John Watson always went to church on Christmas.

If you had pointed a gun at him, he couldn't explain why. It was just something he did, every year as far back as he could remember, probably because his family had always done it. John certainly didn't go because he was a Christian. He didn't even really believe in God, and he never even picked up a Bible any other time. He knew it made no sense for him to keep going, and every year he tried to talk himself out of it.

Come on, you're wasting your time. You're just going to sit there and be bored and keep checking your watch, waiting for it to be over. They're not going to tell you anything you haven't heard before, and you wouldn't believe them if they did. He had listened to the Nativity story so many times, he could recite it from memory. And yet, every year without fail—with the exception of his three years in Afghanistan—John Watson had gone to church on Christmas. For whatever reason, it was a tradition he couldn't seem to give up.

That wouldn't be so bad, except that this Christmas was going to be different from all the others. He wouldn't be spending it with Harry or alone; he'd be spending it with Sherlock. The man who, like his brother, hated the boring, ordinary traditions of Christmas and the sentimental rubbish that came with it. The first time John had dusted off his Bible at Baker Street, Sherlock had rolled his eyes and treated him to quite the monologue on exactly what he thought of the matter.

And yet, for all his husband's Scrooge-like attitude about the holidays, John loved the man. As Christmas Eve drew nearer, he braced himself to make the biggest request of Sherlock since the day of their engagement.

Sherlock was deep in an experiment, eyes focused on his microscope, when John sat down across from him.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I need to talk to you."

Sherlock looked up. He knew that when John used that tone, it meant something serious. He moved the microscope aside so he could face him. "Everything all right?"

"Oh yeah, everything's fine," John said, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. He always needed a minute or two to gather his thoughts; the man was rubbish at serious conversations. Sherlock looked him up and down, but didn't deduce anything helpful. Only that John had gulped down half a beer a few minutes ago, no doubt in preparation for this, whatever it was. Judging by how John's eyes were lingering on the Christmas decorations, Sherlock had a feeling it related to the holidays.

Sherlock never could understand the big fuss about Christmas, especially for people who weren't religious. What was the point in celebrating the birth of a "messiah" you didn't even believe in? There was, of course, the prospect of free stuff, but it wasn't like the two of them were hard up for money or in want of anything with Sherlock's business booming these days. But it was apparently important to John and Mrs. Hudson, because they always insisted on getting a Christmas tree and covering the flat in absurd decorations. Mrs. Hudson always pushed Sherlock to wear antlers no matter how many times he refused. John even dug out his ugliest jumpers with red and green patterns on them. Mycroft had made a point of avoiding 221B since it started. The one time he had come by, he had groaned and said, "It looks like Christmas threw up in this flat."

He wondered what John wanted this time. He had already drafted Sherlock into helping Mrs. Hudson decorate and eating her Christmas cookies, along with buying presents for her and their other friends. It was all so boring. The one part of the whole business Sherlock actually liked was the mistletoe, and his reasons for that had nothing to do with Christmas.

John finally looked Sherlock in the eyes. "You know I go to church every year."

"Yes." Was there a case that involved the church? No, that couldn't be it. John was never this formal about cases.

"I've done it every year since I was a kid; in fact, probably since I was born. It's sort of a tradition for me. You know what I mean?"

"I suppose." Where is he going with this? Sherlock tilted his head. "Are you asking for my approval?"

"No! Well…yes, in a way." John sat up straighter and his face took on that "Captain" expression Sherlock usually loved. He spoke in one breath. "I'm going to church again this year for their Christmas Eve service, and since we're married and we made a vow to share each other's experiences, it would mean a lot to me if you would come with me." Before Sherlock could open his mouth, John quickly continued. "I'm not asking you to believe, I know you don't. I don't really believe any of it myself. I just want you to be a part of this tradition of mine. That's all. It's only an hour"

Sherlock crossed his legs, not sure what to say. His first instinct, of course, was to say no. He hated religious services and thought religion in general was ridiculous. Sitting through a sermon would have definitely made his top five list of most boring activities in the world.

But this was John. Sherlock would do anything for him, and had told him as much (which he was now regretting a bit, seeing as John was clearly testing it). He couldn't just say no right off, but maybe he could weasel out of it somehow.

"You want me to go to church?"

"Just on Christmas Eve. With me." John shrugged, and Sherlock deduced that he already regretted asking.

"Why?" He tried to phrase the question as kindly as he could. "Why would you want me there?"

