'Doing anything nice over Christmas?'

The unusual question surprised Anthea; she turned from the coat-hooks part-way through grabbing her coat and faced Mycroft, who was staring at his desk with a nonchalant expression that revealed nothing. There was a tinge of genuine interest in his voice, which was odd for one so cold and brooding.

'I'm sorry?' she asked, pretending she hadn't heard.

'Is that not what people ask? Whether others are doing anything nice over Christmas?' Mycroft wrinkled his forehead and wondered whether to give up now.

'Well... yes,' Anthea said. 'I suppose they do.'

'Well, are you?'

'You're not actually bothered, are you?' she asked with that half-smile that made her look like she was making fun of him. 'Who's trying to teach you how to be normal this time?'

'Nobody. I actually want to know.' Mycroft's impossibly pale cheeks took on a slightly pink tinge.

'No, not really. Family stuff.'

'You don't have a family.'

'I do, somewhere.' Anthea was not offended. She had long lost contact with her family. She had never really got on with them, and anyway, with a job like hers maintaining such relationships was difficult, bordering on impossible. 'Oh, all right. Just my own company and a bottle of mulled wine. Or two. As usual.'

There was a very awkward silence.

'Are you doing anything?'

'My parents' house for Boxing Day,' he replied. 'John – John Watson – invited me to his and Sherlock's place tomorrow.' He wasn't looking forward to it much. He was still trying to think of an excuse not to go.

'Nothing this evening then?'

Mycroft thought of the bottle of mediocre wine and the evening newspaper that awaited him in his flat. 'Nothing in particular; why?' He asked, but he could see the answer already: or at least, he thought he could see the answer, and he wasn't sure if he approved of it.

'I thought you might like to come to my place.' Anthea's voice was a little stammery then: a trait he did not quite recognise. She usually spoke in that clipped, reliable, frank tone that exuded confidence; now she was reduced to something more... normal. Shy, perhaps.

'Your place?' Mycroft narrowed his eyes somewhat.

'If you're not doing anything. For tea, I mean. And... and Christmas television. Nothing special. Just...'

'You're asking me on a date.' Mycroft sat back down with a bump.

'Yes; I suppose I am.'

'Nobody's ever asked me on a date before.' Mycroft frowned. He didn't know how he was supposed to react. He found himself thinking that he should have – yes, he should have noticed before now that Anthea – but did he? –

His mind was confused, and he did not reply. Anthea smiled again. 'I thought you might react like this. Come on, Mr Holmes.'

'Mycroft,' he said then. 'Please, call me Mycroft.'

His eyes, which were usually lifeless and cold, lit up remarkably then, and he came over to the coat-hooks, and took his coat down. 'I've never – I mean, I've always spent Christmas Eve alone – I mean, I don't even like Christmas that much.'

'Maybe the two things are connected,' said Anthea softly.

'Maybe,' he replied, with a surprising optimism.

He pulled his coat on, and wrapped a scarf around his neck; then Anthea offered her arm to him. He stared in surprise and blushed again, but at length slipped his arm in hers, shivering a little at the contact, unable to recall the last time he'd been this intimate with anyone. Had he ever been?...

'Merry Christmas, Mycroft,' Anthea said, seeing all of those thoughts that crossed his mind in those eyes that were now enlivened, sparkling at these new experiences, threatening to show his innermost emotions.

It occurred to him that nobody had wished him a Merry Christmas in a long while... He tried not to smile too much: it didn't suit him. Instead he led Anthea by the arm to the door, and down the corridor, and out onto the street. He felt something cold on his face, and looked up to see small tumbling snowflakes illuminated by the streetlight above, falling gently to the ground, the first snow of the winter. Maybe they would have a white Christmas.

He smiled more broadly then, and felt himself move closer to Anthea, felt his other hand reach for her gloved hand, tentatively exploring these sensations that he had never felt before, and had, it seemed, missed immensely. And he looked up at the snow, which fell faster now, swirling around them. It was like being in a Christmas card.

Then he turned to Anthea. She too smiled at the snow, and then at him. Their eyes met, and both pairs showed a flash of the emotion that they hardly dared to express. Was this it?...

He had known her but months, but he had never felt this way before, and he was pretty certain of himself. It made him awkward, but perhaps that was normal. He wouldn't know. All he knew was that it felt... right.

It's the most wonderful time of the year... Was there a song with those lyrics? He had always disregarded Christmas, he had never really liked it, but maybe just maybe, this year would be far better than all that had come before it. No. It would be. He knew it would.

'Happy Christmas, Anthea,' he said, and the snowy street resounded with the truth of those words.

It was going to be a good Christmas.