Anote: This is the last chapter (hides behind sofa). But seriously, I must bring our adventure to a close as I am busy in the first few months of the year, and I don't want to risk leaving the story hanging. Thank you all for reading.

Flashback: Sherlock had been sitting up on his hospital bed for awhile but he didn't dare stand, as his head swam miserably. Curiously, he held out his hand infront of him noting the fine tremor in his fingers. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but the worst was over. In the meantime, he would have to focus on his health to effect a full recovery. A tedious undertaken to be sure but the compulsion to use, although currently dormant, would linger for a while yet.

Chapter 41: The Ghost of Christmas present

Sure enough when Mycroft stepped out his car, John Watson was pacing vigorously along the frost tinged pavement, face set in a heavy scowl that indicated he could not wait to tear a new one into Holmes the elder.

'I will wait here,' Anthea said sweetly, as she closed the door with a sharp click, leaving her employer alone to face the wrath of one ex-army doctor.

John stopped in mid-pace as their eyes locked together.

'WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!' the doctor shouted; wading forth, hands waving wildly.

As one, Mycroft's security team materialized from their cars, but the government agent sent them back with a discrete flick of his fingers.

'Dr. Watson?' he greeted serenely, as the shorter man came right under his nose, vibrating with suppressed emotion.

The doctor took a few deep breaths to encourage calm thoughts.

'This building is not a rehabilitation centre,' John stated between clenched teeth, 'Why is Sherlock here?'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes briefly, wondering if there had been a breach of security at the facility, before he remembered the extra sense that existed between the two.

'God Gad, man!' the older man intoned, 'My brother assured me you were moderately intelligent. Did you really imagine that Sherlock would be amenable to sharing his feelings in group sessions and singing Lean on me, five times in a row?'

Okay.

It sounded sort of silly when Mycroft phrased it like that.

John pulled back and stuffed his hands in his pockets, 'How is he?'

'As good as could be expected,' the agent replied, always pleased by the level headed behaviour that typified Sherlock's flat mate.

'The guards won't let me in,' John continued, giving him a hopeful look.

Mycroft took his arm and attempted to lead him away, mildly surprised as the man dug in his heels and resisted these attempts.

Not always so level headed.

'By his request and in agreement with his doctors, Sherlock is not allowed visitors.'

John glanced back almost desperately at the drab government building.

'He did ask for you,' Mycroft added and predictably the doctor grew tense, as he looked away.

'Sherlock was initially surprised to learn that you were sleeping in Molly Hooper's guest room for the last two weeks, but pleased. Glad, I suppose that you are personally watching out for her safety even though his network of "degenerates" is already doing so. She is safe from Moriaty.'

'You didn't tell him...'

'...that you moved out Baker Street,' Mycroft finished his sentence, 'I don't think that it would be wise to add to his current stress levels. Long periods of confinement are already a difficult notion for him.'

John gave him a odd look that was a mixture of relief and defiance, as if daring Mycroft to comment on his recent behaviour.

The older man arched a questioning eyebrow, 'Are you ready to return to Baker street? I can have a man assigned to move your things.'

The doctor tried to keep his gaze but eventually looked away; confused, unhappy and anxious as he always was when faced with this recent decision. He needed the space to work out this thing between him and Sherlock. He knew the detective was over the moon as regards all these layers of complexity to their friendship, but this was a little too much for him.

'I deduce that you are not,' Mycroft commented lightly, 'no matter, you still have six weeks to work it out.'

Now John was confused but for a different reason, 'I think you mean two weeks.'

'Sherlock has opted to remain here for two months instead of one, just in case. He's determined to make a full recovery and be at top mental performance.'

The doctor gaped at him, making some swift calculations in his head.

'But that will go through Christmas,' he gasped, eyes opening wide, 'and the New Year!'

Mycroft look bemused, 'It is of no consequence. He doesn't celebrate.'

