A little insight into why Sherlock dislikes Christmas.
Laughter echoed from the living room.
John and Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John's latest girlfriend… what was her name? Julie, Jenny?
Another Christmas, another hateful Christmas. Sherlock had long disliked this time of year.
It was Christmas, he remembered succinctly, that his relationship with his brother first started to deteriorate, the year his beloved Grandfather died, and Mycroft, wearing Grandfather's half hunter watch, tormented him by using Grandfather's Victorian pocket magnifying glass to peer at the labels on the gifts.
That glass had been promised to him, but Mycroft had claimed it for his own. Mummy had told him not to worry, there were other things to remember his grandfather by, but that wasn't the point. And Father told his to grow up and stop being so childish.
The memory of that Christmas stayed in mind the winter he had overdosed. To this day he couldn't say whether he had miscalculated, or whether it was an unconscious attempt to get back at them all. His grandfather would have understood, he had been the only one who truly knew Sherlock, the one who encouraged him to learn and grow, and to this day he missed him dearly.
A sob caught at the back of his throat as another burst of laughter assailed his ears, and he flung himself, despairing, onto his bed.
