(A/N: Happy New Year to all! May 2010 be no worse to you than 2009 was. And remember: Don't make resolutions that you aren't absolutely going to keep. That's why I don't make them. Please Read & Review.)

Disclaimer: the lyrics to "Whatever Comes Our Way" are owned by the artist, Hope Partlow, not me or Jane.

December 24th, 2009

Dear Diary, I honestly thought that today was going to stink. Marty went to go visit his aunt and uncle in Florida, Lucy and Ethel (you know, my friends from home ec.?) are skiing in the Poconos, and Holmes was probably going to be a real stick in the mud.

But actually, today didn't turn out so bad. I'm working on a new song that I think could be my best yet. I was inspired by that sitcom "Living with Fran." I think I'll call it Whatever Comes Our Way. I've only got the chorus down, but the rest shouldn't take long.

Also, my mom made her famous triple-frosting sugar cookies. I was THIS close to sneaking a taste of the dough, but she caught me. Every year since I was five, she's caught me.

Let's see, what else? I gave Wiggins and Nick their Christmas presents. I gave Wiggins a book of politically incorrect jokes, because his have been getting worse and worse. He made an unfunny crack about Australian soda bread and something about snow, if I remember correctly.

It's actually kind of weird that Nick and Wiggins are best friends, because they're practically opposites. Wiggins is loud, robustly Irish, and a real people person. Nick is quiet, quietly whatever he is, and keeps to himself. Because of his agoraphobia, he lives in the Underground like a hermit. I've never understood why he's so happy to live in what is basically a glorified sewer, or how he manages to remain undiscovered by the tour groups. I gave him a flashlight and a Swiss army-knife.

After that, I went shopping with my mom at Macy's. She wanted me to wear this pine-green monstrosity, but I finally talked her into letting me get this pretty red tank dress with little white polka dots.

And today, Holmes and I had his first snowball fight. Yep, his first snowball fight. Sometimes I wonder what he was like as a child, as smart as he is but so . . . emotionally distant. To this day, I've never seen him hug anyone. Not his brother, or his parents, or me. The happiest I've ever seen him was in those photo booth pictures with Irene Adler. I only met her once, but I could see what kind of person she was from the get-go; she was cold, calculating, and, if you'll pardon the language, a real bitch.

But, I digress. The party was actually a lot of fun. The food was so good, I probably ate way more than I should have. And I met Sherlock's grandfather, Angus Holmes. I curtseyed when I met him. I can't believe I actually curtseyed.

Finding out that Holmes' grandfather was a salt of the earth Scotsman? Mildly surprising.

Finding out that Holmes' grandfather was a wealthy landowner akin to a minor aristocrat? Very surprising.

Finding out that Holmes' grandfather was incredibly hot despite pushing 80? EXTREMELY surprising.

But let's leave that for another time. Right now, it's time for the biggest news of all: Holmes kissed me!

Or, to be more accurate, I kissed HIM.

We were sitting out on his balcony, eating Christmas cake and drinking wine (I don't think I'll be telling my parents, though), and after we talked about . . . well, I honestly can't remember what we talked about, as I was a little buzzed. Something about that monograph Holmes was going to write on philology.

So, anyway, when we got up to go back to the party, I noticed that we'd just walked under mistletoe. Buzzed as I was, I pointed it out to him. Before he could react, I just leaned forward and started sucking the lips off his face.

God, his lips were SO soft. I wonder what brand of chapstick he uses, because they were REALLY soft. Soft like a mattress stuffed with Canadian goose down. Okay, now I'm getting redundant. Anyway, it was, maybe, the best kiss I've ever had. I enjoyed it so much, my foot actually popped up. I didn't think that even happened in real life! I guess I just trusted him to hold me up . . .

Anyway, we finished, he walked me home, we swapped presents, said goodnight, I spent half an hour puking due to an inability to metabolize alcohol due to my dad's Chinese heritage, and here I am.

Sherlock gave me a leather-bound copy of Richard Burton's The Arabian Nights. He wrote on the inside of the cover "If you insist upon reading mere fairytales, do have the good sense to read something of actual literary value." It's actually kind of funny, because I got him a book, too. Treaty on Cornish: The Celtic Dialect of Cornwall. I thought that he might enjoy trying to find Chaldean roots in the Cornish language.

Well, I'm tired and ready for bed. Maybe I'll have something new to write about around New Years'. Bye!

Love Jane XOXO

P.S. I remember now that Mycroft said something odd during dinner, almost like . . . there was a third Holmes brother. Funny, isn't it?

Translation from last chapter:

"I don't speak English."

"Take us to Baker Street, please"

"There will be something extra for you if we arrive in less than 10 minutes."

"Yes sir"

"We go!"

"Ah, love."

(A/N: Again, Happy New Year! Well, belated. Please Review!)

TO BE CONTINUED.