The surprised look returned to John's face, followed by an impressive scowl at the ugly building currently holding his best mate hostage.

'Is there anyway I can see him?' he begged again, now that he had this new information.

Mycroft sighed quietly but eventually beckoned him with a wave of his umbrella to proceed infront of him.

John looked around in amazement as the doors opened, not at all sure what this place was. Everywhere there were clean white walls and floors, all tastefully decorated with plants and pictures, as scientist-looking people in lab coats clutched their computers as they walked to and fro. All was orderly and neat, but no one here even looked remotely like a patient. John would guess this was a research and development lab, if not for that sensation that now guided him effortlessly to where his friend was.

While they walked, it was explained by Sherlock's handlers that the man's room was outfitted with a one way mirror. John still had to take a few nervous inhales though, before he followed Sherlock's doctor into the small darkened observation room.

John just stood there frozen in place. Eventually he gave a feeble smile, happy to see his friend though even under such circumstances.

Sherlock was seated in a wing back chair reading, looking all the while as though he was back in Baker street enjoying a pleasant evening all wrapped up in his faded blue dressing gown. He didn't look up though, as John walked right up to the mirror and gently pressed his hand against the glass.

'What's wrong?' Mycroft asked in concern as John frowned.

The short man shook his head, 'I'm fine...the last time I was able to...feel...something. Now he's a blank slate.'

Sherlock's doctor looked curious at this exchange, but he was well trained not to mind the business of his superiors.

'Interesting,' the government agent mused, 'but you sensed his presence at this location, yes? Perhaps he has to be in mortal danger for you to get a sense of his emotions.'

'Maybe it depends on where the planet Mars is located,' John responded sarcastically, before sighing in exasperation. The person to figure all this out was trapped on the other side of the glass. 'A heads up would have been nice. You and Sherlock knew about this for weeks. I don't particular care to be blindsided in this fashion.'

'That was Sherlock's idea,' Mycroft said quickly, 'he had some fool notion that you would be upset and leave.'

John gave him an annoyed look; aware that the older man was smiling down at him in a condescending way, as though he was a simpleton. Changing the subject, John pointed at the viewing window, 'I don't care how lavish it is, this is still a prison.'

The two men examined the richly furnished room, which looked nothing like a dreary prison cell, except for the fact that nothing was hidden; not the changing area; not the loo and not the shower.

'For his protection, he has to be isolated and monitored,' Mycroft insisted,' if he was at a regular facility, in perhaps less that two hours he would have found a way to access more heroin.'

'Or worse,' John muttered, as he turned his back on Sherlock's quarters. It was a nice room as far as rooms went, with a large picture window that opened up on to a play field on the outside, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know he needed mental not aesthetic stimulation.

'Can he take calls? Does he have access to the internet?'

Mycroft shook his head, 'I was willing to risk it, but Sherlock was not. He is most determined to remain clean and is eager to get back to his life.'

John missed the look of gratitude that the other man bestowed in his direction.

'Then he's dying inside,' the ex-army captain declared softly, while he studied his shoes, weighing his options.

Suddenly, Sherlock's doctor fell back with a choked cry, almost knocking over a chair in the process. Unbeknownst to his flat mate, Sherlock had come right up to the glass just behind John, and squinted at the mirror. For just one moment as Sherlock opened his large wings, it looked as though John had black feathers. Even Mycroft was momentarily startled by the odd juxtaposition.

Eventually John turned around too but Sherlock, of course not seeing anything through the glass, had already walked away to lay on his bed.

John narrowed his eyes as he checked his watch. It was only two in the afternoon.

Had he been asleep?

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to deduce it, as he stared at the corner of the room. It wasn't important in any case.

Two weeks.

He knew that it was going to get easier, but that was small comfort now; not when he felt like punching the wall in frustration. Ignoring this, he forced himself to calmly reach for a handful of assorted candy.

I am master of my transport.

He was starting to put on a little weight. At this rate, he wouldn't be able to fit into his suits. Mycroft would never let him live it down.

