Five more murders took place keeping the whole of London on edge, but as Christmas floated around, it seemed to put everyone in a cheery mood. Even Sherlock, who had been in something of a agitated state, seemed a bit happier on Christmas as all of their new and old friends gathered in the flat. It was a bit crowded with all of them. At first, it was just Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Jen, Sherlock, John, Molly, and Damon. Now it was them plus Mark and Lucy, Myra, Jamie, Mary, Peter, and Molly's fiancé, Tom. Dear Lord, there was beginning to get a lot of them.

Jen sat next to the fire remaining rather quite; she seemed to have withdrawn since the murders had started, and it didn't go passed Sherlock's notice. Yet, how was he supposed to ask about them if they upset her? He had no doubt it was her brother doing the killings, and he had no doubt Jen knew with her increasingly cold personality especially toward him as of late. She seemed to be attempting to drift away in an effort to keep a firm grip on her brother but in turn loosing her grip on her sanity. She hadn't slept in over a week, yet she had only spoken in single syllables since. Mark had tried talking to her, but she shooed him away now remaining alone next to the fire.

Sherlock watched her from the corner of his eye as she remained slumped in her chair before, after everyone had arrived, he stood from his chair crossing the room to stand in front of her until she looked up at him with a slight, chap-lipped smile. She looked like she was suffering from some sort of severe ailment worrying him. The shadows under her eyes contrasted deeply with her increasingly pale skin as her hair remained untamed giving her a disheveled look. She was loosing weight rapidly, again, and her hole body was constantly vibrating as if she was cold even when next to the fire.

"What is it?" she asked with a scratchy voice that just didn't sound even remotely like her.

"I want to give you your gift," he replied letting his eyes flit over her quickly trying to find a shade of health in her. His only conclusion was that Peter was adversely killing her, and she, herself, seemed completely unaware of the difference frustrating him.

"Oh," she muttered flatly, "go on then." He nodded to the other end of the room where a green wrapped box sat on one of the end tables near John. She eyed it wearily all the way across the room. "Oh… well, I haven't finished your gift yet... I've been... distracted," she murmured quietly before handing him a sketchbook. "I'll finished it when I have time, but it Christmas..." He took the notebook from her giving her a curious look. "Open it," she encouraged. He opened to the first page that it was essentially a comic book with four panels on each page. Each box led into the story of their lives and how they were intertwined. "It goes up until the Fall," she told him, "but I think... I'll continue it when I..." He was skimming the boxes and paused to look up at her.

"It has your thoughts," he told her before he began to read aloud one of thought boxes. "Sherlock Holmes always had my attention in school; he was brilliant, and if you didn't know it, you were an idiot." He smiled fondly before looking up at her.

"I know," she told him with a nod. "If I wrote it out, as it had happened, it wouldn't matter. Every memory is ingrained in your mind, but my thoughts aren't, and I think… I think it speaks louder to have my thoughts."

"Thank you, Ginny," he told her sincerely kissing her cheek gently.

"Help me," she breathed into his ear before she pulled away with a smile.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked her gripping her shoulders and holding her at arms length.

"I didn't say anything," she told him with a tilt of her head as she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"No, you said something," he frowned eyeing her carefully. "You said help me."

"No, I didn't," she with a slight laugh shaking her head. "You're losing your mind, Sherlock. What a shame too," she teased. He stared at her with a frown before he took her hand and led her to the rather large gift. She sighed before she reached out her hand gently touching the red bow with her fingertips.

"It's from all of us as well as the Holmes family," John told her standing at her side wanting to properly see her face brighten. "Sherlock's idea though."

"Rather thoughtful actually," Damon admitted giving Sherlock a teasing grin. The two got on rather well despite being on opposite sides of the law.

"I'm surprised you actually wrapped it," she teased him a little as well.

"Har, har," he replied rolling his eyes.

"Actually, I wrapped it, dear," Mrs. Hudson told her with a smile before Jen ripped off the green wrapping paper with a laugh allowing the white box underneath to fall apart revealing a rather beautiful Victorian doll's house.

"You said you always wanted one," he shrugged as it really didn't matter, but it did matter. The Victorian doll's house was everything she ever wanted as a child. It was the mother she lost, and the father she wanted. It was the picture perfect family with the white picket fence. It was the dreams she let slip through her fingers as she put everyone else first, and it was the love and approval she so desperately sought. She did not seek the love of a single man, but the love of a family, a bond that should have tested the sands of time. It was the idea that her brother could love her without manipulating her, and her sister could love her without resentment. It was the wish that her mother never abandoned her, and her father had not given up and had cared for her as a father should. It was the idea of a loving, fond childhood that she pictured in her mind but could never have herself. It was the emotions she kept to herself for the sake of her brother, sister, and father, and it was the gate that let those become real once again. It flooded her with scents, touch, memory of things she loved and longed for, and it found her small sensitive spot and pushed causing her to let out a shaky breath letting tears fall to her face before she became too weak and collapsed to her knees. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked in panic staring at the girl sobbing with her head in her hands before looking around the room not sure what to do as John knelt down to rub her back and soothe her.

