A/N: Christmas is being split into two parts because the final product ended up being waaaay too long. Hope you guys don't mind. Thanks for reading!

This chapter is rated M!

John wakes early after only a little bit of sleep because he's worried about Sherlock. He doesn't know why Mycroft was upset when he got back last night, he only knows that there was a lot of tension in the house, and Sherlock doesn't do well with conflict.

He gets up and goes downstairs to get some coffee, and he's really shocked to see Harry there. First of all, it's only six-thirty and that's far too early for Harry to be up (unless she hasn't even gone to sleep), and second of all, she hasn't been home since their fight a few weekends ago, so he's a bit nervous as he enters the kitchen.

"Hey, Johnny," Harry says as he enters the kitchen.

"Uh, hey," he mutters, eyeing the coffee.

She grabs it before he can and pours his a cup. She applies the sugar, the way he likes it, and hands it to him.

"Oh," he says. "Thanks."

She weakly smiles as he takes the first sip. She continues to stare at him.

Finally, he sets the mug down and takes a deep breath. "What?"

"I'm sorry, John," she says.

John looks at her; sees the pure apology in her eyes. She's never apologized before; not when she accidentally pushed him out of a tree and broke his arm when he was eight; not all the times she came home drunk or high and interrupted his studying or sleep; not even that time one of her friends scratched the hell out of the car with a key, blamed him, or for what their dad did afterwards.

"I, uh…" He can't say it's ok. It's not.

"I know it's not ok," Harry says, reading his mind. "I shouldn't have hurt you. I was just upset, that's all. How would you feel if someone kissed Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't like it," John agrees. "But…I didn't kiss her, Harry. I'm sorry, blaming her is wrong, but I really didn't do anything."

"I know," she tells him. "She explained the whole thing. She's, uh, not very open about this whole…me being a girl, thing…"

John nods. "I understand."

"It's odd, how different people accept things. I was fine with it the first time I figured it all out. I always knew I was different anyway. What about you?"

"What? The whole…the-love-of-my-life-is-a-boy-thing?"

Harry smiles. "Yeah, that."

John shrugs. "I don't know, I don't think I ever really put much thought into it. I loved him before I knew what love was, before I knew what gay meant. I loved him before anyone told me that I should like girls."

Harry continues to smile at him. "That's great, John. Really."

"Thanks," he says, sipping his coffee again. "So you and Clara, you're—"

"We're…something, that's for sure."

"Something. Something is nice, though. Other people are nothing with her."

"That's a great way of thinking," Harry tells John. "She's coming over today. As a friend, you know? Her family isn't very Christmas-y. Finally a family less in touch with each other than ours."

John tries to chuckle, knowing she's trying to somehow make a joke, but it's unfunny how true that may be.

"Are you going to tell everyone that Sherlock is your beau?"

John makes a face. "Beau?"

Harry laughs. "The apple of your eye, your main squeeze, your—"

John stops her by laughing. "Ok, ok. Uh…" he pauses to think. "I hadn't thought about it. I guess…maybe I will. I don't know. Depends, I guess."

"On?"

"On whether or not Jeanette follows him around all evening."

Harry laugh. "Yeah, she does that, doesn't she?"

John laughs, too. "I guess I'll tell them. What could go wrong? Mum knows. She's alright with it. Isn't she?"

Harry nods. "Of course. She wants you to be happy."

John nods in understanding.

"Where is he, anyway?"

"At his house, I guess. Mycroft is leaving for America this morning, so I imagine he and Mycroft are saying goodbye."

"Why is Mycroft going to America?"

John shrugs. "I don't even really know."

Harry pats John's shoulder. "Well, I need to get dressed. I've got to go pick Clara up. Grandma will be here around eleven, alright?"

John nods.

Harry's about to leave the room, but she doubles back and takes John in an awkward hug. "Merry Christmas, Johnny Buddy."

John cracks a smile and hugs back. "Merry Christmas, Harry Bear-y."

John calls Sherlock around seven, but Sherlock doesn't answer. John doesn't mind, instead he takes the time to online-shop for Sherlock's birthday present.

Every single year, no matter the situation with his family or even that year he had the flu for two weeks (over Christmas and Sherlock's birthday), he's gotten Sherlock both a Christmas and birthday gift. Some years, Sherlock gets only one large gift from his parents, and it takes the fun out of opening gifts twice, so John's always made it a point to make it worth Sherlock's while.

For Christmas, John is giving Sherlock a few vinyl records of classical music. He knows Sherlock loves classical music (listening as much as playing), and Sherlock has expressed numerous times how gorgeous the scratch of the violin sounds on a record player (his love proved true one summer when all they did was lay in the study to listen to Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles from Clement's original Revolver record).

