A sherlock Carol

Christmas. The only seasonal festivity in which everyone seemed intent to defy their nature and be constantly congenial, and with only a day till the Christmas Day, everyone seemed to be intoxicated with the holiday spirit. Snow had fallen all morning and now, as the afternoon began to grow colder, it intensified leaving the window frosted and the street a white canvas stained with footsteps and tyre marks. Traffic was thin, as were pedestrians, unusual for a main London street, but most of the crowds were still out, shopping or doing whatever it is people do when the holidays come around. The sky was obstructed by thick clouds filled with snowflakes that struck the window where he stood watching the world outside. The lampposts were weighed down with the usual London lights, depicting stars and bells and other equally festive shapes. Windows were stripped of curtains and nets, residents eager to show the entire city their tall trees adorned with baubles and those fancy artistic decorations no one with sense would buy. The road was inhabited by businessmen and women, all equally grey in character and unapproachable grim save for the month in which they allowed themselves to smile and waste a years wages on elaborate gifts and tacky lights. Baker Street wasn't frequented by the plague that was the hoards of carol singers but Mrs Hudson ensured she spread the infuriating holiday songs through the house as she kept her radio on downstairs. It was always on and Sherlock was sure he might consider moving if she didn't turn down the damned thing. It was barely audible from his room but he was exceedingly keen of hearing. His violin was the sole means of solace, and he was playing it hourly, sure he might have learnt every classical song there was after these three months. Or as he liked to call it, the worst period of his existence.

Why? He dropped into his chair, ignoring the empty seat in front of him, eyes focussing on the television. Every channel was obsessed with showing heartwarming christmas tales that ended with happy families and laughter and stupid musical numbers. It was growing tiresome counting every flaw in the characters actions and the poor plot choices. Usually his mother would be calling him about this time, asking why he wasn't with his family for the holidays. Deep down, maybe Sherlock did feel guilty over his abrupt and heated phone call with his father earlier that week. John would have told him it was a fathers job to worry about his son regardless of his wasn't even sure what he was watching, mind drifting away, dwelling where they always did these days. John. These past few months had been filled with numerous cases, most involving crimes that might have once enthralled him, but instead, he felt empty and it angered him. His skull stared at him from the mantle, covered in dust. Sherlock had grown too accustomed to speaking aloud to John, he didn't find any enjoyment in engaging with an empty hollow of bone.

"It's the most wonderful time of the year!"

Mrs Hudson's voice travelled up the stairs as she passed through the hall. He rolled his eyes. Drunk on spiked eggnog already. He ought to have closed the door to drown her out but Sherlock was not so keen to feel completely alone. After all, he had been dead to the world not long ago, and he had learnt what it meant to be without company. Well, when eh said company, he didn't mean just anyone. He meant...

"John?"

Sherlock was confused to see his friend in the doorway. In fact, he was startled, but hid it well. He'd been so deeply lost in his mind palace, he hadn't noticed the sound of a visitor ascending the staircase. John sighed, shaking his head, looking around.

"Should have known nothing would change."

Sherlock frowned. Glancing around the room. What John saw was not what he saw. Everything was as he liked it. Stacks of books atop the desk and on the floor, a few acting as tables for some of his experimental jars, one of which contained the partially decomposed remains of a rat he had injected with... No, John was staring an out with that look. The "I don't understand this man" face. Sherlock stood, conscious of how untidy he might appear in his creased shirt and worn black trousers. He wasn't very attentive to appearance as of late. When one has no visitors, why bother dressing up?

Sherlock gave a grim smile, "I was hoping you might have cheers the place up a bit. Is that... Is that a shotgun?"

Damn. Sherlock picked up the hefty weapon and put it aside, shrugging, "a piece of evidence I... Confiscated from the police."

He laughed. Sherlock smiled. Johns laugh was warm and familiar, he missed that. His mood lifted a little, offering John tea. He shook his head, holding up a brown paper bag, "brought you something fit christmas."

Damn it. Sherlock despised christmas and so an exchange of gifts hadn't occurred to him. He did have a gift for John, bought a while ago, though he never intended on handing it over since his marriage to Mary and all the trouble henceforth. John read him in seconds and took the bag to kitchen, speaking as he walked, "don't worry, a small provision fir your own good. Mrs Hudson has left for her sisters. I'm off to Wales for Christmas so, here is what you would have expected Hudson to make for you."

"Wales?"

John ignored the question, laying out a spread of Tupperware containers, each labelled. Roast chicken. Stuffing. Potatoes. Pudding. He also handed sherlock an instructions list for heating it all up. Sherlock repeated his query.

