Hello there! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm very very sorry. Ugh, you know how it is, my super hectic amazing lifestyle *cough* was getting the better of me. I kid, of course. I was revising, in a very half arsed sort of way, so I've probably failed all my exams. I've missed you all horribly, which is very sad, but I've had a dull couple of weeks and your lives seem to be so much more interesting than mine.

So, time for the update. Want a recap? Sherlock solved the last case, but it exposed John's scars from Afghanistan. Sexual tension + deep rooted anger = Violent outbursts, in the form of John pinning Sherlock to a wall and nearly suffocating him. And to make matters worse, Moriarty has started to mess with Lestrade's head by sending a present to his son. Oooh, plots. But never mind that for now, I promised you fluff!

Ugh, my head hurts. I've been working far too hard recently *supercough* Remember when I was writing this in December? It's June. JUNE.

P.S Coffee shop dialogue stolen (lovingly) from Role Models. I love that film, and Paul Rudd. IT IS NOT MY OWN.

Kay and Gerda were sitting looking at a picture book of birds and animals, and then- just as the clock in the great church tower began to strike five- Kay said, "Oh! Something pricked me in my heart! Oh! Now I've got something in my eye!"

The little girl put her arm round his neck, and he blinked his eyes. But no, there was nothing to be seen.

"I think it's gone," he said. But it hadn't. It was one of those tiny splinters from the demon's looking-glass- I'm sure you remember it. Poor Kay! He had got another piece right in his heart, which would soon be like a lump of ice. He didn't feel it hurting now, but it was there alright.

"Why are you crying?" he asked. "It makes you look horribly ugly. There's nothing the matter with me. Ugh!" he cried suddenly. "That rose has a worm in it. And look at that one- it's crooked. They're rotten, all of them. So are the boxes, too." And then he kicked the box hard, and tore off the roses.

"Kay, what are you doing?" cried the little girl. And when he saw how frightened she was, he tore off a third rose, and ran in at his window, away from his little friend Gerda.

After that, when she brought out the picture book, he said that it was baby stuff. When their grandmother told them stories, he would always find fault, and argue. He would even walk close behind her, put on spectacles, and mimic her way of talking. It was so well done that it made the people laugh. Soon he could mimic the ways of everyone in the street, especially if they were odd or unpleasant. People used to say, "Oh, he's clever that boy!" But all this came from the splinters of glass in his eye and in his heart; they made him tease even little Gerda, who loved him more than anything in the world.

11:30am

Sherlock stared enviously at a man in his home, lighting a cigarette yet still staying indoors. Damn the smoking ban. It wasn't like you could smoke outside anyway, the snow had grown so thick and cold that it was becoming hard to see. He trudged through the damp layers of ice and mud, John a little way in front of him, head bowed from the wind. Mercifully, they soon made it to the doors of the shopping centre, their clothes drenched and their feet frozen, but at least the wind had stopped.

"Why exactly," Sherlock managed to choke out. "Didn't we get a cab?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, we were fifteen minutes away. We didn't need to waste money on a cab."

Slowly having regained feeling in their legs, they began to walk around the corridors. Sherlock sniffed, his nose pink. "I didn't think you were the thrifty type- we had to force our way through all that snow!"

"There's a difference between being thrifty and being sensible, Sherlock. Unlike you, I don't enjoy blowing my hard earned cash on overpriced taxis and ridiculously expensive designer suits."

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you liked my clothes."

"Like, yes. Afford, no. Now come on, let's get a coffee."

Once Sherlock had finally admitted that he wouldn't find a coffee shop without any other people in it (he couldn't stand their idiotic conversations and obnoxious phone calls), they sat down in the café of a department store. He had disliked it immediately- it had attempted to make itself sounds slightly more Italian by being called itself 'Café Barista'. It was sickening. Sherlock waited impatiently beside John, who was taking a frankly insane amount of time to pick a muffin whilst a teenage assistant chewed gum and stared at them contemptuously. Once John finally decided, he gave her a cheery smile. "Can I get a tall decaf coffee, milk no sugar?"

Sherlock gave no such greeting. "A large coffee, black."

The teenager stared back with blank eyed nihilism. "A what?"

"Large. Black. Coffee."

She rolled her eyes. "Do you mean a Venti?" She spoke to him like a child, plainly and clearly.

"No," Sherlock said coolly. "A large."

"He means a Venti," said John apologetically. "The biggest one you have."

"Venti is large," the girl said to him, apparently stooping so low to reach his seemingly worthless intellect that she'd soon hit her head on the counter.

