A Reichenbach Christmas

John walks through the beautiful, snow covered park with his hands in his pockets and the warm coat tightly wrapped around him. He can see the air turn white as he releases the heavy exhale of a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

His eyes have been trained on the ground for as long as he can recall during the time of his walk. Honestly, his mind had been so far away that he can't even remember the journey he took to get here. The time sped by without him noticing and the natural light outside is already beginning to dim.

He blinks a few times and comes to a stop as the chill in the air brings him back to reality. He takes a few looks around in order to get a sense of where he is before sinking to the ground on his knees. He sits down in the cold, previously untouched snow, numb to the nip it gives to his lightly clothed skin. Luckily, he won't be disturbed because this particular spot in the park doesn't have street lamps and not many people stay here at night.

He lets a frown set on his face and a tear slip down his cheek that he had been holding in ever since his best friend's suicide. Bringing a hand up, he immediately tries to wipe it away. Stop it John... Stop... This. It's been over a bloody year. Get control, the army doctor scolds himself. He needs to get past this... If not for himself, then for everyone involved. He just can't help but wish for a miracle, especially around this time of year. Wishing for a miracle only makes him think about the thing he's missing so much more.

He wants Sherlock with him... He wants to go on cases again... He wants those stupid, petty arguments they used to have... He just wants things the way they should be... the way they were meant to be.

An idea forms in John's mind as he glances around. As ridiculous as he feels for even thinking of it, he stands up to go through with his vision anyways. He sets to work, rolling, patting, and shaping large amounts of the snow blanketing the ground. In only about twenty minutes he straightens to admire his work.

A large boulder of snow stands strong, rooted to the ground with other tightly packed snow around the base. On top of that is another, slightly smaller ball of snow, almost perfectly shaped into a sphere. Then of course, on top of that one is an even smaller ball of snow. This one is about the size of his head with sloppy etches around the top - meant to resemble curls of hair.

He looks around and notices a few stones sitting under the park bench. John freezes for a moment while images and words pass through his head.

*Flashback*

"John, I'm telling you the murderer is related to the victim." Sherlock said, starting to get annoyed because no one else seemed to understand what he saw.

"That isn't possible. The victim didn't have any family! The only people with even a trace of the same blood line are all the way in America. Face it Sherlock, this is one time where you're wrong." John countered sternly, also getting annoyed. Sherlock always seemed to do this. He would speak to John like the doctor could see everything that went on in the detective's head. Sometimes he needed to be pulled back and John seemed to be the only one to be able to do that.

Sherlock simply scoffed at that statement. "Please John, I'm never wrong. Don't you know me well enough to realize that yet? Or are you too dimwitted to detect the obvious, just like everyone else?" Sherlock huffed and plopped down on a park bench they happened to be passing. John, on the other hand, remained standing.

"First time for everything."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor, gritting his teeth in frustration. He finally began to slowly explain through clenched teeth, "the victim, John... The victim had family visiting but there are no records that they are related. They are keeping it from everyone but themselves of course. But why? Hiding an incest relationship? Maybe one was in trouble and didn't want the other to be linked to them? No... If they worried about that he wouldn't have ended up killing her." Now Sherlock was just rambling to himself, seemingly forgetting John was even there.

Suddenly the detective's head snapped up and his mouth formed an 'o' shape. "I got it! Ha! Brilliant!" he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet and started sprinting in the direction they just came from. John groaned in frustration before taking off after him, just as usual.

*End of flashback*

John sighs when the memory ends and he's alone once again. He walks over to the bench to retrieve the rocks that lay under it. After collecting a few, he makes his way back over to his art piece and gently presses them into the smallest ball of snow. Instead of the typical "smiley face", John spreads the stones to form a small frown. He puts two others in the correct spots to serve as the eyes.

He looks around again, rubbing his gloved hands together to stay warm. He moves a bit of snow out of his way until he can feel the ground, not paying any attention to the fact that it is now dark out. The park is full of twigs so it isn't hard to find what he is searching for. He snaps one right in the middle and pads back over to his creation.

He is determined now... He doesn't care how childish or ridiculous or "sentimental" this looks to anyone else... He is finishing what he started.

He sets one twig over each of the eyes to form eyebrows pointing slightly inward. After adjusting the stones and twigs a bit he finally gets an expression he's happy with; one that would do the original model justice. The face looks brooding and thoughtful while somehow managing to look judgmental.

Just one more thing... John thinks as he reaches up and slowly unwraps the dark blue article of clothing from around his neck. He holds it delicately within his hands and takes a step forward.

*Flashback*

"You know, for as long as I've lived with you there are still so many things I don't know." John randomly said over their morning coffee one day.

