…

"What is love, 'tis not hereafter,

Present mirth, hath present laughter:

What's to come, is still unsure."

-Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare

…

Epilogue: Many Happy Returns

…

Sherlock slouched back to the empty confines of 221B, heartsore and tired.

His journey to Grimmauld Place had not gone very well. He had not even managed to see Harry. He only found out that the wizard was no longer reachable. Gone from him.

This is it then. You can stop pretending you've changed. He's gone. Irretrievable. Let him be.

It may have been for the best, not seeing Harry. The Fates were being kind to Sherlock, sparing him a vision of his wizard happy with someone else.

Sherlock was too late. He had taken too long. It was all his fault, like always.

…

The morning after drinking an irresponsible amount of mead with her two male friends, Hermione was accosted in the landing of Grimmauld place before she even had a chance for a cup of tea.

"There you are," Harry said, "C'mon. Let's go out today, yeah?"

"Harry? What's going on? What's the rush?" She asked, more concerned than irritated.

"Please, Hermione. Just trust me. We need to get out of Grimmauld today." Harry took her hand. Of course, she would go with him. How could she not?

"Alright, alright, let me get my coat. I do have some holiday shopping. I was thinking I would start in Piccadilly Circus and then…"

But Harry barely listened to her, and as soon as Hermione's coat was on, he was pulling her away and apparating her to…

A disused custodian's closet. In a train station.

In Leeds.

Hermione shivered, and stuck her hands in her pockets. They were in such a hurry to leave Grimmauld she had not even taken her gloves or hat.

Harry took her to a greasy, train yard cafe, where at least they had a little breakfast and some much needed caffeine.

"So… what exactly are we doing?" Hermione asked.

It's not like she minded going out to the muggle world with Harry. As it was, he could be quite reticent. On previous occasions, it was she, Hermione, that had had to drag him out of the darkness of 12 Grimmauld. The tables being turned was a welcome change. But… what were they doing in Leeds of all places?

"Nothing in particular. Just wanted to go out and about. Stretch our legs." Was Harry's very not-suspicious response.

"Okay…" In Leeds?

They were done with their sandwiches and tea, and the waitress was shooting dirty looks at them. Presumably, she wished Harry and Hermione would move on, so other customers could take their table. But they were the only ones in the cafe.

"Where to, next?" Hermione asked Harry.

"Out of here, I suppose." Harry said, catching the waitress's undisguised glares.

They walked through a gusty, cold day in Leeds. Harry decided they ought to go visit the Royal Armory. Hermione had little interest in the specific subject of muggle armament, but was always up for a museum visit, on principle.

Unfortunately, the Royal Armories museum was closed for refurbishing. Then, bolstered by the idea that Hermione might indeed be interested in a museum, Harry walked them back across the river, to the Leeds City Museum… which was closed early for the holidays.

Not disheartened, Harry then took them to a park. The lawns and tree lined walking paths might have indeed been lovely, and they might have had an enjoyable time strolling beneath the canopies and sitting on a bench to enjoy the green and sunshine…if it were not December. The day was getting only colder, and Hermione had to cast a sneaky heating charm on her coat to withstand the frozen gusts of wind.

"Harry, I'm well aware that something, I have no clue what, but something is going on. I'd really like to be in on it, if you don't mind?" Hermione said.

Harry looked at her.

"As soon as I tell you, you'll probably want to return to number twelve." Harry informed her.

"Then I suggest we start walking back towards the train station, while you talk." She said, and stuck her arms on her hips in a business-like manner. A cold wind blew around her ribs, and she rewrapped her arms around herself. "Honestly. I'm freezing."

"Oh, I'm sorry Hermione. Yeah, let's head back. We've been out long enough, now." Then he looked at her, and put his arm around her shivering shoulders. Hermione leaned into him with a relieved sigh, thankful for the warmth, and not making much of the physical contact.

They did start walking back to the train station disused custodian's closet, which Harry had used a safe point to apparate. As they did, Harry told Hermione about the very peculiar conversation he had had with Ron in the morning.