"N-no," Jen stuttered looking at him through tear soaked eyes. "No, Sherlock. It's...," she looked at the doll's house trying to find the word, "sentimental, and... um..." she paused to take another shaky breath letting a few more tears fall, "it's so much more than you know, and I don't know if I can thank you enough." She slowly stood with John's help. "You know you're really good at this whole making me cry thing," she laughed trying to wipe the tears as a brightness that had been missing lit up her face.

"Sorry?" he remarked unsure about the appropriateness of the remark.

"Don't be," she told him before throwing her arms around his neck. He pulled her close putting his hands on the small of her back and resting his head gently on hers. "Help me," she breathed into him.

"You said it again," he snapped pulling from her and holding her in front of him. He was not imaging it; she was asking him for help. Why was she denying it?

"What?" she questioned still confused on what he was talking about.

"You said help me again," he told her.

"No, I didn't," she replied furrowing her eyebrows. "Have you been drinking?"

"It's not funny, Ginny," he informed her.

"No, I don't think so either. My father was a boozer, so you should really take it easy with the alcohol, Sherlock," she replied seriously. He opened his mouth to give her a sharp reply when Mary called at him from the kitchen. He gave her one last curious look before he headed to the kitchen to speak with Mary.

"You really know how to cheer her up," Mary smiled leaning against the counter to speak with him. He paused in front of her. "She seemed so down when John and I arrived, and you seemed to cheer her right up. Did she forgive you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a nod. "She found out that I was just trying to help her, and I don't understand. I'm not closer to the truth, yet she forgave me."

"It was the gesture, Sherlock," Mary told him being one of the biggest pushers of their relationship lately. "She has Borderline Personality Disorder, remember? The fact someone is willing to fight like you have for her is literally out of her understanding, so to see you do that is nothing short of a miracle to her."

"She gave me a book," Sherlock told Mary flipping through the book she had drawn him. "She said it has her thoughts in it." Mary smiled fondly at him.

"She's given you something precious, Sherlock," Mary replied, "and from the look on her face, that dolls' house meant a lot to her too."

"Hm," he answered thinking about what Mary said and about Jen, "she doesn't regret much in her life, but one of the things that weigh the heaviest on her is her lack of childhood. It's something she can never get back." Mary looked back in the living room to see Jen pointing out different things in the house to Lucy; the woman's face was lit up in a way Mary hadn't seen a while. Mary's eyes drifted to Sherlock to see him staring at Jen with such a fondness that it was nearly heartbreaking. His eyes were always steeled in the presence of others; he didn't seem to understand emotions, and yet, there he was, in front of Mary, looking at her in such a way that the word love could only wish to be used to describe how he was staring at her. But it seemed so much more than that; John loved Mary, and yet, he, nor anyone, had ever looked at her or anyone she knew like Sherlock looked at Ginevra, like his very person depended on her breath, her voice, her, right down to the last detail to the point where it was likely excruciating. This man, this man who didn't seek to feel, who didn't seek to know emotion, was privileged and tortured with what this woman did to him. Mary both pitied and envied him.

"I wish someone would look at me the way you do her," Mary spoke aloud pulling his gaze from her to look at her with a confused expression. "The way you look at her…," Mary shook her head before she shoved him rather roughly into the room next to Jen.

He looked back to Mary, who gave him thumbs up. Sherlock looked down at her lingering just a little before he spoke. "You like it then?" he asked.

"I love it," she told him before her eyes went up to him; she patted the place on the floor next to her. Lucy had went skipping off to her father, who was drinking a little too much on the couch having a conversation with Lestrade. Sherlock sat on the floor next to her. "Oh, Sherlock," she muttered reaching out a hand to admire the craftsmanship. "It's not just a doll's house; this is an antique."

"Go on," he encouraged knowing she could identify the maker and the year. She stared at it for a moment looking between the pieces.

"German," she eyed, "cica… 1895. Dear lord, this is a Moritz Gottschalk and the furniture is… Schneegas. This must have cost a fortune."

"You deserve it," Sherlock assured her.

