A/N: Hello there, awesome reader! I'm afraid this is my first fanfiction, so I apologize if there are any mistakes. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters.
Please review!
It was Christmas Eve. Snow coated the rooftops and glistened on windowsills. Twinkling lights shone warmly from houses and buildings. Brightly decorated trees could be seen through windows. Children played in the street, their laughter ringing throughout the cold winter air as they hurled snowballs at one another. The happiest time of year had arrived.
It was Christmas Eve, and John Watson was alone.
For the past couple years, he had been used to spending Christmas with Sherlock. It was only two years that he had known Sherlock, but it had honestly felt like a lifetime. Sherlock had been the best friend John had ever had. Now that he was gone... Well, John would be spending Christmas by himself.
Lestrade had invited him for lunch with his family today, but John had refused. He just wanted to be alone.
John was looking out of the frosted window of 221B Baker Street. He had actually considered moving out when Sherlock had first died, and he almost did. Then he had remembered Sherlock, and the memory of him made John reconsider. He couldn't bring himself to move, or even get rid of any of Sherlock's junk. Sometimes, he would just lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling as he had so many times seen Sherlock do. He would even force himself to touch the skull on the mantle, just to touch something Sherlock had touched.
John sighed. His life was so different now. He was so used to being dragged along to some crime scene or to Lestrade's office for another case. John would always say that he hated it, but now that it was all gone, John missed it more than he cared to admit.
It wasn't the cases John missed. It was Sherlock.
No, John could never bring himself to sell the place. There were too many memories he didn't ever want to forget.
Every single time, without fail, John expected to see Sherlock with his nicotine patches on and playing the violin or putting body parts in the refrigerator.
But no, none of that would ever happen again. Sherlock was dead.
John had just recently been hit with the brutal truth. There wasn't any way for Sherlock to come back. He was dead. He had jumped off of St. Bart's Hospital, right in front of John. He had seen the entire thing. If only he could have gotten there just a few minutes earlier –
No.
John could feel himself getting upset. He wouldn't burden himself with these kinds of thoughts, especially not on Christmas Eve. With yet another sigh, John pulled himself away from the sight of a snow-covered Baker Street. He could hear pots clanging from downstairs, most likely Mrs. Hudson about to make dinner. After all, it was getting pretty late. It was dark outside.
Ever since Sherlock passed, Mrs. Hudson had been so kind to John. She invited him down for dinner every Sunday night. It was obvious that Mrs. Hudson missed Sherlock. Not nearly as much as John missed him, though.
The sun was sinking lower in the sky. With a jolt, John realized he hadn't been to see Sherlock during the holiday season. He reflexively sat up and walked out of the door. He touched one of the bullet holes Sherlock had made into the wall before he closed and locked the door.
John descended the staircase and opened the front door. "John?" Mrs. Hudson called from her apartment. "Is that you?"
"Yes, it's me, Mrs. Hudson."
A hassled-looking Mrs. Hudson appeared in her doorway. "And where do you think you're going off to?" she scolded, shaking a wooden spoon at him.
John took a few seconds before replying.
"To visit Sherlock."
Mrs. Hudson's face fell. She nodded. "Wait here, Mr. Watson," she commanded as she disappeared into her apartment.
John glanced around the stairwell. He noticed the scuff marks that still spotted the bottom of the walls and banister from when Mrs. Hudson was held captive as bait for Sherlock.
An overwhelming sadness overcame John. There were just so many things John had wanted to tell him before –
"Here you are, dear." Mrs. Hudson stepped back into the hallway, handing him a single red rose.
John took the flower, but furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure if-"
"John Watson, you cannot possibly think that I'm going to allow you to visit the grave of your best friend and not bring anything like you always do."
It was true. Mrs. Hudson was always the one who left fresh flowers at Sherlock grave.
John sighed. "Fine. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
The old woman smiled. "Not a problem, dear. Be sure not to forget dinner tomorrow night!"
John nodded. He re-opened the front door and walked out into the cold December air. As he closed the door, he traced the numbers 221 for the hundredth time. The apartment he had shared with Sherlock. The apartment Sherlock had picked out. John sadly turned away from the door and looked out at the street. The only car on the street was a taxi, slowly rolling along. The driver appeared to be texting. John waved his hand in the air as he approached the still-moving vehicle. The driver slowed to a stop and put his phone into his pocket.
John opened the taxi door and sat down in the back seat. "The cemetery, please," John told the taxi driver, who responded with a slight nod of acknowledgement.
As he reread the text messages that he and Sherlock had exchanged months ago (he couldn't bring himself to delete any of them), John couldn't help but be reminded of the first case he and Sherlock had solved together. The one with the taxi driver that convinced people to kill themselves, and had almost succeeded in killing Sherlock. John had saved him. If only he could have saved Sherlock at St. Bart's…
John reread his text messages.
The cemetery was the one corner of London that wasn't completely decorated for Christmas. Sure, there was a Christmas wreath here, and red and green flowers there, but most of the graves were devoid of Christmas décor.
Sherlock's grave was one of the undecorated graves. John was instantly filled with a mixture of anger and guilt. He silently cursed himself. Why hadn't he ever thought to bring flowers? Well, there was always something there, he supposed. Mrs. Hudson usually put something on his grave, so he had been accustomed to seeing at least one flower at the base of Sherlock's grave.
Now that he saw it so bare, he was filled with a bitter, resentful sadness.
"Oh, Sherlock..." John muttered, brushing the snow off of the cold headstone. He had had so much to tell him before he had died. It wasn't even plausible for John to explain how much he missed Sherlock. After all, Sherlock had completely changed his life. Now that Sherlock was gone, he didn't know what to do with himself.
