It was as ordinary day as days get at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading emails on his phone, John was making tea, and Mycroft was sitting in John's chair with an annoyed expression on his face. John hadn't listened half of it since he was in the kitchen and just glanced towards the living room, but he had gathered that yet another case of national importance had been declined by Sherlock. Ordinary day indeed.

Rosie was sitting on the floor with her Periodic table building blocks and was determinedly building a tower against Mycroft's left leg. To John's delight, Mycroft looked like he had absolutely no idea how to react to that. For some unfathomable reason, Rosie seemed to like Mycroft, even though the man hardly even spoke to her.

"Still playing the happy family, I see," Mycroft finally said when Sherlock just continued to ignore him. "Just watch out for yourself," he continued more silently.

John was just returning to the living room with a tea tray in his hands but Mycroft's tone made him stop at the doorway. He didn't know what the brothers had been talking about, but suddenly Mycroft had sounded almost caring. He cast a worried look at Sherlock, but nothing seemed to be amiss. Still, a caring Mycroft made him a little uneasy: he had learned a thing or two about the Holmes way of caring over the years.

"No need to worry anymore," Sherlock said almost kindly, making John even more curious about the discussed topic.

"You must know that even our parents think-" Mycroft started, but Sherlock stopped him firmly.

"They still think that you are a meddling know-it-all. Quite righteously, I'm afraid."

Well, whatever it was, Sherlock had clearly hit a nerve and was currently winning the game, John supposed. "Apply cold water on a burned area," he muttered to himself while pouring a cuppa. He was sure he saw Sherlock's mouth twitch, but Mycroft was not amused.

"I don't have time for this while there might be a spy at the British government!"

"You are the British government, shouldn't you be searching for the culprit yourself?" John asked, a bit annoyed that he had to sit on the uncomfortable client's chair while Mycroft was in his soft armchair.

"Yes, brother dear. I would be bored to tears watching after your stuffy coworkers, that's your scene, not mine," Sherlock stated. "And I have other things to do".

Mycroft seethed and John had to hide his widening smile behind his mug. After all that had happened inside the walls of Sherringford, and afterwards, the brothers' relationship had been somewhat awkward. It was good to see them almost back to normal. If someone had told him that one day he'd be happy to see Sherlock and Mycroft sniping at each other, he would have laughed.

"What could possibly be more important than-" Mycroft started, but Sherlock beat him to it: "I have a meeting with Santa Claus," he interrupted with so much glee in his voice, that weaker men would have been scared. As it was, John just snorted in his teacup and Mycroft rolled his eyes with precision.

"Sherlock, be serious!"

"Oh, I am. Please see yourself out, I have to pack!"

Finally Mycroft had enough and stood up.

"My-off! No!" Rosie wailed, as her tower collapsed due to his movement.

"Yes, My-off, how dare you!" Sherlock laughed while John jumped to stop his angered daughter from throwing her blocks at the offender.

"Sherlock, this is actually important!" Mycroft stated, strictly ignoring the both Watsons on the floor.

"Yes, it always is with you, but think about it! Now I can deliver your letter to Santa!" Sherlock answered with a wicked grin.

Mycroft looked so delightfully affronted when he left that John almost congratulated Sherlock on the hilarious excuse. However, he had known the man long enough, so instead he had to make sure Sherlock wasn't actually telling the truth.

It turned out he was.

"So it's a… case?"

"No. I'm going there to convince Santa that I haven't been naughty, so I will get a serial killer for Christmas!" Sherlock stated mock-seriously while flipping open his laptop. John always wondered how he could read and roll his eyes at the same time. It was a Holmesian art form.

John failed to form any witty comeback, so Sherlock continued: "Of course it's a case, idiot, he's dead!". When John still didn't get it, he sighed dramatically and turned his laptop so John could read his email too.

A Finnish police officer had written about the death of a young student, who had been working part time at the Santa Claus Village as a Santa ("that has to be the worst job ever" Sherlock muttered). During the investigation the officer had found out that the victim hadn't been the only Santa-worker found dead during the last two years. Nobody else believed there could be a connection, because only this one had died at work. The other three had been concluded to be different accidents: a car crash, a heart attack and hypothermia after passing out drunk in the snow.

"See, I don't have to convince anyone. I got a serial for Christmas anyway!" Sherlock stated triumphantly, and John let out a fond laugh. Sherlock joined him, and for a moment they were back in time, when Moriarty had been just a shadow, nobody had heard of Mary, and they had been just two friends laughing together at macabre jokes.

"You don't think those accidents are coincidences then," John had to ask, and Sherlock did not disappoint him: "There is no such thing as a coincidence," he answered without missing a beat, and soon they were laughing again at a private joke.

"So… when are we leaving?," John asked, while wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Sherlock stopped laughing at that, and looked at John with a weird expression. Like he was surprised, hopeful and resigned at the same time.

"Can you come? I mean.. It's at least three nights, and Rosie..?" he asked carefully, and John sobered up at once. How could he have forgotten? He looked at the girl who was still playing on the floor, ignoring her surroundings completely.

"I… I'd want to," he started. He really did, he realized. He wanted to spend more time with Sherlock, with just the two of them like they once used to. Being a father changed a lot of things, though.

"I'd really want to, but I can't impose on Molly anymore, she was a saint for those weeks after… well, after, and..."

Sherlock looked thoughtful and a bit sad, and John kicked himself for bringing that into the conversation. It wasn't fair to praise Molly in front of him, when he had offered to help too, and John had bluntly refused. Mary's death and what came after was a topic they had wordlessly agreed to avoid. At first John had even been thankful for it, after all he had had his own issues to deal with. Now though… he hated it. It was like the famous elephant in the room. They pretended it wasn't there, but sooner or later it would start moving with destructive power, unless it was let out before that happened. However, before John found the words, Sherlock had already leaped miles ahead:

"But if Molly, or someone else could take care of her, would you consider.. I mean, if.."

"Yes!" John answered emphatically. It felt wrong to see Sherlock so unsure about it. "I'd really like to go with you, you know. I'd like to see you fight polar bears," he tried to lighten the mood.

"There are no polar bears in Finland," Sherlock answered with a chuckle, but the thoughtful expression did not go away.

"Well, we could ask... If you..." he started slowly, and looked at John with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Myparents," he finally said so quickly that John almost missed it.

"Your..?"

"They have been asking, you know. Because they seem to consider Rosie their granddaughter.. not that we are.. you know, but closest to grandchildren they can ever get, and they said they would love to .."

"Breathe, Sherlock!" John said gently, and Sherlock blinked rapidly before continuing a bit slower: "I didn't ask them to, but they.. offered.. if we.. you.. ever need help.." his voice faded away, and John was actually speechless.

"That is.. wow! Seriously?," John finally squeaked. Sherlock just nodded and looked a little skittish. "That's… great! I mean… I was actually sad about how she'd never have grandparents.."

"So.. that's settled then? We will ask them?" Sherlock asked, sounding surprised. John wondered briefly why that was, but didn't dare to ask.

"If you are sure they don't mind," he said instead, and Sherlock flashed one of his rare truly happy smiles.

And after two days, they were on their way.

***

"I thought Finns were supposed to be punctual," Sherlock muttered while crushing his cigarette on a tray. They were waiting for a night train north on a quiet station after a short commuter train drive from the airport.

"Their trains sure aren't," John answered and lifted his coat collars against the wind.

