Sorry this one is a bit late for Christmas. :P

Thanks to magneta for the idea. (I know it's quite different from what you had in mind, but hopefully you're still satisfied.)

A woman by the name of Hannah sat impatiently at her table, angrily sipping away at the glass of water in front of her while she tapped her fingers and watched the doors to the restaurant. She swore to God that if this bastard stood her up one more time, it was over. Even if he did end up showing up, she wasn't sure if she wouldn't do just that.

Suddenly, through the doors came her date, covered from head-to-toe with snow and looking haggard. He looked to be telling the waiter who he was, which then allowed him to pass by and make his way over to the table.

"Hannah!" he greeted with a slight sigh.

He obviously knew things were about to hit a rough spot.

"You're late, John," Hannah snapped.

"Yeah," John admitted as he took a seat.

He shifted in his chair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just-"

"I came out here on Christmas Eve to have you show up here two hours late," Hannah told him.

John chuckled nervously.

"Surely it couldn't have been-"

"Two. Hours," Hannah repeated.

"Shite," the doctor bit his lip.

Hannah crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, making a point to look directly away from her date.

"I just... I had some important business to take care of," John said as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Oh?" Hannah scoffed. "What business was so important that you felt it was necessary to stand me up?"

"First of all, I didn't stand you up, Hannah..."

"Right. You just didn't show up for our eight o'clock date until ten," Hannah spat.

John sighed.

"Second of all, you don't know my business, so you can't make assumptions pertaining to its importance, now, can you?"

Hannah laughed mockingly.

"I love how you're getting mad at me."

"Look, I didn't want to be late, Hannah."

"I'm sure you didn't, John. And you know what? I didn't want to haul my arse out in the cold on Christmas Eve, but I did. For you."

"Christ, Hannah," John rolled his eyes. "I'm so sorry; I completely forgot how much you sacrifice for me."

"You're in no place to be sarcastic, John. I'm the victim here, not you."

John gritted his teeth.

"You wouldn't know a victim if you saw a dead mother lying broken in a dumpster in an alleyway."

He cringed. Jesus, that was a bit too harsh, wasn't it?

Hannah angrily stood up from her chair.

"You know what? I'm done." She grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and began to shrug it on.

"Hannah, wait," John tried to stop her. "I'm sorry; that was mean. Let's just talk, and-"

"And what? Make up?" Hannah growled. "You think solving your problems is that easy, do you? That after a little talk everything'll be just peachy?"

People around them had begun to stare.

"Hannah..."

"Well I don't give in so easily, John. I'm not a bloody fish that you can reel back in over and over again." She put on her gloves. "Sure, I took the bait, but look at how easily I'm letting go." She stopped to glare at the doctor. "You're a waste of time, John Watson. Everyone's time."

She picked up her purse.

"I'm not going to spend any more of my Christmas Eve stuck here with you. Instead, I'm going to my mum's house where I should have gone in the first place." She shook her head. "To think that I even considered the idea that spending the night with you could be fun is so bloody embarrassing." Hannah finished dressing herself for her departure. "Merry Christmas," she huffed.

And she stormed out of the restaurant, her high heels clacking beneath her.

John looked around him, noting the amused and disgusted faces of other patrons directed at him; he also noticed how quiet it had gotten.

Without so much as an utterance beneath his breath, he calmly stood up from his chair, took some change out of his wallet, and laid it down on the table.

And just as quietly, he left the restaurant.

John clenched his fists as he walked through the snowy streets of London, making his way back home. He had stupidly left his gloves at home, and his scarf had flown off as well thanks to him running against the wind when he had tried to make it to the restaurant.

Despite the freezing cold, John kept his jaw firmly set, somehow keeping his teeth from chattering. Yet he couldn't keep his eyes from watering and his nose from running.

He still had at least another fifteen minute walk, and considered hailing a cab to make things easier on himself.

But it wasn't worth it, was it?

A waste of time.

Normally, such words wouldn't bother him. But in light of recent events, it seemed to put things in perspective for him.

He'd failed as a soldier, as a boyfriend, as a brother; and more depressingly, he'd failed at the simple task of being someone's friend.

His best friend had jumped; committed suicide; all because he wasn't better at his job.

The only job that really mattered to him.

And it had taken a Tesco clerk who lived with her mother to make him realise that.

John looked up at the snowy sky, noticing how dark it had become.

Without much of a second thought, he ducked into the alleyway he was about to pass by. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing himself; the only thing he did know was that he didn't want to go back home.

He couldn't. Probably ever again.

Maybe he was hoping to succumb to hypothermia and die, or simply just to disappear and be forgotten (the latter was, he supposed, entirely possible). But all intentions laid aside, John pulled over to the wall and placed his back against its frozen surface, sliding down until he was sitting on the colder ground.

He pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, locking his bare fingers. He felt hot tears threatening to come up and spill over his lashes, but he swallowed to keep them down, telling himself that crying wouldn't do any good; it wouldn't change anything.

He turned his head and rested his cheek on the top of his knees and closed his eyes. Maybe if he did, he wouldn't wake up?

John felt a warm pair of hands on his shoulders, wrapping something equally soft and warm around his neck.

"Idiot," a baritone voice said. "You'll freeze."

He then felt someone gently prying his frozen hands away from his knees and put over the skin cozy, woollen gloves.

"I'll be back soon; I promise," that same voice soothed.

The warm, comforting hands lingered for a moment before suddenly disappearing.

John yearned for them to come back.

John felt a different, rougher hand shaking his shoulder.

"John?" a voice called to him. "John, mate, wake up."

John slowly opened his eyes, the clearing haze from a light and restless sleep eventually revealing the concerned and sad gaze of Greg Lestrade.

"Greg?" John croaked.

"Christ, John, what are you doing out here?" the inspector asked. "It's freezing!"

"L've me 'lone," John said, turning his head the other way.

"For God's sake, get up," Lestrade said. "You'll freeze to death out here."

"S'what 'm h'ping for," John mumbled.

"What?"

"N'thing."

Lestrade grabbed John's arm and lifted him into a standing position with a grunt, nearly dropping him when the man's knees buckled.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Come on, mate." He managed to steady the doctor long enough for him to wrap the shock blanket in his hand around him.

Wait, blanket? John hadn't noticed that before...

As John felt his knees give out again, Lestrade grabbed one of his belt loops with his left index and middle finger to hold him up, bracing his right hand on John's right arm to hold him steady as they shuffled over to the inspector's squad car.

"Here you are, dear," Mrs. Hudson soothed as she set a steaming cup of tea in John's hand. "Drink up."

John hardly blinked at the offer.

The landlady handed Lestrade a cup as well.

"Here you are, Detective," she said with a smile.

"Thanks, Mrs. H," Lestrade nodded.

Mrs. Hudson pulled a chair up next to him and joined him in starring at John.

"Mate," Lestrade said to the man, "You haven't said anything since the alley. Are you sure you don't need to see a doctor?"

John still stared blankly at the floor.

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, "Are you alright?"

John hesitated before nodding his head.

Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"You sure? Because a bloke who's alright doesn't park his arse in a bloody alleyway in the freezing winter weather."

John sighed.

"I'm fine, Greg," he whispered, making himself just loud enough so that the other two could hear him.

The inspector crossed his legs and folded his arms, not satisfied by this response; but at least it was a verbal response.

"What about your date, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "With that Hannah girl? Was that all well?"

John chewed on his lip.

"It didn't work out," he said.

"Is that why you're so depressed? Because a date fell through?" Lestrade sighed. "John, there are plenty of fish out there in the ocean. And hey; if she leaves you on Christmas, she's not worth it, anyways."

"Neither am I," John whispered again.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing."

"No, no; what was that?"

"I said it was nothing. It's fine."

"What do you mean 'neither am I'?"

John went silent again; doing so before seemed to have wondrous effects on how much everyone knew.

"Of course you're worth it; any person would be lucky to date you, John. Hell, Mrs. Hudson and I are lucky enough to even know you."

"Right," John snorted.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue.

"He's right, you know; you oughtn't think for one second that you aren't worth anything simply because one silly girl-"

"That isn't it," John stopped her.

"What isn't?" the landlady asked.

"What's wrong."

Lestrade leaned forward in his chair.

"Then what is wrong, John?"

"I... you know, just forget it."

"Hell no," Leatrade shook his head.

"But it's Christmas Eve," John said.

"Exactly; and I'm not leaving you alone. So you'd better tell me what's going on; I've got all night."

Mrs. Hudson reached out a hand and patted John's wrist.

"Go on, dear; we're listening."

John swallowed hard.

"I... it's..." he cleared his throat. "It wasn't just Hannah. I mean, a lot of it was, but..."

Lestrade urged him to continue.

"...she and I were scheduled to meet up at eight tonight for a date. I thought I would have time before to make a quick stop somewhere and I ended up staying too long, I showed up at the restaurant two hours late-"

"Wait, where'd you go?" Lestrade asked him. "Before the date?"

John nervously rubbed a finger down the side of his teacup.

"The cemetery."

Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh dear," she said.

"John..." Lestrade sighed with a pitying look.

"I just... it's Christmas Eve, and he and I would always... you know, he would play his violin and we'd talk like usual, and I..." he swallowed again. "It was just hard without him here. I needed to stop by and... chat, I guess."

Mrs. Hudson started to cry a little.

"Of course, John," she told him.

John nodded.

