John heard the clink of the bottle as it hit the counter.

Harry pushed the glass across to him. He was sitting in her flat at the bar between the kitchen and living room, and he felt miserable. He never spent much time with Harry, and normally, he wholly disapproved of his sister's drinking, but tonight, he wanted to drown his sorrows as well. And it was true what they said about misery loving company.

Harry looked down at her brother as he wrapped his hands around the glass. She'd never seen him in such bad shape. He looked angry and destroyed at the same time. Usually he was worried about her, but she found the tables were turned tonight. She poured a drink of her own, feeling slightly guilty that she felt grateful that John was too far gone to stop her.

It was Christmas Eve, and Harry knew damn well that John must have been desperate if he was spending it with her. He'd shown up around five and had crawled into a bottle of whiskey with her, and neither of them had felt safe enough to emerge yet.

The alcohol affected John differently. Harry was used to it running through her blood, but her brother wasn't. It made him sullen and angry. But he was beginning to come out of it. It was nearing ten at night, and he had slowed himself down considerably, perhaps taking into account that he would have to get himself home eventually. She knew he'd never stay here for the night.

But she wasn't sure it was a good idea for him to still be living in that flat in Baker Street. Of course, she knew better than to bring it up. Anytime she brought up Sherlock, John reacted badly.

"You going to be all right, John?" She knew she was pushing it by even talking. They'd spent most of the night in silence, with the exception of one moment early in the evening during which John had gone on a bit of a tirade about how awful the holiday season was. Harry knew it wasn't really him talking. She'd been down that road enough times to recognize the street signs.

John was very still for the longest time. Harry breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he nodded.

She made it a point to ignore the single tear that fell down his face.

"I'm going back tonight, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, you really shouldn't."

"Moriarty's web is dead. There is no reason for me to stay in hiding any longer."

"We'd like to put the finishing touches on this case, to make sure-"

"I don't care. I held up my end of this. We wouldn't even have had this problem if you'd kept that lunatic locked up. I'll leave the bureaucracy to you. I'm going home."

"What if I stop you?"

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock glared at his older brother, who sat behind his desk, his hands folded calmly in front of him.

"Are you sure this is the best time?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You know John didn't take your...death...well. Are you sure you want to start all this on the holidays?"

Sherlock froze. "He is not spending another Christmas alone," he said through his teeth. "And I am not allowing some government nonsense to get in my way. Especially given that I was the one who spent all these years cleaning up your mess."

Harry watched John leave her apartment, and part of her wanted to follow him. He was walking straight, yes, but she knew he wasn't in the best of ways tonight. She also knew that if she tried to keep tabs on him that it would only make him mad. So she let him walk away.

John walked to the cemetery. He hadn't been there in quite some time, and he probably wouldn't have gone then had it not been for the whiskey left in his system, still dulling his common sense.

He'd walked to this headstone so many times that he didn't even need to pay conscious attention to get there. It was just as much ingrained in his brain as the replays of the fall.

He stood, glaring at the tombstone, and then against his better judgement, he started talking.

Sherlock knew John was at Harry's, and he arrived just as the doctor was leaving. He didn't look well. When Harriet Watson's face shows concern, then it's a given that the situation is bad.

Sherlock followed safely behind John, and became confused when he took a few turns away from Baker Street. Why wasn't he going home?

When Sherlock saw the cemetery up ahead, he understood. And he knew no good would come of it.

Sherlock situated himself at a safe distance, watching John approach the tombstone. He could never stay still in front of the granite slab. He would always pace. Sherlock had seen him do just this many times before, but never had he seen this kind of fire in his eyes.

"You kill me, you know that, Sherlock? You've been dead for years and I am still miserable. I still have nightmares, and I still wake up every morning thinking you're there, when I should know you're not. Do you have any idea how many times I've reached for a second mug for tea? Hundreds. I couldn't even go back to Baker Street for the longest time. You know why I finally went back? Because it was better than waking up somewhere else, because memories are all you left behind for us. I couldn't cut those out, too. So instead I wake up every day and see that goddamn skull on the mantelpiece. I go to work, I do what I'm supposed to, I go see Mike for drinks or dinner like a friend should, but it's all this big lie! Because the reality of it is that I spend all that time stuck thinking about you, about the fact that the person who made my life so good is gone forever. And you can't imagine how that feels." He pointed an accusatory finger at the headstone, just as he had done to Sherlock himself in the past. "Why did you have to do this to us? It didn't solve anything!" He paused, took a few deep and shuddering breaths. "Sometimes, I really hate you."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, feeling the full force of those words hit him square in the chest. He'd heard John say angry things in the past, of course, and many sad things as well. But never that.

