It was just barely 2* outside. Just barely above freezing. The flat was dark, and the smell of dust from the fan was starting to tickle his nose. He wiggled it. His arms snapped out abruptly, and he shoved the sleeve of his shirt up to expose his watch. It had been...six minutes since he last checked. The phone was picked up - no messages. He set it back down again and wrapped his arms back around his knees, set his chin atop them, and turned his attention back to the television.

He tapped the first few bars of Moonlight Sonata out on the back of his hand with his index finger. The man on the telly was dressed in an awful polyester suit, the shoes were two shades too light to match the belt (which was costume, as were his cufflinks) and his hair was dyed brown. He should be going grey.

What was this show about again?

He snapped his arms out and checked the time. Then his phone. Then abruptly slumped into the chair is if he had spontaneously become a liquid, legs spread out and arms hanging limply over the arm rests. His head slumped back far enough that he was almost able to see behind him, if he strained his eyes enough. The fan above him spun lazily.

The telly erupted with applause. Fantastic, the blond woman from Sussex won an inconsequential amount of money, most of which she'd never see due to taxing. or losing the final round, though he assumed the young man from Bath would be doing that.

Sherlock Holmes waited, patiently, counting the rotations on the fan. He got to three before sighing, a full-body affair of tensing and then relaxing further into the chair, only adding to the liquid-like effect of his posture. "Of course it's calcium chloride" he lifted an arm only to drape it over his eyes, ever dramatic. "Anyone with half a brain knows that." Apparently not the young man from Bath. With that, he resigned himself to dying in his chair.

John, bundled up, returned from the grocery with bags in hand. Though he had gotten into another row with the chip and PIN machine, he didn't want to talk about it and hoped Sherlock wouldn't bring it up. He glanced at the dark figure on the chair and went about taking off the layers and hanging them up on the coat rack before heading towards the kitchen to put the groceries away. "Have you been there the whole time I was out?"

Of course, he probably had been but it wouldn't hurt to make conversation. It also wouldn't hurt to turn some lights on so he did just that, not bothering to lecture Sherlock on the importance of his eyes and how he shouldn't watch telly in the dark. "Tea?" He asked from the kitchen, already getting out two mugs anyway. It never hurt to be prepared. When Mrs. Hudson was away on holiday with her new beau, John seemed to take over for her as "not your housekeeper" but to be honest, it was normal for him to go to the grocery and tidy up 221B.

Aha. Aha! John was home. Some distraction, hopefully.

With some semblance of grace he was up and out of the chair, a great dark creature weaving swiftly through the shadows. Or rather, would have been. Briefly he was blinded by the sudden light, and made a displeased noise upon being so.

He enter the kitchen and tugged at the lapels of his overcoat, which he had neglected to take off, and righted it on his shoulders. Once John was setting to the tea, he busied himself with combing casually through the groceries. "I had nowhere else to be," he picked up a jar of jar and eyed it thoughtfully, before gently putting it back. "Another tif with the machine, then?"

With a disgruntled noise, Sherlock pushed the bag he was investigating away, uninterested, and turned to another bag. "Did you pick up my lemons?" The set of John's shoulders told him, really. It wasn't so hard to tell, the tightness of his mouth, his shoulders back a little more. Asserting his masculinity or something of the like, really it was just a machine. But then, this was John.

Mr. Hunt-And-Peck.

There it was, as John had expected. Of course Sherlock would have noticed something about him that gave away he had gotten into a row with the machine. "Best to not talk about it," he replied with a shrug, hoping he made it look like it no longer bothered him. "You know I did. They should be in one of the bags." Once the tea was finished, he sat Sherlock's mug next to him. "No calls from Lestrade yet?" Obviously not since Sherlock had been sitting around watching rubbish telly. Why had he gotten him into that again? Maybe talking about cases would magically produce a case and they could go running off like usual instead of sitting around the flat, bored.

Speaking of bored, watching Sherlock look at different items he had bought was boring so he returned to the sitting room with his tea to look for his computer on the desk, which was missing again. "What'd you use it for this time?" He was used to Sherlock taking his laptop without permission (not that he ever asked for it) and using it for research or some experiment or another.

Bless'ed be, lemons!

