John hated Christmas.
He hated the false joviality that plastered itself to his mother's face, he hated how his father would hide behind the papers, and he especially hated how his sister would instantly drown herself in whatever would give her pure ethanol for a bloodstream.
He especially hated that everybody always bought him jumpers. He had enough jumpers to last him two lifetimes over.
He lay in bed, this particular Christmas, and stared at the ceiling. He squinted, watching the spackle on the ceiling twist into a kaleidoscope of shapes and faces. Then into one face, over and over.
He stood up sharply, his head spinning from lying down. No. Not today. He wanted one day off from that face, wanted just once to forget about him.
Last Christmas, he remembered, despite himself, had been mortifying. Harry had sent him yet another hideous jumper, which he had duly worn (he had been so irritating, saying that John was only wearing it because he wanted to reconcile with his sister despite her absence, and John had been tempted to throw the jumper at his stupid high-cheekboned head and see what he could analyse from that.) Poor Molly had been embarrassed in front of everybody, although he had, incredibly, apologised. He wondered how Molly was doing.
He had refused to see everybody; the only person that visited him was Mrs Hudson. He refused to go back to 221B. It had nothing for him now but dust and memories.
And yet, this dark, bleak Christmas afternoon, he was tugging on his shoes and returning to the place he hated most. Mrs Hudson had insisted on making him dinner. If it wasn't for her, John thought dryly, his weight and England would fall. He smiled. Then he remembered.
He had lost before, in the heat of battle (his shoulder smarted, reminding him just how hot it had been), and yet those losses did not seem quite as…real. They were losses, yes, but there had been a cause. Another factor. He had left him, and it was all his fault. There had been no sniper, no mysterious man in black waiting in the wings.
He couldn't even think his name anymore, he was so angry at him.
He had thought, in the few weeks after, that it had all been a trick, designed to make sure he would win against that bastard. He hadn't wanted to see the body, in the vain hope that there was some plan; Molly had had to identify it, and for a glorious moment he thought he would have got Molly to do something, anything. But Molly had a look in her eye, as if there was something she couldn't tell him, when she had walked out of the autopsy room, and when she had choked out an affirmative he knew she couldn't look him in the eye because his best friend, one of his only friends, was lying dead on a hospital slab.
They had found Moriarty dead on the rooftop. John would have protected him from the media onslaught. They would have made it through if the damn fool hadn't left him behind.
But weeks began to turn into months, and the unbearable sun of the heatwave that followed turned into manageable fog and gloom, and a tiny part of John's mind, the part that gave him nightmares, began to whisper that he was alone.
He began to trudge through the streets of London, slush soaking at his boots and the hem of his trousers. He realised he'd forgotten to shave. Mrs Hudson would worry.
He rapped sharply on the door, and Mrs Hudson answered. John felt his stomach sink slightly. Every time, he expected him.
"John, dear, you look awfully thin," Mrs Hudson fussed as she took his coat from him. "You have been eating?"
"Yes, Mrs Hudson," John replied, feeling a little guilty. He couldn't look at the stairs. He knew what was at the top of them and he did not want to go there again.
Mrs Hudson led him through to the kitchen. Molly was sitting at the table, tearing a napkin into tiny pieces with her bitten fingernails. She still can't look at me, John thought, as he lowered himself heavily into the seat next to her.
"I thought we could celebrate Christmas together," Mrs Hudson said brightly, prodding at the monster of a turkey occupying her oven. "Molly visits me all the time, you know," she adds pointedly. John felt his cheeks flush slightly. Molly tore further into the napkin.
The conversation was slow, stilted, and then, miraculously, began to flow with the mulled wine. Molly, John was surprised to find out, was very capable of holding a conversation, asking him intelligent and well thought questions about his practice and time as an army doctor. She smiled when he expressed this, reminding him that she had studied to be a pathologist.
"Sometimes, I think being around him makes me a little shy," she confided quietly. "I mean –" she panicked, flustered. John took her hand and met her gaze.
"I do that too." Mrs Hudson looked at him from the saucepan of potatoes, and John half expected her to tell Molly that he made a point never to discuss that man, but mercifully the pan bubbled over and her attention was diverted.
As they sat around the table, the turkey gleaming in the light, the bulb in the kitchen blew spectacularly and the entire house went dark. John heard Molly curse slightly as Mrs Hudson hunted for candles underneath the sink. He found himself wishing that he was here, making snide comments, telling Mrs Hudson exactly what was wrong with her wiring, nearly killing himself trying to rewire a plug.
A voice whispered "Merry Christmas, John Watson."
Then Mrs Hudson lit a match. A breeze snatched at the candle, flickering the light, and John could have sworn he saw his face in the reflection of the fridge. Molly was staring out the window
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," John whispered to himself, as the trio of mourners raised a glass to honour the man they had all lost.
Sherlock watched the only man he had ever considered a true friend from the window outside. In the kitchen, Molly nodded almost inperceptively. He pulled his collar up, and walked briskly away.
Perhaps next year they could eat together again.