"Everything ok?" he continued, when he caught Sherlock searching for another cigarette. Sherlock didn't smoke at home anymore, not after Rosie had moved in, but John wasn't very surprised to see it now, just as he wasn't surprised that Sherlock didn't answer to his question.

The last time they had been together at the airport John had found out that Sherlock wasn't actually very fond of flying. He had teased Sherlock about it then, but now he very much regretted that: Sherlock had been feeling uneasy this time as well, but tried to hide it now. That was a pattern formed after Mary's death, or maybe even earlier. Sherlock did not want to burden him.

"Is it the flying or the people?," he asked gently just to let know it was okay to talk.

"Too much idiocy and too little space to contain it," Sherlock mumbled dismissively, staring at the distance.

"Soon you can lock yourself up into a sleeper coach and refuse to see anyone.. well, except me," John said, nudging his arm.

"I don't mind you," Sherlock said hastily, suddenly staring John with searching eyes.

"Good to know I won't be sleeping in the corridor," he joked, and immediately kicked himself for it. When Sherlock was feeling like this, he missed jokes by a mile.

"Really, I don't!" he insisted. "You are not an idiot".

"Relax, I know. Just fishing for compliments."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and they continued in silence. John wondered why he hadn't noticed years ago how much Sherlock actually cared about their friendship. After John had moved back to Baker Street, Sherlock had been acting like he had to be perfect in every way or John would pack his bags and leave. Because Sherlock was who he was, he was bound to slip from time to time, and the uncertainty on his face afterwards was like a direct needle at John's conscience. Sherlock had sacrificed so much just to keep John happy. What had he given in return? Jokes, distrust, even violence.

"Coping mechanism," his therapist had said, and John believed her, now - after months and months of intensive counselling. Whatever he had convinced himself, John had never really forgiven Sherlock for faking his death. It had been easier to regard Sherlock as a lying and unfeeling machine than to really stop and think about the reasons behind his actions and to trust again. That had also made it easier to blame him. That had been the worst part: John really had taken it out on Sherlock, and Sherlock had accepted it, hugged him, and never mentioned it afterwards.

John watched his companion and tried to see the cold and calculating man he had believed him to be for so long. Sherlock had fished his phone from his pocket and was scrolling through something while holding a cigarette. He looked tired and so very human. After Sherlock's fall John had thought a lot about how Sherlock's attitude and social skills had developed during the short time they had known each other. Those memories had shattered when he had come back. John had felt so betrayed that he had started to believe all that progress had been just another lie.

It had been a revelation to realize that not only had the progress been real, but it had also continued, and not because of John's actions anymore, but despite them. There was so much to apologize for, and John just didn't know how to start.

"Dick-yours-bye," he said suddenly while staring at the sign over the platform.

"What?" Sherlock huffed and John could not help but chuckle at his confusion. If he didn't know how to talk about serious things, the least he could do was to make Sherlock smile again.

"That's what it says"

"It's Dickursby"

"Of course you learned perfect Finnish for the trip.."

"It's Swedish!"

"What does it mean? Dick village?"

"Well, 'by' actually means a little village."

"When exactly did you become fluent in Swedish?"

"I'm fluent with google translate," Sherlock smiled and waved his phone in his fingers.

When the train finally came, they were both giggling at the stupid jokes, and John felt a peculiar warmth inside. His therapist had helped him in many ways, but all that talking about his marriage and Sherlock had also stirred some very deeply buried feelings in him. "Why didn't you tell him, back then," she had asked, and John really didn't know. All his previous reasons seemed stupid, and now too much had broken between them almost entirely because of him.

He left Sherlock to settle down in their sleeper coach while he went to search for the restaurant car for something to eat. Sherlock had sat on the bed, fingers flying on his phone. Most probably he was informing their client about their schedule, but there was also another possibility. John had very mixed feelings about it, but if Sherlock was happy with Irene Adler, then John would be happy for him, no matter what. It wasn't his place to even wish anything else. He didn't really deserve Sherlock's friendship anymore, let alone anything more...

John shook his head, and picked up two sandwiches for them. He should not be thinking about this. It must be the situation. They hadn't really been by themselves that much after Mary's passing. Of course there had been all kinds of cases for them, but there was always Rosie to consider. He checked his phone, but there were no new messages after the one that had arrived during their flight. Rosie was asleep and everything was well. With the sandwiches, juice and some candy in his hands he returned to the sleeper coach.

The sleeper coach's bedroom was small and cramped. It contained a narrow bunk bed, a window and a small chair, which was folded into the wall. Sherlock had shed his coat and jacket, and was lying on the bottom bunk deeply in his thoughts. His phone was on the pillow, and John dropped the shoppings next to it, making Sherlock snap his eyes open.

"I got us supper," he announced sitting on the bed as well and kicking away his shoes. "And I'm not climbing to the upper bunk, just so you know."

"There's nothing wrong with your leg," Sherlock answered petulantly, moving a bit to give John more room on the bed.

"You are younger!" John argued and poked Sherlock's thigh with his finger.

"So you admit being an old man?"

John could not help it, he started giggling.

"What are we? Twelve, fighting over a bunk bed?"

"You started it! I was here first," Sherlock answered, but soon he was laughing as well.

They ate their sandwiches in companionable silence, but when Sherlock rolled his sleeves up, John could not help but look at the fading track marks just to make sure they were just that: fading.

"I'm doing well," Sherlock said silently, noticing John's glance.

"I know, I just.." John tried to find the words. While he had been visiting his therapist, Sherlock had worked hard to get and keep himself clean. He had even voluntarily joined a drug test program for MET employees, so he was now officially tested in random intervals. Still…

"I wouldn't trust myself either if I were you, don't worry about it," Sherlock said.

“When you told Mycroft there's nothing to worry about, did you mean.."

Sherlock looked a bit startled, but recovered quickly. “Partly, but mostly he just wanted to point out that caring is not an advantage," he said with a grimace. "He is still shocked that I think you as part of my family".

“Well, a battered ex military doctor with average intelligence? You could do so much better," John joked daringly, even though he was really moved by Sherlock's words. The image of naked Irene Adler swam into his mind.

“Don't speak so lowly of yourself," Sherlock reprimanded while throwing the juice bottle to the bin. “And no, I wasn't texting her earlier".

“What?" It was John's turn to be startled and a fair bit embarrassed.

“Obvious. You keep looking at me when I text, thinking I won't notice. You are curious and you are constantly making assumptions, but you have never really asked. Since we are stuck in this train for the night, you might as well ask and get it over with," Sherlock sighed. He had flopped back on his back and closed his eyes.

“It's not my business, really! Whatever makes you happy," John tried to dodge the dangerous terrain. “We could watch a movie from your phone or something".

“I have nothing saved, and the internet connection is abysmal," Sherlock stated and lifted his legs to John's lap. “Ask!"

“You don't have to answer, if you -"

“Obvious"

“I.. ok," John Watson was nothing if not curious. “When did you meet her last time?"

“Sometime after the.. Norbury case" Sherlock answered, hesitating a little.

“You can talk about Mary, you know. I'm doing well, too," John pointed out. Sherlock nodded, but didn't comment on it.

“That's when she changed my text alert, I definitely did not load it from my old phone to the new one. I know you were wondering about that," he said instead.

“I did, yeah," John admitted reluctantly. He was feeling relieved, but knew he shouldn't. “So you two haven't met in over a year?"

“No."

“Why? What happened then?"

