Author's note: Here's the last chapter.

I don't own anything, please review.

John Watson had never believed in miracles.

Neither had he thought he would ever feel like crying out of gratitude because he found a liver and a spleen in the fridge.

But somehow, he had been granted a miracle, and almost sunk down on the floor praying because there were organs in the fridge of 221B, and all in the space of twenty-four hours.

Sherlock, naturally, had shown up at his door as if he hadn't been dead for three years, informed John that he needed his help to bring down Moriarty's right-hand man, and dashed off, expecting the doctor to follow him.

John did.

They fell back into their routine, Sherlock explaining what the man had done and how they could capture him, John making sure he survived the encounter.

Needless to say, once Moran was lying unconsciously on the floor and he had informed Greg where to pick him up, he started shouting. He hit Sherlock.

Eventually he hugged him.

Which was why Greg found John tending to Sherlock's bleeding nose while Moran was still lying unconscious at their feet. He didn't comment on it.

Sherlock assumed that John wanted him to move back in and filled their fridge with the aforementioned body parts not two hours later. John didn't contradict him.

Neither did he find it in himself to complain when he was woken that night by Sherlock playing the violin. He'd wished to hear its sounds once more often enough.

Maybe he had forgiven his best friend too easily; he was aware that most people would think so.

But Sherlock was back, and that was all that mattered.

Mary had been wonderful, everything John should have wanted, had wanted, in a way, but in another, it hadn't been enough, could never have been enough, not when he'd realized, right after Mike Stamford had introduced them, that Sherlock Holmes and he fit, that they would always be best friends and partners and flatmates, no matter how circumstances changed, and even if Mary had given him a family, he would still have laid awake at night, wondering why it was so quiet, no explosions, no violin concertos, and wished desperately to see him one more time, just one more time –

And now, he was back. Sherlock Holmes was alive and they lived in 221B and Mrs. Hudson kept bringing tea and biscuits, and Greg showed up at least three times a week, even if there were no cases.

And John was going to spend Christmas with a madman he'd been convinced he'd never see again.

The doctor had always been fond of Christmas.

Remembering Sherlock's reluctance the last time, he wasn't sure what to expect.

Sherlock had changed, he could see it in his eyes. He was still clever, he still deduced people as quickly as he ever had, he still insulted other human beings he considered idiots on a regular basis.

But –

He didn't make witnesses cry.

He brought John coffee and water and sometimes a sandwich when he felt his friend was exhausted.

He called Greg by his first name and always came when he called, even if it was "only a four".

He was polite to people like Dimmock and Henry Knight, who had defended him after his fake suicide.

He was still the same Sherlock, but somehow – he acted more human. "Acted" because John had always been convinced that the consulting detective was human, and had simply decided not to show it.

Ever since he had returned, though, he was showing it, in subtle ways, it was true, but he was still showing it, and John had to fight of a ridiculous feeling of pride every time he did.

All things considered, he should probably have seen it coming, but somehow, he didn't.

"It" being Sherlock's – John wouldn't call it enthusiasm, but acceptance – of celebrating Christmas like the year Irene Adler presumably died.

Mrs. Hudson obviously thought she would have to put up with more resistance, since she came into their flat with several boxes full of Christmas decorations on the first of December and looked at Sherlock like she expected him to roll his eyes and vacate the premises, only to find that he barely interrupted his violin playing to tell her not to decorate his chemistry set in the kitchen.

She shot John a look, and the doctor could only shake his head.

Sherlock Holmes would always find ways to surprise him.

He didn't help their landlady and John decorate the flat, but he didn't say anything against it, as his initial reaction had promised, and even continued playing actual music instead of making screeching sounds on his violin.

Come to think of it, John hadn't heard those since Sherlock's return, not even when Mycroft had come by.

When Mrs. Hudson was leaving, just before the door closed behind her, Sherlock put down the violin and called out, "I am still not wearing the antlers!"

They heard her laugh as she walked down the stairs.

John looked at Sherlock, unsure if he should ask.

Sherlock replied calmly to the unspoken question.

"I have found that the invention of a specific day to be merry and invite one's – friends – isn't as idiotic as I used to believe."

"Right" John answered.

He was silent for a few moments, knowing it was useless to push Sherlock.

The consulting detective started to elaborate his answer, as John had hoped he would.

"I might have – " he broke off before continuing, "I realized I missed certain things I never thought I would."

He didn't say what; he didn't say when. But John had a feeling he knew.

They didn't talk about what Sherlock had done while he had been away, although the doctor couldn't deny he was curious. But he knew that the three years must have been difficult for Sherlock, if the fact that he'd shown up thinner and paler than ever before was anything to go by, and he respected his best friend's wish not to talk about it.

They didn't talk anymore about it that evening either.

But John brought up a Christmas party the next day, and Sherlock, to his surprise (or maybe not – it was all still a bit confusing, which was only to be expected when your best friend came back from the dead, he figured) , had already decided that they would invite friends over on Christmas Eve as well as on Christmas Day, and he asked – actually asked – if he could invite Mycroft.

John would have been glad to say that he could forgive the British Government as easily as the World's only consulting detective had done and that he said yes without hesitation, but he didn't.

