The next thing of which Sherlock was aware was a familiar, musty smell which, coupled with the slightly sweet disinfectant-like tang in his throat was enough to make his stomach lurch. Eventually, he realised that he was sprawled face-down on his sofa, arms and legs akimbo and his face turned into the backrest – almost as though he'd been dropped from a great height. The inside of his mouth felt dry and furry. Why did his sofa already smell so vile? He'd only had it since the refurbishment. He had his answer in the various notes of take-away food he could smell, along with an earthy fug of sweat – sometimes he just couldn't bear to sleep in his bed.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, trying to filter and file away everything he had just seen and heard. His chest felt tight, as though his heart had contracted and couldn't relax.

"Ahem," a strange, nervous voice said apologetically. "Ah…Sherlock?"

Sherlock whirled around so quickly that he misjudged his centre of balance and ended up in embarrassing knot of limbs on the living room rug. He could feel his forehead beading with sweat as his eyes hastily scanned the room for the source of the voice.

The figure was loitering by the entrance to the kitchen, clad in a misshapen cable-knit jumper and a pair of brown cords that had gone slack around the knees. He clutched his arms around himself, clearly uncomfortable, and when Sherlock finally made incredulous eye-contact with him, he offered a timid wave.

"Anderson?!" Sherlock exclaimed, almost hitting his head on the coffee table as he sat bolt upright.

"Ah, yes," the man replied, clearing his throat. "Hello."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" Sherlock said, eyes rolling upwards to query the wisdom of whichever capricious being was doing this to him. "You're my Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Apparently, I am, yes," Philip Anderson answered hesitantly. "Who…who were you expecting, out of interest?"

Sherlock put a hand on his throbbing temple and used the other one to feel his way back to the sofa, before collapsing there.

"Actually, I was hoping to God that I might wake up from this ridiculous pantomime," he growled. "'Expecting' is probably too strong a word. Why on earth would my unconscious mind give you, of all people, this role?"

"Um, none taken," Anderson replied with a nervous laugh, before adding, "I assume it's because you don't particularly care what the hell I'm doing at Christmas. And for the purposes of this particular exercise, I suppose that's an advantage."

"I suppose it could be worse," Sherlock reflected. "I could have got Donovan. Although at least she would probably have just punched me in the arm, called me a dick and then buggered off."

"Yes, well," Anderson responded, sounding slightly annoyed now. "It's me, I'm afraid. I don't suppose you've considered, however, that I know more about you than pretty much anyone – I studied you, your methods and your motivations so rigorously-"

"-some would say 'obsessively'-"

"-rigorously during your two-year absence that I practically have a Masters degree in Sherlock Holmes. Ergo, it makes complete sense that your subconscious would choose me as your guide."

"Ergo, my subconscious has a masochistic sense of humour," Sherlock replied darkly. "At least you've shaved off that beard. It made you look like you'd survived a shipwreck and been marooned on an island for several months."

The other man quickly put a hand up to his face to feel his smooth jaw, immediately looking perplexed.

"Actually, I didn't," he replied. "I can only guess that you dislike it so much that your mind excised it from this…whatever this is. A dream?"

Sherlock gave a vague wave of his hand, which he hoped indicated that he couldn't be arsed to explain it to someone who himself was part of said dream/trip/hallucination/descent into solvent-induced brain damage.

Anderson sighed. Sherlock could tell he was starting to get uppity now.

"Well, seeing as you've gone to the trouble to conjure me up and remove my oh-so-offensive facial hair, I may as well fulfil my role," he said.

"What is there to see anyway?" Sherlock demanded, hearing a weariness in his own tone. "I already know exactly what everyone else is doing this evening."

At this, Anderson folded his arms, irritably, staring down his nose at Sherlock, like a teacher whose patience is being tested by an annoying precocious twelve-year-old.

"Oh, really, Sherlock?" he replied. "Well, that shouldn't surprise me, I suppose, given how you always know everything. But it wouldn't be the first time your unconscious has brought me in to being, would it? When you were capering around Victorian London, trying to solve the Ricoletti case, you put me right there in the mortuary-"

"-where you were still a simpleton, as I recall-"

"And when Mary Watson shot you, who did your mind turn to for help to save your life?"

"Molly," Sherlock replied, without thinking.

"And?" Anderson prompted, gesturing as though engaging him in a game of charades.

Sherlock rolled his eyes – God, he really was a strange, needy little man.

"Yes, alright - you," he sighed, throwing up his hands in resignation.

"Precisely," Anderson said. "So perhaps your unconscious mind recognises that I'm more useful to you than your conscious mind is willing to admit."

