Forgive me for any grammatical mistakes! I watched the Sherlock Holmes movie for the fifth or sixth time (lost track) and saw the second installment in theaters so I decided to write a fic based on the films. Might make this into a series of chapters...Merry Christmas Everyone!

The air accommodated a slight nip; a nip that didn't quite draw your attention; a nip that when you breathed your nose tingled but only just. A tall man dressed in fine leather shoes made his way across the cobbled streets, the faint click of a walking stick tapping with each second step. A bowler hat, one made of fine hard felt, tipped dangerously off center as it lay atop a head of fine sandy blonde hair. Intelligent blue eyes shone through thick light coloured lashes; eyes that flickered back and forth watching the animated streets of London. The man made his way to a flight of stairs, the heavy iron numbers reading 221B, and pushed open the solid wood doors. The entrance was decorated with a woman's touch; fine cabinetry, china, some manner of household plants and a few chairs scattered about. Large paintings hung from the wallpapered walls, their beady eyes watching the new arrival with a hint of familiarity.

The man wiped his shoes on the mat, the rainwater from the streets having followed him to his destination. The man sniffed, taking the stairs two at a time. A neatly trimmed mustache decorated his handsome face causing his charm to shine through; on many a man this would only cause inspection of a rather common nature.

Arriving in front of a large dark oak door, the man rapped his cane. He waited, a frown brewing when no answer was returned. He knocked again, more persistent this time.

"Ah Doctor Watson."

A woman dressed in her finest walked up the stairs, hands clutching at her skirts. She was an older woman, blonde hair pulled tight and held together with a silver pin. Her gaze held a sparkle but creases had formed around her eyes; creases that spoke of anxiety.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. Is he in?" The man, Doctor John H. Watson, nodded towards the closed door. The woman, the land lady, wrung her hands as she peered at the questioned room.

"I haven't seen him leave, Doctor. I believe he's been in there all morning!"

John sighed, running a hand across his brow. He tucked his cane under his arm, his wrists deftly turning the brass knob. The door swung open with a squeaky groan. Daylight was hidden from view—heavy dark drapery hung from the vast windows. Suddenly a figure lept into view causing both the good doctor and the Mrs. to jump in surprise. The surprise turned to shock as Mrs. Hudson let out a cry of horror. John set his jaw firmly until the muscle twinged in irritation.

"Ah Watson. Nanny." Sherlock droned, dark brown eyes flickering over to the woman who was now open mouthed. John looked at the man, a Sherlock Holmes, who stood half naked wearing only a pair of black breeches. The consulting detective, the only one of his practice, poised before them covered in what appeared to be mud whilst smoking his pipe.

"Mr. Holmes! What are you dripping unto my floors?" Mrs. Hudson seemed to find her voice, a hand clutching at her chest in fright. Sherlock stared at her through a mud coated face, a look of insouciance upon his brilliant features.

"Moor mud: mud that has been extracted from deep within the earth- Watson do come in." Sherlock gripped his pipe before walking barefoot across the floors. "This compound contains over one thousand botanicals, minerals, enzymes, antibiotics and vitamins. Please take a seat, just move the various items out of your way would you, Watson?"

John glanced through the flat; dirty footprints danced about the cluttered room, smeared stains seeped through the various papers littering the fine furniture. Sherlock plopped down into a chair blowing smoke out his nostrils. Mrs. Hudson, unable to take the state of the room fled, slamming the door behind her. John rubbed his gloved fore finger across the bridge of his nose.

"Holmes—how long have you been here?"

"Moor mud, naturally does not agree with the human sense of smell, so I infused the mixture with salt, a hint of aromatic oils to better-"

"Holmes!"

"Three days." Sherlock said petulantly, eyes not meeting the Doctors. John, walking over to the windows and flinging the drapery wide to allow the sun to enter, tried not to sound infuriated as he turned his attention back to his former flatmate.

"You need to get out of the flat- you cannot stay cooped up in here." John gingerly removed from their resting place, a stack of books and quills from the opposite chair. He stretched out his feet, fingers flexing on the head of his cane.

"How is Mary? I am sure she is enjoying herself?" Sherlock averted the question, eyes roaming over the gold band encircling the good Doctors wedding finger.

"Mary is doing fine, but Holmes you need to stop avoiding and listen to me for once in your life. You need to go outside."

Sherlock pouted inhaling deeply. Smoke billowed out through his mouth filling the room with its sweet scent. He itched at his chest, pieces of caked mud escaping to the floor.

"Why are you here?" Holmes suddenly asked, brows drawing into a line. He placed a hand under head head, hardened muscles rippling underneath the moor paste.

"Can't I come and visit a friend? I would have assumed you would be glad to see me."

"You assumed correctly dear Watson, but it's been weeks since I last saw you. Marriage must have obtused your writing capabilities seeing as how you have forgotten to contact me."