"Do I?" she asked curiously gingerly touching the small kitchen utensils. "My mother always told me that one day she'd have enough money to give me a dolls' house," she told him gently. "Then she left, and any spare money we had was used to keep the house."

"What about the money that Peter got from Moriarty?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I never saw it," she replied. She gently shut the house before she turned to him. "Sometimes, I feel like you don't listen to me, but then, you surprise me by doing things like this." She paused and looked at the house. "Don't you get tired of me?" she laughed.

"No," he replied simply making her grin.

"Well, I'm glad," she smiled. "I imagine we all look so insignificantly stupid to you. Sometimes I fear that's what you think about me."

"You?" he asked her. "Don't be so dense, Ginny. If I thought you insignificantly stupid, I would have grown bored of you long ago."

"Maybe you're becoming sentimental in your old age," she laughed shoving him ever so slightly.

"If I'm old, so are you. We were born the same year," he reminded her.

"I'm three months younger than you," she told him making him scoff.

"Three months younger, but biologically with all the drugs you've put into your system-"

"Says the cocaine addict," she argued.

"Former cocaine addict, and I was never addicted to anything else. I also maintain a normal sleep pattern through the years. Also, your mental health is not as good as mine thereby making you biologically older."

"I have sex," she said with a smile. "Studies have shown people who have protected sex regularly are less stressful, happier, and overall healthier."

"Those studies are bias to increase the copulation of the human population to increase breeding," he replied making her snort.

"Okay," she replied sarcastically with a laugh before she leaned back and balanced on the balls of her hands. She pushed her legs out in front of her. "I've missed these Christmas parties; we didn't bother after you crushed us all with your fake suicide." There was a slight pained look on his face that would go unnoticed by most but not Jen. "You know I forgive you; I more than forgive you; I'm so grateful to you." She winced slightly as she looked around; she could see Mark glowering at them at the corner of his eye. "Do you want to go for a walk? All these people are exhausting me." He stood and looked down at her waiting for her to stand. She stood and patted her leg gently causing Toby to run out from under the piano to her. Jen grabbed the leash before her and Sherlock made the attempt to slip out of the flat unnoticed.

"You're still hyper-empathic then?" he asked causing her to give him a weary smile telling him that it was wearing her thin. They walked slowly down the street with Jen holding Toby's leash. It was chilly out but not unbearable.

"It's hard being with Mark sometimes," she admitted. "He's so… normal, and sometimes his emotions wipe off on me, and… it… it exhausts me. Mark is great; he's supportive and kind, and he loves me. You know?"

"Loves a chemical defect," he told her, and he still meant it and always would, but lately, he was unsure if the defect could properly be overcome. Jen chuckled breaking his thoughts.

"I know, but… I don't love him, and I don't know why," she said with a deep frown. "I want to, but… God, he wears me down. You and I were talking for two seconds, and I could feel myself growing envious and angry and… I realized it was coming from him. He's obsessively jealous of you of all people."

"It's a primal instinct," Sherlock informed her not defending Mark but rather showing off. "You're living with a single male, whom you have in the past declared to have emotional attachment to. I'm on his territory so to speak."

"We're not animals, Sherlock," she replied with a slight smile.

"Some more evolved than others," Sherlock quipped back making her smile again. "I'm more concerned about your brother. Well, concerned isn't the right word. Amused perhaps? Irritated?"

"You still think he's killing people again?" she asked knowing he wouldn't give up his initial accusations. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with him attempting to get a conviction, and Peter attempting to slip by him to continue is scheming.

"You don't?" he asked watching her carefully.

"Evidence tells you otherwise," she replied. Her left hand twitched ever so slightly telling him everything he needed to know. She was lying to him, and he knew that, but he also knew her. He could not touch that topic; he could not address the obvious evidence that was right in front of him, not until she was ready to see that Peter had to be put away again, and that it was for the best. It would have to wait. Peter had to do something so atrocious that even Jen wouldn't want to protect him any longer, and Sherlock knew it was bound to happen.

"Did you see a doctor?" he asked her changing the topic. "About the blackouts?"

"Stress, they said," she replied having gone not long after his request. "Said I don't cope well causing my mind to shut down when I'm stressed out. Told me to see a therapist; I laughed."

"You would end up having the therapist breaking down in front of you having the upper hand on them," Sherlock said with a slight laugh. "You are far more clever than they are." She grinned before she bumped him lightly with her hip.

"You've been very kind to me lately. Are you worried about James?" she asked him not oblivious to his attempts. "Or are you worried I'll sink into depression again?"

"Both," he told her, "and the recognition that I'm worried isn't helping things. It's fogging my mind." The situations surrounding Jen was thickening and piling on top of him leaving him drowning, and it was mixing with his emotions that were pushing forward surprising him in the worst way possible at the most inconvenient times.

