Winter swept in with a fury all its own. One day, John woke up to find that St. Bart's was covered with a deep layer of snow. The temperature had dropped to nearly unbearably cold and he was starting to see the practical reasons behind Sherlock's ridiculous coat.

Life had settled into some strange form of normality. He and Sarah still spoke to each other in French, but there was something tense between them now, and she had stopped teasing him about Sherlock.

John wasn't sure what quite to make of that.

He and Sherlock had never talked about the disastrous date night again and he was perfectly fine with that. Better never to talk about, never talk about why they did the things that they did and said the things they said.

(Better not to think about the possibility he'd imagined before he'd fallen asleep that night.)

"So what are you doing for the holidays? Knowing you, you've probably got some terrifying Holmes Manor stashed away in the countryside with servants and…god, I don't know, whatever it is that manors have. A moat, I guess. D'you have a moat?"

They were walking back to their room from dinner, shoes crunching through the snow. It was early evening, the sky lit up with a hushed purple sunset, the windows of the building glowing with golden light. Something about the night, something about walking through snow with Sherlock on a snowy evening, filled John with a quiet sense of happiness that seeped through his bones.

Sherlock snorted.

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I don't have a moat. We do have a dungeon, though."

John stopped in his tracks, trying to figure out if Sherlock was having him on or not.

"Come off it. A dungeon?"

Now Sherlock was trying to hide his laughter, narrow shoulders shaking. John scowled.

"Really, John, even someone of your intellect should be able to- oof!"

The end of whatever Sherlock had to say was cut short by a fistful of snow. He stood there for a moment, frozen fingers held to his newly damp cheek, looking confused.

"For a genius, Holmes, you definitely don't seem to know much about snowballs," John said with a grin as he rolled another one between his gloved hands.

"Honestly, John this is childish and ridiculous and ohmygodIamgoingtokillyou." Sherlock's voice had instantly dropped dangerously low the moment that John had dropped another handful of snow down the back of his shirt, his hands clenching as he braced against the cold, and for a moment they stood still and uncomfortably close on the pathway, eyes locked on each other, and John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was going to punch him or-

(Or what?)

(John's face was red from more than just the cold.)

And then suddenly Sherlock was a blur of moment and suddenly there was snow flying from every direction and John was fairly sure that several hit him in the face.

He retaliated in an instant and then they were running across the field, hurling snowballs and insults at each other and laughing.

(And it was glorious. John wanted this feeling for the rest of his life.)

A rather sizable lump of snow hit John square in the back, which was followed by something distinctly more solid than snow and suddenly he was being tackled to the ground, the contents of his backpack spilling out across the frozen ground.

They lay there for a long moment on the ground, limbs tangled together, laughing until they ran out breath, until it was nothing more than silent shakes of their stomachs.

(And John was freezing and soaking wet and his shoulder ached but he hadn't felt this happy since before the accident and that was all that mattered.)

(And he knew that something about this was a bit too close, too intimate for friends but it was perfect and so he couldn't be arsed to care.)

But eventually the ground felt hard and his shoulder was twinging and he made a move to get up. Sherlock pressed the leg that was lying on top of John's down, pinning John to where he was.

"Let me up, you great nutter," John said, pushing fruitlessly at Sherlock's gangly frame.

But in typical Sherlock fashion, he refused to move.

"Help, help I'm being oppressed!" he shouted as he attempted to wriggle out from underneath him.

Next to him, Sherlock frowned.

"Don't exaggerate, John, I'm hardly oppressing you." Nevertheless, he lifted his legs off of John and unfolded himself off the ground, offering a hand to help him up.

"I know that, idiot. It's a line from Monty Python and the Holy Grail," John grumbled as he accepted Sherlock's hand. Sherlock blinked at him in confusion.

"God, have you really not seen Holy Grail? You're missing out. We'll watch it sometime. Now help me pick up my stuff, seeing as you're the one who knocked me to the ground in the first place."

Sherlock stooped and began to help John scoop up the scattered notebooks and pens. He picked up a parcel wrapped in shiny green paper, frowning as he read the tag.

"From J to S, Merry Christmas. I'm assuming this isn't for Sarah?"

John snatched it out of his hands, shoving it quickly into his bag before Sherlock could get a further look.

"Obviously not. Who's the only person with the initial S who I'd go to the bother of getting a gift for?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment, confused.

"I'm assuming me. Based on the weight of the-"

John stamped on his foot.

