Sherlock glared at his mobile as if it had wronged him personally. John had taken the bags upstairs to their bedroom, so Sherlock thought he'd take a moment alone to make the call he'd been dreading. He blew air through his teeth and reluctantly tapped out the number.

"Arrived safely?" said the smarmy voice on the other end of the line, without so much as a perfunctory greeting.

"As you are no doubt aware."

"I hope you had a pleasant journey."

"We did not, as you are also no doubt aware." Sherlock sighed. "After what happened in Sydney, we're just glad to be—away from the world."

"The incident is being looked into."

"By you?"

"Naturally. The collective intelligence of the Sydney police department barely outshines the average flatworm." Mycroft paused. "How is John?"

"He's upset. He gets so bullish when he's upset. It's like trying to reason with a Sherman tank. The drive down here was—tense."

"Surely he doesn't blame you."

"I don't know who he should blame, if not me."

"Ashes and sackcloth do not flatter your colouring, my dear brother."

"Oh, shut it, won't you?"

"Do let me know of a good time for me to pop down for a visit."

"Are you free a week from never?"

"Don't be such a nuisance. Surely you haven't forgotten the request you made of me. All the paperwork is in order."

Sherlock shut his eyes. "Can't you send it by the post? Or a messenger? Must I see you?"

"You wound me deeply. I'm very eager to meet your young man."

"Do stop talking like a Victorian toff, Mycroft. He isn't my 'young man,' he's four years older than me. He's my partner, as I am forced to refer to him by the unimaginative English language."

"I'm coming down tomorrow."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "If you'd already made plans, why did you bother asking?"

"When are you and John coming north?"

"We're not, to my knowledge."

"You cannot possibly intend to stay a month in Sussex and somehow avoid a visit. Mummy talks of little else."

"I intend to 'somehow' avoid a visit through the cunning plan of not visiting."

He heard Mycroft sigh. "We'll discuss it at a later time. I will see you tomorrow."

Sherlock hung up. He looked out the window to the garden, hoping for some of that elusive serenity that they'd come here to find. He hung up his coat in the front hall and got out his laptop; he was just about to delve into his distressingly long queue of emails when he realized that John had been gone for rather a long time. He went to the foot of the staircase. "John?" No answer. He started up the stairs.

The door to their room stood open, and when he reached the threshold he couldn't help but smile. John had executed a full faceplant and now lay sprawled over the bed, fast asleep.

Sherlock shook his head. There go my hopes for some celebratory 'we made it here in one piece' sex. He sat down on the bed by his side. "John." He shook his shoulder a bit. John snuffled and lifted his head.

"Wha? M'I asleep?"

"Well, not anymore. Would you prefer to nap?"

"Mmm. No." He pushed himself up to a sitting position, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. "Want to eat something first." He turned away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He did not get up, but just sat there, his shoulders rigid with tension.

Sherlock sighed. "John, we are supposed to be relaxing. We came here to get away."

"We can't get away. It will always be with us, so we might as well get used to it." He got up and headed for the door. Sherlock watched him go; he was sure there was something he could say that would make it all better, but he couldn't think of what it might be. John hesitated, then turned back. "Look, I…." He ran a hand through his hair. "I can't talk about this now. I don't want to think about it. I just want to make some dinner and relax. It feels too close, like it's crawling all over me."

"All right," Sherlock said, staring down at his hands.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Look at me."

Sherlock lifted his head and met John's eyes. "What?"

He saw John's mind start to form words, perhaps reassuring words. Perhaps words to reaffirm that he loved Sherlock, that he'd never leave him, no matter how ugly things got, no matter what happened. But then John's face sagged a little. "You want some tea?"

"Yes, please. I'll just…get us sorted up here."

John nodded and went downstairs. Sherlock sat where he was for a moment, marveling at the speed at which things could go from fantastic to fucked up. He got up and opened their suitcases full of brand-new clothes, some with the tags still on. Almost nothing had been salvageable from their hotel room in Sydney. The intruders had used knives and scissors and destroyed nearly everything they owned. Sherlock remembered standing in the middle of the mess, holding the tattered remains of John's gray suit—Sherlock's favorite. He thought of John wearing that suit in Sherlock's dressing room, the nervous anticipation on John's face, and then their first kiss.

It was ludicrous to mourn the loss of a garment, and yet he did. What he mourned more than John's gray suit was the loss of their equilibrium. They'd been in a bubble, a secure little bubble where everything would be all right. Talk radio hosts might call them names and protestors might tote badly-spelled signs, but nothing really bad would happen. Their careers might become harder to manage, but they wouldn't really be out of jobs. Some people might say and write mean things, and some might stop going to their films, but no one would really hate them. That secure bubble was gone now. He'd seen it go in the look on John's face when he'd seen the vitriol scrawled on their hotel room wall in spray paint.

Sherlock put the empty suitcases in the closet and went downstairs. The kettle was on the hob, and John was in the living room, looking about. "Your caretakers really went all out, didn't they?" he said, smiling a little.

"Indeed. They're not accustomed to having an entire week's notice of my arrival. It seems they put it to good use." The Findleys, the local couple who maintained the property, had decorated the house for Christmas. Roping, wreaths and white lights adorned the exterior, and inside there were pine boughs and ribbons and tasteful centerpieces everywhere. Antique Father Christmas figurines stood on the mantelpiece, and lacy glass stars hung in the windows with electric candles set to a timer. It was all quite festive. "Mrs. Findley is forever after me to let her redecorate. I imagine she saw this as her chance to put her mark on the place in a temporary fashion."

"It was very nice of them. I've not had a proper Christmas in years and years. This is like something out of a magazine. Or one of those Bing Crosby films." John looked at him, then squared up his shoulders and stepped closer. "Sherlock, listen—"

"John, there's no need for you to say anything."

"There is. I know things went a bit pear-shaped after the business in Sydney. It gave me a bad turn, and I know it did you, too." He reached out and grasped Sherlock's hand. "I know you. You're thinking dire thoughts about how any moment now, I'm going to decide you're just not worth the trouble." Sherlock fidgeted a bit, not wanting to confirm nor deny. "My temper is a caution. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. None of this is your fault."

"It is. If you weren't with me—"

"If I weren't with you, I…." He shook his head. "I wish I were a writer, and could think of some profound way to finish that sentence, but I can't. If I weren't with you, I would be sad and alone and half-dead without realizing it. If I weren't with you, I…well, I wouldn't have you." He lifted his hand and smoothed it down Sherlock's cheek. "I love you. So much."

Sherlock met his eyes. "You astonish me, John."

"What happened in Sydney may happen again. If it does, I will probably go off on a tear and throw things and curse a lot. I know that bothers you."

"I dislike seeing you in distress, and so…irrational."

"Distress is unavoidable, especially in the life we now lead. We'll both have to accept it." He kissed Sherlock's lips. "Come on, now. Tea's on."

They went into the kitchen and sat at the island with their tea. "You may get one of your Christmas wishes sooner than you thought," Sherlock said. "My brother will be here tomorrow."

