Author Notes: HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE (though this is a little late) HOPE IT WAS/IS WONDERFUL!

Warning: a little sadness, Christmas, Presents, Blizzards/Snowstorms, Winter, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, graves

Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (a few mentions of others and a minor OC)

Disclaimer: These wonderful story characters belong to their original creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the brilliant people of BBC

RING! RING! RING! RING! RING!

John groaned shifting around the tiny (and empty) liquor bottles on his nightstand searching for his phone. The bloody ring was going to be the death of him. He flipped it open looking over the caller ID.

"Yeah, Greg?" he mumbled rubbing his face.

"Jesus, you sleep like a rock." the familiar voice said.

John smiled. Since Sherlock's passing, Greg had remained one of John's loyalist friends. He looked at the clock above him squinting to tell the time. The fuzzy red numbering glowed brightly against the darkness of his room. Four in the afternoon. John sighed, noticing that Greg was still talking. Greg's words beat at John's head like a bongo drum. One of the many curses of a hangover.

"Still drinking?" Greg asked, his voice catching John's attention. He knew that tone. The concerned tone that would get Greg over here in minutes if he didn't answer correctly.

"Yeah," John mumbled. Really, what was the point of lying?

Greg sighed. "And here I was ready to invite you out to the pub. I could use a pint."

John shook the fog from his head, stumbling to the bathroom to get some aspirin. "Sorry, maybe tomorrow." He said between pills.

"Come on John. You can't be alone today of all days."

John snorted looking around his empty flat. "What makes today any different?"

"How long have you been out?" Greg asked. "It's Christmas."

John stared at the phone. "Really?" he said, running over to his calendar. Yep, December 25th. He pulled off the bright yellow sticky note reading the words 'don't forget.' before crumpling it angrily and tossing it away.

"Yeah, it is. So any plans today?"

"Actually yes." John said pulling on his coat. "I'm going out."

"Now?" Greg asked. "It's bad out there."

John looked out the window. Greg wasn't kidding. He looped his scarf around his neck and pulled his gift under his arm. "Doesn't matter." he mumbled.

"Be careful out there." Greg warned and John said goodbye, swiftly hanging up the phone. It was nearly four thirty, he'd have to get there quickly before it got dark.

John stepped out of the house and into the snow. It was a lot thicker than he'd thought from his flat window. His snow boots sank completely into the snow and he cursed himself for falling asleep today of all days. Slipping the gift into his jacket, he trudged through the white out valiantly.

After a few minutes, he couldn't feel his toes anymore. His left foot had gone numb minutes ago but still, he pressed on. It was amazing how burning hot the snow could be though it was cool to the simplest of touches. John shifted his scarf trying to shield his abused cheeks from the cutting wind. He stumbled in the icy roads crossing the deserted streets to an iron gate. Cleaning the pails of snow, he ripped open the iron gate and stumbled inside knocking into another unknown headstone.

He shuffled past two more pale gray headstones before he found his mark. A pitch black gravestone clean and shimmering in contrast of the white comfy blanket around it.

"I thought I was going to be late." he mumbled to no one in particular. Sitting down beside the grave with a grunt he patted the stone gently. "You always did hate when I wasn't on time."

John smiled to himself but it didn't last. Staring at the cemetery plot, he tried not to think of his friend buried six feet under him, rotting. Alone.

John shook the thoughts from his head but he couldn't shake the frown on his face now as he leaned against the headstone. He pulled his gift, a wrapped box, from his jacket and set it down into the softest patch of snow. He looked over the other headstones in the yard before turning back to Sherlock's. Mycroft had picked the perfect one. It was straightforward with the inscription 'Sherlock Holmes' edged into the front, completely simple in design. Yet, it managed to draw your eye the most and outshine every gravestone in the site. Just like Sherlock.

Lost in his thoughts, John barely registered the soft glow of a lantern until it loomed behind him. "What are you doing out here?" John turned staring into the face of an elderly man, probably the grounds keeper. He examined him closer. Definitely the grounds keeper, you could tell from the mud splattered jeans, rough hands, the way he held his lantern. John smiled faintly, he was beginning to sound like a detective. Sherlock must have rubbed off on him.

"Sorry, I'll leave soon. I just had to deliver a gift."

The older man looked over him, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "You walked through a blizzard to put a present on a dead man's grave."

John looked down at the festively wrapped present. "He'd appreciate it."

The older man snorted. "He's dead. He'd appreciate anything, seeing a cloud or a bug. Anything but dirt and wood."

John chuckled. The older man must have gotten bitter with age he realized. Seeing so much death was bound to do things to you. He knew that better than most.