"Right, well... I stayed a bit too long. I got too caught up in what I was doing that when I looked down at my phone, it was about fifteen minutes until ten." He shrugged. "So I arrived late to my date, Hannah and I exchanged some nasty words, and she broke up with me and took off."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"And that's all?"

John didn't answer.

"What else happened?"

John licked his lips and stared at the fireplace.

"Before she left, she told me that I was a..." He paused. "...that I was a waste of time. Of everyone's time."

Lestrade frowned.

"And you ended up overthinking it?"

"Depends on your definition of 'overthink'."

Lestrade shook his head.

"Mate, is that what's bothering you? Some impatient arse of a woman who works at the Tesco tells you to basically 'piss off' in her vicious, womanish way and it ruins your Christmas?"

"It just really put things in perspective for me," John said quietly.

"What perspective? What do you mean?"

"I started thinking," John said, "About my life; about the war, about my family, about my friendships and romantic relationships; and I realised that I've…well, that I've basically screwed up everything. I failed my comrades in the war, causing them to die because of a wounded shoulder; I've failed my entire bloody family, my mum being dead from an overdose of sleeping pills because she was so goddamned depressed, and my sister being a horrible alcoholic; I've failed at every romance I've tried to start, simply because they're either too good for me or not good enough..."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"And you're pinning that all on yourself? You shouldn't do that."

John sniffed.

"...and Sherlock..."

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head.

"What about him, John?"

"...I'm the reason he... I just wasn't there for him... I wasn't..." He choked on his words. "...I couldn't even do my job as a friend right. He felt like I didn't love and support him, all because I couldn't work up the strength to tell him." He closed his eyes. "Because I was afraid to tell him."

"No!" Lestrade yelled. "Stop it. Stop right there." He stood up from his chair. "You are not allowed to blame Sherlock's death on yourself; you don't get to do that. You don't get to put all of this guilt on yourself because some girl called you names and you feel like you have to. It's not fair to you and it's not fair to us!"

John braced himself against the chair.

"Fair to you? How am I not being fair to you?"

"Because when people blame something that's completely out of their control on themselves, they end up doing really stupid shite that hurts everyone around them. And knowing you, John, I can tell you're thinking of doing something really stupid."

John firmly gripped the cup in his hand and tightened his lips.

"Take Sherlock for example! He threw himself off a building, and look at yourself; you're an emotional mess! He's destroyed you, all of us, because he couldn't grit his teeth and keep pushing!"

John was trying to keep himself from breaking down.

"John, I just..." Lestrade sighed and sat back down, not missing the slightly scared look in Mrs. Hudson's eyes. "...I've already lost one of you. I don't want to lose the other one."

Mrs. Hudson tentatively moved from her chair and stood next to John, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

"Please, dear; I feel the same."

John bit his lip and nodded.

"I get it."

Lestrade softened his expression.

"John, you're really all we've got in terms of friends. I mean, sure I've got my mates down at the pub, but you're more than just that; you're-"

"Family," Mrs. Hudson finished for the inspector.

"Exactly," Lestrade said. "And family has to stick together, right?"

John smiled a bit.

"Yeah."

"So John, please don't let me find you in the cold again, alright? You scared the hell out of me," Lestrade told him.

John consented to obeying this command when the thought crossed his mind:

"How did you know where I was?"

The inspector stopped a moment himself.

"Actually, I got a text from an unknown number. It was really strange, but I didn't think much of it; I was too worried about you."

John furrowed his brow.

"What the hell?"

Lestrade agreed.

"Yeah. But I'm thankful someone did before it got too bad outside. It was just good that you were wearing a scarf and gloves; kept you from getting too cold."

"I wasn't wearing a scarf and gloves. My scarf blew off when I was running to the restaurant and I left my gloves here."

Lestrade shrugged.

"You must have forgotten, then. I left them on the coatrack after I managed to get them off of you."

John was completely baffled, unsure of how to respond.

"Weird," was all that came out.

A bell toll sounded outside.

"Oh my," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "I suppose it's Christmas Day."

Lestrade crossed his arms.

"I suppose it is."

The landlady smiled softly at John.

"We ought to celebrate with some tea and Christmas biscuits, don't you think, John?"

The doctor looked up at her and smiled back.

"Sounds fantastic, Mrs. H."

"Detective Lestrade, would you mind assisting me in the kitchen?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Sure," said inspector said as he stood up.

John craned his head and watched as the two went into the kitchen and began to bustle about, making and preparing an early morning Christmas Day treat.

"Family," John muttered. "My family."

He set his still warm cup of tea to the side and got up, turning around and stretching his numb arms and legs. His eyes caught on the coatrack.

Strung up on two hooks were a blue scarf and a pair of black, leather gloves much too big for his hands.