A/N: Written for martianholiday, at LJ

Deck the Halls

Sam's report said that the whole operation went tits up.

Well, Sam's report had taken two pages and increasingly long words to avoid stating outright that everything went tits up, but Gene knew how to translate Tyler-speak now, God help him. Inadequate application of the available department resources his arse.

Offensive diction causing the alienation of potential witnesses? So, Ray'd probably called some git of a bystander something Sam didn't approve of. Long list, that. A dearth of inter-departmental cooperation? He'd been out for a moment, and Litton had got his nose stuck in CID business like a kid with his tongue stuck to a frozen metal pole. Cooperation with him was like doing the two-step with a camel. He smelled as bad and was just as likely to spit in your eye given half a chance. Sam, even when he got wrapped up in his hippie Kumbayahand-holding 'collaboration' bollucks, knew that much.

Ray's report, which Gene appreciated for its succinctness, just said: It all went tits up because Tyler's a twonk.

It was his own bloody fault, that's what it came down to.

It wasn't that he'd trusted Marley, that little toe-rag of a snitch – a dead little toe-rag of a snitch, if Gene ever got his hands on him. But he'd let his guard down, and that's how this whole mess started. Bang-bang-bang – gunshot, hospital, bed-rest, and Sam was in charge of his team just long enough to create total, barking mad chaos.

Sam had not looked pleased to see him back so soon. Gene guessed that this was because he'd hoped to have the whole mess straightened out before his Guv returned to give him what for, but that wasn't what Sam actually said. What Sam said was, "There is no way you have a doctor's all-clear to be back at work."

"No, don't have a note, Headmaster Tyler," he responded acidly. "You wanna call me mum? She'll tell you where to shove your doctor's 'all-clear.'"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, if you wind up in hospital again, don't say I didn't warn you."

"If I wind up in hospital again, it'll be because I suffocated under all this bloody paperwork." He demonstrated by picking up the pile on his desk and letting it fall back down again in disarray, a few errant forms fluttering their way to freedom. Sam winced. "Are you trying to kill me?"

He sat down with a heavy thunk. His chair creaked in protest. As much as he hated to admit it, barking reprimands at Sam seemed to be tiring him out far more than usual. God help him if Sam noticed.

Of course, Sam did. "Are you sure you're alright?" he said, sounding genuinely worried and giving Gene a shot of those big, wobbly eyes that made all the plonks cream themselves.

"Peachy bloody keen, that's me. Feel better than I look," he said, waving an arm to indicate his injured leg. "Definitely better than you look."

Then again, that black eye was working for him. At least it made it look like he'd done something besides paperwork while his DCI was out.

He talked to them each about it in turn, but on the sly, like. Didn't want them thinking their Guv was interrogating them. He ran into Cartwright in the hall, through which she was dragging a handcuffed nonce with silver balls sellotaped to his green jumper.

"This is what having birds in CID gets you!" said Gene, looking the boy up and down. "That Fanny Cradock instinct kicks in and suddenly your police station is ornamented with more shiny bobbles than a toyshop window display."

"Was there something you wanted, sir?" said Cartwright, rather curtly.

"Don't tell me Jingle Balls here is involved in this cock-up."

She didn't say anything. Neither did the human Christmas tree. "Well?" he prompted.

"You told me not to tell you, sir," she said, in a deadpan that was spookily reminiscent of Sam's. Bad influence if he ever saw one.

Gene crossed his arms and gave her one of his best glares. "Go on, then."

"The second victim was involved in Mr. Crachit's student organization." She gave the bedecked jumper a pointed look. "DI Tyler sent Chris and me undercover, for general reconnaissance."

"Find anything useful?"

"Not yet, sir. Mr. Crachit refuses to answer any questions, except through interpretive dance." Crachit nodded mutely, as if this were a perfectly sensible thing to say.

At that point, he gave up on more details from Cartwright, in favor of hauling Crachit into Lost and Found, for a little private performance. If he couldn't make him talk, at least he could make him squeal.

He found Chris in the Gents, pulling tinsel out of his hair. There was a lumpy red jumper crumpled up by the sink.

"I thought Tyler was the resident fairy around here," said Gene.

Chris started. Evidently, he'd been too preoccupied with picking at himself like an ape plucking out lice to notice that his superior officer had walked in.

"It were part of the disguise," he mumbled, cheeks reddening.

"Disguise," Gene repeated, in mock disbelief. "Disgrace, more like. And you, an officer of the law and all." The lad needed thicker skin if it was still this easy to make him squirm.