He gathered the lemons out of the bag and set them aside, shrugging deftly out of his coat to drape it across the back of a kitchen chair. John seemed uninterested in talking about his row, though granted it was likely not unlike the other problems John had had with the machines in the past. Sherlock chose to discard that train of thought and let that topic die were it ought to. He had lemons to focus on.

The tea went untouched (as it so often did) as his mind buzzed around calculations for concentrations of citric acid and the affects thereof on fungal growth on a decomposing spleen (long story, and one very dirty Tupperware in the fridge. He'd assured John when he brought the organ home that it was, in fact, that of a pig and not some poor soul he'd met on the street. Sherlock was many things, but hardly a ruffian). He rolled the sleeves of his dark button-up clear up to the elbow, and began washing his hands.

Ah, yes. The laptop. He'd almost forgotten about it.

"Couch, beneath the third cushion." He completely ignored the 'what were you looking for' aspect of John's inquiry in favor of digging out the fruit knife and getting to work peeling his citrus. "I've heard nothing from Geoffry in eight days."

Sherlock wasn't bitter, per say. But he had hoped the Detective Inspector would get another murder. Or a kidnapping. Or a lost dog case, something. Anything. But, alas. Nothing in over a week.

Which has since lead to the spleen growing fungi in the Tupperware in the fridge.

"Your blog has turned up nothing of interest either."

Finding organs in the fridge was becoming the norm in 221B but each time, John ended up shocked and a bit angry but let Sherlock continue on with whatever new experiment he could come up with. Anything to get him away from rubbish telly while waiting for a new case to come in.

"Greg," he corrected, going to get his laptop out from under the couch cushion. What had Sherlock been doing? Sighing, he decided it best not to ask and went to the desk to plug in the charger and check his blog. "Checked it in the last hour or so, have you?" Without waiting for an answer, he began scrolling through the comments. theimprobableone was criticizing his writing style once again but he ignored it as he always did, focusing on the comment Harry had recently left. Off to Clara's for Christmas this year. Seems like we've made up, finally! Hope you're not too disappointed that we won't be seeing each other for the holidays. All my love to you and yours. x Harry

He began a reply back, starting with Sherlock isn't mine before giving up, closing the laptop and going to sit in his chair. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, Harry being as unreliable as always, but he missed being around family for Christmas. Even if his dad had been a drunk and his mother hadn't been around, he had fond memories of Christmas in the household he grew up in. "No new cases."

At the correction, Sherlock made a bland, noncommittal noise and continued his peeling. The rinds were set delicately in a dish, some to be shredded, some to be diced, some to be boiled, so on. The lemons themselves he began to take apart lobe by lobe, deciding on size and concentration for blending, juicing, and so on.

Once the lobes were separated and sorted, he turned his attention to setting up the blender, the juicer, and getting a pot to boil on the stove. John prattled on, and Sherlock ignored his idly self-conversation and focused on his work. Once the pot was on the stove, he turned back to his set-aside lemon rinds and grabbed a larger, sharp knife. As he was beginning to dice, his phone chimed. "Bring me that," He motioned with the knife but didn't look up. "And of course there haven't been any new cases, I just told you that."

Sherlock paused in his cutting, lifted his fingers for a moment. They were red and irritated at the tips. Bar Rot from the lemons. Damn. He stuck his index finger in his mouth briefly, wrinkled his nose at the bitterness, and turned to go to wash them in the sink before he continued. Wouldn't do to have pain or numb fingers later.

With a roll of his eyes, John did as he was told, taking the ringing phone to Sherlock. "What makes you think it isn't for me?" He told himself that he was only bringing it to him because he didn't want any part of the experiment to end up leaving the kitchen. It was bad enough that he would probably end up cleaning up the mess. He didn't actually care too much, doing things for Sherlock but he didn't bother to figure out why. If it had been anyone else... well, he supposed it gave him something to do. At the moment, to get his mind off of Harry.

He glanced at the experiment before going back to his chair. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he wasn't understanding and didn't feel like playing guessing games. Quite honestly, John felt like he was in need of a hot shower and a few hours sleep after being in the cold and dealing with chip and PIN machines for most of the evening.

As he dried his hands, he poked the screen alive with a slightly-less-damp pinky finger. And paused, for a full five seconds, staring at the text name. He glanced briefly over his shoulder before tossing the dishtowel off to the side to snatch the phone up as if it would leap up and bite him otherwise.

