20th December

Christmas music, god help him, blared out from upstairs as he walked into the flat. Ava and John were no-where to be seen but the living area was a mess. The tree (that was mercifully just silver with the exception of the one pink bauble he'd allowed Ava) stood in the corner with presents underneath while snippets of wrapping paper littered the floor and cello tape hung off the edge of the desk and the arm of his chair. A half full cup of tea sat on the side table and three or four plastic bags from different shops were still scattered about.

Perhaps this was how John felt when he walked in to find an unfinished experiment scattered over the table with half empty beakers and sticky test tubes.

Eyeing the sight with distaste, Sherlock turned to place his newest item in the fridge in the bottom drawer. The dead bird had been found close to the water source used by the victim in Lestrade's cold case.

As Sherlock shut the door he was faced with a bundle of excited energy in the form of Ava Watson, holding up a plate of mince-pies.

Home-made, wonky mince pies.

"You missed lunch." Ava stated, as if that explained something.

Sherlock flickered his eyes across the plate again. With a very deep sigh, hating how well she could corner him, he plucked out the smallest, most even and un-burnt one possible.

Ava beamed and watched.

John was no-where in sight, probably having already made a strategic retreat from the baking. Throwing a hateful look at the ceiling where John was probably safe, Sherlock bit into the pie.

And wished he'd thrown the whole thing in his mouth because now, somehow, he had to eat the rest of it knowing how foul it tasted.

Trying to swallow the gritty texture he stared at the remains and glanced down at Ava who looked desperately excited to hear his review.

The rest of the pie followed quickly and somehow he managed to swallow it all down.

"Well?" She asked hopefully.

"Have you had one yet?" he asked, disliking the idea of not telling her the truth but not at all sure how to go about it.

Ava shook her head and screwed up her nose, "I don't like mince pies."

"Nor do I." Sherlock replied, allowing the rest of the sentence to remain unsaid.

Ava threw him a confused look, "Why did you eat it then?" And, with a roll of her eyes as if he were the difficult one she shrugged and put the plate on the table.

While Ava gathered up the paper singing to herself off tune and seeming to somehow create some bizarre game out of the tidy up, Sherlock made his way upstairs.

"Did you get caught by the mince pies?" John asked as Sherlock opened the door. "Mrs Hudson can't figure out how she managed to make them that bad." John threw him a grin as he bit down on the cello-tape to snap it, "I'll chuck 'em out once she's gone to bed."

It was an odd sight; the former soldier sitting on the little pink and purple bed, surrounded by empty rolls of Christmas paper and scraps of ribbon and coloured paper. Amused, Sherlock picked up a strand of silver ribbon and let it thread through his fingers.

"Did you get what you needed?" John asked, sticking the paper closed over the present and folding the edges with quick practiced moves.

"When did you learn how to wrap?" Sherlock asked, thinking of the cello-tape covered present he'd been given years ago.

John grinned as he continued, "I can wrap boxes. Everything I buy either comes in a box or can go in a box."

"And this?" Sherlock indicated the ribbon in his hands.

"If I imagine it's a rope then I'm fine with it," John muttered, looking a bit self-conscious now as he took the ribbon. "Don't worry, I'll use yesterday's newspaper to wrap yours. Nothing festive, I promise."

Sherlock brushed a thumb under John's chin and kissed him.

Because he could.

"Leave the mince pies," Sherlock said as they broke away. "Mycroft might pay a visit."

John smiled even as he tried to look disapproving. "That's cruel, even for you."

Sherlock sniffed dismissively. "He'll deserve it."

John had thankfully simply signed Sherlock's name alongside his own to most of the presents he'd bought for Ava.

It still meant he needed to get something for John. He'd even managed to walk around the corner to Oxford Street before staring in undisguised disgust at the amount of people surging the shops and turning away again.

Besides John wasn't exactly materialistic. Buying him a life supply of milk would probably content him.

But still Sherlock was relatively sure that there needed to be some gesture. Some indication of his changed intentions for their first Christmas together.

"What?" John asked warily as Ava coloured in on the floor after dinner.

Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"You've been looking at me all day," John said briefly glancing at Ava. "As if I'm a spare part you're not quite too sure what to do with."

Glancing at the laptop on his knee Sherlock pursed his lips, "No reason." He said focusing on the news report of the outcome of the case. Thankfully his name wasn't anywhere in it.

"That was honest," John muttered pointedly.

"It's Christmas." Sherlock hissed, "You aren't meant to be honest at Christmas."

John screwed his nose up and grinned, "So what second hand gifts were you planning on passing off this year?" he asked.

"Why was there something you wanted?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his tone as far from genuinely curious as he could.

"Nope," John took a sip of tea. "Not really."

