another man stepped out of a bedroom. "Yes, yes, all in good time. What a shame, it will break Sherlock's heart. Well, people die." He gave a brilliant smile and disappeared behind a corner.

The first man ran quietly after him, trying to catch him before he disappeared again. But when he turned the corner, the man from his mind had disappeared. He exited out the open window and disappeared, too, into the woods, away from the people who had deserved to die.

Sherlock and John met Molly at the lab, where they had been for a few hours. "What have we got?" he asked her briskly, sitting on the counter. John fell into his old stance of 'at attention.'

"Hello, Sherlock." Molly smiled cheerily at him. "How are you?"

"What kind of gun is it?"

"Sherlock," John hissed. "Hello, Molly, we're fine, thanks, Sherlock's just a bit excited about the murder."

"We have a .308 Winchester bullet, the same bullet in both the husband and wife, and also in the other murders." she said, showing them the bullet with a gloved hand. "All of the murders have been very accurate, and were always through the windows of a home. Here's some info sheets Lestrade compiled for you."

Sherlock took them and glanced at them for a minute before tossing them to John and clicking away furiously on his phone. John looked over them, but found no other connections then the ones Molly had already pointed out.

"It's Gregory Vasnick."

"What?" John said.

Sherlock sighed. "It's Gregory Vasnick, the serial killer. He was always very accurate, shot with a Winchester rifle, and shot through the windows of homes. All of these homes were two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and for sale. Don't you remember what Mrs. Hudson said?"

"Yes, Sherlock, but didn't they execute him about a month ago? He was on death row."

Sherlock practically glowered as he tapped his phone and found out that John was, indeed correct. "Yes, indeed. That must be how I knew him. Then an imitator. That's more likely," he said. "None of these killings were particularly clean, they all left a lot of messes. Vasnick, if I remember, usually shot through smaller windows."

"Okay," he conceded. "Sure. But an imitator isn't usually a hardened criminal, just a bit crazy. He or she could be any person in the crowd, how do we know?"

"Well," Molly said. "There was also this note." She held up a piece of coffee-stained paper. "It reads: I killed them."

"Oh, thanks for that." John said.

Sherlock grabbed it quickly. "It's a man's handwriting. Probably not well educated, judging by his slant. Young. Between 20 and 25."

"Yes, there's only about a million and a half of those walking around London." John pointed out.

"We just have to wait, John! Quit being so pessimistic. Molly, can I have all of the info on these cases and the Vasnick cases, please?" He put on a small smile and then started up with his cough again.

"Sherlock, you're sick!" she said. "Go home, it's alright." She patted his back. "I'll go get those cases for you."

As she disappeared, Sherlock grinned. "Maybe next time I'm sick, I'll get a body."

"I just don't know what to do with you anymore."

Once the cases had been gotten, awkward goodbyes exchanged, and Molly had fawned over Sherlock a few more times, the two caught another cab home to find a black car parked in front of their apartment.

"Wonderful," Sherlock said under his breath. "And I was having such a good day."

They entered 221B to find a happy Mycroft, sitting down and drinking tea. "Hello, my favorite brother and my favorite brother's friend."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, throwing his coat onto a chair and plopping down on the couch, putting his fingers together.

"I like the new head in the fridge, it looks a bit familiar."

"Yes, we all know Molly has a terrible crush. What else?"

"Can't I visit my brother?"

"Oh come now, we all know you don't visit me to visit me."

"I heard you were sick. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Also, I brought medicine."

Sherlock made a face. "I'm not taking that stuff."

"Sherlock, I'm heating up something for dinner, would you eat something?" John called from the kitchen.

"No, thanks."

"Please eat something, you're sick. It'll help you get better faster."

"No, John. I do not require food at the moment. Why is everyone so concerned about my cells?" He huffed and laid out across the couch. It was all quiet for a little while. Mycroft turned on the news and the microwave was heating up a frozen dinner, a grilled Panini, from what Sherlock could smell. American food.

Sherlock's mobile rang and he sprang to get it. John sat down in the living room with his plate and a fork, quite relaxed. Sherlock didn't understand how he could be so calm, so…mundane while there was a mystery to solve.

He glanced at the caller ID. Lestrade. "There's been another murder." he said as his way of answering the phone.

"Hello Sherlock, yes, I'm fine, thank you."

"Just get to it. You wouldn't have called me unless you needed me."