Then the anger vanished. John sat down, his back leaning against the headstone. He rested his arms on his knees and stared up at the sky, his eyes partially glazed over. "Except I don't. That's the problem, Sherlock. I don't hate you at all. I never did. Just the opposite. And that makes it so much worse."

Suddenly Sherlock was filled with a panic. He had not foreseen this defeated confession. And now he was struck with a rare insecurity and doubt. Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe tonight was a bad choice.

He was about to leave when he saw John stand, resting his hand on the tombstone as he'd done many times. But this time he said in a choked voice, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock. I love you." He turned and walked away, back in the direction of Baker Street.

Sherlock remained frozen in place for the longest time. Finally he walked to his own tombstone, laying his hand where John's had been only minutes ago. And he decided to stop in the coffee shop across the street to gather his thoughts. For one of the few times in his life, Sherlock Holmes had no idea how to proceed.

John was mostly sober by the time he shut the door behind him in Baker Street. He was starting to get a headache. He tried to be as quiet as possible, knowing Mrs. Hudson was asleep already. It was nearing midnight. She'd looked at him with so much worry when he'd left earlier that evening that he felt a little guilty. Did it really show on his face that much?

He just felt so tired.

He slowly made his way up the steps to their flat. He always referred to it as their flat, instead of his. It was a habit he'd never quite broken himself out of. And like every night now, the flat was quiet. No fire, no violin, no simple sounds of people moving through the rooms. The emptiness was almost palpable.

John sat down in his chair and cast a disapproving glance at the Christmas tree. Mrs. Hudson had more or less insisted on putting one up. Its lights were on, and they cast their multicolored spotlights on the floor, so cheerful on such a cold and dreary night. He stayed hypnotized by them for a while before he gave up and went to bed. He didn't sleep upstairs anymore. His old room was usually shut off to conserve heat. It was easier to use the other bedroom. And even though the one downstairs had long since been his room, somehow it still felt like Sherlock's, the periodic table even still in place on the wall. John hadn't had the heart to remove it.

John lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He knew he wouldn't sleep well tonight. He never did on Christmases. He reached over to the bedside table and hit the button on the clock radio. They'd be playing carols all night of course, but sometimes just the noise helped him sleep. Anything to break up the silence.

The only gift I would want for Christmas, I can't have.

Sherlock stood on the front steps of Baker Street for nearly ten minutes before he opened the door. Mycroft had ensured he would have a key, although Sherlock would have just assumed pick the lock. He tried to be silent. He was sure everyone was asleep, and his plan was to leave John be till morning, given how things had gone at the cemetery. Everything was always a little easier to handle in the morning after some rest.

Sherlock could see the lights reflecting off the floor and furniture before he was even all the way in the flat. It looked nearly identical to how it had looked when he'd last seen it. John hadn't gotten rid of hardly anything.

Sentiment.

And then he paused, making himself very still. He could have sworn he'd heard...music? He frowned, trying to place it, and then heard the sound coming from under what used to be his bedroom door. He walked up to the door and listened harder, hearing a sigh and the sound of someone shifting on the mattress. Sherlock had not factored in the chance that John was still awake. In fact, the entire night had been one long instance of Sherlock's plans being ruined by unforeseen circumstances. He stood there for a while, listening to the music and trying to determine if John was actually awake, or just sleeping fitfully.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Let your heart be light.
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Make the Yuletide gay.
Next year all our troubles will be miles away.

Once again as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who were dear to us, will be near to us once more.

Someday soon, we all will be together,
If the fates allow.
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow

So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

Sherlock swallowed hard when he heard the song. It was not the happiest the radio could have played. A voice muttered, "Goddamn it," from behind the door, and he thought John must have agreed with him, because seconds later, the music was shut off.

And that seemed as good a cue as any.

Sherlock opened the door very slowly. When he looked inside, John was already sitting up in bed and Sherlock knew he was reaching for his hidden firearm. But the man's hand had paused halfway to its hiding place.

John stared at the silhouette in the doorway, and he suddenly felt like a character in A Christmas Carol, seeing the ghosts of his own past. The hand of the silhouette was still on the doorknob, and the body language was that of someone ready to flee at a moment's notice.

"I'm hallucinating."

John was convinced he was talking to himself, so when a voice answered, "Afraid not," he nearly blacked out. The voice couldn't belong to anyone else. John reached over and clicked on the lamp on the bedside table, and the figure in the doorway squinted in the new light.

