TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ Severing Ties

RATING: T (language)

A/N:Story title comes from the song "What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas" by The Emotions. Second Sherlock Christmas fic. These are coming in late, sorry. I don't know if they're any good either. Just ideas that were dancing like sugarplums in my head. This has a similar tone to the last one, but it's a bit more complex and longer. A bit more eventful – with some action too. I hope you enjoy it. Review? Yes? No? Maybe?

Chapter One: Severing Ties

"'Tis the season to be jolly
But how can I be when I have nobody
The yuletide carol doesn't make it better
Knowing that we won't be together"

The weary doctor shuffled up the stairs, barely lifting his heavy feet as he made his sluggish way to the flat. Upon entering, John pushed his back against the door to close it, pausing there for a moment. He was almost tempted to slump straight to the ground right there.

No.

He wouldn't do that again. Even if this time it was out of exhaustion, last time he had done so, John had ended up a weeping mess. Somehow, Sherlock had collected him and half carried his flatmate up the steps to his room. John didn't remember that part. He only recalled waking atop his sheets, a blanket pulled over his curled frame and his cheeks stained with dry tears.

That had been months ago, after it happened.

With a grunt, the former soldier kicked off his shoes and peeled off his snow dusted coat. His mind was set on only two things: tea, and then a nice long kip before Sherlock returned from whatever case he was currently on.

Work had been, well, he couldn't think of a proper word to describe how absolutely awful and busy and chaotic it had truly been. Of course it was nothing compared to bandaging wounds and performing surgeries while in the line of fire, but it was definitely not the mundane atmosphere Sarah had once promised him.

Winter notoriously brought with it wind, snow and a plethora of patients. From the common cold to slips on ice. He had one fellow today who had fallen off a ladder while hanging Christmas lights. A woman had burnt her hand on the oven while baking Christmas cookies. A little girl tripped on some stairs while out Christmas shopping with her mother. An elderly gentleman had developed an allergic reaction to the Christmas toffee his granddaughter had bought him.

John didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to notice the trend.

Normally, the man was quite fond of Christmas. The holiday reminded him of times when his parents actually had managed to be civil toward one another during his childhood. It was the one day Harriet and John got on decently enough. Their family didn't much in way of possessions or money, but presents didn't matter to him.

John enjoyed the holiday treats, especially when made by a certain doting landlady. He liked the lights and decorations. He even secretly would sing a carol or two when alone in the flat.

Yes, John Watson usually loved Christmas.

This year, though, that wasn't seeming to be the case.

Apart from the chaos at work, there were other things sagging the doctor's Christmas spirit.

There was that thing. But John didn't like to think about that thing.

And then there was Harry, who had promised not a month earlier that she was off the booze, again. Not that he truly believed her this time. Two days ago he received a phone call at 3:03AM. When an obnoxiously intoxicated Harriet Watson asked him to pick her up, John had promptly hung up. It was unlike him. No matter what his sister did, John was still always there for her. Not this time.

John had just submitted to slumber's hold after a particularly draining case an hour earlier. A case that involved a man on a killing spree after his wife and child were murdered by a drunk driver. He waited in pub and club parking lots, watching and attacking those who were staggering to their cars instead of cabs. The final victim had been a woman only one year younger than Harry. They shared the same hair color and liquor preference too. It was all a little too close to home for John. The entire case, John had been secretly worried for his sister's safety. He had called and left messages and held onto some stupid small hope that she had stayed true to her word this time.

So when Harry called, barely able to speak properly and complaining that her car wouldn't start, John had said absolutely nothing before tossing the phone to the floor.

He had no idea how Harry had gotten the money for a car or why she was stupid enough to try to drive it drunk. At 3:03AM, he really didn't care.

Apparently, she did manage to get the thing to start, because at 4:17AM John received another phone call. He twisted out of the beginning of a nightmare and his sheets to reach the dropped device.

This time it wasn't Harry on the other end.

A police officer greeted him soberly and John had to remind himself that they had indeed caught the murderer before he suffered a panic attack at the sheer tone of the man's voice.

Instead, he was icily informed that his older sister had crashed her car into a phone box. No one else was injured and Harry walked away with only a dislocated shoulder and minor concussion – and short a driver's license.

At 5:07AM, John arrived at the hospital.

At 7:34AM, he returned home to find Mrs. Hudson had taken a spill on a patch of ice out by her bins while taking out her rubbish. She was calling for help when John stepped out of the cab and he immediately shoved the morning's events aside and switched into full doctor mode. He tended to his landlady and accompanied her to the hospital as she had injured her bad hip.

At 9:46AM, John walked back into the flat to find Sherlock far too casually extinguishing a small fire in the kitchen.

At 9:47AM, John walked past the blaze without saying a word and went straight up to his room, locking the door and the rest of the world out.

It was 11:06AM when a hungover Harry woke him from his third attempt at slumber to tell him, with some quite colorful language, that she blamed him for the accident as he had refused to pick her up. She then promptly vowed vehemently that she would not be speaking to him until further notice.

"Good," John had mumbled before he could catch the word on his sleep-deprived brain and tongue.

"Excuse me?" Harry had spat.

"I said, 'good'," John repeated, half exhausted, half furious. "Until you can clean yourself up and don't need your little brother to constantly take care of you, I'd rather not speak with you either."

"Fuck off," Harry hissed. "You're not our bloody dad."

"Dad's dead," John swallowed sourly. "Liver, remember?"

"I'm not him," Harry's voice was trying so hard to be steady.

"No," John sighed. "He drank because he liked to beat mum and then forget he'd done it. You drink because you won't grow up and deal with your life and your problems."

"What the hell do you know about my problems?"

