A/N:
Dear fandom, have a Christmas story. I love you all.

"My Name Isn't Really Claus, You Know"
(And I Am Not Really Much Of A Saint Either)

I.

Do you believe in ghosts haunting empty castles? Do you dream of fairies dancing atop the garden flowers at midnight? Have you ever thought about intelligent life forms far out there in the cold vaccum of the universe? Have you ever felt a chill crawling down your spine when a black cat crossed your path on a Friday the 13th, after spilling the salt during breakfast and breaking the mirror while slipping in the bath? Do you avoid walking underneath stepladders on purpose? And have you ever felt the boogeyman's hot breath in your neck whilst racing up the steps from your basement?

If you ever asked Sherlock Holmes any of these questions, he would probably get your brain functions tested. Cross that. He'd test them himself. And then he'd lift one imperious eyebrow at you, turn with a dramatic swirl of his black coat and walk away, muttering about imbeciles and boring, mundane idiots.

Sherlock Holmes is a man of logic. His brain is a super-computer that never stops, efficient and fast and sharp as a laser. He is known to delete every information he deems unimportant, be it who's prime minister or who's sleeping with whom or that the earth turns around the sun. And he does not believe in anything he hasn't at least seen, smelled, heard, tasted, touched, tried and at best dissected himself.

So when one Mrs. Hudson finds him the night before Christmas, huddled in his chair in front of the long-expired fireplace, fast asleep in his dressing gown and with a tray of cookies and a glass of milk balanced precariously on his knees, she is more than a little surprised.

But then again, we all have our little quirks. Quite frankly, she thinks it's rather adorable. And so she lets him sleep and closes the door softly behind her when she leaves.

It is half an hour later, when the clock in the hallway strikes midnight, that there is a soft rustling sound coming from the fireplace and simultaneously, Sherlock's eyes snap open.

"Hi," he says slowly and rubs the sleep from his London-gray eyes. Then he stands up and hands over the cookies and the milk.

"Good to see you again."

II.

"Dear Santa", the letter reads. "I take it all back. We need to talk."

He is six years old and the boys from his neighbourhood have just informed him that Santa Claus does not exist. Then they shoved him into the gutter and left him there, laughing.

It is three days before Christmas. His former wish list had been done by the first of November, when he left it on the windowsill in his room before he went to sleep. It was gone the next day. He is trying that again now, hoping against hope for a miracle.

The letter is still there the next morning, and the day after that, and then it's too late.

He gets everything he previously wanted, neatly wrapped into red and green gift paper that he knows his nanny bought weeks ago in a small store in downtown. That night he rips the letter apart in the shadows of their enormous tree and then burns it in the embers of the fireplace. The next morning, an envelope is sitting on his windowsill.

"I'm sorry. My schedule was already planned out when your wish arrived. Have a wonderful Christmas."

He never shows that letter to anyone, but years and years later, he will still sometimes get it out of the box he hides it in, down in the last drawer of his desk, frayed at the edges and dry with age. It is his greatest treasure. It keeps him alive 364 days of the year. Until the next time.

III.

Sherlock never goes to any Christmas parties that last overnight. No matter what or where he is, he will always be back home before midnight. Also, no matter how short on money he may be that time, his flat will always have a chimney.

When the clocks stike twelve at night, he will sit in front of the fireplace, waiting. And there will be a plate with cookies and a glass of milk with him, and a bread box with butties and some water as well.

Santa Claus likes jam. A lot.

And Sherlock likes Santa. A lot.

"My name isn't really Claus, you know. It's just something they made up. And I'm not really much of a Saint either."

One day he will ask what exactly these sentences were supposed to mean, and why the man who brings happiness to billions sounded so unbearably sad when he said them. One day he will ask him. When they are more comfortable with each other. When they know they can trust the other. And there are other words waiting to be said as well, unfamiliar and not all of them good, and those have to wait as well.

Their time will come eventually. But this year, the two of them are content with simply watching the other smile.

IV.

"Dear Santa," the letter says. "Are you ever lonely?"

"You are too young to ask an old man a question like this," the answer reads. Sherlock almost misses the soft imprint on the paper that was left when someone pressed a pencil too hard into a former page, but then he gently rubs pencil dust over the impression and finds the real message.