"Yes, I know. We're surprised that it's so soon, but we have another murder. How soon can you get here?" He gave an address.

"We're leaving now." Sherlock hung up and stood. "John, we've got another murder."

"Bloody fantastic," he muttered. "I was just going to eat. It's Christmas Eve."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him up. "Let's go. Goodbye, Mycroft, it's such a pity we couldn't visit longer." He wrapped his scarf around his neck, gave Mycroft his signature 'you-know-I-didn't-mean-that' smile, and then disappeared behind the door.

"Typical," Mycroft said, and took a sip of his tea.

John wasn't surprised when the crime scene turned out to be a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom house for sale. He was, however, surprised to see the victim.

"Army," Sherlock said, walking around the body with careful supervision from Lestrade. 'Five minutes,' he'd said. 'And I'm keeping an eye on you.' He still hadn't been forgiven for his experiments at a crime scene two months ago. "Probably Iraq. No injuries from the war that are visible. Didn't see the shooter."

"Afghanistan," John added quietly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the body of the man, about 35, who had been shot through his family room window.

"Afghanistan. I served with him. We were…good friends. Shared a tent, most of the time. He had a wife and three kids. Henry Brown."

"Oh." Sherlock said nothing, then crouched beside the body.

Lestrade gave John the look of pity he had seen many times and had grown to hate. "I'm sorry, John. I really am. You won't have to stay long."

"Judging by the degree of apparent grief-stricken sentiment, he'll get over it." Sherlock murmured, fingering Henry's collar.

John was taken aback. He wasn't used to Sherlock showing so little emotion. "How long will you be staying?" he asked flatly.

"A while. I want to look at the house."

"I'm going to take a cab home. You'll be on your own. It's getting late."

"Okay."

"Happy Christmas, Lestrade. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, John." Lestrade gave him a melancholic smile and turned back to the scene.

John took a cab home, numbly watching the city lights pass by. Four deaths today, one of them his friend. And he was spending Christmas Eve with someone who didn't care. He went to grab his phone to look at the time, and then realized he'd left it at home. He paid the cabbie and then trudged back up to the apartment. Mycroft had gone now that Sherlock was occupied, so he turned some lights on, put the kettle on, and sat down to check his emails. He found three missed calls and voicemails from his current girlfriend, Michelle.

He listened to the first one. Why would she have called him? He hoped that nothing was wrong.

"Hi John, it's Michelle. It's about a quarter after seven, I was just wondering if you ran into traffic. Give me a call."

Oh no. He had forgotten. He got so busy with the new crime scene and the lab. He'd promised to pick her up at seven to take her out to dinner for Christmas…

"John, it's seven thirty. Where are you? Call me. Now."

John put his head in his hands.

"John Watson, we're done. This is the third time you've stood me up. Honestly, it would be less insulting if you just told me you didn't want to date me than if you'd kept making excuses about 'cases' and 'having to go with Sherlock.' If that's your excuse this time, don't even bother calling me back. For God's sake, Sherlock Holmes is a grown man. He can take care of himself."

"I wish." John said to no one.

"As a matter of fact, why don't you just date Sherlock instead? You're with him all the time anyway."

"He has no emotions, that's not even possible." There was a bitter tone seeping into his voice.

"So, yeah. Don't come 'round. Goodbye." The message was over with a click.

"To replay voicemails, press-" John hung up.

"This is all your fault, Sherlock." John threw his phone at the chair where Sherlock usually sat. He noticed it was snowing outside and went to stand by the window and look out over Baker Street. It was calm, quiet, and pretty. He rested his head against the windowsill and sighed. The kettle boiled, breaking him out of his trance.

He made tea, drank it while watching the end of some old Christmas movie, and went to bed. "Happy Christmas, John." he whispered, and then turned out his light.

John woke up at seven the next morning when he heard the kettle boiling. He walked out to the living room, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock was in the kitchen, making tea. "Morning, John."

"Morning," he said, still a little bitter from the night before. "When did you get in?"

"Not too long ago. I had to stop for something at the store. Are we opening gifts tonight at the party?"

"Yes."

The doorbell rung downstairs, and both men looked at each other with a confused expression.

"It's seven in the morning, who's at the door?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

John rolled his eyes and went to answer it. There was a young man, probably in his early twenties, in nothing but a coat. "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm looking for a Mrs. Hudson. She's a friend of my aunt."

"Uh, well, she's in the back, but I don't know if she's awake."

