Hello! This is my fist Sherlock fanfiction, so I apologize in advance for any suckish-ness.
Christmas Without You
The flat was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of streetlights shining through the window. John sat, unmoving, in his chair. It had been almost two years. Two years since he'd watched his best friend jump off the roof of St. Bart's. Two years, and he still hadn't moved on.
A knock on the door was the only warning he was given before Mrs. Hudson came in. John looked up. She was dressed in a long dark green dress with a white lace shall around her shoulders. 'Probably just getting back from a Christmas party.' John noted.
"Good evening, John." She smiled. "How are you?"
John didn't answer, he just turned to stare at the wall once more. That damned smile was still there, mocking him. 'Sherlock's smile.' John thought, bitterly.
"Alright, dear. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson had long given up reminding John that she wasn't his housekeeper. After all, someone had to look after him, and he certainly wasn't going to take care of himself. She walked into the kitchen, turned on the light, opened a cabinet and looked at the boxes of tea. "Earl grey or something more festive, dear?"
John said nothing.
"Alright, something festive it is." She smiled sadly as she opened the box of cinnamon-flavored tea. She filled the kettle and set it to boil. She set two teacups on the counter and placed the bags in side of them. "Would you like something to go with your tea, John? Maybe some gingerbread? I put some in the fridge yesterday. I'll see if there's any left." She moved to the fridge, opening it. The body parts had long been cleared out, except for the jar of eyes still in the microwave. John wouldn't let her touch those, insisting that Sherlock would be cross when he came back and they weren't there. She sighed, the fridge was nearly empty, save for a carton of milk and the plate of gingerbread. She pulled the plate from the fridge just as the kettle began to whistle.
She turned, setting the plate down on the counter and taking the kettle off the stove. She poured water into the two cups, nodding as the clear liquid began to turn color. "Tea's ready, John. Do you want milk?" She asked, bringing the plate into the main room and setting on the coffee table. "John?"
John looked up, "What?" His voice was raspy, rough from disuse.
"Your tea, dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, glad he had spoken to her this time. Sometimes he went weeks without speaking. "How do you want it?"
"Black, two sugars." He muttered, looking at the gingerbread with disgust. "I'm not hungry."
"You never take sugar in your tea." Mrs. Hudson mussed, but didn't object. She knew that was how Sherlock had taken his tea. She knew John was clinging to anything that reminded him of Sherlock. He kept the eyes and the skull. He tried to make deductions, and he was getting quite good, actually. He slept in Sherlock's bed, even though Mrs. Hudson wasn't supposed to know about that. He wore one Sherlock's scarves whenever he went out, though it wasn't often. He was slowly wasting away without Sherlock and there was nothing she could do to help except try to make him eat and sit with him when he'd let her.
She prepared the tea and took it to John. She sat down on the couch and took a sip from her own cup. "So, John, anything happen at the clinic today? Awfully rude of them to have you work Christmas." She asked, knowing that he hadn't left the flat in two weeks. She could pretend she didn't know that, though. She could pretend things were okay. She could pretend she didn't see him falling apart in front of her. Because that's what he wanted. Because he wanted to be strong, be strong for Sherlock. And she wasn't going to be the one to break that illusion. It was all that seemed to be holding him together.
"No, nothing big. Just a few colds and one guy who almost lost a finger wrapping gifts." John tried to smile but it fell flat. He'd pretend to be okay for Mrs. Hudson. She deserved better than him falling apart on her. Sherlock would never forgive him for that. "How was your party?"
"Oh, it was lovely, dear. I met someone, his name's Allan. He's so very sweet." She laughed and picked up a piece of gingerbread. "We had a wonderful time. Dancing and talking, I think I'd like to see him again."
"That's good." John nodded, sipping his tea and wincing at the taste. "What is this?"
"Cinnamon, dear, it's Christmas, after all." She smiled and looked out the window. "Oh, John, it's snowing!" She laughed. "It's snowing on Christmas."
"That's nice." John mumbled, glancing out the window. "Always wanted a white Christmas when I was a kid. Rarely happened, though."
"Yes, I remember going to look outside before I opened my gifts, hoping for snow." She set her cup down and stood up. "That reminds me, I have something for you." She left the flat before he could say anything and returned quickly, a green wrapped gift in her hands.
"You didn't have too, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't get you anything. I forgot, I'm sorry." John muttered, glancing down at his tea. How could he have forgotten to get Mrs. Hudson something for Christmas? He sighed, knowing it was because he'd forgotten it was Christmas. He'd forgotten a lot of things.
