SUMMARY: John finally has the opportunity to get everyone the perfect gift, but has to do it anonymously ... what's a friend to do? (Part of the Mistaken Identities universe, but you don't need to have read them for this to make sense. Come in and have some eggnog! Just watch out ... it's sweet in here.)

NOTE: As usual, I own nothing but my own ideas-the rest belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Britpicked, so all mistakes are my own. And a grateful tip of the hat to 4mpersand for giving me the idea for Mycroft's gift.

John looked over his list, trying to contain a totally unexpected sense of anticipation.

He hadn't been this excited for Christmas in years. For the first time in his life, he had enough money to buy real Christmas gifts for his friends and family. Not just odds and ends like books or jumpers, but real gifts. Meaningful gifts. Anything he wanted, because price literally was no object.

Except, of course, that it was, though not like you'd expect. Because this year, unlike every other year in his entire life, he had plenty of money … but nobody knew about it.

Ever since he'd inherited that generous "rent money" trust fund from Ian, John had been able to afford pretty much anything he wanted. It had been nice for a while, but then problems had cropped up—minor things like Sherlock being kidnapped and held for ransom (for a change). It had been prudent to tell the world that the kidnappers had the money and that John was back to working for a living.

It had been the right call, he was certain of it. Absolutely the right thing to do.

But now … it was Christmas, and what the bloody hell was he supposed to do? The one year he could truly afford to buy his friends anything he wanted, and he couldn't because his money was secret. Could he really just hand out DVD box sets of Dr. Who or bottles of whiskey like usual? It was such a wasted opportunity!

And then, the miracle had occurred. The brilliant idea.

He'd been walking past a shop with one of those colorful holiday displays. It had showed Santa in his workshop, checking his list of good boys and girls as the elves packed his sled in the background. Of course, John thought. How had he not seen it? He could play Santa.

Oh, he wasn't going to dress as Santa—but that didn't mean he couldn't take a page from his book. It wasn't like he wanted the credit for the gifts. He just wanted to give them.

Just the thought gave him that warm, Christmas feeling, and the more he considered it, the more excited he got. This could be fun! So, he started to plan.

He called a catering company to throw a holiday party for the hard-working folks at Scotland Yard. Anonymously, of course. He figured it was the least he could do for all the grief they put up with on a regular basis from one Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock could deduce the officers to his heart's content, John could have a chance to relax a bit, and nobody would be the wiser as to the source of the party.

For Greg, the only person outside the Holmes family who knew that John had not lost his money, he bought the newest iPad and prepaid for a year of unlimited data to go with it. He would just ask Sherlock for help sneaking it under the man's Christmas tree.

Mrs. Hudson—the best Not-Housekeeper a pair of insane bachelors could ask for—was almost easy. He ordered her the best oven on the market, one with all the bells and features a devoted cook could ask for, and then he bought a pile of glossy cookbooks to go with it. He was still unsure whether she had figured out that he still had Ian's money, but that was okay. She would suspect Sherlock or Mycroft if she didn't, and ultimately, it wouldn't matter. They were all family, after all, in their own way.

Anderson and Donovan … oh, Sherlock would be so proud of him for this. For those two idiotic, close-minded, self-indulgent, petty troublemakers, he ordered matching gifts. Two large baskets of deluxe toiletries—all exactly the same—one for her, one for him. It was a slightly petty callback to the night he'd met them, but it was too good an idea to ignore. John arranged to have them delivered in the middle of the Yard's party to maximize embarrassment and would make sure that Sherlock hadn't gotten them kicked out before the big moment.

For Harry, he bought high-count, luxury bedding to compliment the fur throw Ian had given her last year. He arranged for Anthea to get a designer case for her Blackberry—assuming it ever left her hands long enough to be needed. He sent Mike a year's supply of coffee drinks from the Criterion. He donated a high-tech scanner to Molly's lab (knowing full well that Sherlock would want to "play" with it, too). He bought warm coats and accessories for Sherlock's homeless network and then spent hours "aging" all of it so nothing would look new enough to invite thieves.

Mycroft, though … he was stumped on Mycroft's gift for ages. The man had plenty of money and could buy himself anything at any time. He was practically the government, so he had all the power to do whatever he pleased. John thought Mycroft would appreciate spending (non-contentious) time with Sherlock, but saw no way to guarantee it.

In fact, Mycroft's gift was well-nigh impossible. Over the years, he and John had become … not quite friendly, but they worked well together. They had started with their original mutual desire to keep Sherlock safe, had managed to work past Mycroft's so-called "betrayal" to Moriarty, and in recent years had somehow become more like … family. Mycroft had been invaluable ever since John's connection to the Littleston family had come to light. He had even taken over the management of John's money for him. (The fact that the man considered that a treat like scones with cream and jam still astounded John, who would have poked his eyes out with a pencil if he'd been forced to do it.)

