A/N: It's still a humour story, I promise!

It was a bit surreal living in 221A Baker Street, even after six months.

John sighed and carefully sipped his tea. It wasn't that it had been Mrs. Hudson's flat up until she died a few years back – besides, he'd never been overly superstitious, and if anything, any presence that might have been just left a cozy feeling. She'd willed the building to Sherlock, but John found himself acting as more of a landlord than his friend. How had Sherlock managed? Unless, now that John was living there again, he'd simply decided that he didn't have to anymore.

John nodded to himself. Yeah, that was likely it.

He couldn't complain; rent was fair, and he could manage it on his own. It was a decent size, and though he supposed the wallpaper was probably a bit outdated, it had a homey feeling to it.

Molly would've liked it.

God he missed her.

He cast an eye down the hall to his son's bedroom door; closed again. That had become routine. Drew would come home from school, and shut himself in his room, emerging only long enough to barely pick at his food. His eating habits had picked up gradually, but John feared the boy was a bit underweight.

He didn't know how to reach out to his son. Only recently nine, Drew had lost his mother only a little under a year ago and everything had changed after that. Now, with it being only a couple weeks away, he was facing the prospects of his first Christmas without his mum.

John picked up the picture that sat in the center of the table. It was of Molly and Drew, when he was about five. It was shortly before they'd found out she was sick. There'd been a bit of snow that winter, so they'd decided to go sledding. Molly held him tightly while Drew grinned up at the camera.

Drew definitely looked more like him – his eyes, nose, smile – but he had more of Molly's bone structure, and his hair was closer to her colour.

He set the picture back, but facing the other way. He hadn't even wanted any pictures of her up – it was still too soon – but Drew had insisted on keeping this one.

How could he say no?

When he'd told Sherlock of this, he'd been given a quizzical look and an answer of "No?"

But then, sympathy had never been Sherlock's strong point. He was trying, John had to give him credit for that. As he sipped his tea, he could hear the detective pacing the floors above him. Sherlock was giving them space, something he had deemed an appropriate course of action. Some days, John was grateful for that.

Other days, John would give anything to be dragged out on a case.

The doctor's thoughts were broken by a knocking at the main door. Sherlock's pacing didn't stop or even falter in the slightest, so he took it as his cue to answer it.

"Coming, I'm coming," he called, making his way out of his flat and down the hall.

Opening the door, he was greeted by a tall, dark haired teenage girl smiling chipperly despite the cold nipping at her freckle splattered cheeks. Typical of a teenage girl those days; out in the cold without a hat – just a purple hair bow nestled in her short, choppy cut, well that did so much for her ears now didn't it? – and in a skirt of all things. At least she had a coat, she likely wouldn't get hypothermia.

"Yes, can I help you?" He asked politely, but bracing for her to try and sell him something.

"Good evening sir, John Watson, isn't it?" She asked brightly. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked. Well, he hadn't quite been expecting that. "Are you a client? Is he expecting you?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Which means…?"

Her grey-blue eyes sparkled. "I'm afraid I must talk to him before I can say too much to you." She grinned, "It's round three."

It was then that he noticed the black bag sitting beside her. He looked back up at her face. No, no it couldn't be.

"Raven?" He managed to ask.

"Hello, John, it has been a while, hasn't it?" She asked, extending her hand to shake his quickly. She picked up her bag with her other hand. "Do you still have that dog? I don't remember his name… well, time for that later, does Sherlock still live upstairs?"

"I… well…"

"Excellent. Thank you," she stepped inside and carefully unlaced her boots.

"I really don't…"

"Send her up, John. Mycroft's long gone, and I lose by default if she freezes to death outside."

He watched her scurry up the stairs and shook his head. Well, that was one way to end a day, he supposed.