"You didn't need to come, Molly." Both Holmes brothers were standing together, side by side, in front of a cold silver table, a dead body and Molly Hooper.

"It's OK, everyone else is busy with... Christmas. The face is a bit sort of bashed-up, so it might be a bit difficult." The pathologist removed the white sheet which was covering John Watson's dead body. She was right, the face had several bruises but it was still recognizable.

"That's him, isn't he?"

"Show me the rest of him." Molly took the sheet with her tiny hands, and hesitated for a moment, but then she did as she was told. She moved the white fabric until the dead man's feet. It took Sherlock just one or two seconds to recognize the rest of the man lying dead in front of him.

"That's him."

"Thank you, Miss Hopper."

"Who is he? How Sherlock recognized him from - not his face?"

Sherlock smiled to himself, just to himself and he was sure none of the others had seen that glimpse of... a new feeling. He heard Molly's question, of course he had. John Watson was clever. Very clever.

"How did you know he was dead?"

"He had an item in his possession, one he said his life depended on. He chose to give it up."

"Where is this item now?" Then, the younger Holmes turned around to see a family crying. It was hardly a difficult deduction. A dead sibling, relative. Christmas day.

"Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock... Well, you barely knew him."

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." And Sherlock Holmes left Bart's.

Now his mind was processing the next events: his brother calling D.I. Lestrade who casually will say that he had another row with the wife and then he will have to organist his socks index. Again. He couldn't understand why people was still doubting about him. He was clean. But the only one occupying his mind, was John Watson.

"Composing?"

"Helps me to think."

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock left his fingers fall from the strings of his violin and typed in the D.I.'s computer. His police website was still stuck at 1895 since Christmas day and after days now, he was sure it was a message.

"The count of your police website is still stuck at 1895."

"Yes. Faulty, can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message." From his blue robe's pocket he took Mister Watson's camera-phone and typed up the number.

I AM 1895LOCKED

WRONG PASSWORD

I AM - - - - LOCKED 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING.

"Just faulty."

"Right, well. I'm going out for a bit."

Just as it had been in the last days, Sherlock was barely speaking to him and to everyone. Not even a nod, or a gesture. The consulting detective took his violin again, and continued with his sad song, the DI knew was The Man's song.

"D.I. Lestrade."

"Yes?"

"So, any plans for new year tonight?" Just a quick look from head to toes at the mysterious woman in black and high heels and Lestrade erased the wife from his mind. According to Sherlock she was sleeping with her personal trainer. And being under the orders of one of the most important man in the British Government, he knew for sure he was going to be Sherlock's babysitter for a while.

"Um... err, nothing fixed. Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon. You have any ideas?"

"One." The woman in black dress and high heels looked at the black car parked on the street and Lestrade sighed tired.

"You know, Mycroft could just have phone me, if he didn't have this stupid bloody power complex."

Soon enough they were at Battersea, in an old factory. Certainly, D.I. Greg Lestrade knew Mycroft Holmes loved to be dramatic, but he didn't need to take him so far to keep their talk away from the younger Holmes.

"He's writing sad music, doesn't eat, barely talks, only to correct the television. I'd say he's heart-broken, but, well, err... he's Sherlock. He does all that anyway."

"Hello, DI Lestrade." He caught his breath. In front of him was John Watson, alive. The same John Watson that he perfectly knew he had been playing with Sherlock's text alert. The same John Watson he knew was the owner of that moan.

"Tell him you're alive."

"He'd come after me."

"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."

"DNA test are only as good as the records you keep."

"And I bet you know the record keeper."

"I know what he likes. And I needed to disappear." He smiled. John Watson smiled, showing all his white and perfect teeth.

"Then how come I can see you and I don't even want to?"

"Look, I made a mistake, I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, now I need it back, so I need your help."

"No."

"It's for his own safety."

"So is this. Tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him and I still won't help you."

"What do I say?" His blue eyes, glued to his BlackBerry were contrasting the gray of the place and his dark outfit. He was wearing a pair of blue dark jeans, a black shirt and a black cardigan.

"What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot."

"Just the usual stuff."

"There's no usual in this case."

He glanced again at the screen of his mobile and his gloved fingers were dancing over the keyboard. "'Good morning, I like your funny hat. I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner', 'Hmm, you look sexy on Crimewatch. Let's have dinner'. He replied 'I'm not hungry' and I asked him again 'Let's have dinner. I don't mean dinner. I mean sex.' But then again 'I'm not hungry'."

"You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He'll outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?"

D.I. Lestrade was amazed. He couldn't fully understand why this man, the same man who had been sleeping with the future Queen of their country was playing with Sherlock Holmes and what made him feel more angry was the fact John Watson was enjoying it. "I don't know, maybe."

"Are you jealous?"

"We are not a couple. I'm just babysitting him -"

"No, you aren't and I'm texting him right now; 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner'."

"Who the hell knows all about Sherlock Holmes? But for the record, I don't even know if he's gay -"

"Well I am and I want him in my bed, begging for mercy. Look at us both."

AHHH

Lestrade and John Watson's eyes were wide as saucers when they looked a tall man in a dark coat running his steps away from them.