Drawn to the window by a longing far greater than any in his experience, the detective parted the draperies with one elegant finger to momentarily gaze at the passersby on the street below.
"I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me,"* a very loud, considerably off-key voice wafted upward. Although the old windows muffled the noise to a degree, still his heart stuttered, even as he snapped the draperies closed to block out the world beyond.
The room, now eerily lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace grate and the haphazardly hung fairy lights which Mrs. Hudson insisted upon, taunted him. To lift his spirits, she'd said. His spirits were not to be lifted under any but one circumstance.
He hated Christmas. He would forever and a day hate Christmas.
The vegetable and pasta casserole that Mrs. Hudson forced him to eat to keep his strength churned in his stomach. For several days now, tea and toast with raspberry jam had been his only sustenance. Other than porridge, which his tongue personally abhorred, toast with jam was John's favored way to start the day. It inevitably reminded him of the John-shaped emptiness in the flat, and in his heart.
For a moment he stood behind the chair that no longer had someone to sit in it. Removing the chair, regardless of the pain it caused him, was unthinkable. It was a haunting reminder of what used to be and was no longer.
While watching the last of the fire flicker and die, the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing and the subsequent footfalls on each of the seventeen steps which once had brought him joy and the warmth of home, now stabbed his heart and annoyed him to the marrow in his bones.
He did not wonder who it was for the quiet footsteps were recognisable, but not the ones he wished to hear. Standing in front of the fireplace when his visitor entered the flat, he did not turn to offer a greeting.
"Sherlock."
"Go away, Mycroft."
"Brother mine-"
"Unless you have news, your company is unwelcome. And your silence is preferable."
"I've brought you a Christmas gift."
"Not silence then. You hate Christmas, although not as much as I."
Sherlock turned then and gazed at the small, perfectly wrapped package that his brother held out to him.
"There is only one gift I need. No other will suffice. If I can't have-" He was appreciative of the dim light that shadowed the tears which threatened every moment of this night.
"Sherlock, I'm also here to ask that you spend the holiday with me. It's not wise for you to be alone at this time."
The detective stepped away from the fireplace to stand before his brother. "Mycroft, as you well know, I have been alone all my life, except for the mere eighteen months that were the apogee of my entire existence."
Mycroft reached out to touch his shoulder, but Sherlock retreated one step, forcing his brother to drop his hand to his side.
"You have friends, Sherlock. They care about you. They want to help, but you have to let them help you."
"No, Mycroft. I have just the one. Mrs. Hudson is the closest I have to a friend, but all the rest are just acquaintances."
"Best you not express that aloud in their company." He paused, clearing his throat. "Is it your intention to renew your search for Dr. Watson?"
"My search is ongoing. I will not abandon John again."
"You are aware that if John doesn't want to be found or-"
"And best you not finish that sentence. It is likely John does not know of my return. I will find him," he reiterated, casting a hateful glare at his brother, daring him without words to continue.
As was Mycroft's nature, he accepted the challenge. "He's been.. away for more than a year, Sherlock."
"I'm well aware of that, Mycroft," Sherlock shouted, balling his hands into fists, his anger filling the room. He allowed a heavy sigh. "I want to be alone now, Mycroft. Please leave. Thank you for the gift. Mrs. Hudson has baked your favorite sweets. Knock on her door on your way out."
"Sherlock."
"Leave, Mycroft," Sherlock said, only barely able to keep a civil tone as he turned away to face the fireplace once more.
"Very well. I see that the pleasantries of the season are not welcome."
"It will never be Christmas again," Sherlock whispered to the skull as the flat door closed with a soft click and his brother's footsteps faded away. "Not until John comes home."
When Sherlock was once again alone, his anger slowly dissipated, but the heaviness in his chest remained. Dropping into his chair, he stared at the one opposite, the empty chair with the all too familiar Union Jack pillow. His eyes filled without warning and spilled over to stream down his cheeks.
