Sherlock grimaced dramatically as decorations began to encompass his living room. The tree, the tinsel (why must they pick the one that shed all over the place?), the general air was sickening. The urge to divulge sentimental thoughts seemed to overwhelm the entire populace at this time, and even the criminal population seemed to succumb to the spirit of goodwill. He turned to Watson, sighing as he saw the latest mistake.

"Yet again you fail to connect actions to their consequences, Watson. You must understand that to me the world is an open book, and if you - as your mind is still undeveloped - wish to do well you should listen to what I say. Now, for the last time," He picked up the plush Santa and handed it back to Rosamund Mary Watson, "If you wish to keep the toy, do not throw the toy." He ended the sentence with a fond smile, a fond smile that dropped as the plush Santa connected with his face. He sighed and placed it beside her.

Rosie was, despite his protestations to the contrary, the only good thing in Baker Street at the moment. With John and Mary insisting on decorating (oh God, was that… mistletoe?) and Irene away (goodness knew where, it was business; apparently. And no, he was not in the least jealous, thank you very much, John), he was relying on the bright eyes and smiling face of the new Watson to raise his spirits. She was immensely curious already, very keen on experimenting on how far she could pull Sherlock's curls before he was unable to hold the forced smile, and equally fond of drooling over herself and requiring changing. Whenever John and Mary fell asleep on the couch (basically half an hour into any visit) the duty fell to him and he, as the doting godfather, was obliged.

The moan of Irene Adler sounded tinnily from the phone on the side table. He jumped up, ignored the glare of the new parents ("That is not a noise for children, Sherlock!"), and grabbed the phone in record time.

Hang in there, Mr Holmes. I'll be home soon. We can have dinner.

-IA

He smiled, perhaps Christmas wouldn't be a complete waste.

I look forward to it, Miss Adler. Baker Street isn't as lively with your absence.

-SH

Sherlock picked up Rosie, hoping to stop her wails waking her parents. It had been an hour at last since Irene's text. With a sigh, he looked quizzically at her.

"What is the problem, Watson?"

He was thankful as ever for the power of deduction. She wasn't hungry, nor was she tired, nor was her nappy full. Which meant…

"You just want attention, don't you?"

He shook his head, holding her carefully and rocking her slightly.

"Would you like a story, Watson?"

She made no reply, as babies were known to do, but he took the end of the cries as a positive.

"Once upon a time lived a pirate, the most fearsome pirate on the whole seven seas. His name was Captain William, and he travelled with a retired knight who was his First Mate Hamish. First Mate Hamish was never without the beautiful Princess Mary and the even prettier fairy Rosie."

John and Mary woke at the sound of their baby's cries through the crackling monitor. But they also heard them stop, and the deep voice of the detective beginning his story. They smiled blissfully at each other, eyes still blurry with sleep, and settled down for Sherlock's story time.

"First Mate Hamish and Princess Mary were very much in love, so much that poor old Captain William had to watch them kissing all the time! Blech!" Sherlock smiled at Rosie, watching her relax and giggle at his newly animated face. "But one day, Princess Mary went missing, and the pirates knew she was in danger. Well, they weren't about to let Princess Mary get hurt, not when the Fairy Rosie needed her (as did they, not that they'd ever admit it) so they went to the Apple Tower to save her."

Mary and John looked at each other. This was Sherlock telling Rosie about Appledore. Surely they shouldn't let it happen. And yet, there was something in his voice, something soft, and they knew it'd be fine.

"The Apple Tower was a thousand feet high and guarded by a fearsome dragon with a nasty habit of licking people and taking them prisoner. And there, in his power, was Princess Mary." Sherlock paused, tickling Rosie softly on her stomach and letting his deep laugh mingle with her giggle. "Captain William didn't know what to do, which, mind you, was a very rare thing. He and First Mate Hamish were stuck, but the Fairy Rosie hovering by encouraged them. Still, the dragon was winning, and they didn't know how to slay him."

John and Mary listened to the silence for a moment. Clearly, Sherlock hadn't figured out how to baby proof this part quite yet. They entered the room silently, John chuckling as Sherlock jumped at Mary's voice.

"Of course," she said, "Princess Mary was more resourceful than anyone thought. She too was a retired knight, and when the silly pirates got captured, she slew the evil dragon herself with Captain William's cutlass. Then she picked the lock and she, William, Hamish and Rosie all lived happily ever after, especially when, not long after, William got his own princess, a woman called Irene."

Sherlock handed the sleepy John his baby.

"How much did you hear?" He asked.

"All of your story." John smirked, "First Mate Hamish?"

"John isn't a very pirate-y name," came the haughty reply. It didn't take long for all to laugh.

Rosie was placed in her cot, newly exhausted by the action, and the adults adjourned to the living room.

"You're better with kids than I'd have thought," John admitted. He had assumed Sherlock would think babies boring, or perhaps show them crime scenes as he had Archie. And yet he was fine, telling fairy stories and rocking her to sleep, and he has definitely caught him blowing a raspberry on her stomach when she was fussing, letting her get away with tugging his hair and biting his hands.