Sherlock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "And?"

John paused for a second before responding. "Well... you know everything there is to know about me. And... we're friends so I should know a bit more about you, shouldn't I?"

"Not particularly, no. You already know more than I allow anyone else to know. Isn't that enough?"

John sighed in disappointment. He already expected Sherlock to say something like that just to avoid talking about himself. "As your friend, no... It's not. Sherlock, I don't even know exactly what happened between you and Mycroft. I don't know anything about your dating history yet you know how my dates go from a passing glance." He looked around to think of something more simple that Sherlock wouldn't easily object to. "I don't even know why you love that bloody scarf so much."

Sherlock looked in the direction John gestured in, eyes fixing on the blue fabric draped over his chair. The detective sighed and looked back over at John. "... Alright. I will tell you about the scarf but only if you quit pestering me about my dating history. Deal?" He raised an eyebrow and John nodded in agreement. Honestly, he didn't think there even was a story behind the scarf. He only wanted to give the general idea of the type of things he wanted to know.

Sherlock huffed a breath and steepled his hands under his chin, taking a moment to figure out how he was going to tell this story. "I acquired that scarf when I was only in the early years of secondary school. It's not a secret that no one liked me in school... Not that I cared. They were all idiots anyways. Mycroft was already attending University at the time and I was alone in the school full of morons who found my intelligence intimidating." The detective said this in a nonchalant way as if it happened a lot.

John listened intently though he wasn't quite sure why this had any relevance. "Now there's something you have to understand..." Sherlock sighed, obviously embarrassed or regretful about what he was going to say. "When we were younger I looked up to Mycroft. I admired him as any little brother does. He was the only one I knew that thought like me. He could see things just as I saw them and he was the only person I didn't consider an idiot."

Admittedly, John was shocked to hear that. He always assumed their little brotherly feud had always been there. Sherlock continued on, "Of course I never told him that. Anyways, he only visited during the holidays and our arguments only got worse with each passing visit. We got into a particularly heated discussion one year and he left earlier than planned. He didn't end up spending Christmas with us which, in my mind, was not a big deal. December 25th is just as important to me as February 11th or May 6th... They're all just dates. One shouldn't hold any significance over another." Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal of John's protests before they even had a chance to form.

"The morning after my brother left I found a package. The note attached read 'Dear brother; From Mycroft.'... It was the scarf. He thought he was being clever by getting me something I wouldn't like while avoiding mother's reprimanding." He scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "So, I played his own game against him. I wore the scarf everywhere I went and got as much use out of it as I could just to annoy him. That's how it started... But it became something else not long after. It helped me focus my thoughts even during school when I was surrounded by low IQs and students with Anderson's level of intelligence."

Sherlock shrugged and finally opened his eyes to look at John. "And I've worn it ever since. It's become a... habit, if you will."

John gave a small nod, taking in all of the things Sherlock just told him. The detective grew impatient and looked at John expectantly. "Well? Are you satisfied now?"

John thought for a second before answering. "One more question... Just out of curiosity, what did you get Mycroft that year?"

Sherlock's annoyed expression immediately changed into a sly grin. "An umbrella."

*End of flashback*

John is left fully aware of the fabric in his hands when the memory fades. After taking a steadying breath, he brings the scarf forward and dresses the snow man up in it. He doubles it before draping it around the 'neck' and pulling the ends through the loop to secure it.

He takes a step back and slowly sinks down to sit cross legged, satisfied with his work. Not once does he take his eyes off of it. He feels himself gradually losing control of his strong composure... A single tear falls out and lands in the snow in front of him against his will. Still, his eyes do not leave the snow formation.

Memories flash through his mind and soon the tears fall freely, John giving up on trying to stop them. Maybe this is what he needs... John never allowed himself to break down since Sherlock's fall and maybe it was just time he let it all go. Clutching the snow tightly in his hands, sobs shake through him, now impossible to control.

For what feels like hours he simply sits, sobbing his heart out without a way to stop it. Thankfully, it really only takes about ten minutes before he's able to get ahold of himself. No matter how many minutes pass or how blurred his vision becomes from tears, he never allows himself to look away from the formation in front of him.

He sniffles a few times and the tears eventually dry on his cheeks, no longer replaced by new ones. He takes a deep breath as a small, sad smile draws itself on his expression without any known reason. His voice is hoarse and his throat is constricted from the cold... But that doesn't prevent him from whispering into the night:

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock..."

Somewhere close by, a very faint "Happy Christmas John..." can be heard. John's head snaps up at the sound, finding nothing but trees surrounding him. The wind blows gently and John's shoulders slump. Just a trick of the wind...