"Oh, lovely!"

"Don't get too excited, he's a colossal prat. He is quite keen to meet you, however, so he may put on his company manners. I'm sure he'd rather not be thrown from the house."

"It's his house, too. I wouldn't have the nerve."

"I daresay there isn't much you don't have the nerve for. He will make the case for us to venture north to visit my family home, so that you might meet our mother."

"Weren't we going to do that anyway?"

"Yes, but he doesn't know that. I enjoy watching him attempt to browbeat me into submission. Just play along. I must take my merriment at his expense where I can."

"Spoken like a true younger brother. I am one and I've got one, so I sympathize."

Sherlock stared down into his tea. "Speaking of that, I…." He paused and cleared his throat. "I think it would be wise if I did not accompany you to Hampstead."

John set his mug down and put on his 'do not even start with me' face. "Oh, no. We are not going over this again. We decided that you were coming."

"That was before Sydney."

"Sydney changes nothing."

"I'm afraid it does. Your parents already view me as a deviant who seduced their son into a life of depravity and perversion. Now they have tangible evidence that the life we share is fraught with peril and worth deriding."

"I don't give a rat's arse what they think. You are coming for Christmas Eve. My parents are…better."

"Better? The last time you spoke to them your mother sobbed the whole time and your father asked you if you were going to start wearing women's clothing."

"But he didn't curse. That was an improvement. Anyway, the rest of the family wants to meet you, and none of them think we're perverts."

"I don't wish to cause any further discord. You're in a delicate position with your parents, and my presence would only bring them face to face with the man who's shagging their son. Whatever miniscule progress has been made might be unmade."

John's brow was furrowing. "I don't understand this. What happened to the man who wanted us to go public from the start? The one who didn't care what anyone else thought, who said he does what he wants, and fuck you?"

Sherlock sighed. "That man may have died in Sydney."

"No. He can't have. He didn't."

"The stakes weren't so high before. It didn't matter if total strangers thought ill of us. But this is your family. I can't be the cause of your estrangement from them, it will only make you resent me in the end."

"How many times must I say that if there is estrangement, it's them causing it, not you?"

"I see no reason to fan the flames. You should go for Christmas Eve. I will stay here, and you and I can have our Christmas together as we planned. It's the logical course of action."

"Well, fuck logic!" John exclaimed, his face reddening with anger. "Goddammit, Sherlock. You're giving me whiplash. You can't out us to the entire Internet and then turn around and worry about upsetting my parents! It's done! Pandora's box is bloody well open and we can't shut it again! Fuck them all if they don't like it, fuck those bastards in Sydney, and fuck my stroppy parents, too! You are coming home with me for Christmas if I have to sling you over my shoulder and drag you there!"

Sherlock blinked. "How can you drag me if I'm slung over your shoulder?"

John just stared for a moment, then suddenly lunged forward, grabbed Sherlock's face and kissed him, hard. "You bloody wanker," he grumbled between kisses that felt like they might leave bruises.

Sherlock clutched at John's clothes, pulling him off his stool. John lost his balance and fell sideways, dragging Sherlock with him, and they both toppled to the kitchen floor. John kept kissing him as he pushed him over onto his back, biting at his lips, grabbing at his arms. Sherlock clenched one hand in John's hair and the other on his arse. John fumbled with Sherlock's zip until he got both of their trousers open just enough that they could press together skin to skin, sliding against one another, too impatient to bother undressing.

"Christ," Sherlock said, through clenched teeth, his head slamming back into the tile floor. They hadn't had sex in what felt like forever and he was ready to go off any second. John propped himself on one hand and reached between them, seizing both their cocks and tipping his hips into Sherlock's.

"God, let's just get off, we can have proper sex later," he said.

Sherlock nodded, his hand still gripping John's arse. "Quickly. I'm not going to last."

"Me neither," John said, ducking to mouth Sherlock's neck, his hand still wrapped around them both. His back arched as he thrust against Sherlock, who wrapped one leg around John's thigh and bucked back at him, his arousal spiking.

"John…I'm going to…I'm just…."

"Yes, God yes," John grunted. He went rigid and came on Sherlock's belly. Sherlock bit his lip and followed suit. John collapsed on top of him, his hand trapped between their stomachs.

Sherlock held him, one hand stroking his hair. When he didn't move after a few moments, he shook him a bit. "John?"

"Mmmph."

"This kitchen floor isn't the most comfortable thing I've ever lain on."

John jerked a bit and pulled back. "Oh blast, I'm sorry." He got up, extracting his hand, and went to the sink for a damp towel to mop them off. "Although you aren't the most comfortable thing to lie on, either. All bones and angles," he said, smirking as he gave Sherlock a hand up off the floor.

Sherlock swayed on his feet a bit. "I'm suddenly exhausted," he muttered.

"It's no wonder," John said, hanging on to him. "You've barely slept in days." He smoothed Sherlock's disheveled curls back from his face. "Let's table the Christmas discussion for now, all right? I'm done in. Let's just go upstairs and have a bath and get in bed."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be needing a good night's sleep if I'm to face my brother in the morning."

When John woke up, Sherlock had already risen. He sighed, briefly disappointed that there'd be no morning sex today, then turned over to check the time. Christ, it's half past ten. I must have needed the sleep.

That he'd needed rest wasn't surprising. They both did. The premieres had been ten days of whirlwind travel, nonstop media and public attention, and precious little downtime with nary a moment to themselves. For all that everyone was obsessed with their state of couplehood, they hadn't had much opportunity to be a couple. Dragged from one media event to the next, interviews both separate and together, red carpets where it was now expected that they'd hold hands, and premiere parties full of paparazzi—he felt like he'd barely exchanged ten words a day with Sherlock. Each night, they'd toppled into bed, too tired to do more than mutter goodnights and perhaps exchange a quick kiss before falling asleep.

The knowledge that once it was all over they'd have a whole month alone together had seen him through the chaos. And then, on the eve of their liberation, the last stop of their tour had turned into a nightmare.

John got out of bed and put on his dressing gown over his pajamas. He padded barefoot down the stairs, smelling coffee brewing. "Sherlock, why didn't you wake me?" he said, coming into the living room. "I was hoping for a morning shag…." He stopped short, his face blowing up red, when he saw that they weren't alone.

Sherlock was sitting at one end of the sofa, glaring at the well-dressed man seated opposite. "Ah, Mr. Watson," Mycroft said. "So nice to finally meet you."

John put on a smile that felt a tad brittle, and shook the man's hand. "Nice to meet you as well." He gestured to his dressing gown. "I'm sorry I'm not more presentable, I didn't realize that you were expected first thing in the morning." He sat down next to Sherlock, who immediately reached out and took his hand.

"Think nothing of it." He smiled at John, but it was a careful smile that belonged more on the face of a diplomat than on the face of one's sort-of brother-in-law. "I've been watching all of your public appearances with interest. You're quite the stand-up fellow, aren't you?"

John smiled back. "Not quite sure how to take that," he said, keeping his tone pleasant.

