Christmas Without
The therapist—she says I shouldn't be thinking about it like this any more. I have family and friends coming over, even somebody who might be more than a friend. She's nice.
It's not like last Christmas was that great. I spent it trying to keep Sher—you know, I spent it trying to keep him from taking drugs over Irene Adler's death. She wasn't even dead. That's how things were with him. There was also that horrible party, the one where he scarred Molly Hooper for life and then kissed her, just like a ten-year-old boy who didn't know what to do. That's also how things were with him.
The therapist says it's been long enough now, that a friend, a colleague, a flatmate, should start to be a fond memory, stagnant and pleasant in my brain. But with Hol—with him, nothing was ever stagnant or pleasant. No memories like that exist.
It's not that I mind spending Christmas without him. That's what the therapist can't get through her head. It's hard to explain, and I guess I'm not doing a very good job. But the thing is, she never saw the Christmases before Sherlock.
She never saw me sitting alone with a bottle and a gun. She knows, but she doesn't understand.
Sher—Sherlock, my friend, my flatmate—he's the reason I helped Mrs. Hudson string silly lights and decorate a tree. He's why there's a box of Christmas crackers waiting for Christmas Eve dinner. He's why Molly and Lestrade are coming to my place this year. I've even invited my sister—if she'll come.
I don't mind Christmas without Sherlock Holmes. It's not that at all. It's just that—if I'd never known him, I wouldn't be alive enough to have Christmas at all.
