A/N: Special thanks once more to mattsloved1 for checking it over & suggesting footsies under the table:D. Another week with 2 chapters. I may not be able to get to another chapter for a bit or I may as I can feel Mattie's disapproving glower:)

6. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

performed by Ella Fitzgerald

At that moment in time, I have never been so angry, hurt and frustrated, all at the same time. I've been angrier. I've been more hurt. I've been frustrated. But this was a perfect storm of emotion. The roar in my head made me miss the sounds coming from the room behind me.

"John! John wait! Ahhhhhh!" Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, pulling on the roots. He hadn't meant it. It was just seeing Lestrade looming over John, looking like he'd done it before, as if he were comfortable with it. He thought back to the moment, pulled it out of his memory. John's face. He concentrated on John's face. There had been no reciprocation in his expression. Curiosity, concern, a smidgen of panic, shock about something Lestrade had said. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But not a quickening of breath, not a dilation of pupils. He wasn't interested in Lestrade. There was always something he missed. He would try again. He had to make John see, make him understand.

The clamour in his head died down a bit, and he became aware of noises coming from the bed behind, that distracted him. He walked over to the bed where Mycroft was making little moaning noises. Part of him wanted to record the noises on his phone so he could play it back at inconvenient intervals or maybe swipe Mycroft's phone some day and make it his ringtone. But he didn't. Instead, he pushed the button to summon the nurse.

"Well, well big brother. Waking up are we?"

The nurse came in, checked Mycroft over and paged the doctor. Sherlock in the meantime stepped out into the hall and phoned his parents. It would be awhile before Mycroft was fully conscious and awake.

John walked out of the hospital and down the street; so angry he couldn't think straight. He ended up in a part of London he didn't immediately recognize. He had been walking for a long time. He stopped to get his bearings and took a deep breath.

He bent over, tried to catch his breath, hands on his thighs, mildly cold and hugely irritated.

But why? Why was he so mad at Sherlock?

Why indeed.

He really had no right.

He wasn't dating Mycroft. The man hadn't even met him.

He wasn't engaged to Mycroft.

He wasn't interested in Lestrade except as a friend and confidant.

It was simply a matter of having hurt feelings. He was mad at Sherlock for thinking he wasn't good enough for a man he hadn't even met. A small bubble of laughter escaped and loosened his chest slightly. It was cynical laughter to be sure, but it did ground him.

He needed to get over it.

Once he came to that conclusion, he decided to go and explain. He started to walk back, but as he reached the first intersection, a long black car pulled up beside him. The rear passenger window rolled down to reveal Anthea's face.

"Get in the car, John."

"Why should I? It's stupid. I can't go on doing this."

"You may not have too much longer."

"And why is that?"

"Mycroft is awake."

A wave mixed with relief and dread rushed through him. At last, this would be over. He nodded, clenched his fist and got into the car.

The ride to the hospital was silent. On arriving, he asked, "Now what?"

"Now we go in, and we see what we shall see. Perhaps it won't be as bad as you think. I will be there with you to help you through this. I am sure when this is all over, and everything made clear, the Holmes's will see the positives of this situation."

"You're kidding."

She just smiled, lovely and serene.

They entered and made their way to Mycroft's room to find the family waiting outside. Veronica and William looked tense, and Veronica for certain seemed as if she would kick down the door if someone didn't tell her what was happening soon. Wiggins sat perched in a chair or rather on it. He was eating a pastry and licking his fingers. Nothing seemed to faze him. Mrs. Hudson was also sitting, but properly and she was knitting and chatting amicably to Wiggins and Sherlock…Sherlock stood, hands clasped behind his back and looking the other way from John. At least, there was something to be grateful for. He wasn't quite ready to talk to Sherlock just yet.

The door to Mycroft's room opened and the doctor stepped out.

"He is very disoriented and isn't coherent. It will be a few days before he will regain complete consciousness. You may go in and see him. I know there is no point in asking some of you to wait outside so I will ask that you make it brief, just to reassure yourselves he is well."

They went in as one unit and gathered around the bed staring down at the pale form of Mycroft Holmes. It was not unlike a visit to the zoo. There was the same thrum of expectancy as if they were waiting for a new exhibit, genus Britannica imperium umbrellicus.

