The bitter cold seemed to stop the city. Much colder than average, base temperature in the negatives, -13 degrees Celsius to be exact. the harsh wind made it seem much worse. It stopped the city, but it wasn't enough to stop the crime. Lestrade had called them in much sooner than he usually would, but the triple homicide called for the expertise of Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you doing here freak?" Donovan scoffed as they stepped out of their taxi and towards the police tape that covered a small abandoned flat. Sherlock sighed.

"Lestrade called me. Of course you knew that. Are you really that dull that you cannot think of anything else to say to me?" Sherlock asked, pulling the police tape up and ducking underneath, holding it up for John to follow.

They were up in the actual scene of the crime in an instant. All three were women.

"Same age range. Professional women, by their clothes, high class most likely. Married. Nothing obvious in common, but..." He paused, moving to turn over the victim's wrists. "Same tattoos. Not the symbol of a gang, or an organization at a glance. Personal then. They must have been friends. Or close family. Not by blood, different hair, eye, and skin colors, by marriage then. Judging by their wedding rings, the latter more likely. Same diamond cut, and setting style. Meaning the same jeweler. One of their husbands got married first and passed on good word to his relatives." Sherlock started, but pausing to examine them more closely.

"Those wounds are surgical. Preformed before death, and it would have been a painful surgery. Two of the women have had their ovaries and wombs removed, the third has had hers sliced open. She was pregnant, about seven months along judging by the stretch marks on the skin around the wounds. No signs of struggle, so they must have been knocked unconscious by a heavy tranquilizer, at the same time or one of them would have noticed something was wrong. Likely through something they ate or drank but I can't be certain." He explained. "Statistically a woman is more likely than a man. Someone who had a miscarriage or was told they could not have children." Sherlock said, trailing off. He hummed in annoyance. Something wasn't adding up. He looked around seeing what was throwing this scene off.

"From the state of decay, I would assume they have been here for three days." He said. A loud thump made everyone in the room jolt in surprise moments after. With that Sherlock took off. He was flitting through the crime scene, running his hands against walls, and floorboards. After a few moments he threw open a small closet, and did the same. He pushed lightly against the wall, where a small piece of it shifted out. Sherlock leaned into the small crawl space and awkwardly pulled a small child out of it.

"Hey! You can't move around evidence" Anderson called. The flash of anger on Sherlock's face was unmistakable.

"I believe you will find your evidence is alive." He growled, handing the child to John, before bending over to into the cubby again. John knelt down with the child, quickly untying her gag, and then the bonds holding her feet, and hands which were secured behind her back.

"Can someone get her some water? And a blanket?" John called. A bottle of water was thrust forward instantly from Donovan. The child looked at it warily before taking a sip. After a moment deciding that it was safe before drinking much more rapidly. The girl was full of deep cuts and dark bruises. A slash mark was made from her eye to her chin with a knife. Her lips cut almost in half at an angle. Another child was pulled out by Sherlock a moment later, a boy, and then another little girl. The last girl did not have a gag, but heavy bruising around her neck suggested she had been strangled. Her voice was probably too raw to speak, let alone loud enough to be able to be heard among the hustle and bustle of the police. One of her shoulders was dislocated and her gums and tongue bloody from chewing at the bonds she had forced under herself and back in front of her. She was seemingly the oldest of the three, and once untied she rummaged through John's jacket, pulling the pen and paper John almost always had with him from his coat. After a few moments she ripped the page out and scrambled up, thrusting it at Sherlock. He glanced down at the paper.

43 Manchester Street

Deborah Donahue

Surgeon at St. Bartholomew's

Find my Daddy?

"You brilliant, clever little girl." Sherlock said, patting her lightly on the head. "Deborah? Is this the woman that brought you and your family here?" He asked, kneeling in front of her. The girl opened her mouth. "Don't try to talk your neck and throat is probably very injured. Just thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no can you do that?" He asked. The girl held two thumbs up, and Sherlock smiled. "So yes to both questions?" He asked. She dropped one hand but let the remaining hand stay thumbs up.

"The woman planned to take your father too?" He asked. She made a thumbs up. "Did she say where at any point?" He asked. She was seemingly annoyed, and ripped the note from him, pointing clearly at the address.

"43 Manchester Street." Sherlock called to Lestrade who nodded, now giving orders to his team.

"Anderson called a med team for the kids. They are downstairs." He told Sherlock. Donovan went to go help the little girl get downstairs but she pulled away, hiding in Sherlock's coat. Sherlock chortled at that and bent over to pick up the girl. Donovan rolled her eyes, and went to help John with one of the other two children. Once downstairs, Sherlock put the girl on the back of the ambulance and bolted off. John took a second to make sure the three children were going to be ok with the medical team, He slipped a quick note to one of the men in the ambulance, who looked at him funny for it and nodded. And then, he took off after Sherlock.

