~ December ~

Things were never really the same between them after their Thanksgiving holiday. For the first few days after their return, Sherlock avoided Molly, both at Bart's and during her off hours. She was not particularly disturbed by this development. He had been thrown off-kilter, as she was herself, and there were many distractions in London that had not been available during their days in the U.S. Things to do. People to see.

On holiday, there had been the brief errands for Mycroft, and then the rest of their days had been taken up with sightseeing, and lunching at interesting restaurants. They'd gone to Mount Vernon one day, and some of the Smithsonian museums on another. A third had taken them to various memorials and government buildings, quite beautiful even if most were far less ancient than such things tended to be in England. Evenings had found them back at the Turner residence, partaking of Thanksgiving leftovers (apparently another tradition), movies, games, and then, at last, bed.

Once they'd begun their initially tentative yet increasingly satisfactory new physical relationship, neither Sherlock nor Molly wished to stop, nor did they, for the duration of those few nights. Molly knew Mary had suspected what was going on, but she'd said nothing, and John had seemed oblivious. Jet lag lingered among all four of them, after all, and had certainly been a convenient excuse to retire early. It had also served to account for heavy eyes and bemused expressions at the breakfast table.

Within a week of their return to England, Mycroft again called on Sherlock and the following day the Consulting Detective flew off to Berlin. He had not come to say goodbye to Molly, but he did text her.

Off to Berlin. Bloody Mycroft again. You're well? - SH

Yes. Thank you for letting me know. Christmas? - MH

Should be back for it. - SH

Good. Take care. - MH

:-) - SH

The emoji made her laugh, for he always claimed to detest the things.

Which might say a great deal, depending on what one wished to read into it.

Molly decided she would read into it her heart's desire.

o-o-o

It was a couple of hours before midnight on December 22nd when Sherlock's plane landed at Heathrow airport. The flight had been delayed, and he was exceedingly grateful the car his brother had sent to fetch him home had deigned to wait. London was enduring a bout of freezing weather - snow was actually predicted for Christmas - and Sherlock was enduring the worst cold he'd had in years. The malady had come on quite suddenly a few days before, starting with a severe headache and scratchy throat, progressing through watery eyes and a stuffed up nose, and had now settled in his chest. His resonant voice was appreciably lower in tone, and very hoarse, and the sleep he so sorely needed had been disturbed by fits of coughing these last two nights. And, though his illness had been bad enough in Berlin, it seemed to have become progressively worse in the last few hours - the other passengers on the plane had given him some very wry looks, to put it mildly. Now, instead of looking forward to the holiday, he only longed for hot tea and honey, as his mother had used to make him in similar circumstances, and for his pyjamas and dressing gown, and his fire place. And his bed.

He was dozing by the time the car reached Baker Street. The driver actually had to give him a bit of a shake to wake him.

"You alright, sir?"

"Yes! Fine!" Sherlock exclaimed, quite shocked at his lapse. He exited the car with all speed and mumbled thanks, grabbed his suitcase - the driver had already fetched it from the boot and it was sitting there, next to the steps - and let himself into 221B.

It was past eleven o'clock now, but Sherlock had thought Mrs. Hudson might still be awake. There was no sign of life, however, and he debated whether to disturb her. She would make him his honeyed tea, if he asked, though she might also make more of a fuss over his condition than was desirable. In the end, he decided not to knock on her door, but continued up the dim staircase in as noisy a fashion as possible, half hoping she'd peek out to see what the commotion was about.

A vain hope, he realized as he wearily reached the landing. Perhaps she had gone out for the evening and was not yet returned. Mycroft had obviously neglected to inform her of her favorite tennant's impending arrival and Sherlock would open the door to a dark, cold, lonely flat.

Lonely.

Bloody hell, why hadn't he sent Molly a text?

Well, of course, because he'd had some asinine notion of surprising her.

