A/N: This is the last of the shorts that I had already published. This one was written in response to AlessNox' Winter Winds challenge at Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen forum. Come read our stuff! I still dedicate this chapter to Aless because her prompt inspired me & I wouldn't have written it with out it.

Originally I had left this story up to you to decide if it was slash or not – but of course in this version it is. I changed this version slightly due to the added definition & the inclusion of slashy elements.

There are 4 more chapters to this story. My writing these days is a lot more hit & miss than it was so depending on my mood & level of tiredness it maybe a bit of a wait for the next chapter. Thank you for your patience & understanding:)

Drift

drift – noun & verb – 1a. slow movement or variation. b. such movement caused by a slow current. 2. the intention, meaning, scope, etc. of what is said (didn't understand her drift). 3. a large mass of snow, sand, etc. accumulated by the wind. 4. esp. derogatory a state of inaction. 5a. a ship's deviation from it's course, due to currents.

He walked the streets of London; cold winter winds assailed him with their icy fingers. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, tucked his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders so they came up and helped to cover his ears. The wind had managed to accumulate small piles of snow in corners and against buildings. He trudged around them, not really aware of where he was or where he was going, for the first time his wanderings were without purpose or aim, his meanderings usually taking him to predetermined destinations.

It started to snow. Huge flakes drifted down and swirled around, starting a dance as old as existence.

He paused, in his misery, to look up into the sky. Where he was standing there was not enough light from the street to interfere with the vision of velvety blackness that was a backdrop for the billions of crystal fragments as they fell from the sky. It was mesmerizing and hypnotic to watch. It was beyond beautiful. An infinite amount of snow cascading from a never-ending blackness.

He stood and closed his eyes against the vision. The snow kissed his lids, his cheeks, his lips and gathered in his hair. He remembered other kisses, kisses filled with warmth and heat, wrapped in love beyond measure.

The beauty of the night eased the pain and sadness he felt in his heart. The wonder of the night gave him hope for the first time in seven months.

He smiled a sad, soft smile.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he whispered into the vastness of time and space. "I still miss you. I always will."

oOo

He walked the streets of a town somewhere in Afghanistan; the cold desert winds assailed him with their icy fingers. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, tucked his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders so they came up and helped to cover his ears. The wind had managed to accumulate small piles of sand in corners and against buildings. He trudged around them, not really aware of where he was or where he was going, for the first time his wanderings were without purpose or aim, his meanderings usually taking him to predetermined destinations.

The night was an inky blackness and the stars didn't so much as come out one at a time as sing their existence into the night.

He paused, in his misery, to look up onto the sky. Where he was standing there was not enough light from the street to interfere with the vision of velvety blackness that was a backdrop for the brilliant blanket of stars that covered the sky. Half remembered words came to him. Beautiful, isn't it? It was beyond beautiful. It was mesmerizing and hypnotic. An infinite amount of stars in a never-ending blackness.

He stood and swayed against the dizziness induced by the stars. He felt as if he drifted in a primordial sea. He remembered the feeling of falling asleep in another's arms, rocked by rhythms as old as time.

The beauty of the night lifted the pain and sadness he felt in his heart. The wonder of the night gave him hope for the first time in seven months.

He smiled a sad, hard smile.

"Happy Christmas, John," he whispered into the vastness of time and space. "I will be home soon."