This is it. I never thought I'd get here, but… here we are. Thank you so much for all of the love, support, and cheers; I missed y'all a lot. It's taken me five years to get here, but… I'm glad I took the long way around.

For the last time in this story, our timeline here is December of 1881. This is my take on the first Christmas for Holmes and Watson… and a look to the future.

A Study in Scarlet will be mentioned here, so all warnings will apply.

Come with me, on with the chapter.

From GWBear: Sherlock Scrooge

And

From goodpenmanship: cold snap

This is No Time for Humbugs!

1881 on Baker Street was undoubtedly an unusual time for both Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. They had gotten a room together and were whisked off into the case that Watson had since described as "A Study in Scarlet," but—

There was still considerable distance between Watson and Holmes. While yes, for Watson's part, Holmes was pleasant to live with after being off in Afghanistan. But returning to nothing and a strange roommate who often didn't speak when he was dour?

It was certainly a lonely experience.

And I can only hope he finds some chemical experiment to grab his attention again. There has been nothing in weeks, and I have yet to hear much from Holmes, on the level of during the Jefferson Hope case…

And I can only hope that he is okay.

Christmas was still a holiday I looked forward to. There was still, even despite what I'd seen in Afghanistan, hope and life through the streets of London that made my bullpup ease.
It seemed to do the same for everyone—apart from Holmes. He regarded each falling snowflake, each ever-growing icicle, or slippery road as something that could induce a crime, a tragedy. Every question asked elicited the self-same reaction: a scowl and a hearty no, as he did not care for Christmas.

"A right Scrooge he is." Mrs. Hudson murmured as we hauled the tree into 221B Baker Street, at least to liven the place up a little. It had grown bitterly cold, with snow blanketing the area in already thick snow drifts.

"I've tried, Mrs. Hudson." I sighed. "It seems he's more content to play with his chemistry experiments rather than do anything with the season. And I will not be the one to tell him what he cannot do right now."

"There is still merit that you tried, Doctor Watson." Mrs. Hudson said, patting my shoulder. "Now, why don't we have some tea and try to set up the tree?"

"Right behind you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, shaking the snow off my hat. Tea sounds delightful right now.

As a student of human nature, holidays often came up, though not as a moment of happiness. No, given my area of specialty, crimes were frequently where my mind went to.
There would always be murder, forgery, blackmail, wrongdoing, and revenge, and not a single frivolous holiday, such as Christmas, would stop that from occurring.

There was some wisdom in those readings of… Christmas Carol, but I do not need the trappings of Christmas.

And yet, this Christmas was not without elements of particular interest. Doctor John Watson was a practical man, if more prone to softer emotions than I was. I had deduced that this would be something we shared in common, but there he was, helping Mrs. Hudson decorate the Christmas Tree, humming what appeared to be 'Silent Night' as he did so.

What joy does he find in it? War did not stop for Christmas, and it never will.

And yet—there was still joy, written across the contours of his face, relaxing the almost ever-present war stress between his brows.

This is a puzzle, indeed. And I aim to find out why.

The night had gotten colder at Baker Street, with the snow having stopped falling, settling into an uneasy chill.

There was a note of tension in the air, given that Watson had wanted to start decorating the tree, but Holmes had snapped at him and Mrs. Hudson both, leaving Watson stomping into his room.

Holmes admittedly chastised himself for that as if he wanted to find out why Watson enjoyed this holiday so much; snapping at him was not the way to do it.

And yet, again, something felt wrong.

Mrs. Hudson had gone off to sleep, and Holmes had become invested in his chemical experiments, but Watson—

Watson hasn't come downstairs. Unlike myself, the Doctor enjoys supper, as he's most opposed to skipping meals.

He should have come down by now.

Alarm flared in Holmes as he got to his feet. "Watson?" He called, hoping that their rather lovely but thin flooring would produce sound as well as chemical smells.

No response.

Again, Holmes crept toward the stairs, glancing at Watson's room. "Watson?" He called a second time.

And this time, instead of a 'yet,' Holmes was greeted with an eruption of screams, loud and urgent.

Watson!

The heat of the Afghanistan sun was unrelenting—it has been since my time out here, but today, in particular, felt like an exaggeration, an insult to injury.

Wait. Afghanistan?

I blinked, and the scenery shifted to the battlefield where I'd been in Maiwand. Faintly, I had some dim awareness that the scenery should not be moving, but I had other priorities here.

I'd come to treat the wounded, which would always be a priority. Maiwand, in particular, had been a nightmare for injuries.

….Watson?

I shook my head at a voice calling my name as I leaned down to treat the young private at my feet. His shoulder was soaked with blood, though quite thick to be his blood on its own.

Wait…

I blinked yet again as pain lanced through my shoulder, shattering the bone by the artery. It had, indeed, not been the young private's blood on its own.

It was mine.

Bile and sweat erupted in my body as the stark horror set in. I'd been injured, and I'd die out here.