Sherlock sighed. "No, Venti is twenty. Large is large. In fact, tall is large, and grande is Spanish for large. Venti's the only one that doesn't mean large- it's also the only one that's Italian." Sherlock smirked. "Congratulations, you're stupid in three languages."

"Was that necessary?" said John, taking their drinks to an empty table after a hurried apology to the girl.

"I'm educating her," said Sherlock blandly. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Ugh, I'm not even going through this again." He took a sip of his coffee. "So, have you made a list?"

"Why would I do that? I'm only buying you a present."

John sighed. "What about Mrs Hudson? And Lestrade? And your-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Not Mycroft. I refuse. I've never once in my thirty four years of being alive bought that man a Christmas present, I'm not starting now."

"I bought him one."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, confused. "I still don't understand that. You barely know the man. First impressions are important, and the first time you met him he kidnapped you. It's hardly the basis of a balanced friendship."

"We have a healthy respect for one another and a common interest in you," said John matter of factly. "There's nothing wrong with that. Right, well, I've only got a few things left to buy- shall we go around together?"

"If you like," said Sherlock, his attempted nonchalance badly hiding his relief. He couldn't imagine what he'd buy anyone, especially his damn brother. It couldn't be that hard, though, surely?

2:30pm

This was hell, it had to be. Screaming, wailing children lined the streets, somehow audible over the freezing, roaring wind, their parents desperate to calm them down by giving them something sickly sweet. Even when they were indoors, the shops were packed, hundreds of people browsing and buying and gift wrapping. Sherlock was, frankly, a little sick of being poked in the back by busy shoppers, and his scarf was sodden from the snow. He wasn't sure he'd ever dry off.

He had, however, managed to find a present for his brother- a simple yet elegant Armani watch that he knew Mycroft would like. He had, however, gotten it fitted for a much thinner man's wrists- he couldn't have his cake and eat it too, and it wasn't like it was hard to fix. Sherlock had a reputation as a moody, surly brother to maintain.

John and Sherlock braced the brisk cold again, trudging down the street.

"This is horrible," Sherlock moaned. "I hate it. There are too many people!"

"Oh please," John said, trying to balance his bags (he had managed to find his presents for everyone except Sherlock, and was now supervising him). "You'll be-" John trod on a patch of ice, his shoe skidding across it. He began to fall backwards, bags flying to the four winds, but Sherlock grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

Somewhat embarrassingly, with several people watching, Sherlock raised John up from where he had caught him, level with his diaphragm, and straightened him up. They were very close together, Sherlock's arms still wrapped around John's back, his forehead just at the right level for Sherlock to kiss.

Finally, John coughed. Sherlock blushed and let go, whilst John scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, scrambling around on the floor to collect the bags.

"Thanks," John muttered, taking the bags from him. "Let's check in there for Mrs Hudson, shall we?"

4:30pm

He managed to find a present for Mrs Hudson eventually- a family portrait session at a local photographer's. He thought of her son, a touch angrily- whether the man could be bothered to turn up to the event was another matter. The useless swine had never treated her right- oh, he turned up with a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers occasionally, and took her to a show, but was he there when her second husband was arrested in Florida? Was he hell. She had needed him then, after the man she loved had betrayed her and committed such a horrible crime.

He'd also managed to find Lestrade a gift- a designer coat, far nicer than the one he was wearing to crime scenes currently, but still practical and warm. So now they had split up, in search of presents for each other, and Sherlock felt like he would never find anything for John. The man was so hard to buy for, he didn't need anything.

He was in the seven hundredth jumper stockist he could find, weighing up the options and deciding that nothing was good enough for him, when he felt his phone ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me," said Lestrade. "We checked out Adam Doherty's recent financial arrangements, and it turns out that he visited a jewellery shop recently. Apparently it was a necklace for his sister- could this be a link?"

Sherlock smiled. "It certainly sounds like one. Definitely a necklace, though? Not a ring?"

"Yes," Lestrade continued. "And it's not gold, I'm afraid, it's silver. But it could be a link to the jewellery shop- could you check it out with us?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "It gives me an excuse to stop shopping anyway."

"Shopping?" Lestrade was clearly shocked. "What, you don't mean shopping for Christmas?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No!" Lestrade laughed. "It's just… unusual, is all. Is this another John imposed task?"

Sherlock, to his horror, found himself blushing. "Perhaps, does it matter?"

The smirk was thick in his voice. "No, no, not at all."

Sherlock frowned. "When do you want us there?"

"As soon as you can."

5:10pm

Sherlock and John had caught a cab and were on their way to meet Lestrade at the address he had given them.

