A Sherlock Christmas

Part 4: Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!

It started off with just a few snowflakes occasionally dusting John's head and shoulders. A few landed on his eyelashes, which he just blinked away. But it had become heavier. Perhaps there was a blizzard. Snow was covering everything in sight, blankets of snow fell down on the streets of London. John could barely see a meter in front of him and he kept slipping on the ice.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, where could you be?" John scoffed, only two minutes into his search.

The snow had become so thick that what once was a fast run had become trudging slowly through mounds of snow. The snow was up to John's thighs and he wasn't wearing any boots.

"Sherlock!" John screamed out.

It had been two hours and John was tired and freezing. "Sherlock." "Sherlock!" "SHERLOCK!" "SHERLOCK, PLEASE!"

Nothing.

John collapsed into the snow. He laid there and thought about it. Perhaps he'd been too harsh. He'd driven Sherlock away and now he couldn't even find him.

"Oh Sherlock." John groaned, his voice muffled by the snow. "Today of all the days..."

But why was Sherlock high in the first place. What was it that made him so... irrational all of a sudden. It wasn't like him.

___

John stomped his boots a few times on the entrance mat to get all the snow off. Then he took off his jacket and shook it. He began walking upstairs to his flat when he remembered he forgot to lock the door when he left.

And the door was wide open now.

He panicked and ran inside. Boots and all, still trailing snow on the carpets. To his surprise, he did have a visitor. But not the kind he expected.

"Hello, John."

"Mycroft," John greeted him, slightly worried because Mycroft rarely visited.

He made himself and Mycroft some winter spice tea and set out a plate of his cookies. He then caught Mycroft up on everything. From Sherlock's sudden drug problems to running to find him.

"You don't seem... concerned," John remarked after finishing.

"Of course I'm concerned, John." Mycroft took a sip of his tea. "But I would expect nothing less."

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft waited for a few seconds to confirm his suspicions.

"Oh... John." Mycroft gave John his pity eyes. "He didn't tell you..."

"Tell me what?"

"Our father passed away last year..."

"What?" John stopped drinking his tea and put it down on the table. "Sherlock never told me that!"

"Well he's not the sentimental type. He probably didn't want a big fuss about it."

"When did he pass away?"

"Exactly a year ago," Mycroft replied, "in the city's very best hospital."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft."

"For what? You didn't give him lung cancer."

"I-" John was taken aback by his lack of people skills. Then he remembered, it was Mycroft he was talking to. "I know. I'm just... It's unfortunate that happened. And I- I just can't imagine what kind of pain you and Sherlock must be-"

Mycroft began yawning.

"Oh my god, Mycroft." John rolled his eyes. "Have you any emotion? Any at all?"

"I'm afraid not." Mycroft smirked. "It takes up too much energy. But yes, I will admit I have thought about my father since he passed. And I have accepted the fact that he is gone. But Sherlock is more reluctent to do so."

Not long after their chat, Mycroft got up and informed John that he will be over for Christmas dinner.

"Wonderful... I can hardly wait," John deadpanned.

"I must go now." Mycroft began reaching for the door when he stopped and turned back. "John... Sherlock doesn't care to admit when he's... emotional. He likes to suppress his feelings or hide from them. It's been difficult for him. He never spends the holidays without our father."

"Oh." Was all John could think to say.

"Goodbye, John."