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Don’t think about John’s first Christmas alone after Sherlock “died.”
Don’t think about him instinctively glancing at scarves and various items in store windows, unconsciously shopping for a present for Sherlock before he remembers Sherlock is dead. Don’t think of him taking a sharp breath and clenching his fists when the pain hits again for the billionth time.
Don’t think about him grocery shopping while Christmas music plays over the radio overheard, and of the song “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” playing, and of his hands starting to shake so he leaves behind everything he’s carrying and marches out of the store to try to breathe.
Don’t think of him pouring out two glasses of alcohol on Christmas Eve by himself, one for him and one for Sherlock’s memory, toasting to the sky and saying “Happy Christmas” as he downs both… or of him downing another glass, and then another, and then the whole bottle and maybe even another bottle until he loses track and later blacks out. Don’t think of him waking up the next morning to his very concerned sister taking care of him in a rare Watson sibling role reversal, and of her telling him that’s it, Johnny, you’ve got to move out of this flat. It’s killing you. Don’t think of John finding it hard to care.
Don’t think of Sherlock’s first Christmas after his “death,” somewhere in Europe and so very, very alone.
Don’t think of Sherlock in the poorest sections of a town very far away from London, surrounded by strangers and deliberately acting like one himself. Don’t think of him seeing the Christmas stuff start to creep in and around the area, or of how it makes him think of warmth and London and home and John, or of how it makes him miss John even worse than usual–which is saying a lot.
Don’t think of Sherlock getting captured for interrogation by some horrible people right before Christmas, of of him spending his Christmas Day being taunted by his captors telling him “Merry Christmas” in foreign languages as they kick him on the ground. Don’t think of his captors leaving him alone for awhile so Sherlock allows himself to cry, telling himself it’s just part of the character he has to play, but in reality knowing he’s just unbearably sad and homesick down to his lonely and hurting bones.
~
Don’t think of the second Christmas John has without Sherlock which is his first with Mary, or how he’s not exactly unhappy but not fully happy either. Don’t think of him still missing Sherlock so much it’s a steady background ache even as it’s far more manageable now, or of him calling Mrs. Hudson because he feels guilty but then hanging up before the call connects, or of him ignoring Greg’s texts, or of him meeting up with Harry for a Christmas lunch and smiling to pretend at happiness even while knowing she sees right through his veneer.
Don’t think of Sherlock still being in Europe but in a safe-ish place for the time being, with a semi-friend he’s managed to acquire though nothing but lies because he’s always pretending at being someone else. Don’t think of him doing nothing on Christmas other than silently sharing a pack of cigarettes with that semi-friend in a back alley, smoking and staring up at the stars. Don’t think of him hearing phantom echoes of John’s disappointed voice in his head as he feels the weird sensation of too much tobacco thrum through his system, or of him listening to the nearby carolers’ singing as the tunes are aptly distorted by the bitter wind to match his constant mood.
~
Don’t think of the Christmas after Sherlock’s return, after John and Mary’s recent engagement, after John ends up in a bonfire; don’t think of Sherlock and John having made up, but still being uncertain of how to act around one another.
Don’t think of John and Mary celebrating their first Christmas as an engaged couple at a resort, and of the trip only happening at all because Sherlock invites John and Mary to join him at the Holmes’ family estate like John did once years ago. Don’t think of John panicking and saying he and Mary are going away on holiday. Don’t think of John having to ignore the fact that he knows Sherlock knows he’s lying, and of him going home feeling sick as he springs the idea on a thrilled Mary. Don’t think of John resigning himself to planning a trip that is only going to put him farther away from Sherlock, which he both wants and doesn’t want.
Don’t think of Sherlock being secretly relieved even as he’s pained. Don’t think of Sherlock being unsure he could handle having John and Mary with their rings in his childhood home with his family, as he’s still trying to breathe through the engagement and adjust to this new life he has to live–a life with John but also without him. Don’t think of Sherlock going to the Holmes’ estate alone on Christmas Day, and of his mum reading the sadness all over him and pulling him into a hug as he just sags a bit, and of her holding him and murmuring nonsense words of love in his ear.
~
Don’t think of the Christmas after the wedding–what becomes a day of cahoots instead of family togetherness, double-crossing and lies instead of festivities, danger and death that once again tears them apart.
Don’t think of Sherlock making sure John and Mary both come to the estate, knowing it’s necessary for the plan but still hating how utterly wrong, wrong, wrong it feels to have them in the house, in this way, playing at this farce. Don’t think of his chest aching for both physical and emotional reasons.
Don’t think of John hating that he has to pretend to still love a cold-blooded assassin, on Christmas of all days. Don’t think of him hating Christmas as a holiday now on principle, hating what his life has become, hating himself for the front he has to put up for their safety, and desperately wishing that things could be different. Don’t think of John being forced to powerlessly witness Sherlock Holmes throw away his life once again–this time by taking another’s, and again all for John’s sake. Don’t think of John wanting to say no no no, not again, this isn’t worth it, don’t go where I can’t follow.
~
....
Don’t.
Don’t think of any of that.
Think, instead, of the Christmas after.
Think of the Christmas that comes, clear and bright, after everything. After Mary, after the baby that wasn’t–couldn’t have been–John’s, after Moriarty, after danger and running and hiding and planning and fighting for their lives and their love. After freedom and arrests and truth exposés and kisses and confessions and sex, and a new beautiful start to what they should’ve had all along.
Imagine that Christmas.
Imagine what it’s like.
~
Imagine Sherlock and John, still learning the edges of their new honest relationship and love, tentatively seeing December and Christmas approach on the calendar and in London’s overall air but being unsure what it means for them, considering their track record. Imagine them being uncertain as to what a joyous and wonderful Christmas could even be for them, because they’ve never had one together, so they have no idea where to begin.
