Thank you so much for the great repsonse!

Christmas - with all its up's and downs in the most literal ways as well :P

23rd December

Sherlock hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep until he was woken by John getting out of bed. Annoyed by the sudden shift of warmth he curled his arm out, trying to drag John back under the covers. A deep chuckle rung out and a hand smoothed Sherlock's hair out from his face, even as John resisted Sherlock's poor attempts at dragging him back to bed.

"Sleep," John suggested gently. "I need a shower."

Sherlock cracked an eye open as John hesitated before pulling on Sherlock's dressing gown. Enjoying the sight Sherlock watched John as until he'd left the room.

Then dug around for his phone, which he'd put on silent last night so as to not wake John while he texted.

A few of his old contacts had responded; a lot less then was ideal but roughly as many as he had expected. The most promising lead was in Amsterdam, a city Sherlock despised given the temptations it easily offered.

A quick check with the airlines showed that there were a few possible flights. Mycroft's text was barely interesting; simply another vaguely threatening warning suggesting that Sherlock go to his office and hand over what he knew so far.

The latest Sherlock could leave was Christmas Night.

That was not going to be received well.

John was still in the shower when Sherlock made his way up the stairs to the bathroom. John hadn't bothered to lock the door; a habit he seemed to have developed from having Ava around in case of an emergency.

John turned his head fractionally as Sherlock got into the shower behind him and then looked up at the shower nozzle.

"You do realise you're barely going to get wet with the range of this thing," John muttered.

Sherlock didn't bother to dignify that with a response. The last priority of a joint shower was getting clean. Instead he picked up the shower gel and squeezed it into his hands. As he started to lather the soap across John's back he could feel the muscles relax under his fingers. The web of scars at the edge of John's back resisted at first but slowly there was some give.

His hands trailed down as his mouth pressed against the slick wetness of John's neck, enjoying the different taste and texture. It felt utterly indulgent to watch, as he nipped and sucked, the way that John's hands braced against the tiles for support; the way the short fingernails scrapped across the smooth surface without purchase. His thumb was digging into the gap between the tiles, getting grip from the grouting.

Sherlock could read John's hands as well as John's face. The ease of the clenching finger pads as Sherlock massaged his lower back, the press of the palms against the flat tiles as Sherlock let his hands drift lower. The hitched breath wasn't even needed as Sherlock watched those hands spread in surprise as Sherlock delved lower and, with the lubricant he'd bought with him upstairs, inside.

Still nuzzling at John's throat, Sherlock took advantage of the way the heat and the massage had relaxed John, never adding more than one finger as he let John get used to the new sensation.

And, when the hands stuttered across the tiles Sherlock stopped, turned John around and sunk to his knees, looking up at John with his soaking wet hair clinging to him and wide, desperate eyes. Trails of water trailed down his face, across his still red jaw from Sherlock's ministrations, and fell onto Sherlock as he leaned forward to take John in his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

A hesitant hand reached down and stroked Sherlock's hair from his eyes. There was a slightly stunned look in John's eyes, despite what they had done the night before.

"I lo…" John changed his mind before the words came out and instead tilted his head back, breaking their gaze. "God this feels-"

"Say it," Sherlock pulling back.

The hand in his hair paused as John's mind raced.

"Say it," Sherlock urged again.

"I…I love you." John's voice was utterly determined and didn't waver one bit.

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward again.

Sherlock watched as John, hair still damp from the shower and smelling of Sherlock's shower gel, stared at the screen in front of him. There was something odd about seeing John in just some old tracksuit bottoms and a tatty grey t-shirt.

A good kind of odd.

John winced and scrubbed his forehead with his hand.

"You can't delay any longer?" he asked eventually.

"I'd lose the lead," Sherlock replied leaning against the desk. "I'm risking far too much as it is."

John nodded slowly, mouth firm. "Mycroft doesn't want you t-"

"Yes, but what Mycroft wants and what he gets are two different things, despite what he thinks." Sherlock replied, avoiding looking at the Christmas tree.

Sighing John pushed the lap-top to one side. "If you two stopped sniping at each other for three minutes-"

"I have included him as much as I think necessary," Sherlock eyed the almost finished tea resting on the side table.

"By?" John asked in a challenging tone.

"Surveillance." Sherlock stared at John's bare feet and the toe that taped for a moment before all the toes curled and moved as John sat forward.

