Author's Note: Hi! I'm back, this time with a Christmas story.
I had hoped to manage to publish this a few days ago, but life got in my way and so I'm kind of late. I thought that I could post it anyway, even if I won't be able to finish it in time for Christmas.
And so, here it is! I hope you'll enjoy it.

As usual, a huge, huge thank you goes to DancingInTheDark85, who encouraged me to write this and helped me by betareading it as soon as I was ready. Her support and friendship mean a great deal to me.

If you feel like it, leave me some feedback and let me know what you think: it's my first Christmas story. Ever.

Chapter One

Reese usually didn't mind surveillance. It required patience and stealth and perseverance, and those were all qualities well ingrained in him, thanks to the years spent at the CIA service.

The boredom and the forced silence of the long hours spent in surveillance had never bothered him too much – on the contrary, sometimes the quiet solitude of that particular task was a welcome change from the everyday violent mayhem of his job – current and previous.

But tonight was different. It had been a long week, with too many numbers in a rapid succession – some of them even overlapping – and way too few hours of sleep in between, and spending a whole afternoon freezing his ass in a car was not helping his cranky mood.

He rubbed his icy hands together, trying to ease the stiffness of his fingers, but to no avail. Small clouds of condensation formed with every exhale even inside the car and he tugged the coat collar closer to his neck in a vain attempt to preserve some heat. It had mostly stopped snowing a few hours ago, aside from a few frozen flakes floating around in the occasional gust of chilly wind, but the temperature remained below zero.

The number he had been watching and following around for the last couple of days – a well dressed and impeccably groomed middle-aged investment broker with a serious gambling problem – had fallen prey of a gang in the racket of illegal betting and money-lenders, and had accepted to get involved in some shady drug deal to pay off his considerable debt.

A shady deal that might cost his life. Reese sighed, his eyes never leaving the building entrance in which the number had vanished more than an hour before. He wasn't exactly sorry for the guy – he was responsible for his own, very wrong decisions – but to his credit, he had probably no idea about what he was getting himself involved in.

The building was pretty run-down. Most of the windows were boarded up, the walls peeling in places. It was just a few days before Christmas, and some dim decorative lights were hanging from the windows of the few occupied apartments, but they did nothing to brighten up the overall gloomy appearance of the area – if anything, Reese felt they only added to the bleakness.

In truth, he didn't particularly care for Christmas in general, not anymore. There had been a time when he had – back when he thought he had a whole life of endless possibilities ahead of him – but those days were long gone.
Back then, he used to love the lights, the music, the decorations, the happiness of the season.
But things had changed. He still appreciated them, in a way – there was after all an inherent beauty in all of those things that was hard to miss. But they also brought a deep melancholy – almost grief. They made him think about the life he would never live, the family he would never have, the sense of coziness and belonging he would never feel.

He tapped the earbud, more to distract himself from such morose reflections than out of a real need to communicate with Finch.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold's questioning voice promptly sounded in his ear. The oppressive, silent loneliness lifted a bit.

"Finch," he greeted, then he stopped. He didn't have anything in particular to say.

"Is Mr. Patterson still in the building?"

"Yeah. Should be out soon, though," Reese replied, glancing at his watch. "Is Fusco in position?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese. You still sure this is going to work?"

"I don't see why it shouldn't," the ex-op patiently replied. It was a simple plan, really. They would let the number get out of the building with the drugs, Reese would stop him before he got the meeting and Fusco would arrest him. Easy and relatively safe. Or, as safe as it could be, considering it involved a desperate and inexpert man at his first crime – illegal betting aside.

"By the way, we got a new number," Finch informed him after a brief pause. Reese let his hands drop to his sides and frowned in disappointment. He had hoped for a brief respite after Patterson's number, at least in order to catch up on some sleep, but no such luck. He could hear Harold typing in the background and figured the older man was carrying out the usual preliminary research. "Name?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"Jacob Stein," Harold stated. "He's 73. No living family members as far as I can see and…oh, this is weird," he commented under his breath. Further typing could be heard through the earpiece, but no more information came.

"Finch?" Reese prompted, his interest piqued. "What is weird?"

"I was looking for more details about his private life, in particular what he did for a living," Harold explained, "and, well, apparently Mr. Stein is…Santa Claus."

Reese blinked, perplexed. "Santa Claus," he slowly repeated, trying to make sense of Harold's information.

"Yes. He's an actor, specialized in playing that part. Movies, tv shows, even a Christmas party at the White House some years ago," Harold said. "Now he mostly works in shopping malls during Christmas time."

"That's…unusual," John commented. Indeed, it seemed like a rather bizarre career choice, John thought. But then again, he mused, perhaps he wasn't in the best position to dispute other people's call, given his own work history.