"Don't, Sherlock. It was our honeymoon, of course I would have been busy with Mary."

"You could have sent a note."

"I was out of the country."

"Took Mycrofts suggestion to go to Switzerland then. Shame, I would have liked to go."

"It was our honeymoon."

"Our honeymoon?"

"Mary's and I." John huffed. Sherlock had a way of pressing his buttons in all the wrong places yet those buttons seemed to spark something inside of him.

"Would you care for a moor bath?" Sherlock rose suddenly, pipe in hand. His dark hair spiked all around his head giving him an overly eccentric appearance. Not that he wasn't peculiar enough as it was. "It really is quite refreshing. It reduces aches and pain, great for the skin. Rejuvenates the skin cells, maintains the human bodies chemical equilibrium. I must insist that you try it be a most beneficial experience."

John watched as Sherlock glanced out the window, eyes darting to and fro. Sherlock's eyes were beautiful; large almond orbs framed by long dark lashes. They shone with intelligence that threatened to consume his very existence, more so on occasion.

"I will have to decline your offer, Holmes. I would rather have hoped you would accompany me to the opera this evening." John rose, careful not to tred in any of the mud pies, remembering when Sherlock had first asked of the opera. The detective slowly turned to face him, a brief puff of the pipe illuminating his dark eyes.

"Don Giovanni?"

"Yes."

"Seven PM?"

"On the dot."

"Suit or no?"

"Suit."

Sherlock grinned against his pipe, arms crossed over the other. He cocked his head to the side, eyes alive with the fire John had always been drawn to; the mystery that burned in his very soul.

"It's good to see you Watson."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock stood watching as the Doctor hailed a carriage, disappearing into the black hansom. He sighed deeply to himself, teeth nibbling at the edge of the carved wood. His chest had clenched at seeing his dearest comrade once again; remembering those solid blue eyes, the quirk of his lips, the deep voice that penetrated to his very core. The detective sniffed, nose wrinkling deeply. No matter. Emotions of the heart were of no consequence. Rethink that. Emotions did not bode well for someone in his position. The man was married for Christs sake, even when he had done his best to sabotage the wedding. Not well enough as it would seem. Holmes turned his back to the window, eyes drawn to the mud filled tub.

As the clock chimed the hour, Holmes wiped the sweat from his brow, eyes shining with vigour. The room looked spotless. He had managed to rid himself of the excess moor concoction, persuading a fine young gentleman that he could make a fortune selling the mud to young women, as it would make their skin glow. Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to see the mud leave her premises much to the suspicion of Sherlock Holmes.

The detective glanced at the clock, downing a glass of whiskey. His skin now silken to the touch sought out the finest of his dress. A white silk shirt, a stripped tie, a dark blue overcoat and a pair or black trousers with red suspenders soon embraced his muscular build. Sherlock stared at his appearance in the mirror, his hair combed back revealing his stunning features. Solid high cheekbones with the hint of stubble housed his lustrous eyes. A full mouth set in a thoughtful line enhanced his facial beauty as the detective twitched back through the glass. This would have to do. Grabbing his riding crop, Holmes made his way out into the busy streets of London, a merry tune whistling under his breathe. He was going to see John once again.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson waited outside the opera house, his fingers itching at the base of his blue vest. He had just checked his pocket watch, the hand minutes away from seven. His wife, arms resting around his elbow, gazed up at him large eyes concerned.

"Why do you look so nervous John? I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be here shortly."

"It's almost the appointed hour, darling. I just hope that nothing has happened to him."

"What should happen to me, mother hen?" A voice answered. John turned to see Sherlock dressed in his finest, making way towards them. His unruly hair was combed neatly back, his handsome face for all those to see. John felt a glow in his heart at seeing the detective again. It really had been a while.

"I was beginning to worry, old chap."

"Nonsense." Sherlock waved a hand, the other hiding in his pocket. John noted that the man's riding crop was snug under his arm.

"Evening Mrs. Watson." Sherlock nodded at the blonde woman, trying his best to sound polite. He must have for she smiled back, her arm fitted around her husband.

"It is a pleasure to see you again Mr. Holmes-"

"No, no, the pleasure is all mine," Sherlock gave a mock bow. " Shall we?"

John nodded, motioning for the man to lead the way—Sherlock all but bounding up the stairs.

The opera house was a thing of beauty. Five stories of private seats soared up to the brightly painted ceiling. Below, in the vast pit, rested the musicians—the vast array of instruments shining in the dim light. Massive red velvet curtains hung from rungs, gracefully bending to trail along the stage. Holmes breathed in the scents. Soap; used to scrub the House clean after every performance. Cigar smoke; the faint sweetness arising from the boxes of gentlemen, cigars trapped between their thumb and index. Perfume; the gaggle of women walking past fans waving the heat away. Honey mixed with clove; the familiar scent of Watson. Sherlock licked his lips, feet rocking back, trying to ignore the flush creeping against his neck. John helped Mary into her seat, a box with a wondrous view of the world below, before taking his own. Holmes motioned for a lad to retrieve a bottle of liquor. Sherlock finally sat down, pulling out his spyglass.

