Day 2 – Tuesday 15th December, 2015

The bitter cold of England in the winter season wasn't the only reason Sherlock was hurrying into the Met. the next morning, pulling his long coat tighter around his body as he side-stepped through the entrance to avoid a couple, simultaneously calculating the maximum of efficiency and the minimum of casualties. But his hasty entry, regardless of how safe it happened to be, was quickly ruined when he was lobbied by a few reporters gathered in the entrance hall like a flock of birds who'd finally found something to eat.

Sherlock quickly found that there was no receptionist on the desk which explained why the press hadn't been escorted out promptly as they usually were when they found they had little better to do than harass a man, and more widely a country-wide service, who was just trying to do his job.

Sherlock sighed as he tried to walk past them unheeded.

"Mr. Holmes." One of them began, shoving a microphone dangerously in his face. She was young, she couldn't have been older than 25 years old. "Is it true there have been calls for you to resign?"

Sherlock ignored her and tried to walk past but was momentarily blinded when an expensive flash went off in front of his face.

"Oh, for Christ sake." He said under his breath. He never said anything, but he knew that if he said something in the least bit aggressive then they would have an entirely new angle to take. Sherlock Holmes not only potentially dangerous but also physically and verbally violent, he could just see the headline in his minds eye and quickly vaulted past them and down the corridor to Lestrade's office before he could give them anything else to print.

He stopped an officer on his way.

"Can you get rid of the press in the reception, thanks." He said quickly, blinking his grey eyes against the persistent sun spots burned into his retinas.

The officer nodded and Sherlock watched him go the way he'd just come. Normally, he'd be happy to throw them out himself, he had no time for press, except one in particular, of course, but as his brain was quick to remind him, he was in a rush.

He opened the door to Lestrade's office without knocking, assuming that with the current situation the detective inspector could find it in his heart to forgive him, only to find Lestrade and Anderson inside, looking grim.

"A child?" Sherlock quickly prompted.

"Not quite." Lestrade replied. "Teenager, 19, Uni student."

"Oh, God." Sherlock said, finally allowing himself a sigh of relief. "The desk sergeant said that a child had been murdered. There are press in the bloody lobby for Christ sake, if a word got out, even though it's not true, you'd have a lawsuit on your hands."

Anderson frowned. "What are the press doing outside?"

Sherlock gave him a dithering look and Anderson swallowed, obviously understanding the reason for their sudden popularity.

Sherlock returned his attentions to Lestrade. "So what happened?" He asked, trying to get his breath back.

"He was found last night in central London, autopsy claimed it was alcohol poisoning from an excessive Christmas party. You know what students are like."

Sherlock hesitated in his tracks. "Then..." His brain quickly eliminated all other possibilities until he was presented with the only reason he would be called in. He made that leap in about a nanosecond.

"There's been a second autopsy, you've found something."

Lestrade nodded, used to Sherlock's quick, abrupt deductions, Anderson, however, looked mildly surprised.

"There was a small wound, almost unnoticeable, just below the muscle of the abdomen. It looks like a stab wound, but I have no idea..."

"Let me take a look." Sherlock said, obviously not sharing in the same despair as Lestrade and Anderson. He was out of the door and heading to the morgue in a second, hearing the pair of them follow him out. If there was a second autopsy, that explained why Anderson was hanging around.

The three of them made their way down to the morgue and when they entered, they were met by Molly Hooper, a woman Anderson had always thought was far too sweet to work at such a place.

Molly smiled at Sherlock on their way in and he touched her arm affectionately, Anderson supposed he must be grateful for any allies he had left.

Molly pulled out the boy, a man really, but he still looked young. Too young to be lying on a stretcher at Christmas.

Anderson felt for him, he really did, but Sherlock was mechanical.

He pulled out his magnifying glass from its case and began examining the slight abdomen wound without showing any kind of emotion other than an intense, entrancing concentration.

Part of Anderson couldn't believe that he was barely reacting to what was essentially a dead child in front of him whereas last year he would have been gushing along with the rest of them.

He really must have hidden himself from everyone. Anderson was almost annoyed and how easily they'd all been fooled.