"Oh, look, he played Santa in that '77 movie," Harold was still blabbering in the background. "It's a classic and-"

But Reese wasn't listening anymore. He had kept his eyes on the building across the street, so he saw Patterson as soon as he got out. The broker nervously looked around before heading off toward the intersection at the far end of the street, clinging to a black briefcase as if for dear life.

"Finch," he cut him off, "Patterson's out. Gotta go."

He slid out of the car, the cold and stiffness forgotten, securing the gun in his waistband. He was actually planning not to use it – the area wasn't exceedingly populated even in normal circumstances, let alone in this bad weather, so that wouldn't have been an issue. But, as much as they had gathered, Patterson wasn't a violent man and Reese hoped to be able to stop him without needing to use force. Or, at least without using a gun.

"Tell Fusco to be ready."

He quickly crossed the street, mentally reviewing the layout of the area, cataloguing all the possible escape routes Patterson might choose.

He had almost caught up with the broker and was about to attract his attention when he realized that the other man's right hand, till now hidden in the coat pocket, was tightly gripping a gun. Bad news. John had only got a glimpse of the broker, but his edginess had been obvious. A desperate and scared man in a tight spot holding a gun was a recipe for disaster.

"Uh-oh."

"What?"

"He's armed," Reese quietly explained, pulling his own gun and mentally evaluating his options. He was loath to shoot him point blank – Patterson might be brandishing a gun, but whether he was actually going to use it, or even able to do so, remained to be seen. Yet, he needed to stop him, stat. Rapidly deciding it was a case for Detective Stills, he shouted, "Hey! Police, drop your gun!"

Patterson whipped around, his eyes widening in terror as he took in Reese pointing his weapon at him. The firearm in the broker's hand trembled furiously, the knuckles white, and John noted in alarm that he had the safety off.

Well, that proved he was at least able enough with guns to know how to remove the safety.

"Drop it," he repeated, his tone calm and firm.

"Who the hell are you?" Patterson sputtered, without lowering the gun. He was pale and sweaty, clearly scared out of his mind.

"Detective Stills, NYPD," Reese said smoothly. He heard Finch scoff in his earbud, but the older man didn't comment further. "Now drop the gun and the briefcase."

At the mention of the case Patterson bristled and, if anything, his grip on the handle tightened further.

He shook his head vehemently and whispered, "they're going to kill me."

"No, they won't, if you let me help," Reese coaxed. "But we have to be quick."

Patterson stilled, staring at him, considering his words. Despite the biting cold, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his breathing fast and shallow as if he had just run a marathon.

For a moment, it looked like Reese had got through him. Patterson's stance relaxed minutely and he was beginning to lower his weapon, but the sudden, loud wail of an approaching squad car – Lionel's untimely arrival – broke the spell.

Patterson panicked. He swiftly threw the briefcase at John and fled.

Reese cursed under his breath as he dodged the case– at the sudden noise that had spooked the broker, at the other man's unpredictable change of heart and, above all, at his own stupidity for lowering his guard – and immediately leapt in pursuit.

It was clear that Patterson had no real plan at this point. He was fueled by desperation as he ran for his life. He suddenly turned and shot blindly a couple of times – both bullets went flying way over Reese's head but he ducked anyway behind a parked car and he fleetingly wondered whether the broker was simply a lousy shot or he was just trying to scare his pursuer off.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch definitely sounded alarmed.

"Little busy, Finch," John growled under his breath.

The siren wail was getting closer. "Tell Fusco to get the case," he instructed, getting up from his crouch and checking Patterson's position. "It's probably full of meth or coke or whatever." There wasn't anyone else around, but leaving it sitting on the sidewalk for anyone to find was hardly a wise idea.

Patterson had gained some advantage and Reese quickened his pace. Completely spooked and armed, the other man was a loose cannon, a danger to others as much as to himself and John was determined to stop him before someone else was unlucky enough to cross his path.

Reese deftly avoided a trashcan with a jump and aimed without stopping or slowing down.

Another block and a half and Patterson would have reached the intersection with the main road – from there, the escape routes and the chances of running into innocent bystanders increased way too much for John's liking. He couldn't let it happen.

Reese fired as he crossed the street – a precise shot that hit Patterson in the back of his left knee and the broker dropped to the ground with a scream, his gun flying from his hand and clattering on the pavement a few meters ahead.

John didn't have the chance to rejoice, though. He heard a sudden, loud and very close noise of screeching tires at his right and he turned - just in time to see the hood of a pickup slamming into him, and everything went black.

To be continued...

Thanks for reading...and Merry Christmas!