"I've always been fond of children."

Perhaps that was a slight lie. He'd hated them when he was one. He was different to them and it was clearly visible, so they avoided him. But now, children were fascinating. They were curious and unspoilt, not having quite learned to stop asking questions. He adored that; the curious people always learnt most. And even babies who couldn't talk to ask were agreeable. They weren't particularly noisy if you kept them happy, and they were perfectly good company in silence or if one required a monologue.

Mary and John left at six, promising to be back at eleven in Christmas day, ready for the blasted party Mrs Hudson insisted upon. Sherlock prayed Irene would be back for it, he wasn't sure how he'd survive the festivities without her.

He smiled to himself, thinking of Mary's contribution. Princess Irene. She was certainly regal enough, and definitely able to dance as one would at court. He stretched out on the couch as he remembered dancing with her the last day before her trip, the feeling of flying and total contentment he'd never known before. He remembered it, the way he'd decided to do the traditional thing, just this once.

Sherlock tugged awkwardly at his tie. He'd always loathed them, but he'd YouTubed how one should dress for a date and it specifically mentioned the tie, so he was stuck. He checked his watch. The reservation was hours away, so they had time for the other things he'd planned, thank God. He'd been irrationally nervous when asking Irene to go on a… date… with him, considering their already intimate relationship, but she had laughed and agreed. She'd dress up for him, like a real date, and then he'd escort her wherever.

The dress was… completely her. Tight fit, short hemline and dipping neck, the black and white material showed off her best parts, the belt emphasising her thin waist. He tugged slightly at his jacket and offered her his arm, leading her to the car had hired. He didn't want to waste time hailing a cab, not on their last night together till who knew when. They chatted gaily the whole journey, but he never let on where they were going.

"Oh! Sherlock…"

Irene had been lost for words when she saw where they were. She kissed him square on the lips, a short chaste kiss of gratitude and excitement, before looking again with shining eyes. She'd told him months ago about this, about how she'd wanted to come, and he'd actually remembered. He handed her the tickets. First rate seats for Gypsy at Savoy Theatre.

The show was lovely. Both of them enjoyed it, the music flowing over them and enchanting them. They left the building with reluctance, even before they saw the rain that was falling. Sherlock had cursed quietly, before taking off his jacket to hold over Irene.

"Such the gentleman, Mr Holmes," she'd said as they reached the car.

"But of course, Miss Adler," he'd replied.

They were right on time for the reservation at Angelo's, walking in to be greeted by the man himself.

"A candle for you and your date, Mr Holmes? More romantic," had come the customary joke.

"If you'd be so kind," he'd replied, deadly serious.

He seemed disappointed it wasn't John.

He pulled out the chair for her and tucked her in, handing her the menu. He even consented to order something more substantial than a starter, though he didn't eat more than a quarter. Spaghetti for both, and ice cream for the Woman's afters. Payment was waved off, as usual. He received a twenty pound tip without noticing, as usual.

Back at Baker Street, sat together on the couch. They were close, each with a glass of wine (the Woman's insistence) and the bottle between them. They'd had more than a glass, he knew that, as they were both laughing more freely and louder than often. The radio played random songs on a random station - they'd turned it on when they came in, not bothering to change the channel. A slow song came on, Sherlock didn't know the name, and without noticing his own actions he had offered Irene his hand.

"May I have this dance, Miss Adler?"

They swayed together, spun around the room together, her hands behind his neck and his one her waist. They didn't notice when Mrs Hudson popped her head in just in time to see them rest their foreheads together and smile at each other, neither needing to say the words that hung in the air around them. She pressed a kiss to his lips, both of them smiling in it.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She'd whispered.

"You're welcome, Irene."

She'd taken the lead then, placing his hand on her zip and telling him to pull it down whilst she'd tugged him into a deep kiss by that ridiculous tie of his. She'd taken it off him, mercifully (he really hated the damned thing), and it was terrific aim on her part that had it hook on the horn of the headphone wearing skull. Both hastily defrocked they'd tumbled into bed together, equals in the game.

They gave each other as good as they got, both marking each other as their own, returning every move with their own. They extracted moans and begs from each other and held them like prizes. They relished in making the other writhe in pleasure and gasp at their next attack. Their hot skin pressed together and limbs tangled as they worked at each other, finding each other's weak spots and exploiting them mercilessly. They fought for the handcuffs, sucking on each other's neck to try and deter them, trying to reach behind the other as they straddled them. Sherlock finally took them, having found that entering her was an extremely good distraction.

When she surrendered he connected her to the bed, not quite sure what to do but knowing instinct would kick in as he experimented, stroking here and pressing kisses there, finding out how to make her to weak. She still fought back, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration to strike. She recorded the moan he gave out as her trophy, set it as her text tone one handed, but didn't let him notice. He recorded her, too even though the last one was still quite new. The sweet sounds she made were too good to waste, especially when he got her in just the right place and she clawed at his back with her free hand, begging him to carry on, to give her everything and more.