“She yelled at me for being high and almost breaking her cover, offered me a toilet to puke into, and some advice I don't really remember. Which is stupid, because I went to meet her in order to get that advice."

John's eyes widened. He didn't know which part of Sherlock's words should shock him the most. He didn't like to think about Sherlock's downward spiral or his own hand in it. It was always a shock to hear how deep he had sunk.

“Did she..?"

“No John, she did not take advantage. And no, we have never had sex."

“She obviously wanted to!" John blurted before he could stop himself.

“Well, would you sleep with someone just because that person wanted you?" Sherlock asked. His jaw was tense and lips pressed to a thin line, but he kept his eyes closed.

“Point taken," John muttered. "So, you don't want her?" he had to clarify regardless of his fear that his relief and dissolving jealousy was too obvious.

“No, I don't. She's a friend, and she has a girlfriend. Satisfied?"

Sherlock was snappish even though he had practically ordered John to ask these questions. The old John would have just snapped back, but now he stopped to think. He wasn't good at talking about this kind of stuff, but neither was Sherlock. Ordering John to ask the questions could be a very Sherlockian way to get certain things said. But what things? Come to think of it, Sherlock had been similarly upset every time John had assumed something about his relationship with the woman.

"It bothers you? What I have said about you two?"

"It's.." Sherlock knitted his brows in thought. "You make it sound like I'm an idiot for not taking the chance with her."

"That's never.."

"'High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand'?" Sherlock quoted with one eye open, staring at John.

John had to swallow. He had said that, hand't he?

"I'm sorry, I didn't.."

"I told her once that you think love is a mystery to me, and it was what I wanted people to think back then. I just find it distasteful that you still think that."

John looked at his friend, dozens of questions running circles in his head. None of them were really something he could ask, though. The tiny sliver of hope was threatening to surface and John determinedly squashed it down as inappropriate. Sherlock was tense, almost like he was afraid of John's reaction, and whose fault was that?

"I don't think that," John said and leaned his back to the wall behind him with a sigh. "I'm sorry. You know I wasn't coping well then, and I saw you willingly miss the chance to a life I had just lost. It felt unfair. And later I just genuinely thought you'd be happier with a woman in your life."

Sherlock had listened quietly, and relaxed a bit. He had closed his eyes again.

"I told you once, not my area," he said with an inkling of humour in his voice. John smiled at the memory. That's right. Before Irene Adler he had once wondered about something entirely different...

“Just one question left," he said and took a deep breath. “Are you gay?"

Sherlock's legs tensed on John's lap and he opened his eyes.

“It's fine if you are, really. I'm just curious," John continued when the answer wasn't forthcoming. Had he gone too far and exposed himself? “Would not change a thing, I promise," he continued, regretting his curiosity. "I just wondered, when you said that, but then I thought you and Irene.. “, John was clearly babbling and when he noticed that, he snapped his mouth shut.

Sherlock was now staring at the bottom of the upper bunk.

“Yes," he finally admitted, looking simultaneously tense and relieved, like he had started the whole conversation in order to get that information out, but didn't know what would happen next.

“Ok," John stated simply and straightened himself on the bed next to Sherlock. The bed was narrow, so their bodies were touching. John wasn't good with the words, so he wanted to show Sherlock that the admission did not bother him. At the same time he kept the touch as platonic as possible. After all, Sherlock had only been upset about John's assumptions on Irene, and that didn't indicate anything about his feelings for anyone else. John tried to keep his rebellious hopes on a tight leash.

“Thank you for telling me," he said. “But I'm still not sleeping on the upper bunk".

Sherlock let out a startled laugh, and sat up with an almost shy smile.

“I wasn't going to sleep anyway. They promised to send me some crime scene photos," he admitted and moved to sit on the foot of the bed. "I'm not climbing up there either though, the ceiling is too low for sitting! I could stay here.. if you don't mind?"

John had a feeling that Sherlock wasn't only asking about sitting on John's bed, but didn't comment on it.

"It's all fine," he answered, earning a small grin from Sherlock, and just stood up to change his clothes for sleep, trying to process the new information.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and a blanket from the upper bunk and made a comfortable nest for himself before he shut the lights. John wiggled under the sheets and tried to arrange his legs comfortably without kicking his friend. Sherlock's mobile screen shimmered in the darkness and gave his face soft bluish glow. The train's monotonous sounds just added to the unreal atmosphere.

"So, Janine?," John dared to ask now as his face could not be seen in the dark. Sherlock lowered his hands on his lap, but John saw the irritated expression before the mobile light turned off.

"If you believed anything the papers said, I -"

"No, I didn't!" John cut off hastily.

"No?"

"No. Want to know why?"

"Well?"

"You are the Sherlock Holmes, YOU'd wear the damn hat."

There was a short silence before something soft hit John on the face. A pillow.

"John Watson, you are disgusting!" Sherlock groaned and John dissolved into laughter. "Your face! I wish I could have seen your face!" he giggled, and heard Sherlock soon joining him.

"I told her I was saving it for the marriage," he stated mock seriously after they had calmed down a bit, causing John to crack up again.

"That was never gonna happen!," he got out between the laughing fits.

"Exactly!" Sherlock answered, and John could hear his grin from his voice. He still had questions, but felt that it was better to leave them unasked for now. This was a start, they were finally talking and he didn't want to ruin it.

Sherlock's phone chimed, and according to the excited gasp and expression of pure concentration, the time for questions was over anyway. His marriage with work had had it's ups and downs, but was still going strong. John wished him good night, and closed his eyes. The least he could do was to make sure Sherlock wasn't working alone anymore.

***

When the morning came, the night's intimacy between them was lost, but the game was on again. Sherlock was already awake and dressed when John woke up, and they spent the rest of the journey at the restaurant car eating breakfast and looking at the pictures Sherlock had received. The train arrived at the Rovaniemi station a little over 10 am, but it was barely dawn outside when they hopped off and started to look for the man who was supposed to pick them up.

"I'm sure Wikipedia called this place a city," John muttered as he watched around him, seeing only some apartment buildings and a parking area.

"Well, there's more people in London than in the whole of Finland combined. What did you expect?" Sherlock quipped and turned around to walk towards the parked cars leaving John to roll his eyes. His suitcase's wheels refused to roll on the snowy pavement, so he lifted his bag up and followed his friend, who had already spotted their contact person standing next to a red Toyota. The man had a small sign in his hands, with "Sherlock Holmes" written on it with a ballpoint pen.

"Hello!," The dark haired man stood up and offered his hand to them. "Petri Laine," he introduced himself.

"Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you, this is my friend and colleague John Watson," Sherlock answered and nodded towards John. That made John smile, lately Sherlock had been very careful to include him in the cases as an equal partner and he had to admit he was more than happy about it.

"Nice thing! How nice that you are together again, my wife used to read your blog and she was happy you write it again!," Mr. Laine told, while shaking John's hand firmly. "How was your trip? I was just sitting in my car here and then I noticed that I don't have a sign for you so I made this one. You use these signs in the big world, don't you? Sorry it's a bit ugly, but good that you find me anyway!"

Mr. Laine continued babbling when they sat in his car, asking about the trip, the weather, what they thought about the country and the snow. The man was obviously a fan, though he tried to blame it on his wife. He also quite obviously assumed Sherlock and John were a couple.

"Our government will allow same sex marriage next year, isn't that great!" he went on with a wink through the rear-view-mirror. John raised his eyebrows, but said nothing and just nodded instead.

