December 25: "Warmth." (from Sparky Dorian)
Christmas of 1891 was the coldest one I could recall. Having been deprived only months before of my dearest friend, there was a chill in my heart which was only compounded by the dreadful weather.
"John, you're positively shaking!" Mary exclaimed when I arrived home on Christmas Eve. Pneumonia takes no heed of holidays, so I had spent most of the day making house calls and trying to keep the chill out of my bones. I was exhausted and freezing, and it was a great relief to feel the warmth of the fire once I had shed all of my winter things and sat down on the little settee next to my wife.
I soon found my eyes wandering, as they often did in those days, to a picture on the wall near the fireplace: a sketch of my late friend Sherlock Holmes, which a friend from St. Bartholomew's Hospital had drawn for me.
"I miss him too," said Mary, who by now was as adept at reading my thoughts as Holmes ever was. "But while we may mourn what is gone, we must remember to treasure what we still have."
"Of course," I replied, tearing my gaze from the drawing to meet Mary's tender blue eyes, and pulled her closer to me. There is nothing that can thaw a chilled heart so well as love.