"Oh, it's kindly meant, I assure you. Yes, I think my brother has done rather well for himself."

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft labours under the delusion that we're all living in an Evelyn Waugh novel, John. Don't mind him."

"Our mother is most anxious to meet you, as well."

"I told you—we won't have time for a trip north," Sherlock said.

Mycroft gave him that diplomat's smile again. "You must also be a patient man, John, to tolerate him in such quantities. Sherlock, you are obviously planning to go north and visit Mummy, but denying it just to get under my skin. I assure you, it won't work. And I believe I am in the possession of some—collateral, shall we say? To induce you to make good on your plans?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who was clenching his jaw. "What collateral?"

"Never mind," Sherlock said. "You do enjoy making my life hell, don't you?"

"On the contrary, my only hope is to look after you. Speaking of which, I've some new information about the incident in Sydney."

John felt Sherlock's hand tighten on his a bit. "Go on," Sherlock said.

"We've determined that the intruders gained entrance to your hotel room through the disappointingly low-tech strategy of bribing one of the hotel staff for your room number and a master key. They walked in like any other guest, went to your floor, donned the amateurish masks we saw them wearing in the surveillance videos, and entered your room. They wore gloves, so no fingerprints could be recovered. The staff member they bribed has been relieved of his position, naturally, and the police are, I believe, considering a charge against him in the hopes that he will identify the intruders. Our forensic analysts are attempting to match the masked intruders with guests caught on camera in the lobby, but so far have had no luck."

"These people weren't professionals; they were barely a step above teenage vandals," Sherlock sneered. "It's likely that one of them will eventually boast about their exploits and it'll turn up on someone's blog somewhere."

"Likely, yes. I think it would be wise for you two to consider implementing some form of security, especially when you travel together. I can see to that, if you wish."

"No, you're quite gleeful enough just sending your forensic minions," Sherlock said. "Irene will arrange for our security if we decide that it's warranted."

"Very well." Mycroft pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. "I'd best be off, then."

"You just got here!" John said. "I haven't even had the chance to tease embarrassing stories about Sherlock out of you."

Mycroft laughed out loud. "Another time, perhaps. Although that tale about the pet bunny and the tennis racket is quite priceless."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

"No, of course not. I wouldn't want to besmirch your honour in front of your beloved."

"You'd like nothing better."

Mycroft rose to his feet, Sherlock and John following suit. John noted with some amusement that Mycroft was slightly taller, and that Sherlock seemed to be standing with unusually straight posture, as if to maximize his own height. Mycroft glanced around at the living room. "The Findleys certainly went the extra mile with the décor, didn't they?"

"They did," Sherlock said. "It was very kind of them."

"Pity you don't have a Christmas tree. But then, there's time." He turned to John. "It was lovely to meet you, John. I must thank you for what you've done for my brother. I don't think I've ever seen him happier."

John glanced at Sherlock, who looked anything but happy at the moment. "He's done the same for me," John said, shaking Mycroft's hand again.

"Good day, Sherlock. I'll be in touch."

Sherlock just nodded. "I am awash with anticipation. Take care, Mycroft. Don't drive into any ditches or anything."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at him, then left, shutting the door behind him. John turned to Sherlock. "He didn't seem as bad as all that."

"Be his younger brother for thirty-four years and then get back to me."

"Fair enough." John stretched. "Any breakfast on? I'm starving."

"There's bread for toast, and eggs in the fridge. The coffee should still be hot."

John went into the kitchen and poured coffee, then put some bread in the toaster. He was waiting for it to pop up when Sherlock came up behind him and slid his arms around John's waist. Sherlock bent his head and kissed John's neck, over and over, small, light kisses that made John shiver with anticipation of where the next one might land. Then he suddenly hugged John tight, pulling him back against his chest, and pressed his face into John's shoulder with a low growl. "Oi, what's all this?" John said, raising one hand to the back of Sherlock's head.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, his voice muffled against John's skin. "I'm suddenly compelled to latch on to you."

John turned around in Sherlock's arms so he could look up at him. "That's understandable, after the week we've just had."

Sherlock was looking right into John's eyes, his gaze a bit raw. He looked vulnerable in a way that Sherlock rarely allowed. "Don't ever leave me, John," he whispered.

John shook his head. "No, never. I won't ever." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him. They stood in the kitchen, hugging each other tight, for a long time. The toast popped up, unnoticed, and grew cold.

It took three whole days for Sherlock and John to start getting bored in the house by themselves. They'd watched all their movies, had their fill of strolls on the property, and discovered that there was a limit to how many times they could have sex in a day. So on their fourth day, they set out for Hailsham to pick up a few things and grab a bite at the pub. It was dark by the time they set out for home. They had been walking in companionable silence for a good fifteen minutes when Sherlock broke the quiet with a low chuckle. "What's funny?" John asked.

"You are, my love. That's the fourth time since we left the village that you've looked around at your surroundings with a deep sigh, as if marveling at your own good fortune."

"Maybe I am. Look at this! It's Christmastime, there's a picturesque snow falling, and I'm walking in the moonlight with the handsomest man in Britain, who I will take to bed within the hour."

"You are a ridiculous person, you know that?" Sherlock reached out and twined their fingers together. "You're right, of course. It is all a bit absurdly idyllic. Although I take issue with one of your assertions."

"Which one?"

"I believe it is I who am walking with the handsomest man in Britain."

John felt himself blushing. He elbowed Sherlock in the side. "Shut it, you." He sighed in contentment and pulled Sherlock a bit closer. "Sydney's starting to seem far away."

"Agreed."

John looked up at Sherlock—his cheeks were rosy with the cold and his breath puffed out of his mouth, and John thought he'd never looked more beautiful. "Our film's a critical and financial success. We went public and the world didn't end. We got through it."

Sherlock nodded. "We did."

"And now it's our first Christmas together," John said, grinning. "That feels like a milestone, don't you think?"

"If you wish it to be one."

John shook his head. "You're such a stick in the mud sometimes."

"Don't misunderstand me, John. I'm aware that Christmas is a day of some significance to most people, so it's natural that you'd place extra emphasis on it. But to me, every day with you is a milestone. Christmas Day will just be one more."

John stopped and pulled Sherlock around to face him. "It astonishes me that I ever thought you cold and unfeeling," he said, hanging onto both his hands.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure I seem so to everyone else."

"That's because they don't know you like I do."

"No one's ever been permitted to know me like you do."

"Why, Sherlock? Why me?" The question had been on the tip of his tongue many times.

Sherlock thought for a moment, his gaze on John's face. "I honestly don't know. I couldn't say why you are special, John. I only know that you are. I could theorize that it's because you are talented, intelligent, pleasant, and attractive to look at, but I have known other people who also fit that description." Sherlock's face softened a touch, and he lifted one hand to brush snowflakes out of John's fringe. "I've looked for a rational explanation. What I've found is that…." He hesitated, then smiled a bit shyly. "Love resists being rationalized."

Happy warmth bloomed in John's chest. "And that must drive you round the bend, I bet."