"I believe we are here for a murder investigation," Sherlock pointed out in a clipped tone, avoiding John's gaze.

"Yes sorry sorry, I'm taking you to the cabin that has been set up for you. You can put your things there and be comfortable until my brother Marko gets there. He has all the info about your case, I just promised to pick you up from train because he is busy. Could you guys sign a picture for me by the way. For my wife of course?"

Mr. Laine didn't cease talking during the whole way from the station to the cabin, and he didn't seem disturbed by John's short answers in the least. John was sure Sherlock had put the man on mute. When they finally reached their destination, John was feeling exhausted and had learnt more about the country they were in than he thought possible in such a short time. Sun had already risen before they were alone again.

"It has been a long time since someone has assumed," John sighed and sat on the bed. The cabin had one bedroom with twin beds, and a small bathroom with a sauna.

"Assumed what?" Sherlock muttered as he dropped his suitcase on the other bed and started to unpack his clothes with great care. John always wondered how it was possible to be so messy with everything else, but to be almost OCDish about his clothes.

"That we are a couple. Makes me weirdly nostalgic, that."

Sherlock lifted his gaze, startled.

"It used to bother you quite a lot," he said after a short pause. He was looking away again, sorting his socks.

"I know, seems a bit stupid now, doesn't it?" John stated and stretched his legs. It was good to have room to relax them after so long in a cramped train bed.

"I suppose..," Sherlock answered slowly. "Doesn't it bother you anymore?" he continued with a hint of skepticism in his voice.

"Well.. I guess I have finally realized it really does not matter what people think of me," John said, and realized that while it wasn't completely true, it was comforting to finally be able to let go of the anger those assumptions had risen in him.

Sherlock made a non-committal noise, but didn't answer.

"It never bothered you though. I always wondered why," John continued.

"Maybe it has never mattered to me what people think," Sherlock responded snarkily. It wasn't the answer John had hoped for, but it was the one he had expected.

"Yeah, maybe," he allowed, but didn't really believe it. "That's not true though, is it? It does matter to you."

"Yes, well. Maybe I was just happy that someone believed me capable of having a relationship. Why did it bother you then?," Sherlock snapped. He tried to make it sound like an offhand comment, but he was definitely avoiding John's eyes while saying it. The answer broke John's heart, and for a moment he regretted asking. How lonely Sherlock had been under all that indifference? He almost changed the subject, but after Sherlock's admission, he owed him an answer too. John considered his options, and finally decided to go with the truth.

"It was denial. Mostly. I…," John had to stop and swallow. I would not do to use present tense.. "I was attracted to you," he finally let out. After that the words came easier: "And well, I was living with the world's most observant man… I was scared to death that you would notice. And then suddenly you were my best friend, and we had such great time together… I didn't want to ruin it by making it awkward". John stopped to draw breath, and managed to look at Sherlock, scared of what he'd find. Sherlock was staring at him with an astonished expression, making John's insides lurch. "I knew you were.. no, are! Married to your work, don't worry," he said lightly, making the corner's of Sherlock's mouth twitch, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I made it awkward, didn't I," John muttered.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed quickly, almost startling John. "Sorry, I.. I've told you this before but -"

"I know, you don't need to worry. Really!"

"I didn't mean.. that," Sherlock swallowed. "You know the biggest miscalculation I made when I… left, was about how much you cared about me? I think I'm still underestimating how vast that error was."

"No," John said gently. "The biggest miscalculation was to keep me out of the loop, long before your… fall" It wasn't easy to talk about those days, but they could not keep it all bottled up anymore.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, looking unsure and devastated.

"Hey. I have forgiven you. Truly, this time," John said, trying to sound reassuring. Sherlock sat heavily on the bed, his back turned towards John. They were quiet for a moment before Sherlock turned to look at him again.

"I think.. No, I'm sure my parent's are assuming too," he said gravely. It took a moment for John to get what he was talking about.

"Really?" he groaned. It all made sense now.

"They have never actually said anything, but Mycroft was needling me about it and I think they consider themselves Rosie's grandparents," Sherlock grimaced, looking almost apologetic.

"Am I going to get the break-his-heart-or- speech from your father when we come back?" John squeaked, knowing full well how far from a dream-son-in-law he would be.

"You already got that from Mycroft!" Sherlock snorted, almost smiling again. John wasn't convinced.

"That was years ago! And that time he didn't believe I was your -"

"If my parents are going to do that, it will be mummy, not father. And I'm astonished that this is such a surprise to you. They have been quite obvious!"

"Well that's… Is that why you were so surprised I accepted them for baby sitters?"

Sherlock looked away, and John sat up.

"I don't mind, you know," he said a bit awkwardly. "But it's your mother, you deal with her if she'll get upset on being wrong!"

Someone knocked the door before Sherlock had time to answer.

Marko Laine was a younger and broader version of his brother. He introduced himself promptly ("call me Marko"), apologized for his brother ("He didn't leave me in peace after I told him who was coming") and without any further preamble, he hit some files on the table.

"The first death was on spring 2013. The guy was drunk and drove his car to a tree. This can be just an accident, the weather was poor and the driver and passenger both were drunk over their arses, but you said don't leave anything out, so.."

Sherlock nodded approvingly and gestured Marko to continue. The second death had happened on next winter. Young man had been drinking at a bar, and passed out in the snow on his way home. There was some evidence that he hadn't been walking alone, but not enough proof to suspect anyone. Third one was on same winter. The guy had slipped in sauna and hit his head on stove. He was found by his mother. The autopsy images were disturbing. All of these had been ruled out as accidents.

The last one was something else though. The victim had died in the middle of the children, wearing a full Santa Claus costume. There had been strong drugs in his system, and some suspicious pills were found in his vitamin jar mixed with the normal ones. His heart had failed.

"So, what do you think?" Marko asked after the explanation. Sherlock was ignoring him and gave his full focus on the files.

"Could we keep these files for a moment?" John asked, as Sherlock didn't seem to hear his surroundings anymore.

"I don't think anyone notices those old ones, they are closed cases. You have to take pictures of the new one, I have to return that," Marko answered, looking at Sherlock quite hopefully. "I don't know if there is anything serious, but I feel something is not right. I can't help you officially, but here is the phone number for a friendly janitor at Santa Claus village. He can show you places".

John thanked him and took the number. Sherlock was still quietly inspecting the files and taking pictures, so it was left for John to assure Marko that Sherlock indeed believed there was something fishy, and they would most definitely call him if they found out something.

After Marko's departure, John had trouble concentrating on the case. He was a bit restless about the abrupt end of the conversation (he had just told Sherlock about his attraction, for Chrissakes!), but Sherlock had pushed all that aside (or just deleted it? Could he have done that?) and was now reading the witness accounts with the aid of google translate. He had given the autopsy reports for John to read, and while he understood some of the numbers, there really wasn't much information to be found unless he learned a new language in the course of the day. The pictures were a bit more useful though, and luckily there was many of them.

"There is an address for the sauna victim," Sherlock said after a long silence, and showed the map application from his phone. "We should be able to walk there but we need to take torches with us, the sun will set soon."

"Not too much daylight around here," John muttered and went back for his still packed bags. He unpacked a backpack and started to gather useful stuff in it. He didn't feel good about running in the darkness in completely foreign surroundings in the middle of nowhere. Could they even get a GPS signal there? At the same it was also an adventure, so he didn't say anything and just packed his first aid kit with the rest of the stuff.

