CHRISTMAS

That Christmas I was worried about a repeat performance of how Sherlock had humiliated our good friend Molly one year and chased away yet another one of my girlfriends. He could manage two birds with one stone with her and she was planning to call over to deliver presents on Christmas Eve. She'd limited us to presents of no significant value - preferably something made ourselves - though she directed this one at me - Sherlock being more likely to give something impersonal - with more meaning to him than the person he was giving to.

She arrived looking stunning and with three beautifully wrapped presents - apparently she knows Mrs Hudson much better than I realised. She's the only person I've ever heard call her by her first name and I wondered to whom she was referring.

Quick flashback to the Molly incident there, but Sherlock was on best behaviour - kissed our guest on the mouth when she arrived - I got a cheek kiss. Never sure what to make of that.

Sherlock was less lenient over the present. He looked wryly uncomfortable looking at the parcel and said "I don't wear ties." like a school boy being given an encyclopedia for Christmas when he wanted a bike - though I've no doubt that Sherlock would never have been thrilled with a bike.

She was completely un-phased and said simply: "Now what's the logic in having a good tie-pin and no tie, Sherlock?" And he meekly opened the parcel and allowed her to put the tie on for him. An action that caused me as much pain as hilarity.

Sherlock surprised us all by giving her a tiny Chinese silk painting in a silver frame. It was simple and beautiful and she was stunned into silence as she held it - gazing for some time with a look of wonder on her face. I've never known him buy anything personal for anyone before - obviously I buy for Molly and Mrs Hudson and we have a pact that he'll never buy anything for me whatever the occasion, not that he remembers birthdays ...

And then she slipped it into her pocket, quickly kissed Sherlock again - agony! And then handed me a parcel that also looked like a picture frame, but much larger than one that Sherlock had given to her. And was as it turned out - or at least a photo in a simple, wooden frame. It wasn't black and white, but the colours were so subtle that it had the feel of black and white stills I'd seen in galleries. The figure is not central nor dominates the picture, but recognisably me, taken on the beach that day - a present that I shall always treasure. I was not quite in silhouette against a turbulent sky, being just able to make out a pensive expression on my face. I'm wearing those jeans she still likes and her spare biker's jacket, unzipped and with my hands in the pockets. I'm looking out to sea. It is still the best picture I have of me, though she's taken a few more that I can bear to look at since. Sherlock insisted on hanging it immediately, to my slight embarrassment.

I was a little ashamed of the little carving of a sand piper that I'd whittled from the driftwood I'd picked up during our date and used a chip of stone from a pebble for the eye - she realised that immediately and was obviously touched. I was rewarded with a lengthy hug - just over the socially acceptable three second limited - though no on the mouth kiss as Sherlock's present had inspired. I still don't know what I'm doing wrong there