"John," he whispered, the name like a clot in his throat. His lips quivered with the sorrow that threatened to engulf him, and his sobs stole his breath. So he ran away, retreating to his Mind Palace, where there was no solace, only more memories.
He followed the corridor that brought him to where John resided. Memories were everywhere, rising up, like a tidal wave, no, a restiveness, a disquieting sense of loss, waiting, ready to crush him under the weight of his sentiment.
There was a favorite place, much like one of his boltholes, and it was there he sought the missing essence of John. Sinking down to the floor, long legs folded against his chest, arms circled round them, Sherlock dropped his head to his knees.
To remember.
After two years away, he'd come back to London, expecting everything to be as it once was, expecting John to be waiting for him, expecting to resume the Work with John by his side. What an idiot he'd been then.
To his bewilderment, Sherlock learned that John had left Baker Street nearly a year earlier. He'd emptied his bank account, deleted his blog and disappeared into the proverbial London fog. No one saw him leave, he'd left no letter or text messages. His phone lay on the sitting room table along with his laptop. His military weapon remained locked in its case at the back of Sherlock's wardrobe. Thankful for small mercies, it was that knowledge that gave him hope that he'd find John, that his best friend had not taken his own life. At least not with...no, John was alive. Once again he tried, without success, to delete that one thought, but it was wrapped in fear. Fear of that which John was capable.
The tiny Christmas tree tucked beside a precarious pile of well-loved Watson books reminded him that John loved Christmas as much as he hated it, that he'd tolerated the silly season, for John.
Unable to remain in his Mind Palace any longer because the pain was too great, Sherlock stepped outside, closed the doors behind him and opened his eyes to face the reality of his life without John.
He'd missed two Christmases while he'd been away, dead, to John, a third just a few months after his return and subsequent exoneration from all Moriarty's storytelling and lies. When he'd learned his doctor was gone, his search became all-consuming, an obsession. And now, in just-he glanced at his watch-six hours and thirty-two minutes, it would become his fourth Christmas without John.
Mrs. Hudson had explained several times how John had grieved for him, that it was not the grief of one friend for another, but that of a man who had loved deeply and the love and grief that lived in John's heart would never fade. The grief had remained ever-present in the doctor's countenance and bearing, Mrs. Hudson had told him, until the night she'd last seen him. The next morning, she'd found John's keys to Baker Street in the Buckingham Palace ashtray on the sitting room table.
John, not just a best friend, but the love of his life; he gathered the poignant revelation to himself now, but it failed to comfort him for more than a brief moment. He hadn't understood until it was too late.
For months he'd searched, on his own and in concert with his brother and Lestrade. When others, like Anderson, suggested John might have-
"No. John is alive. I would know if," he'd shouted at
Anderson, as he did now, but Anderson was not in the room. Only the emptiness listened, and it had no reply. If only the skull could talk, he thought, but John had taken its place, so it was no longer viable as a conductor of light.
"I would know," he cried out in a broken voice. "It's all I have to hold onto."
Swiping at his tears, he drew his phone from his trouser pocket to check his texts, something he did constantly, hoping for a clue to lead him to John. Molly, Greg, Mike. He deleted them all, unread. As it was Christmas Eve, there was no case for him. No matter, he didn't need a case, he needed John to be home, safe. Only John. He wanted John. Needed John with a desperation he'd never known.
Sherlock rebuilt the fire in the grate, watching the flames dance for a few minutes before curling into John's chair. It wasn't but a few minutes before his eyes drifted shut and he slipped into an exhausted sleep.
oo0oo
"John!"
Sherlock startled awake just an hour later from a dream that eluded him, but which still shrouded him in its emptiness; its lack of John.
Padding through the sitting room to the kitchen, the glow of the lamp beside the smiley face his only illumination, Sherlock withdrew the milk container from the fridge. He stared at it for a long moment, returned it, choosing water from the tap, half of which he poured back into the sink. The milk reminded him of John.
There was nothing on the telly to engage his interest. He turned it off within seconds. Crap telly reminded him of John.
