The next day was Christmas Eve, and around evening it had started to snow gently, the flakes drifting lazily to the ground. Inside 221B, the Christmas lights that the boys had hung up the day before were glowing brightly, casting a warm light on the cozy sitting room that was cluttered with decorations and cards. The Christmas party was just beginning to start, and only the earliest guests were already there. Mrs. Hudson was in Sherlock's armchair, drinking a bit more wine than she should. John- wearing a bright-colored Christmas jumper- sat across from her in his armchair, waiting anxiously for Jeanette to arrive. Sherlock was on the couch, scowling out at the window. Lestrade and Max stood in the kitchen, Lestrade pouring himself a drink and Max loading up on snacks.

"Chocolate covered pretzels or popcorn?" Max asked him.

Lestrade blinked. "Um, popcorn," he answered uncertainly.

Max stared at the dishes for a moment, considering, then shook her head. "Nah, I'm going for the pretzels," she decided.

He gave her a look as she piled pretzels onto her plate. "Why did you... never mind," he said.

There was a sudden outburst from the sitting room, and they turned to see Mrs. Hudson trying to convince Sherlock to play something on his violin. Since there was a relatively low probability of there being an explosion- but who really knew when it came to Sherlock- they turned back to the food.

"The cookies are good," Lestrade offered. He nodded to her, then headed back into the sitting room with his drink.

Max turned back to the food, silently debating about whether to grab a second plate now or later. She had just decided to get a second plate when she felt someone resting their chin on her shoulder, leaning their head against hers.

"Rescue me," Sherlock pleaded.

She laughed. "From Mrs. Hudson?" she asked. "Sorry, Sherlock, but once that woman has you in her sights you're a goner."

He scowled as he stepped away, leaning back on the counter with his arms crossed. Max turned to face him, plate in hand. "No, no, not Mrs. Hudson," he said. "Everything. It looks like the sitting room barfed up red and green, and everyone is all so... cheery."

Max shrugged. "It's the holidays, you're supposed to be cheery," she replied. She placed her plate down on the table and stepped closer to him, resting her forearms on his shoulders. "Besides, don't pretend you're not enjoying yourself."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

She scoffed. "Oh, please," she said. "You're itching to show off and play your violin even if you're pretending not to, and you love making all those snarky comments because you're the center of attention." She smiled and gestured to his embrace. "This is a pretty good sign too."

He stared at her in surprise for a moment, apparently lost for words. Then he scowled. "Fine," he grumbled.

Max laughed. "Get out there and play some Christmas tunes," she told him. "Impress me."

Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile. Instead of pulling away to head back into the sitting room, he leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek, lingering briefly. "Merry Christmas, Max," he said.

She smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she replied.

With that, he headed off to get his violin.

A few minutes later, Sherlock was at the window playing Christmas music. Jeanette had finally arrived, to John's relief; the two of them were in the kitchen, cutting the cake that she had brought. Max had relocated to the couch, her two plates overflowing with snacks.

Sherlock finished his rendition of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" with a fancy arpeggio that ended an octave up. Lestrade whistled in appreciation, and Max clapped as best as she could while holding a cookie. "Lovely!" Mrs. Hudson declared. "Sherlock, that was lovely!"

"Marvelous!" John added, walking into the room with a teacup in one hand and a beer in the other.

Mrs. Hudson giggled as Sherlock gave a quick bow. "I wish you could have worn the antlers!" she exclaimed, slightly tipsy.

Sherlock grimaced. "Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson," he told her.

Max grinned at him. "No, no, I think Mrs. Hudson is right," she said. She grabbed the antler headband that was laying on the end table and put them on, the bells jingling. "See? It's a fashion statement." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson giggled again, and John offered her the tea he was holding. "Mrs. H," he attempted, trying to sober her up.

Jeanette came out of the kitchen then, holding a tray with the cake. She offered it to Sherlock with a smile, but he shook his head. "No thank you, Sarah," he said.

A hush fell over the room as Jeanette's smile fell, and instantly John was there, putting his arm around her and trying to guide her away. "Uh, no, no," he said. "He's not good with names."

