Sherlock's eyes popped open and in seconds he was fully awake. It's Christmas, he thought as he felt an unfamiliar rush of excitement. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been excited about the 25th of December.

Eagerly, Sherlock nudged John awake. John grumbled, but when he opened his eyes, he smiled to see Sherlock's beaming face.

"It's Christmas," Sherlock informed the still sleepy John.

"Mmmm..." John mumbled and looked over at the clock. "Love, it's 6:30 in the morning. Can Christmas wait a few more hours?" Sherlock thrust his lower lip forward in an astonishingly convincing pout, which made John giggle. "Alright fine," John assented as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. "Let's go see what Santa brought you."

Sherlock scowled, "I'm not a child John." But even as he said this he was scrambling out of bed and into his dressing gown at lightning speed.

The glow from the Christmas tree greeted them as they made their way into the living room. Sherlock plopped down on the floor next to the tree and grabbed the first wrapped box that he could see with his name on it.

"Uh-uh," John said with a yawn. "Tea first, then presents." Sherlock frowned but put the box down anyway.

The kettle seemed to take forever to boil, and John moved slowly from counter to fridge to counter again, yawning all the while. Finally he came back into the living room holding two cups of steaming tea.

John sat down on the floor next to Sherlock and handed him his favorite mug. "Thank you," Sherlock said, but immediately placed the mug off to the side. "So how should we do this?"

"Uh, however you want. It's just opening presents." The change in Sherlock's expression was minute, but John caught it anyway. "When was the last time you had a Christmas Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Before uni. The last time I remember having a tree, I was 15."

John scooted closer to Sherlock and took his hand. "Everyone deserves to have a Christmas every year. I promise you, that as long as I am around, we will always have a Christmas together."

Sherlock looked down at the floor and smiled sheepishly. Warmth spread through him at the thought of John wanted to spend every Christmas here, with him.

"Alright," John said, breaking the silence after a sip of tea. "How about we unwrap one present at a time, you go first then me?"

"That sounds agreeable." John rolled his eyes at the completely faked nonchalant tone of Sherlock's voice, but ignored it in favor of watching Sherlock retrieve the box he'd set down a few moments ago and eagerly tear into the red and green wrapping paper.

It was nearly 7:30 when John and Sherlock finished opening gifts. They sat close together on the floor, a pile of gifts surrounding them, and torn paper strewn about the floor like a festive battle zone.

John was holding a book in his lap, one of the gifts from Sherlock. "Sherlock," he said, sighing and shaking his head. "I love it, but this...this is too much."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Too much? Too much money you mean?"

"Well...for starters yeah..."

"Money is not an issue, I have assured you of that multiple times. Do you not like it? I can return it and you can pick out something more suitable. I was under the impression however that that was one of you favorite books."

"It is Sherlock but... Nothing I got you can even compare..."

"I didn't realize gift giving was about comparison."

"Well... it's not really but..."

"Please don't worry about it. If you like the book then my goal was achieved, if not then the situation is easily remedied." Sherlock looked at John with an expectant expression.

"I guess I'm just not used to being lavished. This has to be the most expensive gift anyone has ever given me." John carefully turned over the leather-bound volume. The leather was an exquisite dark green and the edges of the pages had been gilded in gold. When John opened the volume to where the first end paper would be, instead a stiffened piece of golden cloth, soft to the touch, greeted him. John turned to the title page, where on the beautiful paper "The Hobbit" was printed. Underneath the title in beautiful black ink was the flowing signature of the author, J.R.R. Tolkein himself.

John lovingly stroked the binding and when Sherlock got up and started for the kitchen with their empty tea mugs in his hand, John pressed his nose as close as he dared to the pages and took a deep breath in. John savored the smell of the old book, the only scent he loved more than new books.

"Saw that." Sherlock called over his shoulder and John went pink from a mixture of embarrassment and affection.

Sherlock and John stretched languidly when they got out of the cab in front of Mycroft's home.

"I still don't understand why we have to do this," Sherlock said as they approached the door.

"Because, he's family and it's Christmas."

"Excellent logical train of thought John, well done." Sherlock's sarcasm made John cringe slightly but he swallowed it down none the less and rang the door bell.

Mycroft opened the door and let them in with a simple, "good afternoon."

"Merry Christmas Mycroft," John said as he entered into Mycroft's large sitting room.

"Oh, is that why you wanted to have lunch specifically today?"

"Mycroft hates Christmas," Sherlock said to John, for about the hundredth time that day, each time John had shrugged him off, just as he was doing now.

"I do not hate Christmas, baby brother, it is simply another day of the year to me. What I hate is the notion that people must make contact with family or friends that they don't see any other day of the year simply because it happens to be close to the end of December."

"See, hates Christmas," Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft showed them into the dining room where a large spread of food had already been laid out. After drinks were poured, lunch began.

Over lunch Sherlock and Mycroft argued about several topics that went straight over John's head, Mycroft criticized Sherlock for his lack of a "real job", to which Sherlock replied by criticizing Mycroft's weight, and both of them would randomly start speaking in other languages. John was happily zoning both of them out until he heard his named mentioned amongst, what he assumed was, a Russian conversation.

"What?" John asked.

"Он расстроен , что..." Sherlock began, turning to face John.

"Sherlock... I don't speak Russian remember," John interrupted the rapid flow of harsh Russian.

"Apologies, I was saying Mycroft is upset that we told my parents of our relationship. He's worried about the impact in had on them."

"Well they seemed very happy to me," John said looking back and forth from Mycroft to Sherlock. "Didn't they?"

"Yes, I thought so too." Sherlock agreed and turned back to Mycroft. "I told you Mycroft, they were fine with it... Are you?" It was less of a question and more of an accusation.

The room fell silent as Mycroft and Sherlock stared each other down. John's eyes flicked back and forth rapidly and he was beginning to regret his decision to push for a Christmas meeting with Mycroft.

"Of course I am." Mycroft finally sighed. "I just worry about you little brother. I don't want to see your heart get broken." Mycroft shot an intimidating look John's direction, but John ignored it.

"No need to worry about that Mycroft," John said with a smile. "I don't ever intend to hurt him."

"Good."

The rest of their visit with the most powerful man in England was a bit more pleasant. Sherlock and Mycroft even shook hands before parting and as they climbed into a cab, John could have sworn he'd heard Mycroft wish them a merry Christmas.