"It used to. Eventually I had to accept that I love you, I shall never understand why, and it doesn't matter. The fact of it is enough."

John took hold of Sherlock's lapels and pulled him down. Sherlock smiled, his eyes flicking to John's lips, and he leaned closer for the expected kiss. John grinned, kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose, and darted away. "You're it!" he yelled, seized by an unexpected rush of buoyant glee. He took off down the trail, the cold air rushing into his lungs, the blood heating his cheeks.

He heard Sherlock curse and run after him. "This is absurd!" John heard him say.

John ran into the yard behind the house. He turned and waited, and when Sherlock emerged from the trees he let fly. The snowball hit Sherlock in the chest. He skidded to a halt and looked down at himself, eyes wide in surprise. "Ha ha! That's got him!" John cried.

"What the bloody hell?" Sherlock said.

John scooped up another snowball and hurled it at him, striking him right in the face. He whooped and jumped up and down as Sherlock spluttered.

"All right, Watson," he grumbled, bending to gather his own snowball. "If this is how you want it." John tried to feint right, but somehow Sherlock anticipated it. He lobbed a graceful throw and it hit John in the neck. Icy snow spilled down inside his shirt collar.

"Gah! Shit, that's bloody cold!" John bent to get another snowball, but just as he straightened up again, another missile struck him in the forehead.

"I'll have you know I was a much sought-after cricket bowler at school," Sherlock said, patting another snowball.

"I was in the Army. I shot guns."

Sherlock shrugged. "All right, I suppose that trumps." He cocked his arm to throw the snowball. John ducked, but the hit never came. He looked up to find that Sherlock had faked the throw and used John's distraction to run at him. He tackled John to the ground and mashed the snowball into his face.

"Christ, Sherlock, it's up my nose!" John said, grabbing snow in both hands and thrusting it at Sherlock's face. They rolled over and over, stuffing snow down each other's collars and cackling like little kids until John ended up on top, straddling Sherlock's waist with a fresh handful of snow. He hesitated, looking down at Sherlock, red-faced and wet and laughing with snow in his eyelashes and the moonlight reflected in his eyes, and John flashed back to their screen test, not even a year ago. That Sherlock had been rigid and unyielding, somber and preoccupied. The Sherlock he'd known in the early days of the shoot had been arrogant and impatient, caring only about the work, dismissing John as insignificant with a contemptuous glance. That man bore little resemblance to this one, the one he thought of as his Sherlock. Had this Sherlock been within him all along, but never let out to play? Or was this Sherlock someone new, someone brought into being by the novel experience of a relationship with someone he actually loved?

How easily it could have gone wrong. If John had taken the Soderberg film instead, if the film itself had gone badly, if a different director had been at the reins, if any of a million things had been different, they might both still be as they had been, and right now, at this very moment, John would be alone in his house, unaware of how close he had come to the love of his life, only to miss him by a hair's breadth.

"All right, let me up, my back's gone wet, I'm getting mmmmph…." Sherlock's words were cut off when John bent and kissed him. He couldn't stop, he just kept at him until Sherlock's lips parted beneath his; he kissed him until they were both out of breath. "My goodness, John," Sherlock finally said.

John popped to his feet and hauled Sherlock to his. "Let's get inside, we're soaked."

They chased each other into the house. The fire in the living-room fireplace was banked; John crouched by the hearth and stoked it, urging it into a blaze once again. Sherlock stripped off his wet coat and let it fall to the floor, then knelt by John's side and pulled his damp jacket off him, tossing it aside and bending to kiss John's bared neck. They clawed at their wet clothes, stripping them off each other, toeing off shoes and sending them flying into corners, chuckling into each other's mouths until they finally got each other naked. John's cold, snow-wet skin rippled up into gooseflesh until the fire and Sherlock's hands warmed it.

"God, I want you," John whispered against Sherlock's skin. "I want you all the time."

"You can have me, anytime," Sherlock murmured. He bore John down to the rug and slid down his body; he pressed hid legs apart and descended on his cock with abandon, taking him all in with one swift swallow. John groaned and stared down at Sherlock's curly head, past the curve of his back to the delicious swell of his arse beyond. He'd grown so accustomed to the feel and the look of Sherlock's body that he could hardly remember what he used to find pleasing about women's bodies. Where he used to picture soft breasts and curves, now he could only imagine a flat, broad chest and narrow hips. Had he ever actually gone to bed with people who did not have cocks? Seemed downright unnatural.

The thought made him chuckle. Sherlock lifted his head and smirked at him. "Glad I amuse you."

"Come here," John said, beckoning him. Sherlock crawled up John's chest and settled over him, their bodies slotting comfortably together. "I was just thinking about having sex with you."

Sherlock arched one eyebrow. "I could be wrong, but I thought we'd progressed well beyond the 'thinking about it' stage this evening." He pressed forward and kissed him. "You seem to have a bit more intent than just idle speculation."

"Mmm," John said, kissing him back and easing him over to his back, shifting on top of him. "Which I believe I ought to demonstrate by shagging you into the floor."

"Promises, promises," Sherlock purred.

They snogged in front of the fire for a few minutes, sweat rising to their skins from their contact and the fire's heat, their hands and mouths all over each other. When at last John sank into Sherlock's body, all he knew was this felt right, more right than any sex he'd ever had, and that with this man, it couldn't feel otherwise.

After staggering upstairs, they stumbled into bed and drew the covers up. John felt Sherlock reach for his mobile as he curled around him, the chill in the bedroom driving him towards body heat. "Christ, I've got twenty messages," he muttered. Then John felt him tense up. "John, what day is it?"

"The fifteenth." As soon as he said it, he knew. His head popped up. "Sherlock, the nominations!" They'd been relishing the novel experience of being away from the Hollywood machine—John hadn't checked his email in days—but even so, he couldn't believe they'd let the SAG and Golden Globe nomination announcements slip by them. Sherlock was already looking them up on his phone. John watched his face.

"SAGs first. To a Stranger, Outstanding Performance by a Cast."

John clapped. "Yay!"

"Nominations for Male Actor…." His brows furrowed in a scowl, which probably didn't mean good news.

"Oh," John said. "We weren't nominated?"

Sherlock sighed. "I was."

"But that's great!" John kissed his neck. "You deserve it."

"You ought to be nominated. This is pure inertia. They're all blinded by the date movies. Snobbery run amok."

John refrained from pointing out that Sherlock's own snobbery had colored much of their early interactions. "I'm fine with it, Sherlock."

"Let's see about the Globes." Sherlock's fingers flew over his mobile. "The film, for Best Picture. Ang, for Director. Best Actor in a Drama, here we go. George Clooney. Ryan Gosling. Sherlock Holmes. Jim Moriarty." Sherlock smiled. "And John Watson." He met John's eyes.

John's mouth fell open. He'd known it was possible; he'd known that the talk was that he'd be nominated, but to hear it said and know that it was true…that was something else. I am a Golden Globe nominee, he thought. Fuck me. "Oh, my God."

Sherlock grinned and pulled him into a hug. "Congratulations. I'm sure there's never been a more deserving nominee."

