Fairy lights were strung around the window frames and even up to the moose antlers on the wall. The flat was warmed by a large fire and outside it was snowing. They stood together and raised their glasses.
"Happy Christmas!" John toasted.
"Happy Christmas," they returned.
Sherlock picked up his violin and glanced around at the group. As they continued talking to each other he lay it back down again.
"You could play. No one would mind," came Molly's quiet voice.
"I could. But I won't," he said, pointing to the sofa with his bow. Little Emma lay in her carseat fast asleep.
"Sherlock! Here, have some crackers," Mary called.
"He can't eat. He's on a case. Or dieting. Wait that's you Myc," John laughed.
"How very droll," Mycroft sighed.
"No. Thank you Mary."
"Hey he remembered your name. I can't tell you how many girlfriends I had – no don't look at me like that Mary! - how many girlfriends I had and Sherlock couldn't remember their name. One Christmas…"
Sherlock tuned the rest of the conversation out, turning to look at Molly instead.
"I used to love Christmas when I was a boy," he said.
"But not anymore?" Molly teased.
"It's different now. When I was a boy there was a newness to everything. There were firsts and seconds. First time on a bike, second time on skates. Even the tenth time was meaningful. Now I've had almost forty years of Christmas and they're all the same. Crackers and lights and drinkies."
"There is a way to make something new again," Molly said, wiping her mouth with her thumb where cracker crumbs had gotten stuck. Sherlock watched her lips then glanced away.
"You mean remember it of course," Sherlock said.
"No silly! Tell someone about it. Go on, try it. Pick a Christmas, your favorite Christmas. And then I'll tell you mine."
Sherlock looked at the floor and Molly wasn't sure if he was thinking of something or trying to find a way to tell her that he had no intention of sharing such intimate information.
"My favorite Christmas was when I was seven. Christmas was still exciting enough to wake up early for. There was a large fir tree downstairs by the fire. There were never many presents. Mummy didn't want us spoiled. That just made the gifts more meaningful," he said.
"Go on," Molly encouraged.
"Mycroft was a teenager and before Christmas morning he would know each of the gifts we were to receive. He was always telling me he was the smart one."
"I am the smart one!" Mycroft called out from across the room.
"Do shut up!" Sherlock snapped back.
"Ignore him," Molly said, steering him to a corner where they could continue.
"He didn't shake boxes or discover secret hiding places. Mycroft figured it out by the process of elimination. Nothing too big, something we'd expressed a repeated interest in having, narrow it down to a specific price range. And if I asked he would give me clues until I figured it out. This year was different. He didn't say a word. And I knew it was something big, something Mummy had threated to punish Mycroft for if he said a word. That morning I ran downstairs as fast as I could. I rushed to the tree but there were no boxes with colored paper and bows. I thought Mummy had forgotten to set them out the night before. Then I felt something wet on my palm. I turned around and there was this red Irish Setter. He wasn't a puppy but he wasn't too far off. A young dog. A beautiful dog," Sherlock said.
"What did you name him?" Molly asked.
"I called him Redbeard."
They were both quiet a moment and then Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Did it work?" Molly asked with a small smile.
"It was an interesting experiment," he replied neutrally.
"You've changed Sherlock. I remember that one Christmas and you couldn't open your mouth without something mean coming out. And here you are making small talk with me," she said.
"Yes well. Actually there's something I've been meaning to say. I meant to say it before. I know it was a long time ago. That is to say I've been thinking…" Sherlock said.
"Go on," Molly said, sipping at her drink. It had warmed her cheeks and they were glowing. Her eyes were bright and happy. Sherlock paused. Would an apology make that gentle fire go out? Tonight he wanted to bask in it. Perhaps it could wait until tomorrow.
"It's okay. Whatever you're worried about, don't worry so much. It's Christmas," she said. She downed the rest of her drink in one swallow.
Sherlock put his glass down on the coffee table. It was almost full. He took Molly's empty cup and placed it next to his. His movements were deliberate and careful. He stepped closer to her.
"What… what are you doing?" she stuttered.
Molly glanced overhead looking for some sign of mistletoe. There was none.
"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said quietly. They both ignored the catcalls behind them, oblivious to anything except each other.
"What was that for?" Molly asked breathlessly as he pulled away.
"An apology and a thank you. I hope that surpassed my previous efforts," Sherlock said, pulling at his shirt nervously.
"I think we'll need a few more samples before I can make that deduction," Molly replied.
