There was a brightly wrapped Christmas present at the foot of the bed. Sherlock yawned and nudged it with his foot.

Molly was gone—the sheets long cold and the curtains draw across the single window. The alarm clock balanced on the stack of books read 7:02 pm.

Sherlock scrubbed a hand across his face. He'd slept over twelve hours.

He hadn't had a good night sleep in years. Not when coming down off a high or on the last day of a brutal case. Not even the night Mary had died and he'd stared at the ceiling with the hatred in John's eyes seared into his mind.

Sherlock was tempted to close his eyes again. It was comfortable here, and the pounding in his head was still a dull echo. But there was Molly to deal with. So he sat up, dragging the covers with him.

The parcel was wrapped in silver paper and topped with a red bow. He flipped the tag over. It said his name and the words: open me.

John had stopped getting him presents years ago. The man was dreadful at picking out gifts and got alarmingly cross every time Sherlock pointed it out.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't much better, every present contained some sort of badly veiled hint about his lifestyle choices. Last Christmas it had been a dust buster.

Bemused, Sherlock pulled the present closer, untied the bow, and separated the thin tissue paper.

A new dressing gown was folded neatly inside. He ran a finger down the lapel. Cashmere. Dove gray and impossibly soft. He didn't need to check the label to know it was expensive.

Sherlock stood and slipped it on, wincing at the pulled at his ribs. He glanced in the mirror over Molly's dresser. The dressing gown suited him, bringing out the silver in his eyes and hugging his body as if it had been tailored just for him.

He didn't have a gift for her of course.

Hadn't even noticed the coming holiday. He'd been too busy dodging bullets and saving governments. It wouldn't have occurred to him even if he had noticed, although he was aware that giving gifts was a common ritual when two people were…

Sherlock tightened his sash. He could hear the quiet clink of dishes coming from the other room. The smell of something cooking drifted through the flat. Christmas was only hours away, so a roast perhaps. The thought made his stomach rumble.

He understood that Molly must be waiting for him.

Sherlock looked around the room. His dirty clothes were gone and he could hear the drone of the dryer down the hall. The bed was mussed, the cover's falling off the side. It didn't take a detective to see what had happened here last night. Hell, even the Yard could figure it out.

But it wasn't sex that made him hesitate before leaving Molly's small bedroom.

It was the feeling of sleeping beside her that haunted him—of waking up in the middle of the night and finding her curled tightly against him. The feeling that there was no place else to be.

He straightened his shoulders and headed down the hallway. There was only one way out of this flat, and it was through Molly Hooper. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't a coward.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped into the living area was that the dead body was gone.

Just a hint of bleach lingered in the air—the only clue that anything untoward had happened here last night.

Mycroft's minions must have slipped in while they slept. The thought of strangers in her flat made his stomach twist. But Molly was not his responsibility. Not his to protect. At least that was what he tried to tell himself when the possession and fear pressed at the top of his throat.

Sherlock tucked his hands inside his pockets. The floor was cold and he wished for some slippers. It was snowing outside. Not just a light flurry but a real blizzard, the street nearly hidden by a sheet of white.

Molly had pulled a dining room chair next to the window and was watching the storm. She sat crosslegged, a cup of tea steaming in her lap. Her hair was pinned up in a haphazard ponytail, and she had pulled a ratty gray jumper over her pink pajamas.

She didn't look around although he was certain she had heard him. It was quiet in that way it is only quiet when snow is falling outside, as if the whole world was holding its breath.

"The kettle's still warm," Molly said softly.

Sherlock crossed the room and poured himself a cup, finding comfort in the familiar ritual. Tea—chamomile. Water—not too hot but still steaming. One sugar. A touch of milk.

He waited for the tea to steep, watching Molly watch the snow, his spoon clinking quietly in his cup as he stirred.

A roast chicken was cooling on the counter. It smelled like lemons and rosemary—a secret favorite of his. There was also two jacket potatoes wrapped in tin foil and a pot of mushy peas keeping warm on the back burner.

A pair of Christmas tins were stacked just behind the kettle. The kind of tins that usually held biscuits.

He glanced over at Molly, raising an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and nodded, so he helped himself.

The shortbread was dipped in chocolate and smelled like orange zest. He took a second and then dragged a chair over to Molly.

There was at least six inches of snow on the ground and the heavy clouds seemed to indicate that the storm was just getting starting.

"It's been a long time since it snowed like this," Molly said taking a sip of tea.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and took a bite of biscuit. It tasted like heaven. He settled back into the chair.

"I'm in love with you," Molly said quietly.

He had heard her correctly. She voice had been quiet but firm—a statement of fact and not a question.

The words wedged behind his heart like an active grenade.