For the last two days he'd been getting messages from her, and he really didn't care for John to know. He'd tell Sherlock it was sweet, or something. Or worse, actually want to indulge. Heaven forbid.

Message Received From: Mummy
John is welcome to com to poppet i dont mind dad and i would love to meet him!!

Sherlock winced at the grammar. More than once they'd had a conversation about that, but she said it was just easier. She couldn't type like Sherlock could, not as quickly, so this was easier for her. He leaned against the counter casually, trying to play it off. Last thing he needed was John Watson poking at him. Few things ruffled Sherlock's feathers. Mummy, however, was one of those things.

Message Sent: Mummy
Mycroft is going, there is no reason for John nor myself to attend.
SH

"Angelo's for dinner? He has something for me." He tucked the phone into his back pocket and returned to his lemons, fingers less irate.

Food. Right. That was something John had forgotten about that he would definitely need before heading to bed. "Sure. We haven't been there in a while." He stood, going to bundle up once more. "Will you eat this time 'round?" The last few times they'd gone out, Sherlock hadn't eaten and either reminding or forcing him to eat was something John had to do frequently. He would've been happy if Sherlock had at least eaten a lemon instead of using it in an experiment. It would have been something.

As he was zipping up his coat, John studied his face. He looked fine, a bit bored, normal but then he noticed his fingers were red. "All right? Need anything for that?" He could easily go upstairs and find something that would help the redness go away.

Sherlock leaned over the stove to turn it off, he'd boil the lemons when they returned. With that done, he turned and spun into his overcoat while John fussed with his own. It took him a moment, looking around, to locate his scarf. He took it off the mantel place, where it had settled around the skull, and wove it around his neck.

"Possibly, if the walk over piques my hunger," he offered, not here nor there. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he touched it, briefly, and it took every ounce of will not to roll his eyes. When John made a motion at Sherlock's fingers, he glanced down at them briefly before waving him off. "They'll be fine," and swanned out the door, and right down the stairs. Once outside, he produced his cellphone.

Message Received From: Mummy
Mycroft has a meeting he isnt coming

Of course he's not. Sherlock bared his teeth, just briefly, before shoving the phone into his pocket. They'd have words, later. This was Mycroft's version of throwing him under the bus. He glanced behind himself at the door, waiting impatiently for John. The cold began to seep through his overcoat and he suppressed a shiver.

"Come along, John."

John could already tell that he was probably going to have to make Sherlock eat something. Maybe split a meal or desert. Whichever. Though he worried a bit about how red Sherlock's fingers looked, he figured if he felt any pain he would admit to it and let John help him.

Finishing bundling up, he stepped out the door, staring at Mrs. Hudson's door before they left the building. "Feels strange without her here, doesn't it?" Glancing over, he was curious as to who Sherlock was texting but figured he didn't have to know, unless he had found a girlfriend since Irene had... well... John felt a bit jealous. Not that he would ever admit that to his best friend. It seemed like things had finally quietened down a bit without having girls around and though he knew Sherlock hated it, he quite liked having time to relax in between cases.

Sherlock waited for him, spending that time buttoning up the front of his long coat. When John finally made his way downstairs, he turned to look back through the front entrance of 221B. Truth be told, he had noticed the distinct lack of Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't claim to miss her, but Sherlock had noticed her not being around. He did have a heart...it just. Didn't fit most people in it.

John, however.

"It's not as though she's died," he turned to step one foot off the curve, lifting a hand to hail at one of the cabs passing. He felt the phone buzz again, and furtively ignored it. He'd respond later, when he didn't have an audience. Wouldn't hurt to check in the cab, though, one of which conveniently stopped at their curb. "Shall we?" He swung the door open for John with one hand, digging his phone back out with the other.

Died. Mrs. Hudson. Not likely... though she was getting on up in years. "Yeah," he replied with a sign, getting into the cab quickly and hoping he wouldn't end up worrying about Mrs. Hudson for the rest of the drive. His thoughts went straight from Mrs. Hudson to whomever Sherlock was texting as soon as he pulled out his phone. "Mycroft?" He hoped so, unsure of who else it would be. Obviously not Lestrade or he would have mentioned a new case right away and whisked them off to solve it instead of going for dinner.