"Let's just get on with it, hm?" Sherlock said, tetchily. "If it's alright with you, Anderson, I'd like to eventually get back to retching on my living room floor."

He watched as Anderson walked across the room to stand behind John's old chair, placing his hands on the backrest and patting it.

"You want me to sit in John's chair?" Sherlock asked, sceptically.

When Anderson gave a nod in response, Sherlock heaved a gusty sigh and did as he was told. The second that he settled himself in the chair, he felt as though he'd had the wind knocked out of him, leaving him almost bent double with breathlessness. When he recovered sufficiently to look up, he realised that he was no longer in Baker Street – instead, he was sitting in the armchair by the window in John's living room. The curtains were drawn, and the rug in front of the coffee table was strewn with several of Rosie's abandoned toys. It was when he noticed the small Christmas tree, raised up on a table out of Rosie's reach, that Sherlock acknowledged how long it had been since he had visited his friend's house.

Sherlock could hear noises coming from the kitchen, the clink of crockery and cutlery being put away, the whir and swish of the dishwasher. He swiveled in his chair, on the verge of getting to his feet, when John came padding out of the kitchen, his thumb and finger pinching his temples. He looked beyond tired. Sherlock watched him disappear into Rosie's bedroom, presumably to check on her, before returning to the living room. He looked as though he was heading towards the sofa close to where Sherlock was sitting, but then he stopped, took a deep breath, and instead returned to the kitchen.

A few moments later, John reappeared, carrying a bottle of whiskey and two cut-glass tumblers. Sherlock frowned, suddenly trying to recall whether John spoke of someone coming over on Christmas Eve. Not his sister, surely? The whiskey would hardly be the best idea.

Sherlock watched as his friend poured two measures, then drank his in one go. He set the glass back down on the coffee table, bringing his hands back into his lap.

"I know that I said I wouldn't do this anymore," John began, the fact that he was speaking at all taking Sherlock by surprise. "And you have to admit that I've done a pretty good job – it's been…well, it's been a long time. I've really been trying. But it's Christmas, and it's our first Christmas without you, and it's bloody hard - so I hope you'll forgive me, Mary, if I give myself permission to do this one more time."

Sherlock felt his throat tighten as he took in the words.

"I'm not doing this quite as much, which is good, I suppose," John continued, holding up his whiskey glass for emphasis. "Doesn't always feel good, but you know…I've been seeing a new therapist for a few months now – another new one obviously, and this one doesn't seem to want to kill me, so that's progress, I guess"

John let out a short, strangled laugh, and Sherlock swallowed hard, feeling acutely that what he was doing was an invasion of privacy.

"Rosie's doing great," his friend went on, nodding to himself, as though trying to keep on track. "She's…she's incredible. She's bright, she's funny, she's beautiful, she's learning all the time and…she…she really, really reminds me of you. Every day. Just a smile, or when I'm trying to teach her something and she just gives me this…look, like she already knows, and I'm wasting my time. Though maybe she's just copying Sherlock with that one."

He gave another short laugh, before raising his eyes to the ceiling for a brief moment.

"God, we miss you," John said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We miss you…so much. We look at photos, and we talk about you every day. Molly's been amazing about that. Sometimes I…well, there are days when I find it hard to talk about you, but Molly…she does it so easily with Rosie, and…well, you made a really good decision there, Mary – Molly is a brilliant godmother. You always saw things that I couldn't."

John scrubbed his face with his hand, before dropping his head down to focus on an unseen spot of beige carpet.

Sherlock felt his breath hitch, and that pressure building behind his eyes again. He thought about Molly with their goddaughter, how she always threw herself into the role, regardless of how long or hard her day had been. How being with Molly and Rosie had become one of his favourite places to be. He loved to watch them both, and, somehow, taking care of their goddaughter together (although, let's face it, Molly was always in charge) seemed to make communication easier.

"I…I shouldn't be seeing this," Sherlock said, haltingly. "It's not…this is not my business."

"Are you sure about that?" Anderson asked, appearing by the bookshelves at the other side of the room.

"Ahh…Rosie's godfather isn't doing too badly either," John continued, clearing his throat and attempting a brighter tone. "He's…I mean, obviously, it's been a pretty terrible year, and he's had a lot to deal with, but…he's kept it together. Not long ago, I think he would – Christ, I don't like to think what he might have done. You'd…you'd be proud of him, Mary - our little boy's all grown up."

John laughed to himself, poured himself another half-measure.

"Well, maybe that's going a bit far, but he's a bit less of an insensitive cock than he used to be."

Sherlock heard himself laugh, too, short and sharp, and saw his vision start to mist. He swiped at his eye.

