(the following Saturday)

Passing through the door of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock didn't need employ his commanding powers of deduction to determine that Mrs. Hudson had started her holiday baking. The air was redolent of sugar and spice, vanilla and cocoa and cinnamon, and his mouth began to water in anticipation of the sweet treats in store. Earlier than usual, he realized, wondering what had prompted the change in her accustomed pattern—normally, her culinary frenzy was reserved for the last week leading up to Christmas. No matter, though; it would be just as much a pleasure to enjoy her cookies, cakes and tarts now, as on Christmas Eve.

He'd left the flat early that morning, on pretext of investigating a lead on a case, waving off John's offer of help in the matter, and taking time only to down a quick cup of coffee and a day-old Chelsea bun before embarking. There had been a lead of sorts to follow, though not the kind John would have expected, and Sherlock had very satisfactorily concluded that part of the business at hand. It would still be a couple of weeks until the outcome of his efforts reached fruition.

He'd been about to climb the stairs, when the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat swung open, allowing the aromas of good baking to flood the little anteroom that sat outside 221A proper, to reveal Tessa clad in a flour-dusted apron, oven mitts on hands, and holding a baking sheet covered in fresh gingerbread men. Sherlock couldn't decide in the moment which was more irresistible—his perennial favorite, gingerbread, or the sight of his Tessa fully attired in the trappings of domesticity. Fortunately she didn't make him choose. "Darling," she exclaimed, beaming with delight, "your timing couldn't be better!" She quickly crossed to his side, stood on tip toes, and kissed his cheek. "Cookie?" she asked, surely already knowing he couldn't say no.

"This is my last batch for now," she told him. "Just let me set these on the rack to cool, and I'll join you upstairs. Sherlock nodded, nibbling on his gingerbread, before proceeding up the stairs.

Reaching the lower landing, he heard the strains of Christmas carols coming from the front room of the flat, giving him pause before he climbed the rest of the way. That had to be Tessa's doing as well, he deduced, for John knew how he felt about giving in to such trite holiday conventions. Sherlock decided not to fault her in this, but at some point he knew he would have to make his strong opinion known regarding the saccharine rituals of Christmas—and knowing her penchant for the sentimental, sooner than later would be called for, as she was likely to get as carried away with them, as he was to detest them.

Ah, but it turned out he was already too late with that resolution. Standing at the threshold of the front room, he saw that Christmas had exploded in his absence. Sherlock sighed deeply, rolling his eyes, knowing there would be no putting this unwanted present back into its packaging. Tessa came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. "John thinks you will find it a terrible bore," her tone indicating that she expected better of Sherlock, and would settle for no less, "but I insisted we absolutely had to wait for you before we decorated the tree." She gently prompted him forward, and before he could protest, she was sliding his coat off, to hang it on its accustomed hook on the back of the door. Sherlock remained still, gaping at the profusion of red, green, and gold that dominated his view, trying his best not to sneer too loudly. The battle is surely lost, he thought; Tessa is enjoying this far too thoroughly.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the sofa, sorting through a box of ancient looking ornaments, dusting them lightly before laying them upon the coffee table, with frequent pauses to drink what appeared to be steaming, mulled cider. Surely spiked, and certainly leaving her with a very rosy disposition, he concluded. He looked over a John, who stood beside the fresh Douglas fir standing to the left of their hearth; the doctor turned from stringing lights upon the boughs to grin at Sherlock in clear recognition—and hilarity—over what he knew Sherlock had to be thinking. John lifted his own mug of cider in an ironic toast, "Cheers, Sherlock!" John's amusement over his friend's inconvenience was unmistakable, "You're just in time; now the party can really get started."

In addition to the tree, there were strings of colored lights hanging around the window frames, with garlands of evergreens and strands of holly strategically placed. Most people would find the decorations a modest nod to the season, but Sherlock found them too excessive for his tastes. He realized John was taking full advantage of the opportunity Tessa presented—for in past Christmases, Sherlock had allowed very little in the way of holiday decorations in their flat, forbidding any sort of tree as a waste of time and space, and reserving the playing of Christmas music to the eve and day alone.

Tessa was quick to bring him a hot mug of cider, taking his hand to pull him further into the room. "We wanted to surprise you," she told him guilessly, "we've been planning this all week." Her eyes shone so brightly, so happily, that Sherlock swallowed back the sarcasm that normally would have dripped in his response, "And surprised me you have." He took a bracing swallow of his cider.

