Merry Christmas, John! –Mary
John blinks as he stares down at the phone, shedding a single tear. Mrs. Hudson's sherry did not envelop the room, decorated only with a plain chart on the wall. There was a tally mark for each day since Sherlock's passing, a brutal yet needed reminder for John.
He shook himself slightly, glancing back down at the phone. Mary Morstan. She had been delightful, snarky, and… persistent. She introduced herself to him as soon as he was hired, and a day later, she was exchanging him numerous texts. In the back of his mind, his inner Sherlock had deduced Mary's affections for him.
But here, dejectedly sitting on his lonesome in a stranger's home, no such thoughts ran through his mind. Instead, John searched for some hideous secret, some dark plot, anything that would explain why someone could love him. The only person he truly loved, after his ordeal in Afghanistan, had died.
Suicide, they called it. Sherlock supposedly had been the one to perish—not John. No one could tell John's soul had been buried in the very same grave. His therapist acted like life support, and each day, John felt more and more like pulling the plug.
What was life without Sherlock Holmes? It was… John paused, searching for words that would be appropriate to describe his loss. He glanced towards the fake, empty feeling Christmas lights lying limply on the floor. Dejected, it had been abandoned, no longer giving off the warmth and the life it promised. Perhaps it was like that.
It wasn't that a part of him died—rather, a piece of him never lived. His life was no more, merely a bottle of regrets that grew deeper and deeper with each passing day. The bills piled up, neglected, and the chasm between him and the phone grew. Outside of work, John Watson saw no one.
Merry Christmas, Mary. –JW
The message vanishes, drifting off into space. Somewhere, Mary Watson's purse vibrates, and perhaps, she smiles. A rare grin traces John's face, his mind off of the dead and onto the living. There was a work Christmas party that evening—perhaps, it wouldn't be completely horrible for him to attend.
It wasn't like Mary would throw herself off of a hospital building, breaking each of her bones and John Watson's frail heart.
For a hospital, the Christmas party was lively. A decent portion of staff had to miss, instead tending to the patients due to die at any moment. A few of those patients would be wheeled out to see the lights one last time before they expired, a sad final salute.
Sherlock never got that chance, John realized, downing a shot. He hadn't cared to pay attention to what was inside of it, and the alcohol scorched his throat. The sensation was welcome, and he shut his eyes tightly, only to have dots of red swim in front of him. Two blue pinpricks were lost in the mess, and John shuddered, clenching his diaphragm as to prevent himself from breathing.
In the echoing distance, he could hear machine gun fire.
"John!" Mary cried out, throwing her arms around him. He flinched back to life, his muscles tightening with surprise.
"Mary!" John exclaimed, a grin sliding easily onto his face. She always brought out the best in him.
Her blue eyes were outlined with eye-liner, clumsily applied. Sherlock would have commented about her nervousness, and then, followed it up with an explanation of why women wore make up in the first place. John rather licked his lip awkwardly, before reshaping his face once again to show a grin.
Releasing him from the hug, Mary rocked back delicately on her feet. Her hospital smock was covered in red and green glitter, and a pair of fake, elf ears was strapped on tightly to her head, comically drooping.
"You look…lovely," John murmured, his own face instantly flushing.
Mary beamed. "Aww, thanks! You look lovely as well—bit Scrooge like, though."
John tilted his head quizzically, before glancing down at his raincoat. It was black, and almost appeared to be like Sherlock's signature bellstaff. He winced slightly at the connotation, before reassuring himself that he had used Amazon to spread some Christmas cheer to friends and family, all with the added bonus of never having to look them in the eye.
"Sorry," Mary giggled. "How are you?"
"I'm… I'm good," John smiled, breathing evenly. He clenched his right hand, holding his drink in the other.
Mary's eyes dimmed slightly, and she nodded. "I thought you might have stayed home—spend Christmas with your boyfriend."
"I don't have a boyfriend," John answered thinly, closing himself off once more. Days, weeks, months had past, and still, people had an uncanny ability to peg him for gay. It never ceased. On one occasion, when he had been ought on a date with a pretty girl named Jinora, the waiter had made the very same assumption.
"Oh, good news for me," Mary teased, winking. "You don't have any family to spend Christmas with, then?"
He shook his head, standing with his shoulders back. "My sister's making amends with her ex-wife."
It wasn't too much of a life. Harry had left a voicemail along those lines, inviting John to join her and Clara for a holiday at the lake. Of course, he had declined—Clara's thin, pale face was like a ghost. It was ghastly, and only served to set him back further.
Of course, he could always spend Christmas with his parents—they had hot chocolate on hand at the cemetery, so he wouldn't have to worry too much about freezing as he sat beside their graves.