Sherlock suddenly straightened and turned to them.

"You're right," he said, pocketing his magnifying glass kit. "It is a stab wound. Small, probably from a small knife or something similar. I'm no expert but I imagine he would have died from blood loss rather than internal damage. It would have happened quickly, especially if he was drunk and had high blood alcohol and especially in the cold. Was there any blood at the scene?"

"No."

"No, I doubted it. Whoever did this cleaned the mess after them. Rather proficiently as well, it would seem."

"Whoever did this?" Lestrade repeated, leaning forward slightly. "You mean it wasn't a drunken accident?"

"Oh no." Sherlock smiled in morbid interest. "Of course not. He was murdered."

…

John relaxed back in his chair and stared at the ceiling of his office. Obviously he had a ridiculous amount of work to do before Christmas, and he was procrastinating rather than taking a break, but the real reason he wasn't doing anything was because he was bored.

He relished in the fact that he didn't have to listen to Gregson anymore but having your own office rather than a cubical surrounded by other people turned out to be more lonely that peaceful some days. Along with the fact that he'd had to leave all of his friends behind when he'd left. One in particular, in fact.

At the thought, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Sarah's number.

She picked up on the second ring.

"You know I am trying to work." She said sarcastically, smile in her voice. "Some of us lowly mortals have to do that, you know."

John laughed. He missed her already.

"How are you?" He asked.

"Bored." She admitted honestly. "Gregson has me on celebrity weddings in the snow."

John pulled a face despite the fact she couldn't see it. "Sounds like fun, I don't miss all that trivial nonsense."

"Yeah but you have to deal with petty M.P scandals and parliamentary bickering...oh, I mean debates."

John fought of a smile. "Shh. The government probably listening."

She laughed on the other end. "I'll be gone by the morning."

"Do you wanna meet up?" He asked, smiling. "Like, coffee or something? It's been an age since I've seen you."

"Yeah, absolutely." She said. "I really want to get together. I need to hear everything about Sherlock."

John rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. "Awesome, it's a date."

…

It was a date. That's what stuff like this was. John was unsure if he was excited or confused by the concept.

He lay between Sherlock's legs on the couch in his living room, surrounded by Christmas decorations and flicking through the TV until he found something sufficiently festive.

Sherlock was happily tapping away on his phone, one hand rested on John's chest and John was content.

He knew Sherlock wasn't particularly mad about Christmas but he put up with it for John's sake with only minimal complaining and John was grateful for it.

He finally paused when he found a Christmas film, the type he would generally be watching all alone but not anymore. Now he had someone to enjoy his favourite things with.

The contented silence continued on for a few moments until it became apparent that whatever Sherlock was texting about seemed to be quite important. His phone vibrated every twenty seconds or so until he shifted, taking his hand away from John completely and concentrating entirely on whatever was attracting his undivided attention.

It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had been too wrapped up in his phone, or, more accurately, one of his cases. Generally it didn't irritate John but when they'd specifically put time aside in their hectic schedules to see each other, it got to be rather annoying.

Finally, after another ten minutes of interrupted bliss, John huffed.

"Sherlock, it's ten at night. Is there a fire or something?"

"No." Sherlock replied, not recognising the irritation or indeed the sarcasm in John's voice, even his reply sounded distant. "No, no. Sorry. There's just a really interesting murder case going on right now."

John huffed, wistfully wondering when murder would become less important than him.

Sherlock, having apparently read his thoughts, quickly replied before he slipped his phone into his trouser pocket and shifted his body slightly so that he was facing him.

"Sorry." He said, pressing a kiss to John's cheek and wrapping his arms around him.

John felt suddenly guilty for having such petty thoughts, he knew Sherlock's job was important, and that invariably there were days when it would take over his life. That was just a part of who Sherlock was and if the detective was willing to sit through crappy Christmas flicks then John could show him the same consideration when it came to his job. But regardless of the fact, he still smiled as he snuggled into his boyfriend and turned back to the television. Knowing that some moments still existed in their hectic lives where Sherlock was completely and irrevocably his.