Disclaimer: I still don't own these beautiful characters. Just borrowing them for fun. :)

Note from the Author: Here's part two! We're skipping a number of years to Sherlock's adulthood and his friendship with John. Lemme know whatcha think! Reviews make me happy. Also a quick note: "A Tale of Two Cities" is now in the public domain, so I'm not stealin' anything. Dickens gets ALL the credit for that beautiful book.

Esprit de Corps: Part II

"I hate Christmas," Sherlock grumped, staring at the ceiling from his place stretched on the couch. "Not only the day itself; the entire season is insufferable!" He wrinkled his face in disgust as he spoke and made a frustrated motion in the air with his hand, before letting it fall limply down and hang off the couch.

"You're a regular humbug, Sherlock. Seriously! You sound like Scrooge."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, as John came back into the living-room with yet another box of Christmas lights, and sat down in his chair to untangle them.

"At least I'm not stingy with my resources. I paid for takeaway –what was it, twelve times?- last month. But I have to say I sympathize fully with the character's view of the holidays."

John looked impressed.

"D'you know that's the first cultural reference I've made that you understood?"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I'm fairly well versed in Dickens. When I was at Uni I memorized the entirety of 'A Tale of Two Cities' one night while my roommate was out at some senseless party."

"So what is it about Christmas you hate so much?" John asked, good-naturedly.

Sherlock ruffed his hands through his hair vigorously, apparently with the sole purpose of making it stick out in every direction. It made him look very much like a kid.

"The ridiculous levels of goodwill result in virtually nonexistent crime rates. I have to wait until new Year's for anything remotely interesting to happen. Once New Year's hits, I usually have my choice of five or six good gases at once, but Christmas…" he shook his head and sighed dramatically.

"Ah. Bored. Should have guessed," John tutted, grinning at his friend's dismal mood. It was quiet for a few minutes as John concentrated on a particularly challenging knot in the string lights.

"Did you say you'd memorized the whole 'Tale of Two Cities'?" John broke the silence. Sherlock didn't open his eyes.

"Yes."

"Do you still remember it?" John asked, fascinated.

"Word for word, complete and unabridged," Sherlock mumbled.

John got up and dropped the box of lights on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up, his mussed hair and the dressing gown hanging off one shoulder adding to his startled expression. John snickered, taking a slightly damaged copy of the Dickens classic off the bookshelf.

"Let's see."

He plopped down in his chair and opened to the first page, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock to begin. Sherlock launched into the opening, John following along in the book ready to pounce on any mistakes.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity-"

Glancing up, John noticed that while Sherlock was distracted with his recitation, his hands absently busied themselves with the lights.

"-it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way-"

The doorbell buzzed downstairs, and John set the book on the arm of the chair to go answer it. On the way down, he could still hear Sherlock forging ahead.

"-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of the noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. There were a king with a large jaw, and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England-"

He smiled and shook his head, reaching the door just as the doorbell again announced the visitor with increased vigor.

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed, nonplussed at seeing the elegant elder Holmes with chilly red cheeks and nose, shivering on the doorstep in a fashionable suit and sophisticated tailor-made coat that was rather too light for the weather.

"Complements of the season, John," Mycroft said, managing a tight smile while trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Come in, come in, it's freezing out there," John said quickly, stepping aside. Mycroft stepped inside, scrubbing the slush and snow off his highly polished shoes on the mat.

"I'm only staying a moment; I had some deliveries to make, and in light of their nature I presumed it would be befitting to make them in person. I come bearing gifts."

"Won't you come upstairs?" John asked.

"No, no, that won't be necessary. We don't want a repeat of the year 2,000."

John grinned.

"You two had a tiff? Worse than usual, I mean?"

"Let's just say, when Sherlock is indulging in one of his black Christmas moods it's best to stay out of his way. At any rate, I've got to be off. I just need to leave these with you."

Mycroft produced three tastefully decorated small packages labeled for John, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock, respectively.

"The new iPhone," he said, by way of explanation, handing John the package with his name on it. "Not the most recent one, the actual newest one. Not due to be released for five years."

