Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.

WARNING: Violence, and sex. A LOT of Sex. Enjoy!

A/N: My dear friend silvereyedbitch must get some credit for this chapter's awesomeness. She talked me through the motions a physician would take while examining Gregory after the confrontation with the Vicar. Otherwise, it would have been a lot less of a fun scene, as John would have just gotten Gregory a Band-Aid and that's it. So THANK YOU! And everyone go check out her work, she is exceptional.**

Chapter Forty Nine

"The Only Gift That Matters"

Christmas Eve, 12:03 PM

"Jaime Moriarty, let it go. Let him go."

It was a whisper, a prayer, spoken so softly Jaime strained to hear it over the ghost of her brother, his screams loud in her ears. It echoed in her mind, that simple phrase dragging her attention from the detective standing so still in the snow. He was a specter of grief and misery, his tall frame a black shadow in the pristine field of white.

Jaime stared through the scope at Sherlock Holmes, her finger a bare inclination from taking his life. The air stank of gunpowder and ozone, the Barrett a live creature in her hands, the malice of the rifle whispering to her. She felt everything in this endless moment; the cold, dry earth beneath her, the stifled air under the pine, the sound of Mary breathing next to her, and Clay shifting on his feet. Jaime grit her teeth, her whole body yearning to pull the trigger, her mind overrun by a voice that wasn't hers.

"Sweetheart, let it go," came that whisper again, from the blonde assassin kneeling at her side. It broke through the chaos, gave her a focus aside from the screams of man long dead. "Let it go, Jaime."

"He killed James." She growled out, sweat trickling down her temple, freezing in the subzero air.

"No sweetheart. James killed himself. You know that Sherlock didn't kill him. James left you; no one made him pull the trigger. Don't reward his selfishness by killing Sherlock."

He left me, he left me… He killed himself. He left me….

Jaime shook, her arm cramping, her finger seizing. Jaime shrieked, her mind and heart battling, and she pulled the trigger. The Barrett recoiled, and Jaime let it push her away, falling back from the weapon to the snow free ground under the great pine tree.

Mary sprang to her feet, eyes trained on the small cottage. Jaime knew exactly where her shot landed.

Jaime never missed.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

The Vicar had a third bullet hole in him, in a very rude place.

Jaime giggled, sweat and tears freezing, her breath frosting the air above her as she stared up into the dark recesses of the pine tree. She felt different. Something had changed. She had changed. She felt something snap inside, deep where the howling wasteland of her soul waited, empty and vacant. A break, a crack, to her core and up through her heart. There was something there, deep inside. Something she hadn't felt since she was very young, safety and hope a reality instead of a dream long forgotten. So long ago she had no name for what shimmered now in the deep dark of her being. Jaime laughed, euphoric, and rolled to her knees.

She laughed as Mary looked at her, a mixture of disbelief and pride evident in her beautiful blue eyes. Jaime picked up the Barrett, its great weight nothing in her arms, and let Clay pick up the blankets, the shell casings from her three shots. She hoisted the rifle up on one shoulder, balancing the long weapon easily from many years of practice.

Jaime picked one of the shell casings, and gave it to Mary. The blonde assassin took it, the large piece of brass appearing bigger in her small hand. She closed Mary's fist around it, and squeezed. It was the shell from her last shot. Mary deserved to keep it. If she hadn't asked her to spare Holmes, Jaime would have killed him. Her plea made something happen inside of Jaime. She didn't know what it was, but she liked the way it was making her feel.

Her blood felt electrified, her muscles charged with adrenaline. She was alive.

"Let's get you back to London, Mary. Unless you want to wait for the Holmes brothers to waltz up here, and we can all say hello. That will be decidedly awkward."

12:03

The third shot went off, and Sherlock put a hand to his chest, expecting to feel a void, a gaping hole rapidly filling with blood. Instead he felt nothing but the cold silk of his shirt, and his heart beating under his hand.

A spray of shredded flesh and hot blood erupted from the headless body of the Vicar, a final insult to the belligerent assassin, as the sniper took aim at his crotch. Whoever was shooting, was most decidedly female. It was a very personal shot to make, and not one a man would contemplate.

Sherlock raised a brow at that, and found his shoulders shaking. Tension flowed from his muscles, and Sherlock laughed, the deep rumble filling the small clearing. John came out from behind him, a hand on his arm, with a questioning look on his face.

Sherlock roped an arm around John's neck, pulling his doctor to him, catching his mouth in an urgent kiss. John was confused, but he responded in kind, up on his toes, lips molding and clinging. John dropped back after a moment, his eyes holding Sherlock's, and the detective shivered down to the soles of his feet, and not from the cold. Nothing quite like almost dying to get one interested in all sorts of things.

"Greg!" Mycroft shouted, surrounded by over half his men, where he was kneeling on the snow covered earth. Lestrade was pale, gasping for breath, leaning back on Mycroft's chest.

The spymaster was covered in blood, a river of it down his shoulder and chest, spray across his face and head. None of it was his, all of it the remnants of Silas Williamson. Mycroft was pale, eyes showing his stress.

John pulled away from Sherlock, and pushed through the people clustered around the men on the ground. He knelt at Lestrade's side, in full doctor mode.

Sherlock looked away, back up the valley. The lonely pines stood on the hill, their boughs thick and dark. Sherlock took one last look at the men on the ground, and walked away. He set off up the shallow valley, walking through the snows drifts. He wanted to see what he could learn about their guardian angel.

Whoever made those shots had impeccable, absolutely perfect aim. It was a matter of centimeters between killing the Vicar, and killing Mycroft. Zero chances to try again if the first shot failed. There were two people with that level of skill who had been in England within the last few months. One was pregnant and in hiding, the other was dead.

She was supposed to be dead.

"Mycroft, don't hold him so tightly. Ease up, let me look." John put his hand on the spymaster's wrist, and gently tugged his arm down, away from Greg's shoulders. Mycroft's face was stricken, pale under the blood, and he looked nothing like he usually did. John felt his heartstrings ping in his chest, and he had no doubt that Mycroft Holmes loved Gregory Lestrade. His face said it all. "Mycroft, let me help him. I won't hurt him."

Mycroft was breathing hard, nearly panting. His green eyes clung to John's, and the doctor did his best to exude an unruffled, reassuring attitude. He needed Mycroft to be relaxed; as well as anyone could be with blood and gore splattered all over him.

Greg was breathing fast and shallow, his left arm cradling his side, tears streaked down his cheeks and freezing in the cold air. John scooted in closer, and put his hand on Greg's side, under his coat, where his own hand was pressing tight. His shirt was white, and John moved his hand the smallest amount. He saw no blood, nothing seeping through. He didn't think there was a rupture, but he needed to see the area without his shirt on. Williamson's kick had connected solidly over the GSW entry site and the surgery scars, and Greg was in a serious amount of pain.

"Okay, get him up. Into the SUV, back to the Holmes' residence. Greg, I'm going to look you over, make sure you didn't reinjure anything. You're okay, just breathe through the pain." John stood, and looked at the security teams milling about, their master useless in his shock and worry.

John sighed, and snapped out orders, some of the military captain coming out in his voice, even after all these years out of the service. He suppressed a grin that threatened to come out when every man in uniform snapped to attention.

"Help them into the vehicles, now! You two, follow Sherlock, keep him out of trouble." John pointed at two team members, and waved out over the clearing, where the tall form of Sherlock was rapidly disappearing into the snow shrouded trees. The two men he pointed out peeled away from the group and followed the detective, and John directed the others in getting Mycroft and Lestrade to their feet.

Anthea came skidding around the corner of the small cottage, and her face was as white as the snow she ran through. Violet was at her heels, and the two girls blasted past John and Greg, and went straight to Mycroft. John paid them little attention, focused on Greg. Anthea and Violet each took an arm of the shaken spymaster, exclaiming over the blood and gory bits covering his head and upper torso.

John helped the DI into the back of an SUV, and looked out through the orchard, in the direction Sherlock disappeared. The two security team members were following him, and John instructed that a SUV remain behind to wait for them.

Anthea and Violet were hovering over Mycroft, and helped him into the SUV. Mycroft wasn't paying them any mind at all, keeping his eyes on the pale man panting fast on the seat in front of him.

John pulled out his mobile, and texted Sherlock.

Lestrade's hurt, Mycroft is in shock. Taking them back to your parent's place. SUV and driver remaining behind for you at cottage. Be careful. I love you. –JW

John sat beside Greg, keeping an eye on the DI as the SUV took the bumpy, snowy roads out from the orchard. His mobile buzzed, and he saw a reply from his detective.

I'll be fine. Found something interesting. I'll tell you once I get back. –SH

John went to put his mobile away, but it buzzed one more time.

I love you. –SH

John smiled, a thumb tracing the words, before he put the mobile in his coat, his attention back on his patient.

The large pine tree was a few yards ahead, the area muted, hushed. There was the faint whispering of snow falling from trees, the echoing pop of frozen branches moving in the slight wind. The two security members were behind him a few yards, waiting patiently for a word from him on what to do.

Sherlock saw the barest hint of movement, and felt a strong sense of déjà vu. He held up a hand, stilling the men at his back as a tall, familiar shape melted out of the shadows of the great pine. It was his soldier friend, smiling that sweet smile again.

Sherlock shifted on his feet, being careful not to show any emotion. He was armed, the young soldier, but his sidearm was under his jacket, and it was zipped up to his chin. No threat.

"This is becoming a habit, isn't it?" The younger man asked, stopping a few feet away, hands at his sides, and he had a calm attitude of waiting for something.

Sherlock looked past him to the trees, and heard the sound of an engine roaring to life. It was a helicopter, the blades spinning. The machine was just over the hill from where they stood. Sherlock made to go forward, to see who it was before they took off, but the soldier was there in front of him, having moved so fast Sherlock hadn't seen it. The two men at his back raised their weapons, but the young soldier made no aggressive moves beyond that smile that bothered Sherlock so much.

"Please don't make me hurt you, Mr. Holmes." The soldier begged, face calm but with a pleading edge to it that halted Sherlock in his tracks. Sherlock huffed in annoyance at being stopped. He caught a glimpse of a small black helicopter taking off as it cleared the hill and trees, pulling away to disappear into the horizon.

"I take it that was your boss? She made that shot, didn't she?" Sherlock demanded, brow arched in question, eyes boring into the younger man's.

The soldier blinked, and tilted his head. He seemed to be thinking about what to say, as if he had orders to work around just to answer him. There was that smile again, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself. He backed up a step, disguising the move as a need to find firmer footing in the snow. He needed firmer footing for certain, but not physically.

"Yes, that was her. I can see I wasn't careful enough to keep her gender from you. Don't tell her, she gets a bit cranky when crossed." The younger man looked past Sherlock's shoulder to the security men who still had their weapons trained on him. He smiled, but this time it was a cocky grin that said what he saw was amusing, and kind of silly. Sherlock saw no fear in him at all. He wasn't afraid of the men, not even a little. "My car is parked this way, I must be off. I can drop you off at your place if you want."

He pointed casually over his shoulder, in a direction that Sherlock knew held a small access road for the orchard. Sherlock was tempted, merely to keep asking this soldier about what was going on, but somehow Sherlock felt odd at accepting a ride from this young man. Off center for some weird reason.

"No, thank you. I have my own ride." He tipped his head at the men behind him, who had slowly lowered their guns a moment before. "Do tell your employer she has my thanks, and that of my brother as well. The Vicar was going to kill him. We owe her a great deal, for the last week. Whatever her motive is for protecting my brother and myself, this is all appreciated regardless."

The young soldier started to turn, but stopped. He got a look on his face, and Sherlock was about to ask what was wrong when he stepped forward, a big hand reaching up between them. Sherlock looked down, saw the soldier's mobile in his hand. The younger man opened up a menu, and let Sherlock get a glimpse of the mobile's number. It was quick, and subtle, and the men behind them saw nothing. Sherlock memorized it instantly, wondering at the implications.

"Not a problem. And it wasn't just for you, either. I've got to be going. The Vicar is dead, my job is over. I've a bed to get to, one I haven't seen in days. Don't waste my efforts, okay? Hate to read in the papers that the great Sherlock Holmes died…again."

He backed off, the nameless soldier, and smiled one last time at Sherlock before turning away. Sherlock sighed, annoyed he was leaving without having answered any of his questions, but unwilling to force the issue. His demeanor was one that implied he was willing to be an ally, and to push the issue would endanger possible access to his boss.

That smile on the younger man's face was making him edgy. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that the soldier was flirting with him.

Sherlock struggled with restraint, and gave in as the soldier walked away from him. He had to know, he needed to know. He hated not knowing. His suspicion was too strong not to vocalize it.

"Wait!" Sherlock hadn't meant to shout, but he did, and the soldier stopped just before he slipped away into the trees. Sherlock ran forward, barely avoiding tripping in the snow. He stopped a few feet from the soldier, and asked his last question. "You serve Jaime Moriarty, don't you?"

Sherlock was still too far from the younger man to clearly see his reaction, but the extreme stillness that came over the soldier was in itself an answer. Their eyes met and held over the distance for a heartbeat, before the young man looked away, down to the ground.

"I thought Jaime Moriarty was dead, sir." His voice was flat, the polite tone gone. The kind man was shifting, his demeanor hardening and gentle smile fading. He had a rigid set to his shoulders, with his hands fists at his sides. He looked back up at Sherlock, and there was something there in the way he stood that told Sherlock he was too close to the truth for this man's comfort. "But I heard that her men served her faithfully, and out of love."

