This is my first time publishing anything for the BBC Sherlock, but definitely not my first time writing anything for the show. Forgive me if they seem out of character but I wrote this in an hour and I really wanted to upload it for the new year.

Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not belong to me. I just take them out to play once in a while to fulfill my fangirl fantasies.


John was sitting in front of the fire at 221B sipping a cup of tea. Well, the mug was more so warming his hands than he was drinking the tea. He stared at the flames as they danced across the logs, his mind lost in the thoughts he only allowed to penetrate his mind at that specific time of night. His gaze flicked to the tree in the corner, sparsely decorated but well-lit; the skull on the mantelpiece wearing a red Santa hat; the fairy lights strung around the mirror above the fireplace. The flat was full of Christmas cheer, but one John Hamish Watson was not.

It had been his first Christmas since Sherlock's fall and the emptiness and quietness of the flat was eerie and depressing. Sherlock wasn't playing carols on his violin, Mrs Hudson wasn't sitting in Sherlock's chair asking him to wear the reindeer antlers while he played, and John wasn't watching with an amused smirk as Sherlock finally conceded and allowed Mrs Hudson to place the antlers on his head with a grimace. John still had the pictures on his phone, every now and again looking at them to bring a smile to his face at the memory. Now the New Year was approaching and John was alone yet again, sitting in his chair facing Sherlock's empty one.

He found himself staring at the chair quite often, imagining Sherlock sitting in it with his hands under his chin as if in prayer. Sometimes he would see him standing by the window and hear violin music. But he was almost always in the kitchen hunched over a microscope that was no longer there. The fridge had been cleaned of all body parts and anything inedible long ago, all the science equipment put in boxes and donated. The skull and the violin had stayed as John just couldn't bear to part with them, they were always Sherlock's favorite possessions and there were too many memories attached to them for John to ever wish to part with them. The one time he had ventured into Sherlock's room he felt like he shouldn't have been there, the room was deathly cold, and a shiver ran up his spine after taking a mere two steps inside. He left and shut the door quickly thereafter, never stepping foot inside it again.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, steadying himself as the memories flooded back. Him and Sherlock first meeting, the taxi ride where Sherlock gave his first deduction to John, examining Jennifer Wilson's body, Angelo's, the giggling fit in the hallway after chasing down the cab, Sherlock's insults to Anderson's intelligence, shooting the cabbie to save Sherlock. Most of his memories were from their very first case, but the others were just as important and just as heartwarming. He finally got to the memory of Sherlock's fall and forced himself to stand up and move around, pushing the memory aside and working on dumping out his now cold tea and going up to bed. He lingered out in the hallway for just a moment too long, staring at Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He sighed and trudged up the stairs, staring at his feet. He flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, the light from his clock illuminating the room with a faint blue glow. He glanced at the time to see it was five minutes to midnight. Five minutes until the New Year, new beginnings, new memories. He closed his eyes and sighed, counting down the seconds, waiting just like everyone else. Except he was alone, he had chosen to be alone despite Greg's best efforts to take him out to the pub.

The clock finally struck midnight and the fireworks went off across the city, lighting the sky with hues of blue and green and red and purple and yellow. John watched from his bed, not wanting to stand up and stare out the window at the lights in the sky. When the last firework lit the sky John curled up on his side and stared at the clock until he was near sleep.

'Happy New Year, Sherlock,' he whispered to the empty room.

...::-::...

Sherlock stared out the window of his hotel room, watching the snow fall and the people stumble drunkenly down the street. He held a violin in his hand, and it was not the same as the one back at Baker Street. It was a lot poorer quality as he didn't want to buy anything too expensive to draw attention to himself, blow his cover when he had accomplished so much. The lesser intelligent parts of Moriarty's web had been torn apart, all that was left was a sniper who proved to be more elusive than Sherlock had initially anticipated. He had been tracking him for quite some time, all over Europe and parts of Asia. The sniper had finally settled in Russia, and Sherlock finally had him in his clutches. After this he would go after the more complicated and intricate parts of Moriarty's web. It would be a lot more dangerous, and a lot more work, but he was doing it to keep the few people he cared about safe. Something was eating him to his core though, and it was one John Hamish Watson.

He was always on Sherlock's mind, his voice Sherlock's inner monologue and moral compass. Everything John had ever told him regarding common courtesy was seared into his mind palace, in a special place labeled 'John' inside which John's laugh was stored, the way he rolled his eyes when Sherlock was being especially difficult, his words of wisdom, and his face in different scenarios and emotions ranging from amazement to disappointment to his slack expression when he was sleeping. Also stored was his reaction at Angelo's when Sherlock shot him down, and it was one of the saddest memories Sherlock had of him and it was one of the first. He hadn't gotten to see John's face when he jumped from St. Bart's, and he was equally grateful and resentful for that fact. He had heard John's speech at his grave and it had nearly crushed his heart to see such strong emotions conveyed through not only John's words but also his posture and fidgeting. John had been his best friend, but over time Sherlock knew they both wished it could somehow become more. Their wavering glances at one another, watching the other sleep even they both knew the other wasn't really asleep, the ghosting of fingers over the others while passing over a mug of tea. The little things people did to start to turn a friendship into more suddenly became their way of saying 'While you are my friend I don't really want to start anything because I'm scared of you saying no like at Angelo's so for now I'm just going to be there for you no matter what because you are my best friend and I love you more than I could ever put into words.'

'I will be with you again. It may not be this month and it may not be this year, but I will be with you again,' he whispered to himself, a promise not only to himself but to John as well. And while John wasn't around to hear it he knew John would appreciate the sentiment

A clock struck midnight and fireworks began going off in the distance. The New Year had begun and all Sherlock could think about was the man he had left behind. It was to protect him of course, but Sherlock regretted not keeping John in the loop. He knew John hated it when Sherlock ran a social experiment on him without his knowledge, and he knew John would hate this just as much if not more so. He only hoped John would forgive him for what he had to do.

'Happy New Year, John,' he whispered to the empty room.