Disclaimer: In case there was any suspicion, I am not the ghost of A. C. Doyle, nor am I Mark Gatiss or Steven Moffat in disguise, nor am I affiliated with the BBC at all - so, you know, I don't own this world or any of its characters, nor did I have the genius and imagination to create them.

"Any plans for New Years Eve, then?"

"No."

"Right. Of course. Thought not. Well, I am going out to the pub to have drinks with some army mates, but I will be back around 11 tonight and, if you feel like it, I figured we could ring in the New Years together. If you'd like."

"Midnight...pphhff…holding this idea of midnight in such high esteem is utterly ridiculous. You know that it's already past midnight in other parts of the world, surely."

"Yes, of course I know."

Silence.

"Right. Well. I best be off to the pub. See you in a couple of hours."

This is the conversation that occurred in the living room of 221B Baker Street during the early evening hours of New Years Eve. This conversation occurred between a former military man and medical doctor, John Watson, and his flatmate, an eccentric and curly-haired consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes.

As you can likely guess – for I do hope, dear reader that, while your skills of deduction are not as astute as Sherlock Holmes' skills, you do possess some ability in using deduction and logic – John Watson was the person who was set to have drinks with some army mates and return to the flat by 11pm whilst the person who had no New Years Eve plans and seemed quite uppity and brooding was the great Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I assumed that you'd deduce as much, but I had to check to be sure. Brilliant. Let's continue with our story.

As John Watson was about to go out the door to meet up with his army friends, his brilliant beautiful enigma of a flatmate said from where he was lying stretched out and supine on the sofa (clad in light blue cotton pajamas and a navy blue silk robe that made him look even more brilliant and beautiful than usual, I might add), "I like your jumper, John."

Well, John turned hard on his heels at that. "Beg pardon?"

"I was perfectly articulate. There is no reason for me to repeat what I've said."

"You…you like my jumper?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and moved his head ever so slightly up from the sofa. "Problem?"

"No. No. Thanks. I suppose." And John was out the door.

Now, perhaps you can understand John Watson's surprised confusion at his flatmate's statement. For, you see, John Watson (as was his holiday tradition) was wearing an utterly hideous holiday jumper. It had a string of multi-coloured lights all around the neck that blinked something obnoxious. And it had shiny Christmas baubles of a bright orange hue that would be quite pretty hanging from the deep evergreen of a holiday tree but that very much clashed with the bright yellow-red wool of the jumper.

Perhaps, then, you can understand why John was shocked and perplexed by his flatmate's apparent compliment and why, upon further reflection, he came to believe that his flatmate was actually mocking him and his fashion choices (Lord knows that, unlike John, the detective was a fashionista of the highest order, but would never admit as much. His suits were perfectly cut, his shirts of the finest fabrics, his shoes always designer).

The fact, however, was that Sherlock had meant his comment in the sincerest way. The jumper might be a bit…well, frankly, it was a downright silly jumper…but it suited John. Not that John was silly. John was funny, yes, he had a good sense of humour. But John was serious. John could be grave. John was responsible. Yet, the jumper suited John all the same; it showcased his softer edges, the light that could play in his eyes and the bell-like tinkle that could seep into the tips of his laughter when he was truly filled with joy. It contrasted the aged and weathered appearance of John's skin and hair, revealed that he could still be a child at heart, that he still had moments of immaturity and innocence, that he could be naïve, that he could be playful despite the war and grimness and death of the world he had witnessed as a soldier and as a doctor.

In short, Sherlock liked John's jumper very much.

And, for all of Sherlock's commenting about midnight being ridiculous and such and such, he was rather pleased – no, more than pleased, dear reader; he was rather ecstatic – that John had decided to be home by 11pm so they could celebrate the midnight hour together. He was slightly surprised, even, at John's offer to come home early from what sounded like a pub celebration that would be right up John's alley. And yet, Sherlock could not say that he was overly shocked. John and him had been growing ever closer of late.

