A Sherlock Christmas

Part 2: Baby it's Cold Outside

Sherlock didn't have anywhere to go. Bill Wiggins had retreated to a drug den in York; Lestrade was working, and... well John was the only one left. He wandered further into the crowded streets of London noticing a few people whispering.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?"

"No of course not, I think that man is homeless, let's go."

Sherlock didn't care what strangers thought of him and walked along. Suddenly, he shuffled his feet across the snow. And it revealed a thin layer of ice beneath him. He slid around for a few seconds and began to feel foolish for even trying. He walked over to a lonely bench and brushed the snow off of it. Then he sat and watched. He watched the people, the cars, the city and he realized that he'd never seen them before. Well sure, he's looked at them, but never has he spent the time to really see them.

Sherlock sighed. "This is tedious."

And yet he sat there for a while. He was always in his own head, constantly trying to solve a case. But now, he was here. Alone. Sitting on a park bench, waiting. Maybe John was right. He was only hurting the people around him.

Suddenly his phone began ringing.

"What do you want Mycroft?" Sherlock spat out without even checking the caller ID.

"Your sincere and genuine attention, brother mine." Mycroft replied. Sherlock could practically hear his smirk through the phone.

"No," Sherlock said, "goodbye."

"Sherlock-"

"Mycroft, you don't have to call me. I don't care for your pity." Sherlock got up and began walking away from the park. "I don't want your help." Sherlock paused. "I don't need you."

"It's been a year since he died, brother mine. I just wanted to make sure-"Mycroft paused, careful to choose his next words wisely, "that you were doing well."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."

"Alright, fine." Mycroft sighed. "How is John?"

Sherlock crossed the street as it began to snow again. It was slippery and he wasn't really sure where he was going. He didn't want to answer Mycroft because it would mean he would have to admit the truth. And he didn't think he could handle that right now.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft mumbled, concerned with his silence, "I think I better come over."

Sherlock stopped suddenly in the middle of the street and blurted out, "NO! No that's... that's quite alright." A few cars skidded to a stop and honked at Sherlock. "Leave me, Mycroft. I have matters to attend to."

"What is that noise, Sherlock?"

"Nothing. Nothing to be concerned about. Don't come over, Mycroft," Sherlock pleaded.

"Fine."

"Good." Sherlock waited for Mycroft to hang up.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitated. "See you at Christmas, Mycroft."

Sherlock sprinted. He didn't care anymore that there was ice or cars or strangers. He didn't care if the world was ending or if he had slipped. He had to get away. So he kept going until he ran out of breath.

It had been a year since he died, Sherlock realized.

He fell to his knees and dropped his phone to the ground. He couldn't face John at Christmas. He couldn't face anyone.