A/N: Just a reminder that I have switched some scenes around & taken liberties (many, many liberties) with both the movie & the show. That being said there are too many good lines to pass up:D

Thanks to mattsloved1 for checking it over once again:)

5. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

performed by The Glenn Miller Orchestra

Well this was I fine mess I'd got myself into!

John woke up to the early light creeping into his room through the rather shabby curtains. He scrubbed at his face and frowned. Two days ago he'd been lonely and alone. Today, December 26th, Boxing Day, he had a fiancé, a new family and a raging crush on the fiancé's brother. If it didn't rain, it poured. He tweaked the curtains apart. Or at least, snowed. Fat flakes drifted down from a gray sky and covered the street below. Standing, he stretched, making his spine pop and rotated his shoulder. A trip to the bathroom involved a quick and chilly scrub, which would suffice for the day. As he dressed, his mind wandered the roads he'd gone down last night, literally and figuratively. Sherlock stayed at the forefront of his mind. The need to tell someone, anyone of his secrets was becoming necessary. To give the Holmes's the truth, ugly and unblemished would ease his conscience and maybe, just maybe get him back on the correct track. Mind made up, he was about to snack on a breakfast of apple and tea when someone knocked on his door.

Throwing it open, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock with hands clasped behind his back.

The sudden rush of blood couldn't make up its mind whether to go north to infuse his face with the beginnings of a furious blush as he remembered what he had been thinking and doing last night in bed or south to infuse his cock with the beginnings of a furious hard on as he remembered what he had been thinking and doing last night in bed.

"Oh, yes, hello. Would you. Care to come in?"

Sherlock entered the room, his presence a warmth that settled in John's chest. Those glorious eyes swept the room, taking note of the threadbare atmosphere and the dull furnishings. He turned back to John, and his head tilted to the side as if puzzled by what stood in front of him.

"Is there a problem?"

"No."

"Good."

"Yes, it is."

"Can I help you with something?"

"Yes, you can."

"Well?"

"Hmmm?"

"You said I could help you?"

"Oh. Yes. My parents want you to come for dinner tonight. If it's convenient. Come anyway if it's not."

Disappointment settled in John's stomach. That's the only reason he'd come over? On an errand for his parents?

"No. I mean, yes. I'll come. I don't have plans."

"Good. Now that that's out of the way, how would you like to see a nice murder?"

"Love to!" The day seemed brighter all of a sudden. John grabbed his coat and followed Sherlock out the door. The apple and tea were left forlorn on the small table sitting next to his intentions of making a clean breast.

After a hailed cab and a good distance, they arrived at the crime scene, being overseen by "Greg! Nice to see you?"

"Hullo, John. Sherlock, the body, is in there. We'll be right in. I need to speak to John for a moment. Oh, and you will need to come down to the station later. To talk about the cabbie."

"Not necessary, as Mycroft's people have it all sorted."

"Yeah, well Mycroft isn't around at the moment, and I have questions. It's my division!"

Sherlock quirked an annoyed eyebrow at them and turned slowly to go into an art gallery where apparently a crime had been committed and not just with the post-modernist existential dreck that decorated the walls inside. He kept glancing over his shoulder at John and Lestrade, but the draw of a dismembered corpse was too enticing.

Lestrade looked around quickly to see if anyone was in earshot and beckoned John closer, leaning into his space.

"How's it going? With Sherlock I mean? Has he figured out you're not engaged to Mycroft?"

"You don't care about what happened last night, do you?"

"Nah, just like to rile himself up. No, seriously, has he figured it out?"

"No, umm, I don't think so."

"Okay, good, 'cause here's a little something you can share, if he gets nosy." Lestrade whispered in John's ear for a good few minutes.

"Oh God! No! How the hell do you know that?" John's bottom gave a faint twinge.

Greg blushed in a way that John recognised, "I've seen him naked."

"Greg, were you two an, um, an item?" It sounded weird saying it out loud. Not weird that Greg and Mycroft would be together but that they were not now, and he seemed all right with pretending he was with Mycroft.

John's head hurt.

"Yeah, we were, but it was a long time ago. Folks liked me well enough as a friend and kind of kept me on as a sort of adopted son, but I wasn't good enough to date their son."

"I can't see that! They're so kind."