"Mary wants to see her family... After the month we've had..."

Sherlock nodded. John had been under stress due to his marriage to Mary. When she lost the baby, she had grown distant, and John was not the type of man to abandon anyone who was lost. Sherlock had found it hard to summon his friend due to his duty to the wife that seemed to despise him. Mycroft had joked that maybe Mary finally realised she was John's second wife. He had received a nasty jab in the ribs with the butt of a shotgun in return.

Sherlock forced a smile and thanked him, noticing John watching him intently.

"I mean it sherlock, you have to eat..."

"I've not died lately, I think I can take care of myself..."

"Don't sherlock! Don't make me feel guilty for not being here and don't you dare talk about death because knowing you, Mycroft and Molly are outside ready to help you fake another death!"

The outburst was fiery and left them both in silence. Sherlock knew it was uncalled for but he felt a slight pang of guilt for joking about his past sin. John was on edge as it was, he didn't deserve to be pushed further. Sherlock began to apologise but John held up a hand and took a breath before looking back to him with a face wrought with weariness and sadness, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that I just... Sometime all I think about are the days we solved crimes and almost died. She's said we should just end it but... But I have to try and fix this. I'm just sorry that it's cost me my best friend."

Best friend. Sherlock remembered when those words had left him speechless. For reasons he knew too well. He nodded, giving john a shrug, "always the doctor, trying to heal everyone. Just know, there's nothing to fix here. I understand you have a duty and I'm grateful... For the fatty feast in front of me."

John smiled, a genuine smile that took some of the strain away, eyes a little brighter as he looked at the friend he had missed so much. As much as he had loved Mary, leaving Sherlock here, alone, after everything, just seemed wrong. It was too late to say but John was sure their lives might have turned out better if they'd stayed as they were. The Confirmed bachelor doctor and the sociopath consulting detective in the funny hat. Walking to the door, he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to see Sherlock with a small crudely wrapped box in his hand

"Merry Christmas, John."

For a madman, Sherlock was full of surprises. John embraced him, praying his friend would never vanish again. John needed him, and little did he know, Sherlock needed him more. Tonight of all nights.

The sound of a gun shot woke Sherlock with a start. His vision blurred by sleep, his ears fixing themselves on the sound as the gun shot again.

"Take that, Marley!"

Sherlock groaned aloud, realising he'd left the damned television set on in the living room,. Pulling himself out from the warmth of his sheets, he slowly made his way to through the hall alert to how dark it was. He was sure he'd left a light on. No, he was certain. As he entered the living room, turning of the set, he noticed the silence was deafening. Alone. Yes, he knew this feeling well. His violin lay upon his desk but Sherlock could feel something was not right. The snow was falling outside, the streets empty windows alight with the warm light of life and festivity. How was it so dark and cold in here. The temperature had dropped severely. His breath formed clouds of smoke as he shuddered wondering if he should wander downstairs and give the heating tank an inspection.

A creak of the floor boards warned him of another soul lingering in the shadows. The sound came from his room, a foot step resting upon the fifth board closest to the window where a chair was positioned. Another slighter creak telling him the unseen visitor had sat down. As daunting as the situation might seem to any normal being, Sherlock smiled. After a day of thoughts surrounding his lost friend and the vacancy in his life, he was almost ecstatic to believe a distraction had emerged from the darkness to entertain him.

Sherlock could almost hear his brothers words as he neared the room. "You are the type of man who would dance with the devil if he gave you a riddle to solve." They were nine at the time, sitting at a police station while their parents were informed of his breaking into their school office to read through student records.

His bedroom door was ajar but he couldn't hear a sound. Silence had fallen. His mind reeled with theories and deductions, but the voice that called out shattered his every thought.

"Come on out, mr Holmes."

There she was. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the slender form of a woman. The woman. The darkness absorbed the room and yet in the pale light of the moon he knew her silouhette. Her eyes shone bright, her teeth white as snow as she smiled, crimson lips plump and curled. With a snap of her finger the small beside lamp came on. Sherlock knew too well something was wrong. No possible means of entry, no signs of any intrusion, and yet here she sat, gazing at him, her hands on her lap as she kept a hold of the grey fur coat she wore. Irene Adler.

"Never saw you as a robe type of man. Then again, when I picture you, Mr Holmes, clothing is never really involved."

Looking down, he noticed he was wearing the blue towel robe his mother had bought him a few years ago. Back when his distaste for Christmas was less pronounced. He was sure he had thrown this into the charity box John had made last year. It wouldn't be surprising if his friend had returned it to his wardrobe as a favour to his mother. Maybe he should be self conscious, but sherlock was too infuriated by the vacancy of facts to care much for what he was wearing. He kept her gaze and shrugged.