21st December

Christmas cards.

Why hadn't he remembered Christmas cards? Yet another previously useless piece of information that had to be restored.

Truly they were just a waste of paper. Who needed the things when texts allowed you to send messages that were far cheaper and quicker?

And severely cut down on the amount of pathetically twee poems that were created just for cards.

Did he need to get Ava and John a card? Could he get them one together or did they have to be separate?

Could he even get joint cards for…new partner and new partners child?

Likely the card makers would have rephrased it into something far more sentimental than that.

He'd left the pair of them hanging the cards onto string that was draped around the edges of the flat walls. Or rather John was balancing precariously on the arm of a chair while Ava stared at him enviously and sulked.

He hated Christmas.

"What would you buy John for a present?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he handed over his notes.

Lestrade squinted in confusion but then seemed to accept it as yet another one of Sherlock's quirks. "A new fridge?" he offered, "A new flatmate?"

"Very droll," Sherlock snapped, feeling ridiculous for even asking.

With a deep sigh Lestrade rubbed at his forehead. "I don't know Sherlock. A break."

"I'm not that bad-"

"No," Lestrade refocused on him, "I meant he's been looking after Ava on his own for years. He might enjoy a free weekend or you babysitting," Lestrade paused, "Or you finding a babysitter."

"Babysitting?" Sherlock asked. "Why would he need a babysitter?"

Lestrade shuffled his papers, "Kids usually kill a romantic mood. I doubt he's had a date in ages."

Date?

Something must have passed across his face because Lestrade paused in what he was doing.

"What?"

"That's hardly my area," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade's face was a picture.

"You are aware you don't actually need to accompany him on dates?" Lestrade snapped. "He's a grown man; he doesn't need you to hold his hand."

It was on the tip of his tongue to snap back. To point out that even Sherlock, with his limited interest in dating, knew that the two people had to both be present for the date to actually occur. But John and Lestrade were friends and Lestrade seemed to have no clue that the relationship between him and John had changed.

Which begged the question as to why John hadn't told him?

When he rentered the flat, armed with cards (how was it that Clintons managed to create cards for pets but not to new partner and child?) it was quiet and empty.

Sherlock paused on the stairs with something approaching dread.

It was five which meant Ava and John should be sitting down to eat or at least preparing dinner. John seemed to despise silence at the moment and so would have the television on or music blaring out. John's finances weren't built up enough that the man would be comfortable splashing out on a meal and he hadn't gained enough patience over the years to be willing to go to a crowded fast food restaurant just for the sake of it.

Slowly Sherlock pushed the door to the kitchen open.

They hadn't finished the cards. In fact there was still an empty strand of string hanging down and a pile of cards on the floor showing where John had been in the middle of threading it. The pile that he'd allowed them to open (probably all from Mycroft and probably all reminding him of various Christmas duties he'd neglected over the years) was spread around the sofa in a haphazard fashion that could only mean Ava had gotten most of the way through.

There was no sign of an injury. Ava's trainers were gone and so was John's jacket.

John didn't answer his phone. Even when Sherlock dialled non-stop for five minutes.

Sheer panic had him dialling Lestrade before his brain caught up.

"What now?" Lestrade asked sounding tired. "I don't care if you think the mother-"

"They aren't here," Sherlock snapped into the phone.

"Who aren't where?" Lestrade asked in the same patronising tone one would use with a stroppy child.

"John and Ava." Sherlock glanced around at again and the suddenly stopped projects.

"Maybe they're out," Lestrade suggested sounding annoyed.

"For gods sakes, do you really think I'd phone if they were just out?" Sherlock snarled. "They left suddenly and John isn't answering."

"Maybe there was an emergency," Lestrade yawned. "A friend in need-"

"Like who?" Sherlock demanded. "And John wouldn't take Ava with him if that was the case."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, "You're serious?" he asked, suddenly sounding far more alert.

"Of course I'm serious,"

"I'll make some calls," Lestrade said sounding as if he was finally sitting up. "I'll try calling John as well and-"

Not bothering to dignify that with a response Sherlock slammed his thumb on the screen to end the call and dialled Mycroft instead.

"Please tell me this call has nothing to do with the time of the year. It's sickening-"

"Where is John?" Sherlock snarled, ignoring his brother's opinion on the one thing they actually agreed on.

Mycroft sighed. "The security is across the street from you. It would be far easier for you to get your backside into gear and walk across the road. I am busy."

Ending that call in much the same way, Sherlock stormed out of the room intending to march down the stairs.

Instead, something on the stairs to the other floor caught his eye.

A sock.

Reaching over he plucked it from where it hung and studied it. One of John's basic, boring socks.

Calmer he turned and walked up to their room.