He was a gentleman, he always gave the lady what she wanted.

Eleven in the morning on Christmas Day came quicker than expected, and soon enough Baker Street was packed full of excitable visitors. Molly was there, chatting with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. Gavin? Gary? Greg! Greg was by the tree talking to someone he couldn't see. John and Mary spoke to the neighbours, Mrs Turner's married ones, and their pained look suggested they were full as dishwater. Sherlock sat in his chair, watching Rosie play with her new blocks, forced to wear his new ear hat. He'd sent his present to Irene with her, in case she hasn't got back in time for Christmas. A necklace, a thin golden chain with a bright ruby rose hanging from it. She'd not made any reference to anything, so he waited to see if it would be given when she returned or by text.

The party fell silent at the orgasmic sigh of Miss Adler (different to the one they'd heard last time) coming from Sherlock's phone. They'd watched him snatch the phone in an instant before composing himself, realising he'd been perhaps slightly too eager. He cleared his throat slightly, made a show of reading his emails before the text, even though everyone could see he was counting the moments before he could look and keep his reputation (a little bit) intact.

Chimney. It's too big for the mantlepiece.

-IA

He moved in silence to the fireplace, aware of the eyes following him, reaching an arm inside. His hand soon brushed against the wrapping. Taking it out, he looked at the paper. The same colour as her lipstick, just like the phone's wrapping had been. Perfectly neat and near impossible to deduce, blast her. He opened it, the room still silent and watching.

He looked at the gift, turning it in his hand, chuckling slightly at the anti-climax. An envelope. Trust her to double wrap. It smelt of her perfume, the one she wore on their date. He opened that and took out the paper.

He froze, staring at it. He had dropped the envelope, clutching the picture with two shaking hands, slightly pale but clearly happy. John could only remember one similar incident - when asked to be best man.

"Sherlock, mate, are you alright?"

Still silence. John sighed, telling the room to give him a minute, he was just buffering.

"Well well," came a silky voice, "I expected more of a welcome home, Sherlock."

Irene Adler stood in the doorway, her face breaking into a smile at Sherlock's shocked face. Ah, how she'd treasure that look, the fact that she'd shocked Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't an easy thing to do. He reached her in three strides at a speed no one else could ever hope to match, lifting her off her feet to twirl her around and kiss her.

"That good enough?" His voice was tinged with amusement, but he still held the look of disbelief. His hand trembled slightly as he reached forward, placing it hesitantly on her stomach, where he knew their child was growing.

At this, the room finally caught up and exploded into a cacophony of congratulations and other sentimental things, Mrs Hudson smiling tearfully and Mrs Turner consoling her. John clapped him on the back and Mary embraced Irene, promising all the good tips. The father-to-be cursed as he thought of the phone calls he would have to endure with Mycroft and Mummy, earning a tap on the arm from the expectant. They looked blissfully happy, happier than they had ever looked. They didn't mention that their baby wasn't exactly planned, they didn't care.

Happy Christmas indeed.

Boxing day. The day where their guests were no doubt regretting their alcohol consumption from the night before and the day Sherlock had decided to tell his family of the newest Holmes. Mother and Father would be too exhausted to talk for long, and Mycroft too busy to lecture him on sentiment and it's dangers. Still, he wouldn't do it quite yet. He'd prefer to stay wrapped up with Irene, one arm draped protectively around her shoulders and one resting atop the hand she lay on her stomach, smiling slightly as she slept, waiting for her to wake.

Midday had come and gone before he decided to call Mycroft.

"Is this a social call, Brother Mine?"

"That would depend on what you considered social, Mycroft."

Sherlock knew that his brother would detect the slight nerves and excitement in his voice and go through the options in his head. He estimated twenty seconds for the realisation.

"Sherlock! What have you done now?"

Twenty eight. He was getting slow.

"I believe I have provided Mother with that grandchild she wanted so. Congratulations would suffice, Brother Mine, but I really can't chat. I haven't told mother yet, and-"

"She dragged me to Scotland, Sherlock. I put you on speaker as soon as I realised the truth." He could almost see Mycroft's smug smile. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock, and congratulations."

He debated hanging up before Mummy took the phone. He looked to Irene for advice and only saw her laughing at his sullen face. It was too late to hang up by the time he'd quit pouting.

"Hello, Mummy."

He held the phone away from his ear as she alternated between joyous exclamations and annoyance that he'd called Mycroft before her. Still, the happiness won out and he endured five minutes of her rambling before his father took pity and took the phone. Nothing overly emotional there, a quick congratulations and a chat and they were done. He was free, finally.

He joined Irene on the couch.

"So…"

He couldn't find the words.

"Agreed."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't need to. I can read you like a book, Mr Holmes. You don't need to speak for me to know you're both excited and terrified of this."

He nodded slightly.

"Mostly excited." He pointed out. She nodded. He grinned.

"Any ideas for a name?"