Warnings: There is some smut in this chapter. Not a lot, but some. Please be warned (don't like don't read).

She'd planned it out well, Irene decided. The body really was flawless. Her proportions precisely. Dark hair. All it took was a little damage to the face…a little tampering with some records and some record keepers. And she was done.

Of course, thanks to her excellent camera planting, she did get to see every expression on Sherlock's face as he saw her body for the first time. It was as she'd expected, clinical. Neutral. But what else would a gay man do when looking at a woman's dead body? Any other reaction would have been problematic.

She especially liked the little tart who acted all horrified that Sherlock had known the body by proportions rather than a facial recognition. She was a pretty thing, Irene thought, as her eyes traveled over the rather unrevealing lab coat. She'd have to do something about little miss Molly Hooper in good time—or rather she'd do Miss Molly Hooper in good time. Convince her Sherlock wasn't worth pursuing…that he was already taken…or at least make the pretty pathologist question her sexuality a little.

If only she could convince Sherlock that everything he wanted was right in front of him. How someone as confident seeming as Sherlock Holmes hadn't already declared his feelings to John Watson was beyond her. But she supposed everyone had their insecurities every now and then.

The thought of that sent her thinking of Kate…and she quickly tried to disconnect her thoughts from the beautiful woman. She couldn't afford to be distracted right now. She had to focus on starting a new life. Hiding from Moriarty and the CIA and all the rest of them.

She sighed and shut off the feed. Watching the two for a bit was fun, but she needed to move to a more secure location. Besides, it would be more interesting in an hour when Sherlock returned home…considering Watson would likely be thoroughly pissed by that time based on his drinking rate.

She'd check on them in due time. But for the moment her desire to live outweighed her desire for sexual stimulus. There would be time for the lesser priorities later.

His eyes traced the London streets, trying to focus on the details speeding by instead of the thoughts racing through his mind. He kept replaying the kiss, John's soft lips on his, the man's body practically pressed up against him. So beautiful and strong and fragile all at once. John…

He pushed those memories aside in favor of considering the current case. Irene Adler, dead. It was odd really. He'd come to admire her. She wasn't attractive to him in the slightest in terms of her beauty or her sexual allure, but her intelligence and cunning were incredible. It was rare for him to find someone so…complex to work with. And besides…she'd been the one to awaken some of his interest in John. Or perhaps to make him realize it. But his sentimentality was getting the better of him, and Sherlock soon schooled himself again.

John wasn't interested. He had been fussing over Jeanette all evening. His fourth girlfriend in half a year. That was what John wanted. Some pretty woman. Someone to one day marry and have a semi-normal relationship with…have children and a little house and a loving family… John would never want him.

Perhaps he'd acted a bit rashly at the party, but he'd been so angry at the time. So upset that he had to sit by and watch John cuddle Jeanette and go have sex with her that evening. And then Molly Hooper had practically thrown herself at him, and that had been the last straw. He couldn't take it. Not knowing that John was attached to someone else and a woman he had no interest in other than friendship was eager to be with him in more of a romantic respect.

His eyes closed, and he did his best to drift into his mind palace, look at something more pleasant than his memories of John. Something distracting.

Thankfully by the time he opened his eyes they were pulling up to St. Bart's. He paid the cabby and stepped out, striding towards the building with obvious purpose.

Mycroft met him in the entryway and walked with him up to the morgue.

"The only one that fit the description. Had her brought here – your home from home," Mycroft said as they stepped in.

Sherlock eyed the form beneath the sheet and then noticed who was with the body. Molly shifted a bit as he looked her over. She'd left her hair and makeup, but had changed into a jumper and slacks. More her normal self. Still, she was a painful reminder of the awful party.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," Sherlock said.

"Oh that's okay, everyone else was busy with…Christmas."

Sherlock sighed. It made them three of a kind. None of them caring all that much about Christmas. Not like John about to go spend the night with his new girlfriend, or Lestrade going to try to reconcile things with his wife or Mrs. Hudson who was at least going to call her sister or maybe going to have a bite to eat with Mrs. Turner. No, he and Molly, and Mycroft were all loners. All left to fend for themselves in the merriness of the holidays.

"The face is a bit…sort of…bashed up…so it might be difficult."

Sherlock nodded and watched as Molly pulled down the sheet.

She hadn't been exaggerating. Quite a lot of damage. He would get no amount of recognition from that. No, better to rely on DNA testing…or…

"Show me the rest," he said.

