"Merry Christmas," I say, trying to sound sincere, but it comes out sounding lifeless and machine-like. Sarah doesn't seem to mind it, she smiles at me warmly, wishing me happy holidays, and all I want is to scream that I don't want holidays, happy or otherwise, mostly because the "otherwise" option is the only one available anyway. Silently, I wait for her to close up the surgery, and when she finally climbs into the taxi I hailed for her, I wave goodbye at her, feeling the fake half-smile gradually melting off my face as she gets farther. I'm already sick and tired of this Christmas, and it hasn't even started yet, it's early afternoon on the 24th of December.
This time last year, I was busy doing the last minute shopping for the Christmas get-together Sherlock and I organized, then spent the evening with friends, exchanging presents until Sherlock sort of ruined that too. Okay, I admit, last year's wasn't the most perfect Christmas either, but it was still better than this emptiness: Now the only thing I can look forward to is the Doctor Who Christmas Special, and even for that I have to wait another day. I couldn't bring myself to put up any decorations either, except the Santa hat on the skull, that poor bugger just looks happier with the hat on it, and I could use at least some resemblance of happiness.
Hands in my pockets and heads in the clouds, I set off towards Baker Street on foot. It's cold, and I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I walk, trying to ignore the festive lighting all over the city. Fairy lights, Sherlock called them, and I laughed at him for being the sentimental one for once. How I wish I could go back to that day, to have a Christmas like last year's, but I know I can't. A soft snowflake lands on the tip of my nose, and I stare at it cross-eyed until it melts, leaving a wet patch on my skin.
I tried to rebuild my life, I really did, but I feel it crumble and fall every time I have to spend even a moment alone, without someone keeping me company or something to keep myself busy. I'm so tired of starting again, but somehow it feels like I owe it to someone. To someone who I am fairly certain doesn't care about a thing anymore, because dead people rarely do that. I can't help but let a soft sigh escape, and if it sounds miraculously like "Sherlock, I miss you", well, it's no one's business but mine.
Barely a minute later I'm standing in front of 221. It once meant home, now it's just another place I used to love. As I open the door, I notice an envelope in the letter box. It's small enough to fit on the palm of my hand, and it has my name on it, in a handwriting that makes my heart race. I hurry upstairs as quickly I can, hoping that this isn't just some kind of joke, and with trembling hands I open the envelope, careful not to damage it. There's a note inside, just three words.
"Merry Christmas!
SH"