He was gone from sight before the last word faded away into silence. Sherlock never saw him leave, his ability to mask his presence impressive. Sherlock tucked his hands in his pockets, chin in his collar, and looked at the pine tree. He sighed loudly, finally feeling the wet cold in his shoes, the leather ill-suited in protecting his feet from the elements. His missed his city.

Sherlock trudged up the hill, and shivered at the cold dark air under the pine tree. He stood, and stared at the snow free ground under the branches for a long time. What he saw tilted the world on its axis, and he wondered what he was going to tell John. He had no proof, just a hunch and the needling conviction that Jaime Moriarty was alive, and that Mary knew it too.

His nameless soldier wasn't a soldier anymore. He was a mercenary, and his master was a Moriarty. Or mistress.

The men guarding him were bored, the one interesting thing about their field trip was the boss's freaky little brother getting hit on by the stranger.

Greg was pale, especially against the dark leather of the couch cushions. Mycroft was sitting in an armchair beside the couch, watching as the doctor helped the DI remove his coat and jacket. John had sent Violet upstairs for his medical bag, and Mycroft found himself thankful for the doctor's urge to always be prepared. Violet had run back down all three flights of stairs, alerting the whole house to the tense situation in the sitting room.

Anthea was standing at his side, a bowl of water and a hand towel on the coffee table in front of them. Violet was hovering, right up until his mother took her by her arm and guided her out of the room, into the kitchen. His mother was cooking Christmas dinner, and the smell would be heavenly if he wasn't so worried about his lover.

Mycroft couldn't function enough to argue with Anthea when she gently pulled off his coat, dropping the blood soaked garment on the floor. He didn't resist when she tugged off his suit jacket, the collar equally soaked with blood and body bits. She peeled it away from him, her delicate hands soothing. Mycroft sighed, and took a brief moment of comfort from her familiar presence. She ran her fingers down the side of his face, his neck, in a move so subtle he thought he imagined it all.

Mycroft watched as the doctor pulled Greg's shirt off, the DI naked from the waist up. He was detached in his shock, and he was able to see and analyze the DI's physique without being overly distracted by it. Muscles still firm and defined despite the last five weeks of inactivity, chest smooth and nearly hairless. His skin was a darker shade than Mycroft's, as if the DI spent a lot of time with his shirt off in the summer months, so much so he had a permanent tan even in winter.

John had his stethoscope out, carefully listening to Greg's lungs, face serious. Greg jumped a little at the cold metal, but tolerated the doctor. Mycroft watched as John pulled out his blood pressure cuff, and attached it to Greg's arm, his competent hands moving Greg gently to how he needed him. Mycroft shifted on his chair, so engrossed in what the doctor was doing to his lover that he didn't notice that Anthea was unbuttoning his own shirt. Her elegant hands went to his tie, undoing the knot, her skin making brief contact with his, distracting him from watching Gregory. The tie was pulled away, and fell to the floor to land on his equally ruined coat and jacket.

She tugged gently at his waistband, pulling his dress shirt free, and he felt the fire warmed air on his bare shoulders. Greg was watching him, his breathing calmer, and their eyes locked across the few feet separating them. Greg flicked his eyes at the woman who was wiping away the blood from his face and neck, before coming back to his eyes.

John took off the cuff, and put his hand on Greg's wrist, while counting the time off on his watch. Mycroft tracked the doctor's hands, as they pushed and pressed gently on the ribs next to the scars on Greg's abdomen. Greg sucked in a breath, flinching as John found a sore spot, a bruise already forming on the newly healed flesh crisscrossed by scars.

Anthea moved the towel down the curve of his neck, tracing a line of blood past his collarbone, to where it disappeared under his white tank undershirt. She rinsed the towel off in the bowl, and went back to picking bone fragments from his hair. He would take a shower here soon, but not until Greg was cleared by the doctor. A small hand was on his back, and Mycroft felt the trembling in the fine boned fingers. It was the only betrayal of Anthea's discomfort. Her other hand was soft, her movements clean and loving. Her touch left warm trails of awareness on his skin, and he sighed, his mind coming down from the cold place it had gone to after the Vicar fell to the ground.

She was loving, her affection for him so clear in how she touched him. Mycroft kept his gaze on the two men in front of him, but part of his attention was pulled to the woman doing her best to pretend she wasn't in love with him. That his near death hadn't just terrified her to her breaking point. His Anthea, his rock, his first thought in a crisis that needed solving. She was so vital to him, and he had no idea how to solve the problem of her heart, and his. And Greg's. Because to keep the man he loved, he may have to surrender the woman he loved. He thought her dead and gone once, and her loss had destroyed him. To lose her again, no matter the reward of Gregory's love, just might shatter him. He was caught, trapped, and had no way out of this life altering realization.

Mycroft watched as John helped Greg sit up. The DI was moving easier, not flinching overmuch as John moved to his side, his hands running over the leanly defined muscles of Greg's back. Mycroft found his attention pulled back to the man on the couch, and the doctor who was touching him intimately. Skilled hands dusted over strong muscles, and Mycroft's gaze was tracing the path those hands took as they followed the scars and bruises on Greg's back.

Mycroft shifted in his chair, and found himself in the very awkward position of being jealous. John was a doctor, and he was taking extra care to make sure Gregory was all right, that the Vicar hadn't caused any damage to the recently healed gunshot wounds. He knew this, but seeing another man touch the man he loved was bothering him far more than he wanted to admit. And he was equally disturbed by the fact he was enjoying the way Anthea was tending to him, and that Greg was watching, and he didn't seem to mind at all that a woman had her hands all over his lover…

Does he see that she loves me?

"Okay." John startled them all, as he leaned back from Greg, reaching for the DI's shirt and handing it to him. John saw Mycroft jump, and Greg tore his gaze away from the delicate hands playing with Mycroft's hair. John tossed a look between them all, but he obviously didn't see anything amiss, or notice the odd tension in the room. "Greg, you're going to be fine. I'll check that bruising later, and I didn't see any ruptures in the scars. No liquid in your lungs, I didn't hear any fluid buildup. No internal bleeding, I'm certain. You'll be very sore for a few days, take your meds, and minimize strain. Don't baby it though, avoid getting stiff muscles."

Greg coughed at that last part, and Mycroft hid a grin by ducking his head. Anthea was slowly pulling away from him, and as she did, Mycroft finally noticed that she had wedged her hip against his shoulder, her soft body warm and sorely missed as she pulled back. Mycroft coughed himself, discomforted, yet wishing her back, and tossed her a small smile in thanks as she picked up the bowl and bloody towel. She gave him a watery smile, and left, not saying a word, or looking at the DI where he sat on the couch.

"Thanks, mate. I'll go take a shower then, get the rest of that blood off Mycroft." Greg slowly stood, being extra careful as he did. John had a hand out, and Mycroft narrowed his gaze as the doctor hovered over his lover.

He really wasn't used to being jealous. And yet, the few times he had been jealous in the last couple of months was always due to John Watson! First his brother's regard and trust, and now Gregory. Admittedly John had no designs on Gregory, but still, his hands were all over his lover. Mycroft stifled those stray emotions, banishing them as best he could as he stood himself, leaving his bloody garments on the floor.

Mycroft nodded to John in thanks, and walked behind Gregory as the DI took the stairs up, one at a time and cautious. Mycroft was worried, his concern over his lover falling on the steep stairs. Greg kept his balance, and Mycroft realized that Gregory's backside was at eye level, firm hard thighs and hips all in perfect view. The DI had yet to put his shirt back on, his finely shaped muscles and the glorious curve of his spine so temptingly close Mycroft felt his mouth watering. His hands itched with the urge to touch, to grab his hips and turn him on the stairs, his groin at the perfect height, to use his teeth to drag down the zipper of his fly…..

Mycroft was so absorbed by Greg that he stumbled slightly as they reached the top of the stairs, on the third floor finally. Greg tugged at his hand, pulling him to the bathroom halfway between his room and Sherlock's.

Mycroft was finding his ability to speak suddenly vanquished, his mind overrun by stress, nerves, conflicting emotions, and a rising tide of lust. Greg had a look on his face, an expression Mycroft couldn't discern. Greg stopped at the closed door of the bathroom, and leaned back against it, gently pulling Mycroft to him. Mycroft searched his eyes, the deep colors vivid and full of emotions. His gaze dropped to firm and supple lips, the slight shadow over the top lip enhancing the sexy curve.

Mycroft dragged in a sharp breath, and rested himself gently on his lover, hips to hips. Greg's hands came to arrest on his waist, rubbing in tiny circles, pulling his undershirt free from his waistband. Lean fingers slipped underneath, and Mycroft leaned his head forward the tiniest bit, whispering his lips over Greg's, barely enough contact to count as a kiss, but enough to send a ribbon of lust through his veins.

Greg was breathing faster, his hands running under Mycroft's shirt freely now, and Mycroft lifted his hands to frame the DI's face, cupping the handsome face between his palms. He kissed Greg, but differently than any kiss he'd given him before. He took his time, feeling the way the other man's lips moved against his, how every plump wet touch made his body shiver, how Greg tasted depending on the depth of the kiss. Heat spindled out from his stomach, spiraling up through his chest, to meet the line of heat running from his lips to his chest. His fingers were tingling, his breathing faster.

They had yet to speak, no words needed as they communicated how they each felt about the other. Greg's hands were hot on his skin, and he pulled back from the kiss just enough for his shirt to be pulled off over his head. He touched his tongue to Greg's bottom lip, tracing the fullness before dipping quickly inside his warm mouth. He pulled back before the other man could catch his tongue, teasing and flirty with his kiss.

Gregory was aroused, his body determined to satisfy itself regardless of his injury. Mycroft felt the hard heat through their trousers, and gyrated his hips the tiniest amount, jumping when the head of his cock caught on the hard surface of Gregory's zipper.

Greg gasped, and pulled back from the kiss, lips wet, eyes hooded and face flushed. "Bathroom, now."

Mycroft nodded, and kept their bodies plastered together as they stumbled through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind them, locking it securely.

Mycroft found himself pushed back on the sink counter, the DI undoing his belt, his hands efficiently removing the layers separating them. Mycroft was naked in no time, shoes thrown in the corner, underwear gone, socks ripped away. He was panting, so aroused his cock nearly hurt from the pressure. Greg put his hands on his own belt, and stripped off his remaining clothing, carefully pulling his clothes off over his erection.

Mycroft swallowed raggedly at the sight, Gregory big and enticing. He reached out a hand, wanting to touch him, but Gregory pulled away, and went to the bathtub. He yanked back the shower curtain, and stoppered the tub. He flipped on the water, and looked about for soap, finding one he liked and pouring it in the water.

Steam rose from the basin, and Gregory held out a hand to him, and Mycroft took it, letting the DI pull him into the warm, swirling waters of the very large, claw footed tub. Gregory sat back at one end, and Mycroft the other, both being very careful with their feet under the warm water and bubbles.

The water level rose, the heat soaking into his tense muscles, and Mycroft sighed happily. Gregory was alive, he was alive, the Vicar was dead, the threat to his lover gone at last. He hadn't realized how tense he was the last week until the tension was gone, easing from his muscles and heart. He shuddered, and put a wet hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He refused to cry, this was not a situation one cried in. Mycroft Holmes didn't cry.

The water shut off, and he heard Gregory moving through the water, waves lapping at his chest. Greg sat on the bottom on the tub, between his knees, their legs entwining under the water, and a strong hand came to rest under his chin, water dripping. Mycroft lifted his head, and shuddered at the love he saw on the DI's face.

"I almost lost you." Greg whispered to him, hand caressing his face. "He almost killed you, and I was useless. I couldn't save you."

"Greg, no. Don't…" He couldn't stand the pain and guilt on his lover's face. Greg looked so sad, the melancholy mixed with love. He leaned forward, the water splashing around them, and he kissed Greg, trying to remove the misery from his handsome face. He pulled back, and tugged at Gregory until the DI was in his lap, his legs wrapped around his waist. "I love you. I'm here, you're here, and we're together."

Their kiss was fast, deep, urgent, and Mycroft slipped a hand under the water, stroking the hard cock he found. Gregory groaned loudly in his mouth, his legs spread wide to wrap around his waist, exposing him to Mycroft's touch. Mycroft held nothing back, caressing his lover until he was close to coming, water frothing, hips thrusting into his hand.

He was so aroused he fought not to come, Gregory's writhing teasing his cock. He met his lover's eyes, and silently asked for his turn. Greg nodded, and brought his hips closer, lifting up in the buoyant water above the hard heat of Mycroft's cock. His wet stomach rubbed slickly over Mycroft's chest, as he lowered himself down, and Mycroft gritted his teeth at the tight, hot fit of the most appealing and deliriously sexy ass he had ever taken. Greg moaned, his body shaking, and Mycroft gripped his hips, pulling down on his hard length, burying himself hilt deep.

He was so tight, the pressure so intense, that Mycroft gripped his hips hard, and refused to let him move, breathing through the urge to fuck his lover as hard as he could. Gregory wouldn't be able to take it, and neither would the bathroom. He was so deep he felt every breath Gregory took, the thrumming of his pulse, the tensing of his thigh muscles as his legs gripped his waist. Gregory was panting in his ear, making eager, wanton little noises, gasping at the throbbing member thrust inside of him.