"What?" John's voice was flat in anger.

Sherlock indicted with his head across the street and remained silent as John stood and stared out the window.

"How long?" John asked eventually.

" A month. Give or take a few days."

"Sherlock," John begun not fooled in the slightest.

"The day before Ava's revelation." Sherlock curled his fingers around the edge of the desk.

"Before?" John repeated.

Sherlock nodded, unsure if that was better or worse or if it even made the slightest difference. He watched John stare out the window as if the opposite building held the answers of the universe. And then watched John's eyes flutter shut.

"How long will it take you?" he asked.

"It depends on what I discover." Sherlock replied. "I'd imagine Moriarty will make it…" he fumbled for a suitable word. Using the word interesting wouldn't work well at the moment. "Convoluted," he settled for saying. "He wants to keep my attention."

John's mouth firmed even further at the word but he didn't say anything. Opening his eyes he turned his head a little in Sherlock's direction. The movement of his shoulders suggested he was about to say something but instead he turned back to the window, his fingers tracing strands of clear paths in the morning condensation.

"So… a month?" John asked eventually.

Shocked Sherlock turned to him. "What?"

And watched as John swallowed, "Longer?"

Sherlock ran the conversation through in his head again and hissed in annoyance at himself. Standing, he tugged at John's hand to pull him back from the window and facing him.

"Four days," Sherlock offered. "A week at the very most. "

John's eyes scanned his.

"A week?" John asked.

"At the very most," Sherlock reiterated.

John nodded, "You probably should make it a week." He decided after a moment, "It's bloody murder travelling throughout Christmas week. Knowing you, you'd probably survive Moriarty just to die in horror at the stupidity of boxing day shoppers."

Sherlock curled his lip, "Less than a week. I have no intention of being in Amsterdam for New Year 's Eve."

The confused look gave way to worry seconds later, "Oh god, drugs."

Amused Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to John's lips. "Do keep up." But John's hand shot out and caught Sherlock's sleeve.

"Sherlock-" he started hesitantly.

"Do I seem bored or unhappy to you?" Sherlock asked with not a small amount of irritation. "Do I appear to be looking for a distraction from mind numbing monotony? I simply dislike the reminder."

John's shoulders relaxed fractionally, "Well, I suppose every Moriarty caused cloud has a silver lining."

"Idiot," Sherlock growled with a pointed nip to John's bottom lip, creating smile to form.

"No, just not stupid." John responded to the kiss. "Nor blind to the fact that you're now trying to get me to snog you in front of Mycroft's people."

"I could be trying to get you to do worse," Sherlock pointed out. "Besides, as my dear brother seems so utterly desperate to interfere in our relationship, I thought I'd withhold nothing from him."

John stared at him unimpressed, "I need another cup of tea," he muttered.

Sherlock left as John went downstairs to retrieve Ava from Mrs Hudson. A quick stop at Lestrade's to check that he had arrested the correct family member (which he had) and then off to stir up some old informants from years ago.

Nothing could ever beat his homeless network. It was merely a pity that there was little continuity in it. But he'd done it once before, reviving it wouldn't be too hard.

After all he was currently the foremost expert on reviving things this year.

24th December

Mrs Hudson caught him as he went to go back upstairs just after dawn.

"Come to the kitchen," she said firmly.

"I was-"

"Come to the kitchen."

Sherlock cast an eye up the stairs and then, with a dramatic sigh turned back down the two steps he'd managed to scale before Mrs Hudson had summoned.

Ava would be up by now anyway. It was unlikely he'd catch John alone at this time of the morning.

"Yes?" he asked, letting his frustration show in the single word.

"I'm disappointed in you," Mrs Hudson started to scold.

For what? Already irritated Sherlock started to look around for something to distract her.

"It's Christmas," she continued as if that would mean something.

"I'm unsure as to why you're surprised that I've disappointed you at Christmas." Sherlock muttered, "Surely I'm merely staying to form."

"Because I've never had to have that poor little girl camped out on the floor of my kitchen two days before Christmas, half convinced you and John were going to forget to come back for her."

There was nothing in him that knew how to react to that.

"She's five years old-"

"I am not her father," Sherlock hissed, before belatedly realising what that implied about John. "I have other things to-"

"You have responsibilities now," Mrs Hudson begun, folding her arms with displeasure. "You can't just go gallivanting off-"

Suddenly cold Sherlock snapped his arm out, catching one of her arms, "What does that mean?"