"I didn't think I'd feel like this about it," John said, hugging him back.

"It is a very rewarding sensation to be recognized for one's work."

"Congratulations to you, too, sweetheart," John said, planting a big, wet kiss on his mouth. "I'll be honored to be your arm candy at the SAGs."

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't have the best history with them. Two previous nominations and no wins."

"Well, if you don't win, I will take you home and present you with the award for Best Performance in My Bed and invite you to favor me with as many repeat performances as you like."

Sherlock looked at him, bemused, then just shook his head. "John, sometimes I marvel that you are real."

"The box office is very good," John said, seated at the kitchen island while he scanned the numbers on his laptop.

"Oh?"

"Second weekend dropoff was only thirty percent. Word of mouth must be strong. It'll likely break $100 million before the new year."

"I imagine that the nominations will help with that."

"Irene says every press outlet and blog has asked for reactions from us."

"Hmm." Sherlock was at the stove doing something involving orange zest and cinnamon sticks. John was sitting at the kitchen island, on his laptop. "Perhaps they'll finally stop asking about Sydney."

"Everyone wants to know how we feel about the fact that I was not nominated for a SAG, and how it feels to be competing with each other for the Globes, and all that mess."

"I assume she's already sent 'our' responses," Sherlock said. John could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Oh, naturally. I'm happy for your SAG nomination, you're honored but disappointed that I was not nominated, we're jovial and jokey about competing and there's some sort of comment about how if one of us wins the other's going to make him do all the dishes for a month." John snorted. "As if you do any of the dishes now." He craned his neck, trying to peer around Sherlock. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"I am making mulled wine. It's a bit of a Christmas tradition in the Holmes family."

"I wasn't aware that the Holmes family had Christmas traditions."

"Well, most of them involve stony silence, enforced togetherness, and disappointing gifts, so they're best forgotten, but I do enjoy the mulled wine, especially as a balm for the enforced togetherness." Sherlock unscrewed the cap off one of the four bottles of wine waiting on the sideboard.

"Hmm. Screw-top. Classy."

"Good heavens, you don't use good wine for mulling. I'm about to dump a load of sugar into it and then heat it." He upended the bottle and gave it a swirl; the wine flowed out into the copper pot. "It makes the house smell quite lovely."

"Is this part of a scheme to get me drunk in the middle of the afternoon?"

"Of course not. I'm insulted by the very idea that I'd attempt to compromise your faculties so as to take advantage of you, John." That smirk was back in his voice.

"Well, if it is, you needn't bother. I'm a sure thing." John went back to his inbox. "Loads of congratulatory emails. And Irene's hinting that we ought to come back to the States sooner rather than later."

"I hope your reply was in the spirit of 'no sodding way.'"

"Well put." They were quiet for a moment. The smell of cinnamon and sweet wine began to fill the kitchen as Sherlock stirred the pot. "That does smell lovely." John hummed "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" under his breath. "Scenic snowfall, festively decorated house, now mulled wine. It's like The Sherlock and John Holiday Special."

"Good God, what a revolting thought. You'll have me looking for hidden cameras in case Irene is arranging for a reality show."

John laughed. "If she is, we'll have given her some rather adult-only footage by now." He glanced at Sherlock's back, then cleared his throat. "Got an email from Charlie."

"Your brother?" Sherlock's voice was carefully neutral. He knew what was coming.

"Yes. About Christmas Eve."

"John…."

"I really want you to come." Sherlock said nothing. "I mean it."

"I know you do."

"But you still won't."

"I can't see that it'll do anything but make matters worse."

"I don't care if it does make it worse. You're the person I've chosen, I want you to meet my family, and I want them to meet you. It's only my parents who are being arseholes about it. And who knows? Perhaps meeting you will make them see reason."

"Please, John. It'll only turn an abstraction into cold, harsh reality. Their son is fucking another man, and oh, look, here he is in their house, shoving his way into a sacred family tradition. If they don't hate me now, they certainly will if I come with you. I would like to meet your brothers and your other sister, but I don't see why we can't arrange to get together with them some other time."

"Because our relationship isn't inferior," John said, his temper rising. "You shouldn't be relegated to second-tier gatherings. My brothers have wives, my sister has a husband, and they will all be there. You should be, too."

"I'm not your husband."

"You will be." Sherlock turned and met his eyes. "Won't you? Someday?"

Sherlock raked a hand through his hair. "We haven't talked about that in some time."

"Nothing's changed."

"Oh, John, everything's changed. Our careers may go belly-up; the world will never stop putting us under a microscope."

"Nothing's changed between us, unless it's that I love you even more now than I did when first I asked you that question." Sherlock blinked, holding John's gaze. "It doesn't matter if it's formalized or if we're wearing each other's rings. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Is that what you want?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. Of course, yes."

"You are no less my partner than my brothers' wives or my sister's husband. That's how I think of you, and that's how my parents should see you. They're just going to have to get used to it. I think that once you're there, and they see my brothers and sisters welcoming you, and see that you're not normal person and that you love me, they'll start to realize that they're the outliers. When the rest of the family doesn't rally to their side, they won't last long. I know them. They're posturing and having a strop and it will end."

"Or, they will see me as a toff interloper who's corrupted their darling boy, not to mention ruined his career, and your relationship with them will never recover."

John opened his mouth to rebut, but his mobile rang. "Oh. Speaking of, it's Charlie." He picked up the phone. "Oi, you wanker."

"Johnny! How's Sussex?"

"Bloody marvelous. This Christmas snow is making everything look like a postcard. We're only short a tree, and I think we might be able to scrounge one up."

"You get my email about Christmas Eve? You're still coming, right?"

John sighed. "Yes, I'm coming."

"And what about Sherlock? Last time we spoke he weren't too keen."

"It's not that he isn't keen, Charlie, it's…."

"I know, Mum and Dad. Is he there?"

"Yeah, he's right here."

"Put me on loud speaker, will you?"

John looked up at Sherlock. "My brother would like to have a word with you." He set the phone on the island and touched the speaker key. "Go ahead, Charlie."

"Sherlock, you there?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, hello, Mr. Watson."

"Oi, leave off with that Mr. Watson rubbish. It's Charlie, got it?"

"All right then, Charlie."

"Johnny says you're having some doubts about coming up for Christmas."

"It isn't that I don't want to come, it's just that I fear making things worse."

"I got that. I wish I could make our Mum and Dad see some common sense, but I ain't that talented."

"Charlie," John cut in, "Dad said some things about me not being around the boys."

"Yeah, I think we've just about talked 'im out of that bollocks. You know none of us think that, John."

"I know, I know."

"He's just got wrong ideas. You know where he got 'em, it's just his generation. We've been having some talks 'bout that."

"Good. I'm glad."

"Look, Sherlock. Our dad's not in the best way and I'm the oldest so I reckon I'm more or less head of the family now, even if Johnny there's the one what's loaded." John smiled. "So here it is. You are coming for Christmas, and I won't hear no different. I won't have my brother kept from the family because our parents can't get their heads outta their arses."

