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“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What nonsense is this?” John complained flipping channel after channel before turning the television off and throwing the remote in disgust.
“Hey! I was watching that!” Harry staggered into the living room from the kitchen. He watched, prepared to jump up and catch her, as she bent to pick up the remote, teeter-tottered her way back to the sofa and turned the TV back on without spilling her drink. “It’s Chrissssmas, Johnny. Ev’rything bloody thing is ‘bout the wunnerful holidays.”
“You were watching what?” He challenged his sister.
“The movie” She answered too quickly.
“What movie?” He asked slowly
“The movie. The MOVIE movie! The one with single-mom and the, the p-prince.” Harry sloshed her drink over her hand when she shoved her glass towards him in a show of assuredness, knowing she was right.
That exact movie went off an hour ago, but it was now showing on different channel. There was no way he was even going to try to make that point to her, so he let it go. At least it marginally was better than the movies before that which followed the modern holiday movie tropes.
John rubbed his face. He was done with this. Harry’s wife Clara left two days ago. He had the feeling she was gone for good this time, but he will not tell Harry that. Maybe this break up will be the one that sobers her up after the holidays are over. He knew she was not going to get through this next week sober except to go to work. No matter what else she messes up, she manages to keep her job. He can hope for the best after the holidays. Still it was hard watching his older sister drink herself into a stupor. He sat through her denial phase. He sat through the anger and insults. He sat through the crying. That was just the past few hours of his visit. He calmly waits for the inevitable, when she finally falls asleep. Once she does, he takes the glass, pulls a blanket over her and tidies up. He gives her a final check, leaving paracetamol and a glass of water on the table waiting for her before he lets himself out of her place and heads out with the intention of going home.
John winds up on the roof of St. Bart’s instead.
It is not his first visit to the roof. This is now the third time. The first time he simply stood by the door and looked at the spot. The second time he came over and sat by the spot. Today, he stands on the edge in the spot he stood and takes in the view. It was his last view. The last things that Sherlock saw before he jumped. And like the first two times he came to the roof, the tears fall. John does not know why he stays, but he cannot make himself go the extra step. The doctor forces himself to step down from the edge in more ways than one and runs for the door, runs for home.
He takes a deep sigh before letting himself in the flat. As always he strokes the Belstaff and scarf, hung by the door, as he comes in. John had asked for them a few weeks after the funeral, expecting Mycroft to argue. He knew it was an odd, probably morbid request, but he did not care, he wanted them. At first Mycroft had brought duplicates, but the doctor knew they were fakes the moment he laid eyes on them. He refused to touch either, ordering the elder Holmes brother to “Get that THING out of my sight!” Two days later, John came in from the clinic and there they were. Sherlock’s real coat and real scarf hanging from the pegs as though Sherlock will be donning them any moment to run off on a case. Other than John's ritual to stroke each one as he enters or leaves the flat, they have hung there otherwise untouched.
John takes off his jacket, hangs it beside the Belstaff, and flips on the lights. A year ago, the salon was gaily decorated for the season. This year, the most Mrs. Hudson could get him to do was string up some lights about the mantle and in the window. The window where Sherlock had played “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” on his violin for their guests last year. John was about to head upstairs for his room when he turned back to the long coat. For the first time, John takes down the scarf. Runs his hand along the alternating stripes, his fingers catching the short fringe at the end, catching the gap of the missing strands where hot ash from a cigarette Sherlock was not supposed to be smoking had fallen and singed them off. The soft material is a caress as John wraps it loosely around his neck the way Sherlock always wore it. Then John takes down the long coat. It was not a heavy coat, but it did have some weight. He had forgotten about that, its heft taking him by surprise for a moment. He clutched it to him tightly. Like with the scarf, his fingers run along the dense material searching by the seam for the familiar hole just inside the cuff at the wrist caused by an acid drop that splashed during one of the genius' experiments. John felt for the mix-matched button sewn on the inside, because the original popped off during a chase and of course something like that was not important to Sherlock, thus he had no idea what he did with the replacement buttons that came with it.
John brought the inside of the coat collar to his face. The friction from Sherlock's hair and scarf, had slightly worn down inside the neck from popping the collar up. John knew it was impossible. It's been months. Mycroft had the coat and scarf dry cleaned, but the doctor could swear it still smelled like the man a little.
It was too much. It was not enough.
Though he still slept upstairs, John walked into the room he still called Sherlock’s bedroom. Other than the detective's clothes and accessories that Mycroft had removed, everything else was as he had left it. John looked around missing Sherlock even more. He knows he is going to have to move and soon. He cannot afford to live at 221B by himself. Even though Mycroft has generously offered to continue paying Sherlock’s share, so he could remain there; John has never been one to take charity. Besides, he simply cannot bear to live there anymore without the idiot genius around.
It hurts so much. Too much.
The doctor toes off his shoes and lays down on the bed. He knows his mind is playing tricks with him for sure now, because the pillow also seemed to have the faded scent of the expensive shampoo Sherlock likes to use.
“Liked to use.” John reminds himself even as he takes a deeper sniff.
“You knew everything, Sherlock. Everything! How did you not know that I loved you, even if I was too stupid to know it myself.” John sobs into the pillow, “How did you not know that? Because there’s no way you could know and leave me like this! Be like a stupid telly Christmas movie - if you’re out there, Sherlock, come home. Come back for Christmas. Come back for me.”
John brings the scarf to his tear stained face, pulls the coat around his body, his voice breaking...
“Please?”