"So it's a jewellery shop," said John in the cab. "Perhaps the owner has the connection."

"That's what I hate," said Sherlock bitterly. "It's never definite. I can never be sure…"

John looked out of the window. "Perhaps that's what he wants. He wants you to feel uneasy."

They pulled up at the shop down a narrow high street and saw Lestrade outside waiting for them. Sherlock quickly passed payment to the driver before rubbing his hands together- it figured that today he'd forget to bring his gloves.

The shop was small and cluttered, hand made products standing proudly in the window. There was a sticker on the window stating 'All our jewellery is made here, in the shop. We carbon offset all our products.'

"The owner's a Ms Adams," said Lestrade. "We thought this could be a connection to Adam Doherty?"

Sherlock gave him a small half smile. "Potentially. Let's go meet her, shall we?"

They walked into the shop, the bell jingling as they passed through the beaded curtain. Sherlock stooped to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe, but unfortunately managed to entangle himself in a dream catcher.

"Sherlock," John laughed. "Are you stuck?"

Sherlock glared. "I suppose one advantage of being so short is that this doesn't happen to you."

John gave him a mental 'Touché', before they remembered what they were here to do. Lestrade rang the bell on the desk, the metallic sound ringing out loudly in the empty shop.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "There's nothing gold in here. It's all wood, plastic or other metals."

A middle aged woman with deep purple hair came out from a back room and smiled. "Hello, how may I help you?"

Sherlock answered before Lestrade had a chance. "Hello. We're part of a police investigation, we'd like to ask you a few questions."

A little shocked, she replied "… Of course. Would you like to come into my office?"

They travelled through the seemingly labyrinthine passageways of the shop until they found her office. It was decorated much the same as the shop was, crystals hanging from the ceiling and a chart of palmistry lines.

"Please, sit," she said, indicating- to Sherlock's dismay- a few empty beanbag chairs. Lestrade and John sat down politely, sinking a little into the fabric. Sherlock stood, his gaze on the woman steely. "There have been a number of murders, and attempted murders."

She gaped. "I know nothing about any murders!"

"We're not suggesting you do," said Lestrade reassuringly. "The victims of this killer have been unrelated. We think you could be targeted."

Her eyes widened. "Oh God."

"We can protect you, Ms Adams."

"Call me Beatrix, please. But- why?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information."

"Do you sell your jewellery elsewhere, Ms Adams?" said Sherlock.

She shook her head. "No. Just here, in the shop."

"Right…" Sherlock began to pace. "And the metal you use is scrap?"

"Yes."

"Not gold?"

"No."

Sherlock swore inwardly. Back to square one. "It must be here, though. It has to be."

Lestrade stood up. "Sherlock, I don't think we should waste more of Ms Adams' time unnecessarily."

"Um," Beatrix said hesitantly. "I do repair golden jewellery, cheaply. I use copper instead to hide the seam. For people who want to keep their jewellery nice but can't afford to get it fixed properly."

Sherlock smiled, a little bitterly. "Thank you, but we should go. We will contact you tomorrow, it's getting late."

She hovered by the door as they were leaving, a little nervously. "I will be alright, won't I? I am safe?"

Sherlock said nothing, but hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street.

6:00pm

Sherlock stripped off his still sodden shirt, throwing it into the nearby washing basket. He was freezing, the cold had really gotten to him. It felt like he was getting a cold.

He had really really wanted to solve this case quickly. His mind didn't seem to be functioning properly- maybe it was the cold. Yes, that seemed right. He hated being ill- all those people simpering over you, asking you if you wanted anything. It was all so helpless. He hadn't been ill for ages, not since he was a child- well, not with a physical ailment, in any case.

Irritated, Sherlock walked across the flat to the kitchen, trying to make a cup of tea.

"You shouldn't walk around half naked, you know."

Sherlock spun around, to find a dark haired man in an expensive suit smiling back at him.

"You'll catch your death of cold."

One winter's day, as the snowflakes drifted down, he brought out a magnifying glass, then held out the corner of his blue jacket to catch some falling flakes.

"Now look through the glass, Gerda," he said. And she saw that every flake was very much larger, and looked like a splendid flower or a ten pointed star. It was certainly a wonderful sight.

"Look at that pattern- isn't it marvellous!" said Kay. "These are much more interesting than real flowers- and there isn't a single fault in them. They're perfect- if only they didn't melt."

OK, that was more plotty than expected. The plot dragon controls it, not me. I just throw it a virgin once and a while. Extracts of 'The Snow Queen', as always, are the work of Hans Christian Andersen and Naomie Harris, not myself.