"It's alright, dear. I know you've been busy, what with the clinic and Sarah." She smiled and handed him the package. She hadn't expected him to get her anything. And if she knew he'd broken it off with Sarah six months ago, well, she wasn't going to say anything.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John smiled, it was better this time, easier to believe. He slowly pulled the wrapping off of the gift, revealing a new jumper. He held it up, letting it unfold itself. It was cream-colored and very soft. "Thank you, it's very nice."
"I'm glad you like it. I figured it might replace the one you lost." She smiled, sipping her tea again.
"Oh, yeah. It does look just like it. Softer, though. Nicer. I like it. Thank you." John nodded, folding it back up and setting it on the arm of his chair. He couldn't figure out where his old jumper had gone, it was his favorite, but it had simply vanished one day. He probably misplaced it when he'd tried to move out of Baker Street. He was gone for a month before he returned, finding the flat exactly as he'd left it. He knew Mrs. Hudson had known he'd come back, even though she'd brushed it off as not getting around to cleaning it out. He was grateful for that.
"Well, I suppose I should be off, John." Mrs. Hudson stood up and collected her tea and the plate of gingerbread. She took them into the kitchen, placing the cup in the sink and the plate in the fridge. "You should really go to the shops and get some food or something, John. Your fridge is empty." She told him when she got back to the main room. She knew he wouldn't, though. She'd go in the morning for him.
"I should. I've just been busy with the clinic." John chuckled. It was a hollow and sad sound that broke Mrs. Hudson's heart just a little bit more.
"Well, I'll be seeing you tomorrow, I suppose." She smiled at him one last time before leaving the flat.
"Yeah, tomorrow." John nodded as she left. He sighed as he heard the door close. 'Christmas, John. It's bloody Christmas and you forgot.' John shook his head and stood up. 'What would Sherlock say? His favorite holiday and you forgot it. Didn't even put up a tree.' John walked to the window, resting his forehead against the painfully cold glass. He watched as his breath clouded up the glass, obscuring his view of the streets and snowflakes. He'd always hated the cold, but Sherlock had loved it. He'd drag John out of bed at two in the morning wanting to go out. John laughed, softly, somewhat bitterly.
Sherlock was the reason he'd gotten so many colds that year, but he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy walking with Sherlock. And the carols. Sherlock knew every carol known to man, John believed. And he could play them, and he did, on the violin, starting December first. John never got tired of them, though, not like he did when they were played on the radio. No, because Sherlock was the one playing them. Sherlock. It was all because of Sherlock.
Sherlock was the reason he couldn't keep a girlfriend. Sherlock was the reason he'd almost gotten killed time and time again. Sherlock was the reason for most of his sleepless nights, playing the violin at all hours. But Sherlock was also the reason he was happy, for those few years. Sherlock was the reason his nightmares of the war had gone away, though now they were replaced with Sherlock falling, Sherlock dying and John not being able to save him. Sherlock was the reason he was able to pick up the pieces he'd been left in after the war, and Sherlock was the reason he was in pieces now.
John sighed and moved away from the window, his forehead aching from the cold. He walked across the room to the coat rack where his jacket hung. He reached out and pushed the jacket to the side, staring at the strip of gray fabric that hung behind it. It was one of Sherlock's scarves. He had an entire drawer full of them, but this was the only one that still smelled like him, however faintly.
John reached out and gently lifted the cloth off the peg. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and closed his eyes, breathing deep, inhaling Sherlock's scent, smiling. If he concentrated hard enough, it was almost as if Sherlock was still there. Like he had just gone out to get the milk or something. But Sherlock never went to get the milk. And Sherlock wasn't still here, but damn it if John wasn't going to let himself pretend that he was, just for a second.
He let out the breath he'd been holding and opened his eyes. His smile drooped and his eyes clouded. He didn't know what he'd do when nothing smelled like Sherlock anymore. He blinked back tears and settled himself into his chair again. John grabbed his phone from the table beside the chair.
He unlocked the screen and slowly typed up a text. His finger trembled above the send button, but only for a second. With a sigh he sent the message and set the phone down, hoping for a reply he'd never get.
._-*-_. ._-*-_. ._-*-_.
He sat there, wearing a cream-colored jumper that smelled far too much like him. He stared at the tracks, trying to ignore all the passers-by and their pitying looks. He didn't know if he liked Christmas anymore. It was boring without anyone to celebrate it with. He sighed, shaking his head. 'Only a few more, Sherlock. Only a few more left to go before you can go home.' Sherlock stood up and strode over to the coffee shop across the street. 'Soon you can go home. Soon you can see John.'