Sherlock turned to study her profile, wishing he understood the complex intricacies of human behavior. The shadows of snowflakes danced across Molly's face. Her eyes were a secret in the dim light.

Only the truth would do now. Even he knew that.

Sherlock tapped the side of his cup with one finger. Molly's small Christmas tree twinkled in the corner. She fiddled with the sleeve of her threadbare jumper.

"I thought about you," he said finally.

Molly flinched but didn't look at him.

He turned back to the snow, watching the way it smoothed the sharp corners of the world. "I thought of you when they held me down on the dirt floor and beat me. I thought of you when I was deceiving a very dangerous men who had a gun aimed at my temple. I thought of you on the long flight home and every time I closed my eyes."

He cleared his throat. "I know that isn't enough. I know you want the words. But they would be…false. And I won't lie."

Molly's knuckles were white knots around her tea cup. She worried her lip. Silence settled back into the room like the heavy blanket of snow.

He took a sip of tea, the heat scalding his tongue. Tension coiled in the center of his chest.

She could say no.

He had taken a calculated risk, weighing all the possibly outcomes of his statement.

There was a slim possibility that withholding that last piece of intimacy would not be enough for her. That she would finally see him for who he was—an observer and not a participant in this world.

An outlier. An anomaly.

Sherlock focused on his breath. Counting the steady rhythm of inhales and exhales. Focused on the flakes of snow that melted against the window. Watching as they turned to water and dripped down the glass.

He had wanted before of course. Wanted plenty of things. Drugs. A case. For Mrs. Hudson to stop bloody vacuuming while he worked on his sonata.

But this was a different sort of want. It seemed to crackle under his skin like brushfire.

He wanted to pull her into his lap. Wanted to steal the answer from her lips before it broke across him.

So he did.

Sherlock held out a hand. Molly hesitated, staring at his hand for a moment before offering her own. It was not an answer but relief settled into his bones like lead.

He pulled her across the short space, folding her against him.

He breath feathered against his neck. "How long before you get bored with me?" she asked, her voice small.

His lips brushed her temple. He watched the way the snow danced in front of the yellow streetlight just outside the window. "Will you stop doing jobs for Mycroft?"

Molly's fingers traced a pattern over the back of his hand. She took a long breath and shook her head. "No."

He smiled into her hair. "Never is the answer."

Molly lifted her head, her ordinary brown eyes serious and beautiful. She was his and also not his.

"Never what?" Molly whispered, her lip tucked underneath her teeth.

"Never leaving," he said gently. And then there was nothing left to say.

xxx

Mycroft was leaning against a lamppost when Molly emerged from the Tube entrance.

She squeaked and bobbled the stack of presents in her hands, catching them just before they spilled into the snow.

Mycroft glanced up from his mobile and raised an eyebrow. Molly scowled. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged and fell into step beside her.

Mycroft looked annoyingly warm wrapped up in his fine wool coat and expensive leather gloves, as if they weren't trudging through a foot of snow on an empty street in the middle of London.

How he knew she would be stepping out of the Baker Street station at this exact moment was a question Molly didn't really want answered.

Snow slithered down the collar of her coat as they turned the corner. Molly shivered. Mycroft did not offer to take help with her packages.

"I have some follow up questions," he said, tucking his hands underneath his armpits.

Molly pursed her lips. "It's Christmas Day."

Mycroft scoffed and continued, "The gentleman you examined was an enemy of the common wealth. He held critical information about…" He cleared his throat. "Critical information."

He pulled his scarf up over his nose, his voice muffled. "Are you certain you did not find anything else on the body?"

She frowned. "Since when do I withhold information?"

Mycroft waved a hand. "Well, I am force to take into account this complication between you and my brother—"

Molly laughed, the cold burning her lungs. "Complication? You mean the fact that we're sleeping together?"

Mycroft paused under Speedy's red awning. "Indeed. Is your current arrangement going to be a problem Dr. Hooper?"

Snow was soaking into the cute, completely impractical boots Molly had chosen instead of her scuffed wellies. She stomped her feet, but her toes were already frozen. "No problem."

Mycroft nodded sharply. "See that it isn't."

A black town car rolled up to the curb. Molly wondered if he had some sort of secret button that called it so he could appear mysterious. Amused, she watched as the driver scurried to open the back passenger door.

Molly sifted her stack of presents. Her arms were starting to ache, but she glanced up at Sherlock's window as Mycroft slid into the car. "Aren't you coming up?"

"Unnecessary," Mycroft responded stiffly.

"Merry Christmas!" Molly called as the door closed. But the sleek car was already slipping away through the falling snow.

xxx

"I'm not sure what you expected," a familiar voice said as she stepped into the foyer.