Now that he thought about it, he'd caught John and Tessa several times over the previous days, heads close together, sometimes laughing lightly, and swift to move apart when they caught him watching them. He had actually assumed they were discussing the topic of Christmas presents—presents for him specifically—over which he would have no objections in the least. Blinded by his ever-so-slight weakness in the face of the bounties of Christmas, he'd left himself wide open for their cunning ploy.

Sherlock approached the tree in silence, knowing the three waited upon his reaction before continuing their jovial proceedings. "As trees go, I suppose it will do," he sniffed, "but I expect you will keep it well hydrated, John. We'll not have needles scattered about the flat well into spring."

"As opposed to finding fresh body parts in the fridge or microwave?" John chuckled.

"Those items serve a useful purpose, John." Sherlock's tone was light enough to make clear he had accepted the inevitability of the tree, "I see no practical reason for this silly spectacle."

Mrs. Hudson broke her silence, tsking at them "Come on now, boys. Play nice." She rose and crossed her way to the kitchen to refill her cup. "It's about time we had a proper tree up here."

Tessa was at his side again, eager to sooth any ruffled feathers. "It's not entirely Christmas without one." She was pouting slightly in her usual way, for she knew it was often enough the thing required to finally win him around. Sherlock could only give her his resigned smile, knowing for certain that she'd likely find a pleasant way to show her gratitude later on. Her suit fully won, she circled his neck with her arms, kissing him squarely on the mouth, and then taking a moment to brush his lower lip with her thumb to wipe away the stain of her lipstick. Tessa's voice was low enough for his ears alone, "I swear you won't regret this, my darling. We'll make it a Christmas to remember." Her eyes, lingering on his, gave him the sweetest of promises, before she joined Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen.

At this point Sherlock noticed—to his minor chagrin—that several pieces of his equipment, normally stored upon the kitchen table, had been shunted aside, in favor of several types of cookies cooling on trays and racks. The two women were gathering up the confections into plastic containers, talking quietly as they did so. Apparently Tessa had commandeered both downstairs and upstairs kitchens for a serious baking project; there looked to be a good ten dozen cookies in a variety of flavors. Additionally, he observed a large pan filled with what appeared to be chocolate fudge laced with bits of candy cane, and a smaller pan that looked to contain some sort of salted variety of fudge.

Sherlock found it a little disconcerting—his kitchen so completely out of its usual order-for when he'd left that morning, Tessa had been snugged down under the covers, with no indication of a diabolical Christmas plan on her itinerary for the day. She'd tricked him right well, and now he wondered what other holiday themed surprises he might expect. It was enough to make him start to rue the season.

The women worked together smoothly, gathering up the empty racks and pans into a pile for washing later, and stacking the sealed containers neatly upon the table. Tessa had set aside a small portion of each type of cookie and treat on a platter, which Sherlock assumed meant they were available for immediate consumption. In fact, Tessa had picked up a piece of the salted fudge, and headed his way. "Taste this please, Sherlock, and tell me what you think." She held it up to his mouth so he could take a bite.

It was actually quite good; salted chocolate-caramel, incorporating two of his favorite flavors of sweets. He took the rest of her proffered piece in hand to finish it. "Very good," he told her, "your own recipe?"

Tessa blushed slightly, looking delighted with his response, "Well yes; I tinkered a bit until I found the right ingredients and measurements." Her eyes grew even merrier as she told him, "I made it special just for you."

Damn it, he thought, she's just going to steamroll me with this Christmas business; yet her manner in it remained so charming, he knew to offer any objections now would be simply heartless. Caught, he was, in her delicious Christmas cul-de-sac; he supposed he might as well accept it now and settle in for whatever further surprises she had in store. The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, secret smile, knowing that the holiday surprises he had in store for Tessa would far surpass any she might have imagined for him.

Sherlock was to discover that the huge baking Tessa had undertaken was for gift-giving, a tradition handed down for several generations on her mother's side. "It's the first Christmas that I've been on my own that I've been able to do this," she'd told him, as she continued to tidy up the kitchen after lunch, "The oven in my flat is fussy and far too small for a project like this, and I really never had the luxury of time to do it anyway." In the end, she had made sure all his apparatus found their way back to their homes, so he was left without a need to complain. And she'd ensured there was plenty of treats for him and John to enjoy, with the promise of more to come if they were greedy enough to finish them off too quickly. Tessa had even left Mrs. Hudson with a basket full of goodies, insisting she take them despite her objection that Tessa needn't do so.