Sherlock found it nice, this closeness, not that he voiced this realization. He never would have thought that such a connection with a human being could feel so good. But it truly was comforting and gave Sherlock a level of security he had never experienced or thought possible. And, though Sherlock attempted to delete the feeling the moment it entered his thoughts…well, there were nevertheless many, many moments when he craved and desired and yearned for an even deeper connection with John.

So, when John announced his plan to be home before midnight on New Years Eve, Sherlock decided that perhaps he should join in New Years festivities just this once, with the flatmate who had somehow turned into his very best friend. The detective devised a plan for the night – something simple but in the tradition of the holiday, he thought, and, after a quick Google search, he decided on champagne at midnight – and set his cell phone to alarm at 10:15pm precisely so he would have plenty of time to prepare everything for John's 11:00pm arrival. Then he bounced off the couch to rifle through and quickly solve some (very simple, very boring) case files that Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard had dropped off that morning.

By 10:15pm, Sherlock had solved every single one of the cases (as I said, they were very simple, very boring) and was scrambling into the shower for a rapid clean-up and shampoo of those lustrous brunette locks atop his brilliant head.

By 10:25pm, he was scrambling out of the shower to run hair mousse through those luscious curls of his and blow them dry.

By 10:35pm, he was donning a silky black designer suit and his favourite purple shirt.

By 10:45pm, he was dimming the living room lights, clearing the living room coffee table of its contents (newspaper clippings, solved case files, medical books), and replacing this mess with two crystal champagne glasses and a pair of sweet-smelling lavender candles that flickered beautifully in the darkness.

By 10:55pm, he had crashed his landlady, Mrs. Hudson's, New Years Eve tea party to convince her to spare some of her New Years bubbly for him and John.

By 10:59pm, he had filled his and John's champagne glasses with Mrs. Hudson's bubbly, was sitting in his armchair in the candlelit room, and was drumming his fingers in anticipation and watching the door to the flat, a small smile on his face. He couldn't wait to see John's expression upon entering the room!

By 11:05pm, Sherlock saw no reason to panic. It made perfect sense for John to be a few minutes later than originally anticipated. Sherlock sat a little straighter in his armchair and buzzed with excitement at John's approaching arrival.

By 11:10pm, Sherlock checked his phone for traffic reports and found that traffic was actually quite bad – likely people were in a hurry to get where they needed to be by midnight. It was pouring rain outside. Considering this, John would likely take a cab back from the pub. Therefore, it was perfectly reasonable that John had still not arrived at Baker Street; he was simply running a few minutes behind schedule, Sherlock reasoned.

By 11:20pm, Sherlock sent John a short text: Where are you? SH.

By 11:30pm, he had received no reply.

By 11:40pm, he called John's cell phone, but John did not pick up. Sherlock left a short voice message: "Where are you? It's me. Sherlock Holmes."

By 11:50pm, the lavender candles had practically burnt themselves out and still Sherlock was alone in the flat.

By 11:55pm, the candles had completely burnt out and, still all alone in the darkened flat, Sherlock sat perfectly still in his armchair, a horrible bout of heartburn having taken over his chest.

By midnight, faint sounds of singing and firework explosions came to Sherlock from Mrs. Hudson's tea gathering and from out in the heart of London, and still he was alone and still his heartburn raged on. He couldn't remember what he had eaten to cause such horrid heartburn. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, in fact. In one swift movement, he went from his armchair to the sofa, where he proceeded to keel over into himself and collapse onto his side in a curled up ball.

By 12:05am, Mrs. Hudson had stopped by to wish the occupants of 221B a Happy New Year and had very quickly been insulted and yelled out of the facilities by one incredibly irate detective.

It was two in the morning when the good doctor finally returned to 221B. While the doctor's gait was steady, his mind was clear, and he was far from being intoxicated, all was quiet and dim in the flat so perhaps we must still forgive the good doctor for taking awhile to notice the lump of designer suit that was his flatmate curled up on the sofa with his back turned to the door and his head of curls tucked into the sofa's arm.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

There was a flurry of suit, purple shirt, curls, and long pale limbs as Sherlock threw himself out of the sofa and marched himself over to the window, where he proceeded to glower at the rain before spitting out, "Fine, John. Good night." Then the detective dashed towards his bedroom.