When they arrived at the next crime scene, before the police, this time four men were sprawled out on the floor. Small, round, holes were punctured in all four of the victim's heads. Shelock sighed. He stepped over the bodies. He started rifling around the scene. He pulled out a photo and threw it at John. "It's the murderer's car." He said. "The fourth victim is her own husband." He said. "Deborah is dull. Stupid. The little girl, now she was clever. She had immaculate handwriting for a seven year old. How many kids can spell Surgeon and Bartholomew's?" He said, picking up the woman's phone with gloved hands and hitting redial. A ring echoed through the house.

"Last call went out to her husband." Sherlock said, "Most likely to bring the men over." Sherlock said with a bored tone in his voice. Sherlock looked around the apartment some more, and the police arrived. Sherlock rolled his eyes, popping over the woman's laptop. He opened the history and groaned. "Stupid." He murmured, opening the website and handing the computer to Lestrade, a document from the hotel she booked a room at just before she would have had to be gone from the scene of the crime.

"Did you two need a ride home? It's bloody cold out there." Lestrade asked; Sherlock shrugged.

"We are only a couple of blocks from the flat." Sherlock stated flatly. John nodded in agreement. With that the consulting detective and the doctor left the home. They practically sprinted back home, luckily there was no snow lining the sidewalks, and very few ice patches.

When they arrived back at the flat John was instantly putting a fire in their fireplace. It was far too cold outside to leave the thing empty. After he finally got it started, he went to put on water in their kettle to boil.

"There's one thing that is bothering me about that case." John said, frowning and looking to Sherlock.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised at John.

"The wounds on the adults, they were all clinical. Clean, and precise. The wounds the children had didn't match, they were beaten and bloodied up, but not killed." John said.

"Simple. They didn't get as much of the drug, and when they woke up they tried to fight the criminal." Sherlock said.

"But why wouldn't she give them enough of the drug?" John asked, now even more confused.

"Children's lives are more structured and repetitive. Especially when it comes to the things they will and will not drink. You can bring out a bottle of champagne, or something none of he adults have never had and they will try it. They wouldn't notice the drug because they have no baseline to compare the drink too. Kids are pickier. She would have given the drug to them in something they enjoyed. The kids would have tasted something was wrong, and complained for a new one. The murderer wouldn't get them something new, but they wouldn't finish their drink. So they would have awakened from their stupor faster, and tried to stop her." Sherlock explained, as if it should have been completely obvious.

"She couldn't let them get away but couldn't bring herself to actually kill them so she hid them." Sherlock added. "You didn't take off your coat." Sherlock stated as he sat down on his chair. John chuckled, pulling off the coat and hanging it up. He noticed a letter was shoved into the pocket of Sherlock's own coat, ripped open, but shoved back into the envelope. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, with a return address belonging to a Vivian Marie Holmes. John looked curiously over to Sherlock, who was no longer paying much attention to him. John opened the letter.

It was a card, a deep blue with silver snowflakes, very classic. Inside was an invitation to a Christmas dinner.

"Aren't you going to attend?" John asked, waving the card as he walked back into the kitchen.

"Don't know. It depends if I get a case by then. Mummy never expects me to RSVP." Sherlock answered, looking up at John. "Don't go through my things." He added.

"Sticking out of you coat pocket." John said with a shrug. "Has my name on it too you know. Did you tell her I was sharing a flat with you now?" John asked curiously.

"No I didn't but Mycroft probably did." Sherlock said with a shrug. "Haven't spoken to mother since last Christmas." He added.

"You're going." John said finally, putting three teabags in their teapot and pouring the water in it to steep.

"Would you come?" Sherlock asked, looking up to John. "You were invited too after all."

"I dunno. What are these things like?" John asked.

"Dull. Mummy invites the extended family to the dinner, but they are usually cleared out by eight. Mycroft and I generally spend the weekend, sometimes longer, because it's so far away." Sherlock explained.

"And She actually wants me to come? She didn't just tag my name onto the invitation because she felt she had to?" John asked.

"No. My mother is not that type of woman. She only invites family unless she is honestly interested in seeing them. Mycroft was in a relationship for two years, and never once did mother invite his partner to the events" Sherlock explained. "I was quite surprised to see your name on the invitation, actually." He added.

"I don't want to intrude on your family event Sherlock." John said shifting uncomfortably.

"Mother wants you to come. If she didn't, she wouldn't have invited you. And anyways I want you to come. I don't want you to be alone on Christmas. Normal people consider that very sad do they not?" Sherlock asked looking at John.

