A/N: Sorry once again for the delay in posting! I've been busy here getting ready for the Doctor Who 50th anniversary this Saturday! *squees* *shuts up*

(And apologies on the lame chapter title. . Couldn't think of anything.)

Disclaimer: I'm too busy freaking out over this weekend to think up a clever disclaimer. Don't own Sherlock or any of it's characters, with the exception of Sheila.

CHAPTER SEVEN:

CHRISTMAS

"Oh, up a little higher, dear. That's good. Oh, no, can you move it a little to the left? There! That's perfect."

John adjusted the tree the few inches Mrs Hudson had instructed, then stepped back, batting pine boughs away from his face.

"I really do not understand this… 'tradition'," Sherlock said, watching from the other side of the room, with a half amused, half confused look on his face.

Sheila shook her head. "I don't either."

John shook his head. "Really, you two. It's just a tradition."

"But why?" Sheila asked. "Most traditions make very little sense. And I bet you can't name where the 'let's put a tree inside the house and throw shiney shreds of tinfoil and ugly glass balls on it' tradition started."

John opened his mouth, paused, then closed it. "It's tinsel, not tinfoil. And actually, I think it originated in Germany."

Sheila shrugged.

John shook his head again. "Anyway, you two can't protest too much to everyone getting together here in a few days for Christmas."

"Yes, we can," Sherlock mumbled. "Why does it have to be here anyway?"

"Because, Sherlock, you would probably refuse to go anywhere else." John moved into the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson had placed boxes of glass balls and other assorted ornaments.

"He has a point," Sheila said.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Whose side are you on?"

Sheila smirked. "Mine."

Sherlock considered that, then nodded. "Acceptable."

John laughed and paused from unpacking the ornaments to glance over at Sheila and Sherlock.

Sherlock sat in his chair, lounging back lazily, but watching the carrying-ons of John and Mrs Hudson with his typical sharp gaze. Sheila sat perched on the edge of the sofa, the bright blue of her shirt standing out from the dark fabric. She had an easy smile on her face, and, looking between the two, John realized they both looked... happy. At ease.

It had started last week, after the Wallford case. John couldn't have said what had changed, but there had been a definite change in the way Sherlock and Sheila interacted with each other. They weren't 'friendly' (they were, after all, both Sherlock), but there seemed to be a degree of respect in the other.

Thinking back, John realized that he didn't think Sheila had had any sort of collapse or visible sign of whatever it was that was going on with her. Judging by his own experience, John had wondered if she had been suffering from a form of PTSD. If she had, Sherlock had obviously helped her in one of the same ways he had helped John.

There had still been no word from Mycroft, and other various problems of the Yard's had kept the two busy enough to not actively seek out the explanation of the other's existence.

Mrs Hudson called John back to the present. "Dear, I think I left a box of decorations in my flat. Would you run down and get it for me? I'd do it myself, but the stairs aren't as easy as they used to be, with my hip and all…"

"No problem, Mrs Hudson," John said. He started towards the stairs.

"Where on earth are you going to put more decorations?" Sherlock called. "The room is already covered."

"Your bedroom," John called back.

Judging by the laughter from Sheila, he wished he had seen the look on Sherlock's face.

#

Christmas day arrived. Sherlock, Sheila, John and Mrs Hudson spent the morning watching Christmas classics on the telly and drinking tea. Sherlock and Sheila protested at all of the impossibilities of "It's a Wonderful Life", but did seem to enjoy it.

In the evening, John checked to make sure the flat was in order while Sherlock played a few carols on his violin, Sheila watching him, her knees pulled up against her chest and her chin propped up on them.

The doorbell rang. Neither Sherlock nor Sheila moved, so John shook his head at them. "I've got it." Neither of them replied, of course.

John went down the stairs and opened the front door. Molly stood on the step, wrapped in a thick coat to keep out the cold. She smiled. "Merry Christmas, John!"

"Merry Christmas," John replied, smiling back. "Come in!"

He stepped aside to let her in, and they both went upstairs to the living room. Mrs Hudson met them at the top of the stairs. "Hello, dear," she said, giving Molly a hug. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson," Molly said, smiling. She looked over at Sherlock who stood by the window, flipping through pages on his music stand in front of him.

Sheila had apparently gone upstairs, because her spot on the sofa was empty. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock looked up, apparently noticing Molly for the first time. "Hello, Molly."

