In response to the 1st of December prompt from Spockologist. The prompt was: "Write about a Christmas Watson spent away from home." My response is a 221B.
The contents page for this series can be found in the final chapter.
Blow
In what could only be described as the middle of nowhere, there stood a cottage. Perched on a hilltop and surrounded by woodland, it may once have been a picturesque location. But the shadowy trees had been stripped of their leaves months ago, and the wind was blowing ferociously, stirring up their creaking branches, which swayed eerily to and fro.
Inside the cottage, the inhabitant listened to the moaning of the wind. The floor was cold beneath his back, but the whisky clutched in his trembling hand had already made him numb.
He wouldn't have minded the temperature much anyway. All he wished for this Christmas was his life back – along with his child, wife and best friend.
The house had seemed so… empty. The absence of Mary's company was suffocating. He wasn't brave enough to spend Christmas with the ghosts of his home – so he had left and come here instead. He had seen the pitying looks that were sent his way at this decision, but he paid them no heed.
He didn't really care what people felt for him any more. He was past crying. He was past caring. He took another swig of the whisky, and stared at the floor. Eventually his eyes slid closed and his body sank to the floor.
Outside, the wind continued to blow.