"I wouldn't be alone. I would go visit Harry," John said, with a simple shrug. Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

"Don't lie. You might go visit your sister for an hour or two but you wouldn't spend the day with her. I know for a fact you wouldn't go visit your parents, though the reasoning behind it evades me." Sherlock drawled.

"My mother passed away. My father and I have had a very poor relationship for as long as I remember." John said with a shrug. "He sends letters, and I use them to light the fire." Sherlock looked at John curiously at that, as if logging it away for further use. John brought the tea tray into the living room and set it on the coffee table. He poured both him and Sherlock a cup, sweetened them properly and placed Sherlock's in the detective's outstretched hand.

"You never answered." Sherlock stated plainly.

"Answered what?" John asked, looking up.

"Would you come to Christmas dinner with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure, yea I'll come if you want me there." He said. It sounded curiously like an invitation to meet Sherlock's family, as if he were being shown off like a romantic partner, but John shook his head. That was impossible.

"Good. We leave tomorrow. It takes a while to drive there. Will you be ready?" Sherlock asked. John nodded.

"Is this going to be formal or…?" John asked trailing off.

"Dinner is formal. After that it's casual. Very casual. Mummy doesn't even let Mycroft wear a suit." Sherlock said.

"That should prove to be interesting." John said with an easy smile. Sherlock shivered, pulling his knees up to his chest and holding his cup of tea in both his hands.

"Should have taken that ride from Lestrade. Freezing." He complained. John snickered and rolled his eyes.

"The tea should help. We weren't out there too long." John said, grabbing Sherlock a blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. "You should get some sleep if we are driving out to your family home tomorrow. I'm going to pack up and do the same." John added.

Sherlock held up his cup of tea, dismissively, and John went up to his room and did as he said.

Hours later he woke up in a cold sweat. The nightmares hadn't been as bad since moving in to 221B Baker Street, but touching on the topic of his father had set them off. Instead of war flashback, however, he got flashbacks from the last time he saw his father. The man had broken his jaw, kicked him out, and told him not to come back.

John padded down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Sherlock was asleep, but huddled into a ball on the couch, desperately trying to cover himself with the folded blanket in his sleep. The consulting detective looked much more vulnerable like this, and even living with him it was a rare occasion to see the man in such a state. He added another blanket over Sherlock, not daring to move the blanket he was already clutching for fear of waking him up, and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge before going back up to his room.

5:17 am

His clock glared at him from the bedside table. There really was no point in attempting to go back to sleep, but he was too tired to attempt anything else, instead he took a few drinks of his water and curled back into bed.

The alarm screamed at him several hours later, but he hadn't fallen asleep. He hit the machine hard until it's screeching stopped, and got up and walked back downstairs.

"When did you wake up?" Sherlock asked as soon as he saw John. He now had both blankets wrapped around him like a cocoon, as he sat upright on the couch he fell asleep on.

"About quarter after five." John stated, knowing there was no use lying to the detective.

"Thank you. For the blanket." Sherlock said, looking up to John.

"I came down for some water, the fire was out and you looked cold." John said shrugging. It really wasn't that big of a deal.

"When do we need to leave?" John asked. It was the 24th, but Sherlock said they would need to leave today.

"How soon can you be ready?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John.

"That soon eh? How far is it?" John asked.

"Six hours." He explained, and John made a groaning sound.

"Did you get a rental?" John asked.

"Yes, well, Mycroft sent a car for us. Though he won't be accompanying us; he wants to ensure I arrive on time this year." Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"You were late last time then?" John asked curiously.

"Yes. Made a wrong turn because I was distracted by what looked like a car accident on the side of the road." He shrugged. "Not an accident but a murder, the officials on duty didn't want my help but the distraction got me a bit turned around" Sherlock explained. John nodded.

"I can grab my bag, and eat some breakfast and we can be off. Sound good?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded. This would prove to be an interesting holiday to say the least. John made them eggs on toast, and hands some to Sherlock before eating his own. Sherlock didn't eat a lot, but John knew he hadn't eaten in three days so he insisted. Sherlock did as he was told and they were off.

John drove most of the way while Sherlock slept. The directions were easy enough to follow, on the GPS Mycroft had explicitly set up for him. There was a vaguely threatening message telling him not to stray from the directions of the GPS.

He didn't, however, expect a speeding truck to smash into the driver's side of the vehicle halfway through an intersection in the middle of nowhere. The truck was seemingly fine, a bit crunched up at the front, but it sped off just as fast as it came.

John recognized that he was injured, broken arm right, and probably a few ribs. His head was killing him but he was pretty sure he wasn't concussed. He didn't think of those things, instead he was leaning over to inspect the injuries of the now wide-awake detective. He doubted anyone could sleep through a car accident like that.