"What's all this?" John asked, having just noticed the spread of champagne and burnt out candles on the coffee table.

Sherlock halted in his tracks. "I thought…excuse me, I am going to bed."

"Sherlock, listen, I'm sorry I'm late – "

Sherlock spun around, his teeth gritted in fury and frustration, and slammed his foot against the coffee table so hard that the candles and glasses of champagne crashed onto the floor and shattered into a mess of shattered glass, jagged crystal, and bubbling wax and liquid.

"Geezus! Sherlock!" John jumped away from the mess.

"You're sorry you're late?" Sherlock hissed. "You said you'd be home at eleven. It's two o'clock now. In fact, it's a whole different year now! And you're lack of intoxication shows you've clearly only had a few drinks, so what in the world could you have been doing all that time? You didn't answer my text! You didn't answer my call! You didn't answer my voice message! No. You are more than late, doctor, you are more than late!"

Sherlock was breathing heavily, rapidly, blinking at lightning speed, his face close to John's and grimacing in anger – but then the detective seemed to freeze, his breath to hitch, his eyes to widen in horror, his cheeks to flush in embarrassment. He backed away from John, cleared his throat, looked down at the disarray that had become his clothes, smoothed out his suit jacket, re-tucked his purple shirt into the top of his trousers. "Sorry. That was uncalled for. It would appear that I need to get some sleep. Excuse me."

For a couple of moments, John stood stupefied, his mouth dropped open, his eyes wide in surprise. But then the poor doctor swallowed, nodded his head slightly, and said, "Yes, sleep will probably do you good. Evening then."

As Sherlock walked to his bedroom, he heard John begin to clean up the broken bits. The detective turned and looked over his shoulder at John's figure in the dark living room. At the contours of the doctor's small frame. At the strength and steadfastness that emitted from the doctor's every movement, from his every breath. Well, the poor detective's heartburn throbbed and burned greater than ever. He genuinely felt exhausted. "John," he said in a hoarse voice, "I can clean that up in the morning."

John shook his head. "Not a problem. Go to sleep."

But Sherlock moved back into the living room and took the dustpan John had been sweeping the broken glasses into. "Let me help," he said firmly before John could protest.

"You made quite the mess," John said, laughing in a strained way and, though his smile was one that feigned light-heartedness, the concern in his eyes betrayed his troubled feelings.

Sherlock didn't respond, just stared at the broken fragments of glass that John was sweeping into the dustpan he was now holding. Poor Sherlock. The dustpan was shaking in his pale hand.

There was an oppressive silence that filled the flat, interrupted only by the clinking of broken glass and the soft hum of car traffic and rainfall outside. Finally, "No one had ever offered to spend midnight with me on New Years before," Sherlock said quietly, his gaze now firmly on the sticky champagne liquid and candle wax drying on the floor.

Another oppressive silence filled the room, and Sherlock could feel that John was holding his breath, his every soldier muscle active and tense.

"Geezus, Sherlock, geezus," John whispered when he had found his voice once more. The doctor brushed a hand over his face as if fighting a great weariness. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I…I didn't know. I had no idea. I just thought…I assumed that it wouldn't be a big deal…you didn't seem to care too much about…well, you know."

Sherlock gave a small smile. A sad smile. "I just…I thought it would be enjoyable to celebrate it with you."

John found his armchair and sank into it, silent, his head in his hands. Sherlock watched the weary form of the doctor for a minute before emptying the contents of the dustpan in the kitchen bin and walking away with the original intention of locking himself in his room. But then an excited gasp emitted from the doctor.