"There's never been any question of John going," Sherlock said. "He wouldn't be kept from…."

"That's not what I meant. Johnny says you and him are in it for life, is that right?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes. Yes, we are."

"Then you're my brother, too. And no brother of mine's going to be made to feel unwelcome, not while I'm around, got that?"

Sherlock blinked hard and swallowed, then nodded. "Well, all right, then. I suppose I've got my orders."

Charlie laughed. "See, you're getting the hang of it, now! Anyway, my Isabelle's bloody foaming at the mouth to meet you and I don't want to be on the bad side of her in one of her strops. Good. That's settled. We'll be seeing you both at Mum and Dad's on Christmas Eve. Good to talk to you, Sherlock. I'll be glad to meet you."

"And I you, Charlie."

"You two take some time and relax. Dunno how you're not both barking mad with all the shit you've been through."

"Sometimes I think we are," John said. "We'll take that advice, Charlie. Ta." They hung up. John met Sherlock's eyes. "I guess he told you, didn't he?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I still think this is a bad idea. But I suppose it isn't my place to refuse a directive from the heir apparent."

John laughed. "The heir apparent is a mechanic with a passion for the Stone Roses who's going deaf in one ear."

"He seems to be a good sort of man, your brother."

"He is," John said. "He's rough and crass and short-tempered at times, but you'll never know a better man. He'd do anything for anybody he cares about. The chaps who work in his shop worship him and his kids love him. So do I. And he just gave me another big reason to do so."

"John, make it stop," Sherlock groaned, curling into a tighter ball in the passenger seat and hugging his knees to his chest.

"I told you not to have that third piece of banoffee pie."

"But it was so good."

"I know it was good. My sister is a cracking cook, but with as little as you normally eat, three pieces of banoffee pie on top of two hot toddies, two glasses of wine, and a full Christmas dinner was going to give you a stomachache."

Sherlock gave another groan. "Food is vile. I'm never eating again."

John glanced over at him, a little tenderness creeping into his expression. He reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek. "It'll pass soon, and then you'll be asking if we have any crisps."

"Oh, God! Not crisps!"

"Or just one mint. It is wafer-thin!" John said, giggling.

"Don't say mint! Don't say the names of any food at all. I demand this."

John laughed at him a bit more, and then they fell silent. Sherlock watched John at the wheel to distract himself from his gurgling stomach. He enjoyed watching John drive; he did it so competently, and with such calm confidence. Watching John do anything with confidence was becoming a bit of a hobby of Sherlock's. He supposed it had started when he'd seen John so skillfully act the Big Scene. Whether it was cooking, or driving, or boxing at the gym, watching John in action was one of Sherlock's favorite things to do.

His stomach was settling. "Your brothers and sisters were…enthusiastic."

"Bit overboard, weren't they? They just wanted us to know they're okay with it."

"There's such a thing as going too far in the other direction. None of the children seemed to care at all. Well, except Liam."

John sighed. "Poor Liam. I ought to spend some time with him, just us."

"Is there a story there?"

"Not really. He's always idolized me, more so than the others. Charlie tells me that he brags about me to his mates, his uncle the big-time film star. He's just twelve, and at that age everything starts to become about what is and isn't manly, and learning how to be masculine, and the most important thing in the world is what your mates think. Charlie said he's been getting some crap at school about me being…well…."

"A poofter?"

"I think he feels betrayed. He doesn't know how to act. It isn't his fault; he's just a kid. He'll come round."

"Isabelle's rather keen, isn't she?"

"Oh, she's a smart one, all right. Our agent on the inside."

They were quiet for a few more minutes. Sherlock shifted a bit, working his mind around to something he knew he had to say. "John, I'm sorry. About what happened at dinner."

John sighed. "You're not the one who needs to apologize."

"I knew going in that your father might say unkind things to me, so I was prepared for it. I wasn't prepared for how I'd feel when he said unkind things to you. He's welcome to say what he likes to me, I don't care. But I couldn't sit there and listen to him malign you without speaking up."

John reached out and took his hand. "I know."

"It was never my wish to ruin the family dinner."

"You ruined nothing. You sat back down, Dad shut the hell up, and we all went on with life. If it makes you feel better, Peter came to me later and said he was impressed. He said he wished he had the guts to confront Dad like that. He was so intimidating, all our lives, none of us ever really had the gumption to face up to him."

"It's different when it's your father."

John hesitated. "What about yours?"

"What about him?"

"Were you afraid of him?"

"Terrified. Until the day I realized I was much smarter than he was. Not coincidentally, that was the day he rather stopped liking me."

"How old were you?"

"Five."

John snorted a disbelieving laugh. "Five. Christ, Sherlock." He lifted Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles.

"Your dad got me alone later. Wanted to chat."

"What?" John said, alarmed. "When was that?"

"I stepped out for a moment. Just needed a bit of quiet. You were playing video games with Michael and Luke. Your dad joined me on the porch."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you now. No point interrupting the holiday."

"Oh, God, what did he say to you?"

Sherlock sighed. "He said that no one'd ever dared speak to him like that in his own house. I said—quite reasonably, I think—that I wouldn't stand by and let you be treated like that in a house you paid for."

"Jesus. Sherlock, I…."

"Shush, John. Let me finish. Then he…well, he laughed."

"He…he laughed?"

"As I live and breathe. He told me I had some bollocks on me, and that he was glad that at least I wasn't one of those limp-wristed shirt-lifters. His words, not mine."

John abruptly pulled onto the shoulder, parked the car and turned to face him. "Sorry, I just don't think I ought to be driving when I hear this. Then what?"

"I told him that he'd had his little strop, and you'd indulged him, but that if he and your mother wish to continue to have contact with you, they'd best start dealing with it."

"That's just about exactly what I told Mum."

"Well, apparently my bollocks don't buy me much influence, because he said he'd deal with it as he saw fit. Then he went back into the house."

John shook his head. "Just a glimmer of hope is all I'm asking for right now. I don't ask that they do an instant turnaround. He couldn't have talked to me instead of you?"

"He can't talk to you about it yet, John. It's too raw. He can't trust himself. I suppose we ought to be thankful he said as much to me."

"At least you impressed him, for whatever good that'll do." John put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.

Sherlock groaned as his stomach gave another unhappy heave. "I shall never eat banoffee pie again."

John clucked. "Shall we stop somewhere and get you some ginger tea?"

The concern in John's voice made him smile. "No, I'll just suffer through."

"Oh, of course. More fun to play the martyr."

"Much. And then I may benefit from your caretaking for a little while longer."

"Please tell me I do not sense any doctor/patient role-playing in our future."

"Now there's an idea."

"Oh God, now I've done it."

Sherlock sighed and let his eyes fall shut for a moment, his mind masticating—to use John's word for it—on the cornucopia of new data he had about John's family. Meeting so many people at once was always exhausting for him; he couldn't help but read their life stories, and he had to concentrate to maintain his focus on what they were actually saying to him.

