In retrospect, Sherlock considered that he ought to have expected John to disappear on Christmas day.
In the 70 days that had passed since Mary's funeral, he and John had worked nearly non-stop, with only a rare day off. And they were doing the best work of their lives. Cases had never been solved so quickly; their minds had never seemed so sharp; and if they were a little bit more inclined to get involved in chases and fist fights, no one said anything about it.
"I'm frankly amazed by you two," Lestrade had told them at one point. "No one would have blamed you if you had taken some time off, or if your workload was lightened or was not up to standard for a bit. But you're both on the top of your game. I've never seen you so focused."
John, unable to respond, had turned away, leaving Sherlock to speak for them both. "Mary believed in us," he said simply. "She believed in The Work—that what we do is important and valuable. It would be a disservice to her memory to do less than our best. And to use our grief over her loss as an excuse to do slipshod work would dishonour her even more. She would certainly not approve."
Lestrade nodded gravely, tears standing in his eyes, and Sherlock remembered that the D.I. had also loved Mary and was dealing with her loss in his own way. "I get that," Lestrade encouraged them. "But I am sure she would also not approve of you running yourselves into the ground and ruining your health. You should take a break sometimes, get some rest."
But they could not. Not yet, at any rate. Falling into bed, exhausted at the end of a busy day, was the only way either of them could sleep at all. Days off were excruciating—dull and colourless and without purpose.
Meantime, Sherlock had had only a peripheral impression of its being the Christmas season. In Baker Street, the holidays never arrived. For the first time since Mary had swept joyously into their lives, there were no trees or lights or garlands in the flat; no enticing scent of baking, no one humming carols or knitting gift scarves. The darkness of winter descended on their home unalleviated by the celebrations that went heartlessly on around them.
They had become so popular and in demand in recent years, they had no dearth of cases, and could have worked on Christmas day itself if they had so desired. And Sherlock had so desired. But when he emerged from his room that morning, John had already gone.
It had taken approximately six seconds for Sherlock to deduce where John would be. His friend had gone to the storage area where Mary's things were kept the day before and had come home with a box, which he took immediately to his room. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this would be a day of commemoration. Sherlock gathered up some supplies and followed, prepared to stand by his friend in whatever he needed to do to get through the day.
000
"Do you know where John is, Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded over the phone later that morning.
"Yes, I know exactly where John is," Sherlock replied. "I am looking at him."
"Oh," the D.I. seemed at a loss for a moment. "Right. I thought he was alone. I got a report from the Met that the caretakers of the cemetery where Mary is buried were concerned about a man who has been sitting at her graveside for hours."
Sherlock frowned, annoyed by the intrusiveness of strangers into their privacy. "Why would the Metropolitan police contact you?" he grumbled.
"Anything to do with you two is automatically referred to me," Lestrade explained. "It's protocol."
The fact that the Met had a protocol in place just for dealing with them was intriguing, but Sherlock would not be side-tracked. "Everything's fine. Just leave him alone," he said sternly.
Lestrade hesitated. "Are you sure he's okay?"
"Yes!" Sherlock almost yelled, catching himself in time.
"He doesn't know you're there, does he?" Lestrade realized perceptively.
"Well, he might NOW," Sherlock growled. "I have the situation well in hand. Leave us alone." Then, belatedly, nudged by his inner-Mary, he added, "Thank you for your concern. We'll be fine."
He had, in fact, been sitting just out of John's line of sight, keeping an eye on his friend for an hour. John had spread a blanket out over Mary's grave and had been drinking mulled wine from a thermos and reading aloud from a slim volume of poems by Henley. Even at a distance, Sherlock was aware that this was the book John had given to Mary on their first Christmas together.
When John finally closed the book, Sherlock was also aware he had read every poem in the volume except "Invictus"—Mary's favourite. This was a bit not good.
His inner-Mary nudged him again. It was time to intervene. Sherlock moved to sit beside his friend, draping a blanket over their shoulders.
"I have coffee," Sherlock offered. He thought John had probably had enough wine.
John nodded wordlessly, and Sherlock poured them each a cup from his own thermos.
They sat together, sipping their coffees for a while. Eventually, Sherlock ventured to speak.
"After I stabbed you," he began, and stopped as John turned to glare at him. "After The Accident," Sherlock amended quickly, and John turned his eyes back to the horizon. "After you were released from hospital, Mary told us something important. Do you remember?"
John pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, shuddering. "Yeah."
"She said that we can't control our circumstances, but we can control our reactions to them. She said that was being the Cap-. . . . "
"Don't!" John interrupted. "Just . . . don't."
Sherlock nodded. Mary had quoted "Invictus" to them that day. And on that day, she had first called John "Captain". It meant she had perfect faith in him to always do the right thing, whatever the circumstances.
A long silence stretched on between them. Sherlock was at a loss, but he knew that the wisest course was to let John work things out for himself. Finally, John stirred and handed Sherlock Mary's book.
"I couldn't read it," he said quietly. "I . . . couldn't see the words properly."
Sherlock looked at John keenly, deciding what to do with that admission. "I can," he said at last.
John leaned back against Mary's gravestone and closed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest as if to stop his heart from breaking through. "Do it," he said, so softly Sherlock could not really hear him but could only read his lips.
And so, he read Mary's poem to John, changing the pronouns as she would do, so that he was speaking the words to him directly.
"You are the Captain of your soul," he finished. He gently closed the book.
After a long moment, John took a deep breath and opened his eyes, ready to get back to the hard work of living again.
"Okay," John said, and they rose to leave.