John's lip trembled. He sat on the snow-covered grass in front of Sherlock's grave and leaned his forehead against the headstone. It was freezing cold, but John didn't care. He traced the indentation of his best friend's name. Sherlock Holmes.
John felt the tears welling up in his eyes. "Sherlock, I-" he choked back an involuntary sob.
"I miss you." His own words stabbed John's heart like a dagger. "It's Christmas Eve, Sherlock. This is the first time I've spent Christmas alone for years now. Most of the time, I'd have Harry or my parents, but when I met you-" John closed his eyes. "My life changed. I would spend Christmas Day with you and Molly and Lestrade and all of your friends instead of by myself or with Harry. Even Christmas with Mycroft is better than Christmas alone. Or with Harry, for that matter," Sherlock would have laughed at that.
"Most of all, I just-" John sighed. "I just miss you. I probably look and sound daft right now, talking to a gravestone, but that's the truth. I really, really miss you. I've been going a bit mad without you. Everything's been mad without you. It's been crazy and confusing, and I don't know what to do. I've been so lost, Sherlock. I don't know how I'm going to get through Christmas-" John choked back yet another sob, and immediately tried to regain himself. In a trembling whisper, John finished his sentence. "Without you."
A breeze rustled through the cemetery. It carried a long, forlorn sigh, which only deepened John's sadness. If he could have one more time to see Sherlock, just one, he would be happy.
But no, that wasn't possible. This year, whether he liked it or not, John was spending Christmas alone. He softly dropped the rose in front of Sherlock's grave and bit his lip to stop it from trembling as he walked away.
He had never thought the pain of losing someone would hurt so much.
John caught another taxi back to Baker Street. The ride home felt empty. Everyone looked so happy. Young couples holding hands, children chasing one another, families walking together. All of them had huge smiles plastered across their faces.
It wasn't fair that everyone could be so cheerful and happy when John's whole world had fallen apart.
John traced the 221 again before going inside. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway of 221A, but didn't say anything to John.
When he reached the top was when she finally said something. "Happy Christmas, John."
John hesitated before going into his apartment. "Happy Christmas." He managed before he went inside his apartment.
The door closed with a solid thud. John leaned against the back of the door. What was he going to do? There was this emptiness eating away inside of him. The void which had been filled by Sherlock was empty now. In fact, it was gaping. John was lost without Sherlock.
John sat at his spot near the window again. This time, instead of gazing at the street, John gazed at the stars. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could see him. Maybe Sherlock was looking down on him now, wishing that he could be there with him. John knew Sherlock wouldn't want to be alone on Christmas, either. John must have been staring at the twinkling stars for half an hour before he started thinking about Sherlock again.
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock's last words haunted John. They always would. John rested his head in his arms and just sat there. What else was he supposed to do?
The cold, hard truth was that John Watson would be alone on Christmas.
Sherlock Holmes leaned his back against his own gravestone. In his pale, slender fingers, he held the snow-dusted rose John had left at his grave. Tears stained his jagged cheekbones. Of course he had heard what John had said, every single word.
He wished he could somehow explain to John that he didn't want to leave him alone. He was trying to keep him safe. There were bad people in the world, and he couldn't let them hurt the people he loved. After hearing the extent of John's sorrow, it hurt Sherlock to leave him alone, especially on Christmas.
Sherlock sniffed the rose. No doubt Mrs. Hudson had bought it and given it to him. John wouldn't have brought him anything, and if he did, it wouldn't have been a rose. The way he held it had also shown indication that he was holding something that he wasn't entirely comfortable with, which meant that he didn't buy it. Shook his head and let out a sad chuckle.
Sherlock stood up from the grave and dusted the snow off of his coat. He put the rose inside its pocket and proceeded to make his way out of the cemetery and onto the streets of London. Sherlock walked unnoticed through the alleys, as he did every day. The only time he would step out of the shadows was when he arrived at his destination.
He could see the gold numbers flashing 221 at him from across the street. The downstairs light was on, showing that Mrs. Hudson was still awake, even though it was late. When Sherlock's eyes moved to the upstairs window, he jumped back. John was sitting at the window. Luckily, he wasn't looking at the street where Sherlock was standing in plain view. He was looking up at the sky. Sherlock looked up as well. He had to admit to himself that the sky was beautiful tonight.
Sherlock's eyes moved back to John. He watched John look at the sky for about a minute longer. Then his face contorted into a look of pain and sorrow. Sherlock watched John bury his head into his arms. His shoulders twitched every so often.
Oh, he looked miserable. Sherlock really hadn't had many friends in his lifetime, and John was by far the best friend he'd ever had. The best thing that had happened to him at all, really. If there was anything that hurt him more inside than seeing John this upset, Sherlock would be very surprised.
The descision was made in a split second. It hardly crossed Sherlock's mind, but he soon found himself crossing the street and slowly pushing the door open to the apartment. The door opened and closed silently. He climbed up the stairs equally quietly.
The sight of the door to 221B was one that Sherlock had never expected to see again. Yet there it was, so real, right in front of him. Sherlock twisted the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. The door loudly creaked open. From his seat by the window, John shot up and whipped around. When he saw Sherlock in the doorway, he knocked the chair over as he quickly stumbled to his feet.
A look of pure, unfiltered amazement crossed John's face, then to disbelief, then to anger, then to relief, and right back to amazement.
Sherlock smiled warmly, a rush of feelings coursing through him.
"Hello, John." Sherlock whispered breathlessly.
It was a reckless move, and Sherlock realized that. While standing there with John, Sherlock honestly couldn't care less at the moment. He was home now. He was home with John. If John was in danger, Sherlock would protect him. Sherlock would always protect him. He would fight through everything as long as John was safe. Everything would be okay. They would both be okay.
If there was one thing that Sherlock knew above all things else, it was that he would not let John spend Christmas alone.