Sherlock and John hosting a Christmas party was not a new development, although Mycroft suspected it had far more to do with the doctor's and their landlady's enjoyment of the holiday than Sherlock's.

What was new, however, was that he wasn't only invited, but that his brother came to the Diogenes Club to no other purpose than to make him aware of the fact.

They had both long kept the habit of staying in London during the holidays, even though their mother and father were not pleased with this arrangement.

During all of these years – except for when there was an emergency Mycroft had to deal with so that the so-called leaders of their country could celebrate in peace – he had spent it alone.

For no reason, he remembered his very first in this big old city of theirs.

He was twenty-two and had finally acquired a job in the Ministry of Inner Affairs. He would have been more than capable of doing so before, but people tended to be cautious of those who gained an important position too long, so he had resigned himself to wait.

He would stay out of any big decisions for now; he would slowly work his way to where he wanted to be.

He would be content with what he had for the moment.

He had called Mummy and informed her that he would not make it home for the holidays. He had to admit that he had lied to her: he didn't have to work; in fact, the Minister had personally insisted that practically everyone but a few watchmen got Christmas holidays so they could "spent it with their loved ones".

Mycroft didn't think much of the Minister.

Mummy had sounded sad, but resigned, and Mycroft knew his parents well enough to be certain that they would make up for their children not being there by inviting friends.

"Children" because Sherlock was studying in London and had declined to partake in any part of the festivities when Mycroft had visited him a few days ago. He hadn't expected anything different. It had been a long time since Sherlock had voluntarily spent more than a few minutes in the presence of a member of his family.

The boy who had asked him to watch the stars was long gone.

Mycroft figured it was good. Attachments would only slow him down, and Sherlock was certain to be a distraction as well as a danger to his position. He knew he took drugs when he was bored, although their parents were ignorant of the fact.

Mycroft and Sherlock certainly wouldn't spend Christmas together, even though their mother seemed to expect it. They would do what they had done since Sherlock had moved into town: ignore one another.

True, Mycroft could not do so really; Sherlock still needed someone to look after him. But they would not trade cards or presents or phone calls.

He still found himself watching the stars on Christmas Eve, telling himself it had nothing to do with a young boy who only lived in his memory.

When the footman approached him and indicated that someone was waiting for him in the visitor's room, he assumed it was another emergency.

Instead his brother was standing by the window, looking out.

"Sherlock" he greeted him. He turned around.

"Mycroft".

He would have expected this visit to lead to a demand for an interesting case or a stop of the surveillance – both of which he had heard again and again over the years, only the first now and then being paid heed to – but Sherlock simply said, "I have come to invite you to our party on Christmas Eve".

He hid his surprise, although Sherlock's face suggested that he didn't quite succeed.

"Will you come?" the consulting detective finally asked impatiently, and he nodded.

Before Sherlock could leave the room, he asked, "Who else is invited?"

"Just a few friends" Sherlock called out, and then he was gone.

Mycroft was left to contemplate when his brother had acquired enough friends to call them "a few".

Sherlock strolled through the streets near the Diogenes Club. He had told John the previous evening that he intended to invite his brother, and the doctor had agreed – not exactly enthusiastically, but there was a part of his loyal best friend that still couldn't understand the British Government had let Sherlock track down Moriarty's web on his own.

Greg would be there, of course, so he felt confident that his brother would speak with someone, at least.

He made his way to St. Bart's; Molly had already received her invitation along Greg, but he had yet to talk to Mike Stamford, who would undoubtedly come with his wife and children, if they had the time.

Sherlock had been told that children made a party more enjoyable, and while he didn't have any data to prove or disprove the theory, he would admit that Mike Stamford's weren't annoying.

Henry Knight and Louise Mortimer were travelling in from Dartmoor. He hadn't expected them to, but John had sent the invitations with good faith, and they had been readily accepted.

They would have quite a few guests in their home this year, so adding his brother didn't mean anything.

Of course Sherlock and Mycroft had grown closer again since his return. He couldn't deny it. Mycroft had all but stopped pestering him about new cases, and Sherlock had given up attempting to escape the surveillance.

They were safer with Mycroft watching, he reasoned. It had been a long time since Mycroft had tried to stop him from doing anything anyway.

John had thrown himself into the preparations.

Neither of them had mentioned Mary.

It had been over ten months now since she had passed on.

Sherlock couldn't grieve her, not after he had learned everything she had done, thanks to Mycroft, but he could grieve for John and the life he thought he would lead.

Instead of raising a family with the wife of his choice, he was back at 221B. As if nothing had changed.