"...so there you have it. I'm surprised he didn't stop me. I thought he would. But no matter. The look on his face… I think we've got a row on our hands when we make it back to Grimmauld. But I think a row is exactly what we all need. Clear the air, so to speak." Harry finished.

Hermione was completely lost.

"But, why? I mean…" Hermione was truly lost for words. Had this been a date, that Harry had taken her on? If it was…?

"Harry, this has got to be one of the most crap dates I've ever been on." She said, thinking of their cold, pointless trek through Leeds.

Harry let out one bark of laughter.

"I'm sorry." He said, "I've never been good at that sort of thing."

"So, just to clarify," Hermione said, because there was a lot to Harry's explanation that needed clarity, "Are you… interested in me?"

This question completely startled Harry. Hermione felt his arm stiffen around her.

"Erm, no, not like that, Hermione. Not that you're not-"

"Oh, thank goodness." Hermione cut him off. She had never found herself interested in Harry. It would have been dreadfully awkward if the wizard had developed feelings for her. She has never known exactly how one was supposed to 'let people down easy.'

Harry looked at her. "Friends, right?"

Hermione hugged him closer as they walked. "Friends."

Hermione then began thinking of the other things Harry had said.

All of a sudden, the whole point of this seemingly pointless endeavor dropped on her head like a brick.

"Harry!" She cried, then wheeled on him, "Oh, poor Ron, he's going to be going spare! And you! I don't need you meddling in my love life! If I want to get back together with Ron, I am perfectly capable of doing so myself, and I certainly don't need…"

"You were willing to meddle in mine last night weren't you?" Harry pointed out, "And, I'm hardly meddling. Just taking a friend out. And hoping my other friend gets jealous."

Hermione glared at him, but he was right. She and Ron had discussed at length about how they ought to help Harry last night. She supposed these were her just desserts.

Her glare softened, and she put her arm out for Harry to take. Honestly, she just wanted to be closer to someone warm. They were only halfway to the train yard.

"It's sneakier than I would have figured you were capable of." She sniffed.

Harry had no response to this, so Hermione kept talking.

"And anyway, it's misguided. Ron and I had our moment in the sun. That's been over for ages." She added.

"Has it now?" Harry said, sounding completely unconvinced.

"Yes!"

"I suppose you couldn't see your own face last night, but you could at least have noticed Ron's. You two were practically mooning at each other. All night. Well, all night after you stopped arguing." Harry told her. Hermione felt a blush. Had she been that transparent?

"We were drunk, Potter." She snapped.

"Yeah, what is it muggles always say? That Latin phrase…"

"In vino veritas?" Hermione supplied for Harry, who seemed in no hurry to reach the right answer by himself.

"That's the one." Harry nodded.

"In vino also foolishness." Hermione muttered.

"Look at it this way. If what's between you and Ron is really done with and put away, then all that's happened today was that I took you on a terrible date. You didn't enjoy it, and at the end of the whole affair, my very persuasive courting methods fell flat, and you remain unaffected by my dashing good looks and roguish charm." Harry said with a sardonic note to his voice that let Hermione know Harry was not convinced he had any good looks or roguish charm to his name.

"Alright. But it was very close. Just so you know. I was nearly swooning at certain points." Hermione replied, the picture of seriousness.

"At which points? When we got booted from the cafe, or when we found our second closed museum?" Harry asked.

"There were so many terribly romantic moments, it's hard to pick one."

…

Harry just had enough time to catch Ron's sour look before he wiped it from his face, and plastered on an extremely jolly grin.

"So. Lovebirds. How was it?" He asked.

Harry shrugged, noncommittal. Next to him, Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Ron, why are you still here?" Hermione asked.

"Wanted to stay and cheer this on from the sidelines." Ron answered, the jovial manner growing only stronger.

"Oh, Ron…" For a moment, Harry thought Hermione was going to tell Ron exactly why they had left, but Hermione paused.

It looked like she was on the verge of making some decision. She bit her lip and looked between Harry and Ron.

"Harry," she turned to him, "do you mind giving us a few minutes?"