"Are you alright?" John asked, breathing shallow and cradling his arm close to his chest. Sherlock had a few cuts and bruises, but nothing seemingly serious; it was John that got the full impact of the car.

"You're bleeding." Sherlock said worriedly, panic setting into his tone before smoothing out.

"Just got hit by a bloody truck. Of course Yes I'm bleeding. I'm fine." He said lying through his teeth. "Can't get the car to start back up. The GPS said the nearest town was an hour drive." John said grimly. "And I don't think I can walk." He added. His legs seemed fine, but the pain in his side would be debilitating. Not to mention Hypothermia would set in quickly with this wind and these temperatures.

"John. You aren't fine. There is glass sticking out of your face, you just got hit dead on by a truck and we are in the middle of nowehere.

Ah, glass. That's why his head hurt so badly, despite the fact that he didn't think he really hit it on anything.

"Sherlock, please now is not the time for you of all people to have a panic attack. Pull the back seats out so you can reach the trunk and pull out bags and that pile of blankets into the main part of the car and shut it." John instructed calmly. Years of training as an army doctor coming out smoothly.

Sherlock sprung into motion at the instructions, clamoring awkwardly into the back seat and doing as he was told. When he flipped the seats of the car back up, John carefully climbed into the back with him, wincing as he hit his arm and ribs on the seat. John picked up one of the heavier blankets.

"Now what? Should we not get the glass out?" Sherlock asked.

"Stop worrying about me for a moment please? Take each end of the blanket and tie it to either of the hand holds of the car. It's not much but it will block some of the wind coming in from the broken windows. Now put back on your coat and scarf. Better yet, put on one of my oversized jumpers and then the coat and scarf." John said, "It is cold enough outside that Hypothermia could set in in minutes." He said, waiting for Sherlock to do as instructed.

"It's bleeding rather a lot. I don't want you to pass out from blood loss." Sherlock said worriedly, but doing as he was told, carefully so he didn't bump into John too much.

"I have a first aid kit in my bag. Grab it." John said.

"Why do even have one?" Sherlock asked.

"I never travel extensively without one. Never know when it might come in handy. There's a mirror, alcohol wipes and medical thread. Take those things out. And the tweezers." He said. Sherlock did so. "wipe down your hands, the tweezers and my face with the alcohol wipes. Sherlock did so, but shaking when he got to John's face.

"Don't want to hurt you." He said.

"You will hurt me. But it's necessary. When you are done with that pull the glass out of my cuts" John said. Sherlock sighed but nodded. He shifted in the car to have better access to the Doctor's face. Sherlock looked more composed now, determined and collected, but his hands were shaking as he pulled the shards of glass out. John didn't mention it. When Sherlock nodded and claimed he finished, John looked into the mirror carefully. There was a nasty cut dangerously close to his temple, no wonder Sherlock looked so worried. He would need to stich it.

"Hold up the mirror for me." He instructed, taking the needle and thread from the detective.

"You're right handed." Sherlock announced.

"Yes I am." John said, looking at Sherlock confused.

"How are you going to stitch up your own face?" Sherlock asked.

"With my left hand. Mirror now. And call your brother for help. I have the coordinated from the GPS if he needs them" He said firmly, Sherlock did so and John began his work. He wiped his hands down with the alcohol wipes and then opened the bagged needle and then the thread. He cut the thread off with his teeth. Not the most sanitary but he would have to make do.

It took John only a few minutes, and lots of swearing to finish the stitches. By then the car cooled down considerably. Sherlock was shaking like a leaf, and John knew it wasn't from shock. John wrapped the remaining blankets around himself and Sherlock, moving very close to the detective, practically sits in his lap.

"Mycroft didn't need the coordinates, he traced the GPS and it notified him, apparently it notified him when we got into the accident. He is on his way, but he warns that it will be about an hour. Why are you in my lap John?" Sherlock asked his voice wavering from the shivers.

"Because I'm shorter than you and we need to share body heat." He explained. "You should eat more. It's cold but not that cold. You shouldn't have started suffering from hypothermia for other ten or so minutes before you should have, and that's if you were outside in the wind." John said, wrapping them

in Sherlock's coat first and then the remaining blankets.

"I thought that was just something people did in movies as an excuse for the main charcters to jump one-another." Sherlock said, making John laugh.

"No there is some merit to sharing body heat." John explained. "Whatever you do I need you not to fall asleep before Mycroft gets here." John said.

"I don't want to die John." Sherock said, then looking at John more seriously. "I don't want you to die." He added, but in a firmer tone.

"Neither of us are dying. Your brother will get here, and we'll go to a hospital and then have a pleasant day with your family tomorrow." He said firmly, though it didn't take much more than a half of an hour for the two of them to succumb to sleep.