"All the time," it reads.

He is seven years old. It is the first year he puts out cookies and milk for the man who comes down the chimney, and his mother smiles at him softly over her cup of tea when he asks for her permission. He is a child after all. He is still allowed to dream, she thinks. Eleven years later, their last argument drives her youngest son out of the house.

V.

Sherlock has never had many friends.

To tell the truth, Sherlock has never had friends at all.

At first, as a child, he really did try. He was nice to people, and he gave them his lunch and complimented them and played video games with them, and it would all be fine for a few weeks or months, and then he'd loosen up and try to be himself for a while and it would all go to hell.

For a long time he dealt, because he had Mycroft. Mycroft was his big brother, his protector, and his best friend. There was a seven-year-wide age-gap between them, but Sherlock never cared about this and Mycroft never refused to still his thirst for knowledge simply because he could be too young. Then came the year that Sherlock refused to give his wish list to his parents, claiming that Santa Claus had already gotten it. It ends in a heated discussion during which Mycroft steps in and yells at the younger that he is childish, that Santa Claus doesn't exist and that he'd better deal with the facts and grow up already.

Sherlock is ten years old when he stops talking to his brother.

No one insults his friend.

VI.

"Dear Santa," the letter reads. "What do you want for Christmas?"

"It is my job to make children smile," the answering note says.

Sherlock takes a photo of himself with his father's new polaroid camera. An unnaturally wide grin is plastered on his face, the full lips stretched comically and the skin almost translucent around his cheekbones.

"That's not the same thing," he writes on the back of the picture with black marker and pins it to his window frame.

That Christmas night, he hears a faint rustling in the living room when he is just about to go to bed. He runs downstairs in time to catch sight of a stocky man with sandy blond hair and dark blue eyes who is checking an old-fashioned pocket watch with the one hand while reaching into the chimney with the other. He is left-handed, Sherlock notes, and he does not look one bit like the Santa Claus in the books. For one, he does wear red, but not a silky coat but a rather battered red jumper and ill-fitted dark red pants. Then he doesn't have a fluffy white beard.

Sherlock is relieved. He hates beards, no matter how soft they may look, because they never ever are.

The man looks up, and their eyes meet. Even at the age of nine, Sherlock is almost meeting him in size, but at that moment he doesn't feel very tall at all. He feels small and cozy and warm and then he finds himself smiling.

"Hi," he whispers breathlessly.

"Hi," the man says and there are wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles. He nods at the empty plate on his right. "Thanks for the food. It was delicious." Then he turns his attention back to his watch, and a frown flies over his soft features like a shadow. It looks like a cloud dimming the sunlight on a beautiful summer's day. As if the whole world suddenly turned darker.

"I'm Sherlock", the boy says after a few seconds of silence.

The man looks up and the smile is back, lighting up the room in a burst of warmth radiating safety. "I know," he says. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

His watch snaps shut, and just like that, he is gone.

VII.

It is one minute to midnight, and Sherlock is vibrating with anticipation.

He only just returned from his very first case with the police. With one Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade, to be precise. A nice man, actually quite smart. This could be the beginning of a beautiful cooperation. He hasn't felt this alive in years. And he made it back just in time to rip open a box of chocolate-chip cookies and position himself in front of the fireplace.

The clock's hands meet at the 12, but nothing happens.

There is no Santa Claus appearing in front of him. No rustling of cloth in the chimney, no soft chiming of the bells and bronze chains wrapped around the sorry excuse for a tree next to the windows. There is no sound at all. The clock doesn't ring. Sherlock can't hear his own breath anymore, and for a panicking second he thinks he has gone deaf, just like that.

Then he sees the sticky note on the mirror above the mantelpiece.

"Do you have Band-Aid?"

He snaps a ballpoint pen from the chipped table next to the door and quickly writes down a positive answer. His hands are shaking and he stuffs them into his pockets, huffing angrily to himself.

Then something heavy lands at his feet, and he jumps back a step before regaining his composure. It takes him three endless seconds (and really, the clock hands don't move at all) to realize that it's not something, but someone that has just fallen into his flat. Santa Claus.