Harry did not expect Hermione to take the matter in hand this quickly, but immediately retreated at her request.

"Now, Ron, let's sit down and talk." He heard the witch say as he made his way upstairs.

…

As soon as Hermione's townhouse was fit for habitation once again, and the witch packed her small suitcase and moved herself back into her own home, Ron asked Harry if he could now stay at Number 12 Grimmauld.

"You can stay here, of course. But just so it is well known: I'm not running a boarding house." Harry said.

"I've got nowhere to go!" Ron threw up his hands. His divorce had been finalized through the annals of the Ministry of Magic, and indeed, just as he feared, the cottage was no longer his.

But it was untrue that Ron had nowhere else to stay. Ron had a huge family, and Harry was pretty sure he was on cordial terms with them all.

"Whatever you say," Harry commented, and did not add that it was a pleasure to have Ron stay with him. He was sure that Ron knew this, already. Just like Harry knew Ron could have picked somewhere else to be for the holidays, but chose Harry's place intentionally.

After Ron and Hermione's talk, following the escapade to Leeds, Ron was very warm to Harry and politely cautious around Hermione. Harry found out later that Hermione had not been cruel enough to keep the charade going long, and had explained everything to Ron. Harry had the presence of mind to not ask what was going on between them now, trusting that the two could sort it out, and any further intervention from him would not be welcome. Anyway, further intervention didn't seem needed, because Ron and Hermione saw each other frequently these days, at and outside of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry had high hopes for them.

For himself, on the other hand… well, it seemed Ron and Hermione would stick by him, and that ought to be enough. He shouldn't need more.

Despite assuring himself of this however, Harry still felt a frigid lick of lonesomeness whenever he saw Hermione and Ron glance at each other just so. He found himself wondering what he had looked like, when he used to look at Sherlock.

His heart sped up, remembering the very particular way he had fit against the other man's body.

It was ridiculous. Harry had not needed anyone or anything for over a decade. Only himself. And now he felt a thrumming hunger for contact.

He found all your pieces, fit them in place, and then discarded you. It was like a puzzle for him. Harry would tell himself. He's probably forgotten you at this point, honestly. So why are you still thinking about this?

And despite all the good sense he tried to talk into himself, Harry just kept thinking about Sherlock. The long arms wound around him, the polished voice, murmuring low in his ear. Even the violin, Harry remembered with fondness.

"Hey," Ron had plopped himself on a couch right next to Harry, and Harry jumped a little, spooked out of his reverie.

"Hey?" He answered.

"Harry, do you remember those boggarts in Lupin's class? We had to cast the Ridikulous charm, and turn them into something funny?" Ron started without preamble. Harry blinked, blindsided by the question.

"Yeah, of course." Harry said. It was odd just how clearly he remembered his days at Hogwarts. He could not say as much about the decade he had spent hiding.

"Well, I've just been thinking about that day you decided to take Hermione out on a date. Remember that?" Ron asked.

"Yeah?" This was the first time Ron had mentioned the occurrence out loud, in front of Harry. Harry had no idea where this conversation could possibly be going. His stomach clenched in worry. He also wished Ron would not sit so close.

"You know, I was furious with you that day. And her. More with you, though." Ron continued.

Harry grimaced. "That was kind of the intent, I suppose."

"Right." Ron nodded his head. Was the row that Harry had envisioned at the end of the trip to Leeds finally on the horizon? But Ron didn't look angry now, just contemplative.

"I've had Hermione to myself all these years." Ron said, "Not that I did anything good with those years. But having both of you together it was like…" Ron paused, gathering his thoughts.

"It was like I was seventeen again. You know? And at first, it was great, but then- Well, the morning you told me you fancied her, and then you two went off, my worst fear from when I was seventeen suddenly came back to haunt me. You and her, leaving me behind. Honestly, very ironic considering what happened when we actually were seventeen."

"Ron-"

Ron held up a hand, "No wait, let me finish. Because the thing is, that old fear suddenly became very real. It materialized."

"Ron, really-"

"And once it did, I came face to face with the decision I made all those years ago in the tent, when I left. And the true reason I made that decision."

