The Christmas tree was up.

John sat in his armchair and admired it. It had taken him a huge part of the afternoon to find the right place in the apartment, to string the lights and to hang the ornaments. At his side was a cuppa, and he sipped thoughtfully at it. The tree reminded him of a Christmas long ago, on a similar winter's night when the snow brushed the ground. He remembered the mesmerizing tremor of Sherlock's violin as he played Christmas carols. He remembered drinking mulled wine with Mrs. Hudson and talking with Lestrade about his reconciliation with his wife. He remembered Molly showing up in that gorgeous dress and Sherlock managing to put his whole foot in his mouth.

If he was being truthful with himself, the night hadn't been perfect. He'd stumbled over his own feet with the woman he was seeing, whose presence in his life had been so minimal that he no longer remembered her name. Irene Adler had shown up "dead," and that put a damper on things. But regardless, John had learned that Christmas with Sherlock was better than Christmas without him.

It wasn't that long ago, just a couple of years in truth, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since that night. Last Christmas John had waited until the very last moment before he decided to pack up his things and visit his sister. Harry was surprised to find him on her doorstep. The night had been pleasant enough, but it wasn't the same.

This year he wasn't sure what he would do. Stay at home, he supposed. On a whim he'd purchased a violinist's CD that had a collection of Christmas songs on it. Listen to that, drink some mulled wine.

Since moving out of 221B Baker Street, he'd lost contact with Mrs. Hudson. He'd spent so much time with her and Sherlock, all together, that being with her now made Sherlock's absence feel bigger.

He no longer waltzed in and out of Scotland Yard. Without Sherlock, he had no purpose there. Lestrade still stayed in touch, but their's was a weak, faltering friendship.

He'd hardly heard from Mycroft since Sherlock died. That was no surprise. Mycroft had no use for him without Sherlock.

He could go back to his sister's. John loathed the idea. The last thing he wanted was to become a beggar with no place else to go during the holidays, as he'd felt the year past. He had too much pride – he'd prefer to sit in his armchair and relive memories.

There was a knock on the door.

John put down his cuppa and got to his feet. The knocking got more insistent. "Yes, I'm coming!" he snapped at the closed door. At last he grabbed the knob and swung it open.

On the other side was a teenaged boy that John didn't recognize. He looked him over from top to bottom. The boy's jeans were torn, his clothes were filthy, and his hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in a decade. "Can I help you?" John asked, moving to block the door just a little more. The boy couldn't be more than ninetee, and he was taller and probably far stronger.

"You're Mr. Watson then?" the boy asked. He had a lazy accent, from the East side of London. He looked John over with a look of disdain that rivalled John's. To him, John must have looked like a grandfather in his beige cardigan and brown trousers.

"Yes, yes I am," John said.

The boy scowled. "I've been asked to fetch you."

John's eyebrows knit together. "Fetch me?" he asked. "By whom?"

"You might wanna put a coat on, sir, it's rather nippy out." The boy revealed a mouthful of yellowing teeth. John grimaced. Glancing at the tree and his cuppa, he grabbed his jacket and slipped on his shoes, then followed the boy out of the building.

The boy walked at a brisk pace, and John had to rush to keep up with him. "You haven't answered my question," he said. "You asked you to fetch me?"

"Come on, the faster the better," the boy answered.

"It's quite rude, you know. Is this Mycroft's doing?" the boy snorted. He didn't look like he knew who Mycroft was. If he did, he wouldn't take it so lightly. John was accustomed to Mycroft's bizarre ways of summoning him, but nothing like this had happened in almost two years. What could Mycroft possibly want now?

The boy whistled for a cab. He held the door open for John and climbed in after him. Leaning forward to the cabbie, John heard him whisper, "22 Northumberland Street." Something went off in John's head like an alarm, but before he could escape from the cab the vehicle was already in motion.

This wasn't funny. "What is this?" he demanded, but not unkindly. It was hard for him to speak unkindly to strangers. In fact, the only person he'd ever been comfortable getting angry with had been Sherlock. He kept his voice down so as not to disturb the cabbie. "Why are you taking me there? I haven't been there in-"

"About 3 years," the boy cut him off.

He licked his upper lip. This was not normal. Of course, John was used to not normal, but he was out of practice. "How do you know that?" he asked. The boy turned his head out the window and stared out into the darkness. "Excuse me," John said, louder this time, "but how do you know that? What in hell's name is going on?"

"You'll see, Mr. Watson," the boy said.

"No, I won't see. You'll tell me. Now."

The boy snorted again. John fell back in his seat and glared out his window. Someone was playing games with him. Mycroft was clever, but this was just cruel. Taking him back to that place, the place where it all began. John had been avoiding it, along with St. Bart's, Baker Street, and a handful of other venues.

The cab pulled up in front of 22 Northumberland. The boy stepped out and held the door again for John. "This really isn't funny," John told him, staring at the old pub with it's dim lights. "Not funny at all."

"I'm sorry you don't find it more amusing."

He opened the door to the pub and waited for John to step in. John gave him a look but did as he was asked. The door fell shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The door was glass, and through it John could see the boy taking off down the street. The pub was dark inside, except for a tealight that burned at the table by the window. The same table that he'd sat in so long ago with Sherlock, waiting for the serial killer cabbie.

"This is really not funny," he muttered. He slid into the booth, into the same spot. Leaning against the wall was his cane. He hadn't seen it in years, since he stopped using it really. Someone was definitely playing with him. He wished he'd brought a gun.

A door closed on the other side of the pub. John's head snapped in that direction. Footsteps, slow and steady over the wooden floors.

"Who's there?" he grabbed the cane and held it aloft. This was not one of Mycroft's games. "I'm armed, I warn you. Stay away."

"I'd hardly call that a weapon, would you?"

John almost dropped the cane. His legs wobbled. He needed it more for support than anything else, but he kept it held upright, in case he was wrong. But that voice. It couldn't be. He was dead. John had watched him die, watched as he fell from the top of St. Bart's, listened to his final words. He'd seen his body, seen the blood, the paleness of his skin in death. They'd buried him.

"No," was all he could think to say. "No. No, I don't believe it, no."

"Surely you've seen more amazing things than this," that cocky smile, the one you could hear in his voice, even when you couldn't see it. He stepped into the dim candlelight, his dark curls bouncing against his forehead. Those eyes, the eyes that were blue and green and specked with gold and a thousand different colours, danced. His rose lips curved into a smile. "Merry Christmas, John."