"I'm telling you," Lestrade said, blinking wildly and trying to remain upright in his chair. "Wankers. The lots of them." John nodded, eyes closed. "If it's not Anderson, it's the fucking..fucking.. the guy. The one in charge."

"The Superintendent?" John filled in, blurring the word.

"Arsehole. He is, not you. Complete dickfaced cock monkey."

"S'why I punched him," John mumbled, blinking owlishly in the various lights that were all over the pub. "He fucking d'served it."

"Christmas," Lestrade hiccupped.

John turned to him, looking utterly confused. Lestrade repeated the word.

"What 'bout it?"

"You. Shlock. Christmas."

John looked at him, frowning with intense concentration, which only served to make him look rather constipated.

"Christmas," He mouthed to himself, trying to remember quite what it was Lestrade was talking about. It wasn't Christmas yet was it? "This one? Or next one?" He asked, proud of this complex linear-progressive thought.

"Christmas!" Lestrade repeated, louder, gesturing at John's face, narrowly missing his chin.

"You. Shlock. Christmas," Lestrade repeated.

"'Kay. Sure," John nodded, his head bobbing up and down uselessly. The sounds of the bar clinked around them, with the last orders bell ringing. It was ignored by most patrons, who continued to drunkenly down their wages.

"Good, good," Lestrade said, happily. He wasn't quite sure why he was happy, but he was happy. "Good," he said a third time, for emphasis.

"…Is Mycof f gonna be there?" John asked, after a pause. Lestrade licked his dry lips, remembering his lover's name.

"Yes." He decided on firmly. It was only after he said this did he realise what this meant. "Shit."

"Shit." John agreed, niether feeling more eloquent."

"Let's, let's just not tell them!" Lestrade suggested, lifting a hand, he then appeared confused, looking at his own fingers in wonderment.

"We have to tell them!"

"Tell them what?" Lestrade asked, snapping his attention away from his digits. "OH! Christmas, yes."

"Shlock's gonna kill 'im," John told him seriously. "Duno what Mycoff did…"

"CROFT," Lestrade said seriously. "S'Corft. With a 't'. Not there. Croft. Not Corft. Croft."

"Yeah, but, well, Mycof's gonna die at Christmas."

"I'll arrest Shlock first."

"Good luck, he took your cuffs," John pointed out, taking a large slug of beer and spilling it down his jumper.

"That fucker!" Lestrade slammed his fist down, this earned him a few dirty looks from the assembled patrons. "Murder and theft!"

"Not murder yet," John pointed out over his pint. "Only potential murder,"

"He planned it."

"Didn't do it."

"He thefted it though," Lestrade said petulantly.

"He did, but he… he has about six of your… the things… the badgy thing…"

"I don't 'ave a badger."

"I know. But. Mugs too."

"My mugs?" Lestrade asked.

"Coppers mugs,"

"Copper mugs?"

"No, police mugs,"

"We aren't mugs!" Lestrade told him.

"No, we took your mugs," John tried to explain, as if describing some great feat of daring and courage.

"Bastards."

"Nice though," John pointed out. "Like them. Lots. I didn't take all the mugs. Just some mugs."

"D'you steal my d'nuts?"

"…Your what?" John asked, hoping very hard Lestrdae hadn't said what John thought he had.

"Dough. Nuts," Lestrdae said slowly, and John breathed a sigh of relief, and shook his head. Lestrade looked vaguely mollified. They were quiet for a long moment.

"Shlock did."

"He ate my d'nuts?" Lestrade asked, Sherlock had never seemed like a doughnut guy.

"Naaahhh," John waved a hand. "Just takes them, for 'speraments,"

"Not my fucking nuts. Wanker."