John

There was a box of pineapple on their doorstep, which was received promptly Christmas Eve Morning.

Harry decided she needed it for school supplies or something, and she'd carted it off into their room, mumbling about organization and whatnot. Emma was making pie in the kitchen, until Pickard called her.

"Yes, baby?"

"Em, it's for John."

"Yeah? Open it for me, honey, I'll be there in a minute."

John watched Pickard open it up, followed by his eyes widening and his smile dying. "Uh, John," he said. "Rory. And his fiancé, um, Amy?"

"Yeah?" John sat up, and then stood to take the letter out of his hands. Pickard sighed before retreating into the kitchen. It said something about their time up in Camden, how Melz was doing, bless her heart, and that they missed everyone up in Baskerville. They said that if John wanted to, he could stay the entirety of the summer in Camden, which, of course, would be wonderful, blah, blah blah blah.

"Mum!" John shouted. "Read this!"

She came out of the kitchen and took the letter, then read it aloud, followed by Harry cheering. Pickard stood in the doorway, rubbing his chin, and then John thought - up in Camden, all alone, with no one - with no Sherlock, he'd be miserable. Before he could decline, his mum was declining for him.

"Rory is no good and I will not allow you to go up to his house for the entire summer."

"It's alright," John said. "I don't really want to go."

John didn't even bother remembering that by summer Sherlock would be tired of him and done with waiting.

"You don't?"

"No. Not really."

"Oh. Well, that makes things easy."

Pickard suddenly clapped his hands. "Presents," he said. "Presents. Emma," he kissed her cheek, "can ya help me get them?"

"Yeah," she said to John and Harry. "I saved up some money and I think this'll be great."

John reached and took Harry's hand in his, then sat by the scraggly plastic tree they bought. It was the best Christmas he'd had in a while, and John wasn't going to complain about whatever they got.

There was the sound of a truck slamming, and as Harry and John held their breaths, Pickard came in with a bag. There was snow melting on his shoulders, and his smile was wide.

"Here. Um. Harry, close your eyes." He took his hand and placed them over her eyes as she laughed. "Yeah, my eyes are closed."

Emma took out a box, wrapped with what seemed to be toilet paper, and then another, smaller one. Like a jewelry box. And then Pickard took off his hand. Harry jumped at the presents like a dying man to water.

"Remember how you always used to eat the toilet paper when you were small?" his mum laughed.

"Mum!" Harry exclaimed indignantly, tearing it all off, and then opening the box. It was clothes. Lots and lots and lots of clothes. Sweaters and jeans and skirts and tees and hoodies and Hanes underwear and Harry was all yelling, "Thank you, Mum, oh my God, thank you. Thank you. Thanks. Thanks. Oh god. I think..." she gasped, "I think I'm getting feels." She began to touch all the clothing, and at the bottom, there was a new bottle of lavender perfume.

"I love this, Mum," she said. "I love you." Mum absolutely beamed at that, and then she held forward the one box left.

"This is from me," Pickard said, sitting down next to John.

Harry took off the wrapping. It was an ebony wood box, and at that, Harry's eyes widened.

"Open it," Pickard insisted.

She did so, and it was as if he entire eyes were alight with this amazed bliss. Pickard began to grin as he lifted up the dainty present.

"It's pure Sterling Silver," he said. "The seller was giving me a hard time about it, though-"

It was a necklace, chain, with a v-necked shape, a bright, shining silver that ended in a prominent point about the chest. "This is so beautiful," she said, eyeing it, holding it. "It must have been so much - oh, Dad, you shouldn't have."

John turned his head to Harry as she kept on thanking him. Dad? Had it been so long since he last hit her? Since they sat in the field behind the yard and contemplated killing him?

She hugged his mum and Pickard simultaneously, and Pickard was smiling like a bumbling idiot, as if he'd never made anyone happy before. "Put it on!" she giggled, giving the necklace to Pickard. She lifted her hair, and Pickard draped it across her neck, then clicked it together.

"Now, John, we didn't get you anything quite as extravagant." Emma smiled at him.

There was nothing in the bag. John nearly sighed with relief; he didn't want anything that would reduce him to tears.

"But what we did get," his mum said, "was a savings account with two thousand pounds inside it. For your college fund, baby."

"Oh." John blinked. "Oh. My God."

Two thousand pounds. Like, his entire life savings. "I couldn't," John said. "I can't. You need it, to pay groceries, or, or, you know, to bail your cousin out of prison. Mum. Pickard, I... I just... You have to take it back. Buy me a necklace, or something, I-"

Pickard cut him off. "You need a education, boy," he said. "You wanna be a scientist?"

"I want to be a doctor," John laughed. "I want to join the army and be a doctor."

"Well, this helps," Emma said. "Really. You can do this, now."

"Wow. Um."

