As I am not going to be able to attend Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, this year, I have decided to write just one or two stories. I'm Nova very kindly provided me with the prompt an unexpected gift, from which this story has grown. I hope that you find it enjoyable.

Holmes is in a black mood. I suspect that this has been brought about by the lack of work that usually accompanies the Christmas holidays as well as a reaction to too much work during the summer and autumn months. I suppose that I should be thankful that he was quite uncharacteristically chipper for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, however - almost as if he were making a special effort.

My every attempt to draw the fellow out has been in vain, today; he has refused to so much as look at me, let alone answer; I can certainly understand why he has so frequently been judged as being a sulky fellow.

When the doorbell rings, neither one of us take very much notice. Patients and clients tend to ring the bell loudly and - more often than not - frantically. It is probably just the postman.

I had not given very much thought to my supposition, but I am clearly correct for Mrs. Hudson soon hurries into the room with a parcel that has been wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.

"Ah!" Holmes sits up eagerly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This must be the book that I ordered on rigor mortis, decomposing flesh and other -"

"No, Mr. Holmes," interrupts our housekeeper. "Your book of horrors has not arrived. This parcel is addressed to Doctor Watson."

Holmes gives a dismal groan. "From whom?"

"Apparently, a man from Tibet, judging by the postmark," I retort as I examine the parcel with care. "It has clearly been a bit waylaid - it has been redirected from the address of my practice, from which I have moved almost a year ago now."

The transformation that has come over my friend is almost comical. With an expression of mild irritation and just a hint of what looks like fear, he leaps to his feet and almost runs to my side.

"It would seem that a 'friend of a friend', who wishes to remain anonymous, saw fit to send me a blanket that has been woven from goat's wool. Wrapped up in plain writing paper, as if it were glassware or fine china, for some reason."

Holmes nods and steps a strange, nervous dance on the spot. "You know my methods - study the writing paper. There... uh... There must be a reason for its inclusion."

I raise my eyebrows at his curious antics. And then I study the first scrap of crumpled paper. The quality is rough but thick, I note.

"Very good. And?"

"And clearly of a foreign origin. But we know that the parcel comes from Tibet, so that is unsurprising."

Holmes nods and impatiently gestures for me to continue. "And...?"

"And? Holmes, if you can see something that I cannot..."

He shakes his head in a manner that seems quite resigned. "Watson, you know my methods. What else would I do?"

I frown at him for a long moment. And then I recall the case which was presented to us by the King of Bohemia. Holmes showed me the watermark by holding it up in front of the light of a candle on his washstand. As the winter light is dull out, I light a candle now - as my companion had then.

To my astonishment, a familiar handwriting begins to appear in brown ink, before my very eyes.

My dear Watson,

I was terribly saddened to hear of your loss.

I am already preparing to return to London as quickly as I can. This parcel is to be dispatched the moment that I am gone from here. Should I meet with some harm now, after all my care, I enclose these letters that you might still know the truth.

My apologies, my dear friend, for all that you have suffered. I only hope that these messages give explanation enough for the reasons behind my part in it all.

I hope that you can find it within your heart to forgive me.

Sincerely Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

I stare at my friend, who still has an air of dejected resignation about him. He is also stepping awkwardly from one foot to the other, with an expression which makes me feel that he should like to run away.

"I often wrote to you. At first, I burnt the letters, because I feared that a letter from me might place you - or Mary - in a great and invisible danger, when my only reason for staying away was in an attempt to keep you both safe from harm."

"Really, Holmes! You know that I am more than capable -"

He nods and passes a hand over his eyes. "Yes. Yes, you might have been all right. But I returned because Moran had broken his promise - he gave his word that his vendetta was against only me, but he - or else one of his men - killed Mary, in an attempt clearly meant for you. That is why I ask your forgiveness. This is my terrible secret. In my attempt to keep you safe, I have hurt you badly - done you a wrong which I can never put to rights."

I take his hand as a tremor goes through him.

"I can only give you my sincerest apologies," he continues. "I should have told you - I know that - but I was so scared that I would lose you... I could not bring myself to do so."

I squeeze his hand. "I can see that you are still scared. I can also see that you have felt the loss deeply and that you are more upset with yourself than I could ever be with you. Now, if you will calm yourself and ring for tea, I should like to read your letters. I have to understand."

He thanks me with a brief and shaky smile, his eyes still uncharacteristically shiny and tearful.

I return the smile affectionately, reminding myself that this confession has taken a great amount of courage and that my friend has quite obviously been torturing himself since news of my wife's death reached him, almost a year ago.

To forgive him I must, though I am upset that he was prepared to keep this from me - does he not trust me, even now? Does my friend know me not at all?