Sherlock frowned. "No, I can get this," he insisted. Jeanette put the tray down and crossed her arms, looking at Sherlock in annoyance. Sherlock- being Sherlock- just kept talking. "No, Sarah was the doctor, and then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and then... who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody," Jeanette answered shortly.

Sherlock grinned. "Jeanette!" he exclaimed. "Process of elimination!"

Before he had a chance to say anything else, John was ushering Jeanette away. Sherlock turned victoriously to Max, who just sighed heavily. "Have a cookie," she said, holding one out to him.

He took the cookie and started nibbling at it as there was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. "Oh, dear Lord," Sherlock muttered as Molly walked in, carrying two bags filled with presents.

"Hello, everyone," Molly greeted cheerfully. "It said on the door just to come up."

Everyone muttered their hellos, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he put his violin away. "Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other," he grumbled sarcastically, sitting down on the couch next to Max. "How wonderful!"

Molly glanced at the two of them together, her smile slightly fixed now as she took her coat off. John stepped forward to take it. "Let me, er... holy Mary!" he exclaimed, seeing the tight black dress she was wearing.

"Wow!" Lestrade exclaimed, similarly surprised.

"Nice dress!" Max added.

Molly just smiled awkwardly. "Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged, completely indifferent to her arrival. "No stopping them, apparently," he said as he grabbed John's laptop.

Mrs. Hudson giggled. "It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock started typing on John's laptop as Lestrade struck up a conversation with Molly. "If you're wearing the antlers to make Mrs. Hudson happy, you can take them off now," he told Max. "She's not paying attention."

Max gave him a look. "They're cute!" she protested, shaking her head to make the bells jingle.

He sighed heavily as he turned back to John's laptop. "John?" he called.

"Mm?" John replied, walking over.

Sherlock scowled at the laptop. "The counter on your blog, it still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," he told him.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh no!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "Christmas is cancelled!"

Still not satisfied, Sherlock pointed to the side bar. "And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" he complained.

John shrugged. "People like the hat," he explained.

Sherlock scowled. "No they don't," he grumbled. "What people?" He turned to Max. "Do you like the hat?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I like the hat," she answered.

His scowl deepened. "Why am I asking you? You're wearing antlers," he said.

Meanwhile, Molly's conversation with Mrs. Hudson floated over to them. "How's the hip?" Molly was asking.

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand dismissively. "Ooh, it's atrocious," she answered. "But thanks for asking."

Molly smiled. "I've seen much worse, but then I do postmortems," she told her.

Everyone stared at her blankly, and Molly's eyes widened. "Oh, God," she said. "Sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock called from over the couch.

Molly nodded. "No, sorry," she agreed.

Lestrade handed her a glass of red wine, and she smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

He smiled. "That's first thing in the morning," he told her. "Me and the wife. We're back together. It's all sorted."

"No, she's sleeping with a P.E. teacher," Sherlock said, not even turning his gaze from the computer.

Max gave him a look. "Sherlock..." she trailed off.

"And John!" Molly commented, turning to where John was on the arm of his armchair, while Jeanette was in the seat. "I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right? Sherlock was complaining." Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Molly cleared her throat. "... saying."

Lestrade suddenly coughed, his expression one of shock as he realized Sherlock's comment about his wife was probably true.

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act," John told Molly, continuing their conversation. "She's off the booze."

Sherlock scoffed. "Nope," he said.

John didn't even look over at him. "Shut up, Sherlock," he told him.

Molly gave them both a small smile, then glanced at Max. "So, Max, how's your work going?" she asked.

Max smiled. "Good, actually," she said. "They've hired a new designer, so I'm not the newbie anymore."

Molly nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, that's good!" she exclaimed. "Are you going anywhere for Christmas?"

Max shrugged. "Nah, I'm staying here," she replied. "Home sweet home."

Sherlock glanced over at her, and she saw that he knew why she had chosen to stay: for once, her life- her work, her art, everything, really- was going the way she wanted it to, and she didn't want to miss a second of it. His gaze softened as he looked at her. "You're welcome to come over anytime," he told her.

She smiled. "I know," she replied.

They shared a brief look, and then he turned towards Molly. "I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," he commented.

Molly blinked in surprise. "Sorry, what?" she asked.

But Sherlock continued on, not even taking notice of her. "In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he said.

