Sixteen
Reindeer

Apparently Sherlock did know what Christmas was after all, as I found out one December Tuesday when I wandered up the stairs to 221B only to find a lovely red Father Christmas hat perched atop that wretched skull of his. That, and the obligatory card from his mother, were the only additions to the flat Sherlock wanted. John wasn't haven't any of that.

The idea of Christmas, however, naturally led to the idea of Christmas presents.

It wasn't so much the issue of finding something for the genius – although I realised that the customary socks might not be completely up to his gift standards – but more the issue of actually hiding the blasted thing from him until the day.

In the end I had settled for using four different cardboard boxes, packing each with tissue paper and creating a Russian doll effect with my gift right at the centre. I hoped it might slow down the detective for a few minutes, or at least give me the confidence to get the thing out of my flat. I was getting really sick of finding the present at the back of my underwear drawer.

So when I handed the neatly wrapped object to Sherlock on Christmas Eve, so that he might place it in the allotted corner by the fireplace, I wasn't expecting much more than a comment from him about the pointlessness of the season.

He lifted the blue box into the air and gave me a deadly stare. "Personalised post-it notes. Really, Melanie, I would have thought that you could do better."

"How the-" I started in shock, before his insult actually hit me. "Hey! I'm unemployed thanks to someone not a million miles away!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can hardly blame John for your lack of waitressing ability."

I gritted my teeth. "I wasn't talking about John."

"But you only met-"

"Ok, ok," the aforementioned doctor interrupted, stepping between me and Sherlock and placing a hand on either of our shoulders. His army senses were obviously tingling with the approaching battle. "Children, I think it's time to calm down."

I glared some more at the egotistical man in front of me, my heart not quite ready to back down yet. Because it really wasn't John's fault that I had been fired from the café; that honour was purely allotted to Sherlock. Surprisingly, most waitresses didn't have to put up with their boyfr- frie- Sherlock's showing up and trying to steal the coffee machines for fun. Did he really not see this as anything to do with him?

I glanced at John. He was giving both of us meaningful looks, clearly not wanting to start a major fight on Christmas – let alone in front of his new girlfriend.

Begrudgingly, I sighed and took a step back. "How did you know they were post-it notes, anyway?"

I couldn't help but notice the small gleam of happiness cross Sherlock's face. Woohoo – it was his showing off time.

He flipped the gift over merrily, before throwing it upwards and catching it again. Then he started explaining, his voice streaming out in one long tangent.

"The sound it makes when moved clearly indicates that it's wrapped in more than one box, no doubt with newspaper or tissue paper – the latter's more likely – between the layers. This correlates with the surprisingly light weight, the majority of which is localised to a small patch in the middle, which also leads me to be able to judge the precise size of the contents. Something that small but with such a hefty feel could only be made of paper. A book then? No, you know that I have all the books I need and won't use anything you attempt to impose on me. The size then indicates the other option – post-it notes. But you'd never just give a person post-it notes; not even with your current financial problems – personalised then. Yes, with something you think is meaningful to me and with an element of jokiness. Perhaps something to do with my sleeping habits? No, eating. Yes, that's it. The exact wording, however, is impossible to tell without opening the three – no, four – boxes and reading them."

He finished with a final twirl of the box in his hands. Jeanette must have been surprised, but by now I was far too used to Sherlock's crazy deductions to even bat an eyelid at them.

Instead, I just pouted. "They say 'Remember to eat'."

Sherlock turned and chucked the box onto the pile of other presents. "Yes, well, while I appreciate the thought and will no doubt use the notes at some point, I can't help but be a little disappointed in you."

"Sherlock!" John snapped.

Sherlock's neck twisted until he was peering at his flatmate, eyebrows raised in genuine puzzlement about what he had done wrong. John's eyes flicked towards me, sending Sherlock the hint he needed.

I tried to keep the annoyance off of my face as much as possible as I said evenly, "You're an arse, you know that?"

Sherlock blinked. I could have sworn I actually spotted as trace of some deeper emotion pass over his eyes, but what it was escaped me. By the very fact that it took him a moment to open his mouth to speak again, though, I knew that it had actually been there.

"I-"

"Yoohoo!"

My head snapped around to the doorway at the new voice.

"Only me," Mrs Hudson greeted cheerily, she patted the arm of the man following her, "oh, and this lovely gentleman, of course. Glass of anything, anyone? I put some drinks in your kitchen this morning for the occasion. Sherlock?"

I didn't get the opportunity to see Sherlock's expression as he spun around and sauntered over to the desk, where he pulled out a seat and sat stiffly. "Nothing for me, thank you."

Mrs Hudson turned to John. He smiled and answered gratefully, "A beer would be great, thanks."

She then raised her eyebrows at Jeanette, who only raised the tea cup in her hands to show that she was alright.

"Anything, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, looking at the man who had walked in with her expectantly.