John moved forward and put his hand on Sherlock's knee. "Because I love you, and I want to share this tradition with you. And if I'm being honest, it's a bit lonely going by myself." His fingers added pressure. "Please?"

Sherlock smiled reluctantly. Well, that was it. He couldn't possibly say no without coming off as insulting John and his wishes. Mustering up all his self-control, he asked, "What should I wear?"

They hadn't even gone inside yet and Sherlock was already bored. He and John were standing ("mingling, Sherlock!") in a well-dressed crowd outside of the church. Neither of them had been to this one before; they'd had to hunt around for a church that wouldn't condemn them to Hell for holding hands. Children were running around and shrieking through the grass and climbing on the lit playground as the adults chatted while holding Bibles. An unfortunate number of the men were wearing jumpers like John's, although Sherlock was surprised at how many people were wearing jeans. He himself was wearing his usual Belstaff and a dark red shirt underneath it with black pants.

If Mycroft thought 221B was bad, Sherlock could only imagine how he would react to the church's Christmas décor. It was just short of overkill, with wreaths and ribbons draped everywhere and a huge Nativity scene out front. There were so many lights it almost felt like daytime, and some of them formed letters proclaiming that Jesus was the reason for the season. A huge Christmas tree was positioned near the building, with fake presents underneath and candles all around it. Any other time Sherlock would have mocked them for making such good use of recycled pagan rituals, but tonight he was determined to make an effort for John.

Bite your tongue, Brother Mine, Mycroft said in his head. Sherlock sighed. He waited until John wasn't looking, then checked his phone.

"It's only an hour," John reminded him, startling Sherlock so he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Look, they're letting people in now."

They joined the crowd filing into the church, where organ music was playing and church announcements were being projected onto the wall. Sherlock had to admit he was slightly impressed by the technology and the instruments. So they do realize it's the 21st century, at least to an extent. They were new models and Sherlock was sorely tempted to try out the violin the performer was tuning, even though he would never trade his own for anything.

"I usually sit in the back," John said, interrupting Sherlock's observations as he pointed toward a row of empty pews.

"Yes, I think that would be best," Sherlock said. With any luck, no one would see him sneak a few minutes on his phone or fall asleep. Ugh, this was going to be boring. Thank God Christmas only came once a year.

They each took a seat in the back and John grabbed a Bible and a hymnal from the rows in front of them. By the way he was turning the pages, Sherlock gathered that the same parts were read each time. He let his gaze wander toward the front and back to the instruments as everyone sat down and the noise began to quiet.

"Hang on," Sherlock whispered. "Where's the pastor?"

"She's right there," John pointed to a small woman who was talking to a deacon and shaking hands with a few people in the congregation.

"She? I didn't know they allowed women to have brains here."

"Sherlock." He knew that warning tone in John's voice and squeezed his hand as an apology. In all fairness, he really hadn't known that women could be pastors. Christianity didn't come up in crime as much as the things it preached against like money and greed, so he'd never bothered to gather much data on it.

The lights dimmed even more and the projection screens glowed. Two choirs, one with children and one with adults, filled the stage and the risers on top of it. Music swelled up from the front of the church, and as it did, the congregants began to stand up. Sherlock and John followed suit, John holding the hymnal open. Slowly, everyone began to sing. Sherlock started to join in, then he noticed John wasn't singing. Instead he was mouthing the words while keeping his eyes on the hymnal. Sherlock squeezed his hand again. John had never been confident in his singing ability. Sherlock didn't think it was that bad; he certainly wasn't going to qualify for Britain's Got Talent, but Sherlock had heard worse.

They started out with "Silent Night" and "The First Noel," then moved on to "Come All Ye Faithful" and "We Three Kings." Lyrics flashed on the screen, which Sherlock thought was hardly necessary. These songs were constantly playing in department stores, after all. But he hardly paid attention to those anyway; what captured his interest more were the instruments. Using his height to his advantage, Sherlock stood on tiptoe to peer over the heads of the crowd to get a better look at the violin.

It was a beautiful Stradivarius like his own, and it sounded clearly even over all of the singing and the obnoxious drum set next to it. The performer was playing these carols the way Sherlock liked to play "Auld Lang Syne" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas": with a personal touch. Just enough of the traditional melody that people would still recognize it, but with little unexpected twists here and there. He wished again that he could try it out and made a mental note to attempt these songs on his own when he had the time.

