Epilogue

John busied himself in the kitchen, allowing his friend a moment of earned privacy. He drew a glass of water, and waited to return to the sitting room until Sherlock had raised his head and discretely wiped his face. John offered the glass as nonchalantly as possible, then he nodded towards the television.

"Another legal way to escape," he offered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't complain when John switched it on and found an old movie, one they both enjoyed with no deep emotional subplots. And later, when they were nodding off with the weight of the day, John directed Sherlock to the sofa, while he stretched out on the floor just beneath.

"Not that I don't trust you," he said, though Sherlock knew that was a lie, but only in the context of tonight. Not always.

"You won't be able to move in the morning, you know," Sherlock remarked as John fashioned a pallet out of a blanket.

"Trust me, I've had worse," John chuckled.

Just before they drifted off, Sherlock noticed the darkness growing thinner in the room. Nearly daybreak. "It's officially Christmas," he remarked, unsure of why he was even making this comment. It had been Christmas for hours, and it didn't mean anything then. Why should it now?

"Yeah, Merry Christmas," John murmured, nearly asleep. "Didn't get you anything yet, Sherlock. M'sorry. Thought I'd...bring you something back…from Harry's…"

Didn't get you anything yet. Sherlock thought about the irony of that statement, and smiled for the first time all night. The tightness in his chest was still there, but at a manageable level. It was like getting stitches, or a broken bone set. The original pain lingered, but the body was healing. He took a deep breath, feeling somewhat less constricted.

"Merry Christmas, John."

-end-

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