Probably shouldn't have mentioned death. Too late to retract it, and John was made of sturdy stuff. He'd survive and move past the slight jest. Sherlock glanced in at him before settling in the seat beside him, jerking the door shut.

"Angelos," he said, insufferably vague, and turned his attention back to the phone. "It's nothing of import," he waved his left hand at John, his right busy thumbing through to his message feed. "Are you going in to the clinic tomorrow?" Distraction, get him talking.

Message Received From: Mummy
Pls darling you havent come to christmas in years we miss you. even gladstone misses you

Gladstone likely has no brain cells left to miss me, Sherlock thought bitterly to himself. He tapped out his response and shoved his phone back into his pocket, turning his attention on John full force. Tell me things. Forget what you have seen, he tried to relay this through his eyes. Though it merely manifested as a significantly expectant look.

Message Sent: Mummy
John works in a clinic. Unlikely he will have time off. Can't come.
SH

Before the cab could start moving, John made sure the cabbie knew the address then turned back to Sherlock. "I'm not. Landed myself with a few off days since Sarah needed the extra hours. Why?" From the way Sherlock was staring at him, John could tell that he was expecting some sort of explanation. Maybe. "Sarah, remember? The Doctor?" He wasn't sure his best friend had given that girlfriend one of the usually rude nicknames but it would be a miracle if he remembered her at all. "Just forget it. Not important." Really, it wasn't but he huffed and turned to look out the window, watching London whoosh past.

Of course he remembered Sarah. Blind Banker Case. Mousey hair. Night carnival that went horribly, wonderfully awry. Dreadfully boring, eyes too widely set. He wrinkled his nose and turned away as well, preferring to look out the window. The words getting off with Sarah danced in front of his vision and he swatted them away.

"Was she the short one with blond hair?" Might as well play dumb. No need to let on he remembered every single one of the girlfriends. He'd done well so far in making people think they've slipped his mind. They havent', but they had their own dark, damp, dreary, tiny corner of the Mind Palace. It made him smile to himself. A very unpleasant part of the palace indeed.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. He glanced down at his phone and tightened his jaw. Briefly.

Message Received From: Mummy
William Sherlock Holmes Scott

Message Received From: Mummy
You are coming home for Christmas so help me God I will come and get you myself

Message Received From: Mummy
And you're bringing John. Have Mycroft clear his schedule and be done with it, we will see you on the 24.

He didn't respond to that, mostly because Mycroft likely had his phone bugged and would be right on those orders. No one was safe when the full name came out. No one.

"Do you have plans for Christmas." He turned back to John, giving up his view of both the London architecture and his cell.

John had called it. Of course Sherlock wouldn't remember something so trivial to him. He had erased facts about the solar system for Christ's sake. "That'd be Mary. She also works at the clinic." She didn't seem to be his type at all but was nice enough. Sometimes they had lunch together but he always turned down going for coffee or dinner with the excuse that he had a case to work on (which was usually true but not always.)

At Sherlock's buzzing phone, he turned back to the window and tried his best to ignore it until Sherlock spoke up again. Christmas? Why did he want to know about Christmas plans? "No, actually. Harry's gone off with her wife and my family won't be expecting me." He hadn't had Christmas with the family in a while, not since his dad had alcohol poisoning the last time and Harry stormed out instead of helping. "What about you? Christmas with Mycroft?"

At least his acting was still in tact. He rolled his eyes for effect and adjusted his position in his seat, a bruise on his knee from running into, most likely, the coffee table starting to ache. He categorized and ignored it completely after that. Ah, Harry. back together with Clara then, interesting development but not entirely surprising. As stubborn as Clara seemed to be, she had a weak spot for Harry Watson. With a brief glance at John, Sherlock couldn't fault her. Not really.

"Mycroft," he started, slow. "Has a previous engagement and will not be attending Christmas." A hesitant pause. "An invitation of sorts has been extended my way, and I extended it in yours. Might be interesting," he let the corner of his mouth lift up. He wouldn't outright tell John, he decided. But if he made it seem more interesting than it would be (and truly, it would be so dreadfully uninteresting), he'd be on the hook and going without a second thought.

Sherlock would not be going home for Christmas alone. There was no way he'd stay sane.

Of course, Sherlock Holmes had parents but John had never thought about it before. What would his parents be like? Extremely brilliant like himself, most likely. They hadn't actually talked about their parents and childhood together but he assumed Sherlock knew about that part of his life anyway. It would be interesting, having Christmas with Sherlock and his family.