And he is bleeding. A lot. A puddle is already forming on the unsanitary floor tiles of the cramped apartment room and it's spreading.

Sherlock forgets all about the first-aid kit in his kitchen. It's always well stocked- has to be, with his lifestyle- but he doesn't even think of getting it. Instead he rips his scarf from the hook behind the door, turns the man in front of him on his back and applies pressure to a point right above the left clavicle where masses of fresh blood are darkening the faded red jumper.

He doesn't know how long he has been sitting there, muttering nonsensical words to himself, when the other's eyes snap open and the stocky man bolts upright with a shout, only to sink back down with a weak gasp for air. It could have been hours, really, but then again only seconds, frantic and desperate seconds. "All right," Sherlock manages and holds Santa's upper body down as much as he's able. "Easy. I've got you."

Their eyes meet, London-gray and ocean-blue, and suddenly it's just like their first meeting all those years ago. Through all the fear and shock calmness spreads. Despite the circumstances, Sherlock suddenly feels utterly protected. Then the blue eyes disappear underneath fluttering eyelids, and the feeling fades.

"I am so sorry," Santa whispers. "I shouldn't have come here. You're just a kid. I don't know what I was thinking."

Sherlock scoffs and tugs at the wet wool underneath his fingertips, wishing for scissors or a knife to have a better look at the wound, thinking about using his teeth so he won't have to get up. "I'm thirtyone now. I'm hardly a kid anymore." He shifts a bit to have a better look, kneeling down instead of sitting back on his heels. "Can you get that thing off? How are you feeling? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

The man's eyes open again, more slowly this time, and wander over his sharp cheekbones, his almond eyes, his tousled black hair, the long limbs. He swallows and it's painful to look at. "You're right," he mutters thickly. "You've grown up, haven't you."

Sherlock laughs, a small desperate sound, and catches sight of the gleam of a knife stuck underneath his couch pillows. He reaches for it without turning his eyes from the man in front of him. "You haven't changed at all, Santa. Still the old you." He pauses, fingers wrapped around the hilt. "How old are you anyway?" He takes the knife and starts to cut through threads of stained wool. The man doesn't even flinch.

"Thirty-five", he says. "I think. I've been thirty-five for so long, you wouldn't believe." He coughs weakly and it hurts way deep in Sherlock's chest to see the blood trickling from his friend's mouth. "By the way, you can call me John." His eyes trail down to where Sherlock is now cutting a hole into a formerly white shirt, exposing a gaping hole of angry red flesh and blood and ebony bones. "Huh. That's not too bad."

"Not too bad," Sherlock repeats in a thin voice and that's when they both realize he's crying. John reaches out with his right hand, his fingertips hovering a fraction over the tears trailing down the taller man's cheeks. "Hey," he says softly. "It's all right. Someone saw me on the roof and shot me. That's America. It happens all the time. I'll heal. Look."

And really, while they are watching, the flesh grows back around the wound, slowly closing over exposed bones and stopping the blood flow. Scar tissue evolves above the bullet wound, like a flower blooming from the outside inwards. It is both the most horrible and the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen in his life.

"How the hell was I supposed to fix this with Band-Aids?" He finally whispers, still awe-struck, and John chuckles very softly and his fingertips brush Sherlock's skin.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I wasn't thinking straight." His right hand is fishing for something in his trouser pockets, reappearing with his pocket watch, and he frowns. "Merry Christmas, by the way. And thank you."

Sherlock blinks and John is gone. Time restarts, the clock chimes loudly enough to make him flinch, and the blood disappears with its former owner, leaving no trace and no proof whatsoever.

But the next day he finds a polaroid underneath his tiny Christmas tree. The face is blurry and not recognizeable, but for some reason one can still see the wrinkles and the dimples and a touch of blue. Sherlock puts it in the small box with the letter, and sometimes at night he will pull it out and press it to his chest, inhaling the smell copper and camomille and the inexplicable scent of peace before he falls asleep.

VIII.

"Dear John," the letter reads. "What do you do when you're not busy playing Santa Claus?"

"I'm always busy," is the answer. Sherlock bites his lip when he finds the sticky note after an exhausting chase through London earlier that day. It is the middle of July, and he has just solved his fiftieth case with the police.