It was true; she had made a point of showing off her proportions. If the body matched those it would be a good indication. With the dark hair and the clue of the phone being sent to him. His little Christmas gift. Though he much preferred to think of the kiss as his true gift…

Molly did as she was told, pulling back the sheet so he could peer down at the smooth pale skin. He was unsurprised to see 32, 24, and 34 in the hourglass figure presented to him. He nodded.

"That's her."

He walked to the door. His heart had sunk for some reason. Perhaps he'd grown used to Irene's games…used them as excuses to be closer to John…to kiss him. And besides, the puzzles she had presented had certainly been intriguing.

Mycroft appeared in the hallway and offered a cigarette. Alarms went off in Sherlock's head, but he kept his expression neutral and accepted. This was abnormal behavior for his brother, and he knew it. Something odd was happening, so he'd play to it and see what happened after.

"Smoking indoors…isn't there one of those…one of those law things?" he said as Mycroft lit the small roll for him.

"We're in a morgue. There's only so much damage you can do," Mycroft said, eyeing him carefully.

He expects something from me, Sherlock thought. But what?

"How did you know she was dead?" Mycroft asked.

"She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up," Sherlock said. He enjoyed puffing the various chemicals into his body, allowing the smoke to relax him. He could use one after tonight. Regardless of Mycroft's intentions he was going to enjoy the rare opportunity to have a cigarette, even more so if it played against whatever Mycroft was trying to prove.

He's taking time to talk to you. Not about a case. This is like old times, Sherlock thought. Clearly, he's concerned…perhaps he believes…

No it was unthinkable. Sherlock barely restrained an eye roll at the thought. Dear god, did Mycroft think he'd developed some kind of feelings for Irene Adler? Well, perhaps the man was right. She was different. But whatever feelings there were simply remained ones of fascination and perhaps a touch of admiration. But when he thought of Irene nothing in his body remotely stirred. He reacted as one normally would to any normal person. It wasn't like John…

Just his name had Sherlock's heart beating a little faster. Just the thought of his face made Sherlock's breath halt in its path out of his lungs. When he let his imagination roam to the thought of John unclothed…his cock responded just as most men's would to sexual stimuli. But Irene Adler…nothing. She inspired a touch of a smile. Maybe an imagined nod in her direction. A tip of a hat so to speak. But nothing more.

"And where is this item now?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ignored him and turned his attention to the doorway, where he suddenly noticed movement. A family stood there while a doctor delivered what had to be bad news. They crowded together in a huddling mass, shaking with what had to be sobs. Sherlock's first instinct was to react with disgust, but after a moment, he realized he was feeling some level of sympathy.

"Look at them, they all care so much," he whispered.

Look at you, he thought. Sitting here smoking over John Watson. Who cares now?

"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock asked. Anything to make his brother not suspect what he was thinking. He couldn't let his brother know he'd actually come to care. No. Mycroft would berate him to no end. Sentiment was a defect. He knew that better than anyone.

"All lives end…all hearts are broken," Mycroft said calmly. "Caring is not an advantage…Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. Better to just leave it there. The longer they stayed together, the more likely it was that Mycroft might deduce what was bothering him.

"This is low tar," he muttered.

"Yes well, you barely knew her," Mycroft said, confirming his suspicion it was about Irene Adler. Foolish Mycroft, always assuming he was the smart one.

Sherlock started walking, heading towards the door. He didn't look back. Let Mycroft think what he wanted.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," he said.

"And a happy New Year," his brother said back.

The door closed behind him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Good, escaped from that little trap. Mycroft wouldn't know, he'd think it something to do with Irene Adler. And Sherlock could return to his pining for John in peace.

When he returned to Baker street he could tell the moment he walked into the flat that something was wrong.

John was sitting in his chair with a book and a glass of alcohol. His face was flushed and his eyes slightly red. In a moment Sherlock could tell he'd had far too much to drink. It happened every so often with John. Probably some alcoholism in the family. As a drug user Sherlock couldn't exactly scold John on the bad habit though.

He glanced around calculating what had been moved. Something was off. Things had been put back into place clumsily, as though it had been done in a great hurry.

And then he looked at John again and realized that Jeanette was missing…and he knew they'd had plans. Odd. He frowned.