The sun set before the clock turned 2 PM, so after packing and eating the packed lunch they had grabbed from the train, it was already completely dark outside when they were finally ready to leave. The walk wasn't that long and the GPS was working well, but the way to the victim's cottage wasn't ploughed so they were trekking in knee-deep snow for half of the time. Marko had said that the victim's mother had moved out after the accident, but nobody had bought the place. There was a good chance that some evidence was still preserved.

When they finally reached the sauna building, Sherlock was already complaining about his shoes, trousers, and wet socks, while picking the lock.

"I'll give you dry socks, but not before we have reached the road again. You'll just get them wet too," John muttered. He felt weird in the complete silence of the forest around him, and the stars above were just like -

"Got it," Sherlock hissed and pushed the door open. He thrusted his lock-picking set back to his pocket before stepping inside, and John had no choice but to follow him. The room was pitch dark. They found some plastic buckets, old newspapers, matches and a bouquet of tree branches with dried leaves, and Sherlock was able to find the place where the victim had hit his head. Nothing much though.

Just before they were leaving, John spotted a piece of paper on the windowsill. It turned out to be a firewood receipt from a company called Pekan Puu. It was dated on the day of the death, but signed by the victim. Probably nothing, but Sherlock pushed it to his pocket anyway, and they began the journey back. It was quicker since they could walk along their own footprints, and they arrived to their own cabin in relatively short time. The visit to the sauna had been a disappointment, and they were wet and freezing, when they got back. John was ready to call it a day and find some real food.

"I need to see the newest crime scene today, then we can eat," Sherlock announced however, and that was that. They changed their clothes and were out again. Sherlock was calling to the janitor, and John tried to shake off the weird feeling of a faceless threat he had following him since the trip to the forest. He tried to rationalize it to himself that it was just about the emotional roller coaster. They hadn't been together like this since before Rosie was born, and they were finally starting to talk. And it was the first time he was this far away from Rosie. Of course he would be feeling weird!

They arrived to the Santa Claus village, and if John had feared they might get lost on their way, he had to admit that would not have been possible. The festive lights and irritatingly loud Christmas songs didn't leave any room for uncertainty. The janitor was coming late, so they had some time to just walk around.

"Sherlock, what if I made you wear a hat?," he asked playfully after finding something in souvenir shop.

"W-what?!" Sherlock actually stuttered, and John used his confusion to his benefit, and pushed a bright red Santa hat on his curls. He managed to even take a picture before Sherlock got a hold of himself again and threw the hat at John with blushed cheeks. John sent the image to Sherlock's mother with a wide grin, while Sherlock tried to stop him by throttling him. In the end they were thrown out of the shop for causing disturbance. Some of the dark mood lifted and John felt that he could breathe better, so it was worth it.

He was able to send a couple more pictures about reindeer as well, for Rosie's amusement. She was very good at naming animals, and the reindeer would definitely be a new one to her. He should pick her a Christmas present from here as well. Sherlock should pick a thank you gift for his mother though..

John's thoughts were interrupted, when the janitor called Tero arrived and took them to see the locker rooms and the place of death.

"Bad business," Tero muttered while herding them through the door. "Erkka was speaking always about, you know, healthy food and so on. And then doing drugs," he huffed and that was pretty much all he said. Otherwise he seemed quiet, or maybe he just didn't understand English that well. He gave short answers to questions, but didn't elaborate. According to him, the dead man "maybe" had a drug problem, didn't like the kids and wasn't Tero's friend. Sherlock and John had a working routine, where John asked the questions and made small talk with people, and Sherlock went through the evidence. At the moment he was investigating the dead man's locker with his magnifying glass, and picked a small plastic bag from the floor. It had remains of some powder in it, so he pushed it to a bigger bag in his pocket.

The Santa Claus meetings had ended for the day, so the halls were quiet when they walked to the office. Sherlock watched the security footage twice, asking some questions from John and the janitor, who seemed to be sure that the man had offed himself. John and Sherlock were not convinced. After all, who would kill themself in front of children?

"He hated kids," Tero mentioned again. "But I have to leave, meeting friends," he informed and started locking the doors. John and Sherlock were ushered out, and soon they were out by themselves again.

"So, what do you think?" John asked, while they were walking towards the queue of cabs outside the village. They had agreed that food would be the next priority, and the restaurants at the village were a rip off.

"It's not a suicide. I'm fairly sure the bag I found contained the lethal pills before they were mixed with the guy's vitamins. We should find his friends, and ask them if -"

"We can't do that. Marko will be in trouble if someone tells about our investigation, he told us!".

"I could hack someone's facebook?" Sherlock asked hopefully, John groaned.

"Oh god… Just… make sure you don't end up in prison, please!"

"There are worse places to be."

"Jesus, I don't even want to know.."

The cabbie eyed them suspiciously through the rear-view mirror, but said nothing. They were dropped off in the city center ("still not looking like a city!"), and walked around to find a decent pub. They didn't find any pubs with food (and without karaoke), but they found the pub where one of the unfortunate victims had visited before his death. The one who had passed out in the snow. They noticed Tero sitting near the door, but he wasn't paying attention to them. Sherlock and John glanced at each other: Tero was obviously high on something, and probably not alcohol. His pupils were blown wide, and he was smiling alone at his pint. They decided to ignore him, and continued further inside. The owner was tending the bar and remembered the incident with the dead man, but could not help them with the case ("Who the fuck has time for check up every drunk idiot?").

They left, and finally decided against eating out and ordered takeaway. When they were queuing for Big Macs, John made a mental note to talk to Tero when they'd meet him again. Sherlock didn't look worried, but that didn't exactly help him.

When they returned back to their cabin, it was already getting late.

"Should we go to the sauna?" John asked while opening the wrappers from his burger. They had a private one at their cabin, and he was feeling nostalgic.

"Erm.. why?" Sherlock asked, and actually blushed. John was puzzled.

"Have you ever been in one?"

"Well.. yes, but.. I mean.." Sherlock was stuttering. Why on earth? Then the realization hit him.

"Oh god no! Nothing like that! I'm not trying to.. NO!," he explained hurriedly. "WHAT kind of saunas have you visited?"

Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable: "Well.. have you ever heard of gay saunas?"

"I..," the mental image threatened John's ability to speak. "Well now that you mention it, yes, but.. NO! I wasn't suggesting-"

"What kind of saunas have you visited then?" Sherlock asked, clearly wishing to wander off from the dangerous terrain.

"Believe it or not, a real Finnish style sauna in Afghanistan," John chuckled, relieved.

"That does not make sense," Sherlock proclaimed. "You were in the desert, how's that-"

"It absolutely makes no sense!," John smiled at the memories. "But there you have it. When the Finnish peacekeepers arrived, the first thing they did there was to build that sauna. And then they invited others to visit!"

"So you.. erm.." Sherlock was blushing again, and John threw a napkin at him.

"No!," he repeated. "There is absolutely nothing sexual about the Finnish sauna, and you would gravely offend a Finn if you even suggested that!," John pointed out, and chuckled at Sherlock's disbelieving expression. "That's it, Now I just have to show you the sauna," he informed and stood off from the table and went to put the electric sauna on.