"Merry Christmas," Molly said cheerfully. Mrs Hudson took her coat (though insisting she wasn't their housekeeper). "Any cases recently?"

"Unfortunately, no," Sherlock said, setting his violin in his case. "It's been a frightfully dull morning. John forced us to watch 'Christmas classics' all morning."

"You liked 'It's a Wonderful Life'," John protested. "Even if you and Sheila had to keep pointing out the impossibilities."

A creak came from the stairs as Sheila came back down. "John, the entire movie is frightfully… 'sentimental.'"

Molly blinked, staring at her, then looked back at Sherlock.

John wanted to slap a hand to his forehead. Of course Sherlock hadn't told her about Sheila.

Sherlock, at least, did seem to notice Molly's confusion. "Oh. Molly, this is Sheila. She's not my daughter, whatever you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking anything," Molly said timidly, still staring. Sheila gave her one of those half-smiles that Sherlock did when he knew he was supposed to be polite.

"I'm sure you weren't," Sherlock said.

Any further awkwardness was broken by the bell ringing downstairs.

Eager to break away, John hurried down the stairs to let Lestrade in. When they came back upstairs, Sherlock had moved past Molly and was in the kitchen. "Mrs Hudson! What's this odd smelling drink?"

"That's eggnog, dear," Mrs Hudson said. "It's my sister's recipe."

Sherlock grunted and poured himself a glass from the bottle of champagne on the table instead.

Thankfully, John thought, Molly managed to move past the awkwardness and attempted conversation with Sheila, who in turn managed to converse as well as Sherlock.

Surveying the little gathering over his mug of eggnog, John smiled. Over the last few years, this part of Christmas had grown to be his favourite.

This year, though, two changes had been made. There was someone new joining in for the festivities, and because of so, the regular group had agreed to forgo the usual name exchange for gifts in place of something else.

After a while of laughter, drinks and catching up, John stepped to the front of the room and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, everyone. This year, because of a few factors, we decided to do something different." He glanced at Sheila. "And, Sheila, we'd like to give you something now."

Sheila looked at him, a slightly confused look on her face. "What?"

"First, though, dear, the other thing," Mrs Hudson said.

John nodded. "Right. Well." He looked at Sheila. "We've decided that the arrangement of you sleeping in my room, and me sleeping on the sofa really isn't working."

Sheila raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

John winced. "I'm not as young as I used to be…" He shot a withering glare at Sherlock, who had muttered something under his breath. "Shut up…" He cleared his throat. "Anyway. Mrs Hudson has agreed, if you want to, to let you stay in 221C for just a little extra rent than Sherlock and I were already paying. We'll help you fix it up, and we'll split the total rent three ways then. That is, if you want."

Sheila blinked, staring at John. "I… Yes. I would love that."

John smiled, and Mrs Hudson beamed. "Great. Now." He looked at Sherlock, who went into his room, coming back a moment later with a large, brightly wrapped box. He set the box in front of Sheila wordlessly.

Sheila looked down at the wrapped box with suspicion. "What is it?"

"That's what you're supposed to figure out," John said, smiling. "And don't bother trying to deduce what it is without opening it. It's inside a box."

Sheila touched the wrapping paper hesitantly. She looked up at Sherlock, then at John, and Mrs Hudson, as if trying to figure out what it was from them before opening it. Then she tore off the wrapping paper delicately, revealing as John had said, a box. She lifted the covers of the box and a barely audible gasp left her lips as she pulled out a black violin case. She lay the case across her lap, and her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the latches. She opened the case and gently lifted out an elegant and slightly antique violin.

Sheila looked up at Sherlock, looking confused. "What… why…"

"You said when we first met that your violin had been damaged in a case," Sherlock said. "By the way you watch me when I play, you're obviously itching to play again, but I certainly couldn't let you play mine. It was only logical that we get you your own."

"But, a Stradivarius," Sheila breathed, her gaze not leaving the instrument.

"The owner of the music shop from the Marie Kelly case a few weeks back was more than happy to give us a deal," Sherlock stated.

"We all pitched in," John said. "I hope it's alright."

"It's… it's, um…" Sheila cleared her throat. "It's beautiful." She laughed softly. "I don't… know what to say."