He raised an eyebrow at John as he handed him Sherlock's, which, by the weight and shape, seemed to be a book.

"Don't let him burn it before he sees what it is."

John laughed.

"I won't. Happy Christmas, Mycroft."

"Happy Christmas, John."

John left Mrs. Hudson's gift by the door of her flat, as she was out for the day, and then trudged upstairs with his and Sherlock's.

When he came back into the living room, Sherlock was still talking.

"-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses…"

He stopped when John stepped across to put another log on the fire.

"Where've you been? I'm halfway through the second chapter."

"Your brother called. He left you a gift. I'm not to allow you to destroy it until you open it first."

John handed the red-and-green wrapped present to Sherlock, who took it carefully and regarded it with suspicion. He turned it over in his hands, studying it from every angle, distrust written on his features as if he thought it might explode the moment he tore the paper.

John rolled his eyes and began playing with is own gift; the sleek new phone was definitely a nice one. He was sure he didn't want to know how much it had cost.

Sherlock unfolded his lanky self off the couch and stepped into the kitchen, holding the present up to the light and looking at it more closely.

"Sherlock, it's not poisonous," John prompted, his own curiosity rising.

"You never know," Sherlock's distracted voice floated from the kitchen. John got up and wandered over to peer over Sherlock's shoulder as the wrapping was removed. Sherlock let out a little gasp of "Oh," when he saw what was it was. John didn't see anything special. A old, nicely bound copy of some book, the title of which was in French. Not old enough to be valuable or antique, though.

"Le Collectif écrits de Napoléon Bonaparte," John read, slowly, not at all sure of the French pronunciation. "Does it mean something? A puzzle, or…an inside joke?"

"The collective writings of Napoleon Bonaparte," Sherlock translated. "It's not a puzzle. Or a joke."

He offered no other explanation, and John noted the distant look in Sherlock's expression. Sherlock opened the book and it fell open to the 97th page. A piece of stationary slipped out onto the table, and John picked it up. It was in French, also, to his disappointment. It appeared to be Mycroft's writing, though. He handed it to Sherlock, and picked up the book to inspect as Sherlock read the note.

It was unreadable, to him, but he did notice that one phrase had been circled in pen, and a line connecting it to a note made beside it in the margin. It was childish writing, but neat. And it was in English.

Us.

That was all it said. "Us."

Sherlock took the book into the living-room and set it on the arm of his chair, without making any derogatory remark about his brother, or the gift. John's curiosity was fairly killing him. He sat across from Sherlock and stared at him expectantly, but Sherlock ignored him. He was too busy digging around the flat for a pen, which, when he found, he scribbled another note in French beneath the words his brother wrote on the paper and carefully placed it back in the book.

"Well?" John finally burst out.

"Well what?" Sherlock asked.

"What is it?"

"I think it's fairly obvious that it's a book, John. I've already told you it's title."

"But why did he give you an old book?"

Sherlock looked at him wryly.

"I imagine because of the tradition of exchanging gifts at Christmastime. Don't you think so?"

"Fine," John said, eyes glinting with the challenge, "I'll find another way. I'll ask your brother."

Sherlock looked amused.

"Go right ahead."

John gave up trying to get a straight answer out of Sherlock. But he did still want to find out what it meant. And he was going to get to the bottom of it, one way or another.

"Yeah, hey, Mycroft. It's John."

It was Christmas Eve. Sherlock was in the kitchen, wearing a protective lab apron and, amazingly, cooking actual food with some amount of skill. He'd seemed slightly offended when John had shown surprise at this new ability, and explained that cooking was a highly simplified version of chemistry. Child's play, in other words.

He was rude and ridiculous as usual, but John appreciated the effort to get into the Christmas spirit. Whatever Sherlock's perception of that was. And while Sherlock was busy and distracted, John seized his chance to solve the mystery of The Gift.

"Hello, I see you're putting the new iPhone to use," Mycroft said, sounding distracted. John could hear the click of keyboards in the background and muffled instructions to Anthea to "run the Zimbabwe files". He guessed that when you practically run the country, you don't get a Christmas break.