"DI Tyler said that I needed to acquire all the necessary accoutrements. See," he said, indicating a page in his notebook. "I wrote it down. Necessary. Accoutrements. Means it's what everyone else had."

"Worked that out for meself, thanks."

"They did, too," he said, as if Gene had argued with him. "Even Litton had some." He turned the tap and let the water rinse excess tinsel down the drain, off to get tangled up in the pipes. "Though, that was only 'cause I dumped it on him, during the- er." He turned red again.

"How did Litton get his greasy fingerprints all over this, anyway?" asked Gene.

"'Cause of the first bloke who copped it. He played canasta with Mrs. Litton on Wednesdays."

"Litton's got a wife? Some poor skirt's got that to look forward to, of an evening?"

"No, she's his mum."

"Is that what happened to Ray's arm? He made the wrong crack about Litton's dear, sweet mother?" He managed to pronounce 'dear, sweet mother' so that it sounded a lot more like 'slavering hellhound.' He didn't like to think of what kind of creature had loins thorny enough to have squeezed out Litton.

Chris cringed a bit. He started to shake his head, and then changed his mind and nodded instead. "Yes. Well, sort of." Tinsel trickled out of his hair. "Mostly."

Litton, as it turned out, had not shown up at all today.

"Off licking his wounds," Ray informed him, smiling smugly under his mustache. Ray said nothing about his own injured arm, though the way he said nothing, said everything. It had obviously garnered a lot of attention. He, his stance suggested, was handling this with utmost humility and grace.

Someone, probably Chris, had drawn a pair of honking great tits on the side of his cast. And a few blobby trees.

"Is there anyone who hasn't gotten a good kicking this week?" said Gene, glaring from Ray's arm to his own leg, and thinking back to Sam's black-eye.

"Cartwright," said Ray, matter-of-factly. "You should've seen what happened to that RCS wanker who tried to give her arse a squeeze."

If Sam had been there, he would have pointed out that Ray himself was not above trying to cop a feel of Annie's goods.

"Good girl," said Gene, and Ray nodded his approval.

Back to business, then. "Litton know the other stiffs?"

"No."

"Any of the stiffs know each other?"

"No."

"Got anything at all in common?"

Ray paused. "They all had tattoos. On the left shoulder. All different, though. Tyler fussed over them for hours before he gave it up as a bad job."

That made about as much sense as any of it; though, at least it didn't involve tinsel. He pulled out his hipflask and solemnly proffered it to Ray. It had been a long week. Next week might be even longer. And Gene still hadn't worked out what the bloody hell was going on.

The Railway Arms was festive that evening, between the general drunken revelry and Phyllis' collection of naughty novelty Christmas crackers. Still, their little corner was glum and tense.

Sam was at the stool beside him, with Annie on his arm. They were staring into their drinks with such grim resignation, that Gene didn't have the heart to make any cracks about whether she was planning on roasting Sam's Yule log.

On his other side, Ray was nursing a whiskey while Chris added a disproportionate female form to the formerly disembodied bust on his cast.

Sam glanced over at them, with a look that managed to be both curious and condescending. "I have never seen a woman who…" He drifted off, and his eyes went wide. "Hang on! Chris, do you remember that bloke we interviewed down Herring Street?

"The one with the sister who was… oh. Blimey!" said Chris.

Ray leaned over as well, comprehension dawning. "That tosser? I said he was a girly little twink."

Sam let the slur slide. "We never did see them in the same room together, did we?" he said.

"And she was left-handed!" said Annie. "I noticed it when she wrote down that number for us! The one that led us straight in to that alley." Everyone but Gene winced.

They were all out of their chairs and headed for the door before he could put down his drink. This was getting bloody annoying.

Sam was pulling on his jacket. "You coming?" he asked.

Gene still hadn't moved. His leg was throbbing. Trying to keep up with this muddle was giving him a right headache. And there was something about this whole affair that he really didn't like.

It really wasn't his case, was it? Yeah, that was the problem, right there.

Well, let it be known that Gene Hunt was a man who knew when to delegate.

"Go on," he said. "I want your report on this first thing in the morning." Sam raised his eyebrows, but only gave a moment's hesitation before turning to follow the others. Gene called out after him. "Oi, Agatha! Don't write me a bloody novel, this time."

When he turned back to the bar, Nelson was standing there, watching him. "Kids, eh?" said Gene.

Nelson cracked a smile, and topped up his glass.

Finis