Late morning sunlight caught the creature's fur, casting rabbit-shaped shadows each time its excited bouncing brushed its ears against my windowsill. Squeaks announced the animal's invitation, and one front paw waved whenever I opened my eyes. I had not seen one that eager in quite a while.

I rolled over, tired of watching it. The rabbit had far too much energy for today. My last appointment for the week had been yesterday, and the Yard did not expect me until tomorrow. No expectations meant no one would care if I spent the day in bed.

Except maybe that rabbit. Small thumps traveled across the floor, then the bed shook beneath the creature's renewed jumping. After a minute, exaggerated hops followed the edge of the mattress behind me before speeding across my pillow. When I made no reaction, it did it again.

I still ignored it. The creature wanted me to chase it, as all rabbits did. It wanted me to chase it, catch it, and write its story. Penning the creature's tale would mature the rabbit enough to release, and I used to love the process. Everything from idea to completion had fascinated me, bringing me alive in a way second only to my viola, but times had changed. Just as I could no longer play, I could not remember the last time I had written.

The account of Holmes' death, perhaps. I had not wanted to write that, but my readers needed a reason for why there would be no more publications. Far from my best work, I had found myself unable to pay close attention to the eager rabbit, and the narrative had suffered for it. I had worked on that story for nearly twice the time of the others, prolonging my own pain to ensure my last tribute to Holmes would be worthy of him. I had been too busy trying to hide my grief to care when the next rabbit hopped into my room.

Weeks later, I no longer had to hide my grief, and the double loss did nothing for my desire to write. I did well to remember the month.

Faint curiosity focused my thoughts. What was the month? I seemed to recall the weather beginning to warm. Had we finished March, yet?

Yes, I decided, and nearly April as well. May could not be more than a week away. Any day would be the three-year anniversary of Reichenbach Falls.

I flinched, curling deeper into the pillow as I tried and failed to push away the blooming memory. This was why I did not keep track of the days. Anniversaries loomed like giants, ambushing me with painful regularity. Birthdays, holidays, random occasions, all provided links to the past that sent me skipping through time. Some I enjoyed, some I merely tolerated, but I had two memories I would rather not relive. The falls was one of them.

I did not have a choice.

"We go to Rosenlaui this afternoon."

"This view is amazing. See the rainbow?"

"'An Englishwoman, in the last stage of consumption, has fallen ill upon arriving. If you could be presumed upon to return…'"

"You did not write this?!"

"Certainly not!"

"Holmes! Holmes, answer me!"

Murderer!

The rabbit rebounded off my leg, using me to reach my bedpost, and the contact snapped me out of the memory. I released a shuddering sigh. The creature had some use, at least, but I still could not bring myself to open my eyes. My words had fled months ago. By this point, I might not even be able to hear the animal, much less record its story. It would do better choosing another person.

A low grumble reached my ears, and the animal hopped back down to ram its head into my back. When I ignored that too, one rear paw thumped the bed, vibrating mattress and pillow alike to make it impossible to sleep. Years ago, I would have swatted it then gained my feet to chase the menace. Months ago, I would have growled at it, but now I simply pulled the blankets tighter. Mary had been alive then. I had been alive then.

I rather doubted I counted as 'alive' anymore.

Pounding rattled the front door, a heavy fist announcing its owner sought my presence, and I looked blearily toward the hall. Did I want to answer?

No. I rolled over, pulling up another blanket as I did so. It was probably a patient, but Thompson did not live far. He would do a better job, anyway.

"Doctor?"

Definitely a patient, I decided when I did not recognize the voice. They would leave soon enough, and I tried to ignore the small animal attempting to perform an Irish Step Dance on my headboard.

Movement registered on the other side of the room, then Mary walked into sight, swishing her skirt in the playful way she had always had. Silently chiding me for the mess, she began flitting from table to chair, duster in her transparent hand as I watched with grief-heavy eyes. She would accomplish nothing, of course—the hallucinations never did—but I welcomed her presence. I would much rather hallucinate her than never see her again.

A hand appeared on her shoulder, and she rewarded Holmes' stealth with a wry grin as he stepped into view. Holmes used to do that frequently—pick our lock to insert himself into whatever we happened to be doing at the time. Creeping up behind us if the opportunity presented itself, he had always pretended disappointment when he failed and chagrin when he succeeded, but this time he merely twitched a grin at my gaze before continuing toward a chair.

A shadow flickered across my window. Someone must be on the neighbor's roof, to create that sort of outline, but I did not care who it was. My eyes never left Holmes.

Winding this way and that through my cluttered room, his transparent form walked straight through a table, and he looked down to scowl at the offending wood. A moment later, that grey gaze flicked back toward Mary. My attention followed to find her head thrown back in silent laughter, and I smiled at the memory. She never did tell me what she had found more amusing: Holmes' walking into a streetlamp in broad daylight, or his expression when he realized we were nearby. She had teased him about that for months.