"Oh God, you're so fucking hard…." Greg panted, plastering his body to Mycroft's chest, arms bound around his neck, and he moaned as Mycroft thrust a little at his words. "Please, Mycroft, please…"

"What do you want?" Mycroft whispered to him, hands pushing him down harder on his cock. Greg shuddered, ass clenching deliciously.

"I want you… to fuck me…" He tried his best to lift up, to fuck himself on Mycroft's hard length, but Mycroft held him fast, refusing to let him move. Gregory whimpered, and bit his neck in protest. Water spilled over the top of the tub, bubbles everywhere.

Mycroft grinned in triumph, his lover exactly at the point he wanted him. He shifted his grip, and carefully picked Gregory up, the water helping him lift. His ass was so tight that he almost couldn't move him. Gregory gave a small scream, head tossed back, panting, and his fingers scrambling at his back, nails biting. He pulled him up, all the way to the tip, the head throbbing, and he groaned himself at the tight grip. Greg was begging, words a jumbled mess, and Mycroft pulled him back down, all the way, past the deepest point he should go this early on before his lover loosened up. Gregory moaned, begging him to keep going.

Greg's nails dug at his back, his chest heaving, and Mycroft shrugged off the worry he might cause Gregory to overexert himself. What he felt, what he was making Gregory feel was too important to stop, to shortchange. This man was his, and he had him, now and in his arms. His forever.

"You are mine. No one is ever going to threaten you again." Mycroft whispered in his lover's ear, and eased his grip. Gregory moaned, and took over the pace. He put his knees down on either side of Mycroft's hips, keeping the spymaster lodged securely, arms on his shoulders. Mycroft leaned them back on the side of the tub, and Greg took over completely. He drove himself down, fast and hard on Mycroft, and the pressure was intense. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub, waves rushing between them, as Greg lifted up, almost pulling Mycroft free. Mycroft gasped, and held Gregory around the waist, loving the way he felt moving in his arms.

Greg fucked himself on Mycroft, and the spymaster let him drive the pace. His lover rose over him, dipping down in the sudsy water with each thrust. Their eyes met, and held, sweat beading on the DI's brow, and he gently grabbed a fistful of Mycroft's hair. Gregory pulled his head back, and gripped, and rode. His mouth found that tender spot on Mycroft's neck, and the spymaster groaned as Gregory sucked and nibbled, the suction strong enough to leave a mark. He didn't care, not one bit. The world could rot for all he cared about anyone seeing the love mark.

Water spilled in a great splash as Greg took them faster, holding Mycroft's head back, panting eagerly. Mycroft let his hands slip down, and he gripped the hard cock rubbing across his stomach. Greg groaned loudly, eyes rolling back the slightest amount as Mycroft stroked him. The DI's weight kept him from moving, and he struggled to focus, wanting Greg to come when he did. He was close, the wet hot friction of his lover pushing him relentlessly to the edge. Greg was showing every indicator of enjoyment, driving himself harder and harder down on Mycroft, the soapy water letting his lover's cock impale him with every rise and fall of powerfully muscled hips.

Suddenly Greg reached out, his hands both gripping the edge of the tub, and he slammed himself down on Mycroft, head thrown back, a strangled shout ripped from his chest. He jerked in Mycroft's hands, coming hard. Mycroft felt like a fist was squeezing him harder and harder as Gregory climaxed around him, and the shuddering of the man on top of him made his orgasm roll through him.

His cries melded with Gregory's, and the DI flew apart on top of him. He had no control over his body, and his legs kicked against the interior walls of the cast iron tub, his hands clinging to his lover's hips. His orgasm was so powerful it hurt, a twisting snap in his groin as he pumped himself inside the DI, deep and hot. So blistering hot he felt like he was on fire, a flame held to his skin. He was surprised the water wasn't boiling.

Greg panted in his ear, head drooping on his shoulder. Mycroft held him tenderly, and the DI flinched just the smallest amount as he withdrew.

"Wasn't expecting that." Greg whispered in his ear, laughing softly.

"Me, neither."

"Think we should change the water. You've still got blood and some weird bits in your hair."

Mycroft laughed, surprising himself at how wonderful he felt. He was no stranger to death, and having it happen so close to him shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. What had bothered him was nearly having Gregory watch him die. If the situation had been reversed, watching his lover die would have been the most horrific thing he could imagine. He laughed now because it was over; The Vicar could no longer threaten his lover. Gregory was safe now, and he would stay that way.

Greg sat back, falling from Mycroft's lap. He found the drain, and let the water out of the tub. He reached a hand out, and Mycroft felt his lips twitch into a tiny smile as Gregory held his hand.

Violet sat at the kitchen table, eyeing her grandmother as she took a tray of cookies out of the oven.

Biscuits, they call cookies biscuits here. So weird. But that smells fucking amazing.

"Sherlock never cooks. He always makes John order delivery… er, takeaway. Whatever." She said as she did her best to rework a line of code that was being stubborn. Her grandmother put the tray down on the table, within very tempting distance of Violet. The hacker pondered the tray, wondering if burnt fingers would be worth it.

"My son is a gifted chemist, of course he can cook. He just thinks it's boring." Marion pulled off her apron, and settled down at the table, reaching for her tea. "He can bake, too."

"He should be back soon, John said he stayed behind to find out who the sniper was." Violet casually inched her hand out towards the tray, but stopped when she caught her grandmother watching her, one brow raised as if she was daring her to reach for the cookie. Violet pulled her hand back, but grinned at her grandmother. She'd sneak one later.

"Always reckless, that one. So confident he could outthink, and out maneuver everyone. Trouble was, he usually could." Marion sipped her tea, and smiled fondly at whatever memory she was reliving, her eyes shining. Violet stilled, struck by how much she saw of Sherlock in his mother. "So he never learned he wasn't invincible."

It wasn't appearance, but for the eyes. Sherlock had inherited his mother's eyes. It was strange, to see those heavenly eyes in another's face. Sherlock got his features and form from his father, but his mannerisms, his method of moving and behaving, it was all his mother. Same intelligence, too.

Marion caught her looking, and Violet pretended she hadn't been staring. She went back to the screen, and growled in frustration at the stubborn line of code. She was nearly done, and this last piece was driving her insane.

"Whatever is bothering you, dear?"

"This code is driving me fuck…..umm…. driving me nuts."

"Hmmm…." Her grandmother peered over her shoulder, and she was about to explain what she was doing when she was utterly floored by Marion reaching past her to tap the screen. "You have that bit backwards, dear. Looks like a typo."

Violet stared at Marion for a moment, and then looked at the line of code she pointed out. Her jaw dropped as she realized her grandmother had found what was messing with her code, the same code she hadn't been able to finish in over a week. She fixed the typo, and tied up the program.

Violet pushed back from the table, and ran to the window in the kitchen, and grabbed a small metal box on her way from her bag. She opened the window, and slapped the box down on the sill, turning it on before slamming the window shut. She ran back to the table, and hit Enter.

"Dear, whatever are you doing?"

"I just opened a secure line to MI6, untraceable. I could just use Mycroft's laptop, its satellite enabled, but he'll see what I'm doing. He can't see this, not yet." She winked at her grandmother, and watched the programs race across her screen, looking for errors.

"Is it illegal?"

Violet hesitated, sitting down back in her chair. Her grandmother was watching her intently, but she saw no judgment on her face. Violet watched as her program executed, and wondered how Mycroft would react to his Christmas present.

"Sort of, technically. But it's for a good reason, I promise."

"I'm sure it is. You have the same look Mycroft used to get when he was trying to get out of trouble."

"What? No I don't! Ugh!" Violet groaned, and she laughed as Marion poked her side with a fingertip. She laughed right up until Anthea came in the kitchen, heading for the sink, a bowl in her hands.

Anthea didn't say a word, just put the bowl in the sink, and gripped the counter with both hands. Her head was down, her shoulders sagging, as if she were tired. Sad, even. Violet had no idea what happened, but figured it must be her uncle. The only one to ever make Anthea upset was her uncle.

Anthea suddenly pushed away from the sink, grabbing her coat from the rack beside the door. She ran outside, having said not a word to either woman. It was so atypical of her usual behavior that Violet just sat there, stunned.

"Dear, go after her. She shouldn't be alone, not after what happened this morning."

Violet didn't have to be told twice. She shot to her feet, and planted a kiss on her grandmother's cheek before tearing after her girlfriend. She grabbed her own jacket, and followed Anthea out into the snow.

Anthea was nearly running, heading down the hill at a reckless pace. Violet zipped up her jacket, and ran after her. Anthea disappeared into the trees, and Violet barely caught up to her in time before she was lost in the pines. She reached out, and gently stopped the MI6 operative, her hand cold and stiff.

"Thea! Baby, wait. What's wrong?"

Anthea was crying. She was crying. The only time Violet had ever seen Anthea cry was the night Blackwood exploded, when she spoke to Mycroft, to tell him she was alive. It was those tears now that made Violet see what was wrong, Anthea needn't say a word. Her heart suffered for her realization.

She stared at the brilliant green eyes, the perfect face, and saw the hurt and bleeding woman under the exterior shell of perfection. Violet swallowed, and let her hand drop away. She wasn't in love, had never been in love herself, but she saw the signs clearly enough in Anthea. She had been suspecting it, ever since the day they first met.

"You really are in love with Mycroft, aren't you?" Her question was hushed, to match the dread and sadness she was feeling. Violet felt like it was already over, her brief days of happy gone.

"I… oh, Violet. I'm so sorry." Anthea choked out, her hands covering her mouth as she cried, heart wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. Violet didn't know what to do, she was torn. Part of her said to walk away, to wash her hands of an impossible relationship, and the girl dragging her through frustration and pain.

She couldn't. Not watching this proud, sweet, smart and sexy woman crumble in front of her. She had known going into this that Anthea felt something for Mycroft, and he for her. Violet had thought it safe to make her move, as Mycroft was head over heels in love with Greg.

Violet hugged Anthea, pressing her face to her shoulder, letting the other woman cry her broken heart out. Her cries echoed off the towering trees, to fade away into the snow-covered grove. The wind was dead, still, and the sun lacked any warmth.

Christmas Eve, 1:30 PM

John was pacing in the front room, watching out the windows for Sherlock to return. He had been waiting as patiently as he could, but after an hour, he was starting to worry. The cottage was less than a mile away, and Sherlock had texted that he was okay and on his way back, but John wouldn't feel better until his detective was with him again. He was taking too long.

John sighed, and gave up. He pulled on his coat, and stepped out onto the front stoop, feeling ridiculous and better all the same for being one step closer to his lover. He held up a hand against the weak afternoon light, and saw an SUV come roaring up the long drive. It was the one he had ordered to stay behind with Sherlock at the orchard, and John sighed loudly in relief.

He ran down the front walkway, and met the vehicle as it screeched to a stop in front of the red house. The two men and the driver got out, leaving the vehicle running. John watched in confusion as they walked off down the drive, where they got picked up by another SUV. The red house had some barns at the bottom of the hill, out of sight behind some trees, where they kept grounds keeping supplies. He assumed that's where Mycroft's people went as the other vehicle drove off.

"John, do stop dawdling, hop in." Sherlock ordered through the open door, his detective in the driver's seat. John rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. He hopped in the front passenger seat, and buckled up just as Sherlock powered the big vehicle away from his parent's house.

"Sherl', where are we going?"

"Nowhere. I need to tell you something, and Mycroft can't hear it. No one can know what I'm about to tell you." Sherlock drove with impeccable control, maneuvering the large vehicle down the hill, and out onto the main roads.

John got a nervous sensation deep in his gut, and kept tossing Sherlock glances as the detective drove. He had no idea what Sherlock had found out there in the woods, but whatever it was, it was serious. Sherlock looked like he was cut from marble, his pale face hard as stone. John bit his lip, and wondered again where they were going.

Sherlock took a sharp turn, the SUV dipping as Sherlock took the vehicle down an unplowed road, trees hanging low, pinging off the roof. John braced himself on the dash, and held his breath, fearing they might get stuck. They abruptly came out from under the trees, the light bright in his eyes.

Sherlock stopped the SUV, turning it off. The engine made little noises as it cooled in the frigid temperatures, and John peered out past the windshield. Sherlock had taken them to the river, the water frozen but for a fast moving strip in the center. They were in a small picnic area, a place with a tiny beach that must see lots of traffic in the summer.

John turned to Sherlock, but his detective wasn't looking at him. He had his hands under his chin, in that steeple pose he used when thinking hard. John zipped his coat up tighter, and waited.

He had no idea how long they sat there, waiting on Sherlock to organize his thoughts. So when he finally spoke, John wasn't expecting it. He jumped, and was so glad his head was feeling better than it had in days, otherwise he'd be feeling sick to his stomach right now.

"How do you feel about Mary, John? Do you still love her?" Sherlock asked him, his heavenly eyes burning with something John couldn't name.

John was shocked by the suddenness of the question, and wondered why Sherlock was asking. Sherlock wasn't jealous, surely? He had acted jealous before, back in the days John dated women and they weren't lovers, but that was more because they pulled his attention away from Sherlock and the cases. Sherlock had never been jealous of Mary. Not once, not even after she got pregnant. Even when John needed Sherlock's help to keep her safe, Sherlock remained free of jealousy.