"But...there's something going on with him," John went on. "I dunno what it is, but he definitely doesn't want to talk to me about it. He's…working a lot, and I mean a lot, even by Sherlock's standards. This all just started a couple of months ago, once things started to settle down a bit with his family. Sometimes, I think…I don't know…sometimes I think it has something to do with Molly, and what happened on that bloody island, but when it comes to Sherlock and women, I have finally realised that I have absolutely no bloody clue how his mind works."

At the mere mention of Molly's name again, Sherlock felt his heart perform some sort of complex gymnastics move. Aware that Anderson was watching him closely, he blinked, keeping his eyes on John in a show of concentration.

"I think they're okay," John reflected. "Sherlock and Molly, I mean. I thought the fact that she forgave him would help everything to get back to normal, but…it's not that there's any animosity there at all, just…something doesn't seem right. God, if you were here, you'd have it out of him in two minutes – you'd sort this all out."

Sherlock swiped at his eye again. Although his grief couldn't come close to that of his friend's, he felt the Mary-shaped hole in his life every day in some small way. He missed her frankness, the unrelenting optimism that he used to openly mock – and yes, he missed the fact that she could diffuse his bluster with just a smirk or a good-natured put-down.

"We're, ah, we're all having Christmas dinner at Baker Street," John said, speaking once again into the emptiness of his living room. "It should be nice, I think. Get everyone around a table again. Well, not everyone but…well, our little band of misfits anyway. I think everyone's grateful to have Rosie there at the centre of things – gives the day a purpose. I'll…I'll be okay by tomorrow, Mary, I'll do whatever I need to do to make it through the day, but…I need to have tonight."

As Sherlock tried to compose himself, Anderson broke the silence.

"Nice that, despite everything that's happened to him this year, he's thinking about you."

Sherlock dragged his fingers back through his hair, his curls a tangled mess when he looked up again.

"He's probably not the only one," Anderson continued. "Shall we have a look? I thought I might catch up with some old colleagues of mine."

The room started to dissolve around Sherlock, and suddenly he was assaulted by a barrage of noise and bright light. People stood in loose groups, pushing past each other, calling over each other's heads, suddenly erupting into howls of laughter. The smell of stale beer filled his nostrils and, coupled with the unusual number of police uniforms in the room, Sherlock deduced that he must be in-

"The Red Lion!" Anderson declared. "God, I miss this place - the old watering hole! They invited me to come along tonight, of course, but it's the regular meeting night for one of my groups. I'm the Chair, so it wouldn't really be right for me to miss it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The only thing worse than being in a pub – full of already-idiotic people, intent on jeopardizing their remaining braincells – was being in a pub with, effectively, only Anderson for company.

Just then, a familiar figure brushed past him carrying two full pint glasses and holding a packet of crisps between her teeth. Sherlock watched as Sally Donovan squeezed past some other groups of drinkers before setting the glasses down on a high table – where Lestrade was waiting. Getting up from the sticky banquette seat he'd found himself deposited on, Sherlock retraced her route through the crowds until he was standing a few feet away, Anderson at his heels.

"So, you haven't actually said what you're doing tomorrow," Donovan said, hitching herself onto a barstool.

"Not much," Lestrade replied, after taking a sip. "Quiet one. Drop in on my mum in the morning, then having a meal over at Baker Street. John's comin' over, too."

Donovan smirked.

"Christmas dinner for middle-aged rejects, then?"

Sherlock felt his pulse spike, and watched for Lestrade's reaction, but his friend seemed to maintain an air of calm in the face of provocation.

"Mrs Hudson will be there, too," he replied, matter-of-factly. "And Molly Hooper – you know, from Bart's."

"Yeah, I know the one," Donovan replied, with a grin. "Has she put Sherlock out of his misery and shagged him yet?"

Instantly, Sherlock felt his cheeks start to burn, acutely aware that Anderson was no doubt studying his every reaction – researching his PhD in Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, gave a slight shake of the head.

"None of my business," the DI replied. "Or yours. Or anyone else's."

"Okay, okay," Donovan said, tearing open the crisp packet. "But if he's ever gonna get his leg over, he's gonna have to stop pining and tell her the truth."

Lestrade reached over and took a handful of crisps, tipping them into his mouth.

"Not always that easy," he said, gulping down another mouthful of beer.

Donovan groaned, shaking her head.

"You men are all the same." she said. "Although at least that's a sign that Freakboy is actually pretty normal when you get past the voodoo mind-trick bullshit."

Sherlock felt Anderson nudge him.

"She and I used to-" he stage-whispered, conspiratorially.

"Don't want to think about it," Sherlock snapped, with a grimace.