"You made that decision because Voldemort's horcrux was hanging around your neck." Harry pointed out. But Ron shook his head.

"The horcrux didn't tell me anything I didn't already think, Harry. It was all me. The worst of me, maybe, but still." Ron said.

Harry had no response. Was this a row? No. Then what was this? Another guilty confession?

"So, my dire fear materialized, and then… Hermione came back. Sat me down and explained that in fact, the whole thing was a ruse to get me jealous enough to ask her out again." Ron said, shooting Harry a narrow eyed look.

"I would never have done that if I knew that it was your worst fear-"

"No, listen. It's like this: I saw my worst fear, lived it for a few hours, and it turned out to be nothing. Empty air. Like those boggarts in Lupin's class that disappeared when you faced them. You and Hermione were never going to leave me for each other, were you? It was always all in my head…" Ron trailed off.

There was a heavy pause, during which Harry desperately searched for something to say.

"Should I be writing this down? Setting it into a novel?" Harry asked, trying to lighten the mood, even a little.

"Shut up!" Ron chided, shoving his shoulder. "Do you see what I mean?"

Harry thought about it. He would have to tell Hermione that she was wrong. Ron understood things much better than she ever imagined. "Yeah, I see what you mean." Harry said.

The conversation struck at something very sore inside of Harry. Harry's own fear right now, was this: that his heart had been mended by Sherlock, and that it could belong to no one else now. And Sherlock appeared to have no further use for it.

"So, on a lighter note: you're going to the Christmas do at my parents', yeah?" Ron asked.

"Oh, um." No, Harry thought, but wasn't sure how to politely decline.

"Since we're talking about the thing with you and Hermione, where I was left alone to deal with my jealous rage, I really feel like you owe me one." Ron said.

"Is that the conclusion we came to? Because I thought we'd settled on it was good for you after all." Harry replied.

Ron waved his hand, "Either way."

…

Harry did not find a polite way to decline the invitation to the Weasley's pre-Christmas gathering in time. So, on the evening of December 23rd, he found himself, with heart hammering, standing in the corner of the living room, the large house on Lake Menteith completely foreign and foreboding to him.

Ron had claimed that it would only be a few people, mostly Weasleys, so there was no need to worry. Harry thought he ought to punch Ron for lying. In addition to all of Ron's brothers, and their families, there was also a scattering of old Order members, Hogwarts professors, Ted and his grandmother, and other faces, which Harry was not familiar with.

"Good turn out!" Ron came by, and deposited a butter beer into Harry's hands.

"Great," Harry answered, thinking the sarcasm probably didn't carry over the noise in the room.

Many people had come to greet him immediately upon Harry entering the house, and they all had espoused long winded apologies about his unfair treatment at the hands of the Ministry. But really, what had any of them to do with it?

Finally, after interminable moments, Harry was left alone, beside Ron, who at least had the decency to stick by Harry in this bedlam. He looked around the room, picking out the faces he knew. Nearby, Andromeda Tonks was chatting amicably with Mrs. Weasley, and Harry thought he overheard the words 'auror training' from their conversation. Neville Longbottom was in an Exploding Snap contest with a woman Harry did not know, but that Ron informed him was Percy's wife, Corina. Percy stood nearby, apparently waiting for his turn. George and Bill Weasley were having a very spirited discussion, and it did sound like Quidditch was the topic of debate. Hermione was having a serious talk with Mr. Weasley, but Harry could not hear a word of that one.

Darina, Hermione's daughter, along with Louis and Dominique Weasley, were entirely missing, though Harry was sure he had seen them not twenty minutes ago. Harry wondered if Hermione should be worried about what the teens might be getting up to.

"Potter," came a very familiar voice from his right, and like he had been caught out of bounds, or out of bed after midnight, Harry felt a nervous pinch in his chest. He saw Minerva McGonagall, much aged since he last saw her, shuffling over to him.

"Oh, erm, hello Professor…" He said, telling himself to relax and that it was very stupid to think he could possibly be in trouble with Professor McGonagall, since he was now in his thirties. "Sorry, it's Headmistress now, isn't it?"