"Your parents know about me?" Another strange thought. Sherlock had told his parents about him but he hadn't talked to his father about anything in the past few years. Harry, however. She knew. He didn't tell her everything but he knew that she knew. It didn't seem to be too obvious though or Sherlock would have caught on by now.

Sherlock only somewhat looked uncomfortable. Sometimes John's cleverness surprised even him, when he usually forgot that John was, actually, quite bright. He couldn't be blamed of course, he was surrounded by idiots. But every now and then he could be surprised. And it was almost always John. He adjusted his shoulders and looked back out the window, trying to act as casual as he could.

Mummy asked about John more often than Sherlock really preferred. Sherlock told her about John with more detail than he'd usually like. She said it was precious how he ranted. He didn't rant.

"They've heard stories," he supplied, purposely obtuse. "They found out about you when it was made clear I had a flatmate. And, seeing as your family is utterly deadbeat, they have extended an invitation to you. We would be going to our home in Sussex, just for the evening meal."

Which was a lie, because God Knows Mummy would weasel him into staying for days.

Sherlock always managed to insult him and say something nice in the same sentence but that didn't really bother John all that much. He was used to it, plus he knew that even though he hadn't said anything, Sherlock already knew about his family. A few facts were probably wrong but he wasn't at all bothered by it. "They've read the blog then? I'm sure you know but Harry comments a lot. Knows all about you and even reads your blog, sometimes."

Not a lot but at least his sister tried to understand Sherlock a little. His father didn't know but he was positive that he wouldn't try even if they were on speaking terms. As the cab pulled onto the side of the street near the restaurant, John unbuckled and looked towards Sherlock. "Would I need to bring anything? A cake, maybe?"

Sherlock unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the cab, leaning in through the side window to hand over the money to the driver. When that was taken care of, he stood up and adjusted his sleeves, waiting politely for John. Or, rather, as politely as Sherlock could, which wasn't politely at all, really. Once John was out, Sherlock turned and headed for the store front.

"I know she reads them. I do observe both blogs on occasion," he rolled his eyes, tugging the door open and holding it open for him. "As for what you should be bringing, I highly doubt anything would be necessary." Mummy did so love to cook, and more often than not, she enlisted Sherlock, Mycroft, or the guest...if they ever had one. But John didn't need to know any details. Not yet.

Knowing that Sherlock would be impatient with him getting out of the cab, John tried to move as fast as possible, jumping out and following behind him to the store front. "Best not read most of Harry's comments. A nutter, that one."

While he did love his sister, she was an alcoholic and quite frequently visited his blog drunk. On one occasion where he wasn't sure if she had been drunk or not, Harry mentioned a snog between Sherlock and himself. It most definitely hadn't happened but he hadn't taken the comment down in hopes that Sherlock would see it. His reaction would help John figure out whether or not this was something to pursue and if his crush was something he should try giving up on. So far, he hadn't noticed anything different in the detectives behavior at all. Maybe he hadn't seen it. Bit disappointing, really.

John entered the building, trying not to read too much into Sherlock holding the door open for him. It might have been a sign but it was difficult to tell. He did open doors for him every once in a while. Friends did that afterall. "Your mum loves to cook then? Did she pack lunches for you and Mycroft to take to school growing up?" He hoped he wasn't crossing over any lines but he was curious. Sherlock hadn't spoken about his childhood before, nor his teen years. Everything before he entered into the picture was blank. The only reason he even knew about his drug habit was from Lestrade.

Of course she was, Sherlock wasn't a dunce. He knew exactly what she was like, if her comments and John's explanations put a picture together for him. Which, it did. Very little didn't create a picture for him. He motioned John in and, after he stepped in, followed on his heels. They were greeted immediately and by name, and without prompting taken to their preferred table by the window.

"You'll meet them soon enough," Sherlock shrugged deftly out of his coat and draped it casually over the back of his chair. The waiter left their menus and hurried off to get them their usual bottle of wine. "Until then, I'll allow you to wonder."

There were multiple reasons he didn't speak about his family, his childhood, and his past. And, really John didn't need to know any of them. It had nothing to do with Sherlock not wanting John to know. Certainly. With a flourish of movement, he settled in his chair and opened his menu.