Well, the changes to the room were obvious. Drugs sweep. Mrs. Hudson had done some of it, because she always dusted off whatever she was searching too. Nervous habit of hers. John's movements, however, more clumsy. So both of them had been looking. Why?

Of course the only thing that made sense for that was Mycroft. Damn him and his meddling. It was probably the reason John had stayed in then too. And he was probably drinking to make up for Jeanette not being with him.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index," he muttered as he went back to his bedroom.

He slammed the door for good measure, even though he was angrier with Mycroft, and Irene Adler, and himself than either John or Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock allowed himself to collapse on the bed, sighing as his head made contact with the pillow. He just needed to rest for a moment.

After a few minutes he sat up and took the coat and scarf off, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. And then his shoes, kicking them off equally violently.

He laid there and stared at the orange strip of light coming in beneath his door, signs John was still out in the sitting room reading. Why couldn't John just go to bed? He didn't need to be watched like a child. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

For once in his life, Sherlock actually wanted to sleep. Sleep would be an escape. A place he could forget and move on and try to pretend all of Christmas hadn't happened. Perhaps in his dreams he could kiss John again.

Somehow he managed to drift off. It only felt like a few minutes before he was jerked back awake. He blinked a few times, trying to concentrate on what had woken him up. And then he saw it…the door was open.

A shadow was in the doorway. And then it was approaching stumbling closer. Sherlock tried to sit up more, only to have someone push him back, strong hands gripping his shirt and keeping his back to the mattress.

"What…" Sherlock gasped, only to make out those familiar facial features in the low light of the hall. "John? What's wrong?"

"Jus' thinkin' I shou' kiss you," John slurred. "Keep thinkin' 'bout tha' kiss."

Sherlock frowned and tried to protest, only to have John lean down and kiss him again.

The kiss felt different than the others before. More sloppy and raw and passionate. John's mouth opened a fraction and his tongue came into play. Sherlock felt heat building at the mere thought of where this might lead…but at the same time the tang of alcohol in the kiss was distracting.

He allowed the kiss to continue just a second longer, relaxing slightly against John before reaching up and putting his hands on John's chest. He was tempted to let them linger, to reach down and pull on the hem of the jumper and raise it over John's head. But at the same time this wasn't right. This wasn't how he'd imagined it.

He pushed firmly, and John pulled back a few centimeters, lips disconnecting from Sherlock's. He was panting as he sat back a little, staring down at Sherlock. Those familiar blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "While this is…pleasant…I'm convinced you'll regret your actions come morning given how intoxicated you appear to be."

John grunted and shook his head.

"No, Sheloh, no. Want to keep kissin'." He leaned in lips pursed slightly.

"Please John, I…I can't do this," Sherlock begged. "You…you're so wonderful and I…not while you're drunk. It wouldn't be real…And…you have a girlfriend"

"Jeane—mmm broke it off. And yer so goooood at kissin'. Liked it earlier. If't weren't for tha' bitch…wasser name? Mmm…the woman."

"John," Sherlock murmured even as he tried to understand John's slurred words. He'd broken things off with Jeanette? But why? "It's all right. Let's just get you back to bed, shall we?"

"No!" John protested. "Want yah…mmm…so sexy."

If John had said that in any other context Sherlock might have broken into a grin and kissed him on the spot. But here, it was simply the wrong place and the wrong time.

"John, timing," Sherlock muttered, thinking of all the lectures he'd been given on the subject himself. He might not know much, but he was aware this was wrong.

"No," John mumbled and leaned back in to plant a few more fleeting kisses on Sherlock's mouth and jaw and even his nose. "Sex. Now."

One of his hands moved from Sherlock's chest down to his trousers.

"God John!" Sherlock snapped. "You're intoxicated. You're not thinking clearly. You're…"

But that hand had found the button of his trousers and was fumbling with it. Sherlock paused as John managed to undo it, reaching a hand in to attempt to pull at the waistband of his pants. God, John's hand was so close…it was…

His mouth fell open. If touching himself was pleasant, John's hand on him was infinitesimally better. A bit clumsy due to how drunk he was, but still quite firm and insistent as he moved to fondle Sherlock. John's lips claimed his again in a more heated kiss. Even though he wanted to protest, something in him gave under the pressure. Was this why so many people joked that men didn't think with their brains but with their—

God that felt heavenly! He relaxed into the sensations, especially as John's mouth opened again and tongue came into play. Much more pleasant with the added oral stimulation, Sherlock decided.