"I… Sherlock, you know I love you…"

"No, John. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear, tell me the truth. I'm cashing in my fortune cookie question now." Sherlock said, referring to the bet they'd made on the afternoon John ended up confessing his love. Sherlock had won the bet, but let John ask his question that time instead, holding his in reserve. "As per the conditions, you must tell me the whole truth, holding nothing back. Do you love Mary?"

John snapped his mouth shut, mildly annoyed and still wondering where this was coming from, and what it had to do with the secret they couldn't tell Mycroft. He sighed, and looked down at his hands, doing his best to formulate an honest answer. He dug deep, refusing to be less than truthful with the man who was the center of his existence.

John looked up, and met Sherlock's eyes, those impossible orbs of wondrous intelligence, even wisdom. He dragged in a deep breath, and did his utmost to be honest.

"I do love her, yes. I fell in love with her like I was in a dream, a safe place away from the pain and grief. You were dead, Sherlock. Dead." John couldn't look away, for once glad that Sherlock could remain emotionally distanced. That he could listen objectively. If he reacted negatively to his words, John wouldn't be able to say them. "She was there for me. I can't tell you how dark it got, in my head, in my heart. I wasn't John Watson anymore after you fell, after you…died. I was dead, too."

He sat back, and leaned his head on the seat. He sighed, and reigned in his chaotic emotions.

"I thought about suicide, about drinking myself to death. I thought about leaving London, and going off to who knows where and just ending it, leaving my body where no one would find me. I couldn't work up the desire, though." John felt bad for telling Sherlock that. He had thought them past this all, but if Sherlock needed to hear this, he would say it. Sherlock was pale, and John saw a tremor in the long fingers as they clutched at each other. "I went through my days existing. I would sleep, dreamlessly. I would wake up, no ambition. I would eat, not taste a thing. I would get dressed, not feeling the clothes on my back, or the shoes on my feet. I would go to work, and do my job. I would go home, sit in my chair for hours, then go to bed. And do it all over again."

"There was a brief moment in my life without you that I tried to pull myself out of the darkness. I got a new job, moved out of the flat. I tried, but it sucked me back in. I was lost. I was drowning, choking, and I wasn't me anymore. I barely lived, until she woke me up."

John looked away from Sherlock, down to the floor, not seeing anything. He put a hand to his forehead, feeling sick and tired. He would keep going, tell Sherlock everything.

"Looking back at it now, I feel sick, I feel ashamed; I feel like I used her. Why? Because she reminded me of you. The same ability to rationalize, compartmentalize emotions and actions. I just thought she was a good nurse, the best can do that. Do their jobs without their emotions destroying them in a moment of crisis. Feel later, think in the now. I saw you in her."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, and John peeked at him, thinking he may have gone too far. But it was making him feel different, saying this out loud. Making him feel lighter.

"There was a bit of you in the way she moved, the way she would see a room in its entirety when she walked in, see the people, where they were. You would do the same." John wiped a hand over his face, and realized he was sweating, even in the cooling air of the vehicle. "God, now I feel wretched. I fell in love with your shadow, the shadow of you I saw in Mary. The dangerous edge, the cold rationale, the passion for life. Saying this out loud, I know I loved her, but I would never love her as much as I loved you. I was yours, you owned my loyalty and my life, from the moment you spoke in the lab. I fell in love with you the instant we met. And I never stopped, Sherlock. I loved you so much, that when you died, I loved the next best thing to loving you. I let her save me, because I needed you. The tiny shred of you I saw in her pulled me out of the darkness."

"You know the rest. So yes, when you ask me if I love her. I used to love her because she reminded me of you, then I loved her for herself. Then you came back, and showed me that no matter how much I may love her, I could never love her as much as I do you." John reached out, and grabbed Sherlock's hand in his, the strong fingers cold, and he chaffed them, warming them. Sherlock smiled at him, a small quirk of his lips, his eyes suspiciously bright. "I love her now not as a partner, or lover, or former anything. I love her as the mother of my child, a woman who is carrying a tiny, dearly loved piece of me under her heart. And I will always love her for that. But I'm not in love with her, Sherlock. I'm in love with you."

Sherlock dipped his head, hiding his face from John. He lifted a hand, touching the smooth plane of Sherlock's face, the perfect skin flushed, as if Sherlock were blushing. Sherlock never blushed. John didn't even know if he could.

"I…." Sherlock's deep was especially raspy, and his chin trembled in John's hand. He blinked rapidly, and the stone cold man from earlier was gone, to be replaced by a young man, one lost in the reeds when it came to love and emotions, even now. "You shatter me, every time."

John smiled, absurdly touched that his confession could stir Sherlock's heart to such a degree. If he could get this reaction from Sherlock, he would confess his love every morning and night. There was some benefit to grandiose speeches if he could shatter the logical armor of the great detective.

"Hey now, Sherl'. Don't cry. C'mere. I love you." John whispered, and he leaned forward, kissing his lover, Sherlock gasping as John took his mouth. He tugged his detective forward, and he came, long arms holding him around the waist. Sherlock tasted like peppermint and candy, tea and love. If love could have a taste, it was the taste of his lips.

John kissed Sherlock, forgetting where they were, why there were there. He forgot that it was freezing, and the only warmth the man he held. He forgot everything, everything but Sherlock. His detective gripped his face, tilting his head, kissing him back with a fervor that left him stunned. Sherlock devoured him, and John felt the world tilt under him as Sherlock picked him up.

He gave a very unmanly squeak of alarm as Sherlock threw them both onto the wide bench seat of the SUV. Mycroft's vehicles were larger inside than the average housewife edition, to accommodate a dozen men and their gear. The seat Sherlock threw him on was long and wide, more than enough room for Sherlock to lay on top of him, fully stretched out.

"How's your head?" Sherlock whispered to him, nuzzling at his neck.

"Head's great. Don't stop," John panted, eyes wide, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He realized they were very much alone, and that he had Sherlock all to himself. No family or friends around, no need to be quiet. John snaked out a leg, and wrapped it around Sherlock's hip, yanking his lover down to him, as he ran his hands under Sherlock's coat, his jacket.

Sherlock lifted a brow at him, and his face got this cocky, smug look to it. He thrust his hips against John, rubbing and grinding, making John pant with lust. There was a growling, stalking, hungering sensation rumbling in his core, a conflagration of love and lust, and John snapped. It had been too long since he last had his lover, and he wasn't waiting any longer. Sherlock was his, and here with him. Alone.

John twisted under Sherlock, using his leg to flip the detective. Sherlock was under him now, and John straddled his hips, slipping his hands under Sherlock's jacket, popping the buttons as he went.

Sherlock tried to reach for him, but John slapped his hands back, and found what he wanted. He pulled out the handcuffs the detective always carried in his coat, from one of the numerous pockets hidden so well in the lining. He snapped one cuff, then the other, over the younger man's wrists, securing him to the armrest of the seat.

"John?" Sherlock asked, a questioning look on his gorgeous face. John reached up, and shrugged out of his coat, pulling off his jumper. He was burning up, and he had never been so turned on in his whole life. The sight of Sherlock handcuffed, the feel of him under him, was making him very, very hard.

"God, Sherlock. You are fucking amazing." John put a hand out, and slowly, lovingly, tugged Sherlock's shirt out of his waistband, revealing the pale, smooth skin underneath. He ran his fingers over Sherlock's stomach, watching as the skin jumped, his muscles contracting at the light touch.

Sherlock's eyes were so bright they were almost glowing. John felt a sharp jab of lust run through his groin as he watched Sherlock tug his lower lip between his white teeth, biting, with a quick flash of pink tongue. John unbuttoned his shirt, peeling back both sides of it, Sherlock's naked torso open to his gaze and the cooling air. He ran a hand down his lover's chest, over the lean muscles, down to his belt and waistband. John didn't say a word, just undid his belt, and slowly, indecently, and devilishly unzipped his fly. John grinned, and slipped his hand inside Sherlock's trousers, into his silk underwear, seeking, wanting. He cupped the hot length of his detective, his lover already hard, jumping in his palm. John stroked, and Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. He lifted his hips, trying to thrust his cock in John's hand.

"Easy, patience. I've got you all alone, Sherlock. You're mine. Mine, do you hear me?" John squeezed, gently, but firmly, making the detective whimper, his head thrashing on the seat. John did it again, and Sherlock whimpered again, biting his lip, hips writhing under the weight of his doctor. "Do you hear me, lover?"

"Yes! Oh God, John! Fuck…." His detective gasped out, doing his best to pull out of the handcuffs. "I'm yours, I've always been yours…"

John pulled his hand away, and sat up, undoing his own belt, his trousers. Sherlock watched him, face flushed, the tip of his tongue wetting his lower lip. His glorious eyes were narrowed to a faint glimmer, tracking every move his doctor made. John briefly got up, and kicked off his boots, yanking off his trousers. He reached for Sherlock, and stripped him naked from the waist down. His long coat and jacket hung open, draping to the floor, bunching up between his long form and the seatback. John reached out over the driver's seat, and turned the SUV on, aiming the air vents back.

He turned back to catch Sherlock trying to slip the handcuffs off, and John reached out, trailing a finger down the detective's long torso, down past his navel, and into the finely trimmed hair of his groin. He distracted his detective from trying to get free, and Sherlock gripped the cuffs as John drove him mad. His fingers explored the delicious skin around his hard cock, the lean muscles of his inner thighs, the strong hips, the tapered waist, and the sleek curve of his firm buttocks. He touched everywhere but where Sherlock wanted him to, ignoring the pleading whimpers of his lover, the younger man writhing and twisting on the seat.

John watched, absorbed in the sight, as he took Sherlock apart, piece by piece, stroke by stroke. Sherlock was crying out, eyes shut, biting at his lower lip, curls messed by the seat and his movements. John drove Sherlock to the edge, and finally took his hard length in hand, the hot, silky soft skin nearly burning his hands. He was hard, so hard John's mouth watered, and he leaned down. He slid his lips over the head of his detective's cock, sucking on the broad tip. Sherlock sobbed, and thrust his hips up, begging John to take him deeper. John obliged, and cupped his balls, tugging gently on them as they tightened in his hands.

He swallowed Sherlock whole, the thick heat in his mouth impressive and delicious. John moaned as he tasted Sherlock's essence leaking from the full cock, and he sucked as hard as he could. Sherlock shouted, loudly, and bucked under him as John sucked and stroked, up and down his glistening length.

John was thrown back as Sherlock erupted from the seat, his hands freed and the handcuffs swinging from one wrist. He caught John by surprise, and John was trapped under his detective, both men on the floor of the SUV. John gasped as Sherlock took his mouth, his long clever fingers gripping his shoulders, pressing him to the floor.

"You're mine, John." Sherlock pulled back, and growled in his ear, his whole body rubbing on John's, making the doctor moan. John gave up thinking, planning, he gave in to the lust rolling in his core. His hands gripped and rubbed, touching every inch of his lover. Sherlock still had his coat on, and it hung down over them, blocking out most of the sunlight streaming through the windows.

They kissed so deeply, so roughly, that someone's tooth cut John's lip, and he tasted the faintest hint of blood. John growled, and ripped at Sherlock's clothing, pushing it away from the lean man above him, and he scooted down, licking and nipping down his lover's neck, his shoulders, his chest. Sherlock ripped at his boxers, and John felt the cold air hit his groin, quickly followed by hands.

There was little room on the floor, trapped between the bench seat and the front seats. Sherlock straddled John, one hand propping him up, his long coat hanging over them. John stared, so fascinated by what he was watching, seeing, that he forgot how to breathe.

Sherlock lowered his groin down to John's, his long cock rubbing and sliding over the doctor's. John moaned, finding the ability to breathe again, gasping as he watched the detective's fingers grip his own cock, and slide it along his. John grinned in appreciation as he saw Sherlock solve their problem with lacking room, with one sure grip and long fingers. Sherlock managed to grip them both in one hand, his fingers wrapped securely around both cocks.

"You are a fucking genius," he gasped to the man above him, and Sherlock tore his gaze from his hand long enough to give John the sexiest wink he'd ever seen. Sherlock stroked them both at once, holding himself above John with one arm, his knees straddling the older man's hips.

John thrust up the tiniest amount, and Sherlock increased his pace, his hand working them both furiously. John stared, and Sherlock leaned over him farther, pressing as closely as he could without hindering his movements. John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, supporting his detective above him. Sherlock stroked them both, alternating pace and angle, and John was losing it, so completely in thrall to Sherlock he was willing to do anything to keep Sherlock from stopping.

John moaned, feeling a warm rush of liquid pleasure begin pulling in from his extremities, his fingers and toes tingling. His heels dragged on the floor, his knees coming up behind Sherlock, and his fingers dug into his lover's shoulders. Sherlock watched his face, his heavenly eyes brilliant and blinding in their intensity. This hadn't happened often; that they could watch each other closely as they came. Sherlock observed every inch of him as John writhed under his skilled fingers, the intoxicating heat of Sherlock's arousal massaging over his within his lover's hand, driving him faster to orgasm.

John felt his spine arch, his hips lift up, as Sherlock stroked them both, his hand firm but gentle, providing just enough pressure and rhythm to get John to the edge of climax.

