It was the first Christmas without John.

Yeah, there had been Christmases when John wasn't home. There was the year in college when he went with a group of friends on a ski trip instead of coming home, but they knew that John later regretted not being with the family. There was the year, not long after college, that John had just started a job too many states away, and with too little time off, to make it home. And there was almost the year, now hired by IASA and in the early days of the FarScape project, that John had been in Australia and almost couldn't make it home. He'd just gotten in on Christmas morning that time.

But this was the first Christmas without John. Without John in their lives.

It was the first Christmas John was dead.

Knowing how hard this would hit their father, the girls dragged their own families to Jack's place. It wouldn't be a very merry Christmas for their husbands and children, but maybe it would lessen the despair for their father. And to be honest, for themselves. And maybe they all felt that they needed to be together, those that were left. Together in their sorrow.

They were close, all of them. Maybe they didn't see each other as much as they would have liked; they had all gone their separate ways and moved to different states for jobs and whatever, but they were close in their hearts. They kept in touch. They were godparents for each other's children. Well, no one would be a godparent for any of John's children, now. But they had been close.

And the girls had adored their big brother. He was their protector and confidant. He was their hero. It had always been so easy to talk to him, to ask his advice. Even if they hadn't talked for months, when one of them would pick up the phone and call, it was like they hadn't missed a beat.

And he made them laugh. He had a zany sense of humor and such a vast knowledge of pop culture that seemed to belie his scientific bent.

He was their friend.

Hell, he was everybody's friend. His sisters were amazed at how popular he had been and found it hard to live up to the Crichton reputation when they got to high school. Football star, academic scholar, good-looking, friendly. He was every guy's pal; he was every girl's heartthrob. And he never knew it; never knew he was special.

But now he was just dead.

Gone from their lives. Ripped from their hearts leaving ragged holes that no amount of time could heal. Sure, scars would form, but then something would happen, some memory would rip it apart again and fresh blood would flow.

Christmas would happen. Christmas without John.

Even his nieces and nephews missed him. Even the little ones that didn't get a chance to know him for long, knew him well. Knew his smiling eyes and easy grin. Knew his strong arms that would save them from The Tickle Monster, only moments before he transformed into The Tickle Monster himself.

They missed the impromptu football games in the yard. The games that he had insisted even the girls be allowed to play. Well, if Uncle John said it was cool... He WAS an astronaut, you know. He was also the Pied Piper, as all the neighborhood children would abandon their Christmas treasures and join the Crichton clan on the lawn, drawn by their easy natures and by 'Uncle John', astronaut, former football star, friend to all.

Nobody played football this year. How could you when the star quarterback was dead? Who else could make up totally ridiculous plays and give them outrageous names? Who else would think that turning a cartwheel and dancing the shimmy would confuse the defense of the other team? Who else could convince his team to execute these outlandish maneuvers?

Maybe they would play next year. But not this year. The pain was too fresh. The blood too red.

John Crichton was too dead.

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