"Don't then," Sherlock said. He turned and walked across the room, picking up his own violin. "I'll let you get warmed up first."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sheila's lips, and she lifted the violin to her shoulder and raised the bow, setting it delicately against the strings. She played a few bars, then leapt into fast-paced scales. When she looked up at Sherlock, her eyes were shining. "I'm ready."

Sherlock nodded once, lifted his own violin to his shoulder and raised his bow. He glanced at the others. "Any requests?"

"Carol of the Bells?" Molly suggested.

Sheila nodded, glancing at Sherlock. "It's been a while since I played it, but I think I still can."

With a nod, Sherlock tapped his foot to the tempo and then together the two Sherlocks started playing.

When they finished, the rest of the group burst into applause. Sheila and Sherlock actually smiled. "Any other requests?" Sheila asked, a truly happy look on her face mirrored on Sherlock that made John smile.

#

Two days later, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, gazing at slides on his microscope. He looked up from his microscope at the sound of a car slowing in front of the flat. Client? John was at the surgery and would be for another two hours. Sheila and Mrs Hudson were down in 221C, and he hadn't heard either of them leave.

The car wasn't a taxi, the engine ran too smoothly for that. No, he would say it… oh.

The bell rang. Sherlock debated whether or not he should leave his brother on the step, or let him in.

He let the bell ring another four times before slowly standing up and walking casually down the stairs towards the door.

He made sure Mycroft would be able to hear him, then fiddled with the lock on the door. He glanced at his watch and saw to his satisfaction that it had been three minutes since the first ring. He smiled and opened the door. "Hello, brother dear."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, a clearly annoyed look on his face. "John at the surgery?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Was it the fact that he didn't answer the door or the fact that you probably have his work schedule pinned to your wall that led you to that conclusion?"

Mycroft didn't look amused. "I don't pin things to my wall, Sherlock." He lifted his umbrella and pushed the door slightly inwards.

Sherlock pretended to look surprised. "Oh, you want to come in? How silly of me. Come in, why don't you, dear brother Mycroft. Is that normal protocol?" He asked as he went upstairs, his thoroughly annoyed elder brother following. "I thought it was typical to leave your brother waiting."

Sherlock walked to his chair and picked up his violin, sitting down and glaring at Mycroft.

Mycroft knew better than to wait for an invitation to sit. He sat in John's chair across from Sherlock, leaning his hands on his umbrella. "I was tied up."

"Not literally, I hope," Sherlock said, insincerely, as he ran his bow up and down the strings in a few intentionally out of key scales.

"No," Mycroft said dryly. "What have you done so far about the girl?"

"Her name is Sheila," Sherlock said, ceasing to play and stood up and to face the window.

"And have you figured out what she is?"

"She's a human being, Mycroft," Sherlock said, gripping the neck of his violin.

"You haven't."

"Obviously. We were waiting for you."

Sherlock could hear the frown in his brother's voice. "There are other routes you could have gone down. Did you go home?"

Sherlock hesitated before answering. "No."

Mycroft sighed. "Why not?"

"We were busy. Now are you going to help us or not?"

"Why do you need my help, Sherlock? You're only using me as an excuse to not pursue the answer to all ends. You know where to look."

Sherlock lowered the violin and set it down, turning to face his brother. "I'm not going home, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "I don't mean home. I mean Baskerville."

Sherlock was careful to make sure his surprise didn't show. "What does Baskerville have to do with anything?"

"Think about it, little brother. I asked you a few weeks ago to go to Baskerville, because I am no longer receiving as much information on what they are doing as I would like."

"Then you should have sent one of your minions," Sherlock said, irritation in his voice. "I told you, I'm not interested. I'm not one of your puppets, Mycroft."

"I don't know what is going on in Baskerville," Mycroft continued. "And then suddenly, out of the blue, a girl shows up who is an exact replica of you? Surely you have thought this through."

"We're not going to Baskerville," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, we are."

Sherlock whirled around and Mycroft turned in his chair to see Sheila standing at the foot of the stairs. She'd come up without either of the Holmes brothers hearing her. "Sheila…" Sherlock started.

"We've put this off for too long," Sheila said, coming further into the room. She looked at Mycroft, who gazed back at her, unfazed.

"It's time to discover the truth," Sheila said, her voice quiet. "We're going to Baskerville."