Author's note: This is a different project for me, for once. I'm going to upload one chapter every Monday – each of them will be about a different Christmas. One Christmas before Sherlock and John met, one together, one Post-Reichenbach and one Post-Reunion.

Two of my passions colliding – Christmas and Sherlock. Of course there were going to be stories, whether I wanted there to be or not. My mind... wouldn't let me alone. Let's leave it at that.

And, quite frankly, I hope to spread a little Christmas cheer by posting a chapter each week.

I don't own anything, please review.

Harry was making an effort, John couldn't deny that. Despite having split up with Clara only two months ago, she was trying to make his first Christmas home from the war a happy one. Which was, admittedly, not an easy task.

He felt utterly lost and useless. As if being shot hadn't been hard enough – now he had a psychosomatic limp and a shaking left hand too, and what was a doctor whose hand shook when he was treating a patient supposed to do? The symptoms didn't vanish through him "trying to deal with his trauma" either, no matter what Ella said. And, sometimes, when he couldn't sleep at night, or when he wouldn't, because he knew the nightmares of the war were hiding just around the corner, ready to pounce upon him, he admitted to himself, in the darkest hours, that he was aware why.

Being shot hadn't been as traumatic for him as every seemed to think it must be – and maybe they were right, and there was something wrong with him. The fact remained, however – despite of the pain and the therapy, despite not having been able to move his shoulder for almost a month – John wasn't haunted by the moment he had felt his flesh burn and known that he had been shot. Instead, he was haunted by the things he hadn't done.

He was haunted by soldiers who were wounded in action right now, with no chance of him coming to help them; he was haunted by fathers who wouldn't be home for Christmas because he wasn't there to offer them an exchange of free tours; he was haunted by – by the lack of action, the lack of usefulness, the lack of belonging.

Something – something that went deeper than the need to feel useful, than the adrenaline coursing through his veins in Afghanistan – was missing, he just didn't know what.

He knew very well that he shouldn't feel like this; he should be grateful for having survived, for having left the war behind once and for all. But he wasn't.

Yet, because he felt that he shouldn't think like this, he pushed the thoughts away, buried the truth, only allowing to come out in the dark hours, after midnight, before dawn, when he was only half-conscious of the things that fluttered through his mind.

And now was definitely not the time to ponder his future, or his lack thereof; it was Christmas, and he was supposed to celebrate with his family – well, with Harry, but since she'd been his only relative for some years now, so she was his family – and enjoy himself. Or pretend to. It seemed like John couldn't tell the difference anymore, and that should have scared him, most definitely would have scared him, if he didn't feel so lost and pointless.

But, still, Harry made an effort, even though she was drinking again – and John really tried to be sympathetic and understanding, but it was difficult, considering that she had been the one to leave her wife, so why should she start drinking again out of sorrow for her failed marriage?

It probably didn't help that John was quite fond of Clara, especially since she had been the one to get his sister of the booze, if only for a short while, and they had talked just a few days ago – she had sounded sad and defeated, and John had had to use all his energy to keep himself from blaming his sister.

And yet... Harry was there, and she had insisted that John spent Christmas Eve and Christmas at her place – meaning her new flat. John didn't mind; maybe he would be able to keep her from drinking too much over the holidays. They had never been close, but he loved his sister, and he wanted what was best for her.

And, at the end of December, Bill Murray would arrive in London, and perhaps he'd feel like himself again, talking with his former colleague about different times (he couldn't think "better", they'd served in the war, after all).

As he limped towards Harry's flat on Christmas Eve – he hadn't wanted to use money he couldn't afford on a cab ride, and he didn't feel like using the tube – even he wasn't immune to the Christmas spirit that seemed to put a smile on the saddest face, to make children's eyes sparkle as they had snowball fights and build snowmen. And he'd always loved a white Christmas.

The season just made people happier, friendlier, and he had nothing against feeling content with his lot for once – even if only for a short time.

Harry was genuinely happy that he was there, with her, he could tell, and all in all, his Christmas was much more cheerful than he'd thought it would be. She didn't drink too much – she drank, but she was careful, probably to spare his feelings, and he was grateful for that.

She had cooked, just when he thought he couldn't be more surprised, and when he'd teased her that he'd only give his opinion on the next day, to make sure he'd survive, she answered, "Good to see you cheerful again. That's more like the brother I remember".

On Christmas Day, she gave him Treasure Island – a book they had both loved as children and that had one day, somewhere between him leaving for university and her drinking the night away, vanished. He hugged her and smiled.

He had bought her a new watch, since he'd remembered that she'd only ever worn Clara's, and she laughed and said, "So that's it then. A fresh start."

A fresh start...

Yes, he reflected, as he walked home the next day – this is what this could be. Different and scary, but new and exciting at the same time.

And he didn't know why...

But he had the feeling that something was coming. Whether good or bad, he couldn't tell, but something was coming, something new, different, and exhilarating. He was sure of it.

Sherlock Holmes celebrated Christmas by not celebrating it at all. He had done so for a few years now, starting after Mummy's death. This wasn't because it simply "didn't feel like Christmas" without her, or for any other sentimental reason; Sherlock simply had never seen the point of it.

Mummy and Father hadn't been very affectionate, so he'd never understood why they suddenly all had to be together on Christmas Eve – Sherlock, Mummy, Father, Mycroft, and the dozens of guests Mummy decided to invite every holiday season.

True, it had been the one time of the year where he'd seen his father for a longer period of time than a few minutes a day – but even after he'd left them, having started an affair the year prior, when Mycroft had been sixteen and Sherlock nine, Mummy (who hadn't seemed very sorry) kept inviting guests and insisting on a "proper Christmas Dinner".