Add 100 skips to workout.

He felt a small wet spot just under his cheek, as he settled back on to his pillow. He closed his eyes and ignored that too.

I am master of my transport.

However, he seemed to have bigger worries as someone softly hummed a Christmas carol behind him.

He ignored it for awhile but eventually, Sherlock carefully craned his head around and frowned to see John in the corner, with a fluffy garland of pink and silver tinsel around his neck; dragging a straggly pine tree across the floor.

'Oh bugger,' the man said softly, when he saw the mess of pine needles that he had left behind. John got down on his knees and tried to corral the garbage in a small pile with his hands.

'Hello?' Sherlock inquired.

The doctor squeaked comically; startled enough to lose his balance and fall on his bum.'Hey, sorry did I wake you?'

'Are you a hallucination?' Sherlock thought to ask, as he propped himself up on his elbows.

John grinned in a clownish way as he climbed to his feet, 'I am the ghost of Christmas present; here to haunt you. Muwahahaha!'

Sherlock groaned and covered his head with a pillow. There was no way his mind palace would ever conjure up such a response. John was really in his room.

'Why are you here?' he snapped, his temper a bit shorter than normal.

'To keep you company, you blockhead,' John snorted affectionately. 'Are you going to just lay there like a log? Come help me get this tree vertical.'

Sherlock sat up and frowned in confusion, as the ex-doctor after some initial struggle, manage to get the thin tree upright. 'I can't have company, John. Not even you.'

The other man just grunted.

'John?'

'Oh give me some credit, I am not here to jeopardize your recovery!' he sneered, 'you can go ahead and unclench everything.'

Sherlock stared at the back of his head as the man began stringing his tinsel and some clear lights. Gradually the detective observed the changes in his "prison". First the air mattress on the floor and then John's army duffel bag that had fallen over, with wrinkled clothes spilling out.

'What is that?' Sherlock asked stupidly, pointing at the mattress.

John turned around and shrugged, 'I just grabbed what I could, before your brother changed his mind. I trust that you realise that we are going to have switch beds every other night. No way can my back survive sleeping on that thing every night.'

Sherlock stared back and forth between the mattress and his uninvited guest a few times.

'Why are you here?'

John whirled around angrily, upset even more than when the question was poised the first time. 'How can you ask me that?! You are my best friend. We can't be apart! We just can't!'

Surrendering, Sherlock slowly raised his hand while John rubbed his head in a confused manner, 'Sorry, for that. I am being a tad...irrational tonight.'

'A tad?' Sherlock teased with a small smile, as he rose from the bed and came towards him. He took some of the Christmas tinsel and awkwardly hung it from the top most branches.

They proceeded to work in silence for awhile until the all the decorations were used up.

On reflection, Sherlock was actually a bit relieved that John was here where he could keep an eye on him. The doctor was a man of action and he had not doubt that John would be roaming around London trying to do his own investigation and track down Moriarty in his absence. That had to be avoided at all costs. Moriarty was more dangerous than his baby face appearance would suggest.

The doctor stepped back to admire the effect. 'What do you think?'

'It is truly pathetic, John,' the other man said in his usual truthful manner as he sat cross legged on his bed. 'But you already know that. Don't be tedious.'

The doctor broke out in a fit of giggles.

God, he had missed his friend.

'You are always welcome to be in my presence,' Sherlock blurted out unexpectedly as if he had just read his mind, 'but I cannot allow you to come and go. It is too risky. '

Feeling happy, John cocked a jaunty eyebrow at him, 'You would never convince me to bring you drugs in here.'

'I don't doubt that,' Sherlock said with a dark look, 'but I would find a way. I am quite resourceful.'

The doctor glanced around for his bag, completely chilled by the other man's causal words. Sherlock could be downright scary, without much effort.

