Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas!

The cool night air smelled of salt and fished as he breathed in slowly, taking in every detail of his first night in China. Sherlock was standing on the balcony of a fifteenth story flat outside Shanghai, overlooking the water. When his eyes opened he nearly choked on the sight of the moon shining on the dark waters before him and twinkling lights in the distance.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?"

He tensed at the all-too familiar voice from behind him. His breath hitched at the sound of his brother's footsteps, carefully approaching him- as though afraid he may startle his own flesh and blood.

"Funny how we can travel all across the globe and never stop to take in the true beauty of the world."

Mycroft stopped beside him and folded his arms over the railing. There was a pause as Sherlock adjusted to the warmth of his brother standing next to him. A trembling feeling took over him; it had been too long since he had contact with another human…another human he wasn't hunting, that was. Sherlock couldn't look at him. He was too afraid the darkness and terror rushing about him on the inside would shatter his innocent façade. Instead he looked down at his hands, at his knuckles beaten raw from many a fight, as he replied:

"Why did you send me here, Mycroft?"

His brother hesitated, and they still couldn't look at each other. Over the past eleven months since leaving London, Mycroft made it his duty to guide his little brother on his journey to take down Moriarty's web. Sherlock was sent names, locations, currency- anything he needed, all through Mycroft's minions. But his latest clue led him to a gorgeous Shanghai flat, stocked with groceries both local and British. A note on the countertop told him to be expecting a guest around eight PM. Sherlock had only assumed that meant another one of Moriarty's men.

"You came prepared," Mycroft acknowledged, nodding to the gun sticking out of his pocket. "You won't need that tonight."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it, too overwhelmed to figure out what to say. Holding a conversation was so beyond the average daily agenda of his recent life that he couldn't decide the kind of company Mycroft was looking for in him.

"Mycroft, why are you here?" He asked finally, sounding more like a helpless child than he would have liked.

"I'm giving you the night off," Mycroft explained. "I want you to eat, to rest. To be safe."

A shiver trickled down his spine as a cold rush of wind reminded him of the exceptional thinness of his jumper. He wrapped his arms around himself, both for warmth and comfort. His plain, light, jumper and denim trousers were polar opposite of his brother's thick winter trench coat and tailored suit.

"Why?" Sherlock stammered.

Mycroft simply shrugged.

"It's Christmas," he replied.

At last Sherlock looked to him, meeting his brother's eyes for the first time in nearly a year. Mycroft looked down on him like an estranged parent, trying to decipher what was going through their kid's mind. Sherlock knew he was being studied as Mycroft's eyes wondered over his pitiful wardrobe and fainted bruises. His hair was different than when they last saw each other. Now a light brown, his curls were more out of control than ever as they nearly reached passed his shoulders.

Mycroft, however, looked exactly the same, but older. And thinner, he realized. Anxiety seemed to be working wonders for his dieting problems. Yet now that he really studied his brother, Sherlock could see there were new lines in his face. His skin was paler than ever, and his hair seemed thinned and forgotten. His eyes were hollow, as though he while he walked around every day his mind were somewhere far away. Mycroft was actually losing too much weight.

"I brought you something," Mycroft stated quietly.

Sherlock looked away sheepishly, embarrassed to admit he hadn't the money for a train ride into town, let alone a Christmas present for his brother. He didn't mention this as Mycroft reached into his coat pocket…and pulled out a novel. Sherlock accepted the book, turning over the crisp cover in his hands. The pages smelled brand new, and his mind raced with excitement.

When he saw the title, he stopped.

"The Hound of the Baskervilles," Sherlock read, his voice shaking slightly. "Mycroft, what is this?"

His heart pounded as he examined the cover photo: a simple sketched drawing of a deerstalker, with a shadow of a gigantic hound in the background.

A smile crossed Mycroft's face.

"John Watson was offered a book deal," Mycroft explained. "He accepted it. It's quite the best seller."

Sherlock frantically thumbed through the book. From the corner of his eye he caught his own name, displayed hundreds of times throughout the novel. When he reached the back cover he stopped as he saw a note that this was the number one best seller in Europe.

His story, he couldn't help but to think.

"Writing is therapeutic for him, I suppose," Mycroft offered. "He writes under a pseudonym, Arthur Conan Doyle. It's a grand mystery to the public as to who's really writing it. Lestrade, myself- even Moriarty has been accused of penning the story."

Sherlock couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. Quickly, he thumbed through the book again, this time from end to beginning. A simple message at the beginning made his heart skip a beat:

For my greatest friend.

He swallowed and brought an arm to his eyes, desperate to hide the emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"People really read this?" He whispered.

Mycroft nodded.

"There's even talk of a film," Mycroft said, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "But don't worry, I'll make sure your best interests are kept at heart."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't even want to begin considering what that level of fame must be like- what it must be like for John

"But wait- so he does this in secret?" Sherlock said.

His brother shrugged, and admitted:

"I don't know how he does it. He simply came to me one day and asked if I would have a problem with putting your stories on paper. I'm honestly not sure why he was so concerned…after all he had already reached a fair amount of fame with his blog."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, though knowing John, he knew the answer. He knew John would believe the raw emotions behind his younger brother's supposed suicide might make it difficult for Mycroft to see his story come to life like this.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered.

The book clung to his chest; he was already itching to get started with reading it. Already, he felt closer to John than he had in eleven months. A hand rested on his shoulder, and he was stunned at the sympathy etched into his brother's eyes.

"You're freezing. Come inside. We'll have a proper Christmas dinner, for a change."

Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh.

"In Shanghai?"

His brother grinned.

"You always did want to go away for Christmas."

Sherlock knew Mycroft was right, but guilt stabbed at his stomach. More than ever, he wanted nothing more than to be home. When Mycroft wrapped an arm around his shoulder, something he never did, Sherlock knew he understood.

"When was the last time you had a meal?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shrugged, but refused to admit the last time he had a proper dinner was weeks ago, if not longer. "Between the new hair and your loss of weight, Mother would have a fit."

Mycroft smirked as they stepped inside, and Sherlock was secretly grateful that he would for once be staying somewhere with decent heating.

"I thought you hated Christmas dinners," Sherlock teased.

Mycroft didn't reply as he crossed over to the kitchen. Reaching into the fridge, he took out a dish full of pudding. Sherlock bit back a laugh as Mycroft traced the edges of the dish with his finger, giving the dessert a taste even before their main course. Like they were kids again.

With a smile, Mycroft replied:

"There are exceptions."