"Take a day off," John muttered in exasperation.

Lestrade walked over with a drink in hand and put it down next to Sherlock. "Shut up and have a drink," he told him.

Max cleared her throat. "Sherlock, enough," she scolded.

Sherlock ignored them, too wound up to stop now. "Oh, come on," he said. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag- perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. It's for someone special, then." He walked over to Molly's presents, picking up the one in question. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick- either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Ms. Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing." He smirked at John as he turned over the gift tag. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."

He trailed off as he read the writing on the tag.

Dearest Sherlock. Love Molly xxx

Sherlock stared at the words in surprise, partly shocked that he had been wrong but mostly realizing what he had just done. He looked up at Molly, who was on the verge of tears. "You always say such horrible things," she told him. "Every time. Always. Always."

He was about to walk away, but then he turned back around. "I am sorry," he said. "Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He leaned forward and gave her a gentle hug.

Suddenly there was a lewd sigh, and Molly drew back, bright red. "No!" she exclaimed. "That wasn't... I- I didn't-"

"No, it was me," Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "My God, really?!" he asked.

Molly blinked. "What?" she asked.

Sherlock scowled. "My phone," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

John frowned. "Sixty-nine?" he asked in exasperation.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Sorry, what?" he replied.

John gestured to his phone. "Fifty-seven of those texts- the ones I've heard," he said.

"Plus the twelve I've heard," Max added. "Sixty nine." She frowned. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock glanced at the message. Mantlepiece. "Thrilling that the two of you have been counting," he told them dryly as he followed the text's directions. He picked up a small box that was on the mantle, wrapped in blood-red paper and tied in black string. Looking at the wrapping he suddenly remembered the identical color of Irene's lipstick. Instantly, he turned and walked away, the box in hand. "Scuse me."

John frowned. "What- what's up, Sherlock?" he asked.

But Sherlock just kept walking. "I said excuse me," he said.

"D'you ever reply?!" John called after him.

Without a word, Sherlock disappeared into his room.

Max and John shared a look. "Should we...?" John trailed off.

She glanced after Sherlock, who had disappeared into his room even though he had left his door open. "Yeah," she said. The two of them stood up and headed after him.

In his room, Sherlock was sitting on his bed, holding the red-wrapped box. He turned it over in his hands, then unwrapped it and opened the box.

It was Irene's camera phone.

He took it out of the box and examined it closely. Normally his mind would be racing, but now he could only think one thing; the camera phone was her life.

000

Meanwhile, Mycroft was spending Christmas alone in his house, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. His phone rang, disrupting his thoughts, and he took it out from his jacket with an impatient scowl as he glanced at the name on the screen.

Sherlock.

Sighing in exasperation, he answered the phone. "Oh dear Lord," he grumbled. "I know you've started going on dates like proper humans do, but we're not going to have Christmas phone calls now too, are we? Have they passed a new law?"

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight," Sherlock said.

Back at Baker St, Max and John were standing by the door to Sherlock's room, listening in. They shared a look, then turned their attention back to Sherlock.

"We already know where she is," Mycroft reminded him. "As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

Sherlock scowled. "No, I mean you're going to find her dead," he told him.

Without giving Mycroft a chance to reply, he hung up.

He walked over to the bedroom door, not acknowledging Max and John. "You okay?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

He turned to close the door, but Max reached out and stopped him. "She might not be dead," she offered.

Sherlock shook his head. "She is," he replied.

Max stared at him for a moment, then she nodded. "Yeah, probably," she said. She stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry."

He stood there for a moment, his expression unreadable... then he closed his eyes and leaned into her embrace, as if it could shield him from the world.

000

Half an hour later, Sherlock was standing in the hallway outside the morgue, having just identified a body with a bashed-up face as Irene's, based on her measurements. Mycroft walked up from behind him and held out a cigarette. "Just the one," he offered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why?" he asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Merry Christmas," he answered.

Sherlock considered the cigarette, then shook his head. "I shouldn't," he said.

Mycroft looked at him in faint surprise, then slid the cigarette away. "How did you know she was dead?" he asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "She had an item in her possession, one her life depended on," he answered. "She chose to give it up."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Where is this item now?" he replied.