He pulled out the handful of Christmas cards that had been mailed to them at their Baker street address, and handed them to the other man. John particularly enjoyed the stupid look on Sherlock's face as he thumbed through the stack. He could not have known that the detective didn't normally receive any apart from that of his devoted Mother and his lab mate, Molly.

'Oh and by the way, this is what we bought for Aya,' John informed him, showing the young man a confirmation receipt and photo print out of some fluffy pink creation masquerading as a dress, 'I called Mrs Mueller and she picked this out for her daughter.'

Sherlock hummed softly in thanks, carefully putting aside the drawing that Aya had sent to them in the mail. It was a curious thing, but he liked how she had drawn his head larger than everybody else in the picture.

'And I have brought entertainment!' John declared, as he presented Sherlock with a hastily wrapped package. 'Did you think I had forgotten you?!'

The detective sighed in misery at John's exuberance, but obediently ripped it open to reveal two thick volumes of crossword puzzles. Sherlock gave no outward reaction as he placed the books to one side, and looked up at the man again.

'Tough room,' John joked. He dived back into the duffel bag and pulled out a hard cover note book, 'this you should really like.'

Sherlock examined the blank book in a puzzled fashion, 'What I am to do do with this? You are the one who keeps the blog running smoothly.'

'That one is not from me, it's from Professor Kingsley...'

'...historian at the Cambridge university, specialising in black/white winged mythology,' Sherlock added quickly, 'Yes, I know who he is.'

John pulled out a battered looking letter next.

'We have been corresponding, and he wanted to ask you if you would mind taking some data.'

Sherlock had snatched the letter so hard out of his friend's hand that it left a small paper cut. He all but tuned out the rest of John's explanation as he read the letter and the corresponding experiments. Absently he groped for a pencil to make some corrections; grunting his thanks when John put his pen in his hands.

Eventually, he became aware of the silence in the room, and Sherlock lifted his head. John smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

'What is the matter?' he asked crossly.

John shook his head and looked off in the distance.

'Are you reconsidering staying?' Sherlock then said calmly, 'Although I know you have no family that you wish to visit for Christmas, six weeks is a long time to stay in one place, especially as I have heard you are flying once again. Just...stay for a bit.'

'It's fine, I am not leaving,' the other man insisted as he patted Sherlock's shoulder and absently stared out the window, 'that's not it.'

He looked back around when one of Sherlock's wings brushed inquiringly across his chest, 'Aren't you are afraid of what these experiments uncover?'

'No, why fear or even worry about something you can't control?' the detective asked in some surprise.

John looked a bit exasperated by such logic.

'It's not that simple,' he muttered fretfully, but he didn't press the matter as he started to unpack his underwear and socks in a free drawer in Sherlock's dresser.

'I know it's not that simple,' the other man unexpectedly agreed, 'but I honestly don't feel afraid, not when I am with you.'

John paused. That was an incredibly sweet thing for Sherlock, the-king-of-thoughtless-remarks to say, and he turned around with an astonished smile, 'Thank you.'

'Why are you thanking me?'

The doctor rolled his eyes and continued to unpack. In the meantime, he heard Sherlock mumbling under his breath behind him. 'Preliminary blood work...'

'Err...no, Sherlock,' he cut off that line of thought with a sharp look.

The detective was staring wildly around, looking for bits of their room to cannabilise into a make shift microscope.

'I forbid you to take any of my blood, asleep or awake!'

Sherlock gave him an ugly look, even as John realised how odd his last few words were. He and Sherlock had the weirdest arguments. How was he ever going to survive the next six weeks?

Evidently Sherlock thought the same way too, as he aggressively slid open a tape measure in John's direction; daring him to object to this form of experimentation too.

The doctor sighed and pulled up a low stool to sit on; resigned to being chased around the single room for the next few weeks, for some measurement or the other. 'Well at least wish me a Merry Christmas first.'

'Merry Christmas, John!' the other man yelped excitedly, as he neatly began ruling up his empty note book.

The End