A/N: My first fic here! I got the idea from Coldplay's Christmas Lights but this isn't really a song fic (you should still listen to that song!). Reviews would be the best Christmas present to me...
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC. I don't make money with this and so on.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm home… Could you please get off the sofa and help me with these bags?"

When Sherlock realised he'd forgotten the syringe on the coffee table, it was already too late. John walked into the living room carrying two paper bags and his military figure froze completely when he saw the needle. Disbelief, anger and sadness flashed in his eyes as he dropped the bags and stepped forward.

"Sherlock, what the-? Is this what you've been occupying yourself with while I was gone? I thought you'd..."

"I didn't take much, John," Sherlock interrupted, eyes half closed, frustrated by his friend's overreacting. Really, the man could be so naive sometimes – Sherlock knew how to handle this, no need to worry. John sighed.

"Not much? That does not make things any better! Sherlock, I... You know that I care about you and, and I trust you but... Why are you doing this?" The syringe in John's hand was shaking, but not as much as his voice.

"Bored." Sherlock closed his eyes and leant back on the sofa. "Nothing's happening. I need cases but Lestrade is on holiday and won't answer my calls. I don't understand why. What's more important than the work?"

"You don't understand..? Of course he's on holiday, it's Christmas for God's sake!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.

Sherlock looked distantly surprised. "Is it? Oh, yes, it must be. Christmas Eve, correct?"

John just stared at his flatmate for some time. The expression "spectacularly ignorant" would have been fitting again. He wasn't that much into Christmas himself and hadn't brought the topic up with Sherlock, assuming the man wouldn't want a Christmas tree or Christmas themed decorations all over the place or anything, but still, good Lord. How could someone live practically in the centre of London and not know it was Christmas Eve?
"You seriously weren't aware of that?" John asked, then thought about it. "Maybe that shouldn't surprise me. You haven't left the flat in eight days and apparently you've done nothing but drugs during that time, so yeah."

The hurt in John's voice made Sherlock feel slightly uneasy. The narcotic daze was slowly floating away, numbness making way for the annoying feeling he'd done something wrong. John looked tensed as he continued, looking as if he was struggling to keep himself in control.

"Yes, it's Christmas Eve. And since you don't seem to be in much of a Christmas mood, I'll go to Sarah's. She's throwing a party and asked me to come. I have to give her the present I bought, anyway."

Before Sherlock got fully out of his comfortable haze and back to his feet, the doctor had walked out. The bang of the front door echoed in the empty house and Sherlock collapsed back to the sofa, running his fingers through his dark curly hair and letting out a small, frustrated moan.

Maybe John was expecting a Christmas present, Sherlock mused. Personally, he had always found them a complete waste of time and resources – every Christmas people received loads of stupid little things they'd never need, ugly, unfitting jumpers and socks they'd never wear – but maybe that was what John wanted. He had observed John earlier the same month, arriving at the conclusion John wasn't overly excited about Christmas and Sherlock had quickly forgotten that the holiday was approaching, deleting the information as insignificant. He would have tried harder, had he known it was important to John. For John he would have pretended it was nice to have a Christmas tree adding to the mess in the flat, would have endured a Christmas dinner with John's family, perhaps even with Mycroft. For John he would have tried to understand the whole Christmas thing, instead of getting rid of his boredom with drugs, which had clearly upset John. Maybe a present would make up for it?

The detective headed to Oxford Street, where quite a startling amount of people were doing their last-minute Christmas shopping before the closing time. Sherlock felt disgustingly ordinary when he joined the masses and wandered down the street, searching for something – he really didn't know what, just something that would make John happy, something that would make things right. A sudden realisation hit Sherlock as he glared at the shops' windows: for the first time in years he was making an effort to make someone else happy. He had bothered to come here and put up with the brainlessly roaming crowd and the annoying commercialism of all this just because that was probably what John wanted.

Shop windows were flashing and glittering with disgustingly fake Christmas mood, more repulsive than inviting. In spite of his massive intellect, Sherlock had no idea what kind of a present John would want. He wished he'd paid more attention to John lately, perhaps the man had tried to tip him off, tried to point out things he wanted for Christmas. Sherlock tried to concentrate in the task but his thoughts kept returning to an image of John's expression when he saw the drug needle. Sadness, disappointment, disgust. And what about his own feelings? He had regretted, wanted to apologise, felt ashamed when he saw the accusation in his flatmate's eyes. Sherlock wondered briefly when had other people's opinions become so important but then realised it wasn't exactly "other people" that mattered. It was just John. For some reason John mattered and letting him down was something he shouldn't have done. Now he was gone, spending his Christmas Eve with that sweet but agonisingly boring woman. Sherlock found the thought strangely unpleasant – it was always unpleasant when John was with Sarah but today, right now, with all this Christmas stuff going on, it felt different. Why should this day be different?

A cold breeze blew through the streets of the big city. Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up and shivered slightly. This was useless. With all the data he had gathered about John he just couldn't come up with an appropriate Christmas present. Nothing seemed special enough for John. People around him looked stressed and not exactly what Sherlock imagined would be "Christmassy". Parents dragged their screaming offspring from shop to shop, noisy teenagers roamed around in big groups, shopping bags in hands, Christmas carols were flowing from speakers somewhere, just adding to the intolerable annoyingness of the whole thing. Sherlock wished he could just go back to Baker Street and watch stupid TV shows with John, feel comfortable and complete.

He sent a text.

"Come home. SH"

The cosy warmth greeted Sherlock as he entered 221B Baker Street. Home. The flat was dark except for the yellowish light that was flowing in from the windows. He dumped his coat and scarf, turned the lights on and grabbed the violin. Hopefully John would come back soon. Sherlock knew he would; he'd travel across the whole city if the world's only consulting detective asked him to. They had already known each other for almost a year, Sherlock realised, and John hadn't let him down, not once. He would come home. Suddenly he missed John, which was of course completely irrational because they had met less than an hour ago.

