Author's Note: So, yeah. Hi again. Sorry for being inactive for so long - I've been so busy, and stuff keeps happening, and all that... but here's a little Sherlock one-shot for the festive period!
"Erm… hi, Sherlock. It's… it's Christmas Eve, you know. Almost seven in the evening, actually. It's dark. The sky looks… well, nice, I suppose. Snowflakes and all that. It's actually snowing on Christmas, like during the Irene Adler case. That was eventful, wasn't it? But… you know, it's a white Christmas. Traditional. Of course, you wouldn't care that much - not really your sort of thing. Um…"
John glanced around and stared down. He was lost for words. Everything he had been rehearsing in his mind on the way to the cemetery had already been said. Usually, he had no problem talking when he visited Sherlock's grave - his little speeches, little monologues were short and full of all of the emotions he had to keep to himself. He never really had to hesitate.
They always seemed to end the same.
"Sherlock. Please. I miss you. Don't be dead. Come home."
A single flower lay at the foot of Sherlock's grave. John didn't notice at first - it was white, pure white, and from where John was standing, he couldn't tell what was the flower and what was snow. The long dark stem made a little dent in the snow.
John wondered who left it there.
He held his own offering, a wreath, closer to his jacket. He wasn't quite ready to put it down yet. Not quite ready to leave.
"There's… there's something else, too. A lady, a really lovely lady, called Mary. Mary Morstan. I got to talk to her, properly I mean, at the Christmas party at the surgery yesterday, and she's… she's nice. Kind. We're going for a drink on Boxing Day, you know. And… and since it's the first Christmas that I'm having without you, I just thought I'd say that I'm not as lonely as I thought I would be a couple of months ago. And…"
He stopped. Had to pause. A lump rose up in his throat and he tried to stop the tears that were threatening to spill.
"I miss you."
He set down his wreath and laid his gloved hand on the top of the gravestone. A thick cover of snow sat on top. His fingerprints looked odd there.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."
Without another word, John turned on his heel and walked away.
He didn't look back.
Couldn't look back.
Moments later, Sherlock stepped out from behind a tree. An unwarranted tear made a track down his cheek. He stayed partially concealed, just in case John glanced back again.
"Merry Christmas, John Watson," he whispered. "Merry Christmas."