But now John has no idea what to get Sherlock for his birthday. Not only is he limited on funds, but Sherlock really is difficult to shop for. John searches for clothes, thinking perhaps getting Sherlock a new tie or something, but all he finds are silk boxers that he'd love to feel against his skin while they're being warmed by Sherlock's.

John licks his lips at the thought, and notices that his mouth had been hanging open while staring at the model wearing the boxers. He shakes his head and picks up his phone, sending Sherlock a quick text to pass the time.

To Sherlock Holmes: Miss you. Come as soon as you can. ;)

"What the hell?" John says out loud, then erases the wink-face and clicks send.

He doesn't get a reply, not that he expected to. He stretches in his computer chair and yawns, realizing the coffee has done nothing for his sleep depravation, so he decides to take a nap.

John doesn't know what time it is, how long he's been asleep, or even really his own name when he feels someone snuggle against his back and wrap an arm around his chest. He sighs, content, and alarmingly not at all alarmed. Then he feels warm kisses against the back of his neck and he knows there's no need to be alarmed at all.

"How are you?" John slurs against his pillow.

"Alright," Sherlock sighs. "I needed to get here as soon as possible. I need you."

John groans in relief as his body stretches, turning around to grasp Sherlock tight. "Mmm…what happened?"

Sherlock shifts down to bury his head in John's chest. "My brother is gone. That's all."

"Did you talk?"

Sherlock nods. "He told me to be good. He said I can go visit. You and I both, maybe. He said to continue to help people, and that Lestrade will still be in touch."

"Good, baby," John murmurs, his eyes drifting closed once again. "Why was he so upset last night?"

Sherlock chuckles. "He went all the way over to Lestrade's flat to kiss him. And Lestrade was so shocked he didn't say anything."

John laughs, his eyes still closed. "Words help."

"That's what I told him!"

John's chuckle slows and he yawns again.

Sherlock kisses the middle of John's chest. John rubs his back and feels soft t-shirt under his fingertips.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock whispers.

John doesn't even nod before he drifts off.

John wakes briefly a few times. The first time, he sees Sherlock's black hair under his nose. The second time, he sees Sherlock's hip and hears Sherlock typing away at his laptop. The third time, he hears Sherlock on the phone.

The last time he wakes, he feels far more refreshed. He still doesn't know what time it is, but he knows that if it was anytime near eleven, someone would have woken him up.

He opens his eyes and sees white. Beautiful white. Marble, alabaster, even more pure than snow. The white shifts and muscle slithers under it. John immediately longs to bite.

"Sherlock…" he sighs.

The white shifts down until Sherlock is face to face with John. He grins. "Welcome," he says.

"Hmm," John sighs again, puckering his lips for a kiss.

Sherlock complies, and John lets his lips go slack so he can really feel Sherlock's tongue and teeth and neediness.

John lifts a heavy arm and places his hand on Sherlock's bare chest. He pulls his lips away and looks down, loving the look of Sherlock's pale chest.

He rubs Sherlock's skin, from his neck to belly button. He toys with Sherlock's nipples and kisses him deeply, swallowing Sherlock's surprised gasps when John rolls the hardening buds between his fingers.

"Sherlock," John sighs, rubbing his hand down smooth skin, dipping his fingertips into trousers.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asks.

"Can I…" John starts. Then stops.

Clearly embarrassed, John feels less so when Sherlock grabs his hand and pushes it lower; Sherlock sucking in his already thin stomach to allow John more room to slip his hand into his jeans.

"What do you want?" Sherlock practically purrs.

John should be asking him, since his hand is halfway down his jeans and he's reaching for the slippery head of Sherlock's cock. But he's going to make a request.

"Sherlock," he breathes, shifting to lick at Sherlock's neck. "Can I…can I fuck you?"

Sherlock bolts up into a sitting position in an instant. "What?!"

John's slightly slower. With his hand still in Sherlock's pants and his fingertips playing with the sticky fluid inside, he's a bit distracted. He looks up at Sherlock and leans up on an elbow. "What?"

"That was incredibly arbitrary!"

John shakes his head, as if lost. "Sorry, how? We're in bed, I just thought—"

"Arbitrary in that we haven't even talked about it, John. I need warning before you just ask something like that."

John pulls his hand out of Sherlock's jeans. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"No, John," Sherlock shakes his head. "Not yet. We can't…we need to talk about it, we need to be sure, we need to be prepared."

John takes a deep breath and nods, understanding that much.

"We haven't even tried anything like that, John. And I'm sorry, but I'm just not ready."

John nods again. "Ok, ok I'm sorry, Sherlock. Really, I'm sorry."

Sherlock nods. "Alright."

"I love you," John honestly says. No ulterior motives in the words, just pure honesty.

Sherlock places a hand on his cheek. "I love you too," he says, leaning in and kissing John again.