"Um, I just had a question about Sherlock's gift," John said. "What's it mean?" He winced. That sounded really stupid. And nosy.

The background computer noises stopped, and Mycroft suddenly sounded mildly interested.

"Has he kept it? I expected that he'd get rid of it."

"Oh, yeah, he's kept it. It's on the arm of his chair, and he watches me like a cat whenever I go near it, like he thinks I'll destroy it or something if I touch it."

"Have you had a chance to inspect it?" Mycroft asked.

"I saw a phrase circled in the book when he first opened it, but I can't read French and he won't let me see it again."

"Look up the definition of the phrase esprit de corps. French. Your new phone should have a language translation feature."

"Alright; hold on."

John pulled the phone away from his face and quickly located the feature Mycroft had mentioned. He scanned the definition and then held the phone back up.

"Ookaayy…" he said, "So what's that mean?"

Mycroft sighed.

"That book is a relic, John. All that's left of something that used to be. Did you see the note by the phrase in the book?"

"It just said, 'us'."

"When Sherlock was very small, he was different than he is today. Our family life was difficult, especially for him. We depended on each other then. On a particularly hard day, he showed me that book and asked me what that one line meant."

"So," John said, beginning to understand, "The 'us'. Sherlock wrote that. And he meant the two of you. You had this esprit de corps."

John found it hard to imagine Sherlock having any other kind of relationship with his brother than the one he had now, but he found the concept intriguing.

"You have it, now, John."

"What? What do you mean? I thought it meant a special bond between brothers."

Mycroft could hear the confusion in John's voice.

"It can apply to biological brothers, certainly," he explained, "but it's a broader term than only that. It has a much…fuller meaning."

"Huh," John replied, his interest showing in his tone. "I wouldn't have thought Sherlock would…I don't know, buy into something like that."

"He was different, then. Considering that he's kept the book, however, it may be that he's not changed as much as his present behaviors would lead us to believe, perhaps."

A frustrated exclamation from Sherlock followed the hiss of something boiling over and the clatter of a pot lid being slammed down.

"John! Are you on the phone? Your girlfriend can wait; I need someone in the kitchen. Oh, I forgot the…Mrs. Hudson! Did you ever bring that strainer back up after you borrowed it?"

John glanced into the kitchen and saw Sherlock stepping around in a somewhat frenzied fashion, clouds of steam filling the workspace. It looked as if he had the cooking back under control, but his patience was wearing out, none the less. John turned back away.

"Um...I better go. Sherlock's needing some help."

He could hear a smile in Mycroft's voice when he replied.

"Alright, then. Just remember that you have something extremely rare, John. Don't let anything get in the way. Merry Christmas."

"Mm-hm! A merry Christmas to you, too, Mycroft. Bye, then."

"Goodbye."

John hung up and sauntered into the kitchen, to have a wire whisk thrust at him. He laughed and volunteered to go downstairs after the strainer, suggesting that Sherlock could finish the recitation of "The Tale of Two Cities" after dinner.

The fire was snapping and hissing quietly, shedding a warm glow throughout the dark room. John was snuggled into his chair with a blanket and a hot cup of cocoa after dinner, watching Sherlock's eager face across from him in the firelight as he recited the last line of the Dickens book in his deep, rich voice. His hand rested absently on his brother's gift, lying on the arm of the chair.

"'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.' Finis.

There was a silence, and then John closed the book, which he'd long since stopped following along in.

"That…was…incredible."

Sherlock looked quietly pleased.

"Do you think so?"

"Absolutely. It's amazing."

Sherlock smiled. And John thought to himself that whatever this was that he had, this friendship, this brotherhood, this esprit de corps…he would never, ever let anything in the way.

Finis

Another Note from the Author: So what do you think, guys? Ta-da! This marks the end of my first fanfiction. BUT, there's much more to come! I have lots of stories written already, some of them short and some of them as many as fifty chapters. My aim is to post something new every Monday and Friday. So stay tuned!