And wouldn't she just be surprised when he had to bloody beg off Christmas entirely in an effort to spare her and anyone else this horrid contagion? He broke into miserable coughing as he fumbled for his keys again, and a wave of Molly-longing swept over him with such force that if he were not a grown man, Sherlock Holmes, to whom emotion was abhorrent, and anything less than absolute stoicism and the stiffest of upper lips unthinkable, well, his eyes might have stung with tears of the rankest self-pity, he might have had to clench his jaw, bite that lip in a small, painful way to keep it from quivering-

The door to his flat flew open and there she was.

He gaped at her. Molly. Small and slender, a vision in worn jeans and a holiday jumper, the most perfect admixture of joy and concern on her face, and the whole of her haloed by what appeared to be an explosion of Christmas radiating from the interior of his flat.

He almost staggered. "M-molly!"

The concern immediately swamped the joy. "Sherlock, are you alright? Oh, good lord, what have you done to yourself?!"

"Not me, it's those German microbes. Bloody poisonous, I've got the worst cold… Don't get near me!"

But she was ignoring his warning, her arms were about him, she was hugging him fiercely, and it simply wouldn't have been polite not to return the favor, though he kept his face well turned away, his cheek laid against her hair, his eyes closing to absorb the sharp delight of the moment, and the feel of her, strong and alive and real.

"Oh, God," he whispered, and then, inconveniently broke out coughing again.

"Oh, you!"she said, releasing him, then, "Get in here!" as she caught his wrist and pulled him inside.

As she led him to his chair by the bright little fire, Sherlock was dazzled by fairy lights, greenery, the minimal but effective use of tinsel… she'd covered his less holiday appropriate artwork with wrapping paper and bows... there were gold and silver ornaments hanging from the horns of his bison skull... and there was a Christmas tree - a Christmas tree!- glowing in the corner.

Per history and self-knowledge, he should have hated it.

But as he collapsed into the comfort of his chair and looked about in a dazed fashion, his gaze finally settling on the tree (five feet, nearly perfect in form, radiant with fairy lights, covered with a fascinating profusion of ornaments in all colors, sizes, and shapes, veiled in tinsel, topped with a star) he realized he did not. Far from it. The main rooms of his flat had been transformed with an oddly subtle exuberance, and the words Home for the Holidays sprang irresistibly to mind.

Home.

And Molly.

He was vaguely aware she'd brought in his case and closed the door a couple of minutes ago, and had gone into the kitchen. And now, she was bringing him a small tray, set it on the table beside him, his favorite teacup steaming upon it, and a plate of what could only be Mrs. Hudson's mince tarts beside it.

"It's tea with honey - Mycroft said you'd caught a cold and that's what you liked, when he texted me that you were returning this evening. And Mrs. Hudson made you fresh tarts before she went out to play Bingo. She should have been here, too, she helped me with the decorations. Do you like it?"

She was crouching by the chair, now, looking up at him, an uncertain smile on her lips, and a look in her eyes that he'd seen many times before though he'd often purposefully ignored it.

He tried to clear his throat a bit. Picked up his tea with a hand that shook slightly and took a quick sip - hot, soothing, perfect- set the cup down again, and said to her: "I do. I can't… Molly, you love me."

She blushed, but did not look away. "Of course."

"Why?"

She laughed, rose, and then, somehow, was sitting on his lap, he was drawing her close, laying his head against the soft jumper, the swell of her lovely breasts that were not too small at all, but, as he'd learned during their recent holiday in America, exactly the right size to be cupped in his palms.

She kissed his forehead, and he sighed.

Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men, indeed.

And yet, though the knowledge of her Christmas gift, secreted in the pocket of his Belstaff, absolutely ate at his soul, he'd be damned if he'd give it to her when it was inadvisable, even criminal, to kiss her lips.

So he merely said, "Molly, it's the best Christmas ever," closed his eyes, and sighed in silent thanks.

~.~