John had packed.

Strangely that didn't make his panic go away.

Why?

There was a conclusion starting to form, but one that was based on fear and doubt rather than logical thinking. The idea that John had just walked out and taken Ava with him was preposterous.

For one the man had no-where to go and couldn't afford to go anywhere else at the moment. For another John had more invested in the relationship than Sherlock had.

He was allowing that momentary fear and confusion when he'd realised Lestrade knew nothing about his and John's relationship, to overtake his reasoning.

John knew Sherlock. He knew Sherlock didn't do Christmas or presents or cards. He hadn't been bothered by it yesterday.

But the fact remained that John had left and wasn't answering the phone.

What had changed?

The cards.

Sherlock whirled into the living area and scooped up the pile that had been his cards, throwing each of Mycroft's snippy remarks to the floor along with the odd genuine one from Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and a few others.

Why they bothered he had no idea.

Until he saw it.

Elegant, the picture was almost rude but tasteful. And it was scented.

He didn't need to open the card to know who'd sent it.

Irene Adler was still a royal pain.

John's insecurity could be dealt with later. As it was he'd done the best possible thing at the moment.

Left.

It took less than three texts to find out where she was. Clearly she wanted to be found, which was a cause for concern in itself. The last time he'd dealt with the woman she'd been backed into a corner and playing for her life.

The idea of facing her when she was in control was intriguing.

It would probably be best not to mention that to John straight away.

The hotel was one that catered exclusively for those who could pay for a discrete service. The dining room was bright and overly ornate as he stepped to the doors.

The maître de nodded at him and started walking towards a table.

The years had been good to Irene. She sat; hair elegantly coiled and lips a sharp ruby red in a laced black dress that clung to her like a second skin. She watched him over the edge of her wine glass as she took a sip.

"Mr Holmes," her mouth curled upwards looking pleased, "How pleasant to see you again,"

The maître de had pulled one of the chairs out. Glancing at the other empty place setting Sherlock sat.

"Finally," she smiled with a widening smirk of her eyes, "Now, what shall we order for dinner?"

"When is he joining us?" he asked picking the menu and browsing calmly. He allowed his eyes to flicker up to her face to catch her momentary surprise.

"Soon," she covered the expression well. "I did ask for a chance to reacquaint myself before we discussed business."

"How was hiding for your life?" he asked in a tone that indicated he really didn't care.

"Exhilarating!" She purred, "And how was being dead?"

"Dull," he flickered the word out with a sneer. Reaching out he plucked the already poured glass of wine and took a sip. "I would have thought you would have learned your lesson by now."

"My lesson?" she sat back amused.

"Of playing games that are beyond you. You lost spectacularly last time."

It still riled her; the slight firming of her mouth was as obvious as a tantrum.

"Well Mr Holmes I now have nothing to lose. It's much easier to play that way," she softened her expression in mock sympathy, "Not that you would know." Turning the menu page she studied it intently. "How is John?"

Sherlock flickered his eyes over the page in front him. "Fine."

"Gay yet?" she asked smirking.

Matching her stare for stare he placed the wine glass back on the pristine tablecloth, "He's gotten further than you did."

Her sudden intake of breath was pleasing.

"This is intriguing," she said after a sip to recover, "I've never had you in full battle mode before." She added with a suggestive lilt.

In the reflection of the glass he could see the maître de coming back over, a smaller figure following, "You don't warrant it." His voice lashed out, "And you're a fool for walking into this again."

With that he turned and waved his hand imperiously at the last seat at their table. "Do sit down Jim."

Moriarty didn't seem at all surprised, "How kind of you," he smiled as he sat and shifted in the chair to get comfortable. "Doesn't this all look wonderful?" he asked gleefully.

The exact same face he'd made in the CCTV footage when he'd had the meeting with John.

Sherlock flickered his eyes down to the knife that had been laid in a neat line on the left of his setting. Not one of them was sharp enough to easily jam into him.

Pity.

"How's the family?" Moriarty asked looking for all the world as if they were work colleagues having a Christmas meal.

Which, in some ways, Sherlock supposed they were.

"We've done that," Sherlock replied, "You were late."

Moriarty pulled an almost embarrassed face. "Oh dear, I'm sure the wonderful Miss Adler will fill me in."

A flicker in Irene's direction saw her watching Sherlock over her menu.

Nothing to lose? That was probably the greatest lie he'd ever heard fall past her lips. Moriaarty had something on her...

"Then how's big brother?" Moriarty asked his demeanour changing suddenly and snapping Sherlock's attention back, "Still giving out information like it's water?"

Clenching his jaw Sherlock covered it with another sip. "I told you, we covered that."