He managed to nod, though, and it seemed to be enough for Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson, of course, was ecstatic and mumbled something about "inviting her sister so she can finally meet you" and Sherlock just nodded.

Considering this was Sherlock Holmes, this was practically him telling her that he'd be happy to meet her sister, and she brought up a whole cake this afternoon.

The guest list proved to be surprisingly long.

They decided they would give a Christmas Dinner on the 24th. Aside from Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, Sherlock wanted to invite Greg and Molly. John wasn't surprised that he had noticed that the invitation of one would necessary include the other, but he was surprised that he hadn't commented on it until now.

Of course, Mycroft would get an invitation as well. Since he had already accepted the elder Holmes to be part of their company, John didn't think the consulting detective would elaborate why he wanted to have his brother at 221B, but he did.

"He sent me information".

It wasn't much, but it was enough to make John realize that perhaps, Mycroft regretted what had happened.

Since Sherlock seemed to be in a generous mood, he asked if it wouldn't be nice to have Mike and his wife over for dinner as well, and the other man simply replied "I am sure that they will come, if they find a babysitter for David".

John smiled. Apparently Mike and Sue having a son whose full name was "David Sherlock Stamford" was important enough to be saved in his friend's mind palace.

The doctor felt ashamed when he realized he hadn't mentioned Harry yet. She was spending Christmas Eve with her newest girlfriend – who he hadn't met yet, but probably should – and he decided he would invite her over on Christmas Day.

Sherlock thought the idea a good one, if only "because two annoying siblings might cancel each other out".

Once all invitations had been accepted – Sherlock had taken it upon himself to tell Mycroft, leaving John to call all their other friends, naturally – he started wondering what to get Sherlock for Christmas.

It had been difficult enough all these years ago, on their first Christmas; but now, when the consulting detective had fulfilled him the greatest wish he'd ever had –

What was there to give him, that could even adequately express the gratitude John was feeling?

Mrs. Hudson, as could be expected, was buying them both lots of tea and shirts for Sherlock and the doctor was ready to bet, new jumpers for John; Molly was hoarding body parts for the consulting detective and several hard to come by medical books for his friend; from several allusions and half-sentences, he considered it certain that Greg was giving them new pistols of uncertain origins.

But John –

It wasn't until he was walking through the city (after having bought Mycroft's favourite brandy because Sherlock had delegated the task to buy a present for his brother), desperate for ideas, that he saw it.

Or rather, him.

He was well aware that the deal might be shady, but he doubted Sherlock would care.

He left his present with Mrs. Hudson, who immediately put it in a cupboard because "she wouldn't look at the thing" and took the brandy up to Sherlock.

The consulting detective was playing his violin and didn't turn around to deduce him. John went into the kitchen to make tea and the day and the ones that followed passed without mentioning that the doctor had bought a Christmas present for his friend.

He didn't know if Sherlock had bothered buying something for his blogger, but he didn't care.

They had a wonderful dinner on Christmas Eve, all things considered; Mrs. Hudson was full of her sister, who would arrive the next day, Greg and Molly revealed that they were going to move in together, Mike and Sue showed pictures of their son, and Sherlock and Mycroft talked without insulting each other every two minutes. Since he had witnessed this miracle, John managed to be civil to the elder Holmes too.

He went to bed a happy man that night, looking forward to tomorrow.

His mood changed when he woke up and heard the deafening silence in the flat, felt it in his bones.

Sherlock wasn't there.

Naturally, he panicked.

He tried not to; forced himself not to call the consulting detective, he wasn't his landlady, after all, made tea, sat down on his chair to await his return.

Thankfully, he did return soon enough.

"Where were you?" John asked immediately.

"I solved the robbery case that Greg complained about" Sherlock replied and went into the kitchen to take some tea.

His blogger laughed happily, because he couldn't help it. He had wanted to help Greg; he had gone to the Yard in the middle of the night for that purpose.

"Donovan was unusually polite" he drawled, wandering back into the living room. "I wished her a merry Christmas".

In the next moment, he almost dropped his cup because John hugged him.

He awkwardly returned the hug with one arm and looked after his blogger, frowning, as he darted off into his room.

John came back with a skull wrapped with a bowtie in his hands.

"Mrs. Hudson brought it up this afternoon. It's Christmas Day after all, even if it's early. Here" he put it in Sherlock's hands.

"Didn't seem right that he should be alone when we aren't".

Sherlock smiled as he realized the skull was that of a middle aged white male, smaller than the first one.

Instead of thanking John, he went into his room and came back with a carefully wrapped parcel.

When his blogger found the book he'd had printed especially – "The Blog of Doctor John H. Watson", containing all his entries, from the day he'd started to write, to the latest case they had solved, he swallowed before looking up.

"I'd hug you, but I already did that. Play something?" he asked, his eyes sparkling, and Sherlock complied, answering his smile with one of his own.

And so the two friends settled down to wait for the light of dawn, anticipating the day of celebration, and all the others, that lay before them.

Author's note: This is more along the line of "didn't think to spend Christmas with Sherlock again", but I felt it fit.

What would Christmas be without fluff?

All that's left is to wish you a merry Christmas; I wish you will spend it with those who mean the most to you, that you will laugh and be happy; that you smile as you look back, and hope as you look forward; and that you will make wonderful memories on this most blessed day of all.

Hekate