"If you try to deduce it, then I can promise you you're not going to get it. I'll give it to you the day we leave for break, promise."

Sherlock nodded, but he looked slightly put out.

"Now I guess I've got to find a gift for you."

"It's what friends typically do, yeah."

John waited for some cutting reply, but Sherlock was silent, hands in his pockets, staring at the sunset on the horizon. He pretended not to notice, though, the hint of a smile on his face.


"This film is ridiculous, not to mention incredibly historically inaccurate."

"Oh, would you come off it and just enjoy it? If you don't stop nitpicking soon, I swear I'll punch you in the face."

They were wedged together on John's bed, Sherlock's laptop held between them with Monty Python and the Holy Grail playing on the screen. They were only forty-five minutes in and Sherlock hadn't shut up once about how the film wasn't true to medieval history or Arthurian legend.

"I don't really think that the Knights Who Say Ni are-"

John clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock glared at him, and then bit down on his fingers.

(God, some days Sherlock reminded him so strongly of Harry, and not in a good way.)

"Christ, why'd you do that? Now I've Sherlock spit all over my hand. Ta, mate, really."

Sherlock gave a smug smile.

When the film ended, they sat in silence for a minute, staring at the now empty screen. Sometime during the course of the movie they'd both ended up shifting at the same time, and though they'd started out both sitting cross-legged with several inches of space between the two of them, their legs were now pressed up next to each other.

(John tried not to focus on that, tried to avoid thinking about how nice the solid warmth of Sherlock's leg was.)

(It was tougher than it seemed.)

"It wasn't as terrible as I thought it would be, given your taste in entertainment."

"The amount of faith you put in me is really amazing, thank you."

Sherlock chuckled quietly and he was silent for a moment and then:

"So what are your plans for the holidays? Seems only fair that I feign polite curiosity, seeing as you're giving me a Christmas gift."

John rolled his eyes.
"Don't do me any favors. But no, I'm going home to London. It'll be weird, though, you know? First Christmas without…"

"Without your mother."

"Yeah."

It was silent again and when Sherlock spoke, his voice was soft, gentle even.

"Will you ever tell me what happened? About the accident?"

John bit his lip, and then forced himself to take a deep breath.

He had always hated talking about that night, being forced to remember the squeal of cars skidding across pavement and the screech of ambulance sirens. Even though he hadn't had a panic attack in a few weeks, he still felt on the verge of one whenever the subject of the accident came up, and for a moment, he was afraid he was going to have one then and there, with Sherlock watching.

But if there was anyone he could trust with the full story, it was Sherlock. He took another shuddery breath.

"It was- it was this past May. We'd left London for the day, to go visit my aunt, and we were heading home that night. We were maybe about twenty minutes out when I realized that I'd left my phone at my aunt's house and even though we probably just could've had my aunt mail it to us, I kept badgering my parents until they turned around. We were about fifteen minutes away from my aunt's when there was this car, coming from the wrong direction and swerving all over the road. Obviously drunk, you know? My dad tried to turn out of the way to avoid it but it was too late and-"

"And it hit you head on." Sherlock's voice was practically a whisper.

John nodded, avoiding Sherlock's eyes, staring dead ahead at the wall.

"My dad and Harry just had some cuts and bruises, nothing that bad. But my mum and the drunk driver both. They both. Well. And afterwards, everyone kept telling me it wasn't my fault, you know? My dad, my aunt, Ella, everyone. But it was. Harry knows it and I don't think she'll ever forgive me for it. If I hadn't made them go back to get my phone, my mom would still be alive today."

"John, you know it's not-"

John gave a bitter laugh. "Please don't."

(Because it was his fault, wasn't it? There was no avoiding it.)

Sherlock sat silently, his fingers twisting in his lap. His left hand was squeezing his ankle so tight that the skin stretched over his knuckles had gone bone white.

"Is that how you hurt your shoulder?"

Instead of saying anything in response, John tugged down the back of his shirt to show the mass of knotty tissue that stretched from his collarbone down his back to him. Sherlock stared at it for an uncomfortably long time, lips parted slightly.

"Fucking ugly, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but for a second, John could've sworn that he felt the ghost of fingers resting against it.

(It felt gentle, loving almost, and something in John's chest hurt with a palpable ache.)

"It'll be alright."
And that was all that needed to be said, all that he needed to hear. Sherlock's hand came up and gave John's a quick squeeze and instead of removing himself entirely afterwards, their fingers stayed entangled and John made no move to separate them.

