Author's note: On with it. I thought I'd give you another chapter today because I'm so happy it's Christmas time. Yes, I'm a worse Christmas nutter than Scrooge's nephew.

Warnings for: angst (because that's what we want to read about at Christmas) and Grolly (known to normal people as Molly/Lestrade), if you're not into that pairing.

I don't own anything, please review.

While John was making the tea, he couldn't help but think about Mrs. Hudson. She'd never acted like this, not even in her most angry moments – and John would freely admit that he hadn't thought her capable of screaming until Sherlock returned and she (according to his friend) shouted at him for half an hour before fixing him a meal.

But this hostility... Not only towards him, but towards Greg as well, and Mrs. Hudson had always been quite fond of the DI. Actually, she had told John once that she'd been very happy when Sherlock mentioned Greg for the first time, because it meant that "her boy had found a friend".
What had happened? The thought that Sherlock could have said or done something that made her resent him and John was utterly ridiculous. She loved them like a mother – like the wonderful mother Sherlock had never had (at least John was rather sure about that, looking at Sherlock and Mycroft), like the wonderful mother John had lost. So why –

He sighed and leaned against the kitchen table, which was almost free – only Sherlock's microscope, no dangerous chemicals, and it was like a stab through his heart. The only time the table had been this clean was when –

What was going on? What was the matter with Sherlock? What was haunting him? Of course, John knew that he would have had to do many things in the past three years he couldn't be proud of – but if they haunted him, made his life a living hell, why didn't he talk about it them? They were friends; they trusted each other; they should be able to –

Suddenly somebody squeezed his shoulder and John jumped. Greg looked at him. "John, you are almost as good at getting lost in your head as Sherlock, by now".

John smiled a half-smile and turned to the kettle. "What is worrying you John?" Greg asked quietly.

John looked at him and frowned. "You know what..."

"That's not what I meant."

John poured the tea and then, just when Greg thought he wouldn't get an answer, he replied slowly, "I can't live without him anymore. Not again. And he's slipping away."

Greg nodded. Then he took the offered cup before squeezing John's shoulder. "Don't worry. He – he jumped so would be safe, right? And he did whatever he did so he could return. He's not going to leave, no matter what happens."

"Thanks Greg". They went back to the living room and sipped their tea in silence when Greg's phone started to ring. He started to apologize while he was looking for it, but John waved his words away. There was no need. If Greg got a case, he'd understand. And Sherlock definitely wasn't leaving – Mycroft had probably invented a surveillance Grade 4 for him, just to be sure – so one more day wouldn't make a difference, John hoped.

"It's Molly" Greg said, blushing a little, and John hid a smile. Their DI and the pathologist had been on a few dates by now, and it seemed to be going fine – except for the fact that Sherlock hadn't said a word about it. And John knew that thinking like this wasn't healthy – but, then again, most people would probably tell him that his mental health had already been compromised when he decided to move in with Sherlock.

"Hello, Molly? What, you are still – Oh, that's a nuisance – you see, I..." he trailed off, the added "Give me a minute, please". He lowered the phone and shot John a guilty look. "Molly has a flat tire and she thought calling me would be quicker than – "

John chuckled. "Go, Greg. We can talk to Sherlock tomorrow morning, when we're rested. Now go and be her knight in shining armour"

Greg smiled and put the phone back to his ear. "Molly? I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes at the most. Do you have a spare tire? Yes? Great. Till then" he hung up and made his way to the door, putting on his coat. "Thanks again, John. I'll be here at – let's say nine o' clock. Sherlock should be in then, right?"

"Yes, he should. Till tomorrow, Greg".

Then the DI was gone, and John, while glad that Greg seemed to be on his road to happiness, was left to fret about Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's behaviour.

Sherlock was still walking around London, trying to figure out what had happened to Mrs. Hudson and the young mother. He had assumed, naturally, that people who forgot all sorrow and wrong would be cheerful, not angry, and certainly not so... resentful to other people they normally had a strong affection for.

But, come to think of it, he wasn't particularly cheerful either. He felt strange, but that was about it. Other than that...

Why would Mrs. Hudson slam the door in his face? Ever since they met –

They met –

He lost the trail of thought without realizing it and focused on the young mother. His abilities for deduction, as the ghost had promised, where unimpaired. He could clearly remember that she had seemed... happy before she'd bumped into him, and angry and impatient right after. Shouldn't she be even happier to be with her children, waiting for her husband, if she couldn't remember ever having been sad?

He suddenly realized that he stood outside of St Bart's and looked up to the roof without really knowing why. He frowned. The roof... the place he stood now... looking up –

From the corner of his eye, he could see Greg walking towards the hospital, but, for a reason he couldn't put his finger on, he stayed in the shadows and let his friend walk past.

Though he suddenly realized that there was only a faint echo of the gratitude and affection he felt usually for the man in his breast when he watched him walk into the building. Even when he stopped and shook his head for a moment, Sherlock only felt marginally concerned. As if they were just acquaintances, not friends.

Why were they friends to begin with? And why should he feel grateful to the DI? He didn't know, and the thought once again past away without leaving a trace. He shrugged his shoulders. Maybe it was time to return home – but, of course, John.

John must have suffered in his life, though Sherlock was rather sure the doctor had never told him about it. There was – before they'd met, surely – the doctor had had –

But he and John were best friends, he thought, he'd helped him with his cases, until – something, so why not give him the opportunity to forget all about his sorrows?

The decision made, he turned around and started to make his way back to Baker Street.

Greg found Molly in the garage, by her car, her face breaking into a big smile when she saw him.

"Greg! I hope I didn't keep you from anything important?"