Naturally, everything had. John had been very quiet for the first few months, Sherlock letting him have his space. The doctor didn't accompany him to cases, he barely left the flat, Mrs. Hudson bringing them groceries.

Since Sherlock's return, their friends had made it a habit to drop by. Greg, of course, had become a fixture in their flat at least three times a week, and Molly was over almost as much; Mike Stamford visited them much more often, and even Henry Knight and Louise Mortimer drove up from Dartmoor at least every two weeks.

Seb came to tea now and then as well. He'd visited him shortly after he had returned, and had kept coming back ever since, to their mutual surprise. Once, when John had still been living with Mary, he had met him on the stairs and entered the flat with a puzzled look.

Sherlock would have explained it if he could have done so, but he found himself unable to. All he knew was that suddenly Seb was on his way to become a friend of his.

It was strange to realize he had friends.

Speaking off –

He quickly sent Seb a text. He had come to their party last year, obviously surprised to see John with his wife, and had tried to comfort Sherlock, believing him to suffer from a broken heart. The idea was preposterous, but Sherlock had learned to differ between annoying behaviour that stemmed from kindness from that that was just being annoying for the sake of it, and he had simply informed the banker about the real state of their relationship.

Seb had shrugged. "The first time I try to comfort someone in years – don't tell anyone, but bankers are supposed to be heartless bastards".

Sherlock smirked.

"I would never have guessed".

Seb answered immediately that he would come. Sherlock continued to St. Bart's.

Mike was done with his classes for the day and was certain to take a coffee at the cafeteria before he left, chatting with his colleagues.

As always, he noticed Sherlock as soon as he had entered and waved. It had always fascinated him, this ability of Mike's to tell right at once when an acquaintance of his, however fleeting, was in the proximity.

"Mike".

"Hello, Sherlock. How are you?"

Smalltalk was always required when one met Mike. These days, he asked rather more often if everything was alright; it had to do with John, of course.

After he had assure him that they were fine – the unspoken "under the circumstances" no doubt hear by the teacher – Mike happily told them that he and his family would gladly attend their party.

Everyone would come, then.

He hoped John would enjoy it. John's grief was something they didn't talk about. Sherlock wouldn't have known what to say; he might possess feelings, he had admitted it after decades of trying to deny it, and he was no stranger to grief, but he could not pretend that he would ever be able to understand what John had gone through. He had decided that, if John wanted to talk, he would listen, and if he didn't, he wouldn't force him to, and the doctor had rewarded him with getting better, eventually accompanying him on cases again and now decorating their flat with the help of Mrs. Hudson – he still could not see the point in it, but would admit that it looked beautiful.

And the smile John bestowed on him when he told him everyone would come made agreeing to once more celebrate Christmas more than worth it.

The guests arrived punctually on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Hudson happily bustling everyone upstairs, Sherlock and John greeting them in the flat.

As far as he could tell, everyone had a good time, and he was quite entertained himself, even though he made a point of being dragged to join the party by John because he knew the doctor would have fun doing it.

He was coerced into playing carols again, and he submitted with somewhat more grace than during their last parties, but he still refused to wear the hat. Afterwards, he went into the kitchen to get himself a drink and came to stand in the doorway, watching his friends.

A somewhat tipsy Greg was trying to explain to Mycroft why football was a very important sport to watch. Sherlock caught Molly's eyes and they both turned away to hide their laughter.

Before he moved on, he touched his brother's shoulder.

"It's a clear night".

Mycroft looked at him and nodded, smiling slightly.

They would once more look up at the stars on Christmas Eve, after everyone else had left and gone to bed.

For now, though, Sherlock came to stand beside Henry Knight, who told him excitedly about the renovations on his father's house he was planning and the company he was hoping to found.

Suddenly, Sherlock realized that John was standing apart in a corner. He met Mrs. Hudson's eyes and, according to what he read in them, he moved to join his friend.

It was his first Christmas without Mary.

"John?"

John had an undecipherable expression on his normally easy to read face. It was disconcerting.

"Mike's children are growing all the time, and Greg should really ask Molly out, and Henry is about to start his own publishing company" he said, "and I never expected that I would actually like Seb".

Sherlock waited for him to continue as the banker's genuine laugh – not the false one he had used so often at uni or during his career – floated once more towards them.

"I'm fine" John assured him. "It's just... For a while I forgot..." he trailed off to look over the room, at all of those who had gathered to celebrate with them. He smiled at Sherlock.

"For while I forgot there's more than one kind of family".

Turning to look at the full room once more, couldn't help but agree.

Author's note: All that is left to wish you a merry Christmas. May it be wonderful and happy, may you spend time with those you love, and may you look back upon it happily for years to come.

Hekate