A/N: Hectic Christmas weekend is hectic. My sincerest apologies for the setbacks. Ugh. Also, don't be offended by anything below. Religious mentionings. So... yeah. No one hate me for any reasons. Please.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 19

19 December, 2013

The next morning, Sherlock woke up with his head on the sofa cushion. He felt cold and disoriented, though it wasn't the first time he had fallen asleep on the couch. He blinked and looked around him, vision blurred from sleep. His first instinct was to call out.
"John!"
"Sherlock," John called back reassuringly from the kitchen. Sherlock rubbed his eye, watched as John appeared in the doorway, leaning against the opening with a mug in hand. "What?" he asked gently.
Sherlock just stared blankly at him. "Nothing," he said after a bit, clearing his throat. John smirked at him.

"Alright, I'm off," John said after he had finished his coffee. Sherlock was at the table, doing... something, completely absorbed in his work. John leaned down beside him, looking over his shoulder. Their heads brushed slightly, and Sherlock stilled, but only for a moment.
"Alright," replied Sherlock distractedly, adjusting one of the knobs on his microscope.
John watched him for a second. "Ring me if you need me."
"Mm."
Smiling, John brushed aside one of Sherlock's stray curls. "Have fun," he said, leaning in and leaving a quick peck on Sherlock's temple. Again, Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second, but thought nothing of it. "Fever's just about gone. Good." Sherlock nodded once, attention drawn to his work once more.

It really only hit him when John walked out into the crisp London air. He physically stopped and cringed, thinking back. "Shit," he whispered to himself, face turning all sorts of pink and red and crimson. He rubbed the back of his neck, briefly glancing skywards, and hailed a cab. Once in the backseat, he let out an airy sigh.

At about nine, Sherlock could take it no longer. John answered immediately.

"Sherlock, what's up?" There was a note of concern in his voice, and Sherlock ignored it.
"I can't take it anymore."
John felt his blood turn ice-cold. "Can't take what?"
"I can't sit here idly while a guilty man walks free."
Sherlock could have sworn the sigh that John let out was one of relief, and not impatience. After a moment, John seemed to submit. "I... alright. Just be careful."
"No promises."
"Sherlock," John threatened, but his friend chuckled.
"I'll be fine," Sherlock reassured, expression determined. And he hung up.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 9:17 and quickly jumped to his feet. He needed all the time that he could get. On the way to his bedroom, he mussed his hair, making it stick up more than usual. Once it seemed ratty enough, he flung open the door to his wardrobe and rifled through everything his eyes came into contact with. After most of his clothes were tossed about the room, he found one of his older and more beaten up button-downs, worn grey jeans that seemed like they had seen both world wars, an old tan long coat that used to be his dad's, and faded trainers. A smile creeped across his lips. Before he left, he dirtied his face a bit. He didn't want to seem well-to-do where he was going.

"Wiggins," Sherlock greeted. The young man jumped a bit when he saw him, not quite recognising the consulting detective at first.
"Mr 'olmes," he replied with a smile. "What are you doin' in these parts? You don't seem yourself."
Sherlock allowed his cockney accent to dissipate, his usual posh timbre replacing it. "I would hope not."
"So whaddya need, sir?"
"I need information on a man named 'Jack'," Sherlock said, nodding for them to walk down a nearby alley. Wiggins followed down the narrow passage, their elbows brushing amiably.
"Just 'Jack'?" Wiggins asked scornfully. "C'mon Mr 'olmes, I'll be needin' more that just 'Jack'."
"Oh, you'll know him when you see him. Big fellow, looks the murdering type. Blind in one eye."
"I'll see what I can do, sir."
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, and they parted. While Wiggins was on the hunt, he figured he should take a look at the other victims, and maybe revisit the most recent crime scene.

"Hello Molly."
Molly didn't even bother to look up, though her cheeks reddened slightly. She was used to Sherlock barging in on her work. "I assume you want to see the victims," she said casually enough, though she kept her gaze averted.
"Oh how did you know?" he asked her, wiping some of the grime from his face.
She smiled awkwardly, glancing up at him. He had a hand in his curls and was looking at her with a winning smile. She blinked, pointed at the cold chambers with her chin. "They're in there."
He nodded in thanks and walked over. Molly tried to get back to what she was doing, but Sherlock's presence was heavy and tangible and distracting. She sighed internally, set down her scalpel, and walked over. He didn't even seem to notice.