Because he didn't care if this wasn't what justfriends did, if this was something too intimate and personal, because it was what he needed.

He needed Sherlock and he needed this.


The day before break, Sherlock threw a textbook at the back of John's head.

"Ow. Thank you for that," John grumbled as he turned away from packing his trunk to glare at Sherlock. "Really, if you need to get my attention, I have a name, you know."

Sherlock chose not to acknowledge this.

"Alfred Peck's wife has announced her plans to pack up the bookstore, sell the building, and move out of town."

"I don't blame her, seeing as it's where her husband died."

"That's not the point. The point is that she's just a little old lady, who's going to need people to help her move things. People like us. People who also have an interest in finding where Peck might've stashed The Brothers Grimm."

"I'm not one of those people."

"I am, so yes you are."

"Shut up."

John had thought that Sherlock's obsession with the murders had ended, but that didn't seem to be true. It was both exciting and worrying, the mad look in his eye when he talked about it.

(It was exciting and worrying too, how much John wanted there to be another murder so that he could get that feeling of exhilaration back again.)

"So you want to go there on the pretense of helping her pack up and instead try and figure out where the book might be, keeping in mind that finding the book might lead the murderer to us?"

"Exactly."

John thought about it a moment and sighed.

"Fine."


Mrs. Peck appeared delighted to have two boys to help her lift the (massively heavy and none too easy on John's shoulder) boxes of books out of the store.

"I'm leaving town after the holidays," she said as John nearly staggered under the weight of a cardboard box filled with encyclopedias. His shoulder gave a sharp stab and he nearly saw spots, but he bit his lip. "Going to stay up with my sister in Edinburgh."

"That's- oof- nice." The box nearly slipped out of his fingers. Before he could reclaim his grasp on it, Sherlock swept up from behind him and lifted it out of his grasp, seeming to carry it easily.

(He was the textbook definition of a bastard.)

"Now, Rose- can I call you Rose?" Sherlock was giving Mrs. Peck his charming smile, the one that John hated because it was practically dripping with falsehood. "How was it…after Mr. Peck died?"

"Sherlock," he hissed, a warning.

Mrs. Peck opened her mouth wide, eyes blinking rapidly.

"Well, obviously after Alfie died, it wasn't…it wasn't easy."

"Did you ever have any suspicions about your husband?"

She frowned.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Sherlock," John whispered again, this time unable to keep the anger from his tone. He never realized when things weren't okay, when he needed to stop for fear of hurting someone around him.

"That he could be involved in anything illicit? The black market, perhaps?" He dropped the mask of false charm. "Come on, even someone as mindless as you would've noticed!"

Mrs. Peck stood staring at him for a moment and then she drew herself up to her full height, spots of red appearing in her cheeks. Her mouth was in a thin, pressed line, but there was the faint hint of tears in her eyes.

"Out!" was all that she could say. John couldn't get out of there fast enough.

They walked in silence up the path towards the school, Sherlock lost in his own head, John trying to keep his anger under control. They didn't speak until they were back in 221, but by then, John had reached his boiling point.

"Based on the way she reacted, I'd say that she must know-"

"Why can't you ever think about how what you say has an effect on people?" John's voice was too loud to his own ears and his hands were shaking. "Is it that bloody difficult for you?"

Sherlock whirled around, his face curled up in a sneer.

"Please, yes, teach me how to be more like you, more like everyone else, who can't see a single damned thing that's going on around them because they're too focused on feelings and how other people feel. Please teach me, because apparently it's so obvious that without it, I'll never be tolerable."

"Oh don't start. You with your obsession with never fucking feeling anything or getting close to anyone. Did the thought ever occur to you that there are people who might want to get close to you, who love you? No, of course it didn't, because you're Sherlock bloody Holmes and you think you're better than everyone else! God, I don't even know why I bother sometimes."

Sherlock stepped in closer to John until their faces were nearly touching. There was a cold fire in the gray of Sherlock's eyes and John realized that his hands were shaking. When he spoke, Sherlock's voice was quiet, nearly a whisper.

"Then don't."

That was it. John took his Christmas present for Sherlock, which he'd been planning to give to him before they left for break the next day and hurled it in his general direction, not looking back as he went for the door to see if it had hit him.

When he got to the door, he turned around.

"I hope you enjoy being alone. I really hope you do. Because that's all you're ever going to get."

(And if something in him broke at the stricken look on Sherlock's face as he slammed the door behind him, he did his best to ignore it.)