But Irene pouted, "No, actually all we talked about was Dr Watson. But how sweet to hear you confess your feeling for him."

He needed to focus.

"Well Sherlock does like his dull little pets," Moriarty complained and then caught the waiter's eye. Catching Sherlock's expression he tutted, "I do hope you aren't planning on losing your temper," he frowned disapprovingly, "See the owner and the manager here, well-

"I know what they like," Irene smoothly took up the point with a suggestive smile as she greeted the waiter.

"And there are lots of friendly faces," Moriarty made a show of looking around. "Now, ladies first."

"Dessert?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock leaned back to allow the waiter to clear his main dish.

"After all, every decision is made over dessert and coffee." Moriarty added as the waiters left.

They'd traded verbal volleys for the past hour, and Sherlock had gleaned quite a bit about Moriarty's dealings.

He had a feeling he was meant to.

"Clearly you want something," Sherlock took a sip of water to clear the rich food from his mouth.

Moriarty pulled a pouty face and sighed in disappointment, "No dessert then." He shook his head. "Well. I want you back."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I mean even when I thought were dead I still had you to play against. Life just hasn't been the same these past few months. And it was getting exciting; if big brother hadn't stuck his nose in we might not be having this conversation at all." Moriarty hissed at the possibilities with a smile. "This little experiment of yours, playing pet detective for your inspector and happy families with the doctor. It irritates me." The last sentence was suddenly spoken in a cold tone. "Deeply irritates me." He sat forward eyes gleaming, "and, while I hate repeating myself Sherlock, don't forget that I know exactly how to pull your strings and make you play."

Irene watched him through lowered lashes, "After all, I could make the doctor leave the house with just a sentence." She added nonchalantly.

Sherlock glanced between them and then slowly cast his gaze around the room until he met Moran's eyes without expression.

Wiping his mouth he tossed the napkin on the table and stood.

"I do hope you were listening to my hints," Moriarty smiled up at him, "I just can't remember which ones were true." He pulled a worried face. "Oops."

Sherlock stared down at him and then bent to his ear.

"Be careful with this game. If you pull my "strings" too hard I'll strangle you with them."

Moriarty pulled back so they could stare at each other. "You won't let it get to that stage," he crowed, "I could make you into the next Jack the Ripper and you'd follow willingly as long as I didn't hurt dear Doctor Watson."

Sherlock shook his head, "You have such limited ideas about hurt." He hissed, "And if I ever discover you tormenting him like that again I will not give a damn about rules and consequences. I told you once I would shake your hand in hell and if you push me I will show you just how much I meant it."

Moriarty stared up at him as a smile started to spread on his face. "Welcome back."

Sherlock didn't stop until he got back inside the flat.

He had about five minutes before Mycroft showed up.

Resting his forehead against the entrance door to the flat, hidden from the window by the kitchen dividers he just breathed.

Moriarty still underestimated John.

Moriarty had dismissed Ava.

Sherlock breathed out his relief and let his nails scrape against the flecking paint of the door as he tried to calm the storm inside of him.

Regardless of her motives, he should have let Irene Adler die when he had the chance.

By the time Mycroft walked through the door, Sherlock was sitting with a book as calm as you please.

"What were you thinking?" Mycroft sneered standing in the door way and shaking, as if it was taking everything he had not to hit Sherlock.

"When? When I let Miss Adler live or when I went to have dinner tonight?" Sherlock asked politely.

Mycroft's control broke and he stormed into the room. Laying his book on his knees Sherlock turned his face to his brother and accepted the backhand with a sigh. Staring off to the side he clamped his mouth shut.

"You do not go near them," Mycroft's voice was strained as he scrambled for control again. "Do you hear me Sherlock? You do not go near them. Either one of them again."

Slowly Sherlock turned his head back and lifted his gaze defiantly to Mycroft's. "Sentiment dear brother?" he asked mockingly.

"You never have been able to play to win." Mycroft drew back with a shake of his head, "It's always to show you're the cleverest player. James Moriarty doesn't play to win or to show off; he pays to destroy his opponents. And a blind man would know how to ruin you."

"Or a consulting criminal who knows how to ask you the right questions." Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft shook his head, "He knows your heart Sherlock," at that Mycroft seemed to deflate, "everyone knows your heart."

"Then it would seem you storming in with your histrionics was pointless," Sherlock picked the book up again. "There is nothing to be done by withdrawing now."

Mycroft was silent for an age. "They're in Euston." He said eventually.

"I know." Sherlock stared at the page without seeing it.

"They're safe. I've had people watching them since your call earlier."

Sherlock nodded, "I assumed you had."

So...yeah. Not what I orginally planned but there you are! I've had a rather brilliant day today so I thought I'd share the joy...or the building drama...!