This was a drabble I wrote a while back and posted on my Tumblr page. I just realized I hadn't shared it here and am making up for that mistake. :)
I own nothing and do not profit from this in any way, shape or form. Rated K.
John Watson's routine didn't change much after Sherlock died, much to the dismay of the few people who knew him well. He still woke at six, took tea at half-seven, read the paper until eight and worked at the surgery until six in the evening when the last nurse on duty went home. He always walked her to her car and then fought the end of the rush-hour crowd on the tube on his way home. He ate dinner at seven, read or watched television until half-ten and then went to bed. Day in, day out, it rarely changed. The only deviations in that routine were the infrequent dinner dates with Lestrade or Molly and the once-weekly lunches with Mrs. Hudson on Saturdays.
It was during one of their weekly lunches that Mrs. Hudson asked John about Christmas. She poked nervously at her salad with her fork before speaking up.
"John, dear. Don't you think it's time we decorated for Christmas? It's already the seventeenth of December."
John took a drink of water and dabbed at his lips with the napkin. "I suppose you're right. I can do that later today. Just let me know where you want your tree and I'll come up about five or so." He smiled politely and continued eating.
"That would be lovely, thank you." She put down her fork and pushed her plate away, her fingers toying with the edge of the napkin in her lap. "Do you have any plans for the holiday? Will you be staying here, or going to visit family?"
John paused before answering, running through the options in his head. Harry always went away for Christmas and their parents were gone, so there was no one to go see, anyway. The only people who he would spend any time with were all here in London. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah from the clinic. But from their lunch dates earlier in the week, he knew Lestrade was going to be away and Molly had other plans. Mrs. Hudson quietly cleared her throat and brought John out of his thoughts.
"Right, sorry about that. I'll be staying here. A quiet night in sounds nice." He drained his water glass and picked up his plate, bringing them into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson followed.
"John, you shouldn't spend Christmas alone. I was going to go visit my sister, but I can postpone that if you would like some company." She reached for the dish cloth in John's hands and began running water to wash up. She figured his reply would be the same one he always used. That's very kind of you, but I'm fine. Don't go to any trouble on my account.
"That's very kind of you to offer and I would take you up on it, but I think you should go see your sister. You haven't seen her in quite some time and I imagine she's looking forward to seeing you. We can do something when you get back after the New Year." He opened the cupboard and grabbed a dish towel, wiping the first plate Mrs. Hudson had washed.
"What a wonderful idea. I'd like that." She handed him a glass to dry.
"As would I."
After Mrs. Hudson left, John went downstairs and collected his mail. Neither John nor Sherlock had ever received much mail, so when there was something more than adverts or solicitations, John noticed. And the red envelope in his hand, addressed to a Mister John Watson, M.D., he definitely noticed. He glanced at the return addressed and felt anger stir in his chest.
Mycroft.
He climbed the stairs to the flat and wandered to Sherlock's chair, staring at the envelope as he slowly sat down. As angry as he still was (and would probably always be) at Mycroft, his curiosity had been piqued. He slid his finger beneath the flap of the envelope and lifted it open, pulling the card out and turning it over. It was an elegant and expensive invitation to some holiday gathering and Mycroft had invited John. Mycroft had even taken the time to hand-write something at the bottom of it.
John,
In case you didn't have plans for Christmas, you are welcome at my estate for dinner, caroling and fellowship should you choose to attend. If you would like to bring a guest, please do so.
M.
John leaned back in the chair and stared out the window, watching the snow fall. He didn't know what made him angrier- the fact Mycroft seemed to have forgotten their last exchange when John viciously called him out about his actions having been a major factor in Sherlock's death, or the idea that Mycroft thought he was doing John a favor by inviting him. It didn't matter why Mycroft had sent the invitation because he wouldn't be attending. Plain and simple. John turned his attention toward the small fire in the fireplace. Tucking the invitation back into the envelope, he flipped it into the fire, the flames quickly consuming the highly-processed paper and giving the room a warm glow before the flames quickly died down again. He felt guilty for not sending back the R.S.V.P. card, but immediately pushed the emotion aside because he knew Mycroft couldn't have cared less.
He looked back at the snow falling outside and leaned back in the chair, letting the darkness in the flat consume him once again. He knew it had just been a formality, that Mycroft followed as many social conventions as he could without bothering to understand any of them because he couldn't relate to anybody, anyway. He didn't want to. Mycroft knew there were certain things a person should do merely because it was expected, but he failed to understand why he was doing them in the first place. Mycroft and Sherlock were a lot alike in that respect, having no people skills or any understanding of how to relate to others. John was fairly certain Mycroft knew how to relate to people, but simply didn't care to because he thought he was superior to everyone. Sherlock, though, while believing himself to be superior to everyone because in many ways he was, didn't actually know how to interact with people, at least when John met him. Sherlock had isolated himself from just about everyone because it was easier that way and he wouldn't have to explain himself so much. He knew he bothered people just by being who he was, so the fewer people he came across the fewer people he would inadvertently offend or hurt.
His train of thought was interrupted by the sounds of a violin playing Christmas carols outside, the notes of "Silent Night" carrying easily through the cold night air. John shook his head and chuckled. Sherlock never have played Christmas music on his violin, but strangely enough he had never complained when someone else did. John stood and went to the window, watching the lone teenage boy with the violin slowly make his way down the street, his curly mop of dark hair instantly catching John's attention, knocking loose the pain in his chest he'd bottled up weeks ago.