Sherlock was watching John's face for every minuscule change in expression, praying he'd be able to read it quickly enough to know what to say. But John's face was blank. Sherlock had never seen him so confused. He wanted it to be real, but some part of him was still saying it was a dream, that there was no way Christmas wishes were actually granted outside of movies.

Sherlock wanted to go straight to him, wrap his arms around him, prove that he was real, but he was terrified that if he did that John would not react well. So he stood there in the doorway, tense and ready to bolt.

John shifted to the edge of the bed, his brows pulling together in a very suspicious frown.

"You're not real."

"Yes, I am."

"How do I know this isn't something my brain is making up? A dream?"

"A dream version of me would have shown up a long time ago, if at all. Unfortunately the actual me has never been known for good timing."

John stood and took a couple of hesitant steps toward him. He looked Sherlock up and down, scrutinizing every inch of him. The eyes, the hair, the ridiculous coat. It was all there. There wasn't a single missing detail, not a single deviation from the real man. John reached out and laid a hand flat across his chest, as if testing to see if he was in fact just a Christmas spirit. But Sherlock was solid. He was no dream.

Sherlock watched John's face change. It went through so many different emotions so quickly he could barely keep up. Within seconds, it cycled through confusion, shock, and disbelief. And then anger.

Sherlock felt the blow land on his face before he even saw John's hand move. His own hand flew to his cheek. There would be a bruise there tomorrow.

"You son of a bitch!" John was positioned in a defensive stance, once more looking the part of the soldier. Sherlock didn't move. He knew he deserved much worse. He was about to turn and walk away, but he saw John come toward him. He braced himself, expecting perhaps another punch to the face, but instead John wrapped his arms around him. For a moment Sherlock was too shocked to respond. But finally, he realized he was being given the opportunity to do what he'd wanted to do so badly during his absence. He held John back.

He leaned his head down close to John's shoulder and whispered, "I'm sorry." And he thought of delaying explanations, but he had to add, "It was to protect you, while I took down Moriarty's network. I didn't want to leave. I never would have left if I didn't have to."

"Shut up," a muffled voice said against his chest. "Just shut up, Sherlock. It's waited this long. It can wait a little longer."

"John-"

"What did I just say, Sherlock?"

"I was at the cemetery this evening."

John pulled back just enough to look up at him.

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it."

John stepped away. He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning his arms on his knees. Sherlock went and sat beside him.

"Are you all right?"

"Sherlock, it is going to take months before I'm all right." Sherlock had no response, knowing John was correct. "But I really don't want to think about that right now." John looked up at him, still looking exhausted. "I think for now I'd like to just be grateful you're alive. Leave it to you to actually do the impossible and come back from the dead." There was none of his usual humor in his words.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. He debated his possible courses of action and finally laid a hand on John's shoulder. When he didn't object, Sherlock wrapped him in an embrace again, resting his head against John's. He felt John stiffen for just a second before relaxing, letting out a slow sigh of relief. Sherlock could practically feel the weight lift from him. All Sherlock wanted to do was whisper a chorus of apologies, but he knew full well that all John really needed right then was silence.

Of course, being Sherlock Holmes, he lasted only one full minute.

"I feel the same way."

"What?"

"I wouldn't blame you for hating me. I sometimes hate myself, too. But I do care about you. A great deal. We just closed the case on Moriarty's network today, and I refused to wait another day before coming back. Because I wanted to see you again. I was just praying you would want to see me again as well."

"Despite the fact that a part of me really wants to punch you in the face again, there isn't anyone else I've wanted to see so badly in years." Sherlock could hear a tiny trace of John's usual self in his voice. He allowed himself a small smile.

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you." Sherlock sat back and searched John's eyes for any hint that he was in for another wild punch tonight. But there was a placid calm on his face, and Sherlock knew that while morning would bring clarity, and with it, no doubt, some amount of argument and anger, that in that single moment, all that passed between them was shared affection and relief. Which was why Sherlock decided that the night was worth one more emotional risk, and so reached out to take John's face in his hands and kiss him. Sherlock felt a hand rest at the base of his neck, pulling him closer. He didn't even think of resisting. A few moments later, in a breathless whisper, he said, "I've wanted to do that for years."

"Well, you said so yourself that you were never known for your sense of timing." Sherlock saw the first real, painless smile begin on John's face, and he gave a short, low laugh.

"Very true. Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

Additional Notes: The version of the song used is the one sung by Judy Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis. I highly recommend you go watch the scene from it.