"You really brought that with you?" John asked, a smile breaking out. Holmes gave a slight offended cough, and appeared to make a remark when the serving lad brought forth a bottle of whiskey. John glanced at it with disapproval to which Holmes ignored.

"Are you going to sit here and argue, my dear Watson or are we going to enjoy a night filled with Dissoluto punito, ossia il Don Giovanni?"

John was about to retort, but Mary placed a calming hand on his arm. Sherlock observed the movement with a slight of annoyance. He opened the drink, swallowing it as if it were water. John had to place an arm firmly, forcing Holmes to lower the glass.

"Please, keep this night civil, Holmes."

"Of course." Sherlock muttered, allowing the doctor to confiscate the whiskey. He twiddled his thumbs, tapped his riding crop all in the act of impatience. He was constantly aware of John's presence beside him, the man's heat brushing against his elbow. So he did what he knew how to do. Converse.

"Did you realize that Don Giovanni is one of the most performed operas; it is a fruitful subject so vast in its meaning. There are eight main roles: Don Giovanni, who I should state, is a young and extremely licentious nobleman; Leporello, his servant; Don Pedro; Donna Anna, betrothed to Don Ottavio; Don Ottavio betrothed to Doona Anna," Sherlock spoke his voice fast flowing. " Donna Elvira, a woman cruelly abandoned by non other than Don Giovanni; Masetto a peasant who in turn in engaged to Zerlina. A truly remarkable performance which begins in a D Minor then transforms into a light D Major allegro. Ah, quiet, it is about to begin," Sherlock voiced suddenly, pulling out his spyglass. John grinned, having missed his companions ramblings. Mary stared at Holmes, an astonished look on her face.

As the opera began, John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The man sat motionless, mouthing the words as he watched, eyes bright. The detective was thoroughly engrossed, allowing the doctor to quickly assess his friends current state. It seemed that he had been eating, maybe not everyday, but he had been consuming his dietary needs. He seemed to be in excellent shape, his body hard with chiseled muscle. John frowned in concern at some bruising under Sherlock's neck—presumably from the boxing area. A knot of familiar worry ate away at the doctor as he found more bluish markings around the man's wrists, unnoticeable from the mud bath prior. Had he really made the right choice in moving out? Had he rushed his marriage just as Mrs. Hudson had said? John chewed his lips in new found worry as the House filled with soprano.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"Beautiful. Magnificent. Étonnant." Sherlock dug his hands in his pockets as they exited the opera. John had to agree. The performance had been remarkable. Sherlock suddenly spun on his heels, face inches from the doctor.

"Watson!"

"Holmes?" John all but spluttered, his eyes suddenly drawn to the detectives lips.

"The time! What is the time?"

"What for?" John asked, but reached into his pocket all the same.

"I can't be late," Holmes was muttering, riding crop over his shoulder, arms wrapped around both ends.

"Late for what? Holmes you're not making sense." John raised a brow, eyes reading the watch hands. It was almost eleven. Sherlock glanced down, his dark hair brushing against John's nose. It smelled of cigars and lavender; a curious mix, yet strangely alluring. John coughed, as Mary watch Sherlock with a strange expression.

"In all probability, he might , no- I should hope not; why should I?" Sherlock was muttering now, deep in thought. John lifted his hands, gripping his friend tightly around his broad shoulders.

"What are you saying?"

Sherlock broke out of his thought, dark eyes boring into Watson's. The doctor could see every detail in the man's face; a small scar above his cheek where he had been nicked in one of their cases, the fullness of his lips, the dark and light stubble.

"The new flatmate. He hates it when I linger, the old badger."

John felt an icy hand grip his spine as he stared at his friend. Emotions of a strange nature tumbled in his chest. He felt anger, loss, and a possessiveness that he had never experienced before. He had been Sherlock's flatmate, should be the only one, and now shortly after he had vacated, his friend had found someone to replace him.

" A flatmate." John stated dryly. Sherlock sniffed, his muscles flexing under his fitted clothes.

"How did you two meet?" John couldn't help but let a tiny amount of anger creep into the question more likely an accusation. Sherlock gracefully raised a dark brow in confusion at the offended tone.

"That I'm afraid mother hen, will have to be told over a cup of tea. I really must run. Mrs. Watson." With a nod he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, leaving John standing still, emotions crashing like waves against sandy shores.

"John? You're staring."

"Sorry, my love. He just took me by surprise." John reassured his wife as he lead her into a carriage, his blue eyes stealing one last glance hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark haired detective. If it was a tale to talk over a cup of tea, John Watson intended to hear it to the very end. Tomorrow if need be.