SH.

Sigh.

Of course she drew the Freak.

Why was he part of the Secret Santa anyway? Waste of office supplies, that.

"He's a part of the team, Sally," Lestrade scolded her when she tried to protest. "Besides, we had an odd number."

At her continued glare he floundered from side-to-side. "I know, Sal. Trust me, I know. He's a pain -"

"- he's a junkie -"

"- and a bit opinionated -"

"- who thinks the world revolves around him -"

"- but would we have gotten anywhere without him?"

"- and -!" She broke off. "What?"

Lestrade ushered her into his office. "Think about it. If he hadn't stepped in on that burglary case we would never have gotten the reputation we have now." He crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk with one hip, eyebrow raised pointedly. Ugh. Sally hated it when he was right.

"Yeah, whatever."

She crumpled up the slip of paper and threw it at Lestrade's face before stomping off.

What do freaks like, anyway?

-

First she went to Soho, thinking that perhaps she could find some little oddity that might catch the Freak's interest, but every time she imagined giving anything to him, all she saw was his inevitable disdain. He never talked about what music he liked, or telly programs he watched, or the kind of books he read. Despite his obvious bad habits, he was never in want of decent clothes, and probably wouldn't accept something so personal from her anyway.

A lady in a shop kept asking if she wanted a Lucky Cat.

Sally was doomed.

The weeks leading to Christmas flew by too quickly, even as Sally continued to half-heartedly look for a gift for the Freak. Things got busy for her, getting something for Anderson that wouldn't make her little crush on him seem too obvious, finding something small enough for Lestrade that he wouldn't object, a little trinket for her aging grandmother that didn't cost too much because - to be painfully honest - she wouldn't need material things much longer, and before she knew it Christmas Eve was upon her and so was another murder.

People were exchanging gifts all around, just in case they didn't see one another on the morrow, forgetting for a moment that they were only together because some poor sod had died. And there in the middle of it all stood the Freak, glaring around with disdain while others exchanged greetings. He threw a pair of hideous wooly socks at Lestrade before stalking to the body.

"Wait, you drew me?" asked the DI, stunned. "And you actually did something?"

Wet flurries started to fall as the Freak looked up from his inspection. "It is a social custom, yes. I'm not completely deficient."

It felt distinctly like someone was closing a fist around Sally's chest as Lestrade shot her a pointed look. "And, er, did you get anything from your Secret Santa?"

The Freak snorted. "What does anyone on this planet have that I could possibly want or need?" he darkly muttered before standing and brushing himself off. "You're looking for the second cousin; he used a Menorah." Before Lestrade could ask how he did it the Freak was gone, and Sally felt like crap.

To make herself feel better, the next afternoon Sally baked sugar biscuits and made up a plate to bring to the Freak's flat. Chances were he wouldn't be there anyway, so she could leave them with a note explaining she hadn't been able to bring them to a crime scene. Even freaks had to have families to spend the holiday with, right?

She picked her way through the detritus lining the stairs to the dirty little flat on Montague Street and was about to set the plate outside the door when she heard a crash inside. He was home? And apparently under attack, or so it sounded. The doorknob turned easily in her hand, and the door itself glided open without a squeak.

"Hello?" she called, looking around for the source of the crash. "Anyone home, or am I interrupting a burglary?"

From behind the punctured and acid-stained sofa crawled the absolutely-pitiful form of the Freak in a purple dressing gown and ratty pyjamas. "What do you want?" he rasped. It sounded like he'd just swallowed a pound of sand, and there were dark circles around his bloodshot eyes.

Swallowing and taking another step in, Sally made herself more visible to the angle he was at and held the plate aloft. "I brought...are you okay down there?" She set the plate on the first flat surface she could find, carefully ignoring the mess for anything she might not want to see, and moved around the broken armchair to kneel by the Freak's side. He had closed his eyes and was breathing shallowly, but didn't seem to be ODing; he was just lying on the floor with hands folded tight across his stomach. She couldn't help thinking he looked very sad.

"Don't need your pity," he muttered, turning his head away.

Right. She grabbed him under the armpits and dragged his alarmingly light frame up onto the sofa and shoved the plate of biscuits into his lap. "Then stop feeling sorry for yourself," she snapped. "You're not high, I can tell; you're just in a strop. Now sit down, shut up, have a biscuit, and we're gonna watch Connie Prince."

The Freak groaned. "I'm deleting this whole affair first thing tomorrow."

"Fine with me, as long as you keep it stored long enough to tell Lestrade I came by so he doesn't bite my arse off." She propped up her feet on the rickety coffee table and switched on the telly, which had to be covered in at least a quarter-inch of dust.

For three full minutes of Connie the Freak stared at her. Then, he took a biscuit and nibbled contemplatively on its edge before nearly devouring the rest of it whole. "Your baking skill suggests an aptitude for chemistry," he commented.

"Thanks, Freak."

Ten minutes later he fell asleep on her, and she just didn't have the heart to move until she was certain he wouldn't wake again.