When John entered the flat of 221b for the first time in a very long while, he couldn't help feeling a slight chill. From the moment he set eyes on that old, familiar door, he kept remembering all of the things that had gone on in that flat. That brilliant, wonderful flat. But it wasn't necessarily the flat itself that was so brilliant, it was the adventures that had taken place there. Sherlock would have scoffed at the description of adventure being applied to the goings on there, but that's what they were. And they would have happened regardless of 221b being there. Yet, the flat held so many memories. John couldn't help but wonder whether the place itself had had some influence over the years. Whether it was a bit more...special...than it was letting on.
John's reverie was instantly cut off by the opening of the door. Mrs. Hudson beamed at him, and she stepped aside, ushering him in with an eager wave of the arm. "Come inside, dearie." She smiled, shutting the door behind John once he had entered. "Oh it's so nice to see you again. You must be freezing, what with all that snow. Come and sit by the fire." Said she, insisting that John remove his coat and hang it on the coat rack. John obliged, only hoping the bloody thing wouldn't get snow all over the floor.
Once inside, and seated in soft armchairs beside the fire, John saw him. Sherlock was standing near the window, playing a light Christmas tune on his violin. John shook his head. It was enough that he had lost his best friend, his memory didn't have to taunt him by showing him spitting images of older days in Baker Street. But no matter how often he shook his head, Sherlock didn't disappear. He usually did, whenever John thought he saw Sherlock, he would blink or shake his head, and his fleeting moment of joy or grief would pass, along with the ghost of the greatest man he ever knew. John blinked rapidly, but the image did not fade. Nor did the soothing sound of the violin.
Out of politeness, and a tad because he could not bear the thoughts of his friend, John turned from the window to meet Mrs. Hudson's sweet smile. "Merry Christmas, dearie." She said, in her usual amiable voice. John repeated the phrase, though his attempt at a gleeful tone was a bit drained by what he had seen. "I've got a turkey in the oven, and I put the kettle on." Mrs. Hudson informed him, seemingly unaware of John's sorrowful tone.
Mrs. Hudson beamed at him as she rambled on about a turkey anecdote; apparently her turkey had been delivered accidentally to Mrs. Turners next door. John only listened half-heartedly, as his attention had been drawn back to the window. Christmas lights lit up the frame, and frost had formed on the window sill. Sherlock's face could be seen as a reflection from where John sat, and the sound of Sherlock's violin had shifted to another Christmas song. Silent Night, if John was not very much mistaken. Mrs. Hudson stopped mid-sentence, evidently noticing John's apathy towards the turkey mishap. She seemed about to say something more, when a shrill beep came from the kitchen. "That'll be the turkey!" She said excitedly, scuttling off to the kitchen.
A minute later, Mrs. Hudson called that dinner was ready. John eagerly moved from his chair, starting off for the table. It was not that he was very eager for dinner, he wasn't feeling particularly hungry that night. He was eager to leave the room, in hopes that the ghosts of Sherlock's memory would leave him alone for a little bit.
John and Mrs. Hudson had just sat down, when the violin music from the other room came to an end. A moment later, and Sherlock entered the room. "Merry Christmas, John." Sherlock said, taking a seat at the table. John wondered whether that extra place was actually set, or whether he was imagining it. "I honestly can not say that I approve of your moustache." He said. John imagined that he saw Mrs. Hudson scowling at him, and he could almost hear her disapproving but affectionate "Sherlock." But it was fleeting memory, and John averted his eyes to somewhere where Sherlock's ghost could not bother him. He wasn't about to ruin Mrs. Hudson's Christmas with his...well, it didn't matter.
Mrs. Hudson offered John a slice of turkey, and cut one for herself. From the corner of his eye, as John still refused to look that way, John thought he saw Sherlock accept his own slice of traditional Christmas fowl. John bit into his own meal, smiling at Mrs. Hudson's expectant expression. "The turkey is delightful, Mrs. Hudson." John stated. He wasn't merely being polite, either. He truly did like the turkey. For a moment, he remembered the last turkey Mrs. Hudson had made, on another Christmas long ago. There had been a mishap because Sherlock had left a hand in the oven. Mrs. Hudson had insisted upon purchasing a new turkey, and using Mrs. Turners oven, because that one was unsanitary. After Christmas she had made Sherlock disinfect the whole thing himself, which John thought was a remarkable feat. Good old Mrs. Hudson.
Mrs. Hudson smiled, pleased to have her cooking complimented. John could have sworn he heard Sherlock's voice thanking her for the dinner, but that was impossible. Not just because Sherlock was dead, but because, even when he was alive, Sherlock had never been that polite. Despite John's hallucinations of Sherlock's ghost, the Christmas dinner went well. Mrs. Hudson and he both exchanged conversation, such as how their years had gone. One or the other of them made a joke, and they laughed. Sometimes John thought he heard Sherlock laugh delightedly as well, but again that was impossible. He even thought he had heard Sherlock make a few comments. John did not answer them, but he could have sworn Mrs. Hudson did. No, he shook his head, that couldn't have happened. Mrs. Hudson could not have answered the remark of someone who had died over a year ago.
Then, when all had finished dinner, including Sherlock's ghost, Mrs. Hudson rose and began to collect the plates. As she was doing so, something seemed to occur to her. "You two haven't spoken a word to each other all night. You aren't mad with each other?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "You better make up, or neither of you get Christmas pudding.
John's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He surely would have collapsed, had he not already been seated. "You...You can see him too?" Stammered John in shock. His already wide eyes widened, flicking away from Mrs. Hudson to face what he had convinced himself was the ghost of his best friend in the world.
Sherlock smiled. Not a narcissistic, or sarcastic smile. But a real, human, caring smile.
"Merry Christmas, John."