"Nothing," John shook his head. "I'm just your brother. I just had the same parents. The same bloody fucked up childhood. I just got shot and lost everything I worked my whole life for. I just watched my fellow men die on the battlefield. I just watched my best friend fall off a building and then come back to life. I just lost my wife. I don't know anything about life or problems."

If Harry had responded, John didn't wait for it. The mobile flew across the room, landing, to John's dismay, safely and softly in his dirty laundry.

He had said it. He actually said it aloud.

His wife.

His Mary.

They weren't even granted a full year of marriage before she was stolen from him. And that's exactly how John saw it. She had been taken, ripped from his life so quickly and cruelly and permanently, that he oftentimes wondered if she had ever been real.

Of course she was real.

He was missing a very real piece of his heart to prove it. That was okay though. He let Mary take it with her where he couldn't follow. That way, she would always have a part of him, and he would forever possess a reminder of her, however painful. He was thankful for that sting. For the present reassurance of her past presence.

Sherlock reminded him too.

The great detective could recall every detail of Mary Morston when John's memory turned foggy with emotion. Every so often, John would silently hand over a piece of Mary's clothing or another personal item to his flatmate and simply close his eyes and listen as the man deduced his lost lover.

"This was her favorite dress. She bought it on a whim on a trip to Paris shortly before meeting you. She wore it on your first date. She would usually accompany it with heels, and later, her only pair of pearl earrings – that she received from you for your six month anniversary. You never did tell her how many extra shifts you picked up or the money I gave you so you could afford them. She would've felt guilt…"

" Her favorite perfume. The rose petals reminded her of her grandmother's…"

"…read this book over a dozen times in her youth…"

"…that dreadful film you two always went on about and forced me to watch…"

"Her diary. You've never opened it. She wrote in it every night before bed. She has kept a journal of sorts since she was seven and never misses an entry. She preferred pens to pencils, blue being her color ink of choice. That tells me that she was quite friendly and an easy going, open and compassionate person. Quite like her partner. Her handwriting changes when writing about you, sometimes sloppy – fast and excited – as though she cannot wait to get the words out. Other times, it is slow and deliberate, deep, thoughtful. She usually ends these entries with some sentiment of expressing love towards you. The pages' edges also indicate that she went back and reread the days concerning you, especially the entry detailing your first meeting."

John appreciated when his flatmate did this.

Of course Sherlock remembered all the physical details and facts. He couldn't, though, recount to John the way Mary's smile had sent shivers down the doctor's spine. How he bell-like laughter penetrated his very soul. Sherlock knew Mary had a habit of crossing her legs and tucking her hair behind her ear simultaneously. He didn't know that each time John watched her do this he became aroused.

So many little things.

All of them gone.

Just like Mary.

Just like his parents.

Just like Sherlock had been.

And just like Harry would soon be if she didn't put a stop to her current lifestyle.

John Watson was destined to be alone.

At least, that was his philosophy.

His best friend in Afghanistan, Bill, had managed to get himself stabbed in a mugging not three weeks after returning home. He fought for years in the middle of firefights and survived. He comes home, goes to coffee with his old war doctor buddy Watson, and is killed in a meaningless mugging while walking home. Five against one. Good old Bill had tried to talk the teenagers down instead of resorting to violence. He could've easily taken them down. He didn't see the kid with the blade behind him while giving his attempted motivational speech.

Mike Stamford passed from a heart attack after he and John started their Friday night outings once more. John sometimes wondered how long Sherlock knew it was coming before it happened. It had been a genetic condition. Surely the detective had somehow deduced this. Then again, Mike was not one to have wanted to know and would have rather not been told. And some people thought Sherlock was oblivious to others.

His parents died when John was a teenager, barely cresting adulthood. His father had put down his fists and the bottle for a whole 18 months when he got the news. He wasn't angry. He considered it punishment for his poor treatment of his family. John's parents had finally been happy together again when he passed. It was only two months later when his mother just sort of withered and faded away. Depression was a dangerous demon.

And that was when John Watson decided to become Doctor John Watson. If he had seen the signs in his father sooner, had known the symptoms and impending outcome of his mother's sickness. He would become a doctor. He would help people. Save them.

A lot of good that did his fallen comrades.

Or Bill.

Or Mike.

Or Mary.

He couldn't save Harry until she wanted to save herself.

How long before he was standing in front of tombstones for Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson?

And then there was Sherlock.

He had already experienced the man's death once. He wasn't sure he could survive it a second time around.

How much longer would John have with his best friend? And what would be the cause of this loss in his life?

Accidental drug overdose? Stray bullet? Purposeful bullet? Explosion – whether from a wayward experiment in their own kitchen or a criminal? Starvation from forgetting to eat? Hit by a car while running after a criminal through the streets of London?

There were plenty of options to choose from.

And if John's luck held true, it wouldn't be long before his friend was gone, and for good this time.

He had been retreating into himself these past months. Accompanying Sherlock on fewer cases. Not answering Greg's invites out to the pub. He even managed to ignore Mycroft a time or two. Molly was a bit difficult to brush off while at the morgue. They had little contact outside of Bart's, but while there, he could tangibly feel her questioning and sympathetic gaze burning into him.

He had stopped going to the morgue weeks ago.

Even Mrs. Hudson's attempts were fruitless. No longer did the duo sit and watch rubbish telly over tea and biscuits. No longer did John make regular checkups on her health and hip.

She was getting on in years. John knew it was only a matter of time before he lost her too.

Better to slowly stretch ties while he still could, and sever the ones he was able to.

Everything about Christmas seemed to be crushing him this year.

First Christmas without Mary.

Harry.

The unbelievable amount of patients.

The annoyingly cheerful atmosphere when he simply wished to be angry and upset.

Oh, and the impending deaths of everyone he cared about.

Yes, there was certainly nothing "merry" about this Christmas.