Heavy knocking sounded again. "John? John, answer the door."

Why? I did not recognize the voice, and they could not know for certain that I was home. For the moment, I could even pretend I was not completely alone. Bed seemed like a much better idea.

Mary dropped the duster to take her sewing to the far corner, but Holmes claimed the chair nearer my bed, staring through the floor with a frown born of heavy thought. The last time I had seen that expression, he had solved a missing person case minutes before the young man attempted suicide, and I wondered what case my mind had conjured this time. Would I get to see him pace my bedroom again?

No. Holmes and Mary both faded as another familiar shape nearly popped into existence, and I felt a frown try to surface. Why would I hallucinate Father Christmas?

No matter. I obviously had, and I would not be able to conjure Holmes and Mary again for a while. I sighed and rolled away from him, closing my eyes in a bid for sleep. At least my old friend was alive and presumably well. Immortals could not die, after all, no matter how many cursed humans they kept in their company.

"You are not cursed."

Of course I was. Leave or stay, everyone I loved died. I must be cursed.

The words belatedly registered as audible, and I resisted the urge to groan. If I had to listen, why could I not listen to Holmes or Mary?

"John, look at me."

Why? He would be just as transparent as the others, and like the others, he could not be here. I saw him the most of those of the magical realm, but even he did not come to the human world but once a year. Father Christmas—Nicolas, Kris, sometimes Cole, when I was being mischievous—was safely at the Pole preparing for next Christmas. He might not even know about Mary yet.

A thread of sorrow laced through me at the thought. Mary had discovered my secret when she caught me making shortbread at midnight, and she and Nicolas had gotten on splendidly. He would grieve her loss when he heard, but I doubted I would be able to tell him. Several times now, I had snapped out of a regression to find myself next to the river. I would escape this meaningless existence soon enough.

But for Lestrade's surprise visit, I would have already escaped. Only he had kept me from fading into the countryside last month. I would keep my word, but that did not mean I would care when my time finally came. Anything had to be better than this.

"John." Infinite sadness filled the name, and callused fingers gently landed on my shoulder. "John, look at me."

My eyes shot open at the contact to find my old friend kneeling beside my bed, and the hand squeezed just slightly.

"You are not hallucinating me."

I stared for a long moment, dull surprise trying to push through my barriers. My friend only came to the human world on Christmas.

"What are you doing here?"

Even I could hear the emptiness in my voice. He almost visibly winced.

"I came to retrieve you, my boy. Come to the Pole with me."

Longing coursed through me, but reality asserted itself a moment later. I could not do that.

"Why not?"

He knew why. His home was no place for a murderous traitor.

Immortal telepathy meant he could hear my thoughts as easily as my words, but I had not expected the pain around his eyes. The hand pressed more firmly on my shoulder.

"You are neither murderer nor traitor, but even if you were, do you not think I would know before I invited you?"

He would, I admitted silently. My friend watched more than children, but that did not mean he would appreciate my presence in his home. The Pole was supposed to be a happy, welcoming place. He did not need me souring the mood.

"You would not," he said immediately. "Please, John. Come with me. You can have a room in the Great House, and you have always loved my library. Perhaps you can find a purpose there."

A purpose. I barely remember what that was. I certainly did not have one here—merely expectations that were themselves decreasing. The purpose that had withered after Holmes' death had died with Mary. I had nothing keeping me here.

But did I have something drawing me there?

Maybe, I decided. Father Christmas had been my friend for years, and we had fed that friendship with hours of conversation over wine and dessert every Christmas morning. While I did not understand why he would want me, I could acknowledge that the offer was genuine. If I was still here on the solstice, I would join him.

The solstice was months away, however. I tried to block the thought doubting I would have that long.

"We are not waiting for the solstice," he interjected. "Come with me, John. Today. Now."

"But—"

"There is an addendum in the law," he cut me off. "Certain circumstances allow a human to arrive in the presence of an immortal any day of the year. My sleigh is on the roof. Please."

I merely stared. He had said years ago that humans could only arrive at the Pole on the summer solstice. What could have changed that? I was not in a war zone as Meredith had been.

"Do not worry about it," he answered. "The provision simply exists." His large hand grabbed mine as if to help me out of bed, but another law kept him from pulling yet. "I cannot force you, John. You know that. Please come with me."

Why? Why would he want me? Cursed or not, he could not deny I was a grieving widower, and he hardly needed my grief defiling his home. The Pole had no use for me.

"Not true," he insisted. "You could help me direct the elves, aid our student doctor in his studies, or explore my extensive library, but whatever you choose, you would be welcome."

I did not answer immediately, stunned. He meant it. Somehow, he actually meant it. He wanted me there. Why would he want me there?

I had no idea, nor did he volunteer an answer, but I finally nodded grudgingly. The Pole would either provide an escape or a purpose. Either one was better than here.

Sadness mixed with relief in his eyes, but his mouth lifted in a faint smile as he pulled me upright.

"I will help you pack."

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