Mary nodded. "I don't have anyone either—if you'd like, you can come over."
"What, spend the night?" John asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Sure," Mary smiled. "It'd be like a sleep over—I can give you a bloody good makeover."
"I bet," John chuckled. "I think I'll have to ask my mom first."
Mary nodded, her smile fading slightly. "Should be fine with my parents—they're dead, you know. It's hard for them to freak out."
"I know exactly what you mean," John whispered, reaching out and grasping Mary's hand lightly. "Shall we, then?"
"I'll take your hat," Mary grinned cheekily, pulling the bowler cap off of John's head. John's mustache bristled slightly as her hand grazed his face, and he blushed in spite of himself.
"Next you'll tell me my hair looks swell," John teased.
Mary's eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh, that old song! It's horrible, really."
She smiled at John, before ushering him down the narrow hallway. The studio apartment suited Mary, in a peculiar bed. Her bed, covered in lilac sheets, was shoved into the corner. Rather than being smothered in a mountain of blankets and pillows, the sheets and comforters were minimal. For John, it was a breath of fresh air. He hated the extravagance most people insisted upon.
In Afghanistan, there was no room for fifteen different blankets, and three body pillows—simplicity and minimalism was required. One's life actually depended upon it.
"What's wrong with the song?" John asked, averting his gaze from the bed.
Mary was sitting in front of a tiny television set, with a little coffee table in front of her. Two wine glasses had been set out, and streams of red liquid were flowing into them from the bottle in Mary's grasp. The quaint little apartment gave off this cozy vibe, yet as John gazed around, he saw something else present among the softness.
There was hardness—a hidden, lurking specter… Perhaps Mary had served in some sort of manner as well. He certainly didn't feel he knew her well enough to ask.
"Think about it," Mary laughed, offering him one of the glasses. "The girl wants to leave, and he's begging her to stay. Then, he drugs her drink!"
"Like how you've clearly put something in mine," John chuckled, accepting the glass. The wine swished around as he grasped it, and he raised it to his lip. Rather than burning, it was a smooth, calming sensation. It trickled into his mouth, sliding down his throat and into his stomach.
There was no pain.
Mary shook her head. "The guy needs to learn a thing or two about consent—it isn't romantic to drug someone! Besides, I used proper drugs."
John took another delicate sip, hesitating before sitting down next to Mary on the sofa. A cushion separated the two of them, yet for a moment, John felt as if they were pressed up against each other. It was the closest he had been to anyone since…
The accident.
"I suppose that makes it fine," John answered, his voice losing its light and merry tone.
"Of course it does," Mary grinned, before taking a gigantic gulp of her wine. She scrunched her eyes in regret, with two thin trails of red wine staining her chin, like streams of blood.
"You must be… Dracula or something," John joked lamely, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Or something," Mary winked. "More wine?"
John nodded. The wine sloshed in his glass, filled practically to the brim. He gazed down into its depths for a moment, wary of the hangover to come in the morning. However, after a glance over at Mary, he began to sip his drink once more. His heart fluttered, stirring with something he had not felt in months. The warmth spread, increasing more and more by the minute.
"So, John, what's your story?" Mary questioned, leaning forward. The soft lights of the studio apartment danced in her eyes, like wicked and cackling fairies.
"My story?" John asked, leaning forward as well. The distance between them decreased slowly, to the extent that neither one was quite aware.
"Everyone's got a story," Mary explained. "I'm an orphan, trained as a nurse across the pond, wound up here… I don't have much family."
"I'm an army doctor," John replied, taking another swig of the wine. Courage spread throughout him. "I was… a colleague of a detective, for a while. Assisted him on cases and such but… Here I am now."
He shut his eyes for a moment, willing time and space to freeze. The warmth of Mary's flat chilled him, and his heart hammered, vying for him to escape. Brief snatches were exploding in his mind, reminding him of all he had suffered through.
A pale face.
A knowing smile.
Cold, blue eyes with a calculating chill.
Blood.
Endless blood.
Pain.
"John?" Mary frowned, placing a hand gently on his knee. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. I'm…. I'm fine," John replied, clenching his hand once more. He stiffened, feeling a spark zip through his leg, reminding him of its supposed fragility. Ever so often, he would require that dreaded cane once more, unable to walk on his own.
There was no detective around to prove it was all in his mind—his brain could destroy him, piece by piece, and no one would stop it. He was hopeless.
Mary frowned slightly, seemingly unconvinced. "Did something happen between you and the detective?"