"Well, like I said it was long ago, and things have changed. Anthea was supposed to give you some information of a more personal nature in case Sherlock asked questions, needed proof but she's been busy running Britain for Mycroft and handling the issue with Hope."

"I'm sorry. About you two, not about Britain."

A shrug conveyed that he'd rather not talk about it anymore. "It might come in handy."

Nodding, a bit queasy, he decided to let it go. At first, he'd been sure that Lestrade had meant how were things going between Sherlock & John. The need to confess reared its head once more sniffed the air and lay there alert and aware. He had to get rid of one of the secrets he was holding onto, or he'd go mad.

"Look, there's something I should tell you, only I don't quite know how."

Lestrade looked concerned. "If it's about telling the folks about you and Mycroft, I thought we'd…"

"No, no that's not it. Although, yes, I would like to. I spent a lot of time with Sherlock yesterday, running around and leaping buildings, that sort of thing. The thing is…the thing is, I think, I…" he huffed frustrated and flummoxed.

"Out with it, man."

"Oh hell, I don't do this…" and he waved his hand back and forth between them.

"What?

"Feelings!"

Comprehension mixed with amusement, a dash of horror and utter fascination rolled across Lestrade's face like the first signs of a traffic accident. Interesting to watch, shock at the thought people were going to be hurt and not a damned thing you could do about it.

"You've got a thing for Sherlock, don't you?"

"Yeah, well, maybe."

"He says he's a sociopath."

"What? No!"

"Load of bollocks if you ask me. I've seen the man and yeah, he's a right terror to fools who try to cross him, he's abrupt and seems cold, but Nah, if he's a sociopath, I'll eat my tie. I've also seen him with his homeless kids. Treats them royally, cares a whole lot, making sure they're fed and watered, taken in, in the bad weather. But he is an arsehole." He gave John a sympathetic eye. "Look, I get it, him and his swishy coat and dark poetic hair, all flash and bang, but you have to see this thing through with the Holmes family, at least until Mycroft is out of the woods."

"Yeah, I know. It's just that all this lying and hiding things; it's not me."

"You're a good man, John."

"Doesn't feel like it."

"Lestrade!"

"And there's his highness now. Keep your shirt on," he called over his shoulder.

They entered the art gallery to see Sherlock looking at a body that had been artfully hung on that wall, that wall and that wall, each piece framed and with an elegant little plaque underneath. "Why did you call me in for this? It's a four at the most, five for creativity. The man's partner killed him, jealous of his greater talent and hung him on the wall as a lesson. Open and shut. Check the partner for paint under his nails. Good day! Come John!"

With an adorably grumpy look gracing his face, he swept out, leaving John to follow in the trail of his swishy coat.

About half way there, John realised they were on their way to the hospital. At the same time, it dawned on him that Sherlock was more than a little angry only John didn't know why.

The cab stopped, Sherlock got out, paid the cabbie and practically ran for it. John followed after as quickly as he could, and only just caught up to Sherlock as the lift doors were beginning to close. Sherlock stood there, glowering.

"What was that about?" He refused to look at John, instead stared at the buttons as if he could light them with his mind powers.

"What was what about?"

"Back at the gallery. You and Lestrade."

"I don't quite follow."

"Oh, come on, John. He was…and you were…"

"Were what?"

"He was…leaning."

"Leaning? Lestrade? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Lestrade had his hand on your shoulder, like this and he. Was. Leaning." Sherlock rested his free hand on the wall of the lift and was most definitely in John's space, hovered over him, enclosed him in the wings of his coat. It felt safe, weighted and incredibly intimate. John was inundated with the heady smell of Sherlock's aftershave mixed with the sharp sting of cigarettes and the very, very pleasant aroma of his natural scent. He blushed, all pink and tingly, and put a hand on Sherlock's chest as if to push him away. But that didn't seem to happen. His hand rested on Sherlock's chest, a connection and a barrier.

"So what if he was leaning? He wanted to know how I was holding up." The lie didn't sit right, and he could tell that it didn't with Sherlock either.

"Leaning…" Sherlock purred the words as he came in closer, dark, smoky, chocolate and cream, breathed into John's ear. "Leaning involves arms and hands. Leaning is whole bodies moving in together, almost, not quite touching, like promises. Leaning implies wanting and yearning and accepting. Leaning sends mixed signals to those observing. Someone watching the two of you could come to the conclusion that perhaps more was going on than seemed on the surface. Do. You. Fancy Lestrade?"