"It was purely physical," Anderson continued.

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed. "Considering your former wife is now married to a Russian yacht-broker, it probably wasn't one of your better life decisions."

"Anyway," Lestrade was saying, close by. "Why do you suddenly care so much about Sherlock Holmes' love-life?"

Donovan shrugged, dipping her finger in the salty residue of the crisp packet.

"I guess he's been a bit less of a tosser recently," she replied. "And after all that shit from earlier in the year, I reckon even Sherlock Holmes deserves a bit of happiness. He and Molly can cut up a few bodies together, go for walks around graveyards – whatever floats their boat."

Lestrade smirked.

"Aw, Sal, you're turnin' into a bloody softy in your old age!" he teased, nudging her elbow with his.

"With all due respect, boss: shut up," Donovan said, Sherlock noting the slight blush rising in her cheeks. "And it's your round."

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade said, smiling broadly as he eased himself off the barstool. "I'll be sure to give Sherlock your love when I see 'im tomorrow."

Sherlock watched as Donovan scowled and gave Lestrade the finger; the older man laughed, before turning and weaving his way towards the bar. He realised then how quickly his pulse was racing, and hoped to God Anderson was as unperceptive and unobservant as he thought he was.

"Mm," Anderson said. "Greg seems pretty upbeat, all things considered."

Sherlock frowned.

"Why wouldn't he be? He's always like that."

At this, a slight look of smug triumph passed across Anderson's face – a surefire I-know-something-you-don't-know.

"Oh, you didn't know?" he said, with poorly-feigned surprise. "Lestrade's ex-wife is spending Christmas in the Seychelles – getting married."

Sherlock's gaze sought out Lestrade amongst the hordes, finally spotting him leaning against the bar. He was staring down at the counter, clearly lost in thought.

"You're not the only one who may not have the perfect Christmas, Sherlock," Anderson commented. "But at least Greg knows he'll be among friends."

Once again, Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. Of course he didn't know about Lestrade's wife – how could he? He hadn't said a word to him in weeks that wasn't work-related, and he knew he hadn't exactly been receptive to deep conversation lately (yes, even less so than usual).

"I was right, though, wasn't I?" Anderson added, sidling up to Sherlock. "About Molly. I called that one years ago."

Sherlock glowered at him. With several packets close to hand, he wondered whether Anderson's peanut allergy could be activated in his unconscious mind, too. He was willing to give it a try.

"Well, why don't you just say 'I told you so' and you can sod off and haunt someone who cares, hm?" he demanded.

"Happy to," Anderson replied, blithely. "Although that would mean you'd miss our last little stopping-off point. Something tells me you might like to see this one."

Immediately, Sherlock knew where - and who - Anderson was referring to, and he was powerless, too much of a coward, to refuse.

"What is it to be, Sherlock?" Anderson prompted. "Do you want to see her?"

Unable to raise his eyes to meet Anderson's, Sherlock nodded nevertheless. Almost right away, he was aware of the sudden change in atmosphere, and something else that stirred a visceral reaction in him – the immediate sense of calm and stillness. And home.

But now, in the dimly lit hallway of Molly's home, he suddenly felt as though he didn't have a right to be there. Still, he couldn't help himself – he wanted to see her; see what she was doing on Christmas Eve, without him.

Behind him, Anderson suddenly sneezed loudly, making Sherlock whirl around.

"Christ, Anderson!"

"Sorry," the older man replied, shrugging. "Allergies."

They both watched as Toby slunk by imperiously on his way from the living room into the kitchen.

"You're in my head," Sherlock said, irritably. "A figment of my imagination. How can you be sneezing at cat hair that also isn't real?"

Now he wished he'd tried the peanut idea. He was about to respond when he heard Molly's voice, and it halted all other thoughts.

"Hey, Tobes," she said softly. "Dinner's on its way, promise."

Moving silently into the kitchen, Sherlock put out his hand to feel the wall behind him, stopping when his eyes fell on her. He'd been wrong about the Christmas pyjamas, but instead Molly was wearing a green Christmas jumper with her work trousers. As she set down Toby's bowl and stood up again, Sherlock could see the jumper properly – the various elements of the periodic table were stacked to make a tree shape, with the words 'O Chemistree' printed above them

"Mm. Funny," noted Anderson.

But Sherlock barely heard him, preoccupied now by the sheer rapidity of his heartrate, the sudden hollow feeling in his stomach. She was only a few feet away, and in another version of events he could have traversed the space between them in seconds, reached out and touched her. And then…then, he didn't know what.

