Look who's come out of hiding! Sherlock? No, me!

Wow that was a bad joke. Anyway.

I'm slowly creeping back into the world of fan fiction. By slowly, I mean this is my first story in over a year, and before that, in over three years. Yeesh. With the arrival of the third series of this fantastic show, I've felt my muse pulling at me to jot some things down. I'm hoping to make this a small fic, maybe three or four chapters total, about Sherlock and Watson having a second Christmas at 221B after the fiasco during the actual holiday. Having a three or four chapter goal doesn't seem so unreasonable to me, and I have a few little scenes I'd love to get out of my brain and onto the computer! I was originally going to make a one shot, but then this "intro" turned into over 800 words, so I thought why not go just a bit farther?

There will be spoilers for all of the third series, so if you have not watched, please do not read! Though to those who ARE reading, thank you for your perusal! :)

AN: Obligatory I do not own Sherlock, am not affiliated with the BBC, and am a poor working class citizen who enjoys creating fiction about awesome things disclaimer.

"Aren't you going to get dressed?"

Sitting in his chair, Sherlock did not acknowledge John had spoken, nor did he even pause in typing on his laptop. Clothed in only his dressing gown, he seemed to be writing a novel. John sighed, walking over from the kitchen to stand beside his own chair across from the man.

"I said-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted, face neutral, fingers clicking away.

John frowned. "People will be arriving shortly."

"And I hope you will remove that ridiculous apron when they do."

John opened his mouth in indignation before closing it to gaze down at said apron. A home made gift, it was knit with patches of red and white, not unlike a picnic blanket. It was a bit frivolous, but...

"It was gift," he reminded Sherlock, "from your mother."

"Clearly, by the lack of usefulness, not to mention the hideous design."

John sighed again, before pulling the offending garment off and placing it on the back of his chair.

"Are you done in the kitchen, then?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still glued to the laptop screen. "When I am finished with this-which will be in approximately six more minutes-I was hoping to continue dissecting the spleen you'd hidden in the cookie tin."

"No, I'm not done in the kitchen," John said in exasperation. "The last of it's in the oven now, but I'm going to need the table top to put it on. And..." He paused for a moment, taken aback. "A spleen, really? That's what that was?"

"You're a doctor," Sherlock replied. "I am disappointed in your knowledge of anatomy."

"It was green!"

"Yes, that's why I was going to dissect it."

John took a step and sunk into his chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. "No, no, not even going to ask," he muttered to himself. Sherlock's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile.

"Right," John exhaled, opening his eyes and leaning forward. "So, you'll be proper in six minutes then?"

Sherlock's typing finally stopped at that, fixing his friend with a glare over the top of his laptop screen.

"I said I'd be done in six-five now-minutes."

"That's not an answer," John pointed out.

Sherlock's glare turned into a frown. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then a moment more. Sherlock was the first to break eye contact, putting his fingers on the keyboard...

When John began to laugh.

"What?" he snapped his attention back to John, full glower in place.

John had leaned back into the chair, chuckling to the ceiling.

"You're pouting," he said with a grin.

"I am not!" Sherlock replied, indignant.

"Oh yes," John said, his grin growing to an irritating width. "Yes, you are."

"Why would I be pouting? I am minutes away-back to six now thanks to you-from cracking the security of the British Government, sitting comfortably in my dressing gown, in which I shall remain until I get a call from Lestrade asking for assistance in the homicide committed an hour ago."

To make his point, Sherlock reached back and picked up his mobile from the desk behind him, and put it on the armrest of his chair. He gave John one more cold glance before beginning his typing once more.

John blinked. One, twice. Opened his mouth; closed it. Looked at the laptop, the mobile, and back to Sherlock. His lips thinned and his brow furrowed.

"You're..." he said slowly, picking which of Sherlock's words to first reply to, "hacking into government security, right now?"

"In my dressing gown, yes." Sherlock replied absently.

Silence descended upon the pair, before they both started to laugh uproariously.

"Seriously?" John gasped, shaking his head in desire of disbelief. "You're mad."

"Not mad," Sherlock said, his mirth quickly turning sour. "And not entirely of my own desire. Mycroft offered me a small sum in order to test their new security field. You'd think it was created by monkeys, if I can break in this easily, so can Moriarty."

John's smiled faded, and he considered his friend's words.

"True," he said, "but, since when have you ever taken favours, or money, from Mycroft?"

Sherlock eyes darted to John's in a quick glance.

"It has come to my attention that... raising offspring in London can be a bit of a struggle, even for a doctor," Sherlock said, carefully keeping his face neutral and his eyes on the laptop screen. "For my services, I am hoping to provide a good man with a gift that is, in contrary to my mother's, useful. As for hideous design, I cannot be bothered in picking out such... things, so perhaps the good man's wife may be of some assistance."

John slumped back, silent and stunned. Sherlock continued in both his typing and his neutrality.

"You're... really something else." John finally said.

"You sound like you're catching a cold," Sherlock said with one final click, before leaning back and putting his arms behind his head. "Five minutes, thirty eight seconds since we've started this conversation. All together, thirteen minutes and twenty two seconds. Absolute amateurs."

John rolled his eyes and sighed, but couldn't help but smile as he stood to head back to the kitchen.

"I'm still not naming her Sherlock," he said lightly.

"I'm still not getting dressed," Sherlock replied.

So there is part one! For the curious:

Q. Why is Sherlock pouting?

A. He really doesn't want to do a second Christmas. More detail/quips about that in the next chapter or so.

Q. How did Sherlock know about the homicide?

A. His homeless network.

Q. Why did his mother make a knit apron?

A. For some reason, I picture her doing it because she's an ex-mathematician. She did it as an exercise in how quickly and efficiently she could do it from a mathematical point of view. Only Sherlock would notice the perfection of the squares and stitches. I just thought it'd be entertaining, haha.

Hopefully this wasn't too cheesy. I just want to make a short story with short chapters. I sincerely hope you enjoyed. :)