A/N: God, this chapter took forever! I'm so sorry. Just to clarify a couple things, I imagine John and Sherlock a bit younger than in the show. Sherlock maybe 28 and John 31? I'm not sure how far apart their ages are, but... yeah. Oh, and I know most places aren't open Christmas day, but for the sake of this story, it is so.

Warnings: The usual, not brit-picked, unbeta'd. Cussing.

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.

"We'd best be off, ya know, mate."

Lestrade slouched in the doorway, shifting his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels, hands thrust into his coat pockets. He nodded to the door with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock scowled and wrapped his pulled his jacket snug around his torso. "Off on another trip to 'discover myself?' No thank you."

Lestrade cracked a wry grin, chuckling. "If that's what you'd like to call it. But you did just say thank you, so we must have made some progress." Sherlock's expression darkened, and he turned away to stare at skull on the mantle.

"Very funny, Lestrade. Now if you're done laughing at my expense, you can see yourself out."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, it was a joke. Stop being a whiny git and come over here." Lestrade crossed his arms and stared expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock flung himself off the couch and shuffled over.

"Oh, and Sherlock," Lestrade thrust out his arm, "it was pretty funny."

Sherlock frowned and took hold of the proffered arm, and Lestrade laughed. The floor shook beneath their feet, and Sherlock clutched Lestrade's jacket tighter. Lestrade chuckled, and Sherlock merely glared in response.

Floorboards in the far corner of the sitting room fell away, into an unknown abyss. Furniture plummeted through the widening gap, approaching the two men at an alarming rate. Only a small patch of floor remained under them. The mantle crumbled apart and was lost, and pictures fell into the pit from the quaking walls. Windows rattled, and the sound of breaking glass came from the kitchen.

There was a terrible crunching sound as walls snapped and the room lifted away from the rest of the flat. It moved as a unit, surging forward and throwing Sherlock and Lestrade back against the wall. As they turned and swooped through the streets, Sherlock caught fleeting glimpses of daylight beneath his feet; London covered in a blanket of snow. People milled about with family, and children played in snow.

They slowed, and Sherlock inched forward through the dust, peering down into the pit. The scene of a busy street greeted him. Bemused, he turned to Lestrade, who nodded pointedly at the sight below. Sherlock sighed and sat, turning to watch.

Shops lined the road, all claiming the best prices on last-minute holiday gifts. A sea of people bustled in and out of shops, bags in hand. Sherlock easily spotted John gazing through a shop window. He had two plastic bags hanging off his arm; one bag from an electronics store, and the other from a bookstore. A gift for his sister and mother, Sherlock deduced. So who was he shopping for?

John entered the shop, and the scene moved with him. He stood inside the entrance, his forehead resting on his palm and elbow perched on his hip. John was muttering to himself and biting his lip. Sherlock caught the last part of his sentence as he raised his voice slightly.

"…must be insane to try to shop for Sherlock bloody Holmes!"

Sherlock blinked as warmth flooded his body. John was… shopping for him? Butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

John looked up suddenly, spotting something, and made his way over to a small rack of scarves. He smiled, holding up a deep purple scarf. With a nod, John turned to counter to pay.

Sherlock smirked. John had surprisingly good taste despite those horrid jumpers. That scarf would look quite nice with his coat. Sherlock wondered if this meant he had an obligation to get something for John as well…

Lestrade interrupted with a cough. Sherlock turned to see him looking at his watch.

"Places to see, Sherlock!"

And with that, the room started spinning, slowly at first but increasing in speed. Sherlock stumbled to his feet and braced himself against the wall. Colours and lights blurred together in a kaleidoscope of motion, sounds fading in and out. Sherlock's feet slid from underneath him, and the room slowed just as he reached the edge of the pit.

A shabby apartment complex met his eyes, the tired bricks and rusty fire escapes making it look washed out against the London skyline.

"John's flat, I assume?"

Lestrade snorted. "Pretty much all he can afford on the pathetic salary you give him."

They sunk lower until they passed through the roof and into a neat, modest flat. Decorations and furniture were sparse, and Sherlock found it surprising cold compared to the warm man he knew.

A key rattled in the door, and John pushed through, bags in hand. He dispensed them into a room on the right and shut the door. He crossed the sitting room to a door on the opposite side.

"Mum?" John called, knocking softly. A faint voice was heard, and John entered.

A frail woman in her fifties lay on the bed, and her face lit up when she saw John.

"Happy Christmas, John. How are you?" She whispered when he came close. He gave a soft smile and covered her hand with his.

