John Watson hated Christmas. He hated the crackling fireplace Mrs Hudson insisted upon lighting; he hated the mince pies she cooked and tried to feed him (by force if necessary); he hated all of it. But most of all, John Watson hated the silent violin that sat with reverence on the mantelpiece. There it quietly lay, day and night; mocking him with the ghost sounds of melodies he'd never hear again. It never gathered dust, because John would always dust it out of habit, but neither was it ever moved. He would not allow Mrs Hudson to even contemplate putting it away, in the cold, dark corner of a cupboard, the warm, worn wood never to be seen again, until he, John, died. Death. Brutal and cruel, snatching away the things…people…whom we love the most, not even giving us the chance to recuperate until it snatches itself. Mycroft died not long after Sherlock.
Normally, he'd be too smart for that kind of thing, but John's silence and the ever-growing guilt he felt towards his brother's death was too much. Near the end, he was haunted by hallucinations of a five year old Sherlock in a pirate hat, grasping an anatomically correct wooden sword wandering about his mansion. His caretakers said the sobbing was insufferable. Finally he left the same way as his brother, leaving with a sick twist. He used the handle of his umbrella. John was never really close to Mycroft; he almost hated him. But losing two Holmes' in one month was almost enough to drive him over the edge. And he would have, too, if Mrs Hudson hadn't kept him alive for those first two months. Finally, he grew to be stable, or at least was told he was. He'd stopped seeing his psychiatrist ages ago, refusing flat out for anyone but Sherlock to deduce what he was thinking. He'd dusted off his old cane and now slept in the living room on the sofa. He couldn't use the stairs and didn't want to disturb Sherlock's room, although he changed the sheets every month since then, to keep the damp at bay.
Now, it was three years after the fall and the window was open, carols streaming in faintly from the street and the warm glow of fireplaces and life just reached the sill. John sat stock still in his chair staring at the leather chair that used to be Sherlock's. A long time ago, he'd placed his Union Jack pillow on it in remembrance of their friendship; his loyalty to the one man he valued above Queen and Country. He could hear Mrs Hudson busying herself downstairs with the mince pies that he so despised nowadays. She hummed and danced when John wasn't in the room. She knew how much he hated it and refrained for his sake. Annoyed at the racket, he moved closer towards the window, leaning out so that he could see across the tops of the many roofs of Baker Street. Then, faintly, barely perceptively, just on the edge of his hearing, John heard a violin. And another. And another. A whole bunch of them. And…they were playing a melody composed by… no. No no no no no… Yes? Looking around wildly for the source of the sweet music, John Watson almost fell out of the window. Just catching himself on the ledge, he gasped and looked down onto the street to Speedy's Sandwich shop. Underneath the red canvas that obscured his view of the footpath, John thought he saw the sweep of a dark black coat. Not willing to lean out of the window again, he turned and ran down the stairs, cane forgotten, to the door and wrenched it open, adrenaline rushing fifty thousand miles an hour through his system. Nothing. No one on the other side of the door. Nothing. The emotions John Watson experienced next cannot be described in words and I'm sorry if anyone was very much looking forward to a description of his unimaginable pain and suffering. He fell to his knees and huddled into the smallest ball he could make with his now thin, underfed body. And he cried. The man who had made it through wars and his best friend's death, at the hope of false-retribution, cried his whole, broken heart out. For approximately sixty seconds he lay on the floor like that; sobbing and shattered. Then his phone made a noise normally reserved for whenever he gets a text. John lifted his head weakly, only to be met with shiny, black shoes and the hem of a large black coat.
Hello, John
-SH