John's cup of tea was getting cold. His fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his comfy chair. He was getting tired of this waiting. This is the third Christmas alone, and he's counting. His eyes wearily gaze over at the Christmas tree with slow blinking lights in the corner of the room, covering the faded yellow spray painted smiley face on the wall. He didn't want to be reminded that he was alone. Muffled laughter and talking came from the kitchen behind him, the familiar voices of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson wafting through to the lounge room. John cringed, his leg playing up in the cold weather. His leg had gotten better. But the moment he began seeing his psychiatrist again he favoured his walking stick once more.
John had grown considerably older in the face after the incident, his hair greying and the lines around his eyes creasing deeper. The smile that once lit up his eyes had ceased and every laugh John made was forced.
John had often just gazed out the window into the night, hoping a taxi would stop by, dropping off an ecstatic Sherlock. He didn't even have to be ecstatic – he could be grumpy as anything and John would be the happiest man in the world. John looked over to the violin that was leant up against the music stand – untouched and gathering dust. Mrs Hudson always wanted to pack it away along with the other things, but John wouldn't have it. He wanted the violin to remain, along with the creepy skull on the mantelpiece.
Mrs Hudson tapped John on the shoulder and awoke him from his daydream. John cleared his throat and watched as Lestrade entered the room also, with Molly at his tail.
"Now dear, we'll be heading off soon. It's Christmas Eve and we all best be asleep before Santa arrives!" Mrs Hudson laughed breathlessly as she patted John's unwounded shoulder. Lestrade gave a polite chuckle at Mrs Hudson's attempt of light humour. John tried to get up but winced in pain, so Mrs Hudson pushed him lightly back into his seat.
"No, no, you stay here and I'll see everyone out. It's a right shame, I thought your leg was getting much better. You can have one of my herbal soothers as a Christmas treat, if you like! Now I shall be back dear, I'll just see these lovely people out the door." Mrs Hudson spoke quietly and quickly as she turned and ushered Lestrade and Molly out the door, who both mumbled quick "Merry Christmas's" and "Happy holiday's".
John touched the dark purple present that was wrapped neatly next to him. The wrapping paper had faded slightly, and that was because it was in John's possession for the last 3 years. He hadn't dared open it, believing it was the last piece of Sherlock that should remain a mystery. The present was the same colour as Sherlock's tight fitting, yet incredibly endearing purple shirt. It had smelt of Sherlock, too, but the fragrance had faded over time.
John thought back fondly on their first Christmas together. Sherlock, of course, insulted his girlfriend at the time. The boring teacher? John had forgotten her name now and remembered her by what Sherlock had called her. He played his violin and entertained his friends. It was odd to say Sherlock had friends, but they were the closest people who cared about him the most. And to John, that's what classified as friends. Even if Sherlock didn't agree. But that didn't matter now.
He missed him. John hated to admit it, but he missed him. He missed waking up to a sleepy Sherlock that hadn't had caffeine, so that he was grumpy and took his anger out on his experiment in the microwave. He missed seeing those bright, amazing eyes piercing into his own, analyzing every word he said and every move he made. He missed those tight fitting shirts across his perfectly muscular body. Oh, those shirts. Sherlock was John's best friend. And every day was a complete and useless struggle. At least, it was useless to John because he wouldn't hear Sherlock saying goodnight in his deep baritone voice before he drifted off to sleep.
John often dreamt of Sherlock. Sometimes the dreams would last all night, sometimes it would just be a faint memory of Sherlock's smile or him saying something absolutely fantastic that would always catch John off-guard.
John heard heavy footsteps leading up the stairs. Assuming it was Mrs Hudson, he stood up slowly and flicked off the light switch. If he pretended to be asleep, he wouldn't have to listen to Mrs Hudson's tipsy-off-of-eggnog stories about the Christmas's she had when she was younger. Sherlock used to make her shut up, John mused. John limped over towards the door, placing his ear up to the wood so he could hear if she had walked away. Instead, he heard a slight shuffling and someone trying to quietly clear their throat. John froze still – it couldn't be. He's dead. The sound of the voice on the other side of the door was deep and manly, but that was from a split second of a throat noise. John began to pant, scared but also excited. He wanted to pull open the door and see if he was there. But as his psychiatrist said, he will keep imagining things until he can move on. So why open the door to disappointment?
John didn't hear any steps leading away from the door, so whoever walked up was still there. John's ears strained, trying to hear for anything that sounded familiar. It was still dark in the room; the only light came from the Christmas tree. John considered turning the light on, but didn't want to scare the person on the other side away.
"Merry Christmas, Doctor Watson." A deep whisper came from the other side of the door. John yelped - it had to be Sherlock. And before the person on the other side of the door had time to leave, John pulled the door open and gasped. Tears sprung to his eyes. His dream had come true – but perhaps he had too much eggnog.
There stood Sherlock, looking exactly the way he always had. He glistened green and red as the lights on the Christmas tree illuminated his pale skin. His black curls framing his face perfectly and his cheekbones sharp enough to cut through ice. His stunning eyes stared straight at John, it was obvious Sherlock was shocked to see John open the door. His perfect lips turned up into a genuine smile, something that John had not seen for a very long time. Sherlock's thick black coat covered his body, and in his hand held a tiny blue present with the nametag "John". John was frozen on the spot. He didn't know what to say or what to do.
"I brought you a present." Sherlock muttered quietly and outstretched his hand to John. John staggered backwards, allowing Sherlock to enter the room.
"Three years…" John stuttered. Sherlock nodded and stood before John, closing the door behind him.
"I came every Christmas." Sherlock purred. He raised his hand to John's face, cradling it and wiping a tear with his thumb. John held his hand up to Sherlock's. He had never felt anything warmer. John began to speak but Sherlock chuckled quietly.
"Do you really think I could live without my blogger?" He whispered to John. They finally embraced, John burying his face in Sherlock's neck as Sherlock stroked his hair lovingly. John had somehow forgotten how tall Sherlock was. He towered over John, making him feel safe and at home. John had missed this feeling the most. The feeling that he had someone watching over him. He was never sure if Sherlock cared, but now knowing that Sherlock had come every single Christmas just to leave a present and go, showed that Sherlock had cared for him so much more than he thought.
Even if this was a dream, John thought it to be the best one yet. It had to be a dream; Christmas couldn't have been more perfect. John tried to reason in his mind why Sherlock couldn't have come back sooner. Maybe to protect him? Even in Sherlock's "afterlife" he just wanted John to be safe.
Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders tightly to his chest and John returned the affectionate hug around his waist. This is exactly how Christmas should have always been. The blogger and the man wrapped in a bed sheet, reunited. As always.