Pickard beckoned by opening his arms, and John wrapped him up in a hug round the neck. "Pickard, um. Thank you. Thanks," John whispered.

"You're welcome." John squeezed him, and then hugged his mum, then his sister.

"Thanks," he said. "Thank you."

Pickard stayed home all day to drink egg nog and watch Harry be fucking ecstatic - anyone could be entertained by her fast paced talking and annoying humor. John retreated into his room around six to get away from her, and away from all that cheer. He wanted to be sad. He was tired of missing him. Tired of being tired of missing him. He didn't care if Sherlock thought he wrote all that stuff on his book, or that he sided with a drug addict and not him. None of it was vile enough to make John stop loving him. (How vile would it have to be? John asked himself.)

Maybe he could jog to his house right now.

Maybe he would, if it wasn't Christmas Eve.

Jesus.

Later, Emma said that they were going to the store to buy groceries for Christmas dinner. John grumbled about it for a bit, and then slipped on his new work boots and walked outside with his leather jacket wrapped round his shoulders.

It was fucking cold.

When they got to Asda, Pickard bustled them through the doors quickly, shielding them from the blinding snow.

Sherlock

Sherlock was buying groceries for Christmas, which his mum always got nervous about.

"What chicken do we usually get, darling?"

"We purchase Pepperidge Farm."

"Really? Dear, I do recall buying something else last year..."

"Believe me, Mummy," Sherlock drawled.

"Oh, honey, look," she said to Sherlock, who was currently pressing his face against a fridge. "There's your John."

Sherlock rolled his eyes because he thought it was some kind of strange joke, but looked up all the same. He saw him, milling about the frozen foods section, mumbling about "gravy, where is the bloody gravy?!" He kicked a fridge and Sherlock jumped, scuttling back behind a shelf as to not be in plain view.

"Oh!" she said. His sister, Harry, soon followed, and then - Pickard, carrying gravy. He looked like a rat, with a pointy nose and beady hazel brown eyes. A worthless rat.

"Shoulda been faster," he joked, pushing at John's shoulder, and John scoffed.

"You're faster than The Flash," he huffed. "Can't keep up."

Sherlock looked at him, shoulders slumped, eyes tired, chest heaving. He was more angry than ever, and his blonder than blonde hair was in a mess of bed head. He looked beautiful. Sherlock wanted to fall to his knees (okay, maybe not in the middle of the canned food aisle), and he wanted to hug him and kiss him and like him and not like him and want him and need him. Sherlock was borderline insane, watching him, but he didn't turn around because he couldn't if he wanted to.

"Mum," Sherlock said hoarsely, "Let's go."

"What? Aren't you going to greet them? Wish them a happy holidays?"

"Mum..." Sherlock caught her gaze and gave her a look. "Please. Go."

Sherlock watched him, slumped across one of the fridges, looking at his shoes. And he walked away for the third time that week.

Sherlock anticipated a long and boring speech from his mother about John, but surprisingly, it was entirely still. When they got home, she retreated into her room and said she was tired. She told Sherlock he could bring groceries in, and then she went in her room, shutting the door.

His dad went in to check in on her at dinnertime, and an hour later, when they'd both emerged, Siger said they were ordering pizza. Sherlock protested momentarily before Siger yelled, "Will you shut up?!"

Sherlock went straight to his room. He wanted to be alone so he could think about John, but his mother came in a minute later, sporting red eyes and a frown. "I'm sorry about your father losing his temper like that. He doesn't know..."

Sherlock closed his eyes and placed his hands, like he was praying, over his lips. "Mm, yes," Sherlock said. "What, Mum."

She held out a Christmas present. "This is for John," she said, "from me."

Sherlock sat up and took the box in his hand, shaking it. "I don't know if I will be able to deliver it to him," Sherlock said.

"It doesn't matter, I just... need to say something. I, uhm..." She wiped away stray tears that were ruining her mascara. "Remember when... you told me about John, and how he wanted to serve in the military?"

Sherlock nodded once.

"Sherlock, I need you to promise me something. For that poor boy. I need you to treat him well."

"I'm not sure if I'm grasping..." Sherlock fell silent as his mum spoke. She must have drank a little.

"My, uh, brother. Peter. He died. In Afghanistan." She let out a stifled sob. "And I need you to treat that boy like the sun and the moon. Because I can tell, Sherlock. I can tell that he's the sun and the moon."

"Mum, I..."

"You can't truly understand how it feels to have someone close to you die, Sherlock. But I know. And you... I never want you to experience that regret. Because I was too busy being a drunk to love him, and now..." She smiled sadly, "he's dead. And I just..."

"Violet," Siger whispered from the door. "Come on." He made his way to Sherlock's bed and hauled her up. "Come on." He knelt down. "You're okay."

He looked so kind in the half light, like a protector. He looked like her husband, shushing her quietly and wrapping her in a warmth that only he could make for her. They looked beautiful, and that made Sherlock three times worse.