Mrs Hudson looked him up and down as if he'd gone mad. "You were out all of yesterday-"

Relaxing, he let his careful grip loosen, relieved that she hadn't found out his travel plans. "John is with her. I haven't dragged him out "gallivanting" with me."

"She needs both of you-"

Sherlock snorted; that was probably the most ridiculous thing to come out of Mrs Hudson's mouth yet. "If that is all-"

"It's Christmas. " Mrs Hudson said firmly. "Just try."

Rolling his eyes he swept out of the room, upstairs and collapsed into bed before John or Ava saw him.

"I'm sorry." Ava announced as Sherlock exited his room that evening.

"For?" he asked with little interest as he stalked towards the sofa.

"Making you mad the other day."

Suddenly dreadfully uncomfortable Sherlock paused, but Ava had already dashed upstairs before he could work out what to say. In his chair, John eyed him carefully.

"She doesn't mean it," John said finally, putting his book down.

Sherlock glanced at him.

"Well…" John shifted, "I mean, she's been told all year that if she isn't good then Father Christmas won't come. My mercenary daughter is just hedging her bets."

"Sensible," Sherlock muttered, the uncomfortable feeling still not fading. Without knowing why he changed his direction and stared at the tree with it's wonky lights and solitary pink bauble that John had never asked about.

"I'll tell her you have a case. She won't know you're not here."

"I think even she will notice." Sherlock muttered.

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock stared at the presents under the tree. "What would you be doing? If it were just the two of you?"

"Working. Probably being Moriarty's whipping boy. Hardly seeing Ava and feeling guilty for it."

Sherlock nodded and went up to have a shower.

When he ventured back down, John was demonstrating his new found cooking ability with his preparation of sausages and chips.

"Chinese is on it's way for us." John said, clearly spotting Sherlock's look.

"Festive," Sherlock commented.

"Just trying to ease you into it," John said with a smile as he eyed the mass of frozen peas, clearly trying to decide the best way to break it apart.

"There hardly seems much point," Sherlock muttered.

Whatever John had been about to say in response was lost as Ava flew into the kitchen.

"Chips?" she asked in awe. "We're having chips?"

And then proceeded to try and watch through the oven door as the chips cooked. John exchanged a slightly disbelieving look with Sherlock before scooping her up in his arms.

"We've had the oven conversation before young lady." He scolded as he set Ava back on her feet, away from the oven.

"But it's Christmas," Ava said pointedly.

"That doesn't mean you touch the oven." John scolded turning his attention back to the peas.

Ava scowled at him and then looked up at Sherlock, "Why does it only work when Mrs Hudson says it?" she complained, bottom lip jutting out in a sulk.

Sherlock watched her quietly.

"Can we play pencils?" Ava asked suddenly.

John paused at the sink, "Ava you have other games now-"

"But I like pencils."

John nodded and left the peas in the bowl by the sink, gently placing a hand behind her head and nudging her over to the sofa. "Ok." He said finally, sounding still unsure as to whether this was a good idea.

"And Sherlock," Ava ordered, resisting John's careful hand.

John glanced over at him beseechingly.

Which was how, minutes later, Sherlock found himself on the floor with Ava and John as John chucked a box of pencils in a heap.

"You have to pick the pencils up." Ava announced, clearly deciding she was going first. "But you can only use one hand and you can't touch any other pencil."

And then she proceeded to cheat outrageously.

John abandoned the game to see to Ava's dinner, leaving Sherlock and Ava to battle it out.

Sherlock was winning, even if John had given his pencils to Ava.

"You know you have to let me win," Ava told him as soon as John was out of ear shot.

"Really?" Sherlock drawled.

"I forgot to get Daddy a present-"

Sherlock hesitated, hovering his hand over the pencil he'd been about to pick.

"-And he told me that my present to him was me being happy. So you have to let me win."

Sherlock studied Ava who was staring studiously at his hand.

"I'll take you next time." He said evenly, the words coming out before he even had time to think it through.

Ava looked up at him. "You still have to let me win," she pouted.

"What the hell did you do with carrots?" John hissed as he shoved the plates in the sink.