Another soft little moan and Mycroft's eyes blinked open. He looked blearily at his family gathered there, an almost bemused expression, the specimen seeing the visitors for the first time. He barely acknowledged his mother and father; his eyes swept past John who was trying to remain calm and silent, beside a beaming Mrs. Hudson. The eyes went past him and onto Sherlock, paused and returned to John. A very puzzled expression crossed Mycroft's face.

"Who'reyou?" he slurred, and his eyes rolled up, and he slumped back into unconsciousness.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Veronica.

John swore he could hear the sound of his stomach hitting the floor. This was it. This was where he faced the mother bear and hoped he came out alive.

"He's got amnesia!"

The doctor shooed them all out into the hall while the nurse remained to keep a watchful eye on Mycroft.

She cleared her throat. "It is not uncommon after a head injury, for a patient to suffer some form of amnesia. It is possible he is suffering from lacunar amnesia. It is a condition in which memory loss is localized and patchy and limited to isolated events. We won't know more until he is fully conscious. I will order a CAT scan, plus other tests. I would suggest you all leave, and we will notify you when he is more awake. When you do come back, please limit the number of visitors to one or two people so as to not over excite the patient. It will be stressful enough for him without the added chaos."

The group stood huddling. Only John and Sherlock did not take part in the discussion. Neither was actively looking at the other. However, there may have been some 'out the corner of the eye' action.

John heard Veronica say, "Since they won't let us in to see Mikey right now, perhaps we should go back to the house and have dinner."

"No Mother, I think not."

"You most certainly will, Sherlock. Now let's go. There's turkey to finish up."

"I should probably…"

"John Hamish Watson, do not even think of departing. You will be joining us for dinner."

"How on Earth did she know my middle name?"

"She's a mother. Of course, she knows it." Sherlock smiled at John, a small smile. "I, um, I am…"

"No, it's okay."

"Yes. Fine then. We should probably…"

"Boys! You shall not get pudding if you do not come at once!"

The eye roll directed at Veronica Holmes could have hurt her if John hadn't intercepted it first. He chuckled, his admiration for her increasing by leaps and bounds, wondering if he could borrow some of that attitude to use on Sherlock. He frowned. There was no point in trying to think of things that would work on Sherlock. He would not be seeing him in a day or so. Once the truth came out no one would want to see him again.

Anthea managed to snag John's arm as he passed her.

"Don't worry. Don't tell them yet. I will handle this."

"And how will you handle this?"

"Trust me."

"Come along, John."

"Fine, but this ends soon. I don't want this family hurt anymore."

Following behind Sherlock and the rest, he missed the little smile that bloomed on Anthea's face. She returned to the room where she continued her surveillance of her boss.

It was astonishing how fast family dinner had become John's newest favourite activity. Sitting at the big table in the open kitchen would be a fond memory he would take with him, one to keep him warm on those lonely nights when he was kicked to the curb, a Match Girl moment, as he waited in the cold, nose pressed against the window, looking in at the warm glow of a family dinner.

The amount of food piled on the table was certainly more than what should have been there just from leftovers. John swore that was a whole turkey cut up on the platter and the mashed potatoes certainly were fresh and creamy.

John had just put in a rather large forkful of those delicious potatoes when Veronica addressed him,

"John, have you and Mycroft decided where you are going to go for your honeymoon?"

He choked a little. Sherlock reached across the table and poured him a glass of water while the conversation continued to flow around him without interruption.

"Do you remember our honeymoon, dear one? We went to that little resort on the Tuscan coast. Lovely there very relaxed." William leaned over and said to John. "Nude beaches. Very healthy attitude toward one's body."

"Speaking of nude beaches, does anyone want to see some clips I found of Mrs. Hudson from when she was an exotic dancer?"

"Hush now, Wiggins. That was our little secret!"

"Sorry Hudders! I need to stop drinking this punch of yours."

That mouthful seemed to be stuck and was having a hard time going down. It appeared to be contagious as Sherlock also started coughing. John could swear tears were coming to his eyes. He caught a quick, magnetic glimpse and grinned. Sherlock's eyes twinkled back. He took another sip of water and almost choked again as something brushed his foot. It felt like another foot.

"Didn't Mikey look good today? I do hope this amnesia thing is temporary. I'm sure once he sees John again tomorrow it will all come back. Goodness John, are you all right? You must take smaller bites. Here Sherlock, have some more. You don't eat nearly enough."