Sherlock winced as the bell above the door chimed, causing the barista to look up. It was Christmas, so naturally there'd be almost no one here, and Sherlock was grateful for that. He looked over the choices, trying to decide. "Can I interest you in our new Peppermint Latte? It's just here for the holidays." The barista giggled.
"No. I think I'll take a simple coffee, black, two sugars." Sherlock muttered, pulling out his wallet. The barista giggled again and rang up his order. He handed over the money and took his drink. "Thank you."
Sherlock chose a seat near the back, away from the speakers that were blaring carols. No, he didn't like Christmas without someone to celebrate it with. No, he didn't like Christmas without John. He missed John and he couldn't wait to get back home. 'What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he hates me? He does think I'm dead.' Sherlock sighed. Everyday he'd thought about Baker Street and John, and everyday he'd wondered if Jo would even want him back. 'Maybe he's moved on. Maybe he's married now. He's probably a surgeon by now.'
Sherlock shook his head and took a sip of his coffee, burning his tongue. When he was finished, he was going to see John, and if John didn't want him back, fine, but he was going to see him. Just once, without him knowing. If he was happy, he'd leave without ever letting him know he was alive. But if he wasn't, if he wanted Sherlock back, Sherlock sighed. He hadn't actually gotten that far into his plan. He was going to return to Baker Street, obviously, but he wasn't sure if he and John could go back to being the same. He'd had a lot of time to think over the past years, and he wasn't really sure he wanted the same. But, he wasn't going to force the issue. Having John close would be enough for him.
He took another sip of his coffee when his phone beeped. He had a text. Sherlock sighed. He really didn't want to do anything right now. He just wanted to sit in this annoyingly bright shop and sip his crappy coffee while wondering what John was doing and hoping he had a nice Christmas. But, nope. Not even on Christmas.
Sherlock huffed and dug into his pocket for his phone. If working on Christmas would get him to John sooner, then he'd do it. He sighed and unlocked his phone to read the text. He almost choked on his coffee when he got the message opened.
Happy Christmas, Sherlock. I miss you. I know you won't see this, I know. I just, I had to send it. I hope you had a great year. And I hope you come home soon. I know, you won't be. But, Happy Christmas, anyway. –JW
Sherlock stared at the screen. He hadn't received a text from John in ten months, eight days, and three hours. He hastily pressed the reply button and typed out 'John, I'm sorry. I'll be back soon. I promise. Happy Christmas to you, as well. I miss you, too. I'll see you soon. I love you.' Sherlock smiled, his finger hovering over the send button before sighing and closing the message.
Message saved to drafts. Draft count 137.
._-*-_. ._-*-_. ._-*-_.
John stared at his phone for an hour, waiting. 'For what, though?' John snapped at himself. 'A reply? That'd be a miracle. And miracles don't happen to people like you.' John sighed and stood up, the scarf swaying with his movements. He grabbed the jumper and walked out of the room, hanging the scarf up as he walked by. He started towards his bedroom, he needed sleep. Maybe tomorrow he'd do something. Go to the clinic, go to the shops, call Mike, or something. He might do that.
He stopped suddenly, turning. He was outside Sherlock's bedroom door. His hand reached for the doorknob, turning it. He opened the door halfway before realizing it didn't matter anymore. Nothing smelled like Sherlock anymore. It was just another room in a flat that he couldn't bear to leave. He sighed, pushing the door open fully. What'd it matter? Just tonight, he wanted to pretend. Just tonight he'd sleep here. It would be the last time, the end.
He stumbled over to the bed, the jumper falling from his hand. He fell onto the bed, curling in on himself. He pulled one of the pillows close and closed his eyes, breathing in, hoping desperately for it to remind him of Sherlock. It didn't, it smelled like himself. 'It's never going to smell like him again, is it? He's gone for good now, isn't he?' John thought.
He hugged the pillow tighter, biting his lip. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the pain. He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. Sherlock was gone. His Sherlock was never coming back. He felt a tear fall down his cheek and let go. He sobbed, shaking and clinging to the pillow. He shouted and cried and begged till his throat was raw. He prayed, to every deity he could think of, but he got no answer, just like before. They never answered. Because Sherlock wasn't coming back.
John fell asleep, tears drying on his face, his fingers clenched in the damp material of the pillow.
He'd sleep in that room every night from then on. He never left the flat. Mrs. Hudson did all the shopping. And if on some days he shouted at the face on the wall, or if he talked to the skull, or if he argued with the television set more than he used to, she never said a thing. And she never would. And if one day the doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson wasn't there to get it, maybe John would. Maybe he wouldn't.
Once more, I would like to apologize for the total crap that this is. I would also like to thank you for reading it. Also, reviews are very helpful. :)