a/u: i'm unsure about this chapter. but still. happy reading.

There's something so undeserving about melting snow– when it's just liquid, but still solid enough to cake on your shoes and drive you mad. Sherlock breezed into the flat, late, and almost didn't notice John sitting by the fire with his laptop.

"Dinner?" he asked, and Sherlock nearly jumped.

"I have plans," he called from down the hall.

John opened his mouth to make a sly remark but kept it to himself. Turning back to his book, he flipped it open and looked at the words but didn't read them.

"Where to?" he asked.

Sherlock walked back into the room, his slush-molested pants and shoes gone. He finished doing his belt and then ran a hand through his hair.

"That Chinese take-in down the road," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. "Must be off."

"Date?"

"No. Just dinner."

"With who?"

Sherlock shook his head and closed the door, pretending not to have heard John. He started humming as he walked, hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on the ground. Someone had cleared the sidewalk of the half-melted snow– all the better, because Sherlock hated the sound of it squishing under his shoes.

The warm air of the restaurant hit him full in the face, and he reached up to undo his scarf while scanning the room.

He didn't see Irene, but she saw him– she studied his back, watched his motions as he undid his coat and draped it over his arm. Very practiced; very fluent.

"Sherlock," she said, and he turned to her.

He slid in across from her, rubbing his hands together.

"Finally; we're having dinner."

Sherlock smiled a little and got a quick look at her. Irene knew that he was trying (again) to read her, and knew by the little flare in his eye that he couldn't. She had her hair tied up, but not fancily, but just enough so that it wouldn't get in the way; she wore a dress, but it was casual– it was a dark purple color, but he couldn't tell how long it was while she was sitting like she was, with her legs crossed in a lady like fashion.

"To my knees, just about," she murmured when the waiter passed.

He looked up and caught her eye_ didn't bother with a question.

"I know you're wondering how long my dress is," she said, leaning in closer. He could smell her perfume. "It's just to my knees."

"Appropriate."

"Aren't I always?"

Sherlock chuckled and leaned in also, gauging her makeup– it was light, no eye shadow, but still enough mascara to make her lashes look like angelic. Her foundation was light and simple, but still Sherlock had the sudden urge to see her without it.

"What are you looking for?" she said, laughing. "You look like a lost puppy."

"I don't understand why you wear that."

"Wear what?"

"All that makeup."

"Because it makes me look young."

"You are young."

The waiter put the food on their table but Sherlock kept his gaze trained on Irene. She shook her head, glancing down at her plate.

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

Irene looked up and smiled at him. "Are you always so dick-like sober?"

Sherlock leaned back and laughed, rubbing his forehead with his eyes.

"I'm serious," Irene said, chuckling, "I preferred you wasted."

"I wasn't that drunk."

"Right," Irene said, and watched Sherlock push the food around on his plate.

While he did that she looked at him, noting that his shirt was wrinkled from wearing it all day, but his pants looked fresh. His hair was un-brushed, damp from the random bits of rain that fell this evening, and his fingers tapped out a rhythm on his fork.

"Were you at a scene today?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Cold?"

"It's December," Sherlock said.

Irene tipped her head to the side and smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Nearly Christmas."

"Correct."

"Happy Christmas."

Sherlock met her eyes, and wondered suddenly if she believed in god.

"Happy Christmas."

He wasn't hungry, but for once, he ate anyway.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Mycroft stared at the fireplace but didn't really see it. His mind was a thousand miles away. When his phone buzzed, he didn't look at it for a few moments, because he simply didn't want to move.

We need to talk. Come by tomorrow, 2 o'clock.

-MH

Why?
-SH

Because we need to talk.

-MH

Fine.

-SH

Surprised by the lack of argument, Mycroft leaned back into his chair and wondered if his brother were ill; maybe sleeping. Mycroft took in the late hour but couldn't picture his brother asleep.

Of course, when Sherlock got to Mycroft's house (his childhood home) he regretted the decision almost as soon as he saw him. His brother turned to him, smiling, and offered him a seat.

"What do you want?" Sherlock muttered.

"Just to chat."

"Who do you want caught, and for what?"

"Alright, then. Cut to the chase, I get it," Mycroft replied, and pulled two scarlet envelopes from his desk.

They were slim; only contained one sheet of paper, but the envelope itself was made of thick paper. What ever was in it was either very important or made to look that way. Sherlock couldn't see where the paper was inside of it– which means that it mjst be the perfect size; no folding needed. Official, maybe.

