Work Text:
Home for the holidays, John laughed bitterly.
What a concept.
In his perfect world, Sherlock would be alive and they’d be sitting in Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, chatting over tea. Sherlock would get up and begin playing their favourite Christmas songs on his violin. John would tend to the fire and Mrs. Hudson would tend to the tea and biscuits.
And when Mrs. Hudson would leave and go back to her own flat, Sherlock and John would break drink wine until they were blissfully tipsy. – which, for Sherlock, didn’t take very long. John was a more seasoned drinker.
Especially now.
He hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Hudson since the funeral. He hadn’t seen Molly at all, and Mycroft or Lestrade would occasionally check up on him.
Either way, he was spending Christmas alone in his new flat (that he absolutely detested). His present to himself was a great, big, expensive bottle of scotch.
It was already a quarter empty.
---
Sherlock watched from the building across the street. He had commandeered a room that looked directly into John’s flat. Tears filled his eyes and a lump formed in his throat as John drank straight from the bottle.
Being away from John at Christmas time had been too much to bear.
So he came home for the holidays.
And John could never know.