Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Prompts: Christmas time for Sherlock.

The sidewalks glittered with freshly fallen snow, the roads with remnants of brown slush; the street lamps were adorned with fake holly and flashing lights. The presence of these could only mean one thing: it was Christmas at Baker Street.

To be more exact, the story takes place in 221B Baker Street. And although it was the Yuletide season everywhere else, it was undecorated and lacking in festivity inside 221B.

Sherlock Holmes was moping on the sofa, dressed up in one of his grand silk robes, when John Watson entered the room.

"I'm going Christmas shopping today." He announced cheerfully, pulling on his coat.

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't talk much these days. Since the holiday season rolled around, crime rates had been lower than ever. A surprising fact, as most suicides and murders happened from loneliness and rage at the reminder of love and family.

But John persisted, "Sherlock?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock groaned from below.

"I'm going Christmas shopping today." John repeated, as if he were patiently talking to a toddler.

"I heard you the first time, John."

"This is your chance to do some shopping of your own. I'm sure Mycroft will be expecting something." John looped a scarf around his neck.

"Mycroft expects me to go home and have Christmas dinner with him. Do you expect me to appease him that way as well?"

John pursed his lips, "I'm just saying that it would be a nice gesture seeing as how you've turned down every case he's presented you with this year."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air in dismissal, "I've got it under control."

"So you've bought your brother's present already?"

"Yes,"

John shook his head, he still didn't believe Sherlock, but he was running short on time. He left Sherlock in his miserable state on the sofa, and went out into the cold. As annoyed as he was with his flatmate's ignorance, John still bought Sherlock a present. Things were going well until the sight of mistletoe mixed with the thought of Sherlock made John blush madly and knock over a display of stuffed animals.

The thought remained in his mind until Christmas day.

—

Christmas was a fine day of hearty dinners, cozy fires, and beautifully wrapped gifts.

Through frosted windows, Lestrade received hugs from his daughter for giving her the doll house of her dreams as a guilty present for missing so many other days of the year for work. A knock on his door led to the delivery of a box that held a book, Forensics For Dummies, from none other than Sherlock.

The ding of a microwave indicated that a bachelor's meal was ready for an awaiting Anderson whose wife had left for a business trip, for the fourth time that month. A chiming melody emitted from his doorbell was caused by a cold deliveryman with a package containing unisex deodorant, delivered from Sherlock Holmes.

Sally Donovan, who was curled up with her cat in front of a flickering telly, was enjoying a nice hot cup of cocoa when she discovered a package hastily shoved through her mail slot. Upon unwrapping the paper, she became the owner of a romance novel, Master of Desire, in which the cover involved a shirtless man, and a barely clothed woman passionately embracing.

Molly was dressing up her cat, Toby, in a hand-knitted Christmas jumper when she heard the brakes of a delivery van. Even she was on Sherlock's gift list— a make-up kit for children ages four and up.

The kitchen smelled of sweet spices, earthy herbs, and mouth watering desserts when Mycroft walked passed it in the hallway. He was on his way to change out of his pajamas for breakfast when his secretary stopped him dead in his tracks. A package had come for him earlier that morning from his little brother. A newly tailored suit sat waiting for him, neatly folded in the package. Mycroft was about to compliment Sherlock's good taste- the suit was Hugo Boss- when he discovered that the pants were too small- three sizes too small.

A shivering delivery man even found his way onto Mrs. Hudson's doorstep that day. A package that rang the most sincere from all the gifts given that day. The gift of yarn. But Mrs. Hudson knew that it just wasn't any yarn. The yarn balls were immaculately rolled into tight balls; ranging from every shade of purple you could imagine.

And with the last present having been delivered, the story now goes back to 221B Baker Street, where John had just then woken up and was fixing himself a cup of tea. He was sighing at the effects of the steaming mug on his just-out-of-bed state when he noticed his flat. Banished was the mundane gloominess from the lack of holiday cheer. A roaring fire was built in the fireplace, a small Christmas tree was placed in the corner of the room where underneath the pine needles was a stack of presents.

"You didn't think that I had forgotten about today, did you?" Sherlock asked from the arm chair.

John was staring at the room with gaping eyes, "How did you do all of this?"

Sherlock shrugged, "It wasn't hard to get everything while you were sleeping."

"This is fantastic!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock only smiled, but John could tell that he was pleased with his work.

John was quickly herded into the corner of the room to open his presents by an eagerly waiting Sherlock. Soon, that corner was littered with wrapping paper and bows. Jumpers, jam, and even a new phone were presented to John, who thanked Sherlock profusely. When all the excitement over presents was over, both flatmates headed to the kitchen for some breakfast.

"Of course," John said, "you'll be wanting your present now."

Sherlock was a bit confused at this statement. He had used his skills of deduction to search every nook and cranny of he flat before finally gave up and decided that John must have had his present delivered.

"You probably didn't find it," John continued, "because I know you were looking for it."

Sherlock didn't deny it.

"Well, here it is."

Nothing happened. Sherlock was unimpressed, and John could see the disappointment in his eyes.

John motioned up to the ceiling where a piece of mistletoe hung ever so innocently over their heads. He leaned in and kissed a surprised Sherlock.

It was the best Christmas present Sherlock had ever received, and John had ever given.