A/N: 3rd instalment of the Christmas piece

Except this isn't quite as Christmas-y as it should be. Oops. -csf


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'It's still highly unsubstantiated as a serial killer case, John. Where are my next victims, I may add? Did your mysterious serial killer forget the lyrics to your popular culture knowledge reservoir of useless Christmas songs? By the way, John, the original author's love of all creatures feathered only up until day 8 is nonsensical, to say he least!'

'Five golden rings', I remark. Somewhere in my tired mind, under Sherlock's constant disparaging attack, the line echoes in its innocent musicality, reverberating under echoes of laughter from some long past social gathering. I rub the skin over the bridge of my nose, finding hidden depths of tension there too.

'Oh, what does that matter!' Sherlock hisses. 'Don't explain, don't make me have to delete even more information pertaining this ridiculous musical tradition!' he further threatens.

'No, of course not.' My voice sounds hollow, coming from the depths of my unwavering support for the detective's work. 'I can help you remember if you forget. Or delete, if you want to call it that. I'm here to help you, Sherlock.'

'Faithful John', he mocks, derisively.

I feel it transverse me like a painful stab of betrayal.

Yeah, I am your faithful friend, you idiot. Even if you can't see value in what I'm giving you.

It's nothing, I tell myself. Sherlock is on edge. He has barely slept, too wiry from his constant search of fowl-related murders. He's lashing out for no good reason. Like a toddler in a toy wrecking rampage.

See, the trouble with Sherlock is that, deep down in himself, he is an overachiever. He somehow believes that he himself is some sort of Logic Deity, that he should be omniscient by the power of Deduction, and that, as such, the self made detective should be able to solve just about any case above the earth's dusty surface in two seconds flat. By inference, the corollary to this highly unusual form of excellence driven self-punishment is that Sherlock should be able to stop any further crimes before they happen. He, therefore, blames himself for not being quite able to stop a person or persons unknown's actions, and another's demise. Which is quite silly, by the way.

In Sherlock's brilliant mind, he pushes himself far beyond the limits of human resourcefulness. He holds himself to higher standards than any person should ever be submitted to. That is how he was brought up, I believe, never anything he did was quite enough to earn proper acknowledgement. In a family of renowned geniuses, young Sherlock was always at a chronological disadvantage, trying to make up the space between him and his elders in brilliant but insufficient strides. To acknowledge his own limitations would be, to Sherlock's own eyes, to deprive himself of the one thing he considers special and unique in himself; his brilliant mind. And it is undoubtedly brilliant. But it is not the reason, for instance, that I call Sherlock Holmes my best friend.

When he's all fired up, measuring himself on a genius scale against a grandiose killer, Sherlock is incapable of recognising true value in the things I anchor our friendship on. In fact, some days I suspect he'd happily trade our commonplace friendship for a bigger chunk of genius.

Being Sherlock's friend can, at times, be a saddening, humbling experience; as I'm destined to always lose when confronted with the importance of his Brainwork. I accept that, because I suspect it's how geniuses with large IQs all act. I'm sure they hold secret annual meetings in undisclosed locations, talking eruditely in Latin and conversing about world domination plans they are just simply too busy to actually put in place.

Or maybe that's just his brother, Mycroft.

I'm always suspicious of Mycroft plotting to take over the world, as a mental exercise.

'You're upset with me', Sherlock comments. I glance at him. For all his carefully constructed aloofness, there resides a boyish tinge of curiosity in his gaze, and a residue of vulnerability in the blushed rose tinge of his hollowed cheeks. 'I've upset you, John. Was it by expressly wishing for more corpses in Molly's morgue?'

I shake my head, allowing my gaze to be entrapped by his cool, mercurial eyes. Measuring me, cataloguing my reactions. 'No, I know you don't need me, Sherlock. I don't believe that in your mind you ever needed me.'

He blinks briskly. Shocked, perhaps. I'm being blunt.

'But, if you find you do need me, I'll be upstairs', I declare, mustering all my dignity before I leave the room.

I don't look back. I know Sherlock has already deleted our conversation.

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John.

I'm shocked, frozen to the spot by the sheer idiocy of my flatmate. I always suspected John's self-effacing traits were born out of misplaced humbleness and enhanced by years of military discipline, but this exchange verged on self-annihilation of his presence in my life.

John is important. John is always the reason, always the convoluted answer to the question. Somehow I can never convey to John his fundamental quality.

What's the point of being a recognised genius if a brave and honest person like John cannot bear to live with me much longer?

I'm hastily left alone by the short, stocky military man marching off the living room. I want to grasp together his damaged shell, to hold him by the arm and force him to endure a long rant about his importance in Baker Street, and the work, and everything that is right and noble and good in my life. No, in our lives. Before I know where to start John is mounting the wooden steps as if each had personally caused him injury, stamping them down as repressed words he did not want to hit me with. I flinch a bit with every suppressed insult, every mounting step up those stairs taking John further apart from me.

The living room feels cold, empty, a travesty of mismatched clutter without John.

John binds this place together as a home.

I grimace and force my emotions deep into the confines of a primordial dungeon, far underground under my Mind Palace. I can't deal with this; it's too much, and I'm too lacking in expertise when it comes to emotions, John is the one making sense of them for me, and now John is gone and I'm here, only me.

I try to clear my head of John's needy humanity, his constant input assault on my senses.