"So no time for dinner then?" He finally scribbles on the back of the yellow sheet.

Nothing happens for a few days, and Sherlock is incredibly bored. He has nothing to do, he can feel his brain eating itself in his head, the world is a horrible screeching colourless place, and he can't take it anymore, he needs- then there is another note, stuck to his sprung bathroom mirror, just like that.

"Today one of my patients died of an overdose, and I couldn't do anything to help him. I heal so fast, yet there is not a day I forget that other people don't. I don't understand why those things are happening."

Sherlock, one hand already below the sink searching for a package of white powder that he knows is there, pauses. He stays crouched like that for a very long time before he slowly straightens up and takes a pen from his shirt pocket.

"I'd say this calls for a tea," he writes, slowly, steadily. "Beans and Bags, 4 p.m.?"

The answer is glued to his TV when he leaves the bathroom minutes later, confused and angry and shaking with suppressed want.

"Sounds nice. I'll be there. -J"

When Sherlock enters the small café at five to four that evening, John is already seated near the windows. He smiles when their eyes meet, and Sherlock feels warm and finally, finally right.

IX.

"And you are sure you can afford something like this?"

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade eyes the photo set rather suspiciously. It shows a tall brick-walled building with a dark green, wooden door and the insides of a couple of rooms with strange wallpapers and a neat little kitchen and nicely-sized windows viewing the street. The metal sign reads 221B. Sherlock, who is in the middle of throwing books into a removal box, pauses to throw him a glance.

"I can't stay here. This horrible place has been to small for me for far too long. It's not healthy for me to stay here."

With that, Greg can only heartily agree. He puts the folder with the photos down on the small battered table next to the door and picks up two of the smaller boxes before he maneuvers through the cramped hallway and out to his car that is waiting on the curb.

Whatever made Sherlock leave this sorry excuse of a hole that he has lived in for the past four-and-a-half years, he is glad that the young detective finally made it out of here. And he seems better now in many a way, less shaken somehow, less jittery. Off the drugs, if Greg dare hope so, and when that happened he has no idea. It doesn't matter much either. As long as it did.

Sherlock follows him out of the house, carrying further boxes into a waiting truck. Mycroft Holmes watches them from a few feet away, listening to someone on the phone, always busy. But he sent someone with the truck, and Sherlock let him, and when their eyes meet now, the tiniest smile flies back and forth between them.

Yes, Greg thinks as he goes back inside, something changed. Thank God. And just before Christmas as well.

X.

"Dear Sherlock," the letter reads. "Are you ever lonely?"

Sherlock picks the sheet of paper up and turns it in his hands for a few times before he looks up at the neat little Christmas tree next to the fireplace. It is wrapped in little bells and ornaments and fake candy canes and lights, and the whole flat is bathed in yellow candlelight. Snow is falling outside, growing into small heaps on the window sills and frosting the glass with delicate ice flowers.

Slowly, thoughtfully, he takes a post-it from the stack on the desk near the window and fishes in his pockets for his pen.

"No," he writes in clear, black letters.

Then he turns around and sticks the note to John Watson's forehead.

"Yo, Santa Claus. Try not to be late."

John laughs and slips into his new red jumper.

"As if," he says and winks at him before turning to the fireplace. He checks his old pocket watch and the smile deepens, causing the skin around his blue eyes to wrinkle. A wave of safety and belonging washes over Sherlock, and he smells camomille and copper and peace. And cookies.

Sherlock Holmes does not believe in ghosts. He doesn't wonder about extraterrestial life forms or spare a second glance for black cats. And had his home had the house number 13 instead of 221, he couldn't have cared less about it. No, he is a man of logic, and he doesn't believe in anything that he hasn't seen, heard, smelled, touched, tasted and possibly dissected himself. The supernatural is not for him, and what he doesn't care about, he simply deletes from his brain. Most of the time.

"See you later, Sherlock." John takes another step towards the mantelpiece, but before he disappears, he looks back one more time. The note is still stuck to his forehead and he looks silly and comfortable and perfect. His voice is very soft and his smile very warm and the night very, very beautiful.

"Merry Christmas," he says, and Sherlock smiles and goes into the kitchen to fetch the cookies and the milk.

Just like he always does.