"Could you go get her? My aunt wants to see her at her home, she said it's urgent."

John wasn't registering who this was. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Nicholas," he stuck out his hand. "My brother was the one that got murdered yesterday morning with his wife."

"Oh, yes, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there." John shook it.

"You were there?"

"Yes, I'm sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes, we do some investigating for the Yard."

He looked uncomfortable. "Oh. Okay. You saw it, then. We'll just be heading back to the house, she knows the address."

"Alright, uh, bye then. Happy Christmas."

Nicholas turned around and got back in his car, then drove away. John made his way back upstairs. "It was a relative of one of the victims. Wanted Mrs. Hudson. Could you go wake her and tell her it's for her friend, the one yesterday morning, and to go to her house? She'll be less angry for being woken if it's you then me."

"I suppose." Sherlock went downstairs while John made some semblance of a breakfast. They had two-day-old muffins from a bakery they'd gone to, and the tea was good. He set it out with good plates and some nice teacups and sat down to eat.

"She's waking up, I left her a note about the friend." Sherlock announced as he came back upstairs. "What's this?"

"Christmas morning," John said, slightly surprised. "Occasion to be a bit fancy, don't you think?"

"Yes, I…yes." Sherlock sat down and took a drink of his tea. "Thank you."

"Happy Christmas."

"And to you."

After breakfast, the two cleaned up the flat for the party and finally did the dishes that had been piling up in the sink for a week. During the day, they made a grocery run and checked in with Lestrade, who had unfortunately had to work for most of the day. When they got home, Mrs. Hudson's coat was back on the rack.

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson is back. We should give her a warning that people will start arriving soon." John went over to her door and knocked. "Mrs. Hudson?" No answer. She was probably in the back. "Mrs. Hudson?" He shouted louder. Still no answer. "That's not right." he said. He tried the doorknob—unlocked.

Sherlock gave him a glance and swiftly entered. "Mrs. Hudson?" There was no answer. He walked through all the rooms in the flat, practically stalking. His face looked stormy. "She's not here. The note I left her is still on the counter."

John went into her kitchen and looked at the note. "Still where you left it?"

"Yes. She must not have read it."

While Sherlock paced back and forth, John looked at the photos on Mrs. Hudson's fridge. Photos of her kids, grandkids, shopping lists, notes to herself…he could hardly see the fridge. There was even a coffee stained note. Mrs. Hudson didn't drink coffee, but she was a little prone to spills.

A coffee stained note.

I have her.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, quick, there's a note." He pulled it off the fridge and handed it Sherlock.

"It's him. Where did he take her?"

"The kid at the door this morning, what if it was him? He was in his twenties. He claimed to be a relative of that lady, but then he left really quickly, didn't even wait to see Mrs. Hudson. Told her to go to her friend's house."

"They must be at the house, then. Do you have the address, John?"

"No, it's on your phone."

Sherlock got out his phone and tapped through his notes to find the address. "Let's go!" he said, running out the door, coat billowing behind him. "We have a serial killer to catch!"

The cab ride was the longest cab ride in existence. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and repeatedly told the cabbie to hurry up.

"I gotta drive the speed limit!" said the man, who was obviously American.

As soon as the cabbie hit the brakes, Sherlock threw money over the partition and jumped out of the cab before it had even stopped moving. "John, come on!" he yelled as John closed both of their doors. Sherlock didn't even bother to look in the windows or ring the doorbell, he just burst into the home.

Sitting in the middle of the family room in a chair positioned over the blood stain was Mrs. Hudson, bound and gagged. Her eyes opened wide when she saw her tenant and repeatedly looked to her left.

A man walked out from the hallway, swinging his small gun around his finger. John, who had just come in the door, saw him and ducked behind a wall, putting a hand on his gun just in case.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"You're the child who came to our door this morning," he said. "But you're actually the murderer. How clever."

"Thank you," Nicholas replied. "The voice said you would like it."

"The voice?"

"I'm sorry about friend here. I know you close. The voice said it would hurt you. But it has to be done, she's too close." He paused. "And now you know. After she dies, you will die, too."

Sherlock took an urgent step closer and John resisted the urge to jump out and shoot Nicholas before he could hurt anyone he loved. "What voice, Nicholas?"

"You're too close. She's too close." Nicholas turned his head down the hallway. "Can I kill them both?"