"I-"

John held up a hand, "On second thoughts I'm not sure I want to know," he gripped the edge of the counter. "We have to have something in, some drink of some sort." He scrapped a hand through his hair, "Damn, bloody Santa Claus and his food."

"I'll get some."

"Try Mrs Hud-"

"I'll get some," Sherlock repeated.

Given that he'd borrowed milk from Mrs Hudson the last time John had asked him to go to the shops it seemed highly unlikely that she'd replaced her tiny one pint since yesterday evening. Especially as she barely drunk the stuff.

Next door were out. The married ones.

They could spare a pint of milk and a carrot.

Or maybe the whole 4 pints and the bag carrots. He may as well make sure.

The moment John saw the size of the milk he glared.

"Don't tell me you stole that."

"Then I won't." Sherlock said placing his loot on the table.

"It's Christmas. You can't just-"

"You found milk," Ava squealed in delight as she rushed forward, hair tinted gold in the light and looking utterly cosy in her fluffy little dressing gown. "And-" her eyes widened comically as tiny fingers reached out for the carrots. "Are these real?" she asked.

John glanced down at the carrots and then at the organic, expensive label on the side of the bag. His mouth firmed and Sherlock turned away from John. "Of course they are."

"Sherlock-" John begun, sounding annoyed

Ava saved him. Her bright eager face glanced between the two of them, her fingers tightening on the carrot in front of her defensively.

There was no way John was going to ask him to take it back.

John managed, with some amount of patience and tenacity, to get Ava into bed. She was struggling to keep her eyes open and her voice was thick with sleep as John tucked her in, patiently kissing the bear and a doll goodnight as well.

Sherlock hovered at the door, listening to the story and not really sure what to do with himself.

"Daddy?"

"Mmm?"

"You know you said I had to be happy for Christmas?"

Sherlock watched John pause and stiffen in worry. "Yes?"

"Can I have a present like that?"

"I suppose..." John glanced back at Sherlock as if asking for help.

"Can you make Sherlock act like he normally does for Christmas?"

John turned to look at Sherlock pointedly, "Why? What's wrong with how he's acting now?" he asked Ava while keeping his eyes triumphantly on Sherlock.

"Not talking," Ava muttered. "He looks like he's been told off."

That was hardly an adequate explanation of what had happened. But perhaps, as close as a five year old could be expected to get to the situation.

Turning, he made his way down stairs and waited for John.

25th December

The present in his hands was weighty and John smiled over Ava's shoulder in amusement.

"Is he going to keep the paper?" Ava asked John sincerely.

"For god sakes Sherlock, just tear it." John encouraged with a warm smile.

There was something off. His expression was too relaxed in comparison to the other present. But it was in his wrapping paper.

And it wasn't in a box.

"You seem strangely eager about revealing a present you bought." Sherlock muttered, turning it over in his hands, considering it.

John's puzzled expression answered his unspoken question before he spoke, "I didn't buy that for you,"

"It's wrapped up with the paper you've used for everything else." Sherlock said carefully, mind racing as he stroked a finger along the edge.

John shook his head, "OK...then I've forgotten it. Deleted it so you can't guess." He teased.

No. He hadn't. He'd have remembered the one present that wasn't in a box.

But Ava was staring at him with eagerness and Mrs Hudson was learning forward in interest, neither one of them suspecting anything was amiss.

But John's forehead had creased and frowned as he tried to think.

Sherlock opened it carefully, unsurprised at the photo album that appeared under the wrapping.

A photograph.

"I'm really sure I didn't get you that," John said with a nervous laugh, "Though I hate shopping so I may have just forgotten out of self-preservation."

Sherlock looked over at the pair of them, Ava's little tinsel crown and John's relaxed shoulders. "That sounds worryingly likely," he drawled.

John snapped his eyes to Sherlock.

Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say.

John's eyes trailed down to the photo album, coming to the same conclusion Sherlock had.

Closing his eyes, John pulled Ava closer to him and tried to laugh weakly.

Unable to watch Sherlock stood, hands gripping the album so tightly that he wouldn't be surprised if he managed to damage it.

He'd brought Moriarty into their lives, into the flat.

He should have gone yesterday, the moment that he'd walked away from that dinner

"Let me see," John said, approaching from behind. "She's upstairs"

Sherlock let John ease the album from his grip. It annoyed him that he couldn't make an educated guess as to what the picture would be. A threat or a puzzle clue.