"I ….. love…..you….." John panted softly, and he couldn't stop himself from coming. He erupted in Sherlock's hand, and he was crying, whimpering, as Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, his face go blank as his own orgasm shot from him. Wet, hot, liquid sex spun out from them both, over Sherlock's hand, John's stomach, some of it landing on the detective's abdomen. Sherlock groaned, and his hand stilled, and both men jerked against each other.

Sherlock slowly let go, the motion making them both jump. His hand slapped down to the floor, and John found the strength to keep Sherlock propped up. The detective was nearly comatose, so high on his orgasm that he was limp, arms useless in holding himself. John shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs, and figured neither of them would appreciate the mess if Sherlock collapsed on him.

John lifted his hips off the floor, and pushed with his hands at the same time, and miraculously managed to get Sherlock rolled onto the bench seat beside them.

John fell back to the floor, and with one shaking hand, dug through the detective's coat pockets, looking for a handkerchief. He found one, and wiped himself off thoroughly before gingerly getting to his knees, and doing the same for his lover. Sherlock shivered as he cleaned him off, and John placed a tender kiss on his stomach.

Sherlock gave him a very satisfied smile, eyes heavy and blinking slowly. John got up, and contemplated his next move, before shrugging, and stretching out on top of Sherlock. His love's arms rose, and tugged him down, and John sighed happily. He rested on Sherlock's chest, the pale man accepting his weight easily. He was stronger than he looked. John smiled at him, and propped his chin on his arms, crossing them on his lover's chest. He was able to relax, and watch Sherlock's face at the same time. The air vents of the SUV were aimed right at them on the seat, and John was quite comfortable.

There was that adorable curl again, and John couldn't resist. He tugged at it, and smiled when the curl sprang back, nearly perfect amongst the riot of his love's hair. Sherlock gave him that sweet, loving smile that John knew no one had ever seen before, other than him. Sherlock was rarely sweet and agreeable, and only with him, when they were totally alone. Sherlock dropped all walls with him, and let him in, let John see him as he truly was, and John treasured the trust Sherlock gave him in those moments.

John yawned, and snuggled his head under Sherlock's chin, the warmth of the hot air blowing on them and the man under him making him very relaxed and sleepy. Sherlock was humming, his fingers tracing over his shoulders, his back. John smiled, and tried his best not to fall asleep.

"So what's the …." he yawned again, and blinked, eyes heavy, "the secret we can't tell Mycroft?"

Sherlock stopped humming, the deep sound stilling under John's ear. He frowned, missing the smooth timbre of his lover's voice. He had yet to hear Sherlock sing, but he was certain his voice would be well worth the listen. If only he could catch him doing it, but Sherlock never did more than hum when John was around.

John lifted his head, his chin on Sherlock's muscular chest. He met his lover's gaze, and waited. Sherlock had tensed, but his fingers still traced over his skin. Pleasant tingles ran over him in the wake of his talented hands.

"I went to where the sniper was, where the shot was made from. Before I got to the tree, the nameless soldier appeared. He was there, with his boss, as he calls her, and one other person. He stalled me long enough for them to get away in a small private helicopter that was hidden on the other side of the hill."

"Oh, wow. Okay. I'm assuming there's more, that doesn't seem dreadful enough to hide from Mycroft."

"Yes, there's more. I believe the two people who were there were women. Tread patterns, foot size, and movements that I have seen before…. In a small London park a couple of months ago, when Mary avoided the hit squad sent for her by the CIA."

John did his best to breathe. He tried, and dragged in a deep breath, his heart racing. He did his best to stay calm, he really did.

Mary, what is going on?

"Keep going." He gasped out, and Sherlock put a hand along his face, as if to anchor him, to keep him from flying apart.

"There are only two people who have been on British soil in the last year who could have made such a perfect shot, and spared Mycroft so effortlessly. One of them is Mary, and the other, Jaime Moriarty. Considering that it was a sniper that saved us at Leinster Gardens, and then in the catacombs, I think it was Jaime Moriarty. She is alive, and protecting Mary, by protecting us."

John didn't know what to think, or do, so he let Sherlock hold him, anchor him, his arms holding him to the earth, always his center of gravity when the universe spun out of control.

"I confronted the nameless soldier, asked him directly if he served Jaime Moriarty. He claimed she was dead, but told me that all her men had served her out of love. His demeanor changed swiftly, from open and unguarded, to closed off and defensive. He lied to me without truly lying, and he told me the answer to my question without directly doing so."

Sherlock paused, and wiped a thumb lovingly across John's cheek, his hand warm and soothing.

"John, I have no proof beyond some odd phrasing, the signs of two women under a tree, and the suspicion that we were not the people really being protected by our mystery friends. Think about it… if we were dead, or incapacitated, then Mycroft or his successor would hand over Mary to the CIA, or the next shadow agency that came along wanting her. If Mycroft was dead, then MI6 would not hesitate to use Mary as currency. The CIA were being picked off, with a brutal and ruthless efficiency, but MI6 wasn't touched. That could be explained by a mysterious ally repaying a debt, but it's far more likely to be Moriarty protecting Mary because she is under Mycroft's protection."

"My final piece of evidence is where that last shot landed on the Vicar. It came nearly a minute after the second shot, as if the sniper had to think about making it. It landed in a very personal spot, wholly unnecessary, as he died with the first shot. The second was to make a point that the Vicar was worth killing. The third, that one was meant as insult added to injury. As if to say, 'how dare you'. And a part of me suspects that the sniper was targeting me, in that brief minute. Who else other than Jaime Moriarty would be a sniper, and want to kill me? She has been in that position before, the temptation must have been great. There is no reason for such a long time between shots, really. The first and second were less than three seconds apart. Indecision was moving the sniper, until something, or someone, settled the choice."

"And the only person who we know who has swayed Jaime Moriarty is Mary."

Sherlock stopped speaking, his face blank of emotion, but his eyes were a tumultuous riot of starry colors. John rested on his lover, and accepted the comfort Sherlock gave him. He breathed past the maelstrom brewing in his heart, and let his emotions settle. Primary was worry, and fear. Jaime Moriarty alive was a scary thought, as scary as being told Jim Moriarty was resurrected. That was a nightmare he couldn't contemplate. Yet the scariest thought of all was Mary dead, or stolen away by a shadow agency, his child along with her. That was a fear that kept him up at night.

"John?"

"I'm alright, love. I'm surprisingly alright with that."

"Wait… what? Really?" He could understand Sherlock's disbelief at that statement; he was having trouble realizing that he was okay with this theory as well.

"Yeah, I'm okay with it, sorta. If Jaime is alive, and keeping Mary safe, then I'll stay quiet. She needs to be in prison, obviously, but I'm pragmatic enough to realize that it wasn't us, it wasn't Mycroft, it wasn't anyone else in the whole world who has protected Mary, and us, better that Jaime Moriarty the last few days. She did what we couldn't." John sighed, and kissed Sherlock's hand, the one caressing his face. "If it means Mary is safe, if it means my child is safe, then I'll swallow my indignation, my desire to see that madwoman in chains. I'll do anything. Anything to protect the mother of my child."

"This was far easier than I thought it was going to be. You still surprise me, John Watson."

"Can't have you get bored."

John rested on Sherlock, and let his lover caress him, hands exploring the lines of his back and shoulders. John had a thought, and smiled.

"That's why you asked me if I still loved Mary. To see if I would keep quiet about Moriarty. Not because you were jealous, but because you were worried I didn't care about her enough to keep it a secret."

"Yes, spot on John."

"You prat. Putting me through that wretched confession. Can't do anything the easy way, can you?"

"The easy way is boring."

John laughed, listening to the deep rumble of his lover's answering laugh under his ear.

"We should probably get back to your parent's place."

"We can stay here, too."

"It's Christmas, Sherlock. That's rude, even for you."

"Well, since all I want for Christmas is you, I'm okay with staying here."

"You would be." John couldn't stop his laughter, the smile on Sherlock's face enough to vanquish his worries. Sherlock hugged him, and John snuggled back down.

They could get dressed in a few more minutes. It was Christmas, after all. What was a better present than time spent with the one you loved?

Christmas Eve, 4:00 PM

Jaime stepped through the front door of her safe house, a small brick and wooden affair older than the secluded street it sat upon. This was one of her brother's former safe houses, and some of his belongings were still in the closet of the room he had used last. He usually kept clients here in between placements if someone had to go into hiding, but he had used it while going through his final game with Holmes.

Mary entered after her, and Jaime let her look. The blonde assassin took in the sparse furniture, the table laden with gear and weapons, the walls free from pictures and clutter. Clay's room was just off the foyer, the bed spread pristine and perfectly tucked in, corners tight.

Jaime dropped her jacket on the table, and walked down the hall, heading for her room. There was a note tacked to the door, from the rest of her men, letting her know that the Vicar's remaining men had been taken into custody by MI6, and that there was no perceived active threat remaining from the Americans. Jaime opened the door, and pulled out her mobile, and she texted her men, telling them to disappear for the remainder of the week. She smiled, amused by the fact she was giving her trained killers holiday leave.

She pulled off her jacket, smelling pine and sulfur, from the shooting that morning. Her clothes were dirty from resting on the ground with the rifle, but the dirt was nothing. She stripped down, her jacket and vest hitting the floor, her under armor tank top and thin skintight pants the only thing she kept on as she kicked off her boots and socks. Her knife shone from her thigh, and Jaime ran a hand over it in an unconscious gesture of reassurance.

Jaime pretended she didn't see Mary standing in the doorway of her room, taking in the lack of personal items, the white plaster walls, the large bed. She had weapons on the nightstand, and a rifle hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

"Will you go back to Holmes' townhouse?" She asked, running her fingers over the comforter on her bed, unwilling to look at Mary. She didn't know why, but she couldn't bear to see Mary's expression.

"Depends on Mycroft, I suppose. And Sherlock. He almost caught us before we took off, he will see that we were there. Maybe not us specifically, but two women for certain." Mary stepped in over the threshold, and looked back over her shoulder, towards the front of the small house. Jaime saw her look, and wondered why. "He's not slow, he'll have most of this put together before the presents are opened."

Jaime stopped peering at Mary out of the corner of her eye when she slowly shut the bedroom door, clicking the lock. Her eyes flicked to hers, and Jaime felt pinned to the floor by what she saw. Mary leaned back on the door, and Jaime found herself in the rare position of being dumbstruck. She never had trouble figuring out her next move, what to do in the grand scheme of things. Yet Mary throwing that lock ruined her ability to think, instantly.

Mary stepped away from the door, and Jaime froze, eyes wide when the older woman silently glided across the floor, coming to her side. Small, delicate, deadly fingers swam across the comforter, touching hers lightly, so gently. Jaime exhaled, breath ragged. She felt different, a day of feeling different pushing her off center. Her skin was shivering, but she was warm, her cheeks flushing. She could feel her heart beating hard in her ears, her pulse rushing.

She was so near Jaime felt the heat rising from her skin, her eyes a fathomless blue that reminded her of jewels her brother stole over a decade ago. Mary was small, but every inch of her was muscle, trim and sleek. Jaime found herself lifting a hand, and letting her fingertips trace over the fine delicate features of Mary's face. She couldn't stop the smile that came to her lips when Mary leaned her face into her hand.

Jaime took the smallest step, and cautiously lifted her other hand. She framed Mary's face, the creamy planes flawless and smooth under her fingers. Mary tipped her chip up, her lips so pink and inviting Jaime stopped thinking completely. Surer than a sharp blade in the deepest dark, Jaime leaned in, and kissed those tempting lips. Soft, sweet, feather light.

Mary sighed, and Jaime felt her breath tease her lips, shivers of heat flooding her senses. She stepped closer, as close as she could get, and did the bravest thing she had ever done in her whole life. She let her hands drift down, the silky smooth skin of Mary's neck, her slim and muscled shoulders, down to her sides. Jaime tilted her head the slightest amount, and slowly, hesitantly deepened the kiss. Mary sighed again, the soft sound full of delight, and Jaime slid her hands up Mary's sides, to just under her breasts. She wanted to go farther, but she seemed to be having trouble with her hands.

Jaime was rewarded for her bravery, as Mary lifted her arms, not once breaking the kiss, to rope them about Jaime's neck. Mary opened her lips, and the sweet taste of her tongue touching hers sent a wave of heat running down her spine.

She was at a loss, having never, in her whole life, willfully made love to anyone. Teasing and beguiling a mark for a job was something else entirely. They always died before things got too far. Jaime knew intellectually what she should do, but her body refused to move.

Mary seemed to sense her fears, the blockage in her willpower. Mary pulled back, lips clinging for a heartbeat. Jaime sighed, doing her best to ignore the red heat washing across her face. She was so far beyond her experience that she literally couldn't make herself move past the point she was at in that moment. She closed her eyes, and ducked her head, hands shaking where they clutched at Mary.

"Shhh. Sweetheart, shh. No pressure. Nothing but love. Let me love you. Nothing more, just love." Her whisper fluttered the hair on Jaime's temple, and she fought to relax. Mary's hands rubbed her shoulders, and kisses fell on her cheek and jawline, teasing, soothing.

"I can't move…. What's wrong with me?" She hadn't meant to ask, but it came out anyway, and she damned the shaky, vulnerable sound of her voice.

I am Jaime Moriarty. I do not fear anything. I am not afraid… why am I afraid?