Sweat broke out on John's forehead. A shiver started at his shoulder blades, down his spine and moved to the front, setting up shop. He gulped. Sherlock had come in so close all he could see were the large green and blue eyes staring at him. The smell of the man was doing things to his personal area that would cause embarrassment if he didn't get away soon.

There was a ding as the elevator reached its destination and the doors swept open.

John grinned foolishly at Sherlock. "Saved by the bell."

"Perhaps," and with a turn and a flounce, he swept out, leaving John behind.

He wiped his brow.

It would surely kill him before it was over.

John walked into Mycroft's room, full to the brim once more with the whole kit and caboodle of a family, just after Sherlock and in time to see him sweep around and point at John.

"This man is a fraud!"

As John's stomach hit his shoes, a collective gasp rose up from the open mouths of the stunned family members.

"How can you say that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just ask his boyfriend."

"Sherlock, that is not funny!"

William Holmes rose up, his height similar to Sherlock's, but slightly reduced by the fear and sorrow of his eldest lying in a coma, "Sherlock, please tell us what you mean. How can we ask Mycroft?"

"No. Not him! His other boyfriend. Detective Inspector Gerald Lestrade. I saw them together, and Lestrade was leaning!"

All eyes swivelled to look at John. He could hear the eyeballs creak.

"No, that's not what happened."

"I saw it!"

"Yes, well, you were a distance away. I was just chatting with Lestrade, and he was seeing how I was holding up and…and I felt a bit dizzy, hadn't had a proper breakfast, so he grabbed my arm and…that is all there was to it."

Sherlock's laser vision bored in on John. "Hmmm." He still wasn't convinced. John felt he had somehow disappointed him greatly by making him think he had a boyfriend other than Mycroft.

"If John loves Mycroft he'll prove it." Mrs. Hudson poured a large cup of tea from her ever-present trolley and handed it to John.

John could not believe he would have to share the piece of news given to him by Lestrade, but he was rather glad he had it up his sleeve, so to speak.

"Uh…Mycroftonlyhasonetesticle!"

"What?!"

"That's not possible."

"I assure you as a doctor it is entirely possible."

"No!"

Through the clamour of voices, John shouted a bit to make himself heard. "About four years ago, he was playing tennis with Gr…someone and they had a pencil in their pocket and Mycroft…"

"Ewwww! That's not on!"

"Oh, good heavens."

"There's only one way to find out!"

"I'm his mother. I'll check."

It became blessedly silent as Veronica walked over to Mycroft's bedside and gently lifted the sheet. She paled and quickly dropped the sheet back in place. "It's true."

Everyone else tutted and got John a chair. Scones appeared to go with the tea, and he munched for a bit, although the good food felt a bit like sawdust in his mouth. He really needed to tell them. He could not go on like this.

Clearing his throat a bit, he started to speak, "I have something I would like to say."

All eyes looked at him, eyes which held various degrees of warmth and kindness, eyes that saw him as a conscious breathing substitute for the person who could not be with them at that moment except as a sleeping body.

And it just died in his mouth. He could not say these things to these people. They were far too kind. He did not think he could bear having them turn frosty and condemning.

"I would just like to say…I would love to come for dinner. "

An odd look crossed Sherlock's face. John would have said he was disappointed if he didn't know better.

"Sherlock, you need to stop trying to prove John isn't Mycroft fiancé. I'm certain it's most hurtful to John." Veronica turned to John and said, "We'll expect you at six for dinner." She gave him one of her amazing hugs and left the room, followed by the rest of the family, except for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at John and John looked steadily back.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and John could not let him apologise for thinking the worst of him.

"It's okay. You're just trying to protect your brother."

"No, it's just that I can't really see the two of you together."

"What?"

"It's just, it's not obvious, you and Mycroft. I would have thought…"

"Not obvious!" John felt his temper rise. "Because I'm some poor, useless soldier sent home in pieces? Because I have had trouble getting steady work because of my PTSD?! Is that what you mean? Thanks for that, Sherlock."

"No, you aren't meant for him!"

"It looks like I'm not meant for anyone then." And without another word, John stormed out of the room.