Sherlock watched John's face as he lifted the cover.

Instantly he went white.

Ava.

Sherlock studied the photograph as Mycroft steepled his fingers. Even his office was quiet, the building barely being used on Christmas afternoon.

"Was she the intended target do you think?" Mycroft asked with polite interest.

Sherlock shook his head, "John and I were still awake. She was the only option for the photographer."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that but made no comment.

"They would have had to wrap it the same night and place it under the tree." Mycroft mused, "No point in taking the risk twice."

Which meant someone had been in the flat the same night that he and John had been together. For a moment Sherlock could picture someone standing at the door, listening to them…

"It's a reminder," Sherlock tossed the photograph down. "Or a summons. Either way I need to go."

Mycroft was scanning him with an unusual level of intent.

"Are you sure?" he asked eventually.

"That I have to go?" Sherlock asked patronisingly.

"That she wasn't the intended target. If she was it opens up-"

"Jim Moriarty can barely conceive of my…regard for John. He can use it but he doesn't understand it. He knows how to manipulate that, and everything hinges on him being able to control my reactions. He will not risk using another method, not when this one works so well."

Mycroft was still watching him.

"Are you sure?" he repeated.

Sherlock stared down at the picture, at the sight of Ava curled up and so utterly terrifyingly fragile on the kitchen floor.

"If I wasn't," he said carefully, "Do you not think acting like I was would be her best protection? Either way it makes no difference."

He played it over and over in his head on the way back. Sherlock could see glimpses of the tree but he'd never really observed it, or the presents beneath. If he'd looked, properly looked from the start then maybe he would have spotted the present as soon as it went down and avoided John knowing just how close they'd come to loosing Ava.

And if he hadn't been with John that night, if they hadn't been so wrapped up in each other would he have noticed that something was amiss. Would he have been woken by a stranger in their flat.

The mere idea that someone could have overheard, could have been poking around their home while he and John were in bed together seemed utterly vulgar. It made him want to scream at something. The only blessing was that, so far, John hadn't seemed to have put two and two together, concerned as he was about Ava.

He needed to get away. He needed to think clearly.

He needed to be able to think without feeling that gut wrenching twist in the pit of his stomach.

"You're still going?" John asked when Sherlock got back into the quiet flat, an hour before he needed to leave.

"It doesn't change anything," Sherlock said calmly.

John's arm shot out and his grip was like iron.

"Don't you dare downplay this," John started, "Don't you dare-"

"What?" Sherlock challenged. "Leave? Fix it?"

John let go with an angry hiss, "Because only the great Sherlock Holmes can possibly make everything better."

"Go on then," Sherlock stepped forward, "Go upstairs and tell your daughter that you're leaving on Christmas day to help me track down the people that dared enter our home to goad me out to play. Tell her that we have to trek around the world to dismantle an organisation headed by a man who has an unhealthy obsession with explosives. Tell her you might not come back-"

John shoved him. "Go to hell."

Sherlock smirked, "Gone." And stalked off to his bedroom to pack.

When he left his room John was sat on the chair, head in his hands and breathing slow.

"I would, if I could." John said as Sherlock stalked past the door to go down the stairs. "I hate that I'm not going with you."

"She comes first," Sherlock stared at the open doorway and towards John. "You always said that."

"And you never argued it," John replied softly, still not looking over at him. "But you can't go alone-"

"I can." Sherlock didn't move towards him, "I am more than capable of coping-"

"I don't want you coping." John muttered, his voice muffled as he continued to stare at the ground, "I want you safe."

"This is pointless. You cannot come and I cannot stay." Sherlock sniffed, trying to dismiss the issue.

"You could ask for help." John replied in a flat tone.

Resisting the urge to sigh in irritation, Sherlock glared instead. "I do not need help-"

"No, you don't want help." John's lifted his head and stared out the window. "Not for yourself."

"He will not kill me-"

"There are worse things Sherlock." John stated firmly, "You know that."

This was going no-where.

"I'll text you when I have return date." He said in a voice the brooked no nonsense and was intended to end the conversation.

"You do that," John said still not looking at him.

It was infuriating that he could think of nothing to say in return.

I know that this is a bit light on how Sherlock is feeling but, in my head, he's pulling away and trying not to think about them. (Sigh, me explaining a chpater usually means it's godawful...)