"Yes, but not for very much longer. A year tops, and then, I'm retiring. Potter, why don't you help me into the kitchen?" She said, and then stuck out an elbow.

"Er…?"

"I'm old, Potter." McGonagall said, by way of explanation.

"Oh. Right. Here," Harry said, and gingerly took the old professor's elbow. As they wound their way through the busy house, Harry shot one questioning glance over his shoulder at Ron. Ron only shrugged his shoulders.

There was nobody else in the small room, and Harry was at complete odds as to why his former Head of House might have asked him to escort her here. McGonagall's wand came out, and she gave it a small flick. Harry recognized the anti-eavesdropping spell.

"I have heard a rumor." She started to say, in hushed tones, "We, that is to say, me and some of my closest colleagues from Hogwarts, would like to find out the truth of this rumor, since it concerns one of our own." Harry felt his breath hitch.

"Oh?" Harry asked, trying to feign complete calm.

"Yes." McGonagall said tersely, looking up at Harry, "Is it true that Snape was our man all along?"

Harry swallowed. He did not even think to distrust McGonagall. She had been in the Order of the Phoenix, and she, if anyone, should know the truth. He looked around himself, to double check that they were indeed alone. Then, looking back into McGonagall's piercing eyes, he nodded.

"How is that possible?" She asked.

Harry sighed. How could he explain it?

Being very careful with each word, Harry relayed the whole story of Dumbledore's cursed hand, and the staged murder, and how Snape had rescued him from that dreadful cellar in Yorkshire and had nursed him back to health. He left out anything to do with the breakout from Azkaban, or Snape's current whereabouts, and Harry was glad McGonagall didn't ask.

"I've been trying to figure out ways I could help him." Harry said, " But I just don't know how." And he had been agonizing about ways to assist Snape. He had even enlisted Ron's help. They had both sat by the fireplace in Grimmauld, and shot ideas back and forth on how they could prove Snape's innocence.

But it had come to nothing thus far. Ron had wisely advised Harry that until they had some kind of plan, Harry ought not go to the Ministry with this information. If the aurors suspected Harry was in communication with Snape, they might very well assign someone to tail after Harry, hoping to catch him during a visit.

"Thank you for telling me, Harry. Leave it in my hands." McGonagall said, after Harry was finished.

"But what can you do?" Harry blurted out. He was about to take it back, rephrase his question, but didn't get a chance.

"You don't get to be as old as me without having learned a few tricks along the way. Let me worry about Severus. You ought to be worried about something else entirely." She said, then began to shuffle her hands into the pockets of her robe.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"Recall, Potter, that I once swore I would assist you in becoming an auror, if it was the last thing I'd do." She said, still digging in her robe.

"Oh, I'm not really interested in being an auror anymore…" Harry started to say.

"Naturally. I have something else for you. More career advice, if you like." Then, she finally produced a thick, folded parchment from her robes. She pushed it into Harry's hands. "Here, take a look."

Harry looked down at the parchment.

Hogwarts Professor (Defense Against the Dark Arts)

Curriculum Vitae

Name:

Date of Birth:

Education:

Exceptional Talents:

Relevant Magical Experience:

It went on in a similar vein.

"I don't think I'm qualified." Harry said, looking up at McGonagall.

"No? And why not?" She asked.

"I haven't done anything in the last ten years worthy of note. I don't have any experience. And my education sharply cut off after my sixth year. I don't even have any NEWTs." Harry explained.

McGonagall pursed her lips. "No, you don't have any NEWTs. But, as far as experience, I do recall that you trained- what was that silly name you gave yourselves? Dumbledore's Army, wasn't it? And, since I have an excellent memory for my students, and their educational success, I also recall that all students that participated in this 'Army' you levied, received at minimum an OWL in Defense. As the Headmistress, I count this as very relevant experience."

Harry said nothing, looking down again at the parchment.

"You had a talent for teaching, Harry. It would be a shame to waste it." She added.

"Alright, I'll think about it. Thank you."