"Molly," he said suddenly, sometime later. Her eyes snapped up; she had been watching him intently, studying his features.
"Hm?"
"I think I've found a motive," he said, flipping through the files. "None of these people celebrated Christmas."
Molly frowned, skimming through, trying to process what Sherlock was saying. "How do you know?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Molly felt her face get a little warmer. But she waited patiently for an answer. "Well, seeing as Tom here was an athiest, Brenda is Jewish, and James recently adopted Buddhism, I'd wager that none of them celebrate."
Molly raised a brow slightly at his condescending tone. Subconsciously, Sherlock calmed down a bit.

"I wonder..." he murmured to himself a few minutes later, still brewing over the bodies and papers, when his mobile rang. "Hello?"
"'allo Mr 'olmes."
"What did you find out?"
"Jack isn't the culprit."
"How do you know?"
There was a pause, and Sherlock could practically see Wiggins rubbing the nape of his neck. "Well about ten minutes ago I stumbled on 'is corpse. It ain't pretty Mr 'olmes."
Sherlock was silent a moment. At first he was startled, then perplexed, and then giddy. Mycroft had been completely wrong then. "Did you find anything?"
"Not really, though you might wanna 'ave a look."
"Where are you?"
"Not far from where you found me."
"I'll be there shortly."

Molly stared after his retreating figure long after he had left. He hadn't even said good bye, or thank you, or anything. She sighed.

"John!" was the first thing John heard when he set foot out of Bart's. He turned to see a very ragged Sherlock jogging towards him. "You're just in time - let's go!"
"What- where?" John asked, picking up his pace to catch up. "Why are you running? What were you doing at Bart's?"
"Need the exercise," Sherlock panted, turning to jog backwards. "Oh, and I was looking into the case you still haven't officially let me take. One suspect is innocent, the other dead, so I reckon that he musn't be guilty either. Mycroft was completely wrong - isn't that fantastic?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
John didn't have the time to answer before Sherlock turned, ran faster. Quite used to running after Sherlock to the ends of the earth, he followed with ease. For the most part (remember, good Doctor Watson has short legs).

"So where are we headed?" John asked once he felt the last of his breath leaving him. John glanced around them, catching glimpses of seedy-looking buildings and grime-covered brick walls. He frowned deeply.
Sherlock took a sharp right. "About... here." And he came to a halt. There was a figure waiting, leaning against an overflowing trash bin. John recognised him immediately. He had invaded their flat several times, not to mention the fact that John was usually obliged to give the boy money for his trouble, courtesy of Sherlock.
"Hello, Wiggins," he said with a nod.
"Doctor Watson," he replied. Then his gaze rested on Sherlock. "Follow me."

"Oh," Sherlock and John said once they saw the body, lying face-first in a puddle of water and blood. They both cringed slightly, and Wiggins smiled grimly at them.
"I told you it ain't pretty, Mr 'olmes."
"Has anybody seen him?" Sherlock asked.
"Not that I know of," the lad replied with a mild shrug.
Sherlock looked around them, checking for CCTV. "Blind spot," he muttered to himself, gazing upwards.

