2009

For some reason the early weeks of December always seemed to rile up Sherlock's temper more than all the other months of the year combined. He snapped at people more, barked orders at junior officers—which had cost Greg more than a few resignations—and was stingier in his explanations on cases. If it weren't for the fear that Sherlock would relapse if he didn't have work and the sad fact that the Yard was often lost without him, Greg would have stopped inviting him altogether until January. That was usually when Sherlock got over whatever was eating him and was more like his old self.

Greg was wishing he had done so tonight, as Sherlock glared at the shopkeeper whose break-in they were investigating. "Would you please turn off that boring dribble?"

"Sherlock," Greg started to say, but he was cut off by, "I can't concentrate with those stupid carols in the background."

"Scrooge," Anderson muttered, folding his arms. The shopkeeper hurried to switch off the music, zapping the store of what little Christmas cheer it had left. With the broken lights and the decorations knocked down, the place was bloody depressing. Sherlock bent over a shattered ornament with his lens and Greg hoped he wouldn't be much longer.

"This is really quite simple," he said.

"Then tell us where the burglar is so we can go home, freak," Donovan said, leaning in with that plastered smile. "Some of us have actually been invited to parties and have presents to buy."

"Sergeant," Greg warned, lowering his head a bit. He felt bad every year about not inviting Sherlock to the Yard Christmas party; in his opinion no one deserved it more. But since it was supposed to be for official force members and their spouses only, doing so would have raised too many questions. Besides, he reminded himself. Sherlock wouldn't want to go anyway, right? He doesn't do parties.

Upon noticing Sherlock's eyes at Donovan's comment, he wasn't so sure.

Sherlock stood up, kicking aside a fallen pile of Christmas lights and pulling off his gloves. "Burglar is a Caucasian woman in her late 30's, 5'7, wears a brace on her teeth, and obviously low-income. She clearly cut herself badly while trying to flee, so there's an 89% chance you'll find her in some sort of medical facility."

"Oh thank you, that's so much to go on," Anderson sneered.

"Well, I wish you all the best of luck. You'll clearly need it," Sherlock retorted as he pulled his coat tighter around him and left. Greg followed him, teeth chattering in the sudden gust of wind that blew through the wreath and garland-covered streets.

"Thanks for the help," he said.

"You can thank me by helping me get a cab," Sherlock replied as the second one drove by his waving hand. The streets were packed with cars and pedestrians alike, most of them loaded with large shopping bags.

"Good luck with that," Greg said, though he put his hand up too. "Everyone's out shopping tonight. Or going to parties. Visiting loved ones."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said. Another cab passed. Greg put his hand down and shrugged.

"Well, I don't have the cruiser tonight, or I'd give you a ride. Maybe try the bus or the tube?"

"They'll be too crowded." Sherlock flipped his collar and turned around. "I'll just walk."

Greg scratched his head. "That's a long way to go. It's awful cold out."

"Brilliant deduction, Lestrade," Sherlock said without smiling. He sighed. "At least this way my arsehole of a landlord will be asleep by the time I get there."

"And then what?" Greg asked, though he wasn't sure why he did.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock turned to look at him.

Greg shrugged. "Well, for Christmas." When Sherlock didn't answer, he clarified. "I mean, surely you've got somebody to spend it with. Right?"

Sherlock blinked and looked away again, and Greg was suddenly very sorry he'd asked.

"I hate Christmas," he said quietly, and walked away with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

2017

Greg really needed to learn not to bring Sherlock to crime scenes in December. More to the point, he needed to remember not to invite Sherlock and John. Usually they were great together, but tonight they were giving everyone on the force headaches.

"I bet he solves it in two minutes," John bragged, and Greg had his suspicions about the goofy grin on his face and the constant swaying. He was halfway tempted to give him a breathalyzer. "Brilliant boyfriend, you."

Everyone groaned, but Sherlock lit up more than the Christmas lights around them. "It certainly is simple."

"Well, do you think you could tell us the answer in time for us to make it to the party?" Donovan demanded. "You know, the one for professionals only."

"Of course, I'll soon be having a party of my own," Sherlock said, and there was another collective groan as he winked at John, who giggled.

"Come on you two, get a room," Greg said, though he couldn't help grinning a bit. Sherlock stood up and John swayed into him, which Sherlock welcomed by wrapping his arms around him. Greg hadn't thought it possible that he could smile so much.

"Burglar is a man in his 20's, 5'3, probably already in custody for something else, given that he was stupid enough to leave his fingerprints and a list of what appears to be store addresses. Check with other officers first, but even if he's somehow escaped police so far, you'll probably find him at one of the department stores on Charing Cross."

"Isn't that where you were?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned even wider. "It's where I bought your present. The biggest one under the tree." John giggled again and Sherlock circled his waist in a backwards hug, kissing his head. The other officers rolled their eyes and headed for the police cars parked outside. Greg knew he should follow them, but there was something nice about watching these two get all affectionate, especially now that they were softly singing a Christmas song to each other. Greg missed doing those kinds of things with the wife sometimes.

"Will you play that on the violin when we get home, love?" John asked, stroking his cheek. "I love it when you play carols for me."

"Of course," Sherlock said, helping John stand up straight. "But only after Mrs. Hudson gives up her Christmas biscuits."

"Mmm," John tugged on Sherlock's sleeve. "C'mon, let's find a cab."

Sherlock laughed. "You want us to take a cab when we're only a few blocks away? We'd never get one anyway."

"Well, if you're gonna walk, let me help him out of here," Greg said, since they seemed to have forgotten he was there. He put his arm under John's while Sherlock took the other and together they helped him navigate the broken glass and fallen merchandise until he was on the sidewalk, still holding onto Sherlock for support. "My god, Sherlock, don't let him have so much wine next time."

"Oh do relax, Lestrade, it is a holiday," Sherlock said. His eyes were shining like stars as he reinforced his arm around John. "So what are your plans?"

Greg raised his hands. "Dunno. Probably go to the party. Maybe go to a pub and get myself a pint."

"You don't have someone to spend Christmas with?" Sherlock asked, his eyes darkening in concern.

Greg smiled. So the bastard did care. "Yeah, I got a few friends in town, plus I'll be leaving to see relatives in the morning. Anyway, you two go on and enjoy your 'party'." John giggled again and Sherlock smiled.

He shook Greg's hand. "Take care." He seemed to be avoiding Greg's eyes, prompting him to ask if everything was okay.

"Oh yes, everything's fine," Sherlock said, and his voice was softer than Greg had ever heard it. "It's just, I love Christmas." And for just a split second, his cheeks turned pink and his cheeks were damp as he walked away with his hand intertwined in John's.