"He… He died," John muttered, avoiding Mary's gaze. A few tears welled up in his eyes, yet he held them back. He had seen people die before—good people. They had been blown to smithereens, left to die of infection, had their limbs blasted off… It didn't matter how they died. They all looked the same.
They all had that same upward gaze.
And yet, Sherlock's gaze continued to haunt his dreams. John would find himself in Afghanistan, taking a shot, and causing a soldier to fall down. He would race over to finish off the enemy, and when the body rolled over, the face did not belong to the Taliban.
It would always be Sherlock's face, bloodied to the point that he was almost unrecognizable.
"Oh, I'm sorry, John," Mary lamented as her face fell. "Were you two close?"
"You could say that," John laughed bitterly. "He… He wasn't good with emotions but… We were… We were…"
What were they?
"It's okay," Mary soothed. "I know what that's like—you don't have to talk about it. It's Christmas."
He swallowed thickly, before glancing over at the wine. Picking his glass up once more, he downed its contents, the alcohol serving as a much needed bandage on his broken heart. Quicker than should have been possible, the room began to blur, and the distance between him and Mary closed slowly, and then all at once.
Her lips were wet, with the oddest texture. It was like making out with applesauce. His eyes were wide open, mesmerized with her shining blue orbs. The world spun around him, as he found himself delving deeper and deeper into the kiss. His entire body melted, and dimly, he could feel his heart fail.
"John?"
"Mmm," he murmured, as his heart restarted. He took in a deep breath, breathing in the new, fresh air, and felt his heart skip a beat. Somehow, his hand had already gravitated towards the small of Mary's back, and artfully, his tongue became acquainted with hers.
"I told you my drugs were best," Mary whispered, pulling away from the kiss. Her mascara had run, causing long, smudged black streaks that traveled underneath her eyes. Her lipstick was smudged, and her hair was disheveled.
She couldn't have looked more beautiful.
"I can't argue against that," John chuckled, before gravitating towards Mary once more.
The vanilla scent of her perfume was intoxicating, and he drank it like the finest liquor. In the background, he could hear the obnoxious ring of her phone, yet neither one paid any attention to it. His shoulders relaxed for the first time in ages, and bliss spread throughout John's body. The feeling had previously been a stranger to him.
Mary pulled away once more, smiling gently at him.
"That wasn't too bad, right?" John asked, a bit of peculiar innocence slipping into his voice. He was no stranger to women, yet when he had been living with Sherlock, he hardly brought any home.
They always seemed to get jealous and leave in a fuss.
"Well, you could always use some practice," Mary admitted, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Your oral presentation was a bit sloppy."
"Oh dear," John sighed, leaning into the back of the sofa. "I suppose I'll need to work on that, then."
She nodded, placing her hand on his. "We can work on it together."
John returned a smile, watching a future, a path blossom in front of him. Perhaps it was foolish, but there was something special about Mary Morstan.
Perhaps his loneliness would end once more, and the ghost of the detective would finally be banished.
"Merry Christmas, Mary," John murmured, his grin growing wider and wider.
"Merry Christmas, John," she replied, smiling just as broadly, ignoring the bitter winter chill.
Neither of them noticed anything but the other.
A pale face broke up the darkness. Its unnatural thinness was appalling, and it moved forward gracefully, connected to a dark and grim form. Slowly, the features became more and more apparent. A trench coat concealed a tall and fair man, his curls bouncing with each concerned movement of his head. In his hand, he held a single package, wrapped with a bow.
It was addressed to a Dr. John Watson, 221B Baker Street.
Yet there was no doctor present in the flat, as became quite clear to the detective. There was not a single trace of life. The obnoxious tree, scattering needles everywhere, failed to appear. The flat was entirely empty.
Sherlock threw a glance out the window, searching for the familiar smile of the dear doctor. Only the bitter wind greeted him, and he frowned, almost forgetting the present in his hand. It clattered to the ground and he stared at it, for a moment considering crushing it. There was no logic behind it.
John could not know that he was alive—not yet. Perhaps, John Watson would never know.
Still, something kept Sherlock from smashing the present. He picked it up, and crossed the room briskly until he reached the pair of armchairs. A fine layer of dust covered both of them, and Sherlock gingerly set the present down on John's chair. No one else had ever been allowed to sit there.
It would have been sacrilege.
He took a step back, staring at the tiny gift left on the chair. There was no guarantee that John Watson would ever return to this place. His tiny display of compassion, of friendship, of…
Sherlock shook his head, and he exited the flat without another thought. His coat kept him warm, yet a sudden bitter chill overcame his heart, as if all of the lights in the world had suddenly petered out.
John Watson had moved on.
It was not at all a merry Christmas.