"I just want you to be happy, Sherlock," she said one last time before leaving his room.

Sherlock waited until his parents' TV was off in the bedroom, and he waited thirty more minutes after that. If Siger caught him... Sherlock didn't finish that thought.

He grabbed his trench coat and slipped out the front door, like The Dark Knight - a reincarceration of silent passion. He ran through the alley and in between the houses.

"Because I was too busy being a drunk to love him." The parallels were fairly obvious - the mother who didn't love and the boy who couldn't. It was almost as if she knew, or she had a premonition. Maybe his mum was a witch.

Sherlock could see his house.

John was so close.

The step-dad's truck was in the driveway. That was probably good, all things considered; Sherlock didn't want Pickard to find him standing on the front porch. All the lights were off, and there was no dogs (or cats) anywhere to be seen.

He climbed the steps as quietly as was possible, looking for John's window, where he'd slept that one night. He found it, and stood to the left of it, so no one saw his shadow, and knocked gently. If anyone other than John appeared, Sherlock would run like hell.

The curtain didn't move.

Sherlock tapped a bit harder, and got ready to bolt. The curtain opened a sliver, and he saw what looked to be one dark blue eye. Sherlock stepped in front of the window, so whoever it was could see him, and then the curtain slid all the way. It was John, wide eyed and smiling.

"Go," he mouthed.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Go," he mouthed again, pointing to the enormous valley to their right. "Field," he said, and Sherlock nodded as he walked into their backyard.

John

All John was thinking about was how to punch intruders in the face. He'd never done hand to hand, but if any assassins came into his home he guessed that he could totally incapacitate them single-handedly.

And also... if they were coming in through this window, how was John supposed to get out? How was he going to call the police?

It's not as if they'd even come, after what happened last time, but at least John'd have an excuse to wake up Fargo and eat all his goddamned brownies.

Sherlock was the last person John was expecting to see.

He was going to kill them both with his carelessness, but John couldn't not see him when he was seconds away. He felt his heart leap into his throat, so he got dressed quickly, pulling on a sweater and another and his new boots. They felt warm on his feet. Then, with about as much grace as a dying elephant, he fell out of the window with a crunch and a moan. Brushing off his jeans, he tiptoed across the porch, thinking of what Pickard would do if he caught him. Probably shoot me.

Sherlock was waiting, lying in the snow, looking up at the clear, star filled sky. He was under a tree, and when he heard the crunch of John's boots, he looked up.

And when he looked up, John began to run as fast as he could. He fell and tumbled down the hill, past two snowdrifts, and then when he reached Sherlock he straddled him in the snow and grabbed his face.

"I have to show you something," he whispered, and then Sherlock was kissing him before he could say no. And John was kissing him back before he could remind himself he was never going to kiss anyone, ever again, least of all Sherlock, because of how it felt when he let go.

He felt like he was crying, and it felt like Sherlock was too - when John touched his cheeks he was wet and freezing.

"You're so warm," he whispered, and he pulled John down to kiss him again and again and again. John opened his mouth and let Sherlock's breath fill him, like he wasn't afraid to, like he needed to.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John whispered. "For being angry at you," he panted, and then kissed him again. Their heads were pressed together, and John's knees were getting wet from the snow, but he didn't care.

"I... I'm sorry, as well, John. For being... awful."

"Oh, you're always awful," John laughed, and then he kissed Sherlock again, not bothering to take a breath.

"Not always."

"I'm so sorry about getting mad at you for Steven," John insisted. "And I'm sorry about-"

"Don't," Sherlock panted, "even say his name, John, he is nothing and you are everything." He kissed John again, and they both opened their mouths, as if to speak how they felt for each other all at once.

They stayed in the snow until John couldn't warm Sherlock up anymore. Until he couldn't bring warmth into those cupid bow lips with his.

"Come see me," Sherlock said. "Tomorrow."

"I can't, it's Christmas."

"The next, then."

"Okay."

"And the next, and the next..."

"I don't think your Pop'd like that."

"Oh, nonsense," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "My father only pays attention to what sparks his interest. Unfortunately, he finds interest in the most dull things... and I find interest in you."

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's. "You find me to be amusing, hmm?"

"I find you to be amusing, yes."

"Do you find me to be convenient?"

"It's amusing how inconvenient you can be. But, if inconvenient, come anyway."

"Oh, I'm sure that coming right now would be inconvenient."

"You don't need to come, you idiot, you're already here," Sherlock said, blowing hair out of his eyes.

"No one ever gets my sex jokes," John whispered. "Ever."

John was climbing up the steps when he breathed Sherlock's name. Sherlock turned, but John couldn't see him in the shadows.

"Merry Christmas," John said.

Sherlock walked away.

A/N: I'm so happy

So happy