Finally, last but not least, I present to you the fourth of my "Four Seasons" Holmes fics. As per usual, there is slash, so be warned...blah, blah, blah. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing...again.

Winter

With the year coming to a close, winter finally wrapped its icy fingers around us, freezing London solid. The Christmas season approaching, brave souls forced themselves out into the blistering cold to find the perfect gift for their dearly beloved, scarves and wraps concealing their frost-nipped faces. In fact, I quickly found myself among their ranks, trudging out into the frozen streets, snow and ice crunching beneath my feet. I had been racking my brain for weeks, thinking of the perfect gift for my dear Holmes—really, what does one buy for a man like Sherlock Holmes? A greater conundrum had never been posed to humankind, I should think. But, finally, I knew exactly what I would do for him, and it had all began six days prior to my current expedition into the cold.

At this time I had been practically beating my head into the wall with frustration, Sherlock's gift still eluding me, when that evening I wandered into the downstairs and saw him. He sat upon the sofa, eyes glazed and transfixed on the sputtering fire in the hearth. His face was drawn and pale, and he had wrapped himself in a tartan wool coverlet; only his dark head was visible. I had seen Holmes mope about now and again—he was known for his devilish mood swings, even outside of Baker Street—but this was altogether different. He looked absolutely despondent. In the kitchen I brewed him a cup of chamomile tea, then slipped into the drawing room and gingerly seating myself beside him.

"Holmes?" He gave no answer; my only responses were the crackling of the fire and the beating of my own heart. "Sherlock. Answer me."

"Mm?" The sound almost escaped my hearing. His eyes, bleak with whatever dispirited him that night, swiveled to meet mine.

"Tea? It's chamomile. It will help you sleep." I endeavored to get some kind of intelligent response.

"Watson, you know I despise chamomile." He mumbled against the armrest of the sofa and flinched stubbornly away from my touch.

"Will you at least sit up, so that I can talk to you like a civilized gentleman?" After a small hesitation he did as I asked, rising slowly to a sitting position and even taking a few sips of his hated tea. His sadness was a parasite, sucking all of the life out of him. "Holmes…what on earth is the matter?"

"Nothing in particular, Watson," His cracked voice was barely audible, hardly a whisper. "I have simply realized that my life is completely meaningless."

"What?!" I was greatly taken aback. "What sort of nonsense is this, Holmes? Your life is hardly meaningless." He averted his gaze to the fire once more, the light dancing off of his beautiful, cheerless eyes.

"All of these…"great things" that I have accomplished …they will be lost. In another forty years or so, nobody will remember Sherlock Holmes—or John Watson, for that matter. Everything that we have done together, lost to time." The whole thing did sound terribly melodramatic, and I tried to get him to cheer up by undermining his fears.

"Oh, come now, Holmes. How could anyone forget you? Besides, my journals—"

"Your journals will be lost!" His sudden outburst startled me. "Lost when you die! I am nothing, John, nothing but another great mind being used by inferior men, and I am sore for it." I shook my head, pulling his onto my chest, letting my heartbeat calm him.

"Must you always be so dismal?" I whispered.

"In the face of death? Yes." Stroking his hair, my heart eventually lulled him to sleep, and his Christmas gift struck me like a bolt of lightning: immortality.

In the present, I was almost to my destination: The Strand, a very popular publication that I hoped would solve Holmes' dilemma. Beneath my arm I carried my journal. Previously, I had made an appointment with an aspiring young man who, fresh out of college, was struggling for regard. His name was Mr. Doyle, and though his writing had gone primarily unnoticed, I had found it quite impressive. When I arrived, I found the young chap to be quite no-nonsense: exactly what I had hoped for.

I told him of my wishes to publish my journals into The Strand as some sort of serial, assuring him that the stories contained within them were certain to attract readers from all walks of life. He took them and, with a charming smile that I likened to Holmes', guaranteed me that he would do his best to make my goal a reality.

As Christmas approached, Holmes thankfully emerged from his depression, commenting upon the happy day that was soon to arrive. In time, my reserved copy of The Strand arrived, and on Christmas morning, I awoke early and slunk into his bedroom, gently shaking him awake.

"Good morrow, Sherlock Holmes." His eyes cracked open and he smiled blearily at me. "Happy Christmas."

"The same to you, my dear Watson." He stretched yawning widely. "I'll retrieve your gift once I gather myself…" I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

"Just stay in bed. I have your gift here." From my robe I pulled the magazine ( a quick peruse found it more than satisfactory). He gave me a quizzical look. "Find page seven." He obeyed, and as his eyes scanned over the title, I saw them fill with tears.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes:

A Study in Scarlet

"What…what is this?" His face trembled with emotion.

"The young man who wrote this assured me that a simple publication would not assure its permanence. He converted my journal into a weekly serial. Now…" I touched his cheek, wet with tears. "…there won't be a man in England who does not know your name—and you will never be forgotten." Throwing the magazine aside, he took me by the waist and pulled me into his arms, crushing his lips into mine.

It proved to be a glorious Christmas.