Work Text:
Father Christmas,
I haven’t written to you in at least thirty years. Truthfully, I’m not sure where I’d even send this.
Maybe I’ll send it to Mycroft.
Sherlock would have laughed at that. If he were here.
But he’s not. Which is why I’m writing. I miss him. I miss my best friend, I miss my... my almost. He was the most enormous pain in the ass sometimes, but my life was better with him in it. He’d probably agree with that. The arse had the ego the size of Jupiter.
This is my first Christmas without him. Granted, we only spent a couple together before he… well. Before he was gone. But now, I can’t quite remember what I did when I hadn’t known he’d existed. I rather think I hated Christmas; I never had anybody to spend it with until Sherlock came along. Being with him during the holidays reinvigorated my holiday spirit. It seems to have disappeared again.
Because here I am, alone in my flat with a bottle of scotch beside me, and Sherlock is off floating around somewhere in the universe – if you believe that sort of thing.
What I mean to say, Mycroft Santa, is please bring him back to me. Please bring him home to me – where he belongs.
Yours truly,
John H. Watson