…

At the conclusion of the evening, Hermione accompanied Ron and Harry back to Grimmauld.

"Darina wants to stay the night with Dominique. And I don't fancy going alone back to my town house." Hermione said.

"Right," Harry said.

The folded parchment that he received from McGonagall was in his pocket, and he occasionally brushed it with his finger tips, thinking on her proposal.

A Hogwarts professor. It was definitely something he could see himself doing. And, McGonagall was right: he had liked teaching his fellow students. He was even good at it.

For the first time, Harry found himself seriously considering his future. Is this what he wanted to do with his life?

It seemed like a good option. McGonagall herself asked him, so he must have had a good chance in landing the job. What would he teach? Harry considered the catalogue of spells he had perfected over the years to assist him in hiding and running from the Ministry. Some of those spells ought to come in handy. And, though he might have to brush up on dark creatures, as it was, he remembered almost everything that he had learned in DADA in the years it was taught by competent professors.

But…

Harry had only gone on one case with Sherlock. Yet, he fancied, while he had still lived at 221B, that assisting the detective in solving crimes had been… kind of perfect for him. Harry could see the recently departed, after all. It was not always a gift he held in high esteem, or even particularly liked. But, Harry remembered with fondness how excited Sherlock had been that Harry could see Liz's ghost.

Harry had liked the idea of assisting the detective a lot. Not only would he solve crimes, but he could ease the lingering souls into the afterlife, assuring them that their murders would not go unsolved (how could they, with Sherlock on the case) and that there was nothing to fear from moving on.

And he could help solve cases, mysteries.

Harry frowned, looking blankly at the wall. Maybe Sherlock was through with him, in the romantic sense. But Harry wondered if Sherlock did not still need an assistant. Maybe that's what he ought to text the detective. Looking for a job. Are you hiring? Or something along those lines. That should work out perfectly. Surely, no hard feelings, weird resentments, or unprofessional yearnings would mar their professional relationship.

"Harry, what are you thinking about?" Hermione asked.

Harry saw no point in lying.

"Honestly, Sherlock." He answered.

"Why?" Ron asked this time.

"I guess I never told you. We were together for a time." Harry answered.

Both of Ron's eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. "Really? Together?"

Harry nodded, now watching Ron carefully.

It took Ron a few moments to process this revelation, but then, the look of surprise was replaced by… excitement?

"Oh! Harry! Sherlock!" Ron started to say, halfway getting out of his armchair. Hermione shot Ron a look.

"Ron, you know, it's perfectly fine that Harry and Sherlock were once together. You shouldn't-" She started to say.

"I know it's perfectly fine! That's not what I wanted to say!" Ron said, then turned back to Harry, "He came by here when you were out."

"What?" Harry didn't understand. "Who came by?"

"It was that day you two pulled your hilarious stunt and left me all alone here, to stew." Ron explained. "That morning, in fact. Sherlock came by here."

Harry's hands were reaching into his pocket automatically, looking for his mobile. It was not there. "Why didn't you say anything?" He asked Ron.

"Two reasons: one, because he asked me not to, and, as you may have guessed, I wasn't your biggest fan that day, so I decided to do as he asked. And, more crucially, two: I forgot all about it until this moment." Ron explained.

The day Harry had taken Hermione to Leeds was weeks ago. Harry couldn't believe it. He thought Sherlock must have been intentionally ignoring him, but this was not at all the case. Sherlock had been here, at Number 12… doing what?

"What did he want?" Harry asked.

"To see you. He asked if you were in. I said, 'No, he's out with Hermione.' Don't think he asked much more. Just wanted me not to say anything to you."

Harry grimaced. He knew Sherlock pretty well. If Ron genuinely believed that day that Harry and Hermione had become a couple, Sherlock would have probably been able to spot that by looking at the turn of Ron's collar, or something equally as ridiculously genius.

"Harry?" Hermione asked in a small voice, "What are you going to do?"

Harry felt again for the parchment in his pocket.

What would he do?

"I don't know."

Harry settled back into the couch. It was late, and he would not do anything tonight. He would sleep on it, and come to a decision in the morning.