"Death may know what to do. Sybil Moran may know what to do. But the damaged girl, Jaime Moriarty? She has no idea, and it scares her silly. This is fear, sweetheart." Mary's words struck home, and Jaime pressed her face to Mary's shoulder, so hard the fabric of her jumper hurt.

"I don't get scared."

"Okay. I'll pretend this is something else," Mary whispered in her ear, and Jaime lifted her head enough to glare. She caught Mary's eye, and the look she gave her made Jaime crack up. She giggled, the tension fleeing as fast as it came.

Jaime smiled at Mary, and she sighed, pulling back. She figured this relationship thing wouldn't be as easy as killing CIA trained killers. She wasn't used to things being hard. Jaime snagged one of Mary's hands, and jumped onto the bed, pulling Mary after her. She laughed as Jaime pulled her down on the bed, bouncing. Jaime pulled her love to her chest, the smaller woman curling up along her side, her head under her chin. She caught a hint of Mary's perfume, sweet and innocent and so deceptively pure.

The evening was falling in fast, the moon full in the London sky. She could see the heavens through the bedroom windows, the stars obscured by the smog of the city. The moon shone through, the frigid air clear enough for the moon to sit brilliantly on its perch on the roof of the house next door.

Jaime stared out the window, wondering what was bothering her, why she felt so different. The warmth of the woman she held was real, more substantial that anything she had felt in years. She couldn't recall the last time she had been hugged. She knew that other than marks and targets, the last honest hug she had gotten was from James. And it wasn't recent, years before his death on the roof of St. Bart's. So long ago she had trouble recalling the context, the words he spoke.

What did he say that day? What did he say…?

I don't hear him. I don't hear my brother.

She drew in a breath, and held it, her arm tightening around Mary. She knew what was wrong. She knew what was wrong with her, why she felt so differently.

"Jaime, sweetheart? What's wrong?" Mary asked her, tilting her head back to see her face.

"I know what's wrong with me…."

"What do you mean?" Mary rubbed a hand over her shoulder, and Jaime gave Mary a look full of fear, and wonder. She was scared, she knew that now. For the first time in almost twenty years, she was scared. She couldn't hear him, he was gone. Truly gone now. She was alone.

"I don't hear James," she whispered, the cold moonlight chasing over her face, blinding her enough she had to look away from the window, and met Mary's concerned gaze.

"What do you mean?" Mary sat up a little, and rubbed a finger over her chin, across her lips. Jaime caught her hand, and pressed a kiss to her palm.

"I can't hear my brother's voice anymore. It's quiet now, in my head. He's gone," she whispered to the woman looking at her with concern, a trace of worry on her lovely face. "James is gone."

Christmas Eve, 6:00 PM

Violet tugged at the hem of her dress, wishing she'd thought things through better and brought something along that wasn't so …so….sexy. She didn't think sexy was the best appearance to be having at Christmas dinner with family and friends. She didn't think so at least, this was the first Christmas she hadn't spent on a beach in an indecently tiny bikini since she was a teenager.

Hell, the last Christmas I actually had was the year before Mom died. I was on my own by the next one. She went quickly.

Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror, seeing nothing but a girl stuck in a situation she had no idea how to survive. She saw her paling skin, the bright eyes that always got all the attention, her long legs and sleek arms. She saw the hint of her mother in her smile, but the rest of her was always him, her mysterious, and dead, father. She had yet to see a picture of him, and she looked. She had discretely tore through the whole house, looking for a picture of her father. She had found dozens of pictures of an adorable Sherlock and an awkward Mycroft, but no Sherrinford.

Violet spun from the mirror, hearing a knock at the door. She ran her hands down her thighs, and swallowed, wondering who it was. She hadn't seen Anthea since they came back to the house earlier, the MI6 operative withdrawn and sad, unwilling to talk after her blurted apology.

"Come in," she called softly, and tensed as the door opened. She smiled in relief, and a little regret, when she saw it was John.

He was wearing a fine dark grey suit, and she smiled, not used to seeing him out of his jumpers. She grinned as he took her in from head to toe. She knew she was a sight, and the expression on his face confirmed her too sexy fears.

"Too much?" She gestured to the mid-thigh length, black silk dress she wore, a thin band of silver sequins running diagonal across the front from her right shoulder, down to her left hip, where a sweep of tassels in black beads brushed across her bare thighs as she moved. Her shoulders were bare, but for her right shoulder and arm, which was covered in a skintight black sleeve that ended at her wrist, a silver band of sequins adorning a finger strap on her middle finger. Her left arm and shoulder were bare as well, and her raven hair was partially up, the jagged edges sweeping the naked skin of her shoulders as she turned her head. Silver stars glittered on her fingers, her ears, and from a necklace that nestled just above her breasts, the low slung bust line perhaps too low for even a dress up dinner. Black high heels completed the look, and she shifted nervously on her feet.

She blushed as he took a second, and then a third look. The appreciation on his face was very honest, and so absolutely non-creepy that she didn't know how to handle the regard. She wasn't used to nice men thinking she looked nice.

"John? Too much? I can change…" She gestured to her bags on the bed, clothing strewn everywhere.

"No! Oh wow… no, don't change. Definitely don't change." He had this dazed look on his face, and he swallowed. "You look like the night sky, full of stars."

He was flustered, and she cracked up laughing as he put a finger to his collar and tugged on it, as if it was suddenly too tight. She walked over to him, heels clipping on the wood floors, and gave him a hug, kissing his cheek in thanks. She pulled back, and wiped the lipstick from his face with a thumb.

He blushed, and she smiled, her worries disappearing as he offered his arm. She took it, and he led her from her room, heading down the hall to the stairs.

"Sherlock downstairs already?"

"Yeah, he disappeared once Mycroft and Greg finished cleaning up the bathroom upstairs. He said he'd meet us downstairs before dinner."

"So who else is coming? Grandma said something about neighbors?"

"Mrs. Holmes mentioned the neighbors were coming, I forget their names, and their two sons. They apparently grew up with Sherlock and Mycroft, we'll see how well this dinner goes." John sounded nervous, and she tossed him a look.

"How bad can it be? I mean they all know each other right? Maybe they were all friends as kids?"

John tossed her a look full of incredulity, and she sighed, realizing just how much of that statement was wishful thinking. Sherlock and Mycroft didn't have friends. Well, not until recent years anyway.

"Yeah, this is gonna be fucking awkward, isn't it?" She whispered to John, and he led her down the stairs, the sound of people talking and chattering away coming up to meet them.

John led her to the rear of the big old house, to the dining room that hadn't seen use in years. It was maintained beautifully though, same as the rest of the house, and Violet sucked in a breath at the Old World splendor. The table was long, and would easily seat them all, with room to spare.

Sir William looked the epitome of the English country squire, in a dark black suit and fine white shirt, a gold pin of some kind on his lapel. He stood at the head of the table, talking to an older couple, presumably the neighbors. He nodded to her and John as they came in, and the two neighbors gave her distant, polite smiles. She figured they were being typically British, and smiled back as politely as she could manage.

The whole room was lit up by chandeliers, and wall lamps fashioned to look like candles along the walls. The walls were a deep, rich, shiny mahogany, and the floors were polished and immaculate. Candles graced the long table, poinsettias in golden pots blooming among the platters and trays on the table. Her grandmother had gone all out, and the smells rising from the covered buffet style dishes made her mouth water.

"Oh, dear! You look divine!" Marion called out from the other side of the table, where she had been speaking to Greg and two young men she didn't know. Her grandmother wore a fine dark green dress, her white hair done up in an elegant sweep atop her head. She was lovely, and her eyes were suspiciously bright as she came over to the two of them.

Heads turned in their direction, and Violet clung to John's arm, doing her best not to wrinkle his suit. Mycroft was entering behind them, and they moved out of the way as her grandmother complimented John on his suit, and she oohed and aahhed over Violet's outfit. Glad she had some familial approval for her dress, Violet relaxed.

She was relaxed right up until she saw Anthea, who entered the room right behind Mycroft. The MI6 operative was dressed in a dark blue Grecian style dress, an elegant affair that hugged every curve and fell to the floor in a whisper of silk. Her hair was swept back from one temple with a diamond clip, which sparkled in the dark tresses.

Anthea smiled briefly, but didn't speak, following behind Mycroft as he worked his way over to Greg. Mycroft was in a suit, as always, but this one was a cut above his usual style, a dark blue suit that brought the red out in his hair and made him look every inch the British Government.

"Where's Sherlock?" Violet whispered to John as her grandmother wandered over to her husband. She was looking, but couldn't see her youngest uncle anywhere. She wanted to see Sherlock dressed up, she needed the distraction, anything to take her attention off her ex girlfriend.

"I dunno… I don't see him. He should be down here." John whispered back, and he was craning his neck to see around people in the long room. Violet was looking too, and she stopped in shock when she finally saw him. He was standing at the opposite doorway, the one that led to the kitchen, and she had never seen him so damn good.

"John!" She whispered loudly, and turned the doctor by his shoulders to see his detective.

Sherlock stood at the door, hands behind his back, cold eyes flitting over everyone present, his expression reserved. His suit was what got her attention, and his hair. Usually he wore his suits casually, no ties, shirt open a few buttons, hair wild and crazy. This time he was in a suit so black it shone under the lights, a shirt so white it was as if he fashioned it from a snowbank. He wore a tie, a black silk one with a silver pin in it, flashing from the darkness of the fabric. She felt John stiffen up at her side, and she knew he was just as floored as she by Sherlock's hair.

He had tamed it, totally. The curls were swept back from both temples, a fine wave of dark hair that was brushed back to show his high forehead. His eyes were brighter, and glittered like diamonds. Without his hair hiding his eyes, they were beyond remarkable. Violet blinked, floored by the sight of her mad uncle looking like James Bond. An unbelievably sexy James Bond.

John moved slowly from her side, and she let him go. She watched, tears pricking at her eyes, and she was glad she hadn't bothered with mascara. John walked to his lover as if in a daze, under a spell. Sherlock watched him approach, his face closed off and icy cold. She knew better though; she knew her uncle loved the doctor, but something about the company they kept made Sherlock hide his emotions.

John made it to his side, and Sherlock moved at last. He lifted a hand, and ran his thumb over John's cheek, a caress subtle and blatant all at once. John caught his hand, and while she couldn't hear what he said to his detective, she blushed anyway. The love and appreciation pouring off of the doctor was intense.

She stood alone at the door, and watched her family move about the room, all of them dressed like they were in a James Bond movie, but with far more taste and less cleavage.

"You must be Violet. Mum mentioned there was a relative from America visiting."

She didn't know the voice, and turned to the owner. It was one of the young men who had been talking to Greg and her grandmother. He was about thirty, plain brown hair, boring features, her height, and very rude eyes. His smile was polite, and his manner agreeable, but his eyes were straying and staying far too long on places he was appreciating. He was obvious, one of those men who thought themselves subtle when ogling women.

She plastered a fake smile on her face, and shook his hand. She poured on the American accent, just to make him feel special before she ripped his face off.

"Yes, Violet Hunter, from the States. Here for Christmas."

"Michael Carstairs, next door neighbor. Grew up here in the area with Mike and Sherlie." He held her hand a touch too long, and she tugged, pulling her hand back with more force than necessary. She wiped her palm on her thigh, and wished she had a drink.

"Sherlie and Mike? Oh, you mean Mycroft and Sherlock." She stressed her uncle's names, making it obvious that she called them by their proper names.

"Oh yeah, those two. The crazies," he took a sip from his drink, by the scent obviously a whiskey. She looked past him, and wondered if it was socially acceptable to get drunk on Christmas before dinner. She'd like to try if this conversation didn't end.

"Crazies? …. You mean my uncles."

He sputtered, and blinked at her in surprise. He wiped at his mouth with a hand, and she grimaced as he wiped his hand off on his dinner jacket. He had to be drunk.

"Mike and Sherlie are your uncles? I was thinking you might be a long lost cousin or something, or Mrs. Holmes had a kid past her expiration date. You're way too hot to be their niece. Mike finally figure out what to do with a woman? No, wait, I bet Sherlie is your daddy. You look like a much hotter version of him, with legs and a face that works and not as queer. I bet he grew you in a lab."

Violet saw red. For the first time in her life she understood the phrase, and saw red. She stiffened up, nails biting into her palms, and she skewered him with a look that should have had him pissing on the carpet like a bad puppy. He must be drunk, as he just smiled at his own rude comments like they were the funniest shit he'd ever heard.

Violet heard her grandmother laugh from across the room, and reined in her temper. She would not embarrass her grandparents, not tonight, no matter how badly she wanted to kick this asshole in the balls and bitchslap him out of the house.

She relaxed, and stepped in close to him, a sexy smile on her lips, and whispered in his ear.

"I'll let you in on a secret….. All three of us know exactly how to treat a woman, and what say to one. Which is more than I can say for you. You're nothing but a rude inbred country hick."

Violet pulled back, and patted him on the face a few times, like an elderly aunt would a preteen at family reunions. It looked sweet, but the last pat was more of a slap, and she stalked off around him. She left him sputtering in his drink, trying to figure out exactly what she'd said to him and why he felt insulted.

She did her best to keep the smile on her face, and went straight to her grandparents. Sir William saw her coming, and she graciously accepted the hand he held out to her. His large thin hand engulfed hers, the fingers still strong despite his frail outer appearance. He pulled her in close and whispered in her ear.

