Work Text:
My dear Major:
December is here and I want none of it. I will not keep Christmas this year.
I am far from a certain home near certain downs, as my wits and my code-cracking skill are needed in London for the duration of this trial by ordeal.
There is no point in my going to Sussex. The place is boarded up and deserted. Perhaps a few bees escaped the transfer of my hive boxes to Peter Harding's field; I like to think that they are sleeping dormant in a hollow tree nearby, awaiting Spring to create a swarm. I am in something of a dormant state myself; I have resolved to feel nothing until you are safe on home soil again.
Christmas as well will wait for the time when all the house's inhabitants are once more under its roof. Not one holly sprig will dress my quarters till then.
Know that you are keenly missed, and the sole topic of every prayer that escapes my mind. Let peace prevail in the coming year.
P.S.: Mycroft sends his regards, if I am correctly interpreting that harrumph from his desk.
P.P.S.: My dear doctor, do not let my mood hinder your own plans. Celebrate if you wish; if it brings relief and peace to your heart it will be a blessing.