John pushes Sherlock back down and works his lips away. "Can I still…" he starts, then trails his hand down Sherlock's chest again.

Sherlock nods. "Yes, please…"

John grins, kissing Sherlock again while undoing his belt and jeans.

Sherlock's trousers and pants are shoved away in no time, and John's got his hand wrapped around a nice, hard prick. He strokes it well, hoping that he knows by now what Sherlock likes. He presses his thumb to the slippery head when Sherlock's hips roll up, and Sherlock cries out in pleasure.

John's on his side against Sherlock, so his erection is pressing against Sherlock's hip. He likes he feeling, if not wishing for a bit more, but stroking Sherlock feels good enough already.

But Sherlock, always knowing exactly what John wants or is thinking, in any situation, reaches over and pulls John out of his loose pajama pants. He grabs John with the hand nearest John's body, so they don't have to cross arms, and begins to stroke as hard and as fast as John is.

And then it's sort of a race, really. Their tongues swirl together lustfully, their hands fly between them, and John thinks he's going to win by bringing Sherlock off first, but then Sherlock pulls away, throws his head against the pillow while arching his back, spreads his legs while flinging an arm over his head, and moans as loudly as he possibly can (which is pretty much very fucking loud).

John stands no chance. If it wasn't the baring of his gorgeous neck, the bending of that flexible spine, the spreading of those mile-long legs, or the stretching of that pale chest, it'd be the fantastically loud, extremely sexy moaning. John's body hardens as he comes all over Sherlock's hip.

His hand tightens and reflexively quickens as he comes, and that sends Sherlock over. Sherlock's hips still in an outward thrust, and he spills all over John's hand and his own belly.

"Oh my god," John sighs as he rolls onto his back.

Sherlock climbs on top of him and kisses his face, neck, and chest.

"My god," John repeats. "You're so fucking hot, Sherlock. How?"

He feels Sherlock smirk against his neck. He grabs Sherlock's hair, yanks until their face to face again, and kisses that stupid smirk off his face.

John's showered and dressed by ten thirty. When he gets back to his bedroom from the shower, Sherlock is dressed in a proper button-up shirt with a tie. It's not a full suit, and John finds it an incredible look on him.

"Weren't you wearing a t-shirt earlier?" John recalls, pulling at Sherlock's tie.

"I was," Sherlock says. "I got here and saw your wonderfully sleepy form on your bed, so I put on one of your t-shirts to not ruin my shirt."

John smooths his hands down the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt. "It's very nice, love," he tells Sherlock, then kisses him lightly.

Harry is back at exactly eleven. John doesn't ask where she's been for the past few hours, but he's pleased to not smell alcohol on her.

John kindly greets Clara, even though she is a bit awkward towards him. The couples sit in the sitting room with each other, silently chatting with their other. Sherlock tells John about an experiment he's been working on, and Harry and Clara are talking too low for the boys to hear.

Finally, Dawn arrives home with her mother, and John and Harry happily greet their grandmother. John is so happy to see her because, unlike everyone else in John's family, their grandmother favors him more than Harry. Only subtly, but ever since they were kids, people would feel sorry for Harry, excuse her behavior in saying she had a right to act that way, and ultimately would baby her. Not their grandmother; John, being her only grandson, is her baby.

"Grandma, you remember Sherlock, right?" John asks as she finally lets him go.

John's grandma also happens to be the only person in the family who has never found Sherlock a bit odd or off putting.

"Of course!" she cries, pulling Sherlock into a hug. "My, my, you've gotten so tall!" she tells Sherlock. "Can't keep up, John?"

John and Sherlock laugh.

"It's very nice to see you again, ma'am," Sherlock says when she lets him go.

"Child, I've known you for a million years, please call me Lucille."

Sherlock doesn't have time to reply before she moves to meet Harry's friend.

Dawn and Lucille get to cooking, and Harry and Clara pretend to help. John decides to make a pie, so he and Sherlock take the ingredients to the dining room table because the kitchen is fully occupied.

"I'm going to tell my family that we're going out," John tells Sherlock after a while.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably as he plays with an egg. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I don't want to feel like I'm hiding you. Why? Should I not?"

Sherlock shrugs. "They already don't like me as is, why add this to the list of why?"

"They don't dislike you," John tries. "And I don't care what they think. Your family is fine with it."

"My family pretty much expects homosexuals," Sherlock says. "So many men and all."

John laughs. "Well, I guess my family will have to deal with it. I'm going to tell them."

Sherlock sighs. "Alright, if you really want to."

"Besides," John adds. "My mother and grandmother are the only two people whose opinions I actually care for. My mum knows and my grandmother loves you, I'm not worried."

"Ok, John."

John kisses Sherlock quickly, then instructs him to stop playing with the eggs or else he's going to be cleaning up the messes when he breaks them.