A very familiar face appeared, walking with a confident stride and a winning smile. "No, no, I want to kill him." He pointed his finger at Sherlock. "I've waited far too long, he solves all of my mysteries. He's no fun anymore."

"Moriarty," Sherlock hissed. "Let her go. Now."

Nicholas looked over. "I thought your name Gregory?"

"His name is Jim Moriarty, and he's been fooling you into thinking that he's in your mind. He's a real person, Nicholas. He's been deceiving you. People have died because of him."

"No, those people deserve to die."

"What did they do?" Sherlock asked.

"People shouldn't sell their houses," the man said, looking a bit like a lost puppy. "People should keep their houses so they don't have no house. Become homeless."

"Did that happen to you, Nicholas?"

"Yes," Nicholas said, beginning to cry.

"Stop crying, fool!" Moriarty yelled, and Nicholas stopped as quickly as if someone had turned off a switch.

"Nicholas-" Sherlock started to say, but then he started coughing. His fit went on for a minute or so, and he had to sit in a chair to make sure he stayed upright.

"Oh, poor Sherlock, down for the count. Well, Nicholas, kill-"

John leapt out of his hiding place and held up his gun. "Don't move. Both of you. Drop the gun. Moriarty, drop your weapons."

"John Watson, the faithful dog, waiting to save his master." Moriarty laughed. "Kill her. And you, John Watson, I will see you another day." John shot at him, but the bullet passed through thin air as Moriarty ran down the hallway. He would have run after him but Mrs. Hudson was seconds away from getting a bullet through her head. He crossed the span of the living room in a few steps and shot Nicholas in the leg before he could make a move.

Nicholas crumpled to the floor in agony and John took the opportunity to kick his gun across the floor near Sherlock. "Pick it up, Sherlock." he said, and Sherlock did as he was told. "Keep an eye on him."

With quick hands, he undid Mrs. Hudson's bonds gently and helped her out of the chair.

"John." she said, giving him a hug. "Thank you." He helped her over to the couch, well away from Nicholas, and checked her over.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked.

"No, no I'm fine."

"Sherlock, call the police." he instructed, and began checking Mrs. Hudson. The room was quiet, except for the occasional whimper of Nicholas. "Shut up," John said, feeling no sympathy for the man.

They were all alive, and that was what mattered.

Back at the flat, it was just Sherlock and John. The party had been put off until New Year's Eve, and it was going to double as a New Year's party. Mrs. Hudson had been put in the hospital overnight to treat her for shock and make sure she was alright.

"It's been a good day, John," said Sherlock, relaxing on the couch and staring at the ceiling, back in the position he had been in the previous morning. Sherlock had been given antibiotics by the medical team who had assured him that it was not a virus and in fact a treatable cold.

The antibiotics were in the kitchen, being used for an experiment.

John got up from his chair, stretched, and placed the telly remote by Sherlock's head on the table. "I'm going to bed. Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, John."

John lay in bed, unable to sleep for today's events. Moriarty had promised he'd be back, and John had no doubts that he would be. The question was when. John was going to a meeting with Lestrade and Sherlock the next morning, they'd sort it out then.

He was surprised when a tall, thin figure with high cheekbones entered the room. It approached his bed cautiously and bent down to his ear. "Goodnight, John. Sleep well." it whispered, and then kissed him.

John kissed him back.

He fell asleep to Sherlock playing a lullaby on his violin, looking out over Baker Street, where all was well on Christmas night.

John woke up the next morning to the smell of horribly burnt toast. He ran out to the kitchen, still in his pajamas, to find Sherlock standing next to a smoking toaster and a pan of liquid yellow eggs. He smiled like a little kid and said "John, I made breakfast!"

John just laughed and replied "Angelo's?"

Sherlock's face fell. "Not good?"

Feeling bad, John put the eggs back on the stove and turned up the heat, then tried to scrape the black stuff off of the toast. But the eggs were already ruined and the toast was too far gone, so they both put on clothes and headed to the reliable restaurant.

On the way out, Sherlock's mobile rang. He didn't answer it as gleefully as he had the past two days, and John was touched that Sherlock would rather have breakfast with him then answer a call about a prospective case.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, we've got a copycat murder. Can you come down to the station now?"

"Absolutely!" His face brightened as he ended the call. "A murder! It's a good day, Jawn." He signaled a cab and they got in together, holding hands the entire way.

It was another typical day with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and John Watson's only love.