He wrapped his long fingers around the bow and played first one tentative note, then a second one, third one. Soon the flat was filled with the violin, and the violin only. It sang out everything there was to say, telling how much its player regretted not remembering this stupid little holiday, how much he regretted letting his friend and colleague down, how the emotions running deep in his chest were becoming overwhelming and how very distracting that was.

John got out of the taxi and walked slowly towards Sarah's house. What little Christmas mood he'd had earlier that day had completely disappeared and he considered turning around and just going home. But at the same time he knew he couldn't. He simply could not spend his Christmas Eve watching how his flatmate, friend, colleague, the most brilliant man he'd ever known, deliberately poisoned himself with those horrible narcotics. As a doctor – and sure enough, as a soldier – he'd seen a lot of suffering, a lot of terrible things, but seeing Sherlock holding the syringe with the familiar, vacant look in his eyes, was just too much.

The blinking Christmas lights of Sarah's house were already visible when John's mobile phone suddenly beeped. He fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen, not greatly surprised by what it had to say. One text message received. It was from Sherlock, as was the case with about 90 % of the texts he received. John read it, stopped to consider for a moment and then turned around and started looking for a taxi. Maybe it was better to go home, after all. Sherlock may not want his concern and caring but the detective certainly needed it.

John sat in the backseat of a black London cab and watched how the streets passed by. Flashing lights, Christmas decorations in every corner, a man who was dressed up as a reindeer and children who looked horrified by the furry dress. John leaned back on his seat, wondering how this Christmas would turn out to be. There wouldn't be Christmas lights in Baker Street – Sherlock was more likely to celebrate by stealing more body parts from the morgue and setting them on fire. Maybe it had been too much to hope anything could be nice and normal when one was living with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, lost in the music he was playing, when John stepped in. A melody heavy with emotion, with affection, was flowing from the instrument in the detective's hands. John could feel the low notes vibrating in his chest, warm and full, and the high ones cut the air, sharp as razorblades. His footsteps seemed to snap Sherlock out of the trance and he looked up to the smaller man standing uncertainly in the doorway. They looked at each other and the violin didn't stop singing.

John was almost sure he'd never heard this piece before even though Sherlock really seemed to enjoy playing it, his grey eyes flashing as he stared at John and the music slowed down, became quiet and questioning. The bow in Sherlock's hand turned sharply, producing a deep, regretful sound that echoed slightly in the room. He dropped the instrument and stood up.

"Hello, John."

"Hi." John looked at him, eyes roaming over his flatmate's body and paying special attention to the eyes. Still suspicious, still looking at the pupils to see if Sherlock had used more narcotics while he'd been gone. The detective sighed.

"I've disappointed you. Again," Sherlock said, his voice low, eyes studying intensively the smaller man's face. John shook his head, then nodded with a sorrowful look on his face.

"It's not you, Sherlock, it really isn't. It's the drugs. You're far too dear to me to..." John trailed off, blushing slightly and evidently hoping he could take back what he'd just said. Sherlock felt a flood of strange emotions swirling in his chest. He smiled, proud and relieved, even though he still didn't quite agree with John's opinion on the drug issue. John was back home, and he wasn't angry. That was the only significant part of the information at the moment.

"John, um." The smile that had appeared on Sherlock's face only seconds earlier disappeared and he now looked a bit lost, which John found strangely appealing.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry," the detective mumbled, scanning the floor with his gaze.

John smiled, first hesitating but then touching his flatmate's arm gently. "It's okay, Sherlock. Everything's going to be fine. Giving up drugs is..."

Sherlock shook his head, still greatly fascinated by the floor. "No, I'm sorry about this Christmas thing and I know it's not fine. I should have realised it was of importance to you but I didn't, until now. I tried to find you a present but it was more difficult than I expected. So I thought it might be better if you just told me what you want. Anything."

John smiled slightly. "There is one thing I want from you."

Sherlock looked up, determination bright in his eyes. "What is it?"

"No more needles, Sherlock."

"Look, John..."

"Please."

Sherlock sighed. He wasn't used to giving up but maybe, for John...

Sherlock and John stood by the window next to each other, gazing out to the street where bright, colourful Christmas lights soaked the landscape in their soft glow. Sherlock turned his head to look at his flatmate, who seemed to be deep in thought, his face lit by the colourful glow from the window. He looked happy, and Sherlock found he was glad about that.

Acting on a strange, sudden impulse, Sherlock wrapped his arm around the doctor's waist. John inhaled sharply but then relaxed, a small smile playing over his face. He leant slightly on the taller man and Sherlock could feel the warmth radiating from John and surrounding him, familiar and comforting.

"I'm not going to ask what you're doing," John said, and Sherlock didn't have to look at his face to know he was smiling.

"People don't like being alone on Christmas, do they?"

"You don't mind that, I'm sure."

"I don't." Sherlock tightened his hold of John and turned his head so that his lips were almost touching John's ear, and he felt John shiver as he spoke in a low voice. "I don't mind being alone with you."

"You know..." John turned so that their chests were pressed together and wrapped his both arms around Sherlock, looking up to the detective's grey eyes and smiling, a smile that made Sherlock feel warm and finally somewhat Christmassy.

"I think I know what I want for Christmas."

A/N: Hope you liked it... I am so very nervous about publishing this and reviews would be very hugely and greatly appreciated (especially the critical ones!) Also, if someone wants to beta read this it'd be nice since I don't know anyone who'd do that for me and I'm sure this story could use a beta.

Merry Christmas :)