"Ooh," Lestrade said, rubbing his hands together, "I'll have a glass of white, if there's any going."

Mrs Hudson patted him on the arm again joyfully. "Of course there is, dear. Melanie?"

I swallowed. My mouth did suddenly feel rather drier than usual. I stepped forwards, following the landlady into the kitchen. "I'll help you, Mrs Hudson, don't worry."

"Aww, thank you. It's nice to know someone appreciates you."

Yes, I supposed it must have been.

I said Merry Christmas for what must have been the fifth time during our conversation before hanging up the phone.

At least my parents were enjoying their festive season as they relaxed on a beach in Spain and wiled away their nights in tapas bars. Someone should have a good holiday; I certainly wasn't going to anytime soon – not with Sherlock being as moody as he was and an absent family. Lucas was up in Birmingham with our one remaining grandparent (who had a serious case of the hates for me) and Nancy wasn't due to get back from her travels around South America for another few months yet. So it was a Christmas at 221B for me it seemed. Oh, the joy.

I didn't pay attention to whether the door to Sherlock's bedroom shut behind me or not as I crossed the hall and made my appearance in the living room once more.

"Don't make jokes, Molly." Sherlock was saying blankly.

I glanced around the corner and spotted the new visitor.

"Oh, hey," I greeted, holding my hand out for the woman I recognised as the pathologist to take, "It's Molly, right? We've met a couple of times before."

"Oh," the small squirrel-like girl said, surprise highlighting her features. She quickly tried to cover her momentary alarm with a smile. "Yeah, it's nice to see you again."

Her hand barely grazed my own before she was turning to Lestrade and accepting the glass of wine he was extending to her.

"Thank you." She told him. I didn't fail in spotting how swiftly she seemed to want to change conversation partners. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas."

I frowned for a second, feeling a little upset at her clear rejection of me, but got over it in an instant as it occurred to me just why she wasn't keen on speaking to me. One of the few times I had met her before, I had made her cry. At the time I hadn't thought too much of it, but now I was on the other side of it and I knew how it felt. No wonder she didn't want to see me.

Sherlock was an arse, indeed.

I meandered over to the desk where the annoying man was seated and perched on its edge.

"That's first thing in the morning – me and the wife. We're back together; it's all sorted."

Sherlock didn't even look up as he put in, "No, she's sleeping with a PE teacher."

"Sherlock!" I barked in disbelief.

His eyes didn't shift from the laptop in front of him as he added, "I don't know why you're so surprised, Melanie; he's your brother."

My face dropped.

"What?" The question slipped out of my mouth in a monotone murmur.

"And John," Molly spoke up, attempting to get rid of some of this awkwardness. I gazed up at the Detective Inspector who was clearly struggling to keep on smiling as he trod heavily around the kitchen, a look on his face that screamed 'the PE teacher, of course'. "I hear you're off to you sister's, is that right?"

I got to my feet. "I have to make a call."

"Yeah." John muttered.

I trotted out of the room as Molly kept on chattering, "Sherlock was complaining…"

This time I made sure the door behind me shut properly before hurriedly searching through my contacts and dialling.

The mobile rang four times before I finally got an answer from the other end.

"Hello?"

I didn't bother with any of the normal formalities, launching straight into an angry whisper. "What the hell do you think you're doing shagging a married woman?"

There was a moment's silence.

"Melanie?"

I was just getting to the conclusion of my rant when I heard the shouted question from the living room.

"Do you ever reply?"

My words ground to an untimely halt as the door flew open and a sombre-looking Sherlock strolled out. He passed me on the hallway, not paying the slightest notice to my presence, and walked straight into his own bedroom, closing the door softly after.

"Uh, Melanie, you were telling me off?"

"I'll call you later." I told Lucas absent-mindedly before hanging up and placing the phone back into my pocket. I stepped back into the room with the small party. Everyone looked confused, which automatically made me concerned. "What happened?"

John stood from his chair and started towards me.

"John?" I asked, hoping that maybe this time I might get a response. All I received was a worried John stepping around me and leaving the room. I glanced at the others there, urging them to explain.

Lestrade shrugged, apparently bewildered by the entire situation. "He just got a text and suddenly became even more unpleasant than usual and stormed off."

Oh, God.

I didn't need anyone to tell me who this text was from; I had an unnerving feeling that I already knew.

Slight delay in putting this one up, sorry. Been a bit manic with work overload here.

I couldn't resist putting Lucas into this one – hope it worked ok. Everyone knows there are only four PE teachers in the UK so when Sherlock said that line I automatically knew just who it was sleeping with Greg's wife.

Sherlock is an arse. He will become even more of one very soon. Poor Melanie.

This story is progressing quickly now, isn't it? Yeah, the next chapter's a big one. You'll need to prepare for it. Lol. Troll statement.

Review?