He couldn't imagine growing up in a family of five children. He knew that the number was not particularly excessive, but as he was one of only two children, it seemed like a throng. Among John's four siblings, their three collective spouses, and their assorted children, it had been a populous gathering. Harry had been the only Watson not to bring someone.

"Harry didn't bring Clara," he said.

"No, she did not," John said, his tone speaking volumes.

"I might have thought she'd speak up a bit in solidarity." John didn't say anything. "She hasn't told them yet, has she?"

"I suppose it's easier to hide it when you're not being tracked by Perez Hilton." He shook his head. "I don't know how to feel about that. I can't tell her how to live, or what to do. I can't imagine my parents' reaction if they found out that two of their children are in same-sex relationships."

"They wouldn't react to her as they did to you."

"Why not?"

"Because she's already the black sheep. She's thirty-six, she's not married, she's unlikely to have children, and she's an alcoholic. Being a lesbian would just be one more strike. You, on the other hand. You're the golden child. You're a decorated war hero and a world-famous actor worth millions who's always dated beautiful women and supported the whole family while allowing them to live vicariously through your fabulous lifestyle."

"Oh, yes. My fabulous lifestyle. Making scrambled eggs on a Friday night in front of the telly."

"You know what I mean. You had further to fall."

"My relationship with you is not a fall."

"They'd see it that way. No, it's all very clear. All of them worship you. Your younger brother went into the military hoping to be like you."

John sighed. "Peter has his own reasons."

"You worry about him, don't you?"

"Of course I worry. He's just back from the Middle East and he'll be off there again in a few months. And Leigh's got their kids to deal with all on her own. You saw her, she looks like she's at the end of her tether, and somehow, he doesn't see it." He sighed. "I've half a mind to hire some help for her."

"She wants to ask you for help to pay for childcare assistance, but she can't find the courage."

John frowned. "How do you know that?"

"It's obvious. She's ashamed, as if it reflects badly on her as a woman and a mother."

"That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous as it may be, she may never ask. We'll just have to take matters in hand."

John glanced at him, smiling. "We?"

"Yes, of course. Your problems are my problems too."

They passed the rest of the drive quietly. By the time they reached the house, Sherlock's stomach had more or less quieted, but he still felt unpleasantly full and unexpectedly grimy, as if all the excess sugar was coming out of his pores. He and John carted their gifts and leftovers into the house, dumping the whole lot in the kitchen before shuffling upstairs to the bedroom. "I'm for a shower," Sherlock said. John nodded and said something that might have been 'okay,' but it was half-lost in a massive yawn.

By the time Sherlock emerged, John was in bed with the covers curled around him, eyes shut. Sherlock climbed in beside him, moving gingerly in case he was asleep. He was just about to put out the light when John spoke. "D'you want to have sex?"

Sherlock had to chuckle at the words, so drawn-out and muddled with fatigue that he could barely understand them. "I think you're done in. As am I, actually. Let's just get some sleep, shall we?"

"'Kay."

Sherlock put out the light and settled back. John scooted closer and put his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Love you," he murmured, halfway to sleep.

"You, too." Sherlock kissed John's forehead. He felt the fatigue of the day as well, but he suspected he'd have trouble falling asleep. Not only had the day given him much to ponder, but he was starting to feel nervous anticipation about the gift he would be giving John in the morning. They had both put their gifts under the little tabletop tree John had insisted they buy in Hailsham. A few small boxes, a few gifts in the stockings, but Sherlock knew that they each had a gift of some significance for the other. He'd seen the eagerness on John's face when he'd placed a particular flat package under the tree, and he'd felt it himself when he'd put out the small box he had for John.

Sherlock knew that for most people Christmas was not just about anticipating what one was to receive, but also what one was to give. He'd never had a Christmas like this one; he'd never had anyone to share such holidays with. He'd spent all previous Christmases in his own home, or working, or else sitting in the awkward company of his brother and mother. The gifts he'd given them had been purely a matter of routine, and the ones he'd given Greg and his other staff had been (he was embarrassed to admit) selected by Sally. She'd even chosen her own gift because he couldn't be bothered.

But now he had just spent a balls-out family-chaos holiday with the Watson clan, with all the excitement and affection and family strife that films and telly would have him believe were the norm, and in the morning he'd spend Christmas with a man he was deeply in love with, and he would give him something he'd spent considerable energy choosing. It hadn't been an easy decision.

Material things seemed inadequate. Jewelry was right out. John didn't wear decorative jewelry, and Sherlock refused to buy him any sort of ring except the sort that comes with vows attached, and it was not yet time for that. An extravagant purchase like a vehicle felt smarmy. He'd considered giving him a trip, but they already had tentative plans to do some traveling once awards season was over—whenever it ended for them—if their schedules permitted.

All hand-wringing aside, he was happy with what he'd eventually chosen. He couldn't wait to see John's face when he opened it.

I must have been a very, very good boy this year.

John smiled to himself at the cliché, but it was true. His karma must be extra-shiny these days for him to deserve to wake up on Christmas morning in a bucolic country house in Sussex with a gorgeous lover shagging his brains out.

He pushed on Sherlock's shoulders and managed to flip them both over without disengaging, then settled into Sherlock's lap with a groan of pleasure. "Oh, yeah, that's it," he sighed. Sherlock tossed his head back and grabbed at John's hips; John let his head droop forward as he shut his eyes, concentrating on the sensation, on Sherlock inside him, on the slow tidal motion of his own hips and the practiced ease of their lovemaking. They'd been good together from the start, fortunately, but in the months since then they had found their groove. Sherlock could read in John's movements how he wanted Sherlock to respond, and John knew by the tension in Sherlock's body how close he was.

He bent forward over Sherlock's chest and kissed him. Sherlock braced his feet, cradling John's hips against his thighs, and wrapped his arms around him. Their kisses grew harder and deeper as Sherlock hit that spot inside John over and over, driving every thought from his mind save one, Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. John hissed in a quick breath, feeling the flush rise to his chest and face. Sherlock was watching him. "Yes, John," he whispered. He reached between them and stroked John's cock with a practiced hand, and John went off like a booster rocket.

"Oh Christ," he gasped, burying his face in Sherlock's damp, warm neck, spilling between them as the orgasm washed over his whole body with a shuddery flash. He went limp in Sherlock's arms and could do nothing but lie there and breathe while Sherlock thrust into him, faster, harder, until he finally came into John's body with a bitten-off cry of his own.

They lay there catching their breath for a moment. John wiggled back against Sherlock's sated cock, still tucked inside him. Sherlock chuckled. "Was that the wake-up you wanted?"

John propped up on one elbow. "Perfect." He kissed Sherlock again, taking his time about it. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, his eyes full of the emotion that John knew was still strange to him. He wondered if Sherlock would ever get used to it. "Yes, it is," he said. "A very happy Christmas."

They stayed where they were and snogged for awhile, no intention of taking it further, just enjoying the closeness. John looked up at one point and his eyes widened. "Sherlock! Look!"

Sherlock twisted and sat up a little, looking where John was indicating. "Hmm. Looks like we have someone's blessing, anyway."

