Author's Note: Well, this is the last episode, timed for Christmas Eve. Thank you all for reading, commenting and following along. I'd like to wish you all a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year. May the 1st January 2014 bring you all the Sherlockyness you desire.

(And please remember, comments are the best present for writers.)

His arm is thrown carelessly across my chest. His head rests on my good shoulder. I run my fingers through his curls absently, aware of the sensation of the strands running over my skin, of his body the length of my side. We have slept for a few hours, and woken in the grey light of a December morning, suddenly hyper-aware of each other's nakedness.

Presently, he lifts his head and traces the edge of my scar, eyes keenly observing.

'So what's with the sheets? Or need I ask?'

'You said familiarise yourself.'

'But you couldn't bring yourself to dress up for me?' He tilts his head, with an impish smirk.

'You'd look so much better in ivory silk,' I grin.

'I know you tried them on,' he said, self-satisfied.

'Of course I did.'

'I shall buy you a set of your own. Properly fitted.'

'I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Oh, I don't know,' I sigh. 'I think I'd like that to be just for you. You know, a little bit of dressing up, just for a treat. I don't want to be doing kinky stuff all the time.'

He strokes a fingertip around the brown ring of my nipple aureole, watching fascinated as it tightens under his touch.

'You are a source of endless surprises.'

'I doubt it. Not for the great Sherlock Holmes.'

'I assure you, that is part of your allure. I have no idea where to start with reading you. I certainly could not have predicted you would decline the offer of corsetry.'

I laugh at him. 'I'm not saying I don't like it. It feels great. There's just something about the idea of you in it.'

'Trussed up like the heroine of some Victorian bodice-ripper for you to rescue?'

'Don't be daft.'

'Its not daft, it's a perfectly reasonable fantasy. Don't try to tell me you don't have any fantasies.'

'Well, its funny you should say that…'

He grins at me, and raises an eyebrow. Oh God. Here we go.

Christmas has spread its tinsel tendrils out across London. Every available surface is glazed with it. Oxford Street is crammed with neurotic shoppers. Lights swing in the bitter wind. Not that we notice. We have spent the last week lost in each other, barely leaving the flat. Sherlock has turned down two excellent cases. The second time he did it, I actually took his temperature and pulse!

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, we are slouching on the sofa, much as we have done for days, at least when not in bed. He lies on his back, with his head on my thighs while I feed him chocolate coins. Now, there was another secret I had not suspected. Sherlock Holmes is obsessed with chocolate coins. He can't get enough. We've been through seven bags this week. I keep having to dash out to the newsagent on the corner for more. Tonight, around my ankles, a scree of their little foil skins is building up. I have the waxy, sickly chocolate under all my fingernails from picking the gold and silver shells off them. He won't do it himself. He insists on being fed, like some debauched Roman emperor, lying in my lap.

'You know these are not a food group, right?'

'Mmmmm,' he says, sugary brown sludge gathering at the corners of his mouth. I make a mental note to get some of that chocolate body paint.

'No excuse not to eat your tea, right?'

He gives me a look that I can only describe as 'old fashioned'.

'John, I have managed to jettison all my other, far more damaging addictions in favour of two: you and chocolate coins. I hardly think you have cause to worry.'

'You ate all the chocolate tree decorations too,' I say, and can't keep the disappointment out of my tone. They were really nice ones too, little golden teddy bears made out of Belgian chocolate. He waives a dismissive hand.

'There'll always be more.'

'Not tonight. The shops are shut now, and nowhere will be open again till Boxing Day.'

'Then we'll just have to fall back on my other addiction,' he says, running the pink tip of his tongue around his sumptuous lips.

Which sets my mind racing again. Off to the Cracker Box.

In recent days we have explored it's every permutation. A series of tableaux fill my mind, memories of pleasures enjoyed. Sherlock laid out on the bed, shackled hand and foot to the bedstead, his pearlescent skin glistening with sweat as I pleasure him. Myself in a similar position, as he kneels over me, sliding the prostate massager into my body before he rides me with utter abandon. Sherlock parading around the house in nothing but that silken corset and his lace-topped stockings. The long showers and baths we have taken together. The long nights, stretched out in one another's arms.

I haven't even thought of wanting a drink.

(Oh, and in case you are wondering, I took the 'I am your doctor and I know what's good for you' approach with the sounding wand. I issued an edict that it was never to be used on pain of, well, pain. He took it from my hand and threw it out of the window without even blinking. I think it might have dented the roof of a passing car, but I'm not certain because by that point I was kissing him into a breathless heap.)

Suddenly he sits up, sharp and alert, snapping me out of my reverie.

'John, look at the tree,' he says.

We put up the tree earlier in the day. He sneered that it was too 'coupley' a thing to do together, and then proceeded to go mad with the tinsel. Now our Christmas tree has a slightly drunken lean to the left, and looks like an explosion in a decorations factory. Sherlock might be the apotheosis of chic when it comes to clothes but his taste in Yuletide décor seems to have got stuck at the age of four. As with so many things, Sherlock doesn't know when to stop.

'The tree, yes,' I say. It sparkles. It shines. It is covered in tiny lights that wink on and off.

'Commit it to memory,' he commands. 'Put it in your mind palace.'

'I don't have a mind palace,' I grumble. 'If I did, it would be more of a bungalow. Or maybe a council house. Only you would have a bloody palace.'

'Look at the tree, John,' he insists.

'Yes, yes, alright.'

'Imprint it upon your mind.'

'Sherlock-'

'Because from now on, whenever you see a Christmas tree, you are going to think of me.'

'But-'

'See how it's lit up? That's what you do to me, John. That's how you make me feel. How you'll always make me feel. Glowing. Like that tree. And I want to be certain you never forget it.'

As if I could.

Merry Christmas Everyone!