"I don't make a habit of dressing for intruders."

Her smile was as twisted and educative as ever as she leaned forward and gave a short laugh, "Come now mr detective, surely even you can see this is beyond mortal deductions."

There was an odd chill in the air as she spoke. He noticed that in the light her skin had a moist shine, as though frost had settled upon her and failed to melt in the heat of apartment. The dark marks beneath her eyes were deep, almost hollow, his first thought being they might be...

"The dead don't linger Holmes. I'm here with a message."

He should have known. Pacing towards her, he settled on his bed, eyebrows arched, waiting. Irene smirked and shifted, baring a slender leg from beneath her furs, skin paler than the snow settling on the window, feet bare and stiff. Sherlock knew she must need his help. Moriarty or some other dark character must be after her. He was excited, distracted from his melancholy thoughts of John.

"How much trouble are you in then, Miss Adler?"

He frowned as she shook her head, stray strands of hair falling from the perfect bun atop her head, one of which was white and dry, as though it might belong on the head of a woman of eighty. The sight made him reevaluate her appearance but as always, he could read very little from the woman who had always been a mystery to him.

"I'm not the one in trouble Holmes. You are."

He opened his mouth to speak but she held a finger to her lips, nails chipped and black, eyes brighter than firelight as she spoke, "You know you should try and think a little less of him. A broken heart on Christmas Eve is highly unfashionable. Besides your cold soul has been noticed..."

A groan from outside silenced them. Irene rubbed her temples in frustration while Sherlock rise and glanced out the window. The child in him urged for his immediate retreat to under the covers of his bed as he gazed upon Baker streets new inhabitants. A thousand translucent figures floated about the road and in the sky, moaning and groaning, calling out names in hollow voices, all carrying chains that they struggled to bear.

"Miserable aren't they."

Irene had soundlessly come to his side, whispering in his ear, her hand cold as ice as she took his wrist and turned him to face her. His voice was firm but edged with a desperate anxiety, "Who are they?"

"I have no idea. Wayward souls, moaning endlessly as they condemn the sins they committed and how heavy the burden of their chains are. If only they realised how pathetic they look."

Sherlock didn't know what to think and that scared him. Irene walked over to the mirror and gazed upon herself as he tried to find a reason as to why she was trying to make him believe this hoax. Ghosts roaming London, how elaborate and pathetic a trick to play. Why attempt such folly with a man as intelligent as he was. He smiled, John would have given him his trademark scowl for that thought.

"They told me I was found in the snow. Somewhere off of Latvia. Buried in the snow in a fur coat stolen from a royal in Russia. How gloriously glamorous an ending."

She met his cold stare, the anger in his eyes dying away as he saw the honesty in hers. He'd never believe her to be truthful, she was a woman with deceit running through her veins, but her eyes told of a darkness she had experienced. His next question was merely to test if her lies would be accompanied by an honesty in her tone.

"Where do you hide your chains? Or did you pass them on to one of those lost souls?"

Irene sighed, shrugging, fur coat slipping a little to reveal her perfectly symmetrical shoulder, the skin black and bruised.

"It's scary how desperate the dead are for attention... But were not here to discuss my immorality with the undead. I've come to warn you."

Her footsteps were without the slightest sound as she came before him, staring him in the eyes, cheeks layered with ice, eyelashes dusted with snowflakes.

"You will be visited by three spirits... And no, this isn't a dream or a deception... How else would I be able to do this..."

She reached out... Her hand passing through him, his mouth open but unable to form a word as she moved to the window, looking back at him, face taut and white, her hair turning white in the moonlight as she shivered.

"Look to see me no more... Sherlock Holmes..."

Then, she was gone. The light was out and the street was empty, and Sherlock was alone. He collapsed onto his bed and tried to find a means of deciding what he had scene. Every explanation flawed and impossible. He muttered and shook and tried to enter his mind palace but the sight of the souls and the face of Irene... The late Irene Adler, made him doubt everything. His hand instinctively reached for his phone, calling John, each second waiting for his friends voice inflicting more and more pain. No answer. He rang again. No answer. He repeated this process until the battery was almost completely finished and his hand ached from his tight grip of the phone.

"John, please, John."

His prayer was not answered. Knowing too well he would have to find his own courage, he rose and dressed in a smart back suit, taking hold of his scarf just as there came a knock on his door, accompanied by a Child calling his name. He breathed. However improbable this night might be, he would find the truth of whatever all this meant. His only regret as he walked toward the door, was that he had no friend to stand beside him.