The detective slipped into a chair at the sitting room table. On page three of the daily news, he lost what little interest he pretended to have. Tossing them to the floor, he turned to his laptop instead. Both the newspapers and the laptop reminded him of John.
Even the loo reminded him. Of John. He hadn't washed the mirror once since he'd returned and discovered John was no longer at home. It still wore splatters of John's toothpaste and shaving cream. Disgusting, yes, it tormented him, yes, but anything that reminded him of John remained just as it had been. He'd learned, again from Mrs. Hudson, that John refused her offer to clean and dust for him, too. Surely that meant something. Did it mean something? What did it mean?
John had told Mrs. Hudson that the dust reminded him of Sherlock, she'd said. In the end, that, he supposed, was what had driven John away. The memories. The entire flat was filled with memories of their life together.
Together.
As he sat at that table, where he and John had laughed and argued, where John had written his blog posts which Sherlock had belittled while leaning over his shoulder, he felt a deep sense of what John must have endured, much to his neverending shame and guilt.
The sniggering guilt monster-John's reference, not his-in the back of his mind raised its ugly head. John will never forgive you, it mocked, not at all surprisingly with Anderson's voice.
Would he? Would John forgive him? If he never found John, could he ever forgive himself?
Doubtful.
Looking up at the fairy lights above the fireplace, Sherlock massaged his forehead with his fingers, then pulled at his curls. Putting everything aside, only the one most important fact remained. Finding John and bringing him home was the only thing that mattered.
It was half-nine when Sherlock stepped off the sofa, where he'd stood for nearly two hours reconstructing, then rearranging his John research that had remained pinned to the wall for the last year.
Each piece of data, studied, and verified countless times. No clues left behind in the flat, no CCTV surveillance, no witnesses, no activity on his bank account, nor on his oyster card. There was not enough data, no facts with which to extrapolate, therefore no deduction was possible.
A quick glance out the window made him grimace. Perfect. It had begun to snow. It only deepened his frustration. John loved the snow, therefore the snow reminded him of John. Circles, endless circles.
Grief. Was that what this was? Yes, he decided. Grief it was.
Stepping away from the window to stare at the smiley face, Sherlock contemplated using John's gun, but the image of Mrs. Hudson's frightened face and her formidable anger dissuaded him.
Now beyond his normal frustration level, Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, offering up a string of curses that would make even John Watson blush.
oo00oo
As he lay on the sofa, Sherlock prayed to every deity that might take an interest in his plea, but he held out no hope of an answer since he concluded that any supreme being listening knew he rejected its existence. He and the illusive deity both knew it was a just in case scenario.
John once said he'd argue with God to have the last word. If he/she/it existed, he/she/it, reminded him of John. Hateful.
At ten-ish o'clock Sherlock added another log to the grate and sat beside the hearth for a time, but the warmth from the fire did little to chase away the chill that had curled around his heart. The chill reminded him.
Everything reminded him of John.
Sluggish from not enough sleep and far too little food, he could hear John admonishing him from wherever he was at that moment.
No, Sherlock, don't go where I can't follow. Stay safe. For me.
"John Watson, you keep me right," he cried out in a broken voice, burying his head in his hands, and not for the first time in the last year, allowed himself to fall to bits. Imagining himself comforted in John's arms only induced chest-aching sobs.
oo0oo
Bill Wiggins and the Homeless Network had been watching over Sherlock for the last year. One or more of the members followed him in the early days after he'd returned and found Dr. Watson had gone away. They stayed at a distance out of respect for the great man while he wore himself down searching for his dear friend.
Wiggins always suspected that Dr. Watson was a bit more than a dear friend and colleague, but he never said as much, because he didn't think that Mr. Holmes realised just how deeply Dr. Watson cared. He'd once heard their landlady call them 'idiots in love,' but Wiggins was not about to share that information with anyone. Privacy was important to both men.
As time passed, Sherlock withdrew from the Work and rarely left his Baker Street flat, conducting his research by phone and computer due to the lack of credible sightings to investigate.