Without answering, Sherlock looked at a sobbing family down the hallway, grieving over the death of a loved one. "Look at them," he said. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

Mycroft looked at him coldly. "All lives end. All hearts are broken," he told him. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Sherlock glanced at him. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft," he said.

Mycroft nodded. "And a happy New Year," he replied.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and walked away, back to Baker St.

The instant he was out of earshot, Mycroft pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. "He's on his way," he said.

Back at the flat, Max and John were clustered around Max's phone, which was on speaker. "Did he take the cigarette?" John asked.

"Surprisingly not," Mycroft replied. "It seems we're in the clear."

John frowned. "Are you sure tonight's not a danger night?" he insisted.

"No, but then I never am," Mycroft answered. "Still, he took it better than I expected. Because of Max, I suspect."

Max blinked. "Uh, good," she said. "Well, we haven't found anything here- drugs, whatever- and if you think he's okay... I guess he's fine. Well, not fine, but... functional." She sighed. "I'll stay here with him just in case. I was going to anyway."

"Thank you, Ms. Arthur," Mycroft told her. Without another word, he hung up.

John blinked. "I can't believe he didn't take the cigarette," he said.

Max nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. She nudged him. "Go do what you need to. Don't worry about us."

He clapped her on the shoulder. "Thanks," he told her. "Merry Christmas, Max." She nodded, and he turned away towards Jeanette.

000

By the time Sherlock returned to 221B, everyone had cleared out from the party. Max was curled up on the couch, watching some late night show on the TV. She looked up to see him standing by the doorway, casting a glance around the room. "Where's John?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Out with Jeanette," she answered. "It's just the two of us tonight." She patted the couch next to her. "Come sit down."

He did as she said, and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head on hers, and for a few moments neither of them spoke.

"You okay?" Max asked.

"No," Sherlock answered.

She grimaced. "Yeah, stupid question," she said.

They lapsed into silence, the room quiet except for the TV. Then Max pulled away. "This might not be the best time, but... I got you something," she told him. She reached behind the couch and pulled out a wrapped parcel. "Here."

Sherlock took it from her and, after staring at it for a moment, unwrapped it. The wrapping fell to the ground as Sherlock held up an oil painting: a magnifying glass in the process of shattering against a dark grey background.

"The first thing I've painted in years," Max explained. "I wanted you to have it." She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Each glass shard has a different scene, see?" She pointed at the painting with her free hand, gesturing at a few of the shards. "Here's the cipher from the Blind Banker. That's the expensive hairpin Van Coon stole. Carl Powers' shoes. The fake Vermeer painting. The ashtray you stole from the palace. And, uh... there's us. You, me, John." She shrugged. "So... yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, and Max looked at him anxiously. "Thank you," he said finally. It didn't seem like he was going to say anything else, but that was okay; Max could see his appreciation in his eyes, something he would never be able to put into words. He gave her a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and she smiled back.

Then he cleared his throat suddenly. "I got you something too," he told her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "Here."

She took the box and opened it. It was a necklace: a dark purple diamond on a gold chain. She lifted it from the box, and when she held it up to the light, it seemed to change color to a lighter shade.

"Purple," Sherlock said simply. "Traditionally a cool color, but if mixed with reds, it becomes a compliment-"

"- for warm colors," Max finished. She smiled at him. "You remembered."

He nodded. "Of course," he replied.

She held it out to him. "Help me put it on?" she asked. She brushed her hair off her neck, and Sherlock clipped it on with lithe fingers.

The two of them shared a look, then Max looked at him in concern. "Do you... do you want to talk about it?" she offered. "We can play a game to get your mind off it, or watch something, or-"

"Can we just lay here?" Sherlock asked. "I... I just want to hold you."

Max blinked in surprise, then she gave him a small smile. "Yeah," she said.

They laid out on the couch, facing each other with Sherlock's arms around her. "Is this okay?" Max asked.

Sherlock gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "More than okay," he answered.

Neither of them spoke, just took solace in each other's presence. Soon Max had drifted off into sleep, a lock of hair falling forward onto her face.

It took far longer for Sherlock to sleep, his mind filled with too many thoughts. But eventually he did, finding peace in Max's steady heartbeat pulsing against him.