"You look lovely, child." Sir William kissed her temple, and surprised her with his next words. "Don't mind the Carstairs boy, he can't handle his liquor. All men are fools when drunk."

She gave him a tiny smile, wondering if he was mad at her. He obviously saw enough to understand exactly what happened. He gave her a smile, and she giggled when he winked at her, lightning fast.

So that's where we get the winking from!

Her grandmother picked up a crystal glass, and tapped it lightly with a silver knife. Violet grinned, having never seen someone do that outside of a movie. The twinkling noise got everyone's attention, and her elegant grandmother smiled graciously at the assembled bodies in the dining room.

"Since we are all here, I'd like to welcome everyone to our home. Whether you be family, friends, or neighbors. Everyone's place has your name beside the plate, food's ready and covered on the table. Please enjoy."

Violet eyed the table, and sighed in relief when she saw that she was between Sherlock and Mycroft, Greg and John on either side of their respective partners. She didn't think she'd be able to survive dinner if she had to sit next to the drunk asshole.

Her grandmother had very cleverly separated all the main courses among multiple dishes, with buffet burners underneath keeping everything warm. That way, no one had to pass anything around farther than the next seat, and everything was within reach.

Violet dug in, passing dishes around between her uncles, and she glared at Sherlock when he just sat there, staring at the food. She glared so hard, he sent her a nervous look, and slowly took the dish she held out to him. There was no way she was letting him get away with not eating the dinner his poor mother spent all day cooking. She huffed when he put a spoonful of potatoes on his plate, and passed the dish to John. She went back to her plate, and saw Mycroft smirking at his brother over her head. She sent him a look, one brow raised, and he quickly dropped his eyes to his own food.

She sat back in her chair, shoulders shaking, silently laughing at her uncles and their behavior.

She saw Greg grinning from the other side of Mycroft, and she winked at him.

Dinner passed easily, with conversation flowing. She was pleased and a little disappointed that Sherlock wasn't outrageous, but she saw Sir William sending his youngest several looks throughout the meal, and every time Sherlock would bite his lip and sit back, pretending to drink something. She had the feeling that this was how they survived the holidays, Sir William the only one who could rein his sons in during mealtime.

Violet ignored the glares from across the table, the poinsettias not obscuring the Carstairs son's ominous looks. He must have figured out what she said, or at least, understood it wasn't complimentary. She wasn't worried though. She was sitting between her uncles, and they loved nothing better than tearing down idiots. He must know that as well, because she kept seeing his eyes jump between Mycroft and Sherlock, as if checking to see from where the first attack might be coming from.

Dessert was eventually served, and Violet got her first taste of her grandmother's cookies. She shook her head, and corrected herself. Biscuits. They were called biscuits here. There were also pies, and cakes, and some kind of pudding thing that had raisins in it and bread like stuff. She saw John dig in with enthusiasm, and tried it. She groaned in delight, and ate a whole bowl full. She eyed the table in disbelief, and wondered when her grandmother found the time to bake all of the food.

She knew it was acceptable to get up from the table at last when Sir William stood, and opened the doors to the adjacent sitting room. Company slowly drifted, drinks in hand, in smaller groups. Sherlock stuck to the wall with John, the doctor chatting with her grandmother. There was a Christmas tree in this room, the only one in the large house, and it lit up the space.

Violet stood next to the tree, admiring the antique decorations, the lights winking from among the branches. She had finally scoured a real drink, a whiskey in hand, no ice. She sipped, enjoying the smooth burn on her tongue, the heat in her stomach. Her grandfather had exceptional taste in whiskey.

"Violet?" It was a soft query, said hesitantly.

Violet looked up to see Anthea a couple feet away, her dark blue dress cast with an otherworldly glow from the tree lights. She wore a nervous expression, and she held a glass of wine, both hands wrapped around the delicate stem.

"Hey, 'Thea. Nice dinner, huh?" That was the best she could do, considering the emotional non-fight they had earlier.

"It was lovely. Your grandmother is an exceptional cook."

"Yeah she is….." Her voice trailed off, and Violet was suddenly tired, so tired that standing here holding a glass was too much effort.

"Violet, are you okay? I know we didn't talk, we should have. I'm sorry." Anthea stepped closer, and Violet gripped her glass tighter, pulling in her shoulders, her head turned down and away from Thea.

Violet saw Mycroft across the room, her uncle leaning down to say something to the smiling DI from Scotland Yard. The love between the two men was so obvious it shone as brightly as the tree she stood beside. She stared, and she realized after a moment that Mycroft was looking at her in return. She did her best to school her expression to one of happiness, but it fell flat. Her uncle's eyes darted from her face, to the woman who stood anxiously at her shoulder. Violet knew the second he made the connection between her unhappiness, and the cause.

Violet tore her eyes away from her uncle, refusing to see anything he may or may not feel about the whole mess she was stuck in. She wasn't in love with Anthea, at least she didn't think she was. Yet she wasn't prepared to handle being in a relationship with someone who was so blatantly, and pointlessly, in love with one of her family members. Too many types of weird and painful things there, in that tangled web.

Violet gripped her glass, and tossed back the whiskey in one gulp. She gasped, and refused to cry the tears forming on her lashes. Anthea was staring at her, a concerned look on her lovely face. Violet gave her a travesty of a smile and walked away, giving her a barely mumbled 'excuse me'.

She didn't pay attention to where she was going, and she didn't care if anyone saw her leave. She tore out through the far doors of the sitting room, leaving behind the tree and the comfortless lights. Violet was running, taking a door she hadn't been through yet, finding herself in a small study, a golden lamp burning gently on large wooden desk. She must be in her grandfather's study, judging by the sheer number of books gathered on every surface.

She went to the glass doors that must open to the rear garden during the summer months, and rested her hot face on the cool glass. A few stubborn tears escaped, and she swiped at them. They continued to fall anyway, and she gave up trying to stop them. She cried quietly, and she didn't hear the footsteps outside in the hall.

John sighed, warm in his very comfortable spot snuggled under Sherlock's arm, and did his best to pretend to be paying attention to the conversation between his lover and his mother. He was doing his best, but Violet's exit a minute earlier was bothering him.

He wasn't blind. He knew Anthea loved Mycroft, and that the spymaster loved her back in kind. Yet they had made their choices, and aside from hurting themselves, they were hurting two other hearts as well. John wasn't sure how Gregory was handling it, but the DI was bearing up far better than John would have been in the same situation. Poor Violet was the one suffering the most.

John watched the door she had disappeared through, hoping to see her come back in the room. He instead saw the two Carstairs sons leave the room, doing their best not to be seen doing it, but being obvious in their effort. John stiffened, and Sherlock shot him a look in question. John just shook his head slightly, and eased away from Sherlock. His lover quirked a brow at him, but John motioned for him to stay where he was. He didn't want to embarrass Violet if his suspicion was wrong about their behavior.

He had been to many, many parties while at university, and the way the two neighbors were behaving gave him a vague since of déjà vu. Bad things happened at parties when men snuck off after women, trying not to be seen. No one seemed to have noticed their exit, and John eased out of the room behind them, his suspicions confirmed when he saw them disappear into the depths of the house, the same direction Violet had fled.

"There she is! I told you Danny, she's a Holmes. Look at that face."

Violet stiffened, rage snapping out from under the heartache at the insolent words and tone from the drunkard. She saw his reflection in the glass doors, his brother next to him, the one she hadn't met yet, both standing in the doorway of the study. She turned to the door, not bothering to hide the tears on her face. Emotions weren't shameful, and they were her tears to cry.

"She must be, with that hair. Think Sherlie found the balls to fuck a girl? She looks just like the youngest freak." The older brother was just as much as asshole as his brother, it seemed. Both men sneered at her, and she shifted on her feet, imaging her spiky high heel lodged deep in the ball sac of the nearest drunken ass. "She can't belong to the dead one, he's been rotting away for years."

"Wow, you two fucktards sure know how to talk to a lady. This attitude get you alotta dates with cops? I bet it does, especially considering how much of my grandfather's whiskey you've tossed back this evening. Barely functional drunks."

"Oh, she's got spine! American too. Snobby bitch." The older brother finished his drink, and he stepped in the room, coming far too close for her comfort. She could smell the alcohol on him, and she regretted leaving the siting room. She should be safe in her family home, and it made her sick that she suddenly wasn't. "Fuck she's hot. Think she fights like Sherlie used too?"

Violet stepped back, trying to dodge the hand that latched onto her upper arm. The older brother yanked her to him, and she was raising her free arm to slap the nasty grin off his face when she heard someone choke from the doorway.

The noise was so unexpected that she turned, the drunk holding her doing the same. The younger Carstairs was coughing, doubled over, holding his stomach. She saw why once she looked to the doorway.

John was standing there, and he was pulling back his fist to land another blow to the back of the head of the first brother, dropping him like a sack of potatoes to the hard floor.

"Let her go, or you're next." The former captain growled, his dark blue eyes black with anger, hands curled into fists.

"No, I don't think so. She reminds me of someone, another freak who used to live here. He used to carve up girls for fun. I want to see if she likes it too." The older brother shook her, making her head snap back on her neck. She slapped him, catching him across the face, her hand stinging, the sound loud in the room.

John yelled something, and the older brother took his attention from her, and back to the doctor.

The man holding her tossed her aside, and her hip landed hard against the edge of the desk. John erupted from where he stood, and her jaw literally dropped open in shock and awe as the doctor demolished a man twice his size. His right hook slammed into the throat of the man who had grabbed her, and as he clutched at his throat, gagging, John swung with his left, and the blow he landed knocked her assailant out cold. He fell like a tree, head smacking the floor with a dull thud.

Four punches, and two unconscious men. Both men larger than John by quite a bit, and he took them out with ease. She blinked at him, her hand rubbing at her sore arm.

"Violet, baby girl, you okay?"

"Whoa, John. That was… holy crap." She tried to smile at him, but the last few hours were too much and she leaned against the desk, her hip and arm sore. Christmas was supposed to be fun and filled with love, and here she was getting accosted by strangers because they didn't like the fact her uncles were people they hated. A few tears leaked out, and she sighed, but it came out more of a sob.

John was at her side, and pulling her to him so fast she never saw him move. She clutched at him, fed up with having a bad day and needing a shoulder to cry on that wanted nothing more than to make sure she was okay. She sniffled, some tears sneaking out despite her best efforts.

She was wrapped up in John's arms, her face pressed to the fine fabric of his suit, when she heard something at the door. She lifted her face the tiniest amount, and saw both her uncles standing over the still very unconscious men on the floor.

Sherlock was shaking, his hands clenching and relaxing over and over in rage. His eyes were so bright that they looked like they were on fire. Mycroft stepped in the room to stand beside his brother, and the icy fury on his face made her think that the two unconscious men were in for some serious trouble.

"Can I make a suggestion before you two decide where you're going to dump the bodies?" She wiped at her cheeks, and dried her eyes with the handkerchief John gave her. "Exile to a geriatric nudist colony in the Deep South? Or an AA dry cruise run by nuns? How about chemical castration or maybe we can strip them naked and throw them out into the snow and let frostbite remove future breeding options?"

All three men looked at her, and Sherlock's lips twitched. Mycroft gave her a glance that she thought might be approval, and John was laughing. She did her best to smile, refusing to be upset any more than she already was.

There was a loud gasp from the doorway, and they all spun. Violet groaned in dismay as she saw her grandmother, her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and focused on the men beaten on the floor.

"Mrs. Holmes, I can explain…." John tried to talk, but he snapped his mouth shut when Marion waved a hand at him. Violet gaped in surprise as her grandmother stepped in the room, tossing a look back down the hallway before softly closing the door.

"Mycroft, open the doors to the garden. Your father shouldn't see this; his heart can't handle the strain. John, Sherlock, each of you pick a fool and drag them out of here before I have to explain to their parents why their spoiled rotten brats are bleeding on my nice floors." Marion waved her hands at her sons, making them move back from the door. "Get them to their parent's car, turn it on, and stick them in there. Sherlock, you break into that car if you have too, just get them out of my house!"

The four of them stared for a heartbeat, stunned. Sherlock was the first to move, nudging Mycroft to the glass doors. Violet sat on the desk, and watched as her grandmother organized the removal of her erstwhile guests.

John and Sherlock dragged a man each out into the snow covered rear garden, Mycroft imperiously directing the entire way. Violet watched as they disappeared into the darkness, hearing laughter from John and Sherlock as the younger Holmes said something snarky to his older brother.

Marion came over to Violet, and hugged her granddaughter. She kissed Violet's cheek, and dabbed at the remaining tears on her face with the handkerchief.

"I'm sorry dear. I thought that animosity long dead. I'm friends with Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, though after this I'm going to reevaluate the paradigms of that relationship. Good thing John took them out instead of my boys. I don't fancy a drive to a hog farm this time of night to dispose of some bodies."

The evening went by fairly smooth after the five returned to the sitting room. Greg fumed for a minute or two at missing all the excitement, but one look at Violet's face afterwards made him glad he wasn't there, as he might have killed someone. Mrs. Holmes had said something to Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, and they had left soon after their conversation. He was curious about what she might have said about their sons' behavior, but he didn't ask.