Hermione and Ron settled into a chat about something entirely different, and Harry was left alone to mull over Sherlock's mysterious visit.

Harry thought about the talk he had with Ron, about boggarts, and fears. He thought about McGonagall, and her offer. But most of all, he thought about the muggle flat on Baker Street, and the man who lived there.

Harry found himself winding his way to a decision. He had earned his heart back. It was a pity if he could not, on occasion, put it on the line.

…

There was a knock on the front door.

Mrs. Hudson was, Sherlock could hear, blasting Christmas music from her aged stereo, so there was no chance she would hear the knock.

Sherlock, for his part, was in turn plucking at his violin and occasionally accompanying the drifting tones of Miss Carey's rendition of 'All I Want for Christmas,' (Mrs. Hudson current choice of festive music) with a few wayward melodies on his instrument.

It was early in the day, not even noon yet. But still, the calendar on Sherlock's phone reliably informed him that it was December 24th. Sherlock figured, like many times over the years, John might come over. Maybe Lestrade, if he was still estranged from his wife (Sherlock thought he probably was). And of course, Mrs. Hudson, who was already here and needed only to make a trip up the stairs.

Which of the people might be downstairs at the door, he could not deduce. But his best guess was: John. And, Mary. Maybe, the baby.

On second thought, why would John come here? The good doctor had a family now. Surely, he would spend the holidays with them rather than with his surly ex-flatmate?

Was it Lestrade down at the door? Or, god forbid, Mycroft?

Whoever it was, Sherlock had a day of merrymaking ahead of him. He would have to attempt to put on his best face, even as that yawning hole in his chest beckoned him, and he wanted nothing more than to fall in head first, and forget about everything and everyone.

There isn't any shame in it. You've tried. Now, time for business as usual. Tell them to piss off, and go lay down.

Sherlock shook his head, rather than answer the voice. He had tried to change because of some misguided idea that he could get his wizard back. His wizard was not coming back. What should be done now? Should the changes be discarded? Should Sherlock return to that serene, floating inner stasis where nothing and no one mattered to him?

Were his convictions so thin? Was his epiphany so easily discarded?

No. Never one to waste energy and effort, Sherlock decided that he would persevere through the present pain, and remain, as he was, on the ill-conceived path towards change. He would not fall into the frozen stasis, comfortable though it may be. He would stay committed to the cause of a better, less hateful Sherlock.

The knock sounded again, more urgent.

Part of that commitment, Sherlock mused, was probably answering the door. Sherlock began getting up, intent on retrieving his dressing gown.

He stopped when he heard the downstairs door click open.

Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up. She nearly squealed with delight.

"-will be so excited to see you, come on up, but only-" Sherlock heard this string of words, but the rest were undecipherable, as Mrs. Hudson lowered her voice. Sherlock relaxed.

There was a brief conversation between Mrs. Hudson and this new person, which Sherlock didn't hear, and if he were being honest, probably didn't care about. Then, that person began to come up the stairs. As a mental exercise, Sherlock tried to place the gait with a name he knew.

It definitely wasn't John. No limp, psychosomatic or otherwise. It was not Mycroft either. It could be Lestrade, but only if Lestrade had grown about 5 inches in height since Sherlock last saw him.

Sherlock's mind hummed with energy as he puzzled it out.

The knock now sounded against his own flat.

Sherlock expected Mrs. Hudson to let in whoever it was. He was surprised that she had abandoned this mystery guest in the lower landing. Maybe she had biscuits in the oven that needed immediate attention. Sherlock stretched his legs out of his recliner, and stood up. He was halfway to the door when he realized he was still sans dressing gown, but decided that was fine. Whoever it was could deal. Then, his hand was almost around the door knob when his brain finally caught up, and he identified the gait that had come up the stairs.

His fingers froze around the knob.

Sherlock saw flashes of stumbling up the same stairs, drunk on cheap red wine, holding his wizard for dear life, lest Harry topple away from him. He saw his own yearnings, coming up behind the wizard, watching Harry's every move like a predatory animal, and wishing he could only stray a little closer, brush more of his body against the other's.