John is a distraction at the best of times, an escape from the dark episodes in my daily boredom. Now I must extricate him from my Palace, it's the only way I can gather the mind power to battle a fiend three steps ahead of me, the master and creator of inventive murders.

It's on the case I must focus. John will not stay away long when there's a multi murderer out there. His sense of duty is bound to bring him back. With luck I won't have to find awkward words to rustle up an apology.

I'm sure John will understand anyway. I'll make him some tea later. He likes tea. He'll like me to make him tea.

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My flatmate is a berk. Or a jerk. Or both. He's a dirk, a twerk, a stirk; and a perk of the worse type. There are not enough rhyming words in the dictionary to exact what a ..."ferk!?"... my friend is.

I'm fuming as I reach my stupid, colder, emptier room. I run my hands over my hair, dishevelling it as an act of war posturing. I should go downstairs and yell at the human automaton what I really think of his disregard for my companionship. That's what he does. He hides behind that giant brain of his and– and–

I rub my eyes shut tight until I see a myriad dots of light behind my eyelids.

I'm supposed to be the sensible one here. Sherlock can be juvenile in his interactions with the world. Why don't I let him cool down, and we can talk this over like adults, instead of two seriously emotionally constipated "merks".

I'm making up words now, aren't I?

I sight and let my hands fall slack at my sides, the fight wearing off in me.

Sherlock is pushing me away, taking a solitary stance against a promising prolific killer with a vendetta on Christmas songs. I need to contribute, to help Sherlock. Right now he won't let me, he doesn't think I can be of use.

My eyes stray towards the window, above a peaceful London street.

I can search, justify my part of The Work. Show Sherlock he's lucky to have me around, that he doesn't have to do it alone.

Soon I'm descending the wooden stairs in much the opposite frame of mind from my ascent. I will seek glory and participation in Sherlock's restricted access world. I won't leave him alone to face another fiend.

As I pass the living room, Sherlock is immobile where I left him – the perfect human machine – eyes moving rapidly under closed eyelids. He's lost in heavy argumentation with himself, I've seen it before, he won't snap out of it for a couple of hours.

I leave 221 with a sad, heavy heart for my isolated friend.

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'Sherlock! We found them, dammit!'

'Inspector!'

I open my eyes to the mocking yellow smiley face on the wallpaper ahead, as I let DI Lestrade's familiar voice penetrate my head through my mobile. 221B's lights are strikingly bright as I blink to return the familiar room to focus.

Lestrade texted, not three seconds ago. I didn't open my eyes to check, didn't need to. Logic dictated it was Lestrade. John is still upset with me, taking cover in his room, with his superfluous Christmas baubles and his emotional sulks, and I've again deleted my number from Mrs Hudson's phone last week, after she phoned me from the supermarket trying to ask me which brand of jam she should buy for John. I don't consume jam, and I don't abide by jam, I told her as much. She was displeased. Apparently I should know about jam. I should study the profound intricacies of jam. The conversation made me hungry, and I lamented, indeed, the lack of jam in the flat.

'Two turtle doves?'

The inspector's tone goes from tense to grim in one second flat. 'And the Three French Hens, Sherlock. Not to mention the Four Calling Birds. We're actively searching for Five Golden Rings as we speak. When it comes to number five, I have no idea what to look for. I thought you'd want to drop by, with John. I could use a hand before we go deeper into double digits on the death toll.'

I huff, displeased. 'It's too fast, the killer is too disorganized!' I protest.

'I wouldn't say that. In fact, he seems to be doing quite alright for himself. Three young ladies on a hen do in Dover, Sherlock, just recently returned from a drive across the channel. They were in France, Sherlock. As soon as they crossed the Eurotunnel, their car exploded. We nearly missed the connection with our killer altogether. Then the four prostitutes that overdosed in an abandoned house in the outskirts of the Essex.'

'Prostitutes?'

'Call girls, those birds were.'

'Slang!' I hiss, my anger sibilating the Ss. 'Clever, I suppose. Not within the carol's true spirit at all, but then again the lyrics are hogwash anyway...'

'Any ideas of the Five Golden Rings, mate?'

'Ask John. He's my slang and banalities consultant.'

'I tried, bit he didn't pick up his phone, goes straight into voicemail... Is everything alright, Sherlock?'

I turn off the call, finally allowing it to sink in me that I haven't heard John in a long while. And John's silences are ordinarily anything but muted. He paces, huffs, types, mutters, hums, and loudly munches on crisps on a blessedly quiet day.

I've heard nothing of that.

The musicality of John's quotidian is the counter beat to my rushing thoughts usually, no wonder I haven't been able to focus properly.

Mounting the steps that separate me from John's bedroom upstairs, I wonder how long have I been missing my better half. I don't bother to knock – I can always apologise later, takes as much effort – when I barge into the familiar organised and functional room.

John isn't here.

The box of Christmas paraphernalia is abandoned on top of the perfectly laid out bed quilt. As far as I can tell, all the gaudy trinkets still gathered inside, waiting to be caressed and gently laid put by the thoughtful, methodical hands of the doctor.

Where did John go?

Why didn't he tell me?

Because you sent him away, you idiot. You sent John away.

Are you really surprised he left?

The baubles box jingles as I drop, shocked, on the cold quilt in an empty, John-less room.

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TBC