"Oh a little fog in your mind is nothing," she tisked. "You'll figure things out. I mean James is clever, but you'll figure out what he was up to."

"What if he's right, and I can't stop it?" he asked her.

"Then reverse it," she told him simply. He stared at her blankly as if he was trying to tell her it simply wasn't so easy. "Oh come on. You set up this whole little game, so you could tear down his web, and he had no idea. Child's play." She paused. "It's odd… to see you doubting yourself."

"I'm not doubting I'll figure it out, but I'm also aware of the collateral damage if I don't approach this with caution," he replied annoyed with her assessment.

"There's nothing wrong with doubt; it makes you very human, Sherlock," she quipped back at his agitation. He didn't seem any less pleased by her answer. "I doubt myself in everything, but you know, I keep going anyways, and sometimes those doubts right, and I am prepared for that, and sometimes they're wrong, and I rejoice in that. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst."

"The worst?" he questioned looking down at her. "The worst is you dying, Ginny, and I can't prepare for that."

"Are you worried about me?" she teased him swinging her hip into him again.

"Well, if you weren't so idiotically helpless," he answered making her laugh. She sighed and shook her head knowing this conversation was destined to continue down a more morbid route if they continued, so it was time to go back to the place she was calling home.

"I missed you," she told him with a playful smile, "but it's time to go back to the flat; I'm sure Mark's having a fit. Men are such babies." They turned and continued down the street till they came back to the flat where Lucy was crying, and Peter was being restrained by Lestrade. "What the hell happened?" Jen asked looked between the guests.

"Nothing," Peter hissed throwing Lestrade off him.

"Your brother threatened my daughter," Mark told her causing her to turn her eyes to Peter, who was straightening his clothes out.

"Peter?" she questioned waiting for the truth.

"Just look at her Jenma," he snapped gesturing to the girl, who was cowering behind her father holding her left hand in her right for support. It looked broken or at the very least, sprained. "When we were her age-"

"Come here," she growled grabbing his wrist and pulling him into the hall slamming the door behind her. She didn't want to lecture him; he was a full grown man, but if he wanted to act like a vicious little child, then God help her, she would treat him like one. "What the hell are you doing!?"

"She's insignificant and innocent," he sneered like it was a disease raging through Lucy, and that needed to be fixed.

"She's a child, Peter!" she argued at him. It was one thing to attack adults, but it was a completely different level of sadistic to attack a child, who provoke him in no way.

"When I was her age-" he started, but Jen cut him off not wanting to hear his excuses.

"When we were her age, mum had left us. Robbie was constantly gone; dad was slowly descending into madness. Lucy has been through a lot; her mum was murdered, and she was held captive, and that makes her better than us. We fell apart; we crashed as low as you can, and she holds it together better than any of us did."

"We didn't crashed; we soared," he told her a sort of happiness, excitement, and utter madness brimming in his eyes. He gripped her shoulders tight as he practically loomed over her. "Humanity is a sick disease that should be put down; they feared us, and we could have had them begging on their knees if we so desired."

"Stop it," she demanded not wanting to play games with him today or ever. It made her stomach churn to see him like this, see him outside of his carefully crafted facade of slight sanity. His madness was always, in some way, carefully hidden, and very rarely did it fully shine through in full force.

"Why?" he laughed. "Why should I stop when you know it is nothing more than the truth? We were Gods."

"You need to get a grip on your sanity," she snapped throwing his hands off her. "You're losing it, and you're false platform will become transparent once again causing you to crash and burn, and I can't watch that happen… not again, Peter. I love you too much."

"You love me," he spat in disgust, "yet you defend that creature and reprimand me! Me!" he shouted at her leaning on the railing.

"I love her too," she replied calmly. "I am capable of loving more than one person, Peter; I am human." She rubbed her forehead before looking back to the door to the flat. "Come inside when you've cooled down."

"Capable of loving more than one person," Peter hissed as she shut the door behind her to enter the flat. His hands clutch strengthened on the railing. "I can change that." His eyes went to the door of 221B. "I can change that," he uttered with a smile before turning to go back into the flat.

A/N: Whoa, so hey, we got to see a little uninhibited Peter; that was Peter for just a brief second. That was one hundred percent, not playing around, psychopath The Carver. We'll see more of him later, so that'll be fun.

Thanks to Reviewers: TinkerbellxO, Cezera101, a mystery guest reviewer, hannahhobnob, flaming-amber, Akira Darkness, and zare . downey . okumura. I'll see you all next Saturday! Review please!