Sherlock was disappointed when the music ended and the congregants clapped and sat down as the choir and orchestra left. He snuck a peek at his phone. The service was only halfway through. The music had been nice, but he still had to sit through at least thirty minutes of listening to a pastor drone on about Jesus and an imaginary deity. John gave him a look that said, Don't start. Sherlock gave him a tiny nod and sat back, crossing his legs and resigning himself to his fate.

"Good evening and Merry Christmas to all of you!" the pastor said, her voice resonating through the microphone and speakers. The congregation echoed her sentiments and Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. She thanked the orchestra and the choir and said how glad she was that they were all there and Sherlock was about to tune her out when she said, "Tonight I want to talk to all of you about the heart of Christmas. It's not the tree and it's not Santa Claus. It's love.

"In this world we hear a lot of people disparaging about love. Some say it's better not to. They say that love drags you down, makes you weak. That caring is a disadvantage."

Sherlock sat up straight and tensed. Had Mycroft known he was coming and bribed or threatened the pastor? He began to listen more keenly.

"Well, I'm here to tell you that nothing could be further than the truth," she said, and a few people said, "amen." She smiled. "Love doesn't make you weak. It doesn't make you an emotional fool or a needy child. Love makes you strong. Love gives you the power and the courage to do things that you never thought you could before."

Interesting theory, Sherlock thought as John smiled at him.

The pastor began to walk around, leaving her Bible open on the podium. "There's all kinds of love out there. Parental, platonic, passionate, familial, friendship. But guess what, folks? They all work the same. Any one of these can make you stronger than you would have ever thought possible.

"We've all heard stories of this, even if we don't think about it much. Mothers who suddenly possess the strength to lift a car if their baby is trapped underneath it. I had a new mum say to me the other day that she was afraid of a lot of things, but she would never be afraid to step in front of a bus or a gunshot if it meant her child would be safe. How many of you feel the same way about someone else?"

Hands went up all over the church, including John's. Sherlock felt warm all over and put his hand up too. He had already put himself in danger for John many times, and John had done the same for him. He'd never thought about that making them stronger though.

"Celebrating that love is what Christmas is all about. I know every year we're surrounded by cynicism regarding the traditions of Christmas. It's too commercial, it's too superficial, it's too whatever. And to be fair, some people do miss the point. But even the commercialism of it is backed by love. Every time you help your family put up a tree or drive yourself crazy untangling lights, you show them how much you love them. And every time they go out and they buy you a present, they're showing how much they love you."

Sherlock smiled. This was surprisingly nice, considering he had been expecting fire and brimstone.

"That's why everyone who celebrates tomorrow will be touched by the birth of our Savior. Even folks who are not Christians and have never been to church in their lives will be granted a day off from work, a day off from grocery shopping, and a day to spend with the people they love. Everyone who celebrates Christmas will go to bed feeling happier and more fulfilled than they did before. In this way Jesus is still with us even after He is long since risen…"

Sherlock began to filter after that, because she had moved on to Jesus and his family and the circumstances surrounding his birth. He sat back and let John lean against him, enjoying his warmth and the peaceful look on his face. Ridiculous deities and resurrections aside, Sherlock had to admit there was some truth in what she'd said. He hadn't liked the decorations, but he had enjoyed helping John and Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't liked the shopping in overcrowded department stores, but he loved putting his brain to work coming up with gift ideas that would make John happy. He still felt an urge to bounce in his seat when he imagined John's reaction to opening the Bluetooth stethoscope Sherlock had gotten him. He was always complaining about how his current one hurt his ears and now he'd be able to listen to his patients' heartbeats wirelessly.

For the first time since he was a child, Sherlock began to look forward to Christmas Day. And when the collection plate finally made it to the back row, he surprised both himself and John by dropping a twenty-pound note inside.

"You sure?" John asked, twitching his nose. "You don't have to, you know. It's not required."

"It's all right," Sherlock murmured, passing the plate back to the usher. "I'm feeling generous."

The lights of London were unusually bright and cheerful that night. Sherlock found he was drawn to them for some reason, as if seeing them for the first time. For once he abandoned his phone in his coat pocket as he pressed his face to their cab window. There was no snow, which was unfortunate since he liked snow, but there were Christmas trees all over the place and just about every person they passed was smiling. Maybe it was Sherlock's imagination, but he thought he noticed bells ringing too. He was disappointed when the cab stopped at Baker Street and the ride ended.

"That'll be eighteen ninety-five," the cabbie said.

"I got it," John said as Sherlock reached for his wallet. He opened up his own and pulled out a ten and three fives. "Keep the change," he said, opening the door. "Merry Christmas."