Imagine Mrs. Hudson starting the process for them by pulling out the old box of decorations and leaving it in the center of 221B, marked with a note of I thought you might want to make the place a bit festive this year; imagine Sherlock and John looking from the box to each other and back again; and as John is untangling the lights and Sherlock is putting the Santa hat on Billy the skull, imagine them making the unspoken decision right then and there that Christmas this year will be as good as they can possibly make it.
Imagine them shopping for groceries and Sherlock ducking around the end of an aisle as John deliberates between two similar items. Imagine “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” suddenly coming on the radio and John’s chest tightening with irrational panic, and he can’t see Sherlock so he calls out for him in a choked voice once and then again, louder, paranoid that this is all a dream and Sherlock is still gone, gone, gone. Imagine Sherlock coming back around the corner in concern and seeing John looking like a wild and terrified thing, and Sherlock immediately enveloping him with his whole body as John shakes and breathes in the smell and the sight and the feel of him, as Sherlock mumbles I’m here, we’re fine, we’re both fine, it’s okay. Imagine John choking out something about the bloody fucking song, and Sherlock not entirely understanding what’s going on but he quietly starts humming along to it in John’s ear, the sound rumbling through his chest to where John’s face is pressed against him, until John calms down and the song goes from anxiety-inducing to simply a memory overlaid by Sherlock’s voice now. Imagine that as the song changes Sherlock quietly reminds him all over again, I will never leave you, not ever, not anymore, I’m sorry, I’m here, I’m home, we’re okay, and they breathe and cling to each other and kiss in the middle of Tesco, alarmed fellow patrons be damned.
Imagine John waking up one morning and declaring that they should make Christmas cookies, and Sherlock blearily blinking up at him with crazy bedhead, completely nonplussed. Imagine Sherlock simply saying okay so that John beams with happiness, and Sherlock kissing the smile off John’s face. Imagine them making a complete mess of the kitchen and getting flour everywhere–including their hair–as they giggle and kiss their way through the entire process. Imagine somehow the cookies do actually get made in between shenanigans, and they’re the best cookies either of them (or Mrs. Hudson) have ever tasted.
Imagine them slow-dancing in their home by the light of the fire to a classic Christmas songs playlist John made, until they get so content and sleepy that they can no longer stay upright and simply shuffle off to bed in each other’s arms.
Imagine them shopping for presents for their friends and family together, both online and in the store, and the good-natured bickering that ensues.
Imagine them leisurely walking arm in arm in the streets of London after a massive snowfall, relishing the hush that seems to have descended on the entire city.
Imagine Mrs. Hudson insisting she wants to watch It’s A Wonderful Life with them because it’s her favorite Christmas movie, and John agreeing even though he’s already seen it, and Sherlock having no desire at all to watch it but agreeing anyway just to make her happy. Imagine by the end there’s a few tears tracking down Sherlock’s cheeks because the message hits a little too close to home in a bittersweet way, so John grips his hand tightly and kisses the tears off his cheeks and Sherlock doesn’t mind a bit–mostly because Mrs. Hudson fell asleep approximately 10 minutes ago.
Imagine Sherlock and John throwing a small Christmas Eve party/dinner at 221B with Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg, featuring Sherlock playing Christmas songs on the violin as the others chat casually. Imagine that, after Mrs. Hudson goes to bed, the rest of them stay up late getting tipsy on cheap wine and playing Cards Against Humanity. Imagine that when Molly’s absolutely filthy card is chosen as the winner of a round she turns red to her hairline and bursts out laughing, and Greg’s jaw drops as he says “Bloody hell, Molls,” and Sherlock raises his eyebrows and jokingly remarks, “Why, Ms. Hooper, I didn’t know you had it in you” even though that’s a lie and Molly knows it, and John giggles so hard he falls over sideways.
Imagine on Christmas Day John gifts Sherlock with tickets to The Nutcracker, remembering an offhand comment Sherlock once made about it being one of his favorites, and Sherlock is extremely touched and tells him it’s perfect. Imagine Sherlock giving John the beautiful, expensive new jumper he knew John had been eyeing for ages, and also a letter he wrote by pouring his heart onto the page, and also a gorgeous violin composition he created by pouring his heart out into the music, and they both definitely tear up by the end of the morning.
Imagine that later that day they return to the Holmes’ estate, and upon their arrival and the bustle through the door Sherlock feels something settle deep in his soul as he thinks yes, this is right, this is as it should be. Imagine his mum hugging them both at the same time and getting a tiny bit teary-eyed at how happy Sherlock is. Imagine his father snapping a polaroid photo of Sherlock and John kissing under the mistletoe with Mycroft pulling a face in the background, and John later framing it and putting it on the mantlepiece of 221B.
Imagine John placing that frame and looking at all of the cards hung all over the walls and mantle, from friends and family and clients and fans, and thinking of those cards' inscriptions of “To Sherlock & John” and “To John & Sherlock.” Imagine John thinking of the tags on the presents they gave everyone they love, and how they were signed “Love Sherlock & John” with no hesitation; and imagine he clearly thinks that this is how it should be: the two of them, their names together, a set in every way imaginable even in writing, as they are finally, completely, entirely together in all ways.
Imagine Sherlock reading those thoughts on his face and saying “I know” with a soft smile, and the flat is quiet and peaceful as snow falls outside, and they kiss and they kiss and they kiss.
~
Hm.
Imagine that, huh?
That after all the sadness, and the many, many years of incomplete or horrible Christmases… they get to finally, finally have their shared joy.
Just imagine what their first truly good, wonderfully beautiful Christmas will be together.
I think they deserve all of this and then some, don’t you?
In fact... I can’t really imagine anything less.