"Hey, you know what you said earlier? About it already being past midnight in other parts of the world?" John cried out. "Well, it isn't midnight yet in certain parts of the world. Like…like Toronto. You know Toronto? In Canada? I've never been, but that's where Harry went on her honeymoon. Bloody cold in the winter, apparently. It's…I think it's five hours behind us."

John grabbed his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and his expression became shy as he continued. "Why don't we pretend we're in Toronto and we can ring in the New Year together when its midnight there? I will set an alarm on my cell phone so that we are sure not to miss it."

Sherlock could feel his heart begin to race pleasantly, his chest to feel quite light and fluttery. His eyes were sparkling with excitement as he found himself nodding at John's suggestion. "What do we need to do to make it feel more like we are in Toronto?" he asked as he retrieved two more candles from a kitchen cabinet – this time, they were cranberry scented candles and he laid them on the coffee table and lit them with a gusto.

"Mmm. Those smell quite nice actually," John commented as he contemplated Sherlock's question. "Well, hmmm…let's see…Harry said they like their hockey in Toronto. Ice hockey. They have a hockey team – national league, I believe – the Maple Leafs or something. Apparently the team's pretty awful. But, we could watch some hockey stuff…I'm sure there's some stuff on Youtube…"

John retrieved his laptop and came back to his armchair. He sat down with a grunt, opened the laptop, and typed with a look of pure concentration on his face. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for, and Sherlock balanced excitedly on the arm of the chair to see what John had uncovered.

After watching a couple of fan-made videos paying tribute to the Leafs greatest moments, which consisted largely of players fighting (throwing one another onto the ice and up against the boards or swinging punches at one another, all to cheering crowds), Sherlock said, "If you could ice skate, you'd likely make a good hockey player."

The look of bewilderment that flitted across John's face caused Sherlock to sigh and continue in a tone that suggested John really ought to understand the obvious, "Well, it's clearly a sport where players are encouraged to be violent. It would provide the adrenaline rush, the blood, and the physical violence that you constantly crave. However, it may be less fulfilling than crime-solving as it would hardly present you with life and death situations, and I know how much of a thrill you get from dangerous scenarios – "

"I don't know whether to be insulted or to say thank you," John interrupted, and abruptly shut the lid of the laptop. "Moving on, then."

"Fine," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sorry," he added quickly, when he observed the tension in John's jaw and realized that he had possibly said something offensive.

John nodded in acceptance of Sherlock's apology. "No, it's…you're right about me. I just don't like to hear it. I don't really want to think that I'm like that."

"I like you just the way you are," Sherlock said earnestly and, when John looked into the detective's bright eyes, John's mouth blossomed into a big smile.

"Right," he chuckled. "Okay then. I'm glad. Let's see. What can we do next to get us in the Toronto spirit?" The doctor's brow furrowed as he thought. "Well, since it's cold in Toronto, Harry said people who live there wear all sorts of fancy cold weather stuff," he said after some contemplation.

"It's cold here, John," Sherlock retorted with a little huff.

"Yeah, but it's way colder there apparently," John responded. "You know, Harry was there in late February and said it was absolutely frigid. She complained most about the wind. Apparently it's always windy."

"Bit of a strange place for a honeymoon," Sherlock said, brow furrowing and lips pouting. John found himself chuckling again, this time at the detective's expression, but, before he could respond to Sherlock's statement, the detective had hurried towards the door where their outerwear was hanging and had proceeded to wrap himself in his trusty blue scarf of soft cashmere, his dark grey wool Belstaff coat, his gloves, and lastly a thick fleecy hat that pulled low over his forehead and down over his ears to his chin. He scooped up John's ragged green winter coat and held it open for John to burrow into. Sherlock looked so eager that John simply couldn't protest, and he allowed the detective to pull the coat around him.

They stared at one another sweating in their winter clothing in their comfortably heated flat, and then they burst into peals of laughter, keeling over and leaning on one another.

"This is ridiculous, I am sweating like a pig," John giggled as he leaned against Sherlock's shoulder.

"I am too," Sherlock laughed in return, and it is hard to say who was quicker to begin to peel off their winter gear.