***

The idea had been fun, but the reality was something else altogether. John was sitting on the sauna bench wearing a towel around his hips, when Sherlock peeked through the door with an uncertain expression. His hair looked almost black when it was wet, and the curls were plastered on his forehead. He had followed John's example, and wrapped a towel around himself, but his upper body was bare and John had to turn his gaze quickly back to the stove. What had he expected when he had come up with the idea? Sitting in almost 80 degrees fully clothed?

Sherlock finally sat on the opposite end of the bench and leaned his elbows on his knees. John tossed some water on the stove just to have something to do with his hands, and breathed out as the heat hit his skin. At least he had a good reason for blushing.

"Did you do this often in Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked. He had lifted one leg up on the bench, and was now pressing his chin on his knee.

"Not really.. but sometimes they invited us over, if there had been some shared work between the Brits and Finns," John clarified.

"You'd think this would be terrible in a desert, but..," he tried to find the words to describe the feeling of camaraderie and calmness, but came up short.

"So, basically you were spending your evenings with half-naked soldiers?" Sherlock chuckled, glancing at John from the corner of his eye.

"Oi! Nothing like that!," John defended, but laughed as well. "Besides! There was no halves, they were completely naked. You should not wear any towels in a sauna."

"We are wearing towels."

"We are British!"

While that was obviously the truth, John was aware that it was a deflection. Getting naked in a hot steamy room with Sherlock didn't strike him as a good idea. That's not how they were. That didn't mean he wasn't curious - Sherlock's admission about his sauna experience was not leaving him alone.

"So, this is not your first time in a sauna either?" he asked, pretending to be very interested in the design of the water bucket. Curiosity was killing the cat.

"It wasn't as hot," Sherlock mused after a short silence.

"What?!"

"The sauna!"

John sniggered, but didn't dare to meet his friends eyes.

"Well, I can't imagine how anyone would be able to do any amorous activities in this heat. I would faint."

"Those establishments have steam rooms and pools, not really anything like this."

"Visited those often then?"

"No.. and it's been years since my last visit."

"Did you find…" John wasn't able to end the sentence. What word could he use? Boyfriend? Fuck-buddy?

"Amphetamine or cocaine?," Sherlock offered. "Yes, I did".

"Jesus," John muttered, speechless. How could he speak about it so casually?

"It was a long time ago," Sherlock sighed. "And I can't change history. It's part of me," he continued, looking defiant. The "like it or not," was unsaid but implied. John took a deep breath, and felt the heat in his lungs. Sherlock was right.

"Could you.. could you tell me about it? Your history?" he asked quietly. The shower water had evaporated, and his skin was now sweaty and hot. He'd need to leave soon. Sherlock watched him with worried eyes before finally answering.

"I'll answer if you ask."

"Thank you," John said and meant it. Now wasn't the time to hold on to that promise though. "I'm not going to do that tonight," he said and stood up. "I'm melting, and so are you. I'll get us something to drink, you take the first shower."

***

John was walking slowly on the snowy road. The feeling of being followed was there again, and he wondered where Sherlock was. It was dark and quiet, and the moon and stars above him gave his surroundings a magical atmosphere. He reached a streetlamp and looked around into the darkness, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John felt irritated, had the man run off again without telling him? He shouldn't do that anymore! The snow around him looked like sand in the yellow light of the streetlamp. Soft dunes under a starlit sky. Only the coldness separated the view from his memories of middle east.

Except it wasn't cold. It was warm, too warm. He turned around and saw Sherlock behind him, wearing an army uniform.

"That's not yours!" he tried to say, but Sherlock just shrugged.

"It's for your safety. I'll keep you safe," he answered. John felt someone behind him, and suddenly he knew what was going to happen. He was screaming before the bullet hit, and fell on the ground. Something was on his leg, but he could not see, could not see! He tried to shout Sherlock's name, but his lips refused to move.

"John," Sherlock's voice whispered above him, and he snapped his eyes open. He sat up breathing heavily, tears stinging in his eyes and fumbled around to orient himself before remembering where he was. The bedside lamp was lit, and the clock was almost three in the morning. Sherlock was standing before his bed, looking uncertain and even a little afraid.

"Do you want to… talk about it?" he asked timidly. John looked at him for a long moment before flopping back on his pillows. He was sweaty and the feelings from the dream were still lingering, making him unfairly angry at Sherlock. Did he want to talk about this? No, he absolutely didn't, but his therapist had finally made him believe in the power of words. His anger issues were something they needed to talk about, and they seemed to have their best discussion in the dead of the night.

"Could you turn off the lamp," he said hoarsely. Had he been screaming for real? Probably. "Thank you, come here… please?" he continued, when Sherlock did what he had asked. He needed to have him close. Sherlock sat on the bed, clearly unsure of what he should do. If John had felt any better, he would have smiled.

"I'm sorry for waking you."

"No, I… I wasn't sure if I should wake you up, it's been long since.."

"Yeah."

Sherlock had woken John up from a nightmare a couple of times, but those were before his fall, and he had used his violin to do it.

"Do you know why I joined the army?" John asked when his breathing had calmed down a little.

"You crave for danger?" was the immediate answer.

"Yes, that… But I also wanted to be a part of something important. I myself wanted to be important."

"I hope you know how much I -"

"I know, I know. Listen to me, please. I need to say this," John said, suddenly in desperate need of doing just that. "You and Mary," he started with a deep breath. "You both tried to keep me safe by lying and excluding me. You tried to fight the war without me. I resented that.."

"I'm sorry, I -"

"I know.. let me say this, please? You can speak afterwards, okay? You know I find this difficult.."

"Yes, go on."

"I could not trust her. That was destroyed when I learnt how she had lied, and then shot you to keep that lie up. When she tried to run away, she made it obvious that she didn't trust me either. That's… I really loved her once, but how can you be together if there's no trust?"

John was silent for a moment, so he heard Sherlock swallow and saw his outline in the darkness - looking down, shoulders slumped. This was something that needed to be said, but Sherlock's silhouette looked so sad John almost didn't continue.

"Come here?" he asked, patting the sheet next to him. His sweat had started to dry, and he was feeling the chill. Sherlock was still for a moment, thinking. Then he lifted his legs on the bed and straightened himself next to John, avoiding any kind of contact. John was fine with that.

"This sounds so egoistic, but..," he felt ridiculous, but carried on anyway. "Before I was invalidated out I was used to being good at what I do, I was damn good! Respected, trustworthy, dependable. And then suddenly that had been taken from me, and even the most important people in my life didn't trust me…" John felt ashamed about his short affair, and rightly so, but it happened in a moment in his life, when he had desperately needed to be important to at least someone. Anyone really. Sherlock drew breath and almost said something, but John stroked his arm with his palm and continued. "My trust issues go both ways I guess. It's not easy for me to trust people, but it's also hard to know your loved ones don't trust you back…"

"I know," Sherlock whispered. He was tense and breathing shallowly. Sherlock really did know, didn't he?

"You have made it up for me dozens of times already. I'm sorry I refused to see that.. I'm sorry I.. I did terrible things to you.."

"I would be dead without you," Sherlock answered gravely.

"You could have been dead because of me!," John shot back, and was happy the darkness hid his eyes. "I heard the recording, from the hospital. You were really killing yourself to get me back. You were ready to -"

"John, stop! It wasn't your fault. Don't ever think that."

"But I -"

"Please. I don't remember much about the time after Mary's death, I was.. you remember it better than I do, but Mary's message wasn't the reason it started. I had been using since the Magnussen case. We didn't live together, so you could not have noticed how hyperactive I was. Mary's message was just another excuse. We are good at excuses."