"What is that?"

Mycroft took a steadying breath. "I was invited by a colleague to a gathering of sorts; he begged me to bring two people of whom I'm close to."

"And you want me and John."

"Yes."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft." He leaned back and crossed his arm.

"Please," Mycroft said, leaning over and planting his elbows on the desk. "I would do this for you."

"No you wouldn't. You hate gatherings."

"You're my brother."

"Biologically."

Heatedly, the elder Holmes leaned back and slid the invitations towards his brother.

"At least take them to John, then."

"Fine."

Sherlock stood, slid them into his pockets and was at the door when he heard his brother mutter something under his breath. He didn't bother to ask what it was. When the door was closed, Mycroft looked at it as if his brother would walk back in and suddenly be a small boy again– he would tower over Sherlock and still be able to make him believe that family wasn't so terrible.

"At least act human."

Curious, Sherlock opened one of the invitations when he slid into the cab. He didn't bother to read it, and instead gave the driver the address of an old nature preserve.

Fancy a movie? My place.

Taking a walk.

-SH

Company?

It took a while for Sherlock to reply, because he couldn't decide. But by the time the cab pulled up along the lonely gravel road, he had his mind made up.

Varn Nature Preserve.

-SH

He took a seat on an old bench and deliberated picking up a pack of cigarettes on his way into town; sometimes the patches just weren't enough, and today felt like one of those times. Sighing, he let his head fall into his hands.

The air was warm and sticky. Humidity rolled off of the snow like waves and flowed behind his ears, saturating his skin with it's chill. He turned up his collar and waited for his company.

"Little chilly for a walk, isn't it?" Irene said when she approached him.

Sherlock didn't answer, just stood up and began walking. The trees, with the snow dripping from them, looked almost poetic, like he could snatch words right off of their drooping branches. Irene followed close behind him, the snow crunching beneath her boots.

"Nobody ever goes on walks anymore," Sherlock said, stopping after a while.

"No."

He turned to her, look at her with her hair all pinned and in place, and struggled for words.

"Why is that?"

Irene smiled. "Shouldn't you know that?"

He sighed and looked away from her, his gaze lingering on the half-frozen stream to his left.

"What's got you all in a fuss?"

"What?"

"You're scattered."

"Never."

Sherlock nearly jumped when she laid a hand on his arm. Through her glove, she felt him relax under her touch and smiled softly.

"Do you think I'm human?" he blurted.

"Well, I assume that you're not a bird."

Sherlock shook his head and turned; continued walking. For a second Irene watched him disappear into the snow-covered trees and thinks of how long his strides are, and how much ground he covers in one of them. She thinks that he must be a good runner– suddenly aches for an answer.

"What's happened?"

"My brother asked me to do something," Sherlock said slowly, picking his words like fruit from an overbearing tree, "and I refused."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to go."

Irene leaned against a tree. "Go where?"

"'A gathering of sorts'."

"Well," Irene said slowly, looking and Sherlock look at her, "I would say that he's your brother, so you should go."

"What does that mean?" Sherlock said, his voice low. "Since we were birthed by the same women, I should go ahead and do things for him?"

"Yes. That's what family does."

Sherlock scoffed. Crossed his arms. Irene watched him, even when he adverted his gaze.

"How much of the night at the bar do you remember?" she asked suddenly.

"All of it. I'm not a forgetful person, even if drunk."

"You almost kissed me," Irene said, and swore that she small a smile on his lips.

"The key word is 'almost.'"

"Does the thought disgust you that much?" she said, joking, but Sherlock turned around with a fiery gaze.

"Why do you think that?"

Irene opened her mouth but didn't, because she felt his hand curl around her wrist. Her pulse pounded into his spider like fingers, but neither of them pulled away; as if the first one to move was breaking some kind of promise.

"You know," she breathed, "kissing is a very human thing to do."

"Obvious."

"But you're not really human, are you? Too stone. No feeling."

"I feel."

"You feel even less than me," Irene said, surprising anger bubbling in her blood. "And that's saying something."

In the end, it was Sherlock that let go (broke that promise) and let Irene stride away. Her footsteps faded away until they were nothing (he began to wonder if they ever were something), and he stayed rooted in the spot for a good hour before sliding his phone out into his numbs hands.

I'll go.

-SH

Thank you.

-MH

It wasn't just his fingers that felt numb.