Sherlock's hand moved without direction from his brain, as it twisted the door knob and opened the door.

There he was. The cold air of winter London clung to him. Tiny snowflakes melted in windswept hair.

"Hi," Harry's face twitched into a smile, but lost it just as suddenly.

"Hello," Sherlock answered. He had no idea what to say. He had no idea what his own face might look like.

"I um, so, I'm here…" Harry started, and Sherlock watched every muscle of the man's face move as he struggled through the words.

"So, you're here?" Sherlock tried helping.

"Merlin, this is awkward." Harry said, more to himself, to the air, than to Sherlock. "I wasn't sure if I wanted to ask you for a job, or to ask you out. On a date. If you want to, maybe…" Harry tried.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, "A date?"

"I don't believe we've ever actually been on one. Not officially." Harry quickly explained, "Yeah, I mean it's stupid, sorry, I didn't think…"

"Where do you want to go?" Sherlock cut in before Harry could take it all back. A date?

It looked as though Harry had not thought that far in advance.

"Restaurant or something?" The wizard answered.

"Alright. Let's go." Sherlock said, then almost stepped through the door before he realized he was wearing his slippers and an old t-shirt. But no matter, that would only take a minute. Was this really happening?

"What, go now?" Harry asked, apparently wrestling with the same question as Sherlock.

Very few thoughts were in Sherlock's head. If he had to give his condition a proper medical title, he would call it shock. He motioned Harry inside.

"You didn't specify the time. I assumed you were talking about now. Only, let me get dressed." Sherlock answered.

"Oh, right, well, yeah let's go." Harry agreed, then following Sherlock's lead, stepped inside 221B.

The wizard was back in his flat. Never mind that he was trying to draw Sherlock out into London to a restaurant when all Sherlock wanted was to have Harry right here in 221B. Never mind that Sherlock probably needed a bath and some proper clothes. Never mind that they had not seen each other in months. Never mind everything else in the world.

Harry stood there, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock. It looked like he wanted to say something, but was not quite confident in his abilities of speech.

Sherlock paused, watching Harry, anticipating.

Finally, Harry spoke. "I've really missed you." He stepped closer to Sherlock. They were very close now, and Sherlock was reminded of the time dilation he experienced when he first worked up the nerve to kiss Harry.

Sherlock saw the succession of all the days that had stretched out the autumn and threatened to return: all the grayed glimpses and quiet sighs, the loss of appetite and the days spent doing nothing more than sitting and watching the silver skies above London, all the intricate yet simple inward foldings, where Sherlock was sure he was docilely disappearing into himself, and one day, he would vanish with a neat pop: all resolved, loose ends tied up. Gone. He could give words to that phenomenon. Better yet, he could give Harry the words.

"I've been dying for you."

Sherlock expected arched eyebrows, an open 'o' mouth of light shock. Maybe even a downward curl of the lip in disdain for Sherlock's melodrama. But Harry wore a very serious expression. It reflected and magnified Sherlock's words. Harry's eyes were focused on him like two lenses focused on a tiny pin prick hole where the last remnant of his heart lived. An old, childish experiment. The lenses, focusing light, would create heat, then smoke, then a spark, and then-

Harry reached out and took Sherlock's hand. It was impossible to explain how, but the gesture seemed more intimate than the handful of times they'd had penetrative sex.

"Let's not go anywhere. Let's stay right here." Harry said.

Sherlock squeezed his fingers back, smiled and feeling his heart burst into flame, nodded yes.

The End.

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AN: Yes! It's really the end! I can't believe I've finally got to the end. As always, please leave me a comment if you've enjoyed reading this fanfiction. I really love reading what you guys have to say.

Also, here is my linktree:

/lalo_kachinsky

You can find a link to my original fictions there, which I generally post on Royal Road.

What can I say? Thank you everyone for reading, and sticking it out with me. I hope you enjoyed this story. I leave the two guys here, on Christmas Eve, with all the hope in the world that they will sort things out between themselves, and no further intervention from me is required.