Dec 1 - From Wordwielder - Jingle Bells (bonus if it's a 221B)

The first snow he experiences since returning from Afghanistan is so incredibly warm.

The white flakes swill down from the heavens, catching on his mustache and falling from the brim of his hat. He stands in the middle of the street, coat partially unbuttoned, cane in hand. Eyes closed, face down towards the cobbled stones below him.

It is dusk and the lamplighters have only just begun to appear to bathe the growing darkness of Baker Street with the harsh gaslight.

The smell of pine trees lingers in the air.

Jingling bells dance in the streets around him as horses prance by proudly.

Winter in London.

Christmas in Afghanistan is but a memory, someone else's torment in a land was as far from a picturesque Yuletide as could be. Stories exchanged in stifling canvas tents, memories of home, of snow, of green Christmas trees and warm embraces by the fire.

How these stories paled when told over the changing of a bloodied bandage, waiting for the call reminding them that they were strangers in this land. There was no Christmas in wartime.

A hand nearly reaches for his shoulder, but stops before it fully registers in his mind.

"Come inside, Dr. Watson," the voice says as he turns.

Christmas in London.

And the memory of the war is but a burden…