Of course it was normal for Sherlock to assume that he was happy at some point. I mean, look at how innocent children are. Surely he was like that once.
Indeed he was. But only for that one day when he met John. The dog, that is. As many people are no doubt aware, Sherlock found solace and contentment in John. John was always there for him when he needed him.
But it was because of John that Sherlock hated Christmas.
Mycroft had gone missing for the night again. Sherlock was used to this. In approximately three hours he would return smelling faintly of "Obsession" by Calvin Klein. Sherlock didn't mind that smell, even thought it told him of the activities that Mycroft had participated in the previous night. It was a comforting female smell that made up for the continuous absence of his mother. Whoever this woman was, Mycroft was lucky to have her.
Two hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-five seconds later Sherlock held his hand up dramatically and counted down on his fingers. When his hand had finally closed into a fist, Mycroft opened the door of the manor as softly as he could. John perked up on the bed, looked at Sherlock and fell back asleep. Mycroft slid wordlessly past Sherlock's door, looking solemn as Sherlock glared over his book. Both he and Mycroft heard the sound of his father rolling over on the lounge downstairs and instantly Mycroft knew why he was glaring. Sherlock pulled the book away from his face to reveal an enormous purple mark on the left hand side of his face. He swivelled on his chair as Mycroft drew closer to him and Mycroft saw the crimson mess that stuck to his hair. Father had smashed his head open with a bottle.
"How?" he managed to choke.
"He woke up in a pool of his own vomit, thought I put him there and proceeded to punish me."
"Sherlock-"
"I've already told you, I don't expect anything from you. Now, please leave," Mycroft sighed and stepped out of the room, leaving John to nuzzle at Sherlock's leg. He smiled and patted him on the head. It was Christmas Eve after all. He had to at least try to be happy.
Sherlock woke in the middle of the night because of a trembling mass at the end of his bed. He got up and crossed the room to turn the light on. Looking back on it, sometimes Sherlock wished he hadn't. John was shaking violently on the bed. Sherlock called to him and he tried to get off the bed, but his legs betrayed him and he was sent crashing to the floor. Sherlock rushed to him, seeing the look of fear and bewilderment that glazed John's eyes. John was having a seizure and Sherlock didn't know what to do. He called out for Mycroft, his father, his mother, anyone to try and help him, but then he remembered. Mycroft had left for the night, mother was still missing and his father wouldn't return from the pub until three. He was alone with John, and there wasn't enough time for emergency services to come. They would take about fifteen minutes, and he knew John wouldn't last that long, but he called anyway. He pressed himself against John, hoping that by some miracle he would live. He could hear John's heart thundering in his chest, he could see the growing fear in his eyes, and he could feel the never ending tremors that controlled his body. Tears rolled down Sherlock's face and mixed with the saliva dribbling from John's mouth. Sherlock heard the sirens of the emergency vehicles at the end of the street when the tremors finally stopped. Sherlock held John closer to him, trying desperately to hear the heartbeat, to feel his breath.
John died at two twenty-one on the twenty-fifth of December, and it filled Sherlock with hatred.
*~*
Mycroft came back to the manor at four-thirty in the morning, hoping that nobody would notice his absence. He walked past Sherlock's door and found it to be closed. He knocked lightly, and when there was no reply he knocked harder. Worried at the silence, he burst into the room. It was empty except for a small puddle that shone in the moonlight. Saliva, thought Mycroft. He quickly analysed the facts- both Sherlock and John were missing, there was a puddle of saliva on the floor, but Sherlock's bed sheets were only ruffled at the end of his bed. Conclusion- something happened to John.
Sherlock entered the manor just as Mycroft was about to leave. Sherlock pushed past him, clutching a small jar and completely ignoring his older brother. Mycroft called out to him as he climbed the stairs, but all that passed through his mind were his memories of John.
John, who he had trained to lock his door.
John, who he had first met at the dodgy pet shop in town.
John, who responded to him like he was talking.
John, who raised his eyebrows when he looked around a room.
John, who slept at the end of Sherlock's bed and kept his feet warm.
John, the only thing in the world that loved Sherlock.
John, the only thing in the world Sherlock loved.
Sherlock walked into his room and immediately his eyes focused on the puddle on his floor. It had shrunk since he had last seen it. Sherlock knew that soon it would dry up and disappear, much like John. He lay down on his bed, still clutching his jar. Mycroft was at the door, hesitant as to whether he should come in or not.
"Sherlock?"
"Sherlock, please talk to me."
"...Is that John?"
Sherlock nodded, but his eyes were still distant and cold. Mycroft stepped into the room and stood just in front of the doorway.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft slowly made his way further into the room. He stretched out his arm to try and comfort Sherlock, and was only centimetres away when Sherlock snapped.
"Get away from me!" he slapped Mycroft's hand away and sat himself in the corner of the bed, staring daggers at Mycroft and wrapping his arms tighter around the jar.
"Sherlock, I'm so-"
"Who is she?"
"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"
"Who is the woman that killed John?"
"I really don't know what you're on about..."
"She took you away from John and I and now he's dead because..."
"Because why, Sherlock?" It's was Mycroft's turn to snap, "because I have a life? Because I can't pick up the pieces for you? Because I constantly need to be there for you? Why, Sherlock? Tell me why he died!"
"Because you're my brother," he whimpered, "and you always know what to do. You could have saved him, but you weren't here. You were with her."
"No, Sherlock. You don't understand..."
*~*