The Homeless Network took up their own investigation, keeping their ears and eyes open, but, as their benefactor had concluded, there was nothing, no data.
This night Wiggins waited more than an hour for an informant who was said to have information for Sherlock Holmes. An important case, he was told. Wary about the meeting, but eager to help Mr. Holmes in any way he could, Wiggins waited another thirty minutes for the man who never appeared. Just as he was about to give up, another man emerged from the shadows near the Chiltern Firehouse.
Now, late on Christmas Eve, Bill, on gut instinct, found himself following at a safe distance, his heart racing, aware on the periphery that all along Baker Street many of the network members peered from doorways on either side, each helping to keep their target in sight. Gut instinct was contagious, Bill thought, with a tight smile.
Bill's eyes were on the weary, lone traveller who struggled through the snow. Leaning into the wind, long hair and beard caked with snow, the man he followed, he deduced, was about to arrive at his destination.
When the man slowed, then paused across the street from 221B Baker Street, Wiggins grinned, certain he was watching a Christmas miracle unfold before his eyes. The man looked up at the second floor where a sliver of light peeked through the drapery panels.
Undecided, Bill thought, watching the man shift his weight from one foot to the other. Then, suddenly unsteady, he swayed a bit.
Stepping into the man's line of sight, Wiggins touched his arm.
At first there was no response, then, the shaggy head slowly lifted.
With his heart pounding in his chest, and suddenly afraid that if he ran across the street to knock on the door this man might bolt into the shadows again, Wiggins stood firm, determined to keep that from happening.
Patting the man's shoulder to get his attention, Bill spoke in his most authoritative voice. "Stay here, Dr. Watson, don't move."
Keeping one eye on his charge, Bill crouched down to gather enough snow to press into a ball. With accuracy that surprised him, he threw the icy snowball at one of the second floor windows for a direct hit. He glanced at the man each time before preparing to throw a second and third snowball. Each was as accurate at the first.
Holding on to the sleeve of the doctor's too thin coat, Bill's focus was on the window, waiting, watching, hoping.
oo0oo
The first pop drew him from deep inside his head, but he was at first unable to identify it. Rejecting it was easier than dragging himself from the sofa to take the few remaining steps to the window. The second, more of a thud than the first, brought him to his feet. The third he could not ignore.
Moving to the window, Sherlock pulled the draperies apart just enough to find snow splattered against the window. He struggled a bit with the frozen window until it finally gave way.
"Wiggins?" he called, squinting through the falling snow at the two men across the street.
"What? Why are you here?"
"Mr. Holmes! Come down."
"Why-"
His focus was immediately drawn to the man Wiggins was obviously supporting. His heart fluttered, his breath caught in his throat.
"Oh, god."
Sherlock was off at a dead run down the seventeen stairs, sailing over the last five and tugging furiously at the door knob several times before he realised it was locked. Throwing it open so hard that it thudded against the wall, he stepped out onto the pavement, oblivious to the snow on the ground or the wind whipping at his button down.
The seconds it took him to cross the street seemed endless. Skidding to a stop in front of the two men, Sherlock reached out immediately to lift John's head to get a better look at his face.
"He's not in a good way, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins told him.
Sherlock emptied what notes he had in his pocket, pushing them into Bill's hand. "Get yourself something to eat and get out of the weather."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins said, grasping his hand.
"No, Bill, thank you for bringing him home."
"Just appeared, he did, I only followed him. He knew where he was going."
Pulling John against his side with an arm around him to support, he turned back to 221B where Mrs. Hudson waited at the door in her robe and nighty. He hadn't meant to disturb her sleep.
"Sherlock?" she called to him as they drew near the door. "You've made such a commotion. A client at this hour?" she whispered, leaning forward to get a better look. "Oh, goodness. John?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John has come home."
"It's a Christmas miracle."
"As you wish, Mrs. Hudson," he called over his shoulder as he half-carried John up the stairs.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson. Happy Christmas."