He watched as Molly lifted her phone from the counter just far enough to check for messages before setting it down. He tried to deduce her expression, but found he was struggling. Was she resigned to his absence, or was she hopeful still?

Molly flipped through her phone before setting it down on a speaker dock, Christmas music gradually filling the kitchen. She hummed to herself as she opened the fridge and started to take things out and make herself a quick post-work dinner – as she'd done for the two of them many times in the months after Sherrinford. He thought of the times that they'd sat together at the kitchen island, forks in one hand, phones or science journals in the other, exchanging work anecdotes or articles of interest they'd come across. Or cat memes, sometimes, in Molly's case.

He thought of all of the looks he'd stolen when Molly was concentrating on the food on her plate, or engrossed in a paragraph. He could feel the shift, feel himself moving towards that point of no return. It had all felt so easy, so natural, like it could happen without either of them having to try. Of course, they'd inhabited this space together before, during his two-year 'death', but this had been different. No tension between them, the wounds of Sherrinford having knitted together surprisingly quickly, leaving apparently little scarring.

"In a little while, she'll probably go and get ready for bed," Anderson commented, unsolicited. "Finish wrapping a few presents for tomorrow, maybe have a glass of Bailey's and one or two of those gingernuts she mentioned. Check her phone a couple more times; eventually head for bed."

He gave Sherlock a sideways glance, stroking his chin as though he still had a beard.

"Not a bad evening, just not the one she'd have liked."

Sherlock watched as Molly served the omelette onto her plate, fanning her mouth when she discovered it was hotter than she expected. As a result, he was left staring at her lips, remembering all of those times – each one meticulously catalogued - when he'd wondered whether the world would end if he kissed her. It probably explained why, despite having never so much as hugged her before, his arms now almost ached with emptiness.

But kissing her would be the easy part – a physical act he was (at least distantly) familiar with. It was everything that came after that was too hazy, carried too many risks and unknowns; even he probably hadn't considered all the ways that he could bollocks things up.

"It's better this way," Sherlock said, his voice almost catching on the words.

Anderson gave a sardonic snort.

"Oh really?! For whom?"

"It's just better," he insisted, knowing precisely how inadequate that sounded. "Nothing needs to change. Things are working, everyone is managing, life is…liveable. Molly is-" – his arm floundered around in her general direction – "…fine."

As he continued to watch, Sherlock saw Molly pick up her phone again, check it, set it down. She stood there for a short moment, staring at the phone. Then she seemed to snap out of her reverie, pushing the phone underneath a pile of mail and starting to stack her dinner things into the dishwasher.

"Yes, looks like Molly is probably fairly used to 'fine'," Anderson said, folding his arms. "You never know, though, tonight might give her the little push she needs."

Sherlock glanced across at him; something was being insinuated. Anderson – even this imaginary, slightly better-groomed version of him – loved nothing more than a knowledge advantage, however marginal.

"She had an offer of a date for drinks tonight," Anderson continued, keeping his gaze on Molly. "It came after she'd already invited you over, so she politely turned him down, but, you know…she has his number. Something for her to consider in the New Year, perhaps?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, aware that now would be a very poor time to display any one of the gamut of emotions he was suddenly feeling. He immediately wondered what he would do right now if this were all real, if he really was standing in Molly's kitchen, within touching distance.

"That's what you wanted, though, isn't it, Sherlock?" Anderson said. "Broadly speaking, anyway. You give her space, keep your distance; she eventually gets the message, realises it's time to make some changes, and moves on. Bit painful for everyone at first, maybe, but best in the long-run, eh?"

When laid out in front of him like this, it suddenly sounded utterly idiotic – and not just because it was coming from an idiot. If he could only wake up from this, he could start to order his muddled thoughts, apply some rationalism to the situation; five minutes in his Mind Palace would be all that would be needed to reassure himself about the course he had chosen. But he couldn't possibly do this when Molly was right in front of him, being…well, Molly.

"So, ah, what do you think?" Anderson asked brightly, as though he was presenting Sherlock with his latest crackpot theory – or perhaps a nice watercolour he'd just completed.

"I need to go back," Sherlock said, firmly.

"Absolutely, we can go back," Anderson replied. "Happy to oblige. Although when I say 'go back', you're, ah, you're not quite done for the evening, I'm afraid. Wish I could do something about that, but the situation is a smidge out of my control."

Sherlock sighed, trying to shift his gaze from Molly, who had just returned the kitchen in her pyjamas; but he couldn't take his eyes off her, she looked so beautiful. This was exactly what he feared, why he couldn't have gone there tonight.

"Anderson, please. Do whatever it is you need to do to get me back to Baker Street."

Whatever the future had in store, it couldn't be any harder than this.