Clearly, Mycroft deserved a special gift … but what could you get the man who could destroy nations with a text message?

Even Sherlock was easier to buy for.

John thought about asking Sherlock but knew the answers would be ridiculously unhelpful, like suggestions for a cake-of-the-month club, or a membership to a weight-loss plan. (The brothers dealt together more civilly since Sherlock's return, but they were never what one would call affectionate.) Besides, he didn't want to tell Sherlock what he was doing. Oh, he was under no illusions. He had no doubt Sherlock knew about John's holiday preparations, but that was different. Children knew their parents bought gifts for holidays and birthdays, but that didn't stop the wonder of the actual moment. He didn't want to give Sherlock any more hints to his gift-giving efforts this year than was absolutely necessary. Any tiny chance John had at surprising his friend with his own gift was to be protected.

And so he sat and stared at his list, wracking his brain to find just the right gift for his daft best friend's big brother.

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"It was a nice party, John," Sherlock told him as they sat in the sitting room on December 24th, sipping brandy (of all things) in front of the fireplace. "The, ahem, 'anonymous' donor outdid himself … whoever he was," he added with a smirk.

John just nodded serenely. "Indeed. Whoever he was, he certainly knew exactly what people would like. The cake decorated like a crime scene was an inspired touch, I thought."

"As were the grab bag gifts, though I wonder with Dimmock will do with those toy handcuffs? He barely knows what to do with the real thing."

"Be nice, Sherlock." John sipped at his glass, wondering again why people voluntarily drank this stuff. He'd prefer beer or whiskey any day. "He's come a long way since the Blind Banker case."

"The what? Oh, right, your blog title. I suppose. He's certainly come further than Donovan has." Sherlock swirled the amber liquid around in his glass and then looked over at John. "Nice touch with the gift baskets, by the way. Now they'll have a reason to smell alike."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock," John told him as he got up and headed for the kitchen. He didn't care how fine and aged the bloody stuff was, maybe it would taste better poured into some eggnog. Or maybe he'd just make tea.

"When does Mrs. Hudson's new oven arrive?" Sherlock's voice was smug as it carried in from the next room.

Because of course he knew, thought John, who called back, "Monday. She can read through her new cookbooks in the meantime, and I've got a pair of new oven mitts to put under her tree."

"Do you really think she doesn't know?"

John moved to the doorway and gave a shrug. "She's never said one way or another. She might suspect, but as long as she doesn't admit knowing, I'm not admitting anything."

"So she's expected to believe this was Santa, is she?"

John laughed and lobbed a dish towel at him. "No, you idiot. She's supposed to think it's you—or Mycroft. She knows you two have plenty of money. It's not like it's going to be a shock." He caught the towel as Sherlock tossed it back. "Thanks for helping me with Greg's present, too."

"Ah, well, it's Christmas. The one night a year you can get away with breaking in as long as you leave gifts. Far too good an opportunity to miss." John grinned as Sherlock gave one of his tight smiles and then turned back to the kettle, pouring water into the tea pot. He didn't quite hear Sherlock's next comment and had to ask him to repeat himself when he walked back into the room.

"It was good of you—what you did for the homeless network."

John leaned on the back of his chair. "Well, it's cold out there. I expect you to help hand them out, though. The one thing I couldn't quite figure was the best way to distribute them without it being obvious or attracting unwelcome attention for them. Seems like that's something you'd be better at, anyway, yeah? Since it's your network?"

"It would be my pleasure," Sherlock said with a nod of his head. John hid a smile as he turned back to the kitchen to pour the tea. "I don't know how you knew about Mycroft's hobby, though."

John sat back down in his chair, sipping at his tea. "It was something I noticed in passing during that case several years ago—the one with the rare orchids? Mycroft stopped by to try to convince you to take a job as I was writing it up and he let slip that that was one variety of Vanilla planifoliathat he had never successfully cultivated."

"And you remembered all this time?" Sherlock sounded surprised.

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. I might not be a Holmes, but that doesn't mean I don't notice things. Anyway, one of my army buddies spent a lot of time in the tropics and got caught the orchid-raising bug himself, and helped me track down the right specimen. The rest was convincing Anthea to make sure he has some time every day to spend in his greenhouse." John shook his head. "I mean, really, his own greenhouse. Why does that not surprise me about your brother?"

Sherlock had an odd look on his face, almost as if he were touched. "It was very … thoughtful of you, John. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"Yes, well, it will get his mind off the gym membership you gave him again this year."