"No," John said. "He didn't' really enjoy clouds. Barely knew we rotated around the sun. A bug wouldn't interest him either, bees did though. He'd always had a soft spot for bees." John remembered fondly. "We had more honey in the flat then I could ever eat." John looked over at his present collecting snow. "Truth be told, he wouldn't care much for the present either. But a mysterious wrapped box could keep him up all night."

The groundskeeper seemed interested now. "Sounds like a strange guy." he said, eyeing the grave.

John shook his head. "Not strange, just...different." he said.

The grounds keeper looked over John's gift. "So, who was he? Boyfriend?"

John patted the grave. "My best friend."

John noticed a softness surface in the older man's eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He nodded and the older man went inside a brick house overlooking the graveyard. John sat by himself for several more minutes until the older man came back holding a cup of tea. He smiled taking it. They sat together in the snow beside Sherlock's grave.

The older man sipped his tea. "Your friend must have known a lot of people. I counted at least six other people coming to see him."

John looked up from his warm cup. The tea had heated his frozen body nicely. "Really?"

The old man nodded. "An older woman in a dark purple shirt."

"Our Landlady. Miss Hudson." John said with a smile.

The old man continued. "There was an important looking guy with an umbrella. Don't know why he was carrying it though, it's snowing not raining."

John nodded again. Mycroft never went anywhere without his umbrella.

"There was a scraggily looking man. He had a mouse face with a long beard and the widest smile I'd ever seen." The old man looked over. "He looked like he knew something I didn't, so I stayed away from him."

John shrugged. The only mousy face person he knew was Anderson and the last he'd heard from him he'd left the Yard. He hoped he was doing alright.

"A man with graying hair came over. He looked like a police officer or something. Left a pack of cigarettes by the grave."

John smiled at the thought egging the man to continue. Greg must have come before calling him.

"There was a sweet looking girl with a bunch of flowers. I think she said her name was Molly. I have the flowers inside. I'm going to put them on the gravesite when the snow lessens."

John sipped his tea again. It was nice hearing that everyone came out still having Sherlock in mind.

"And then there was some weird man. He stuck out the most. He had a long trench coat and curly black hair. He just stood in front of the grave for a while before turning to me and asking me to hold onto this." The grounds keeper held out an envelope. "Said it was for John but didn't tell me who John was. He said 'I'd know him when I see him.'"

John stared dumbstruck at the envelope. "I'm John." he said softly and the old man's eyebrow's raised.

"Guess he was right then." he said and handed John the envelope.

John looked over the dark envelope before gingerly cutting the top. He pulled out the note inside.

221b Baker Street. I'll be waiting. -SH

The grounds keeper read the note over his shoulder. "SH?" he looked over to the grave. "That's-"

"I have to go." John cut him off, hopping up.

The grounds keeper looked over him, waiting. "But you aren't moving yet?" The older man sighed standing with some effort before taking the teacup and giving John a slight push. "Better get there soon. It's cold out." he said and John thanked him for the tea waving to the man as he ran out.

{-}

John panted climbing the stairs to their flat. He'd nearly given Miss Hudson a heart attack when he all but attacked her window to let him in. He climbed to the top stair hesitant to open the door. What if it was a sick joke?

RING RING RING RING

John pulled out his phone.

I put the kettle on. Come in. -SH

John took a deep breath staring down at the phone and turned the knob. He looked inside at the flat. It was exactly as he'd left it. Miss Hudson hadn't changed a thing, the sentimental old girl. He looked into the kitchen to find the kettle heating.

John dared himself to speak. "Sherlock?" he managed a whisper into the silent flat.

The sound of keyboard keys made him turn to the window. A curly head of hair stood out against the back of John's arm chair now sitting beside the second window. He crept closer looking over the other side slowly before attacking the lanky man in a hug.

Sherlock held him there for several minutes his army doctor holding onto him like a lifeline. He set down his laptop, smoothing out the back of John's short sandy brown hair, he looked out the window again. "Merry Christmas John."

John pulled himself deeper into Sherlock's purple undershirt. "Merry Christmas Sherlock." He mumbled.

Sherlock smiled to himself. "I'm sorry I missed the last few."

John chuckled into Sherlock and the detective smiled wider. He'd missed the sound. Holding John there, he stared into the blankets of snow outside. "I hope you'll forgive me."

John said nothing. He was angrier than he'd ever been in his life. He wanted to beat Sherlock into oblivion but, here he was, alive. He chose not to speak afraid that the simplest word would shatter this reality. "Don't do it again." John finally mumbled softly.

Sherlock looked down. "Do what?"

John looked down. "Don't do it again." John repeated. "Please don't do that again."

Sherlock sighed tightening his hold around John's waist and tucked his brown haired head under his pointed chin. "I won't."

"Promise."

"I promise."

Happy New Years!
Cheers!

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