Mary put the kettle on the back burner and walked, slowly, with measured steps, towards the Christmas tree that sat snugly in the library-corner of 221b. Mycroft's old record player, (a gift to Mary after she remembered his birthday and baked him a cake), lazily spun Christmas tunes that were just old enough to be classic. Mary hummed along as she placed a few new presents under the tree. Two for Sherlock. There were yet to be any under there for Mary. Not that she ever complained aloud. It hurt though, knowing she wasn't the first priority.... Her hand flitted shakily to her slightly round, hard tummy. Mary heard someone enter the flat, but she continued to mix sherlock's favorite cookie dough in a large, holiday bowl. She hummed a bit louder in the hopes that Sherlock would notice her. She wanted to be noticed... Mary repressed the needy thoughts that went hand in hand with her new pregnancy hormones, and adjusted John's old jumper so that it hung down to her knees. She was wearing holiday leggings and she smiled down at them. She realized that Sherlock had in fact noticed her, and she beamed. "Holmes." She saluted him as a greeting.