This was going to be a one shot, but this is just easier. This is Sherlock's version of 'It's a Wonderful Life', although it sometimes feels like A Christmas Carol. Ah well. Here it is... Hopefully I'll finish by Christmas


Sherlock sat alone on the floor of the flat, still dressed in his pyjamas. Christmas Eve. He knew it was Christmas Eve; Lestrade had pointed it out when he had been round earlier. But so what? John was still in hospital. Mrs. Hudson was away. He was all alone. And he didn't care about Christmas.

He glanced over at the bare pine tree in the corner. The only thing left was the star; everything else Sherlock had taken off. John had bought them all. John wasn't here. The decorations weren't needed. But the star; the star John had actually made, while Sherlock watched him. It was somewhat comforting to have it there, looking down at him.

Sherlock tilted his head back, shutting his eyes. John. He wondered, as his fingers found the box beside him and brought it to his lap, exactly how much of Christmas day John would be conscious for. He was still in and out; and when he was in, he had no idea what was going on. Lestrade had assured him that he would be alright – Sherlock had refused to go to the hospital – but it didn't matter. Even if John made a full recovery, Sherlock doubted it would affect him much. It was all Sherlock's fault he was injured in the first place; it was unlikely that he would return to 221b.

Moriarty… when Sherlock had shot at the bomb, it was to kill Moriarty. He knew, of course, it was likely that he and John would be killed, and he could accept that. But when the ONLY person who got hurt was John…

Sherlock slowly, leisurely rolled up his sleeve, opening the box with his other hand. He opened his eyes to take up the needle, already prepared with his preferred dose of cocaine. He positioned it, slipped it into his eyes, and closed his eyes once more as he pushed down the plunger.

Sweet bliss.


"Sherlock."

Sherlock had been sitting there for about half an hour. He frowned, and drowsily forced his heavy lids apart. A man stood in front of him; it was a man Sherlock had never seen before, wearing a grey suit and smart shoes. He was looking directly at him.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, sharply.

The man smiled. He reminded Sherlock of Mycroft. This thought made him frown even more. "I walked."

Sherlock looked towards the open door, and, satisfied, turned back to the man. "Alright." He forced himself into a standing position, pushing himself up the wall. "Who are you?"

"Clarence Oddbody, Angel, Second Class."

Sherlock smiled. "Ah. I should have realised. Though to be fair, it has been a while since I've had a hallucination." He looked the man up and down. "Shouldn't you be wearing white, if you're an angel?"

"I find grey is a lot less conspicuous, don't you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's surprisingly logical."

"Well, it would be. If your theory's right, I came out of your mind, after all."

There was a short silence as the two men looked at each other.

"You miss John."

It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I do."

"Tell me, Sherlock: why do you blame yourself?"

Sherlock scowled and stalked over to the sofa. He sat down, pulling his dressing ground around himself irritably. "Because it was my fault."

Clarence walked over considerably slower, and placed himself elegantly beside the young detective. "How?"

Sherlock looked at him, his expression subtly incredulous. "How is it not?" He leant back and looked forwards as he spoke, arms crossed. "Moriarty was after me. John didn't have to be involved. Even aside from that he's been in danger a remarkable number of times in relation to how long I've actually known him."

"You honestly think his life was worse for having met you?"

He sighed and uncrossed his arms, dropping them at his side. "Everyone's life is worse for having met me."

Clarence stood up slowly, and walked over to the window. Without turning round, he said "And you honestly believe that?"

"Of course."

"Alright, then. You like experiments. Let's see if you're right."

Sherlock small, condescending noise. "And how do you intend to do that?" he asked, turning around in the seat.

The suited figure turned slightly, so that his profile was silhouetted in the dwindling light. "As of now, you are no one. Sherlock Holmes will cease to exist. You have never met anyone, no one has ever heard of you. You have never been born."


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