"Yes, goodnight, Sherlock. Happy Christmas to you," she called softly. "Give a shout if I can help."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock repeated, closing the flat door with his foot and moving quickly and directly to the loo.
"First a bath to get some warmth back into you. I see you've let your hair grow, it needs a wash just like the rest of you. And your beard could use a bit of a trim, I prefer my doctors clean shaven, as you know, but whatever you wish is fine, John."
Easing John down onto the toilet, Sherlock dropped to his knees, wincing at the sight before him. Dazed blue eyes with dark smudges beneath stared back at him with little if any recognition. The detective fell silent, working quickly to remove John's ruined shoes and snow-caked socks.
After turning on the tap to fill the tub, Sherlock carefully peeled away his doctor's filthy clothes, discarding them to a pile beside the door.
"Can you stand, John? I'll help you into the tub. Be careful, that's it. Well done."
John suddenly began to shiver almost immediately, curling forward to get more of his body into the water.
"The sprayer, that will help. There, better?"
There were cuts, most old, but some red and angry on John's back, arms and chest, and bruises in every possible hue. Sherlock used his bath gel and his own loofah sponge rather than a flannel to dab at the small wounds. John didn't protest the invasion of his privacy, he just shivered.
"I'm going to shampoo your hair now, John," he said in a low voice while touching his shoulder. "It's a coconut base with barely a hint of fragrance. I think you'll like it. I can order some for you, if you wish, sorry, I'm blathering on when food and sleep is what you need most."
John reached up to rest his fingers on the underside of Sherlock's wrist. It was a moment before he understood his doctor's intention.
"Yes, John. I'm really here," he whispered, "and more than ecstatic that you're home."
After several seconds, John seemed satisfied, and dropped his hand back into the water.
"I have some balm for your hands and lips, too. When I finish your hair, I'll check your feet to see if you need balm there. The shops have a balm for every part of your body, and, well you don't need to know that at this moment."
Although John was silent, Sherlock was pleased that he seemed to enjoy having his scalp massaged. "I'll rinse now, John." Beneath the spray, John continue to shiver.
Sherlock applied a liberal amount of gel to a flannel and offered it to his doctor. John stared at it for a moment, then took it to wash himself.
"Well done, John," Sherlock said while the tub drained. He rinsed John once more with the sprayer, quickly noting the bruises on his lower abdomen and a scar on his upper thigh that had once been a knife wound.
John pushed himself up using the rim of the tub, grasping Sherlock's arm for support as he stepped out. Wrapping him in a oversized bath sheet that had been warmed over the rack next to the electric heater, Sherlock gently pushed him down onto the toilet seat to towel dry his hair.
"Will you be all right here while I collect something for you to wear? I won't be but a minute."
John raised his eyes to look at him only long enough to offer a single nod of his head.
Sherlock estimated that he'd left John alone for less than a minute. When he returned, John was sitting on the floor, his head leaning against side of the tub.
"Okay, let's get you dressed. Can't have you swanning around in a bath sheet." His attempt at humour was lost on John, a worry uppermost in Sherlock's mind as he grasped John's right hand and pulled him to his feet.
As Sherlock helped John dress in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that he'd found in John's room when he returned from the dead, and tucked it away with his own night clothes, he couldn't help wondering what had been in John's mind while he prepared to leave everything behind. Perhaps one day, John would tell him.
"Here, you can wear this as well. It's mine, and it will be a bit long on you, but I can tie the belt and then, pull it up to hang over just a bit so you won't trip on it. I couldn't find yours anywhere; I thought perhaps you took it with you, but-"
Sherlock bit his lip to silence his nonsense babbling, but John didn't seem to notice. Just as well, he thought, no sense cluttering up John's mind with unimportant data. He had enough questions for the both of them.
Pleased that John now had a bit of color to his cheeks, even if it was from the warmth of the bath, but it was the thinness of his face that added another worry on the detective's heart.