"What? Oh, no, I – I was just..." Greg stopped, feeling confused. He had been somewhere, surely? Something to do with – wait, he had wanted to help – he had the feeling that he'd known it, just a moment before, but then, he'd felt dizzy when he walked up to the building, and –

He looked at Molly, whose eyes were worried.

Worry. John. Sherlock. Of course.

He shook his head. "Sorry, Molly – I was confused there for a moment. Maybe I work too much. I was at John's and Sherlock's flat – we wanted to talk to him, but he wasn't there."

Molly took his hand and squeezed it. "So he is still – different, then?" she asked quietly. Greg nodded.

She sighed, but didn't let go of his hand. "He doesn't even flirt to get access to body parts anymore, and when I ask him if he needs anything, he declines. He actually declines. And he doesn't grin when he looks at bodies..." She seemed to realize what she'd just said. "I didn't mean..."

"I know, Molly, trust me, I know. I'm worried because he doesn't insult Anderson or Donavan anymore – and Donavan is as well."

Molly smiled for a moment, then asked, "But he wasn't there?"

"No. John informs me he spends whole night running through the town, thinking about God knows what."

Molly nodded and squeezed his hand again. "Will you try again?"

"Tomorrow."

She took a deep breath and there was a certain spark in her eyes as she asked, "Can you fix my tire?"

"Of course" he answered, not knowing why she was grinning from ear to ear, but enjoying the fact that she still held his hand.

"Great. So, how about you do that, and afterwards I make you a late dinner as a thank you – in my flat?"

Greg swallowed, realized what she'd said and started to grin too. "I better get to work, then".

She let finally go of his hand, stepped aside, and, while he was working on her car, he decided that he'd be over at 221B at half-past eight tomorrow, just to thank John for letting him come to Molly's help tonight.

It was just past eleven when Sherlock returned, and thankfully, Mrs. Hudson's windows were already dark – though this was unusual, because she had made a habit, in the last few weeks, to stay up rather late, to enjoy the candles and Christmas decorations.

Should he be –

He forgot all about it and walked up. He had no doubt that John would wait for him, though he didn't know why.

John was, by this point, pacing up and down. Yes, he would wait until tomorrow morning, when he had Greg's help and Mrs. Hudson might be herself again, but he wanted to know that Sherlock was in their flat, safe and well.

He sighed with relief when he heard the key in the lock, and decided to sit down and pretend to have read a book the whole time, knowing but not caring that Sherlock would see through it in a second.

Sherlock stepped through the door and saw John sitting in his chair, pretending to read a book. He frowned; the strangeness was upon him again, and he had the feeling that he should leave. It was ridiculous, of course. There was no reason to leave, especially since he'd come so John would be free from sorrow.

He swallowed and took of his coat and scarf.

John jumped up and let the book fall on the floor – he must really have been – something or other – he never let his books fall down carelessly –

"Sherlock! Where have you been?" John asked, eagerly.

"Just reacquainting myself with the city" Sherlock answered, looking at him intently. A few moments later, he saw the change taking place.

John jumped up as soon as he heard Sherlock take off his scarf. He was home, thank God. Even if it didn't change anything, he wanted to know where his friend had been.

There was something – different in the consulting detective's face, but John couldn't put his finger on it. True, he'd wanted things to change, but this wasn't the Sherlock he remembered, and it wasn't the Sherlock he'd lived with since he'd returned, so what –

He felt strangely dizzy, all of a sudden, and put his right hand to his forehead.

Sherlock wondered idly, when he saw the tell-tale sign that the change was upon his flatmate, why he didn't feel any satisfaction.

When John looked up, there was an annoyed expression on his face. "Do you really have to go out and come home at all hours? Isn't it bad enough that you keep experiments in the fridge, take my gun and drag me out to crime scenes?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused. As far as he could remember, John had always enjoyed his work.

"You heard me perfectly."

"Then why are you still up, waiting for me?" Sherlock was sure about that, at least.

"Because, I – " there was a faraway look in John's eyes, all of a sudden, and Sherlock had the feeling that he should feel something else than confusion and mild annoyance, but didn't know what, and didn't think about it for long. John gave up and simply turned around.

"Forget it. I'm going to bed. And, you know what, maybe you being gone at all hours isn't such a bad idea after all."

John went upstairs to his room and closed the door. He sat down on the bed and shook his head. Why was he living with Sherlock again? The man couldn't keep the flat clean, he was strange, he had no regards for personal space...

Wasn't there a reason? Wasn't there something? Something about – John had done before he met – he'd been – and then – The thought was gone before he'd time to process it, and he simply started unbuttoning his shirt.

Maybe, John reflected as he was getting ready for bed, it was time to get a flat of his own. He could work as a doctor again, after all, and be free from people who stared at corpses for a living and little old ladies who tried to stuff you with biscuits and tea whenever they saw.

If he flinched and was confused as his hands touched the scar on his shoulder as he was pulling off the shirt, he didn't remember it a minute later.

Sherlock still stared at the place John had stood, then decided to go out again, because, frankly, he didn't really want to stay where this annoying individual was right now. Maybe playing his violin and making him angry would be fun, but it wasn't worth the trouble.

He made sure to slam the door on his way out, though.

Author's note: Just to clarify (it's only hinted at in the book, so I tried to flesh it out a bit more): You have to stand in front of Sherlock, or be in his immediate vicinity, for longer than a few seconds to receive the gift – which is why the mother who apologized to him was affected, and Greg didn't change completely, but was confused for a few moments.

Sherlock doesn't remember John's suffering because, in the remembrance what his friend went through, he suffered too. I hope that's clear and you noticed without this explanation.

Me (glares at mind): Don't you want to say something?

Mind: You say it, I'm going to shot a smiley face in the wall.

Me: I apologize for the cliffhanger and... what? (hears gunshots). Sigh.

I hope you liked it, please review.