Another touch. John looked across at Sherlock. There was no mistaking it from the look on Sherlock's face. It was definitely his foot. He felt his skin turn bright red. The foot wasn't just staying on his foot. It began to move up slightly, brushing past his ankle. Then back down to the sole and across to his other one.

"Excuse me a moment. I just need to use the loo."

"Of course. Sherlock, go after him and make sure he doesn't choke in there. They say that that's what happens when people go off to the loo when they're choking…" The rest of the conversation became muffled as John made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

"John." Sherlock came up behind him. "John stop. We need to talk." He put a hand on his shoulder. John could feel the heat from his hand through his jumper. He wondered in a brief, manic way if there would be a handprint on his skin.

"What are you doing Sherlock?"

"Mycroft didn't remember you. I think we both know what that means."

"I don't…"

"John, Mycroft didn't remember you. You couldn't possibly be as important to him as you think. No, listen. I am not good at this. I did a terrible job of trying to talk to you earlier today. I made you angry. I wanted to tell you that you shouldn't be with Mycroft. Not because you aren't good enough for him. It's because he isn't good enough for you. He didn't remember you. I would never forget you, John. No matter what happened to me."

He stood there, desperation pouring from him. It was palpable, hanging between them. If only he had met Sherlock first, under different circumstances. Once Sherlock knew the truth about him, he'd never want to see him again. He had to end this and make it less painful for both of them.

"Sherlock…I can't. I can't because I'm not what you think I am."

Hurt and confusion swept over his face, "Is that your final word?"

"Yes."

Sherlock drew himself up straight and headed toward the front door. He stopped at the hall tree and took down his coat. His movements were sharp and ridged. John wanted to reach out and stop him, but he didn't know how. He knew he was letting something extraordinary slip through his fingers. They were interrupted before he could figure out how to bridge the distance between them. Veronica and her supernatural hearing must have heard the rustle at the door.

"Sherlock. You aren't leaving?"

"Yes, Mother. There's a case I must attend to."

"Sherlock, don't leave. I'll go."

Veronica looked at them with some confusion. "Did you two have a fight? You really mustn't you know. We must stand strong together, for Mycroft." She looked at John and said in what she thought must be a whisper but decidedly wasn't "Sherlock and Mike do not get along. I had so hoped that with Mike's accident and you're coming into the family that perhaps that would all be put aside."

"No, it's not that. Would you excuse us for a moment? Please?"

"All right, dear. But don't leave yet, either of you. There's spotted dick for pudding."

"Sherlock don't go. I'm sorry. Under different circumstances, perhaps, but well, it won't work."

Sherlock said nothing, just continued to button his coat.

John stepped closer. He didn't want to be overheard, and he thought he heard someone coming towards them from the kitchen. It was Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh look! You're under the mistletoe. You know what that means?"

The rest of the family gathered behind them, curious as to what was going on at the door.

"Go on you two!"

"Kiss!"

"You have to kiss; it's Christmas."

"All right then," John said mainly to shut them up. He reached up on his toes and gave Sherlock a soft peck on the cheek.

"No not like that, you idiot! A proper kiss."

Sherlock eyes closed for a moment while he schooled his features. "Oh, very well get on with it."

He endured the moment, with his hands at his side. John went back up on his toes, braced his hand on Sherlock's chest and let his lips brush against Sherlock's. He thought it would be awkward and fumbling. After all the whole family was watching, and this was supposed to be a brotherly kiss.

But it wasn't. It didn't last long. It didn't need to. It was hurried, but there was a blush of heat and a definite spark. John went back down on the soles of his feet and pulled his hand away slowly. Sherlock stood there looking at him, the anguish visible in his eyes, but not on his face.

"Good night, John," he murmured.

"Good night Sherlock."

The door closed quietly between them.

"There!" said Mrs. Hudson. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

Anthea sat in her room, watching on the monitors as Mycroft drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes a few unintelligible words came out, sometimes he just twitched. It was going to be a long night.

The phone in the room rang. She picked it up.

"Yes? Oh really? That is good news. It seems like everything is going just the way we wanted. Yes, I'll let you know. Good night."

She hung up and sat back, with a tired sigh. A few more days of this and it should all be over.