It was my time.

"Murray?" I called as the pain burned through my body. "Murray!" I called so he could get to the young private again, hoping that at least he could not get to me the private could be saved.

"Doctor…? Don't leave me. It's so cold." The private mumbled as I yelled again for Murray, voice cracked with pain. But no one came.

I had burst into Watson's room, watching with no small amount of horror as the Doctor screamed in his sleep, demanding for someone named Murray(perhaps his orderly) to get a private.

I do not think I will know some of the true horrors of what was out there.

Still, I couldn't let him stay like this, could I?

"Watson!" I called, making sure not to approach him lest I startle him awake and into violence. "You are alright and in Baker Street. This is not Maiwand."

He shook in response, sobbing. "Don't let him die!" My heart twisted at that, which I was sure it would not do.

How has John Watson already had me feel this way about helping him?

"Watson!" I called again, fighting the tremor out of my voice. "This is not Afghanistan. You are safe and on Baker Street. But you need to come back!"

I had heard that some soldiers returning from war could come back from nightmares if they thought they were being commanded, as if they were in war still, so perhaps…?

The application of a more commanding tone did yield its intended results, as Watson woke with a start, eyes wild.

"Holmes?" He gasped as I made my way over to him, standing at the foot of his bed. "It is I," I said, hesitating to proceed.

What am I hesitating for? I inwardly snapped, seething. This matter could be over now if I could so—

There was something unusual with Watson. He was… sobbing again?

I did not enjoy sobbing in front of Holmes if I could help it. But, after he'd been so keen on being against Christmas and looking as if he took delight in stopping our celebration—

The fact of the matter is that he was willing to come running to me and snap me out of a nightmare. That alone had quelled my tears.

His grey gaze searched mine as Holmes hovered at the foot of my bed, hands twitching. "Dear me." He murmured. "Is there any further way I can aid you, Watson?"

While no, I didn't want to be fussed over, there was something I'd meant to do since Winter arrived. "Do you mind awfully in joining me outside?" I asked as Holmes tilted his head like a quizzical bird.

"That seems counterproductive to your state." He mused but sniffed, offering a hand. "Nevertheless, I shall aid you if you think it would aid you."

Given the chill of the air and Watson's war wounds, I had perceived that Watson would long want to return to the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, but here he was, standing in the snow with a wistful look on his face, his breath escaping from him in small white clouds.

"It's going to be a cold snap for a bit." Said he, as he shook his head with that smile still on his face. "Perfect for Christmas."

Again, with the holiday? He had a singular mind for the most trivial things.

And isn't that you as well? My mind seemed to be rebelling against me, as well!

"Why do you bother with Christmas, Watson? After what you've gone through, I would guess you'd be more like me." I said instead, as Watson's attention snapped to mine, his jaw working in agitation.

"Not everyone is as much of a Scrooge as you, Holmes!" Watson snapped, glaring. "Might you put aside your deductions for at least the night and perceive that this is a moment of joy and relief for me? Despite everything that war has done to me, the best can still exist?"

I have gone about this terribly wrong. It is something normal in his life, rather than the constant chaos and madness of war—of course, he'd want to focus on something that gives him joy rather than misery.

And I have been adding to the misery.

After the realization occurred, I crossed the snow to Watson, placing a hand on his good shoulder. "A thousand apologies, my dear Watson. In my mind, and in trying to get to know you, I had thought we were… alike in sentiment to holidays and festivities. I made an error in judgment in not knowing what this meant to you, and yes, I have been quite the Scrooge."

That last sentiment made Watson pause, a brief smile cracking his angered expression. "You have been, Holmes. You have been so pleasant to live with, and this month has not been, so I've hoped you'd return to that pleasant roommate I met with Stamford." Said he.

"Then I will strive to be him once more," I said, hoping my words became soothing to his agitated nerves. "Though you must aid me in proper festivities that have brought you joy."

"That's all I ask, Holmes. Now, come, I will show you one of them." Watson said.

That was how, from the Christmas of 1881 onwards, Holmes made sure not to fall back into his Scrooge ways and, like his namesake, learned to enjoy the season.

As if he didn't, Holmes soon would be on one of the receiving ends of one of Watson's favorite traditions—caroling down Baker Street, as if for all of London to hear.

And Holmes now knew better than to invoke Watson's wrath like that.

Five years and twenty-two chapters later, it is finally finished. I want to thank all of you for following me this far, and I hope you have an excellent 2025.

For the last time, my references include: 'A Study in Scarlet,' 'Biting Back,' 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,' 'The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet,' and partially, 'The Adventure of Abbey Grange,' and 'The Adventure of the Empty House.'

Where will you see me next? I plan to finish my first Sherlock Holmes fic, 'A Treatise on Failure,' so if you wish to get acquainted with the first chapter, visit my profile to find it. Hope to see you there.

Cheers,

Blue