While he and Mycroft had certainly better got on than – well, their parents, they had drifted apart over the course of the years; Mycroft's leaving for university when Sherlock was eleven, his (well-meant but condescending) attempts to get him off the drugs, finally the detoxing in his brother's mansion, the British Government spying on him via security cameras and monitoring anyone Sherlock came in closer contact with – it didn't really make for a good relationship, and nowadays, they couldn't look at each other without insults flying about.

So they had abandoned family dinners after Mummy had died, as well as any pretence of celebrating Christmas. They had both been relieved, in a way, and Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft preferred working to spending time with his brother. He knew this because he did, too. They didn't even acknowledge the holiday; there were never going to be Christmas calls or something like it in their relationship.

Thankfully criminals didn't stop committing crimes simply because the whole world seemed to be convinced that there was something special about a date the Christian Church had picked because it was the day of a pagan celebration. Sherlock had enough to do, simply because even Scotland Yard tried to take a holiday. Sadly, that meant that Lestrade was spending the days with his wife – though it was very clear they had problems and Sherlock was convinced she had an affair – and Sherlock had to deal with Donavan on Christmas Eve, when a body was discovered – really, now, if it had been discovered twelve hours later, she would already be on the way to her family. At least Anderson was at home with his wife – which explained her being even more obnoxious than usual.

"No, he wasn't homeless" Sherlock snarled for the seventh time. "No homeless person would have such perfect fingernails. The killer just wanted to make it appear like she was homeless and froze to death. I could ask my homeless network, but I'm sure they would just corroborate the only possible explanation to all the facts."

"Freak, I think we'll let the autopsy decide whether she died because of the cold or not" Donavan spat.

Sherlock sighed. There was no way she was going to give him more time at the crime scene, or with the victim. He would have to flirt with Molly again, which he abhorred. He'd never understand why people liked to utter totally pointless phrases while staring in the eyes of another person. But at least it got him body parts and access to the morgue.

The victim definitely hadn't been homeless, he mused as he walked home, because even he had trouble finding cabs on Christmas – another reason not to enjoy this holiday. But, just to make sure, he sent a text and a photo of the victim to his homeless network. She hadn't died of the cold, and not where she was found (and definitely not in the cheap dirty clothes she was found in), so she had almost certainly been killed. Most likely by some kind of poison, but he had to wait for Molly to get the body before he could think about doing anything. And Donavan would probably make sure that this didn't happen before Christmas Day – or even the day after that.

He sighed again and took out the key to the small flat he lived in at the moment. He really needed a bigger one, and he could ask Mycroft, naturally – but the thought of owing his brother anything wasn't very pleasant. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson's lodger would move out at the end of the year – in six days, to be precise – and she'd promised to wait a while before renting the flat (bigger and in a prime spot) again, so Sherlock could look for a flatmate. Even with the special deal, he couldn't afford it alone.

A flatmate. He supposed he would go through a number of them – nobody would want to live with him for a longer period of time. He didn't have any illusions about what people thought about him. And they were right. He was a high-functioning sociopath. Maybe, after enough people had tried, Mrs. Hudson would allow him to stay in the flat alone.

He sat down on the sofa and took up his violin, hoping that he could lose himself for a few hours in the music, without being tempted by his secret stash, when he got two texts.

One was from Mrs. Hudson, who was spending the holidays with her sister.

Merry Christmas, my boy.
Mrs. H.

He smiled in spite of himself, and send a "Thank you" in return, knowing that she would interpret it as a wish for happy holidays.

The second one was from a member of his homeless network, if he remembered correctly (and he certainly did) a young woman with reddish hair.

Have information. Waiting outside.

They knew not to get in, since his last landlord had kicked him out because of it. So he laid his violin aside and grabbed his coat.

She was waiting on the other side of the road and said immediately, "She was a social worker. Melanie Jenkins. I knew her; she worked in the shelter on Carnaby Street. She was nice". Her voice trembled a bit, and Sherlock realized that they must have been friends of a sort.

He nodded. "That's very useful". He wanted to take out his wallet, but she shook her head. "No. Just... please, find him, whoever did this." Sherlock nodded again, surprised because usually his homeless network took every bit of money they could lay their hands on, no matter whether they knew the victim or not. But then he looked at her. She was shivering, most likely as much from the cold as from the shock, and she looked like she hadn't eaten in a while. And she looked undeniably he took out his wallet anyway and, instead of the fifty pounds his informants usually received, he gave her a hundred pounds he couldn't really afford. He couldn't even say why he did it, but he put it in her hands with the words, "Not for the information. The Season's Greetings".

She looked on the pavement, then smiled at him and answered, quietly "Thank you. Merry Christmas". Then she was gone, turning around and walking up the street so quickly he couldn't reply, and he shrugged and decided to walk to the homeless shelter – there was bound to be some colleague of Melanie Jenkins helping the poor today.

But even Sherlock Holmes couldn't deny that, as he walked down the street, something inside him felt the tiniest bit warmer. And that, sometimes, ordinary people could actually be quite interesting and surprising.

Maybe getting a flatmate wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Author's note: Okay, here's a big shock, prepare yourself for a really big shock, you are not going to believe it: I love Christmas. And Sherlock. There. I said it.

The woman who gives Sherlock the information – I picture her as the one from "The Great Game", because a little bit of history and trust between them makes for a good story.

I wanted them both missing something, but still being happy at Christmas in their own way.

Also, this might not be my only Christmas story. I'm currently fighting off ideas.

I hope you liked it, please review.