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John wasn't coming back for Christmas this year.
Sherlock sighed as he put down the phone receiver and leaned back against the seat of the sofa. He sighed loudly, and looked over at the skull. She ignored him, as usual, standing there nonchalantly, completely unaware of the sadness that had washed over Sherlock.
It was bad enough that Sherlock had to spend most of his year worrying about John being out there fighting that futile war - he'd never let John know that he thought that, though - but now his boyfriend couldn't even come back for Christmas!
It was their tradition! Ever since John enlisted after university - Sherlock couldn't even remember how many years ago that had been, maybe five? six? - and, really, right after they got together. Sherlock respected John too much not to let him go. But he also needed John too much, so they agreed to keep their relationship long distance.
The distance was horrible. The long nights when all Sherlock wanted was to run his hands through John's soft blond hair. Or the long, long days filled with loneliness, boredom and sadness, because John had been the first to understand Sherlock, and he was most certainly going to be the only one. He respected, loved Sherlock for who he was - rudeness and deductions included. And Sherlock craved him so much, all the time.
But the distance, albeit horrible, made their time together even more valuable.
John came back on Christmas and stayed three weeks. Sometimes he also returned in the summer, and those were also blissful.
They kissed and made love and talked... John beamed at Sherlock, that boyish charm of his never really fading with the passing years in the army.
And it was their tradition - had been since their first Christmas together. Dodging unwanted calls from family - intrusive ones from Mycroft and drunk ones from Harry - and eating greasy Chinese in front of the fireplace, covered only by a quilt and sharing each other's warmth. It was glorious.
And now that he couldn't have it, Sherlock wanted it even more. Not even his Work distracted him when the craving for John got too bad. But he had promised John not to do drugs anymore. He didn't want to hurt John.
Sherlock missed John terribly.
*
John had insisted on Sherlock moving out of Montague Street as soon as Mrs Hudson offered a reasonable price for 221b Baker Street.
'It's much better located than the current one, Sherlock,' John had said. 'I worry about you alone in that tiny little flat,' he had ran a thumb through Sherlock's cheekbone. They had been in the airport, John leaving again for Afghanistan. 'At least there I know Mrs Hudson will be checking up on you.' So Sherlock had agreed, and they had kissed. It had been marvellous and sad at once.
So now he was sitting on his chair - the one he adopted as his own, a black leather armchair - and Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, then entered.
'Woohoo, hello, dear,' she said, walking over to him and pinching his cheek. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sulked a bit more. 'Oh, Sherlock, don't be like that. John's leave will come soon enough,' she reminded him. But he didn't need reminding, that's what his eidetic memory was for. Well, that and to haunt him with frighteningly accurate memories of John.
He hummed and Mrs Hudson left for the kitchen, placing a fruit cake near an experiment he had been conducting with larvae. He heard her tut, but she didn't say anything. Apparently one does not complain about one's tenant's repulsive experiments when it's Christmas Eve and said tenant's significant other is getting shot at somewhere in the Middle East.
'Could you go pick up some things for me at the shop, dear?' she asked him, approaching him again. Sherlock short her a glare, but the woman was immune. 'I'm very busy all day, and I need these, so if you could be a lamb...'
Sherlock huffed and stood up, picking up the list that was being handed to him. 'Fine, Mrs Hudson,' he said, moving over to his room to change out of his pyjamas. She smiled after him and left to go finish whatever it was that made her so busy she couldn't even pop by sodding Tesco for ten minutes.
So he went, begrudgingly, stomping his way along the streets, not even bothering to apologise as he bumped into people.
Mrs Hudson needed flour, two bottles of red wine - didn't specify which, so Sherlock just got the first French ones that caught his eye -, a few different types of cheese, and chocolate Hobnobs. He smiled at the biscuits as he lifted them from their place on the shelf. They were John's favourites. Sherlock then remembered that there were none in the house, because he was angry that John wasn't coming and threw them on the fireplace in a fit of rage, so he placed another packet on the basket. John wasn't going to eat it, but at least it reminded Sherlock of him, walking round the flat in his pyjama bottoms and bare feet, scratching his hair as he went to make himself a cuppa.
It never truly felt like home unless John was there, Sherlock mused. He shook the thoughts away as he made his way to the automatic pin machine - against which John always seemed to struggle. Groceries paid for, Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street. As he walked along, he transferred the extra packet of Hobnobs into his pocket so Mrs Hudson wouldn't take it. He ran a thumb over it lovingly, memories of past Christmases washing over him.
Before Sherlock knew - and he seldom not noticed something - he was standing in front of the black door, the 221 looking down on him with pity. He unlocked the door and knocked at 221a's.
Mrs Hudson answered and smiled at him. She picked up her bag, then placed a hand on Sherlck's arm before he left.
'Oh, dear, there was a delivery for you right after you left. I put it on your sofa,' she grinned and Sherlock raised his eyebrow.
Mycroft came to mind and Sherlock growled, stepping harder than he had to up the stairs as he mentally planned the insults to use on his brother this time. He banged the door open and his breath caught.
John was standing there, having just stood up from the sofa. He looked tired, but happy. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were chapped, his hair was pointing at a dozen different directions, but, still, his eyes were warm and there was a smile on his lips.
'John? How...?'
'Surprise,' he said, is voice soft and warm, and for Sherlock it was like water in the desert. 'I felt horrible for leaving you alone at Christmas...' he explained. 'I can't stay the ful three weeks, though, but--'
But Sherlock interrupted him, pressing John into a tight hug, then capturing his lips in a passionate kiss.
'Doesn't matter,' Sherlock said. John's lips were swollen from the kiss, but his smile was even wider. 'I don't care, you're here now...'
Fogetting about the Hobnobs on his coat, Sherlock dropped it all on the floor and dragged John to their bedroom to get a late start on their holiday traditions.