John grunted and suddenly jolted forward a little. Sherlock was instantly aware of the hardness rubbing against his leg. Oh that was good. He moved his leg a little to adjust better to John's need. The other man let out a moan, and Sherlock smiled. Apparently he wasn't altogether terrible at this.

"Mmm, want you so much," John mumbled against his lips.

"You have me," Sherlock whispered back, even as his eyes screwed shut from the pleasure of it all. John's hand was moving faster even as his hips canted forward with more force. "I'm yours, John. Always…I…I think I might…love you."

John gave something of a grin, even if his eyes appeared a bit glazed even in the moonlight. "My Sherlock."

There was a fraction of a second where Sherlock pondered if this was perhaps the dream he'd been wanting. Maybe he was dreaming all of this. Perhaps this was merely another nocturnal emission and he'd awaken to find himself sticky and Johnless…

"Sherlock," John growled and smashed their lips together.

The heat in his belly had peaked. He felt a wave of pleasure wash over him as his body entered the throes of orgasm. Sherlock groaned and released into John's hand. He felt John's body speed up a bit and then he was moaning and going slack and Sherlock was sure he must have come in his pants.

"John," he whispered. "I…I love you," he whispered.

"Mmm," the other man said, slumping against Sherlock's chest. "Nice."

They were still for a long moment, simply catching their breaths, enjoying the body heat associated with lying so close, feeling especially cozy with the snow falling outside the window. Sherlock pondered what it would be like to have this always…John at his side…John curled up with him in bed…John bringing him pleasure and him reciprocating…

But before he could become stuck on the semantics, he realized he had to do something about John.

"Do you want to go back to your own bed?" Sherlock asked. "I can…help you."

He was hoping John would say no. Nothing sounded better than allowing John to take the other side of his bed and stay there the rest of the night…stay there every night thereafter if he wanted.

Instead John grunted. "Mmm yes. Or…sofa."

Sherlock nodded. Smarter than trying to navigate stairs. He sat up some, doing his best to push most of John's body weight off of himself. He managed to get John to stand up, though he was swaying on his feet, eyes fluttering open and closed.

Sherlock grimaced at the mess on his torso and lower body. He'd have to clean up later, but for now he wanted to get John settled. He wrapped an arm around the shorter man's torso and walked him to the door and then out into the sitting room, helping him onto the sofa. John already looked ready to fall asleep. Sherlock watched him for a moment. Was he going to pass out? Maybe he should stay with him, make sure he was all right?

He put a cushion beneath John's head and went to scout out a blanket and a wet cloth. By the time he came back John was gently snoring away. Sherlock did his best to clean up what he could, but John was still probably going to have a few nasty surprises when he woke up. He pulled the blanket up over his friend and leaned down to kiss his temple.

"Sleep well, John. I'll be here in case you need anything. I'll stay with you until you wake."

There was only a loud snore in reply, but it was enough for Sherlock, knowing John was sleeping and safe…and potentially returned his feelings. They would have to have a good talk.

He went to sit at his chair and folded his hands. There was so much to think about. So many factors to consider in all of this. Perhaps he'd done the wrong thing, but in the heat of the moment it had been a bit hard to think rationally…the one time he could ever really say that. But what had happened was in the past and could not be changed now. All he could do was consider his future possibilities and make his decisions from there.

She was furious when she checked the feed and found that she'd missed their little display. God, how could they act without her prompting?

Well, in many ways it was a good sign that they'd become so independent. But still…she'd wanted them to finally have their first little fumble at a time where she could actually observe and potentially interfere.

She sighed and watched the video again, admiring the way Watson had pinned Sherlock to the bed. So sexy. She'd thought Watson might come out on top, and in this case that did appear to be correct. But then again, in different circumstances it was possible that Sherlock might try to push his own dominance. It would be interesting to see.

Her fingers trailed down to push her dress hem up, moving to toy with herself effortlessly. If only Kate was with her. It would be even more pleasant. Attentions from her lover always seemed so much more satisfying than those from herself. It had been a while since she'd really had to rely on her own means to achieve release.

Irene sighed and let her head fall back. She kept picturing Holmes and Watson, but in the process she couldn't deny adding Kate to the fantasy too. She'd be back with her darling one day. When all this nonsense was over.

Thank you to DevilChild101, MycroftTheGingerCat, Katelyn0Marie and ChuYumeAkirameru for reviewing!

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