"Happy Christmas. The question is, how are you?" Warm blue eyes gazed into her identical ones, and she laughed quietly.

"Oh John, you need to stop worrying about me. I won't die in the time it takes you to get some shopping done," she said, but her eyes were tired.

John dropped his gaze and pulled his hand back, now trembling.

"Well, Mum, you never know with cancer," he sighed, standing up. He grabbed the wheelchair next to her bed and helped her into it. "Harry will be here soon, so we'll go wait for her in the sitting room, yeah?"

He wheeled her out and next to the sofa, where he sat. Only a few minutes were spent in comfortable silence until Harry walked in. She was short and trim like her brother, with cropped blond hair. A piercing glinted from her eyebrow. Harry carried two large brown bags, an apron tied around her waist and nameplate pinned to her chest.

"Got the food," she said, heading into the kitchen, "Boss let me take some for free! Lots of good stuff."

John followed her, helping her unpack the first bag she set on the counter. As John had feared, she pulled out a bottle of wine from the last bag.

"Harry, I don't think-"

"Shut up, John, it's fine."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, just don't go overboard? Seriously, Harry-"

"I know, okay? Can we not talk about this right now?" Her voice was a harsh whisper, and she glanced over John's shoulder into the sitting room. John heaved a sigh and nodded.

Harry brought the food to the table and John wheeled their mother in. There was a spread of pub food, fried fish as the main course. John grabbed plates and filled the wine glasses. When they were all seated, he raised his glass.

"I propose a toast. To Sherlock Holmes, without whom, this would not be possible."

Sherlock blinked at John's sincerity, and glanced back at Lestrade who looked on grimly.

Harry gave a derisive snort into her wine glass. "That bastard doesn't deserve any honour. He's cruel and selfish, and he treats you like shit. God knows that crazy sod should be locked up."

John glared over his glass. "Really, Harry?"

"Really, John," she huffed, "it's the truth, and we all know it except you. Wonder why."

He gave her a pointed look, and she dropped the subject, instead taking a sip of wine and reaching for some potatoes.

The scene transitioned into later that day, with Mrs. Watson in her room reading the new book John bought her and the siblings sitting in the kitchen, Harry fiddling with her new phone case.

The bottle of wine sat next to her elbow.

Harry glowered when she caught him staring at it.

"You have no right to say anything, John. At least I have a decent job."

John's hands clenched on the table. "I have a decent job. I have a great job, thank you very much."

"Well, for a great job, it certainly pays like shit. It's time to face the facts – you need to start looking for other jobs. You – we – cannot afford to live with that kind of salary. Mum's medical bills aren't going away."

He sighed and rested his chin in his palm. "I know they're not. There's not much out there for me, Harry. No one wants to hire a gimpy ex-soldier and college dropout, okay?"

Harry fixed him with a stern gaze, her mobile lay forgotten on the table. "No, there's plenty out there for you, you just refuse to look! You need to get your head out of you arse, or perhaps out of Sherlock Holmes' arse and – "

"Enough, Harry!"

"No, not enough! You don't get to decide when enough is enough because you've chosen Sherlock Holmes over your own family! Mum needs you, and you're ignoring that so you can wander about London with that psychopath!"

"He's not a psychopath, and we don't wander about London! He wanders about London, and I… well, I – " John seemed to deflate, and Harry smirked.

"Yeah, and you do his paperwork. You're a fucking pushover, John. If you care about Mum, you'll stop being selfish and find a better job."

John's eyebrows shot up and he dropped his hand to the table.

"Me, being selfish? How fucking hypocritical, Harry. This is the first time I've seen you sober in weeks, and you're calling me selfish? You're drinking yourself to death and wasting all your money on booze. Don't act like I'm the only one at fault here!"

"Oh, please, don't be so dramatic, John. My drinking has nothing to do with anything."

John stood abruptly, leaning forward on his hands. "It has everything to do with everything! Do you know how worried Mum is? How worried I am?! Don't forget who it is that has to pick you up in the middle of the night after you've passed out in some alleyway. How many times have I taken you to the hospital in the past year, hm? Those medical bills add up, too. Just add it to the damn list of things I have to take care of. I suppose that's all my fault, too?"

Harry stood up, her fierce eyes brimming with tears.

"Shut up, John. Just shut up," she growled, moving to leave the room. John blocked the door.

"Now who doesn't want to face the truth? I may be selfish, but I will not take it from you, Harry."

Harry shoved past him and locked herself into the nearest room, the bathroom.

John slumped against the door frame, face in his hands and fingers gripping short blond locks. His entire body was tense.