Sherlock snorted into his brandy and took another appreciative taste. "Really, I am impressed, John. You seem to have found the perfect gift for every person of our acquaintance."

John just shrugged. "Thank the unlimited budget. For the first Christmas ever, money didn't matter. It made it fun."

"It was more than that, though, John." Sherlock was staring at his glass, his eyes almost amber in the reflected firelight. "You took the time to think of each person and what they would treasure most. That's … an invaluable gift in itself. Most people couldn't be bothered."

"That's what giving gifts is about, Sherlock," John told him. "It's not about getting a pile of loot, it's about getting something special that you wouldn't have bought yourself. Something meaningful. It's not the money that matters—though it helps."

Sherlock nodded again, his eyes hooded now in the flickering light. John watched him for a moment, hiding a smile as he watched his friend struggling, trying to resist asking the question…

"Go ahead and ask, Sherlock."

"Ask what?" he queried, in a voice much smaller than usual.

"Ask me what I got you for Christmas," John told him, his voice gentle.

A minute shake to his head. "You don't have to get me anything, John. You're my best friend. That's gift enough."

John couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from curving as he pushed himself to his feet and went back into the kitchen. He rummaged in the cabinets, reaching past the pile of acid-eaten saucepans to a battered tin box labeled "First Aid" and hauled it out. Carrying it back to the sitting room, he held it out to Sherlock.

"Here."

Blinking, Sherlock laid aside his glass and reached for it. "I'm not hurt, John."

John just smiled. "No, you idiot. Look inside. I had to hide it somewhere."

A flicker of trepidation flitted across Sherlock's face, followed by anticipation as he flipped the bent metal clasps at the side and lifted the lid. "A pamphlet on bee-keeping?"

"Elementary stuff, I know," John told him. "Keep going." He watched with an indulgent smile as Sherlock sifted through the contents—a book on the care and raising of bees, a catalog of bee-keeping supplies, a receipt for a top-of-the-line smoker and protective clothing. And then finally …

Sherlock looked up in awe and just breathed a disbelieving, "No…"

John could feel the grin spreading across his face. "Yes. The bees won't be delivered until Spring because it's too cold right now, but yes—your very own hive."

"John." Sherlock's voice was low with emotion. "I've always wanted to keep bees. But … where?"

"Well, when I say 'hive,' I really mean two. There's the cottage in Sussex, of course. One of the first things you said was that it would be perfect for bees, so yeah, there'll be a hive there. I've already arranged for a local man to keep an eye on it when we're in the city, but that seemed like a cruel tease, so …"

Sherlock's eyes were wide now, lit like glowing honey in the firelight. "You didn't."

"I did. There'll be just enough room on the roof, though we need a little work done to make it secure enough. Mrs. Hudson wasn't as hard to convince as I thought, though you're going to have to tithe some honey to pay the bees' rent. There'll be plenty of flowers for them. The park's not that far away, and there are roof gardens … There are a surprising number of hives here in London, did you know? And…"

John didn't get any further, because Sherlock had come and physically pulled him out of his chair to envelop him in a huge hug. "You are a miracle, John Watson," he said. "You never fail to surprise me."

John leaned into the hug for a moment, touched by the reaction to his gift. He hadn't thought he'd be able to surprise Sherlock, but it seemed he had. He gave his friend a moment to compose himself (had he really almost made Sherlock Holmes cry?) and then pulled himself away. "That's a compliment of the highest order, Sherlock," he said with a laugh. Nobody surprises you."

"And yet you always do.."

"Ah, now you're just being silly," John told him, eyebrows raised "I'm just ordinary John Watson, remember? Ex-army medic and current blogger who couldn't manage to hang on to his inheritance for more than a year?"

"You are anything but ordinary, John, otherwise you would never surprise me as often as you do." Sherlock smiled at him, eyes full of rare affection.

"Oh, God … Sherlock. Don't get all sentimental on me. You've got a reputation to maintain, after all." John watched Sherlock sit back in his chair, pulling his composure over himself like a blanket. "Besides, if you'll note the label … the gift's not even from me."

Sherlock looked again. "Santa?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "Really, John?"

"Secret Santa, Sherlock," John replied. "I mean, I know you normally can't resist a mystery, but the man does have a reputation of his own. He doesn't expect thanks, remember?"

"That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve them."

"More sentiment?" John just shook his head at his flatmate. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?"

"Don't be silly, John. Even I know when gratitude is called for. This … this is the best Christmas present I've ever received."

"Huh." John huffed out the sound thoughtfully.

"What?"

John smiled at the offended expression spreading on his friend's face. "Just … It really is the season for miracles, after all."

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