"Who?"

"Addicts."

John's stomach made an unpleasant flip. He remembered how Sherlock had been solving multiple cases at the same time, and how difficult it had been for him to concentrate on Rosie's christening. And John had thought Sherlock just didn't care..

"So.. you relapsed for the case? When I found you..?"

"No.. It happened before Lady Smallwood contacted me, and then.. The case was my first excuse."

John didn't need to ask what could have triggered it then. John's wedding. Sherlock had been visibly worried that they would not work together anymore, and John had proved his worries valid when they hadn't met in over a month afterwards. He had been Sherlock's pressure point. Magnussen had said that in the same conversation where Sherlock had tried to sell Mycroft's laptop for John's wife's safety. John felt sick.

"What did you ask from Irene?" he asked. Sherlock had started to relax a bit, but tensed immediately again after John's words.

"I'm glad you have her as a friend," John reassured him, emphasizing the word friend.

"I asked her what I should do with you," Sherlock sighed, sounding a little defeated. "She's good at understanding people, I'm not."

"I'm not sure anybody could have understood me back then.. If you say you were a mess, I think I can safely say I was too."

"You were grieving. That's understandable."

"I was mentally unstable!" John insisted. "I'm just glad Mycroft didn't have me annihilated…"

"I asked him not to."

"You… jesus! So he has a plan made already? Of course he has!" John moaned and pressed his palms on his face. He deserved that, really. He didn't even want to think what he would have done if someone had treated Harry the same way he had treated Sherlock. And Mycroft had so much more authority than he would ever have. Harry's addiction had made the comparison even more accurate. Sherlock was lucky to have Mycroft as a brother. And John was lucky to still have Sherlock in his life.

"Thank you for… you have made sure I feel included in the work. I've never said anything about it, but you deduced it, didn't you? I really appreciate that. I…," John was now swallowing back tears. "I should have said something way earlier. If I had, maybe some things would never have happened… Can you ever forgive me for hurting you?," he asked with a shaky voice. Sherlock turned on his side and moved closer, facing John. He moved slowly, as though giving John time to move away if he so wanted, and wrapped his arms around him.

"I did that already," he whispered.

They stayed like that for a long time. No words were needed.

***

When the morning came, John was horridly embarrassed. He had really poured out his heart, hadn't he? And in the end they had fallen asleep embracing each other. How did that happen, and more importantly, what did it mean? Yes, they had shared a bed on the train (broadly speaking), but now he had actually woken up under Sherlock's arm, pressed against his side. It was quite early and Sherlock was still asleep when John scrambled off the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. His throat was dry and and head ached, so he drank two glasses of water before sitting on the toilet lid. What should he do now?

Sherlock had listened him and forgiven him, comforted him, and finally hugged him again. And they had slept in the same bed afterwards! John pressed his face into his hands. Was this really happening? He still hadn't any real proof of Sherlock's feelings towards him, but the hopes he had fought to keep at bay had now broken free and running circles in his head. They were away from their usual routine at London, so it made sense that if something were to change in their relationship, it would happen here. It was also completely clear that John could not take the initiative in here.

Sherlock wasn't good with social boundaries, so it was in the realms of possibility that he didn't mean anything more than just close friendship. But really, Sherlock wasn't completely clueless, and definitely not stupid. And he knew John was (had been) attracted to him! All the talking, joking, sauna and then last night… John could not interpret all that as being just friendship, no matter how he tried.

Sherlock had been sleeping face down on the bed, and only half of him was under the blanket. His own blanket was still on the other bed, so he had clearly tried to fit under the same blanket with John. He had been relaxed and warm against John's ribs, and if John had not gotten up when he did, he would have given up to the urge to brush his fingers through the dark curls. Sherlock had been drooling slightly, but was still deeply in sleep.

John had no idea how long he had been sitting in the bathroom before he heard Sherlock's phone chime on the other side of the door. The rustling of sheets indicated that the detective had woken up, and John decided quickly to take a shower. He didn't want Sherlock to know how he had locked himself in the bathroom just to have a nervous breakdown, and in truth he really was kind of sweaty.

He was toweling himself up, when Sherlock finally knocked the door.

"Tero asked if we wanted to come to the park to see Santa Claus actors in action," he said through the door.

"Now?" John asked. So, were they going to ignore the night altogether then?

"Yes. Hurry up!"

Aparently they were ignoring it.

John grabbed some breakfast and ran after Sherlock, who was already waiting at the door. He was prattling on about the case and had actually found some information on the Facebook. Nothing indicated that the victim had had a drug problem. The guy who died in the sauna had been using that sauna for years and the benches were not slippery at all. One of his friends had visited him quite often, and knew the sauna well. It was incredibly rare for a young healthy man to slip in the sauna, unless he was drunk. And he hadn't been. The drunk driver had an alcohol problem, so it could really be just a coincidence and an accident. However, the most peculiar was the case with the one who had freezed to death in the snow: his friends were sure that he wasn't the kind of guy to go drinking alone, but Sherlock hadn't been able to find anyone who had been with him on that night. The footprints on the crime scene photo were not very clear, as some new snow had fallen on them before the poor boy had been found.

John listened and nodded, but his mind was racing. Was Sherlock really trying to ignore what had happened? Was this just Sherlock being excited on the case, or was this prattling a sign of something else? Embarrassment? Evasion? Uncertainty?

They reached the Santa village before John had reached any conclusion. Tero greeted them happily, and John watched him now more carefully than before. There was no signs of him being under the influence at the moment though. He looked a bit tired, but seemed to be in good mood when he directed them to the meeting room. Large group of children were standing (and screaming and running around) in queue with their parents, waiting for their turn to see the Santa Claus.

"John, promise me you don't let Rosie believe in Santa," Sherlock groaned after a moment when one particularly whiny kid walked ran them.

"I don't want to deal with the angry parents when Rosie shouts the truth to their precious offspring and crushes their beliefs," John muttered while looking around. The Santa Claus was sitting on a comfortable chair, and the kids climbed on his lap when their turn arrived.

"I don't understand why anyone would want to lie to the children like this! All you get is these spoiled little idiots who are angry because the fairy tale character can't give them what they want. And how could it? It does not exist! The presents come from the even more stupid parents, who -"

"Shut up," John hissed, when one dad with a particularly loud kid had stopped to stare Sherlock with murderous glare. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, but it was clear that he was uncomfortable around the colourful noisy swarm of parents, children and cheery Christmas songs. It seemed like his tolerance for this kind of hassle was even more lower than usually. John was pretty sure Sherlock was nervous about last night too, but didn't know how to bring the subject up.

Sherlock looked around for a moment, muttering to himself, before walking straight out.

"I know I said nobody would commit suicide in front of children, but after seeing this place I'm absolutely ready to believe he did that because of them," he muttered when John caught up with him again, twirling cigarette lighter in his fingers. He looked at the "No smoking!" sign like it had insulted him personally.

"We don't need to lie to Rosie, if you handle the angry parents," John tried to joke, but Sherlock just huffed and thrusted the lighter back to his pocket.

"I heard you asked about things at the bar yesterday," Tero said. He too had followed them out, and was now looking at them with a calm smile. "You investigating that accident too?"

"Do you know something about it then?" John asked. He was worried about Sherlock's mood, but they could not talk about it now.

"I know his friend who was drinking with him. I can take you there if you want," he said with his clumsy English.

