Authors Note:This was inspired mainly by the writing style of the brilliant ivyblossom's "The Quiet Man", which is probably the second most depressing Sherlock fan fiction work I have read (the first, of course, being the all-famous "Alone on the Water"). Also, I received both seasons of Sherlock on DVD for Christmas, and have been slowly but surely digging myself an early grave as I disintegrate under Benedict Cumberbatch's sultry voice. But I have no regrets.
A Cold Christmas
by CumbersomeWit
I don't feel so much anymore. Only bits and pieces, like a dodgy old telly. Lots of black and white static. There are only ever colors when I think of you. Then, now. Yeah. That's what I've become. Degenerated reception. I do not receive your emotions. Most of the time I don't receive mine. Yeah.
But today's different, Sherlock. It's Christmas Eve. The first Christmas I'll spend without you. I only ever spent one with you, I suppose. But it's different now, it's all different. You've tipped me, Sherlock. Tipped me until I can't stand without you. Can't stand all this. Can't stand feeling all these things people expect me to feel. I can't now, alright?
Mrs Hudson's been dropping by a lot recently. I think she thinks I'm lonely. She wouldn't be wrong. I've become too quiet, I can tell. Listening to all this static. To your voice. Sometimes I think I can hear it, you know. A low hum from the stereo on the telly, deducing me. I don't need you to tell me I'm wrong.
Jesus bloody Christ, I've finally cracked it. Staring at the wall, holding a Christmas present for a dead man. I've done it, Ella. I'm bonkers. Stuff me in a strait jacket and take me home. Jesus.
I don't know. I don't know, Sherlock. Sometimes I just do things now. I have become a living contradiction. I cannot stand still, but I can't move forward. So sometimes I do things, like find you Christmas presents when you're dead. I know how that sounds, but It's not like that. Really. I didn't go looking for it. It came to me. Lestrade sends me cases sometimes, thinks I can help. Sometimes I do, but most of the time I can't. I will never be you. But he sent me this case, like he knew. This case I have wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper and labeled with your name. The perfect case. Your perfect case.
You would have loved it. It's cold. Real cold. More than 60 years. Based in London, too. Eight identical murders spanning over one and a half decades, one wrongly apprehended suspect. One suicide. Not the killer, they said. A challenge. A mystery. You'd have loved it. I know you would have.
This is what I am now, Sherlock. A memory filled with what you were. I do not think. My hands move like they are controlled by you. My eyes observe things like I am looking through you. I feel things like I think you used to. This is what I've become. A memory of you. Your memory. Muscle memory.
So I put down your present and drink the tea Mrs Hudson made me, because it's what I would have done any other day. What we would have done. The tea is lukewarm. I grimace. She must have been gone a while. Jesus, I don't even remember her closing the door.
I put up a Christmas tree, Sherlock. The same one we put up last year. I close my eyes and imagine I can smell your scent on it, like it's been preserved in that box for an entire year, just for this moment. You have imprinted yourself into every part of this room. Especially this tree. So much happened with this tree. Irene. Molly. Christ, when was the last time I saw Molly? It's been so long. I hadn't even realized. There are so many things I'm missing, so many things I've missed. I can never be you.
I look down at your present. The present I wrapped for you. The present that will never be opened. They have other copies of this case. They won't miss this file. It's safe here. It's okay.
I want to put it under the tree. Presents belong under the tree on Christmas Eve. But where am I going to put it after that? After Christmas has come and gone? Do I pack it up with the tree? Pack you up and throw you away? God. I can't think about that. I can't do it.
I don't know where else to put it, though. This little impulsive thing of mine. Of yours. But most of what is yours is what is mine, now. We are mixed. Seamless.
I get up. I am standing with your present in the middle of this room. This room we used to share. I can't think about that. I go to the tree, run my hand over the bristles. Feel it. It smells like tinsel, but mostly it smells like you. Like us. We have shared everything in this room. Everything except this present in my hand. So I put it under the tree, next to the one Mrs Hudson gave me. It will never be opened. But that's okay. It's okay, Sherlock.
It's cold up here. I've forgotten to close the window. It's Christmas, of course it's cold. It's freezing. It's morning. Bloody hell.
I get out of bed, tuck my feet into my slippers and trudge downstairs. It's warmer down here. The windows are closed, and Mrs Hudson's turned up the boiler. That was nice of her. There's a bit of sun peeking through the windows. That's nice, too. Don't get much sun these days. But a bit of sun on Christmas morning, that's nice. Better than slush.
I make myself a cup of tea and some toast. I lather on the jam, the way you used to hate. That makes me smile. You can't stop me now, Sherlock. You can't tell me how to eat my breakfast anymore.
Jesus Christ that was depressing.
I eat my breakfast on the armchair, the telly off. It's never on anymore. It doesn't need to be. You are in the air, in my eyes. I hear you. I don't need the telly. You're always here, in the silence. I don't need anything else.
This is all methodical now. Thinking of you and washing the dishes. Muscle memory. I do not need to worry on mornings like these.
But today's different, Sherlock, isn't it. It's Christmas. The first Christmas I'll spend without you. I am hibernating here. Hiding. There is a world outside that we used to seek, used to discover. The appeal still holds. I want to be out there. Out there with you. But I can't anymore, Sherlock. Not today. Especially not today.
Christ, it's already past eleven. Mrs Hudson will be here any second, just popping in, of course. Just seeing if I need anything, wishing me a happy Christmas. That's all. She'll be here any moment. I should probably open her present. It's still under the tree. That's the polite thing to do, isn't it? Open someone's present before they come to visit?
The sun's really coming out now. It's a bloody miracle, really. You can't predict the weather anymore. Not even you, Sherlock. That would have riled you up something big. Jesus.
I crouch at the tree. It's so much taller than me, like this. It kind of reminds me of you. All your angles, your long limbs, your towering ego. Hah. I can imagine the look on your face, being compared to a festive decoration. Philistine.
What's this? Mrs Hudson's present has been moved. Did I put it there, in front of yours? I don't remember. I don't remember much anymore, I suppose. That's alright. It's not unusual. I pick up her present. It's light; my name's written on it in glittery silver gel pen. Something else catches my eye. Your present. Did I put it there? I don't remember. But something looks off. The wrapping's been torn. Christ, I hope Mrs Hudson hasn't been down here to see it. She'll think I've gone bonkers. And she'd be right, of course. But it wouldn't do to worry her on Christmas. What the bloody hell was I thinking?
I pick up your present. The wrapping's all over the place. What did Mrs Hudson do to it? God. Oh, wait. There's something attached to the top of it. A piece of paper? I pull it off, turn it over.
Jesus Christ.
This is your handwriting, Sherlock. I know it is. This is your neat scrawl and your fancy lettering and the way the text slants across the page. This is yours. Jesus fucking Christ, I'd recognise it anywhere.
It's the manager of the flower shop, John, the one on the corner of Bart's.
Merry Christmas.
- SH