Sherlock felt himself gripping the fabric of his trousers as he knelt on the floor. Electricity seemed to flow up and down his spine, an intense feeling of protectiveness taking hold. He gritted his teeth.

How dare she speak to John like that? Obviously he was doing what he could. How could she even think she was better than him in any way? Sherlock couldn't decide whether he really didn't want to meet Harry, or if he really did, just to give her hell.

Mrs. Watson's voice drifted through the flat, and John perked up and went to her. He knocked softly and entered, kneeling next to her bed.

"What's up, Mum?"

She smiled, her finger marking her page in the book in her lap. "I'm sick, John, not deaf."

John flushed. "Sorry… it's Christmas, we shouldn't be fighting…"

She quieted him with a hand on his shoulder. "You two have always fought," she said with a fond smile, "I'm not sure why you try to hide it from me now. I'm not weak, John."

John looked at his mother; pale skin, thin blond hair, and skinny – the image of sickness. But she was not a weak woman. John still remembered her as his protector when his father drank too much. She would protect him from her husband's cold words. Sometimes even his fists. When he finally left them, John couldn't recall ever being sad. His mother stayed strong, always a source of love and wisdom, so he grew up missing nothing.

Now the roles had reversed, and he felt it was his duty to be strong now. He didn't want her to see him struggling or fighting with Harry. He wasn't a child anymore.

John looked away and swallowed. "I know, Mum, I just… I don't want you to…" He bit his lip.

She squeezed his shoulder and smiled. "It's okay, John, I understand. I know your job - and Mr. Holmes - is important to you, that it's a part of you are, so don't listen to Harry. We're fine."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head. "But…"

"John, we're fine. I just want you to be happy."

Sherlock backed away from the edge, his body feeling numb.

"Lestrade, do you think that she… I mean, will she live?" He whispered, barely daring to utter the words.

Lestrade sighed and stepped over next to Sherlock, looking down at the scene. "Well, she was in regression until this year. Found a brain tumor. If she doesn't have surgery to get that removed she doesn't stand much of a chance. And let's just say those procedures aren't cheap. With the way things are now… this is her last Christmas."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he cleared his throat. "Are we done here, Lestrade?" He muttered, slowly standing.

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "Yeah, I'd say so. Off we go, then."

The flat took to the air again, soaring across the city, the sky turning dark and colourful lights lit the way. This trip was not long, and they came to rest at another apartment complex, better quality than the last. They passed through into an average sized flat. It was cozy and warm, with a tree in the corner. Lights and garland adorned almost all the surfaces.

People crowded in, all of whom Sherlock recognized from Scotland Yard. Lestrade himself stood in the centre of the group, guests all listening to him tell some story.

"… So then when I said something about the bullet holes resembling the Big Dipper, he turned to look at me as if I'd gone mad. He said, 'what's that supposed to mean?' and honest to god, he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I had to explain to Sherlock Holmes what the Big Dipper was. Who knew, right?"

The surrounding crowd laughed, and Lestrade chuckled, sipping a glass of eggnog. Other yarders began to join in, Donovan and Anderson, damn him, guffawing loudly at each new tale.

Sherlock turned to glare at his "guide" Lestrade, who failed to hide his grimace.

"Sorry, mate. I did invite you, though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back.

Lestrade lifted his glass of eggnog to the ceiling. "A toast," he yelled to gain everyone's attention, "to Sherlock Holmes. Arrogant sod he may be, and hopelessly daft in some areas, but he's saved our asses on several occasions. We owe it to him, even though he probably wouldn't want our thanks," people gave noncommittal hums of agreement while Anderson and Donovan sneered, "I invited him, but… I don't know, we're just not 'good' enough. Convinced himself to hate us all, I guess. Anyway, Happy Christmas everyone, thanks for coming!"

There was cheering, and holiday music came on through old speakers. The babble and hubbub of holiday merriment blurred into dull roar. Sherlock stood from his place and went back to Lestrade.

"Charming. Are we done?"

To his credit, Lestrade looked mildly embarrassed as he checked his watch.

The flat spun up and away, tumbling through the night. They flew faster than before, as Lestrade frowned at his watch. Baker Street shot into view, and they soared down, the flat sliding back into place without so much as a squeak. No longer was there a pit in the floor, just solid wood. The furniture was back in place, unmoved as if nothing happened.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a tight smile. "Well, my time's up. Just… just remember this, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Remember what?"

"This. All of this. If you blow this off, delete this, whatever… Well. I guess you'll have to wait and see."

Sherlock frowned, glancing out at the pitch black night outside.

The bell chimed – midnight.

Sherlock looked back, and Lestrade vanished.

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