Molly jumped and this time the packages flew out of her arms. Sherlock caught them with that easy grace that made her insides heat.

"Damn you Holmes men!" Molly swore, kicking the front door closed behind her.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the profanity, looking so much like his brother that Molly couldn't help an exasperated laugh.

"Its like you lurk around corners on purpose," she huffed, kicking the snow off her boots and unwinding her scarf.

Sherlock placed the packages down on the steps as she shrugged off her coat. "I assure you that your analysis is incorrect," he sniffed.

"Yes, well," she muttered, pulling off her beanie.

A ghost of a smile flicker across Sherlock's face. The kind of smile he got when he had figured out a detail of a case that was a mystery to mere mortals.

"What?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked like himself again, his tailored suit clean and pressed, the cuffs pulled down to hide the abrasions on his wrist. His hair was clean and brushed away from his face to show off sharp cheekbones and shifting eyes.

The mask of the cold consulting detective was firmly back in place.

But it was different now. Before, Molly always saw his mask—the edges as obvious to her as a cheap rubber costume. Now his disguise was transparent, a sheer charade that she could see right through to the man underneath.

She could see the way he had looked in the shower—could see the vulnerable curve of his hunched shoulders and the soap turning gray as it trailed down his spine. Could still feel the way he had shuddered this morning, when she had knelt in front of him and separated that soft dressing gown.

Sherlock's eyes turning to smoke as he watched her, as if he could read the direction of her thoughts.

He stepped closer, crowding her against the coat rack. Molly felt her body melt and wondered when being with him would stop feeling like she had swallowed the sun.

Sherlock smoothed her hair down with his long fingers, brushing the cold that tingled on the tip of her nose. "You're a bit disheveled," he muttered. Molly blushed, shivering at his light touch.

His gaze drifted to her lips. His brow furrowed.

"It really is like a drug isn't it?" he said under his breath. "I can't seem to…"

Molly rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, crumbling the lapels of his expensive suit in her hands. He responded as if falling, his lips warm as he pressed her into the forest of coats and dripping scarves. The soft wool of his Belstaff brushed her cheek, smelling like gunpowder and London wind. Sherlock tasted like mint tea and she…

"Oh Jesus—sorry! Sorry."

Sherlock tore himself away, stepping back as John stammered on the steps above them.

"So sorry," John continued, looking everywhere but at the two of them.

Sherlock's expression was impassive, but Molly could see the color on his cheek. Could see the ragged rise and fall of his breath. He did not look up.

For the first time Molly noticed the happy sound of Rosie's babbling drifting down the stairs and the tinkle of Mrs. Hudson's laugh. Could smell figgy pudding cooking and hear carols playing quietly on the radio.

"We'll be right up," she said, unable to hide her happiness as she caught John's gaze. He flashed her a crooked smile and disappeared, muttering. "I am never going to get bloody used to that."

Molly giggled, but Sherlock cupped his hands behind his back, looking all at once awkward and like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

She decided to save him. "I have one more present for you."

Sherlock looked confused. "Unnecessary."

Molly smiled. "Completely." She pointed. "It's the little one on the top."

Sherlock turned, picking up the brightly colored package with two fingers as if it were a tarantula. He examined the small present as if he could do deduce it's contents from the snowman wrapping paper. "I did not have time to reciprocate," he said stiffly.

Molly kicked off her wet boots. "Gifts are not about expecting something in return."

Sherlock frowned. "That is not what I have observed. It is clear from the—"

She huffed in exasperation. "Just open it."

Sherlock opened it.

Molly watched the flicker of emotions run over his face. Mild distain, curiosity, and then a warm delight that seemed to light his face from within.

"Is this a tooth?" he asked, nudging the tiny object with the tip of his finger.

Molly nodded, clapping her hands together. "Look inside!"

He tilted the molar, discovering the tiny strip of paper hidden underneath. There were a series of numbers on the long paper—numbers Molly could not begin to decipher.

"Is this from the corpse yesterday?" Sherlock asked, peering at the thin strip of numbers.

Molly nodded, unable to contain her glee as she bounced up and down on her stockinged feet.

"You got me a case for Christmas," he breathed.

She wrapped her arms around herself. "Yes."

"A case that should be Mycroft's?"

She bit her lip. "Yes?"

Sherlock laughed, an untethered sound that cartwheeled through her turning everything into light. "I think I might love you, Molly Hooper."

He didn't stutter over the words.

They were light and teasing. Just a slip of the tongue really.

But she saw the truth on his face. Saw it as clearly as if he had whispered those precious words in her ear. Saw the crack it opened in a heart that had been previously been closed forever.

Molly smiled back, pressing her hand to her own thundering heart. "Happy Christmas, my love."