Title: The Third Christmas
Author: cathedral carver
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Reichenbach
Note: A bit of unapologetic fluff.
Summary: Once upon a time, he used to love holidays.
xx
The first Christmas is horrible because Sherlock is dead. He's dead and everything is wrong, and who can even think about celebrating anything? Well, lots of people, apparently, but that's nothing new. All John can manage to do is keep his head down and keep moving forward. But, everything is too bright and shiny and garish and hurts his eyes, and the world keeps slipping sideways, no matter how hard to tries to hold an even, steady pace.
Keep moving, he tells himself repeatedly. Keep moving, keep moving.
Lots of people call. Mycroft and Sarah and Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson wants to adopt him, invites him to join her at her sister's for a fortnight. John very politely declines and suspects Mrs. Hudson is slightly relieved, though she'd never say as much. Harry suggests he spend the holidays with her, because he shouldn't be alone right now. John thanks her, and bites back the harsh, hurtful laugh bubbling in his throat, because he knows she's trying to be kind, and yet the very thought of the two of them alone (Clara has come and gone, again) together in Harry's house, sharing space and sharing sad stories and sharing a lot of alcohol while attempting to make merry just fills him with a dull horror.
He'd rather be dead himself, to be honest.
He stays in the flat on Baker Street because it's convenient, close to the surgery, and because Mycroft has paid the rent for at least a year. He tells John not to worry about money, that it's the least of his worries right now, and John sort of agrees, because he doesn't think much about money these days. He doesn't think much about anything, though. These days, every time he looks around the flat he sees bits and pieces of Sherlock lying scattered here and there, books and papers and vials and pipettes and clothing, and sometimes he has to close his eyes tight tight because he almost can't bear to look, but at the same time he also can't bear to throw anything away, because. Because. Because.
But, how can he not stay? Where else would he go? But, as the first year draws to a shiny, tinkling, festive close, he thinks: How much longer can I stay here (without him)?
The days stretch out before him, days that make up weeks that form months that create years. He thinks he's gone numb, because he doesn't feel much of anything, and he doesn't cry, even when Molly leaves a hysterically jolly message on his mobile ("Happy Christmas, John – next year will be better, you'll see!" and she might be slightly drunk and on the verge of tears), and he starts to hyperventilate instead, bending over suddenly and clutching his knees because next year? And, the year after that? And, the year after that? How did people do it?
The intensity of this reaction alarms him. For the first time in his life, the pain is bigger than he is. His body simply isn't large enough to contain it. The loss is too much to bear.
He gets drunk, that first Christmas. Sherlock hated Christmas, but Sherlock is dead and Christmas comes, just the same. John consumes a lot of beer and gets very drunk, and as he's stumbling about he becomes aware of music seeping through the wall (Mrs. Turner's married ones). Mrs. Turner's married ones are playing some ghastly carol. O Holy Night, he thinks. John listens for a full six seconds before he's tearing the flat apart, searching for anything that even vaguely represents this wretched holiday. He locates the scant two boxes of decorations, lights, a single wreath, in the small crawlspace above his room. He dumps them in the hallway, relishing the sound of glass bulbs exploding like tiny bombs. The ones that don't smash on impact he grinds to powder under his foot. Only when the contents of both boxes are decimated does he stop to catch his ragged breath.
He's confused. He's not quite sure what has happened. Once upon a time, he used to love holidays.
xx
The second Christmas creeps up on him with its inevitable, sneaky gaudiness, and he doesn't take notice until one evening on the way home from the surgery when those garish multi-coloured lights and shop window tinsel and tinny music assault his senses again, and he realizes with something resembling shock that an entire year has passed without Sherlock being in it. And, how is that even possible? And, how did he pass the time, anyway? He can barely remember a thing but a sort of endless, dull ache in his chest and head, mugs of tea gone cold, a stream of nameless, faceless sick and needy patients and horribly long, long, long dark nights.
He dates occasionally, has sex infrequently, dumps women inevitably.
He no longer talks to anyone from Scotland Yard; why would he? Lestrade certainly never has reason to call upon him for his services, and the few times he does ring for a chat, the silence between them is painful and all consuming. So many subjects they can no longer broach.
Mycroft sneaks up on him, too, showing up on Christmas Eve, unannounced as always, with a bottle of wine and fruitcake. Who even likes fruitcake? John, for one, does not. He wonders, idly, if Sherlock did. The subject was never addressed.
Mycroft glances around the flat and in less than four seconds sees everything, understands all.
"I miss him, too, you know," Mycroft says suddenly. "Terribly."
John nods, tries to arrange his face in a sympathetic expression, and though Mycroft seems to appreciate the effort, they both know it's hardly the same; Mycroft may feel the loss, but he is not lost.
"He wouldn't want this for you, you do realize," Mycroft tries again and John wants to punch him in nose.
"Wouldn't he," John says, his voice dull.
"He…cared about you." Mycroft shifts his weight, wonders how much he can say. He wants to leave, but he doesn't want to leave John alone. "You must know that."
"I don't know anything anymore," John says and forces his mouth into a semblance of a smile before he pushes the door closed.
