I picked through the itchy fabrics, running my hands over stitched snowmen and green felt and various buttons before finally pulling out the most hideous sweater of them all.

"I'm not wearing that."

I took another look at the sweater I was holding up for Sherlock to admire. It was particularly ugly: lights embedded in the fabric and constantly flickering, the smiling face of a blushing Father Christmas staring out from the center, various stitchings of snowmen and candycanes - all on the canvas of a shade of green I didn't know to be in existence. The street stand was empty besides myself and Sherlock, which was understandable as it was Christmas Eve and near-freezing.

I shook the sweater on its hanger. "I chose for you. Now you choose for me."

"Mine isn't half as ugly as that, though."

"Boo-hoo. You and your good taste."

He offered a half smile as he pulled his selection out from the rack on the street. He was right- it wasn't very ugly. When it came down to it, it was just a cherry-red sweater with a massive snowman stitched into the front of it.

I laughed. "You're going to look so much more ridiculous than me."

"Then pick out a stupider one for yourself!"

I shook my head, still giggling. "Those aren't the rules of the game, Sherlock Holmes! You pick one for me, I pick one for you, and now-" I plucked the hanger out of his hands and made my way to the vendor, "we buy them."

I paid for both of our sweaters, and Sherlock made no attempt to protest against this. I didn't blame him. His lack of budgeting skills had probably caught up to him. He really did need me around, at least for that.

We spent the entire day wandering around London, reminiscing. The wind bit at our necks and the cold chapped our lips, and despite my frozen toes, I couldn't have been happier; I was with Sherlock. It hurt to love him as much as I did, and to know that these feelings had done anything but disappear after the separation, but if I was going to do this whole one-way-feelings thing, distance was only going to make it more difficult.

Only when the cloud-blocked sun began to dip past the city skyline and the temperature began to drop did Sherlock and I return to 221B Baker Street. Two warm mugs of hot cocoa had been set out for us on the kitchen counter, and the others were sitting around the living room, offering warm greetings upon our arrival.

Mrs. Hudson practically pounced on us as soon as we'd settled in the room. "Ooh, boys! So glad you came in just now, we were all about to open gifts!"

Anderson was passing out the packages that had been sitting around the tree. By the time he was done, each person had six gifts, one from each other guest.

"I feel so horrible," I confessed, surveying my pile of five (was one missing?). "I didn't think to bring presents at all."

Molly waved this away. "Don't worry, John. We missed you enough that you being present is present enough." She laughed at her own joke.

I nodded, feeling a bit better thanks to Molly's near-constant warmth, which only seemed to be increased by the merry atmosphere. My friends were beginning to dig into the gifts around them. Anderson ripped packages here and there, wrapping paper flying around him like flurries in a blizzard. The others weren't being so violent, and when I turned to Sherlock, I met his eye. Had he been staring? He broke eye contact, looking towards a gift in his lap and beginning to methodically, nearly open it, tape strip by tape strip.

I did the same, pleased with the very generous gifts from my friends. A kettle from Mrs. Hudson, chocolate from both Mycroft and Greg, a fancy blend of tea from Molly, a nice sweater from Anderson. Nothing from Sherlock, which made my heart crumble a bit. Did he really have so little faith in me that he believed I wouldn't come down to visit at all?

"Really, Sherlock?" Greg was pulling his own wallet out of a newly-opened box. "I've been looking for this for ages!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, laughing quietly. "I only took it last night."

Greg shook his head with a fond grin. "God, John. I thought you were taking care of him."

A blush built steadily at the edges of my ears and I shook my head, unsure of exactly what Greg was implying (or whether there was really an implication there at all). My cheeks burned brighter than the lights strung around the tree, and I hoped that everyone was too preoccupied to notice my total embarrassment.

I did a quick survey of the room- all eyes had been turned away from me, back to unopened gifts. That is, all but one pair of eyes: sea-green, speckled with gold bright as angel's wings. Sherlock was staring again, this time not turning away. He tilted his head slightly, a movement that I wouldn't have sensed if I hadn't studied every twitch of his so closely out of affection.

"Tea, Sherlock?" I heard myself say.

His voice was deep, rumbling, and hardly audible over the chiming of "All I Want for Christmas is You" that Mrs. Hudson had insisted on playing on repeat.

Sherlock and I stepped into the kitchen only briefly before he pulled me into the hall, gently grabbing my sweater-covered wrist and pulling me into our- his room.

"I do have a gift for you," he said as the door shut and he released my arm.

I laughed nervously. "Is it a pound of cocaine? Because with this level of sketchiness, I wouldn't be surprised."

His face remained serious. "I want you to come back. Here. That's my gift."

"To... Come back."

"Yes. Move in here. With me. Again."

There really wasn't anything I'd wanted to hear more, but still I lingered on the edges of uncertainty. "Why?"

He was looking frustrated, uncomfortable (and not just because of the undeniable itchiness of the sweater I'd picked for him). "Do I have to give a reason?"

"...Yes."

He rolled his eyes. "Because... I... God, John, it's so boring here. I've only done eight or nine cases since you've left because they're all so simple and uninteresting. At first I thought it was the clients, but that hypothesis didn't last long because I realized that it was you. You make it interesting. You make the cases worthwhile, John." There was outright panic in his widening eyes as he processed his words a second after they'd escaped his mouth, but the ball was rolling and the sociopath was incapable of shutting up. The heartless man was, well, pouring his heart out. "There's no purpose here without you and it's really incredible that I haven't turned to hard drugs or something out of sheer boredom because I- I need you. And I don't like to need people or anything, but I think I genuinely missed you, John. So much. And when Mrs. Hudson suggested inviting you here I just..." His eyes were on mine now, brow furrowed as though I was something he couldn't deduce. "I felt so..."

"Scared?"

"...Scared," he repeated quietly.

I sensed by the finality of this word that the ball had reached the bottom of the hill and rolled to a stop. I picked it up. "You know, I almost didn't come here. I almost couldn't, just because I was scared too."

"Scared of me? Why?"

"Because-" I shut my eyes, opened them again. "Jesus, Sherlock. For such a brilliant man you really can be so thick."

"I'm not scary. You're scary."

"Sherlock, I'm 5'6" and I look like a hedgehog. I'm as far from scary as it gets."

"You're scary because you make me feel! And damnit, John, that is terrifying!"

I shook my head, taken aback. "I make you 'feel?'"

"Yes! And I'm not supposed to feel anything and I thought I was incapable of emotions as a whole but you're so interesting and kind and your eyes are exactly the same shade as-" He paused, arms raised mid-gesture. "Why are you giggling?"

It was true, I'd erupted a bit halfway through his heartfelt speech. "I can't take you seriously in that sweater," I confessed.

Sherlock looked at me, then down at his green-clad torso before meeting my eyes again. A slow smile crept onto his face, crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes. Then, in one swift movement, he pulled the sweater over his head, revealing snow-white skin, and tossed the cheap fabric onto the bed.

He moved towards me, tilted my chin up. His voice was deep, hardly above a whisper. "Damnit, John. I'm trying to confess my love to you."

"You've succeeded."

His kiss was gentle, thick lips soft as they met with mine. My arms were around his bare neck, as one of his hands held my face, thumb drifting down my cheekbone, and the other wrapped around my back. Manchester was no match to the home I found within Sherlock's arms.

Nearly ten years of internalized affection had been unbottled, and, in an attempt to wrangle it, I pulled back briefly.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"Merry Christmas."

He smiled, turquoise eyes just inches away meeting my own. "Merry Christmas, John. Merry Christmas."