Greg sat in front of the fire in one of the smaller side rooms, enjoying the crackling heat and the whiskey in hand. Sir William had a fine selection of scotch and whiskey, and he wasn't going to turn down a drink. He hadn't taken a pill yet this evening, waiting to see if he needed one. His side had settled down after his very long hot bath, and the exercise he got during it. He didn't need to take as much pain medicine as usual, and he grinned, thinking all the sex he was having was helping with his recovery better than regular therapy.

"There you are, Gregory." He smiled, looking up to see Mycroft standing over his chair, sexy as hell in that deep blue suit. "I've been looking for you."

"Here I am," he said, waving his glass at Mycroft. "Your dad has got some serious whiskey. Think this bottle is older than me."

Mycroft gave him a tiny smile, and sat in the chair beside him. Greg saw a package in his hands, a slim black box with a gold emblem on the top. The box was shiny, and looked very expensive. Greg stared at it, insanely curious, and Mycroft smiled wider as he saw where the DI's attention had settled.

"What ya got there?"

"Your present." Mycroft held out the box, and Greg was stunned that Mycroft thought to get him a present for Christmas. Sherlock never did presents, and there weren't any under the tree, so he just assumed the Holmes family didn't celebrate Christmas with presents. That hadn't stopped him from getting Mycroft one, but he truly hadn't expected Mycroft to give him a present.

"Oooohhh," he breathed out, and put his glass down to take the black box from his lover.

It was heavier than it looked, and the cover was gilded with the design 'G&M' in raised gold leaf. He ran his fingers over the lettering, before unsnapping the small bass latch on the front. He lifted the lid, and stared in shocked delight.

Mycroft must have read his mind, or seen him gazing at it adoringly in a weapons catalogue. He had wanted this gun for a while now, but it was out of his price range. Mycroft got him a SIG Sauer P226, two magazines and a neat double row of ammo, all nestled securely in the black velvet lining of the box. Greg put a hand to his mouth, stunned and touched, the other hand tracing the lines of the weapon. His fingers stopped, and he picked up the gun, inspecting it closer. His initials were etched in silver and gold lettering, just below the safety. It was small, and subtle, but done to perfection.

Greg pinched his eyes shut, hand over his mouth, and he sat in his chair, overwhelmed and feeling inadequate all at once. Mycroft had given him something precious. He didn't mean the gun, as much as the thought and consideration that went into its selection. He loved this model, and he hadn't told anyone that, not even Sally. He opened his eyes, and looked at Mycroft, the spymaster fidgeting with the arm of his chair, face impassive. His eyes gave his emotions away though; he was nervous, afraid of how Greg would react.

"How…. How did you know? No, wait, don't tell me how you knew. It'll ruin the moment. Thank you, thank you so much." Greg gently put the box on the coffee table, and got up, putting both hands on the arms of Mycroft's chair. He leaned over the spymaster, and kissed him tenderly, lips clinging, and he tried his best to convey how much he loved this man, and his gift.

Mycroft kissed him back, his long fingers framing his face. Greg blessed the seclusion of this room, and decided to properly thank his lover. He lifted his head just long enough to smile at Mycroft, and unbuttoned his jacket, to make it easier to straddle Mycroft's lap. He settled down, a knee outside either hip, and he took Mycroft's mouth again as the spymaster gripped his waist, hands massaging.

Greg smiled, and maneuvered himself into a snugger position, pushing them both deeper into the soft recesses of the old chair. It was big enough to accommodate some snogging, and Greg wholly intended to thank his lover appropriately. Mycroft would get his own present in the morning.

"I love you," he whispered in Mycroft's ear, making the man under him shiver in response. "I've never loved anyone like I love you."

"I've never loved anyone like I love you, Gregory. I will always love you."

Greg kissed Mycroft, enjoying the pleased noises his kisses were pulling from his lover. Mycroft's hands were wandering everywhere, and Greg groaned in approval when the spymaster's hands cupped his ass, rubbing and caressing with firm strokes.

Greg dimly heard the door shut, but didn't raise his head from kissing his lover. He was in a house full of geniuses, someone probably noticed where this was heading and kindly gave them some privacy.

John paced the floor of Sherlock's room, waiting for the detective to finish up in the bathroom and come to bed. Everyone had dispersed after the dinner party ended with the Carstairs' sons getting evicted bodily from the premises. He'd enjoyed himself thoroughly, though he felt bad that it came at Violet's expense. She didn't deserve the animosity or the physical assault she'd received from those assholes. John had heard most of their comments, and he regretted not moving fast enough to have spared Violet the whole experience.

He flexed his right hand, figuring he'd have bruised knuckles for certain in the morning. He hadn't hit anyone in a long time. Killed someone, that was more recently for sure, but that was during the whole Moriarty disaster and he'd shot them in self-defense.

What is Sherlock doing in there? Washing out the gallon of hair gel it took to tame his curls? I'm not complaining, that was impressive as hell and dear God was he hot in that suit and I'm getting hard just thinking about him looking like a super spy from a movie…. Where is he?

John heard a tread fall just outside the door, and looked up in time to see Sherlock swirl into the room, his blue robe the only thing he had on, hair wet from his shower, the curls dripping as he dried them with a towel. Sherlock danced around him as the door clicked shut, and John's mouth went dry as the detective dropped his robe beside the bed, exposing his bare body to John's appreciative eyes.

He found himself choking on nothing, as Sherlock tousled his hair one last time with the towel, before throwing it carelessly at the nearest desk, where it plopped on the edge before sliding to the floor. Sherlock was naked, wholly and totally, and John got an eyeful of the firmly muscled buttocks of his detective before Sherlock threw himself down on the comforter. He propped himself up on a pillow, before casually lifting up the knee of the leg on the far side from John, exposing his groin and every single delicious inch of his body.

John found himself wondering what he was doing, feet glued to the floor, body frozen as lust howled in the depths of his being, arms and shoulders tensing with the need to jump on that bed. Sherlock gave him a look from beneath his dark lashes, and John swallowed around the knot in his throat. John recognized his detective was flirting with him when Sherlock gave him a very slow, crooked smile that made his stomach clench, his heart jump, and his fingers go numb.

One step, then another, and he was at the side of the bed. He reached up, and slowly began to unbutton his dress shirt. Sherlock's eyes tracked every move of his fingers, that sexy smile never moving from his lips. John couldn't tear his eyes away from his detective, looking so damn appealing laid out like that on the bed. He tore his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands went to his belt, and John was glad this was all muscle memory, because if he had to do this with any portion of his brain, he'd fail. Most of his blood supply was pooling in his groin, and he was straining hard against his slacks.

He yanked off his belt, and his slacks fell open, his erection damn near freeing itself from his underwear. He shoved his slacks off, the fabric pooling on his feet, and he stepped free, one knee on the mattress, his hands bracing him above Sherlock. He leaned down, and lightly nuzzled at the damp curls of his temple. Sherlock tipped his head back, just a little, and gave John a tiny kiss on his cheek. John shook, once, so hard his arms nearly gave out. He brought his other leg up on the bed, and moved over Sherlock, encouraging him to drop his leg so he could rest his length fully on his lover.

Sherlock was fully aroused, and his hands ghosted up John's sides. Sherlock hugged him tightly to his chest, and John was about to kiss him when Sherlock borrowed his move from earlier in the day, and John found himself flat on his back, Sherlock resting between his thighs. John smiled, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips.

"How's your head?" his detective whispered in his ear, his teeth nibbling on his earlobe, hips rocking on top of him. Each gentle thrust of his hips pushed John down into the mattress, a hard cock pushing on his stomach.

"Better every time you touch me," he whispered back, and he finally got his kiss. Sherlock kissed him, so passionately he lost all ability to breathe, to move, to think. He didn't exist outside of his lover's kiss. He moved his hips, returning the thrusts from above, and Sherlock gave him a breathy little moan.

John slid a hand between them, and palmed his lover, his hard length throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sherlock thrust himself in his hand, and John stroked him, making Sherlock moan louder.

John didn't want to wait, he wanted Sherlock inside of him, and soon. He thrust up hard with his hips, and with his free hand, yanked his underwear off his hips. Sherlock saw what he was after, and lifted himself up on his arms, and John kicked the offending cloth away. Sherlock dropped his hot, hard body on top of him, and John was panting eagerly as he saw Sherlock reach over his head for the nightstand.

John attacked his exposed neck, sucking on the smooth skin, loving the feeling of his strong neck under his tongue. Sherlock gasped, and thrust against him, cock rubbing over John's stomach, and the doctor wrapped his legs eagerly around his waist.

Sherlock brought the lube down, and moved his hips just enough to apply it to himself, and on one long finger that found John's ass, and slipping inside. John moaned, throwing back his head, hips moving on their own under the ministrations of his lover.

"Sherlock."

"Hhhhmm?" Sherlock kissed him, tongue seeking deeply in his mouth before pulling back, John gasping under him, the detective moving his finger in and out of his ass, stretching him.

"Now." It was an order, and Sherlock grinned.

His finger was suddenly gone and there was an intense pressure on his entrance. Sherlock pushed back on his thighs, angling his hips for better penetration. John cried out as Sherlock slid home, stretching him wide, plunging deep.

John cried out, accepting the hard length inside of him, his legs shaking where they were wrapped tightly around Sherlock's waist. The angle Sherlock had him at left him fully exposed, totally open, and John was loving every hard inch of it all.

Sherlock slipped his arms under and around him, holding him close, eyes only inches apart. John found himself flashing back to the SUV, Sherlock working them both in his hand. John clenched at the memory, and Sherlock's eyes drifted shut for a heartbeat. They opened quickly enough, and he pulled back, slowly, carefully.

John surrendered to the heat burning between them, his hands resting on Sherlock's hips. His detective thrust back in, slow and gentle, going as deeply as he could. John breathed through the stroke, tears pricking on his lashes at the exquisite torture. Again and again Sherlock would pull back, and thrust back in, moving them both with his fierce and intense skill. Sweat gathered, and slicked, heavy sighs and soft moans filling the air.

John couldn't look away from the eyes above him, he couldn't do anything but live in the moment, as Sherlock took them both deeper into the flames. What he was feeling was more than lust, it was more than love. The man in him, above him, around him was his universe, his whole existence. The pleasure in each stroke, each heady breath that ended on a whimper was all that was real in the world.

Sherlock dipped his head, nipping with care at John's lips, teasing him with the promise of a kiss. John sighed, his hands tracing along the lean lines of Sherlock's back, admiring how the muscles flexed under his fingertips with each powerful thrust of his hips. He found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and his head fell back over Sherlock's arm. Firm lips latched onto his neck, sucking and licking, sharp tingles running from his neck, through his bones and veins, to meet each deep seated stroke of the hard cock riding him.

John felt a tightening in his core, and Sherlock must have felt it too. He changed the angle of his thrusts, and John arched his back in response to the cock rubbing over his prostate. He cried and whimpered, and he couldn't stop his nails from digging into Sherlock's back. The pressure spinning in his core was making his hips move, his body taking over, trying to hurry them both to climax. Sherlock refused to move faster, his pace sure and slow, driving John mad.

He heard whispering, pleading, a man begging, and it took him a heartbeat to realize that it was him, that he was begging Sherlock to take him over the edge. He forced his eyes open, to see Sherlock watching him, his heavenly eyes burning as brightly as the night sky outside. John was lost, bewitched, and tears flowed from his eyes unchecked as his lover moved the world under him.

John's skin was tingling, slick with sweat, his muscles quivering, and he no longer had control over his hips. He rose to meet each delicious thrust of the man on him, matching tempos perfectly. He finally broke through Sherlock's ironclad control, the detective groaning. He buried his face in John's neck, and his rhythm collapsed. He took John as his doctor was begging him too, fucking hard, crying out with each thrust. John screamed, and he fell off the edge.

He came, his body gripping Sherlock's cock, his cum heating the barest space between them. Sherlock felt him come against his stomach, and the detective froze, seated deep. John groaned, feeling his lover swell inside of him, a second before he erupted. Sherlock came, so hard his whole body seized above him.

John watched Sherlock do the impossible. He lifted his head, and met John's eyes as they came together. What he saw in his eyes, what Sherlock saw in his, as their pleasure mingled and joined, was so profound that he had no words, no thoughts capable of comprehending the moment. So he did all that he could, mouthing 'I love you' to the man over him.

Sherlock kissed him, holding him so close there was no air separating them. Soft kisses, panting breath, relaxing muscles was shared, tender sweet moments that moved John as deeply as the lovemaking just minutes before.

John sighed in regret as Sherlock withdrew from him, the detective rolling onto his back, pulling John with him. He gathered John to his chest, and the doctor curled up on top of him. He was happy, content, so satisfied and depleted it was all he had not to sleep immediately.

The house was quiet, the wind blowing softly over the windows. The last several days had been so chaotic, so stressful, that John felt disoriented taking a moment to relax. Sherlock was running his fingers through his hair, down his neck, to his shoulder, and back up. He shivered, and Sherlock made John laugh when he grabbed the quilt at the bottom of the bed, pulling it up with his toes. John caught it, and covered them both. He was too tired to sneak under the covers, and Sherlock wasn't moving.

Sherlock reached out, and turned off the light beside the bed. The clock under the lamp glowed dimly, but John could see the time clearly enough before his eyes drifted shut. It was 12:04 AM.

"I love you, John. Merry Christmas."

The whisper chased his waking mind down into sleep, and he barely retained the wits to reply.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Love you too."