An hour later he almost regrets not asking Mycroft to stay for tea. The flat is too quiet, too still, too dreary, too dull, too boring, too lonely.
Around midnight, there is a welling in him.
Too still, too bland, too sad, too big, too small, too many empty spaces and nothing to fill them with.
He bins the fruitcake. He drinks the wine straight from the bottle.
xx
The third Christmas is different in several ways. Not easier, just different.
First, he spends the latter part of the day with Sarah, of all people, and Sarah's mum, who's recovering from heart surgery (John diagnosed congestive heart failure in its early stages and everyone is so grateful he's basically ordered to come for dinner), and Sarah's new boyfriend Edgar, who's recovering from a nasty divorce. Edgar's young son Simon, who does not get on well with Sarah, eats an entire plateful of fudge, runs around like a maniac for two hours before passing out under the tree, much to the relief of all adults in attendance.
Second, he opens the door at 11:54 p.m. to find Sherlock standing there.
"You're dead," John says. He's dimly aware of the low hum of conversation behind him, of Sarah and Edgar debating whether Edgar should fight his ex for custody of the dog, because Simon loves the dog, and it might make Simon's time with Edgar more enjoyable. John has nothing helpful to contribute to the conversation and was actually getting ready to leave when he hears the quiet knock at the door, the quiet knock that, once again, changes everything.
Sherlock doesn't say anything. He's thin, thinner than ever, but not as pale; he's spent a great deal of time outdoors, John thinks, even though he's dead, and he's honed, John thinks, all sinew and tension, everything beneath that skin gone to muscle and hard-edged bone, the body a vehicle with a singular, unwavering purpose. His eyes, however, his eyes are the same: silvery blue, bright, unwavering, cutting right through John, stealing his breath away.
"You're dead," John says again, stupidly, and behind him he hears Sarah asking, "Who is it?" John opens his mouth, but doesn't know quite how to respond.
"It's Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says loudly, in that voice, and for the first time in almost three years, John thinks he might cry, actually really cry, sob, maybe, in a very embarrassing and drawn-out fashion. He steps into the hallways, pulls the door closed behind him. Sherlock's gaze has not wavered once from John's face.
John starts walking on legs he can barely feel and Sherlock follows him without a word. John walks down the short flight of stairs (Keep moving, keep moving), walks out the door onto the pavement in front of Sarah's flat. Then he stops, stares into the distance above bare tree branches and festively lit flats. It's late and it's dark and he's standing in the street with a dead man on Christmas Eve.
"John."
"How did you know where I was?"
"I've always known where you are."
John laughs. It sounds like a bark, sharp and hard. "I'm afraid I can't say the same."
"John." Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "John."
John empties his lungs of air, then sucks in a long breath. He doesn't know what this means, hearing his name spoken over and over as if it will somehow change something. But, at the same time, it does change something — it changes everything because Sherlock is saying it, and John almost hates Sherlock for saying it. He doesn't have the right.
"What are you doing?" John says. He means to ask, What are you doing to me?, but he can't ask that, not right now, anyway, and maybe never. At any rate, Sherlock doesn't seem inclined to answer. He just keeps staring at John like…like he hasn't seem him in almost three years. John feels a hysterical wave of black laughter crawling up his throat. He bites on his tongue.
"What are you doing here?" John tries again. There. That's a more sensible question, really, but for the first time Sherlock looks shaken, unsure. He swallows once, twice, before he tries to reply. His throat, of course, is hidden by his scarf, but John can imagine it beneath the dark cloth, skin quivering, muscles undulating.
"You're here," he says finally, as if that explains everything, and maybe it does. Then leans forward, very close, as if he might kiss John. John stares at the thin face, the thin, dear face that he's never forgotten, could never forget, but that he would dearly love to slap, if he could force his hands to move.
"I never kissed you before," John says. "What makes you think I'm about to start now, on Christmas?"
Sherlock glances at his watch. "It's not Christmas anymore."
They stare at one another. Sherlock moves back a bit, shifts his feet.
"I'll go," he says at last. John has never seen him look so lost. "I don't want to keep Sarah from her boyfriend."
"I'm not her boyfriend anymore," John says, and it's not what he means to say at all, but it will do for now, then he grabs Sherlock and kisses him, hard. He kisses him so hard he can feel the sharp jab of Sherlock's teeth against his and the surprised huff of breath that escapes from Sherlock's nose. But, now is not the time for finesse; that will come later. John's hands hold onto Sherlock's lapels with a tight desperate twist, pulling Sherlock even closer (Oh, you're not going anywhere this time.) He swears he can feel Sherlock's mouth curve in a small arc of surprise beneath his before he starts kissing him back, awkward and desperate but with intent (I'm going nowhere, I promise, unless it's with you). John finishes by pulling away, just a bit, the tip of his tongue brushing lightly along Sherlock's lower lip; Sherlock twitches and makes a small sound in his throat. John likes that, very much. He smiles.
"All right, then," he says.
Then, he takes Sherlock's hand and leads him home.
"How do you feel about fruitcake?" he asks.
xx
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