"And to you too, good sirs!" the cabbie called before driving off. Sherlock grinned as John put away his wallet and the two of them entered the flat.

"You trying to show me up?"

"No, I was just feeling generous too," John said with a smirk. He stopped—and it most certainly did not go unnoticed—right under the mistletoe Mrs. Hudson had not so subtly hung near the front door. "So I'm still waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to admit that you enjoyed the church service."

Sherlock smirked and gave a small eye roll. "It was tolerable."

"No." John shook his head, almost laughing, wagging his finger. "You. Liked. It. You were wrong about it being boring."

Sherlock ignored that last part. "Is it always like that?" he asked.

"Not that I can remember," John said. He caressed Sherlock's arm. "This is without a doubt the nicest one I've been to."

"I'm glad," Sherlock said, putting his hand on John's arm.

John drew Sherlock closer to him. "Will you go with me again next year?"

"Don't push it."

They both giggled and proceeded to fulfill the mistletoe tradition.

The next morning Sherlock woke up early and started some cinnamon rolls for John and Mrs. Hudson. It had become a tradition between the three of them to eat cinnamon rolls while opening presents, then eating pancakes and monkey bread afterward. Sherlock didn't have the first clue how to go about making the latter, but the rolls were just a matter of preheating the oven and sticking the ready-made dough on a pan. He could at least do that much.

Once they were in the oven, he turned on the tree lights and began arranging the gifts under the tree according to who they were for. He and John had had some fun with theirs, writing things like "To the world's biggest curly-haired git" and "For the blogger who needs a new hobby." He snickered at seeing them again and then, seeing the antlers Mrs. Hudson fruitlessly begged him to wear each year, finally put them on. He cringed at his reflection, but the thought of how delighted she would be made up for it. Besides, now John would be forced to wear the elf ears she pushed on him.

Mrs. Hudson was up first, as her footsteps on the staircase indicated. Sherlock could see the top of her Santa hat getting nearer. He quickly picked up his violin and began playing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." That was one of her favorites.

She opened the door slowly, and her smile was a thing of beauty, starting out surprised and then growing until Sherlock could see a good many of her teeth. She clapped a hand to her mouth when she noticed the antlers and Sherlock blushed a bit. He played the last bit quickly so the awkwardness wouldn't last long.

"Oh Sherlock, that was beautiful. Merry Christmas," she said, clapping.

"Lovely way to wake up," John said from the bedroom, smiling and tying his robe on over his pajamas.

"Oh boys, Merry Christmas!" Mrs. Hudson said, and she held out her arms. Sherlock and John hurried into them and she squeezed them to her in a stronger grip than either would have thought possible. "You look adorable in those antlers, Sherlock."

"Figured I'd humor you for the morning, so long as John promises no photographs."

"I'll try and restrain myself," John said. Mrs. Hudson let go of them and John sighed. "I guess I may as well wear the ears then."

Mrs. Hudson squealed and Sherlock smirked as John slapped on the elf ears she had begged him to wear for years. At least now they both looked ridiculous, and even the antlers were better than that horrid deerstalker the rest of the world pushed on him.

"Well, shall we get to it?" Mrs. Hudson asked, gesturing to the tree. "Presents and whatnot?"

"Are the cinnamon rolls already done?" John asked, sniffing. "Smells like they are."

"I put them in," Sherlock said, and he hurried to the kitchen to take them out. They were just right, a little brown but not too much. He turned off the oven and opened the can of icing.

"Here dear, let me do that," Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock gladly stepped aside as she began distributing the icing over the rolls. "So sweet of you to start them. And you even turned on the tree! What's gotten into you this morning?"

"Don't be silly, Mrs. Hudson," he said, patting her shoulder. "Nothing unusual about helping out on Christmas." But John was giving him that look that said he knew exactly what was going on. Well, he always was better at deducing Sherlock than anyone else, save maybe Mycroft.

John pulled Sherlock into a hug outside the kitchen and kissed him. "I love you," he said. In a low voice, he added. "And I think that pastor was right. Loving you has made my life better than I ever dreamed it could be."

Sherlock looked into John's happy, adoring eyes, and felt the same surge he'd experienced before jumping off of Bart's and shooting Magnussen, like he could face anything if John was involved. "I think so too. Loving you has made me stronger than I ever thought I could be."

They fulfilled the mistletoe tradition one last time before Mrs. Hudson announced that the rolls were ready. Sherlock took his place on the sofa with a mental note to reorganize his mental files on Christmas and Christmas Eve services. Both had turned out to bring him much more happiness than he'd expected.