"He was a heathen," a voice suddenly hissed from behind them, and all three men jumped a foot in the air. Sherlock whirled to meet the voice, and John reached for his waistband, only to find nothing there. He swore quietly to himself, feeling suddenly exposed. "He desvered to die."
"Show yourself," Sherlock growled, eyes flashing. John watched curiously when his friend side-stepped in front of him, then scoffed. He was more than capable of taking care of himself.
A cackle greeted them, and they all looked on with anticipation as a woman left the shadows. Blood splatter covered her white dress, and most of her face. Her hair was ratty, her eyes wild and crazed.
"Heathens," she said again, this time with more venom. John and Sherlock exchanged glances, weighing their options.
"Ma'am, who are you?" John questioned gently.
A smile. "A child of Our Lord, answering the call of righteousness."
Sherlock nodded slowly. "Do you have a name?"
"Julia," the woman said dangerously, taking a step closer. Something nasty lingered just behind her back.
All three retreated a half-step, and Sherlock held up his hands. Why does religion always make people crazy? he wondered momentarily. "And why were they 'heathens'? What have they done?"
A maniac laugh sounded from deep in Julia's throat. "Why, they just don't believe. They don't... believe... in Our. Lord." She inched closer, revealing a heavy iron rod from behind her. He saw Wiggins visibly wince, though he knew the boy could very well handle whatever that woman could throw at him.
Shite, Sherlock thought with mild annoyance. "Isn't one of the Commandments 'Thou shall not kill'?" he asked cheekily, watching as Julia's eyes flashed. He exchanged a glance with Wiggins, then John, and nodded once, blinked twice.

It hadn't taken long to apprehend Julia. Not with three of them against one, even if she was insane and armed with an iron rod. At the moment, Wiggins was planted on the small of her back, pinning down her arms forcefully. She was struggling and screeching, and making a general racket while John rang Lestrade. Meanwhile, Sherlock was snooping around the corpse of Jack, prodding at it with gloved fingers, observing the puddle of blood, glancing at the rod that Wiggins had kicked out of Julia's reach. Finally, he nodded in acceptance. So that was it. Case closed. Nearly. There was still the legal aspect to deal with.

"Alright, see you Greg," John said, and hung up. He walked over to Sherlock. "Lestrade's on his way," he told him, shoving his mobile back in his pocket.
"Good. It's about time he did something."
"Sherlock..." It seemed John said his name a lot lately.
"John," Sherlock said back, smirking slightly.
John shook his head, tried not to smile. "Wanna go shopping? Y'know, while we're out. I still need to get some things," he announced, then glanced at Wiggins, who was still struggling. "Well, once Greg gets here."
For once, Sherlock didn't groan. "Love to."

Sherlock and John both collapsed onto the sofa late that night. The bags and their coats they had abandoned at the door (John hadn't noticed the missing scarf yet). The two of them sat almost on top of each other in amiable silence, just staring at nothing, when Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, a package in her hand.
"This came earlier today, boys. You were gone, so I signed for it."
"Oh, thanks Mrs Hudson," John said, standing and taking the package from her.
"So where have you boys been? Not getting into trouble I hope."
"Solving a murder, does that count?" Sherlock asked in that way only Sherlock could.
Mrs Hudson chuckled. "Sounds like fun. Well, I'll let you two be. I'm glad you're back and all in one piece."
John smiled and watched as she left.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, a twinkle in his eye. "It's from Harry."
"Your sister sent you something?"
"Seems that way," John said, tearing open the package, revealing a two wrapped gifts. One for John, the other for Sherlock. He shook the gift lightly, then tossed Sherlock his. They opened them at once, curious. A card fell out of John's. He picked it up, held it under the gift.
"Hm." John looked up to see Sherlock gazing curiously at his. It was an advent calender, featuring Father Christmas.
"Ha!" John finished tearing off the paper on his, revealing another advent calender, this one Lego. "I have to admit, she knows me," he murmured with a smile, and opened the card.

By the time you get this it'll probably be well after the first. Shipping's a bitch. Merry Christmas and all that. Hope to see you Christmas Eve.

-Harry

"Shit," John sighed. He had completely forgotten about going to Harry's for Christmas. He glanced over at Sherlock, who had been occupied with opening all of the compartments of the days that had passed on his calender, popping a few of the sweets into his mouth. Now Sherlock was staring at him curiously, eyes bright.
"What is it?"
John shook his head. "I forgot. I told Harry I would come over for Christmas."
"When?" Sherlock asked blankly, expression falling.
"I suppose I'll have to leave the twenty-third, after we have everyone over..."
For a moment, Sherlock was horridly white, a look of distress crossing his face, but he soon recovered. "Have fun," was all he said, but his smile was tight.
John felt a knot form in his stomach. "You could come along," he offered, but Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him. Great. That's Sherlock's Christmas ruined, John thought bitterly.