Sherlock smiled at the swoosh of the too large socks on John's feet as they padded to the kitchen. Together. He'd waited so long for their together. He hoped John had, too.
While the kettle took its time to boil water for tea, and John pottered as though familiarising himself with what he had not seen in a year, Sherlock dropped the bread into the toaster, and set a jar of John's favorite raspberry jam and two mugs on a tray. They'd have to eat at the sitting room table, as there was not a single empty space in the kitchen.
"You must be hungry. When did you last eat?"
John stopped to stare at the items scattered everywhere as if the words he'd heard made no sense. He seemed lost.
"John?" Sherlock moved to his side, resting his hands on John's shoulders and turning him so he could see his face. "John?"
Tears welled in his doctor's eyes and slid down his cheeks.
"It's all right, John," Sherlock whispered as he tucked John beneath his chin. "You're home now. We're together finally and it's still Christmas Eve for another hour. Why don't you take a seat at the sitting room table and I'll bring the tea and toast. I have your favorite raspberry jam, it's new jar. Would you like some Christmas music? I have a playlist on my computer."
John stepped away and Sherlock let him go. As he walked away, Sherlock felt a tug in the vicinity of his heart. How he loved John with every part of his being and how much like a little boy he appeared, shoulders slumped, head low, the dressing gown dragging along behind him.
To see his best friend in such turmoil and to know he was responsible, broke him. Tears filled his eyes. The toast popped up, drawing him back into the kitchen just long enough to swipe away his tears, fill the tray and carry it to the sitting room where John sat on the edge of his chair.
Sherlock sat down next to him, setting his tea in front of him. "Sugar, no milk?"
John stared at it, but made no effort to reach for it.
"Please, John. You need to drink and eat. You're probably dehydrated. Will you at least drink your tea? For me?"
When John finally heeded his request, Sherlock couldn't help the wisp of a smile that settled on his lips. While his doctor nibbled on the toast smeared with jam, Sherlock rested a tentative hand on his shoulder, but John again seemed oblivious to his touch. Sherlock's moment of joy shattered like the snowballs on the window.
While John's interest seemed to be on the softly playing Christmas music from the laptop, Sherlock carried their dinner tray to the kitchen. When he returned, John's face was awash with tears as "I'll Be Home for Christmas"* filled the room.
Kneeling in front of John, Sherlock reached out to curl his hands around John's smaller ones.
"You must be exhausted, John. May I put you to bed?" he asked with caution.
John struggled to stand, leaning heavily on the table. Sherlock steadied him with a hand at the small of his back.
"There's a new toothbrush in the loo." The words sounded silly in his ears.
John detoured in that direction, stepping inside, but leaving the door open. Sherlock pulled it nearly closed for John's privacy, then stood outside to offer help if needed.
Listening intently, he was pleased to hear the flush, wash, brush, spit and rinse, and the clink of the toothbrush when dropped into its holder. John appeared at the door, locked his gaze with Sherlock for a few seconds before drifting away.
Recognising the thin lips of decision-making from long ago, he imagined he could see the thoughts turning over and over in that clever doctor/soldier brain of his.
Guiding again with a gentle hand at John's back, Sherlock expected some sort of hesitation as they stepped over the threshold into his bedroom, but it appeared only in a slight misstep as they approached the bed.
"John, this is the safest place for you. The loo is right there, but you already know that. I will sleep on the sofa tonight so you will have your privacy. You need only call out to me and I will be by your side."
John removed the borrowed dressing gown, laying it gently at the end of the bed, and slipped beneath the duvet. Sherlock stepped forward to tuck the duvet around John's shoulders and under his chin.
"I'll return to say goodnight after I secure the flat for the night," Sherlock said resting his palm on John's cheek. "Welcome home, John." Even to himself he sounded stilted, overly proper, not at all like he remembered then. It seemed so long ago now.
oo0oo
For some time Sherlock wandered around the flat, lost in thought, and unsure of himself in the face of this new John Watson. He was the one who didn't talk for days, not John. He was the one who averted his gaze, or disappeared into his Mind Palace for untold hours. When applied to himself, he understood the need, but with John it seemed so out of place. John always knew what to do to remedy any doubts in their relationship, no matter where they were on the spectrum.
