It was odd now that John no longer lived there. Mostly, of course, it was fine, completely fine. The milk ran out more often. Clients tended not to relax. Minor issues. Completely fine.

Come Christmas, though, the oddness progressed into what might be characterised as inconvenience. People had expectations. Cards and gifts. Cheer.

"We're too busy," John said. "You know we would, but with things as they are."

"Of course, of course."

"You understand," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"We'll pop round at new year. Maybe we'll have had a nights sleep by then." Infant wailing in the background forced John to pause. "Got to go. Have a good one, won't you?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I suppose. Whatever that means."

"See you soon," said John and the line went dead.

A word came into Sherlock's mind without him bidding it. Bereft.

Stupid. But he admitted that he did miss John's company. And at this time of year there was none else to be had.

Everyone was busy. Celebrating. Being festive.

The only people at home on their own on Christmas eve were, it seemed, the curmudgeons and the broken-hearted.

He could hardly place himself in either category.

Better hope for a thorny murder, then.

The doorbell chimed. Sherlock looked up from his paper. He knew without looking at his watch that it was nine pm. He had read every word of every daily newspaper since they were delivered, ahead of the main press, at seven o'clock. He was reading tomorrow's news. Save himself a job.

After a moment he remembered that front doors do not, should not, open themselves. So he got up and went downstairs and unlocked the glossy painted door and on the doorstep there was Molly.

"I'm fine," she said instantly, which was usually his line. "Just want to come in for a bit."

Even the barest assessment gave the lie to her claim, but he let her in.

"Who broke it off?" he asked as he followed her up the stairs.

She was not surprised that he had worked it out straight away. "I did."

"Then why are you sad?"

"I'm not. I just want some company."

"Lying," said Sherlock before he could stop himself.

Molly threw her handbag on his sofa and went to look out of the windows. "Then you get me what I do want and maybe we can start from there."

She stood staring out at the fog - no snow, which traditionally waited until late February to make its appearance in over-heated glass and concrete London - until he went into the kitchen.

"Not got much in," he called, fetching goblets.

"Liar," she called back without rancour. "Use the stuff John sent."

He brought the bottle through without comment, opened it with a flourish he learned off a sommelier in Bordeaux, and poured two glasses of ruby red.

It smelled of summer by the sea.

Molly lifted hers and looked up at him. Her eyes were red from tears, but steady. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he said, and she laughed and clinked her glass against his, saying, "Cheers."

The oddness was dissipating even before the ring of crystal echoed through the flat. It was replaced with a sensation like a glass of claret already consumed, a warmth, a comfort, a feeling of peace. And although Molly had correctly identified his reply as a lie, less than ten seconds later it had transformed to truth. She was standing in his flat unfettered, she was not sad, and he was no longer so ... Inconvenienced. Quite the reverse. He was, in fact truly fine.

"Cheers," he said, and their glasses met again in a chime like sleigh bells, like friendship and hope, like Christmas.