"A little more to the left."

Sherlock groaned and adjusted the wreath again.

"John, it was just here a minute ago I don't understand-"

"Stop complaining and just bloody move the thing," John said.

Sherlock adjusted the decoration for what he thought could've been the millionth time.

"Perfect."

Sherlock dramatically threw himself onto the couch and sighed.

"That's the rest of the decorations, right?" He asked, next to dreading the answer. John looked around.

"I think so, yeah."

Sherlock sat up and checked the clock, then looked at John quizzically.

"Haven't you got an appointment? With that witch-doctor or what have you," he said, waving his arm dismissively.

"My therapist, you mean?"

"Same thing."

John sighed.

"Yes, I probably should get going," John said, slowly standing up.

Sherlock watched him carefully.

"By yourself?"

"Sherlock, I'll be fine. I'm not a child, I can catch a cab," John said. Sherlock could tell by his tone he was mildly heated, so he eased off.

"Alright. Just make sure the cab driver doesn't offer you any pills, would you?"

John chuckled, opening the door.

"I'll do my best."

After John left, Sherlock reminisced in the heavy silence that washed over the flat. For so long he avoided the silence he enjoyed that now it seemed alien. He breathed heavily and turned himself upside down on the couch, his feet up on the backrest while his chest and shoulders hung off. He listened intently, making sure John didn't fall down the stairs. As he stared at the flickering lights of the small Christmas tree they (he) had put up when a sudden thought occurred to him.

It was Christmas eve, and he hadn't bought John a present.

He flipped himself back over quickly, accidentally falling unto the floor in the process. Unconcerned he looked at the clock across the room.

It was already six o'clock.

Sherlock hurried to the landing and nearly ripped his trench coat off the hook. If he was lucky at least a few shops would be open, but with his luck, they all would be locked up for the holidays. He ran over all the shops within a half-hour radius, but he was certain they'd be closed. All except for one. He walked over to the curtain, crushing aside the curtain just in time to see John riding away in a cab. Sherlock grinned and then without second thought ran out the door.

...

The door to the pawnshop jingled lightly as Sherlock pushed the door open. It was small, dust covering three-fourths of the store's contents. Objects sat sadly in glass boxes, untouched for tens of years while a brooding wall clock ticked away in the far corner. It was one of the oldest still running shops in London, ran by one of the oldest still-running men. Mr. Dan Harpshire. Sherlock knew for a fact he'd still be in, as he outlived all his friends and family. Anyone who he didn't already ignore in favor of his shop was long gone. That meant he spent Christmas alone in his old run-down shop. He was a more heavyset man with a soft complexion and big eyes which peered over a set of spectacles just a size too small. He had long grey and balding hair which was flipped over and combed in a failed attempt to preserve what he had left.

"Sherlock Holmes! What brings you here at this time? We close in ten you know?"

"Yes," Sherlock said absent-mindedly, strolling through the various displays. "I'm looking for a gift."

"A gift, eh? Who's the lucky lady?" He chuckled, leaning over the counter.

"What would you gather a retired army doctor might fancy?" He asked, turning an antique pepper shaker over in his hand.

"Oh? Oh- right of course. Well, I'm going to need a bit more information than just that"

"John Hamish Watson, a native of Australia, moved to England to begin his studies. Zodiac sign is Leo, has little living family and any who is he refuses to talk of, wounded in action in Afghanistan but was only sent home after becoming deathly ill, has a psychosomatic limp and diagnosed PTSD. Has an older sister, Harriet, heavy drinker and can be considered careless. Of course, they don't talk which is a good idea considering his addictive personality and-"

"Whoa there," Harpshire laughed. "Make a deduction, detective. You seem to know more about the fella than he does."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. What does John like? What does he need? He paced around the store, picking up various items. Each easily could've been a gift, but there was something more that had to be to it. After about six minutes, Sherlock was setting down a snowglobe when a particular item caught his eye. He picked it up and turned it over, admiring the glimmer if it's gold exterior.

"I'll take it."

...

John trudged up the stairs, taking great care with each step. He relied heavily on his cane to take the weight off his foot, but on stairs, it was next to impossible to make it up without being in pain. He grimaced, stopping three stairs from the top.

"Bloody," he breathed. He debated taking another step when the door to the top of the stairs opened.

"Home already?"

"Short session, don't know what I expected for it being Christmas eve."

"Need any help?"

"No, I got it," John said, taking a step. He did his best to hide the pain.

He made it the rest of the way upstairs and into the apartment when he collapsed into his chair with a great huff. Sherlock sat down opposite him. John looked over to the tree, which sat just to the left of the couch across the room.

"Did some decorating?" John asked quizzically, noting the extra lights and ornaments.

"Just a little, just thought I'd pass the time somehow."

John nodded. "It's nice."

There was an awkward silence between the two, so John continued.

"So, erm... got any plans for tomorrow?"

Sherlock looked at John, seemingly confused.

"Plans? What for?"

"Jesus- because it's Christmas? You have a family, do you not see them during the holidays?"

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "God, no. That would be a total disaster. We prefer to exchange gifts via post."

John nodded, imagining the levels of chaos that ensued in the Holmes household, especially with extended family.

"Do you...?"

"Me? Oh, no. Haven't celebrated formally since well before Afghanistan. Even then it wasn't really... "

John trailed off awkwardly, not wishing to go into it. Sherlock seemed to catch on, as he didn't press any further.

"Well, it seems we'll be enjoying each other's company for tomorrow then," Sherlock said. John nodded.

"I guess so."

Right as John finished speaking, the door into the room opened. Sherlock stood up immediately and John quickly bounced up on one foot. Thankfully, it was only Greg that entered.

"You know, knocking is still in style, even during the season," Sherlock pointed out.

"Right, sorry about that. Thought I've broke in enough times there's not much of a point in it anymore. John, how's the leg doing?"

John grimaced internally, feeling all sorts of deja vu at the question. He smiled politely.

"Much better, thanks."

"Good to hear. Well, thought I'd pop in and say hello, see how things are going. Amazing, it's almost as if all the serial killers when on holiday," he chuckled.

"Seems you've been handling yourselves well," Sherlock said. Greg laughed.

"It's a Christmas miracle."

The three exchanged in some quick conversation before Greg decided to head out. As he walked out the door he turned around and wished the two a happy Christmas.

"Have a good one," John said.

"Happy Christmas, Greg," Sherlock said, smiling. Both Greg and John shot him a surprised look.

"Wow, it really is Chrismas," he said, then left.

"How-?" John asked as the door closed.

Sherlock held out his palm, which had the scribbled words "Greg" written across. At that, John couldn't help but chuckle.