CHAPTER SEVEN

Sherlock got to his feet, excising himself from the group. It was only 9:37 and he had no desire to spend another six hours until dinner with his family. He didn't give any excuses, he simple made his way to the door, ordering John to bring the ridiculous - his exact words. - pile of presents with him.

John gave the group his usual apologetic nod before gathering the things in his arms and following after Sherlock.

A smug comment followed him out of the room and he had to shake his head. "Well, we know who wears the trousers in that relationship."

John had to shake his head, no truer words were spoken, he was most defiantly Sherlock's bitch and it infuriated the living hell out of him.

Back in their room, John dropped the pile on the bed and folded his arms over his chest.

"Is there something wrong John." Sherlock asked uncaringly, while retrieving his computer.

"You! - Are you always that rude to your family."

"Rude?" Sherlock frown with genuine bewilderment. "I was honest, not rude."

John grumbled throw up his hands. "Unbelievable. - I don't now that you did it, but you continue to amaze me."

"Thank you John."

"This time it wasn't a compliment!" John snapped.

"So you have any idea how ungrateful you sounded back there. - Your family take the time to buy you a gift and do you say thank you? Do you smile? No, you call them ridiculous, pointless and ugly. - You Sherlock Holmes are the most….infuriatingly ungrateful bastard I've ever met!"

Sherlock watched him with an unaffected stare.

"And next time carry your own damn stuff. I'm not your fucking slave." John added finally before storming out of the room.

This of course was nothing new to Sherlock. John often stormed out after an argument, he'd come back the next day calmer and ready to work.

~ SHERLOCK ~

John strolled thought the hall looking up at the paintings, breathing in calming breaths. He really wish he was in London, then her could go and crash of Sarah's sofa for the night.

He paused beneath a Victorian painting. The man pictured sat in profile and remained him very much of Sherlock, with the sharp features and judging look. The man's hair dark and slicked back, totally unlike Sherlock's mass of unruly curls.

"That's my great-grandfather. - Sherlock's name sake."

John practically jumped out of his skin at the sudden interruption. Turning he came face to face with Percival Holmes.

"He is very much like him. - at least if the dairies are to be believed."

"Oh…. Really? - Then it's a wonder your family line has survived." John said light-heartedly, though the small joke didn't gain the desire smile.

Percival remained John of an old brigadier he'd once met. - If fact he was more that sure that was exactly what Percival was. Every nerve in his body screamed for his to stand to attention and salute the taller man.

"Why are you here Dr. Watson?"

John gaped. "Um…huh…. I'm here with your son."

Percival looked the ex military doctor from top to toe. "In what respect?"

John swallowed. He'd thought he'd be able to get though the weekend without having to say the actual words. "I - I'm…" he couldn't say it, he just could bring himself to speak the word. "I'm his partner." that was better.

Partner had so many meanings and in some respect John Watson was Sherlock's partner. Just not in the way everyone they knew thought.

"Really?" The old man murmured, his slim fingers, so like his sons, brushing at the thick layer of hair on his top lip.

John nodded, even though the man wasn't looking at him but up at the painting. He obviously didn't believe a word john said, he could see it in every look and every movement.

"I met men like you in the army, Doctor."

Bingo. John thought absently. Take that Sherlock Holmes. "How do you mean Sir." John answered, his back instantly straightening and his tone taking on a more military timber.

Percival thrust his hands into his pocket and looked down at the man. "My son's are all about deduction, like my great-grandfather, I do not share their gifts…. But I know people."

John shifted on his feet, wishing he had his cane cause his leg was beginning to ache, psychosomatic or not. He didn't like where this conversation was heading, but stood respectively silent and waited for Percival Holmes's analysis.

It never came. The older man turned on his heels and left John standing in the hall beneath the painting of Sherlock Holmes looking confusing and concerned.

~ SHERLOCK ~

Sherlock was sat at the small desk staring at his computer, his fingers steepled and pressed to his lips. He'd finally gotten what he'd wanted, a case, the unfortunately thing was that it was boringly simple. Sometime it drove his crazy who thick Lestrade was, after all the evidence was there clear as day in the crime scene photos.

He wished it hadn't been so easy because he wanted to go home to Baker Street and spend what's left of Christmas in the peace of his home. Maybe if they were at home John wouldn't be flying off the handle over the smallest thing.

Sherlock found himself distracted by John. What had gotten into the man? After six months together surly John wasn't that surprised by his behaviour, but had been. The look on his face while he shouted at him reminded him of his reaction to the Moriarty cases. He'd been disappointed in him then.

As much as Sherlock had surprised John, John had amazed Sherlock. Although they had only been flat-mates for a month or so, he had thought they were well matched. He believed John knew him better than anyone, at least he seemed to, but that he could not see that he had cared about the lives of the people Moriarty had placed in danger simply to get to him, had hurt.

Of course Sherlock had cared. The difference was, as he had tried to explain at the time, that his caring wouldn't help them. Had John wanted him to wring his hands and weep, or stop the bastard that was strapping explosives to their chests?

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That night would always haunt him. His heart had almost stopped when John had walked out of those changing rooms. Of course he should have seen it. He should never have allowed John out of his sight until the bomber was caught. He should has seen so much about that case but had failed and it had almost cost them their lives.

Sherlock tried to ignore the hammering in his chest at the thought. Maybe having John around was a bad idea. Maybe he was better off alone. That way no one could get hurt or killed. But the idea of going back to that solitary life sent a ice cold shiver down his back. As much as he hate to admit it, even to himself, he'd come to depend of John in so many ways.

Opening his eyes he returned his gaze to the crime scene photo's Lestrade had emailed him. With a regretful sigh he set his fingers to composing a reply.

Arrest the man dressing as Santa on the north corner of Oxford Street.

SH.

Sherlock hit send and leant back in his seat. He was not feeling the rush that he usually got from solving a case, probably because he'd done so without moving from his desk. He was growing more irritated and bored by the moment. John was mad at him again. He had Jacob sending come hither looks every five seconds despite the fact Sherlock was with John. - At least as far as the family were concerned. He had Anna and Mary watching them with dream happy looks on their faces. His father hadn't said more than a few words to him. - which wasn't at all unusual and their was Mycroft. He still couldn't figure out why his brother had made him come, especially when he had been adamant about keeping him away from Jacob. He wondered if it perhaps had something to do with Anna's husband, who despite what Anna had told him was neither French or an investment banker.

An uncharacteristically protective urge took hold in his gut. He'd figure out what that man was hiding. Maybe he could get John to see what he could weasel out of Anna, when he finally calmed down.

A/N: Thanks for reading, reviewing and faving. :D

Will update as soon as I can. Promise.