What was he to do now? What if John didn't want more? What if John didn't want him at all? Had John come home because he had nowhere else to go? Ultimately, Sherlock had to put it aside, realising he had gotten ahead of himself and that everything else was secondary to John's well-being.
Finally deciding to try to get some sleep, Sherlock padded to the loo to complete his ablutions. Turning off the light, he opened the door to find John waiting for him.
Sherlock's heart stuttered in his chest when John reached for his hand, as he shyly averted his gaze. Allowing John to take the lead seemed more than all right.
As if in a dream, Sherlock watched John crawl across the bed to the other side. Patting the space next to him, John's gaze locked with his for the first time.
"Stay?"
"John?"
"Please?"
"All right," he said, barely able to take a deep breath.
Suddenly lightheaded, he slipped beneath the duvet. Sherlock lay on his side, facing John, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no words to utter, at least none that would sound reasonable, so he waited, preferring to gaze with wonder at the beautiful face he feared he would never see again.
John touched his lips with one finger; Sherlock's neural pathways vibrated so strongly he was sure John could feel it.
"John," he whispered against that finger, somehow finding the courage to rest his hand on John's side. "I was afraid to say the words because if you didn't love me back, it would have broken my heart."
The words were out there now. He could not unsay them even if he wanted to. John would understand. John always understood.
"Wanted to bring you a gift. For Christmas, but I had no notes to buy..I wanted you to know that I love you. Always have."
"I have my gift, John. You came back to me. You are my gift."
"And you are mine Sherlock. Always."
The moment John curled his arm around his waist, Sherlock knew John was where he wanted to be. He gathered his doctor against his side; John slotted in perfectly, as Sherlock knew he would, had long ago dreamed it so.
"John?"
"Hmm?"
"Where were you this last year?"
"A year?"
"Yes, a very long one."
John remained silent. Sherlock couldn't ask again. When the time was right, he was certain John would tell him. No matter. That John was here now was so much more than a Christmas miracle.
Sherlock reached out with one long arm to shut the bedside lamp.
Pulling the duvet higher over them both, he let the silence settle around them.
"I was searching for you."
"Did you know? That I was alive?"
"My heart knew. Even when I was the most lost, I knew. I was given a year old newspaper by a bookseller, somewhere, I don't remember where, must have been the concussion, he was an odd fellow, seemed to know me, and you. I couldn't let another Christmas go by without you."
"A concussion? How long ago, John, are you all right now?"
"It's been a while. No visual symptoms, nor vertigo. Some days I still get tired easily and a bit confused."
Sherlock smiled into the darkness. "I was searching for you, too. And waiting here for your return."
For a long while, they held each other, reconnecting, simply enjoying the closeness.
Sherlock held John tighter, pressing a kiss to his temple, his nose, and finally to his poor, red and cracked lips.
"Oh, I have, here, .nightstand drawer, let me stretch a bit, ah, here it is."
As he lathered John's lips with balm and massaged more over his hands, he felt those much loved blue eyes watching him. He didn't mind. John's gaze was like the very same balm to his battered and bruised soul. It was all fine now that his healer was home.
In his Mind Palace the fairy lights that had hung sad and forlorn and unlighted for a year now glowed with hope.
"Sherlock?"
"Is there something you need?"
"No, I have everything I need."
Sherlock set aside the balm and drew John into his arms once more. "And I, too, have everything I need."
Settling after wriggling to find the right spot, John sighed. Sherlock secretly smiled, extraordinarily pleased with himself.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Is it Christmas?"
Sherlock grinned as tears trickled from his eyes into his ears. He didn't care in the least to wipe them away as he remembered his whispered declaration to the skull that it would never be Christmas again. John had come home and brought Christmas with him.
"Yes, John, it's Christmas. It will always be Christmas."