As for decorating the tree, Sherlock had steadfastly abstained for as long as he could, John good-naturedly needling him from time to time throughout the afternoon a counterpoint to Tessa's subtle attempts to get him involved. Wiley as her efforts were, Sherlock quickly saw right through them, but as always found them dear, for he knew they were born of her love for him. He had sat down at his computer, meaning to do anything, anything, but what was clearly their priority for the day, meaning to tolerate the process with as much grace as he could muster. Tessa speedily adopted a new tactic, making a casual display of such poor choices in fitting out the branches that his sense of the esthetic would be offended enough to need to correct her.

Glancing up from the screen at her attempts, Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disapproval, but said nothing. Instead, he fetched a dramatic sigh, closing his laptop, and then grumbled about how anyone expected him to work with such ridiculous goings on around him. Tessa had looked immediately hopeful as he rose, thinking she had finally won him over, but he pointedly selected a random book from the case in the corner opposite the tree, taking his place on the sofa to at least pretend to read it.

Tessa had then redoubled her efforts, now asking him every other minute or so what he thought about a particular ornament, or did he think the tree was looking a little lopsided. John had retired to the kitchen to refill his cider and grab a few of the fresh baked cookies, observing them with a very wry expression on his face, as he waited for Sherlock to either explode in irritation, or simply give in to Tessa's dogged determination. Mrs. Hudson was busy trying to sort out the best location for the placement of the mistletoe.

Sherlock, of course, was not taking in a word of the book in his hands (a treatise on fungi and their medicinal uses versus dangers) as he waited for Tessa to admit defeat. She eventually came to sit—wide-eyed as a pleading doe-at his side, silent until he turned his full attention to her. "Please?" she asked simply, and in the end Sherlock had conceded. Perhaps it was the healthy dose of rum contained in the cider; perhaps it was the way that Tessa, John, and Mrs. Hudson had joined in merrily with the carols playing; or perhaps it was the very holiday cheer that Tessa seemed to embody, but in the end he found he was more than happy as he helped her deck the tree, setting right her purposeful blunders and, at the last, placing the star atop just as she requested he do.

Mrs. Hudson had long since gone downstairs; John was out on a date (with high expectations of success on the field of amore); and Tessa was leaning upon Sherlock in the warm silence, the room lit only by the fire in the hearth and the glow of Christmas lights. Their conversation had come around to family traditions, highlighting the wealth of differences between their upbringings, and when Sherlock asked her about her happiest Christmas memories, she had many she was glad to share with him. It was a marvel for him to think of her as a girl, of her as a teen on the cusp of womanhood, cradled in the loving environment she described. It was no wonder she adored the season as she did, and he realized that if her intent was to open his eyes to its simple, familial pleasures, she was decidedly succeeding.

"But you know, darling," her voice soft and satisfied, "you've given me one of my brightest memories."

This surprised him, and so he had to ask, "Really? How so?"

Tessa laid her hand on his shirt, absentmindedly fingering the buttons, as she found the best way to explain, "That day in the church. I never expected that from you. I know now that I should have."

"What?" he replied, "That I actually showed up?"

She shook her head, softly against his shoulder, "No. That you understood how I was feeling. And that you wanted to make it right for me."

He was looking at the star atop the tree, remembering what he'd been feeling as she'd cried those sentimental tears. Protective and irresistibly caught in her softness, and knowing in his soul that no matter how messy her emotions were at times, he'd never want her any other way. "My dear, what I wanted in that moment I couldn't say aloud in a church, for the sake of propriety." Tessa gasped against in shoulder, surprised; yet he knew she hung upon what he might say next. "What I wanted was to bundle you up and take you back home and make love to you all night long." Sherlock paused, feeling the truth of his words as a warmth in his chest, "Until you cried out my name again and again, and the only tears you might shed would be happy ones."

Without a word, without a bit of hesitation, Tessa was kissing him then, in ways that never would have suited those moments in the church, with her hands is hair, and barely hesitating for breath. Finally breaking the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, whispering, "Oh Sherlock, my Sherlock, my darling, wonderful Sherlock. It's so cold outside right now," she lingered deliciously before finishing, "and I need you to bundle me well."

Of all the things she had asked of him that day, that request turned out to be the easiest one for him to fill. And he would tell her later that she had easily given him his favorite Christmas memory.

(to be continued)