Christmas Eve: Together

The sound of voices in the sitting room, hushed but clarion to his sensitive ears, pulled him back to the land of the living.

Taking care to be quiet and, well, careful, Sherlock Holmes pushed himself up to a sitting position and slid out of bed. The floor was no less cold than when he had tried this earlier, but the sensation was not completely unwelcome. Still as unsteady as a newborn foal, he groped his way along the furniture until he’d reached the door. He heard the voices in the room beyond go silent as he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

He must have truly been a sight: still fairly mummified, half-dead beneath that, and standing on wobbling legs. But he was standing. He grinned tiredly at his astonished audience.

“Holmes!” Watson cried.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft and Mary exclaimed together. Sherlock was astonished to see his brother pale and considerably thinner than his wont, and he did not need his brain to be at full capability to know why. Dear brother, I am so sorry.

“What on earth are you doing out of bed?” Watson demanded, hazel eyes still wide with shock.

“Obviously, my insensitive brother wishes to give us a serious fright when he collapses from exhaustion,” Mycroft said pointedly. Sherlock simply shook his head and did not protest when Mycroft assisted him towards his own armchair, into which he sank gratefully.

It was the first time in over a month that he had presided over his domicile from his throne. He felt nearly giddy with joy at being able to return to it.

“Thank you, brother mine,” he murmured. He flashed the Watsons another grin, this one shorter-lived and even more tired than the first.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mary breathed. She rose uncertainly from the settee, then abandoned all hesitation and rushed forward to embrace him. “You are going to be all right - oh, thank God!”

“In time, at any rate,” Sherlock agreed feelingly, wrapping his arms around her. He could not imagine how he must appear to her in his damaged state, but, apparently, she did not care. Mary was absolutely worthy to be the helpmeet of his dearest friend. “I have missed you, Mary,” he whispered, returning her embrace with all the strength he could manage.

Mary pulled away and wiped at the tears falling from her large blue eyes. “I’ve missed you.” She gave a self-conscious little laugh. “My apologies - I had not intended...”

“Shh.” He put his finger on her lips. “It’s all right.”

She nodded and stood, backing away to let her husband step forward. “You left your bed just today?” said John.

Sherlock nodded, still amazed that he’d managed it.

Watson sighed and shook his head. “You are an idiot,” he said flatly.

“I heartily concur, Doctor,” Mycroft harrumphed.

Sherlock smiled slightly - both his brothers were visibly repressing smiles. He opened his mouth to retort, but he never had the chance to start. From his bedroom, he heard the sound of shattering glass and a whoosh that was all too familiar.

Adrenaline is a curious thing. Even when one is convalescing from a grave illness, adrenaline can grant the body enough strength to forget its exhaustion. Sherlock and Watson sprang from their chairs almost simultaneously, and, in his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw Mycroft taking Mary’s hand and hurrying her to the door.

“Mycroft, get Mary and Mrs. Hudson out of the house!” Watson shouted.

“John!” Mary cried, right as Sherlock re-entered his bedroom. Flames licked at the rug, spread from a good old-fashioned torch.

“Good heavens,” he heard Mycroft say.

“Go, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted hoarsely. He raised his dressing gown to protect his nose and mouth as he grabbed the sheets off his bed. Watson was already beating at the fire with the blanket, and Sherlock joined him. It was a frantic rhythm - Sherlock would not allow his mind to calculate the consequences of a fire spreading throughout his rooms. It was unthinkable.

The room filled with smoke, and it was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

His adrenaline expended, Sherlock collapsed against the bed, coughing uncontrollably. Watson lifted him up easily and bore him back out to the sitting room, laying him out on the settee. “Stay here,” Watson said urgently, and then he was gone. Sherlock merely buried his face into one of the pillows, struggling to stop the coughs.

A minute later, Mycroft and Mary were back, with Mrs. Hudson in tow. “Oh, Mr. Holmes,” his landlady half-sighed in that motherly tone she used so well.

“I’ll fetch him some water,” he heard Mary say.

Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft settle his depleted bulk into Sherlock’s armchair. “Of all the ways to spend Christmas Eve...”

When Mary returned a moment later, her husband was with her. John leant over the back of the settee as Mary delivered a glass to the convalescent detective. “Thank you, dear,” Sherlock said after gulping down the welcome water. “Well?” he added in an undertone to Watson.

“Wiggins is not going to be happy at a second assassin getting past his defences,” Watson sighed. “I couldn’t be certain, but I think I recognised the man as one of the lot that’s tried to get into this house before. I only caught the back of him clearly as he fled.”

Sherlock leant back and closed his eyes with a sigh. “Should have known - ”. He coughed. “Moriarty would have attempted arson as... as a way to finish me... if all else failed...”

“You’ve been scarcely lucid enough even to entertain such a notion,” Watson said severely.

A wave of shame washed over the detective - he was coming to acknowledge that he had brought all this upon himself and had brought grief to the people around him. He draped his arm across his still-closed eyes, attempting to huddle down in the settee as if he could hide himself in disgrace from the world. “I know.”

“Holmes.” His Boswell’s voice was gentle this time. “Moriarty won the first battle, not the war.”

Mary’s cry of delight brought their attentions back to the present. “Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced from beneath his arm at his honorary sister, who was smiling down at a beautifully bound copy of Idylls of the King in her lap.

“Tennyson is much too flowery, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered.

Mary heard him, glanced up to meet John’s eyes, and shook her head. “Never mind him, dear,” Mrs. Hudson advised, smiling. “What is the book about?”

As Mary explained, Watson returned his attention to Sherlock and shook his head. “I don’t think he shall try again tonight,” the Doctor whispered. The others were busying themselves with the gifts beneath the tree, striving for a sense of normalcy. “For tonight, Holmes, let’s enjoy this holiest of holidays.”

Sherlock smirked wearily. “Poetic... as ever, Watson.” The expression swiftly crumbled as a solemn sensation nagged at the back of his mind. “Do you know, I somehow feel as if... as if this is the last Christmas we shall enjoy together for... for quite a long time.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Watson blanched. “Holmes, don’t say that.”

“My dear Watson, I am many things, but I am not prescient, despite what others may think. It is a... a vague intuition. Nothing more.”

“I’ve always trusted your intuition.”

Sherlock reached up and fondly patted Watson’s hand. “Then trust this: no matter how far and how long we are separated, we shall always come back to each other. That is more than an intuition, my dear fellow - that is a promise.”

They both remembered those words next Christmas, of course, when a decision made above a waterfall somewhere in Switzerland separated them. One wished desperately that a friend had not given his life for victory; the other wished that he had not walked away from his Boswell. Fires on the hearth reminded both of the flames that had attempted to ruin their last Christmas together.