"That would be good, thank you," Sherlock said distractedly, and Tero gestured them to follow him. They went through the locker room where he took a paper bag of cinnamon buns with him.

"Something to eat!" he grinned while slamming his locker shut.

John and Sherlock sat on the back of Tero's car and they soon left from the village. Sherlock looked like he was tying his shoelaces, but John took the offered bun from Tero's bag. Before he had time to take a bite from it, Sherlock sat up and stopped John's hand. He had a bundle of papers on his lap, fished from the floor of the car. Those had "Pekan Puu" logo on each of them. John looked at Sherlock, who was now typing rapidly on his phone.

"Sherlock, take a bun too," Tero offered, reaching back towards them with the bag while driving. Sherlock took one silently, but threw a meaningful gaze at John and made a point of pretending to eat it. Sherlock's phone chimed, and he showed the message to John.

Who was the friend in the car with the drunk driver? SH

Tero Niskanen, the Janitor who's number I gave you. Why? - Marko

John drew a deep breath and nodded. Tero had been in a car with the first victim, he was a regular in the bar where the second one had spent his last evening, and he was clearly working on the company who had delivered firewood to the third victim's sauna on the same day he had died. The last victim had been drugged and now Tero offered them buns and claimed to know the friend who had been drinking with the second victim before his death.

Now they were in his car, on their way to where exactly?

"Do you like it? That is Pulla, everyone eats it here. You must taste it!" Tero was chatting, and John pretended to take a bite as well.

"So, who are we going to meet?" Sherlock asked smiling amiably and typing furiously at the same time, probably sending their location to the Police as they spoke.

"A friend. He was drinking with Markus. The guy who died. You thinking he killed him?"

"I have theories. What do you think?" Sherlock answered, wearing one of hist best fake smiles. They continued the discussion amiably while pretending to eat the buns. John tried in vain to find something to use as a weapon, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

They hadn't gotten far from the city when the blue lights flashed behind them, and Tero said something angry in Finnish. He accelerated suddenly and the car rocketed forward on the snowy road.

"What are you doing?" John asked in alarm.

"You didn't eat your pulla," Tero hissed.

"You are right. You have dosed it with drugs," Sherlokc stated flatly.

"How you know?" Tero asked with cold calmness. The car stayed barely on the road when they raced with the police car, and John re-checked his and Sherlock's seatbelts just in case.

"It takes one to know one. You are user, and you mixed the pills with your friend's vitamins. We were going to meet a friend of yours, but that is a lie. The said friend is you. You left that man freeze to death. And now you were going to do something similar with us," Sherlock began. "The first three were done in a moment's madness, but the last one was planned, wasn't it? You got cocky, you had -"

"Who is cocky here?! You! You were abusing kids, talking bad! They are innocent, you should not do that. No!"

"Was that what the others did? Criticizing the kids? Oh, someone said something like that to you when you were child. You met a Santa Claus on a break and he refused to smile and talk nonsense to you?"

"Shut up, Shut up, Turpa kiinni perkele!" Tero shouted, and suddenly the world turned around. The car wheels lost traction and the vehicle crashed, rolled and slided to stop.

At first there was a complete silence. John was hanging upside down from the seatbelts and his first instinct was to look for Sherlock. The detective was hanging from the seatbelts just like him, but didn't move. After a quick checkup of his own condition (he was able to move all his limbs without pain, and it didn't hurt to move turn his head) John opened his seat belt and crawled to Sherlock, calling his name. He was thankful he didn't see any blood, but the worry squeezed his insides nevertheless. John was feeling Sherlock's head for bumps and wounds, when he slowly opened his eyes and John withdrew his hand slowly from the curls.

"Sherlock, are you-"

"John, I'm.. okay, I think, but Tero!"

Tero was kicking the crushed door open, and managed to even run few steps before John managed to get out and tackle him down into the snow.

"What kind of accident you were planing for tonight?" John hissed, while wrenching Tero's hand behind his back. "Drug overdose? A car crash? Huh?" He was feeling deathly calm, and later when he was thinking about it, he was sure he would have done something serious if he hadn't at that precise moment seen Sherlock getting out of the wreck.

Suddenly it was over. The police had reached them and taken Tero into the custody, and Sherlock and John were sitting at the back of the ambulance relatively unscathed. They had minor concussions and Sherlock was a bit shocked, but otherwise they were fine. The car had rolled in snow, and luckily hadn't hit any trees, so the damage was surprisingly light. Sherlock had explained the case to Marko after Tero had been dragged to police car, so their work was essentially done. Case closed.

John breathed out in relief, but then the remembered the previous night and Sherlock's anxiousness this morning, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to go back to the cabin, take Sherlock's hand and talk.

***

Their last evening at the cabin was calm and charged at the same time. John was sitting on one end of the sofa, and Sherlock on the other. There was Dr. Who rerun on the telly, but neither of them was really concentrating on it. Sherlock seemed to stare into the distance, and John was looking at him. He was worried, and not just about the minor concussion. Sherlock was obviously anxious about something.

"Hey. What's wrong?" John finally asked.

Sherlock flinched but finally turned his head and looked directly at John. John was shocked to see how forlorn he looked.

“I did it again," Sherlock said quietly. “I provoked him, and he almost…"

At first he had no idea why Sherlock looked so miserable, and then suddenly he understood the reference and felt ill.

"You mean in the car? That bastard was provoked more by the Police! I don't blame you for that. And… not for Mary either," he said gravely. When Sherlock didn't look convinced, John copied his slow motion from last night and moved closer to pull Sherlock in a gentle embrace.

"I have forgiven you too," he whispered and felt Sherlocks reaching his arms around him as well.

They were quiet for a moment, only the voice of the TV breaking the silence. Then Sherlock drew a shaky breath.

"John. What if… What if I wasn't really married to my work anymore?," he confessed quietly. John's heart skipped a beat, and then doubled its pace. Sherlock was slowly tensing again in his arms, expectant.

"Then… Then I'd say that I'm taking back my declarations concerning my sexuality," he declared, and it was clearly the right thing to say. Sherlock breathed out and then chuckled silently. John breathed in Sherlock's scent, not really believing this was happening. How many times he had imagined this? How many times they had missed each other? "Can I ask you a question?" John queried softly and pulled away from their embrace.

"Yes, always," Sherlock answered solemnly, biting his lip. John felt a warm surge of fondness for him.

"When we were on that tarmac, seeing you off, you were going to say something. I'm pretty sure Sherlock's not a girl's name, so..what was it?"

Sherlock looked at him with slightly thoughtful expression before smiling nervously and cocking his head a little.

"Something like this," he said, and kissed John softly on the lips.

John was and wasn't surprised at the same time, but he recovered quickly and brushed his fingers gently through Sherlock's curls while kissing back. Sherlock's fingers caressed his neck, and John felt a shiver go down his spine. This was really happening.

"I'm not sure I if would have deserved that then. Or now," John chuckled a feeling bit abashed and surprisingly shy when they pulled away from each other. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snuggled closer.

"Don't be dull," he said with a smile. "It's really Christmas, isn't it? I caught the century's first Finnish serial killer, and I'm finally allowed to do this."

Sherlock reached up and kissed John again, with more intent this time. He pressed John against the sofa's backrest with his body, and gasped softly when John dared to slip his fingers under his shirt. John took the chance and finally their tongues met.

The TV was soon completely forgotten.

And neither of them wore the hat.