Once Sherlock had returned the outerwear to its proper place by the door, John said, "We could listen to some music by…I don't know…people who are from Toronto?"

Sherlock was carefully observing the way that the candlelight was throwing John's eyelashes into shadows across his face. Across his cheeks. The detective hardly registered what John had said, but he found himself responding all the same. To please John. To please those dancing shadows of eyelashes waltzing down the doctor's cheeks. "Sure," the detective said. "That sounds…good."

"A couple of the ladies I've dated, they quite fancy some rapper named Drake. He's from Toronto. Care to have a listen? For the occasion, and all that?"

Sherlock was now mesmerized with John's lips. They were chapped from the winter air of London, and John periodically ran his tongue along them to moisten them. Again, the detective hardly registered what John had said, but John's lips were forming a smile and goodness Sherlock wanted that smile to continue, so he nodded his head slightly and said, "Sure," and felt his stomach churn slightly when John's lips deepened into an even wider smile.

John was typing away at his laptop again. Searching Youtube. "Here. Here's some new music video of his. Looks like it's called 'Hot Line Bling'."

Sherlock frowned slightly at the title, but remained silent and moved back to his spot on the arm of John's chair, leaning over the doctor's shoulder to have a look. The detective had to admit that it was quite difficult for him to concentrate on the video. He couldn't stop looking at the shiny glint of John's hair in the candlelight. John's skin was emitting a scent that was slightly tea, slightly beer, quite pleasant, and very John, and that scent was wafting up into Sherlock's nostrils continuously. Nevertheless, the tiny bit of the video he was able to take in? His next words adequately describe his thoughts on it:

"Well, this is bloody awful!" Sherlock finally declared, his eyes wide in horror.

"What is?" John said, continuing to look at the laptop screen with an amused expression.

"Everything about this atrocity is bloody awful! The lack of depth to the lyrics. The objectification of women blatant from the beginning of the video. The way this Drake feels compelled to tell women what to do. His sad excuse for dancing."

John snorted good-humouredly. "Like you can dance any better."

The detective rolled his eyes and moved into the open space of the living room. With a huff and a grumble about "how bloody awful it is to dance to such detestable noise," he closed his eyes and began to sway. The movement started in his hips and soon spread to every long limb in his body. The detective's tight trousers strained and protested against the movements, hugging his arse so hard that they looked as though they might rip; they were doing nothing to hide the contours and sinews of that lean, lithe body; his arse bounced ever so slightly with each move he made. The detective's purple shirt was having a similar struggle, the buttons looking like they might tear from the flexing of the muscles of his chest. John looked truly hypnotized, and we should forgive him for looking so. The way Sherlock's curls seemed to be dancing, the sweat that began to prickle at the back of his neck and at his temples. Surely we ought to appreciate that this was likely a marvellous sight indeed.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt warm hands against his waist, and he opened his eyes with a start to find John Watson holding onto him and swaying his hips in time with Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes widened. He swallowed hard. His stomach was itching and tickling and jumping practically into his throat. His heart was pounding. A drop of sweat tumbled from his forehead and he swallowed hard again. But then. The music ended and Sherlock stopped his swaying. He cleared his throat and waited for John to move away, but John's grip against his waist became firmer.

"The music is on autoplay," John said quietly.

What John spoke was true. Soon a slow song came on, gentle but rich in tone:

I let a song go out of my heart

And suddenly, John's arms were wrapping more fully, more completely, around Sherlock's thin torso, and John was beginning to sway gentle from foot to foot.

"John," Sherlock said, and he needed to swallow again because his throat was so utterly dry, "what are you doing?"

Please come back sweet music.

"Slow dancing with you, of course, you big idiot," John whispered back, a soft smile on his face.

Sherlock felt so light-headed he worried he might collapse. He wanted to purr. He wanted to sing. He wanted – he was sure that he needed – to touch John. He swallowed again and wrapped his arms around John's neck. His long pale fingers brushed against John's soft skin, just underneath John's lovely ears, and the detective's breath hitched, his stomach muscles clenched, until John squeezed Sherlock's torso comfortingly.