Before he had the chance to break down, he closed the curtains, doused the fire and went to bed, the notes of "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" following him down the hall.
The morning of Christmas Eve was an unusually quiet one. There was hardly any traffic in the streets near the flat, most of the shops around were closed and Mrs. Hudson left the day prior, so her usual morning routine of step aerobics left the flat quiet until well past ten o'clock. John had been awake since just after four, unable to sleep at all. He'd finally gotten out of bed about half-five and since then had been sitting on the sofa, studying the Christmas tree and the lack of gifts beneath it. Since the only people he knew in London all had other plans for Christmas, he didn't have anyone to buy gifts for this year.
He was about to wrap a few empty boxes just to make the place a bit more festive when there was a knock at the door downstairs. John folded the newspaper he had been reading, put it on the coffee table and wandered downstairs. Normally he would have rushed to the door so as not to be rude, but today he couldn't bring himself to move at more than a snail's pace. The delivery person outside knocked heavily one more time and muttered several colorful obscenities under her breath. John cocked an eyebrow and answered the door.
"May I help you?"
A girl of perhaps twenty or twenty-two years of age looked up at him, realizing he had likely heard her swearing. Her cold-reddened cheeks went scarlet and she handed him a small package, her hand shaking slightly.
"This is for you. The stupid bloke who organized the delivery was insistent it arrive today."
John stared at the package for a moment. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with twine wrapped around and knotted neatly in the center. He stepped back when he noticed his name and the address scrawled in a very familiar, messy handwriting.
"Uh, sir? Can you take this? In case you haven't noticed, it's bloody cold out here."
John blinked and took the package, handing her a crumpled ten-pound note from his pocket. "Thank you and have a happy Christmas."
"Same to you," she replied. She turned and started walking away when John heard her muttering again. "Creepy old man."
He instantly regretted tipping her at all after that comment, but brushed it off and turned around to go back inside, finally noticing the cold as his fingers went numb. The package was carefully placed on the end table near the arm chair in front of the fire, temporarily out of sight but not out of mind as he went to make some tea. He leaned against the counter, staring at the package as he waited for the kettle to boil. It couldn't have been Mycroft, as even that pompous ass couldn't be that cruel. John worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he ran through the list of possible suspects. Perhaps he had Molly take care of it? No, that wasn't right. The delivery girl said a "stupid bloke" had organized the delivery. Maybe it was Anderson. John smiled a little at the thought and turned back to the stove top as the kettle started to whistle.
The handwriting, the way it was wrapped, the time it arrived, not to mention the crass person the delivery girl had mentioned- it all pointed to Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn't have sent him a Christmas gift. He'd seen Sherlock jump from the hospital rooftop. He'd heard Sherlock's body hit the pavement and he'd watched with his own two eyes as Sherlock's life drained out of him, oozing off the curb and into the street. He shuddered violently at the graphic memory and gripped the edge of the counter tightly.
Neglecting his tea altogether, John spun on his heel and crossed the kitchen in a matter of a few steps. He grabbed the package from the table, wrenching the twine off it and tossing the twine into the fire, kneeling down in front of the hearth. He turned the box in his hands, unsure if he wanted to open it. He had been managing alright until now- for the last several weeks he had been able to wake up in the morning without the horrid flashbacks and without screaming out Sherlock's name. Somehow, he figured that opening this package would bring all of that back and he wasn't sure he would be able to cope this time.
After staring at it for a minute or two, he slid a trembling finger beneath the edge of the paper and ripped, being careful to preserve the paper where Sherlock had addressed the box, setting it aside. The rest of the paper went into the fire. The box itself was white and made of sturdy cardboard, weighing only a few ounces and measuring about six inches in length and four inches wide. He lifted the lid and removed the red tissue paper, seeing a note card taped to what looked like a new smart phone. Tugging the note card free he saw it had been taped to a very expensive, state of the art mobile phone. The box slipped from his hand and tumbled to the carpet when John began to read the note on the card.
John,
Although I'm the best at what I do, there are still some minds I cannot read and some behaviour I cannot predict. Surprisingly, you are one of them. I imagine you have questions about what happened to me up on that roof top, but unfortunately I am not around to answer them. There is information on this phone that may help answer some of those questions for you if you wish to read it. If you choose not to, the files are encrypted and will take you some time to get into. You won't stumble into anything you don't want to read.
Continue looking after Mrs. Hudson for me, won't you? As a token of my gratitude for your friendship and trust, you and she will not have to worry about rent on the flat any longer.
(And no, Mycroft had nothing to do with it.)
Happy Christmas, John.
S.H.
John glanced at the overturned box, seeing the device lying amongst the discarded tissue paper. He picked it up, the cold steel case warming in his hand. It was turned off, so it likely had battery life left, but he couldn't bring himself to turn it on, at least not yet. Not today- he wasn't ready. He carefully re-wrapped the note and the phone in the tissue paper before putting them back into the box. With a shaky sigh, he closed the lid and reached to put the box beneath the Christmas tree. He paused a moment, his vision getting blurry as he stared at it, the emotions he had worked so hard to control bubbling to the surface again.
Just stop it, Sherlock. Stop this. I can't.. I can't do this again.
He forced himself to climb to his feet and go back into the kitchen to finish making his tea, turning his back on the gift. He busied himself for a few minutes, stirring milk into his tea more slowly than usual. Bracing his hands on the counter, he sighed and turned back to the Christmas tree, the soft glow of the lights twinkling back at him. The lone box beneath the tree a painful reminder of how alone he was and would always be. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands.
Happy Christmas, Sherlock.