John grinned out the bedroom window at the sight of a gentle snowfall. The shrubs were frosted like cupcakes, and the world looked serene and perfect. "I wish we could stay here forever," John blurted out. He blinked, not quite sure where that had come from.

Sherlock met his eyes. "We could, you know."

John considered that for a moment. "What, stay here and never be seen again?"

"Why not?"

"Because we'd get bored and kill each other."

Sherlock chuckled. "You're probably right. In that case, we'd better get out of bed and see if Father Christmas came."

They made it downstairs in a tumble of pajama-finding and quick tooth-cleanings. "Oh, drat. Still just the presents we already put there," John said, eyeing their little tabletop tree.

"Perhaps we weren't such good boys after all," Sherlock purred into his ear, one hand sliding south to cup John's arse.

John giggled and gave him a shove. "Breakfast before presents. That was the rule at our house. Never in their lives have five children eaten porridge faster." He went into the kitchen to make toast and coffee. Sherlock wandered off, and in a few moments the sound of Christmas music filled the house from Sherlock's iPod speakers. John recognized George Winston playing "The Holly and the Ivy." "That's my favorite carol," he said.

"I know. That's why I put it on my playlist. Are you still surprised that I know these things about you?"

"Not surprised. Just pleased."

John spread butter and jam on their toast and walked carefully into the living room, balancing two plates on one arm with two mugs of coffee held in his other hand. Sherlock relieved him of half his burden, exchanging his plate and mug for a kiss, which John gladly bestowed.

John munched on his toast, looking around at the decorated house and the twinkly lights on the little tree. "This really is quite nice," he said. "And that Irving Berlin snowfall is just the topper, isn't it?"

"I'm rather more enthusiastic about the fantastic orgasm you gave me just now, actually."

"So you're not dreaming of a white christmas?" John teased him.

"Oh, it's pleasant enough. But if it were disgustingly foggy and rainy, I'd still be here with you, and that's all I care about."

John shook his head. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Turn one of your annoying cerebral spasms into a charmingly backwards expression of affection."

Sherlock laughed. "It's a skill that I've had to develop so as to avoid you stomping off in a huff on a regular basis."

John finished his last bite of toast. "Presents now!" he exclaimed, jumping up. Sherlock quickly swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and joined him at the tree. "All right, this one's for you, and this one, and this one…and I'll just keep this one till the end." He tucked the special present into the pocket of his dressing gown with a little smile.

"Funny, I have a for-last present for you, too," Sherlock said, secreting a slim box in his own pocket. "But these first."

They set about opening their gifts, taking turns. John got a cashmere jumper in a lovely shade of blue, Sherlock got a new wallet. John got a tie pin engraved with his initials, Sherlock got a vintage copy of Mother Night, signed by Vonnegut. They opened the chocolates, the woolen hats, the new driving gloves, and the mongrammed luggage tags until only the Presents of Significance remained.

They sat and stared at each other. "You go first," John said, holding out the package.

Sherlock looked as though he were debating whether he should insist that John go first, but then he took the package and tore the wrapping off. John had to sit on his hands, he was so excited. Sherlock seemed to take forever opening the box and the layers of tissue, but finally he lifted out a flat black envelope, embossed with a raised seal. "John, I…" John saw his eyes widen as he read the words on the seal. "What is this?"

John grinned, unable to contain himself any longer. "I set up and funded a charitable foundation in your name that will provide a full scholarship to one student each year from SFSA and from LaGuardia. It's a fully-licensed charity, so you can make further contributions yourself or put out the word for donations. It's completely funded for the first two years. Two students each year who couldn't have afforded it can go to film school or drama school."

Sherlock was gaping at him, mouth open. Of all the astonishing things that had happened to John in the last few months, the sight of Sherlock speechless had to be near the top of the list. "John…I don't know what to say." He opened up the flat envelope and stared down at the Holmes Foundation documents for a moment, then tossed the papers aside and lunged across the sofa at John. He hugged him hard, then pulled back and kissed him. "Thank you. My God. It's the most perfect gift anyone could ever…." He shook his head. "You really thought about this, didn't you?"

"I did. I wanted to get you something that would have meaning."

"It does, God, it does." Sherlock beamed a wide, happy smile. "I'm overwhelmed." He kissed him again. "No one's ever…. I just…." He took a deep breath. "Thank you."

John blinked hard. Sherlock's reaction was all he could have hoped for. He was alight with excitement and seemed bowled over that John had gone to the trouble (and it had, in fact, been quite a lot of trouble) to set it all up. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it."

Sherlock gave him a mischievous smile and drew the small package from his pocket. "I believe it's your turn now, Mr. Watson."

John took the package, deadly curious about what it could be. He opened the wrapping and lifted the box's lid to find—a pen. "Oh," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. It wasn't even a particularly fancy pen. A nice pen, but an ordinary pen. "It's a…pen." He looked for an inscription or something, trying to be subtle about it, but there didn't seem to be one. "I'm…it's a pen," he repeated.

Sherlock grinned. "Relax, John. I didn't get you a sodding pen for Christmas. But you will be needing it to sign these," he said, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a flourish from where he'd hidden them behind one of the couch cushions. He handed them over.

John put the pen aside and began to read them. It was the deed to a house. His eyes widened as he realized that it was the deed to this house. It was newly printed, and at the bottom of the signature page were the names of the owners. Sherlock Holmes, and…John Watson. "Sherlock, what…it's the deed to this house."

"It's our house now, John."

"You…what did you do?"

"I asked my brother to relinquish his half-ownership of this house and sign it over to you."

"And he just did it?"

"I can be very persuasive."

John cocked an eyebrow. "Sherlock, you bought him out of his half, didn't you?"

Sherlock sighed. "All right, yes, I did."

"I can't believe this. We own this house? Together?"

"As soon as we've both signed these papers, we do." Sherlock took the papers from him. "You wouldn't happen to have a pen handy, would you?" he asked, smirking.

"As a matter of fact, I do," John laughed, and handed him the ridiculous pen. He watched as Sherlock signed his name and then handed him the papers. "This is beyond…." He couldn't finish; he just signed the deed. "Sherlock, you must let me pay for my half."

"What sort of a Christmas gift requires the recipient to reimburse the giver?"

"But this isn't a leather jacket or a new balaclava, it's a house!"

"Yes, John. The house were we became us. It ought to be ours, our home, a place where we can always escape to. And I want to give it to you."

John stared down at the title, tears blurring his eyes. "Our home," he said. "I can't believe you did this."

"Why not?"

John looked up at him. "Oh, no, it's not…it's not that I can't, it's that I'm amazed that you did." He leaned forward and kissed him. "Thank you," he whispered against his lips.

He felt Sherlock's lips curl in a smile. "Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas. The first of many."

"Not many."

"Hmm?"

"The rest. We'll have the rest of our Christmases together. Won't we?"

John drew back so he could see Sherlock's eyes. "Quite right," he said. Jumpers and tie-pins were nice, and half ownership of this house was mind-boggling, but nothing could ever come compare to what Sherlock had already given him.