"Relax. Just relax, Sherlock. It's all fine. You're doing beautifully. Just breathe and move your feet."

You know that we were meant to be more.

Sherlock obeyed, shifting his weight slowly back and forth, and John beamed up at Sherlock with approval.

That music. Oh, it was good. The piano, the trombone, the drums, the cello. Soft, gentle, soothing.

John's arms around Sherlock's waist. Soft, gentle, soothing. The feeling of John's soft skin against Sherlock's hands. Soft, gentle, soothing. Sherlock didn't know how it happened, when it happened, why it happened. But suddenly his head was dropping until one of his finely chiselled cheeks was resting on the top of John's head, in John's soft hair, and John's arms were wrapping even tighter around his waist until their legs were practically entangled, until his purple shirt was pressed flush against the front of John's warm jumper.

Sherlock's eyes had just fluttered shut and his brain had just melted around the edges when John spoke.

"You know why I came home so late? I started drinking and realized maybe consuming alcohol wasn't the best idea. Maybe if I drank too much and came back to the flat I wouldn't be able to conceal any longer what I have tried to conceal for so bloody long."

Sherlock frowned. John's words ricocheted in his ears. Ricocheted in the brightly lit caverns of his mind. Ricocheted and ricocheted and suddenly his chest jumped into his throat and lights exploded in his eyes because he was so dizzy and he gasped and lifted his head to look down at John Watson. And John Watson was looking up at him with that same soft smile, questioning eyes, and a hint of worry wrinkling at his forehead. Oh, Sherlock may be the greatest deducer there ever was, and yet he seemed always to have trouble deducing John Watson. Special, smart, stunning John Watson. A mystery that Sherlock loved learning. Sherlock shook his curly head in disbelief and moaned in the back of his throat, a noise filled with desperation and longing.

You know that we were meant to be more than just friends, just friends.

John's cell phone burst into life with the alarm ringing midnight in Toronto, and Sherlock leaned down and crushed his mouth against John's with force. He hadn't had much experience when it came to kissing, so we will forgive the poor detective of the fact that the kiss was sloppy and wet, with far too much mouth and teeth and far too little lip and tongue. Besides, the good doctor kissed back with equal desire, with equal love and affection, as he pulled the detective ever closer. They tumbled onto the sofa entangled in one another, their hands grasping every inch of one another that they could, John's fingers gently brushing the curls that tumbled across Sherlock's forehead, Sherlock's fingers running admiringly through the light shine of John's short hair, John's ugly jumper being pulled over his head by skilled detective hands, Sherlock's purple shirt finally ripping open not from the strain of dancing but from the force of military strong hands. They were skin on skin, giggling and kissing and breathing one another's air. I could tell you about how John whispered words like "Brilliant," and "Gorgeous," and "Beautiful," in Sherlock's ear. I could tell you that Sherlock, in turn, nuzzled and kissed John's neck and pulled him closer and closer into his chest and murmured how deeply he needed and wanted and adored the good doctor. I could tell you a lot more of what unfolded that New Years. Of the sound of zippers being unzipped, belts being undone, trousers and pants being discarded. Of the moans and groans of pleasure that emitted from the two men on the couch. Of the sweat they shared. Of the length and volume that Sherlock shouted John's name, of the many times that John breathlessly grunted out Sherlock's name. I could tell you all of this, but I have chosen instead to drop in on Mrs. Hudson's New Years tea gathering (yes, it is still going on - don't ever question Mrs. Hudson's party abilities - she has more energy than I do, and I am much younger than she!) to give those two wonderful men the privacy that they deserve, the privacy they need to explore and share and grow with one another.

As I leave you, dear reader, what I do hope is clear is that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are really and truly two men desperately loved and in love. And may your year be filled with as much love as is in store for the wonderful inhabitants of 221B Baker Street. Happy, happy 2016!