I wanted to do another Sherlock story! Here we are!

This will be JohnLock (eventually) and Mystrade (half-established, spot my casual references), with Molly Hooper (of course) and the cast of Scotland Yard (this isn't our division).

AND IT'S CHRISTMASSY! YUP! Sherlock celebrates Christmas! All will be revealed in this chapter!

I am also planning a Harry Potter Christmas story too. So don't worry.

Enjoy this chapter, and please review!

"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule." - Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Four

Mycroft's Promise (Or "How John Was Shocked By Sherlock's Christmas Spirit When He Came Back From Buying Milk")

"John?" Sherlock called, not moving from his armchair in the front room of 221B, surrounded by papers, and an erroneous handbag just to his left. His left sleeve was pulled up to reveal, not just one, but three nicotine patches, and his tie was dangling loosely around his neck. Mrs Hudson had been around earlier that morning to dust, as his skull had been moved approximately three millimetres, and his laptop had been shut when he got back from that meeting with Lestrade.

When John didn't respond, Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling. 'Hard of hearing – television on too loud?'He added to his already overflowing 'John' room in his mind palace, pushing a few of his more… untameable feelings into the old writing desk at the very, very back.

"John?" He called again, a margin louder.

John didn't respond, but what Sherlock did get was Mrs Hudson in her pink fluffy slippers and matching dressing gown (too big by a fraction, it made a sound when it dragged against the carpet). "John's gone to get milk Sherlock." She reminded him, and Sherlock nodded.

"Good. I told him to get milk two days ago." He took out the 'hard of hearing' comment and deleted it. Replaced was something for Mrs Hudson – she was trying a new perfume, violets and vanilla. Dior. Given to her by her niece two weeks ago. "We're out of teabags too."

"I'm not your housekeeper dearie." Mrs Hudson said, with a sigh, but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Housekeeper, landlady, same thing." He dismissed. "Oh, and next time you're dusting, please can you not move my skull?"

Mrs Hudson lingered a moment longer – long enough to tut at the mess (and presumably the skull) – but then she was padding down the stairs again, the door shutting with a click behind her.

Sherlock was more than happy to lie there in his armchair, sorting his mind palace and to further his ponderings on Lestrade's new cologne – it seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it – but then…

"Not John." Sherlock muttered, as he picked up the phone, taking one quick glance at the caller ID, before tossing it to one side as he saw the number, memorised. He couldn't deal with Mummy today.

However, he did pick up the next call, less than two minutes later, even though he didn't want to. Mycroft was dreadfully persistent.

"Did you notice Lestrade's new cologne?" He asked, as soon as he had pressed 'accept call'."

"Unlike you, Sherlock, I don't care for Greg Lestrade's new cologne." Mycroft said, in an exasperated tone that really grated against Sherlock's patience.

"His name's Graeme." Sherlock corrected automatically. "It's Graeme Lestrade."

"I assure you, his name is Gregory Lestrade, Greg for short." Mystrade replied, and Sherlock sat up abruptly. "Now, that wasn't what I am calling about."

"You have, as far as I know, only met Lestrade twice, once today and two weeks ago when you interrogated him." Sherlock began.

"I didn't interrogate him-"

Sherlock ignored that. Irrelevant to the conversation. Mycroft could be so stupid sometimes. "Yes, but why would you bother to learn his name so quickly? It took you two months and six days to learn John's correctly."

"Two months and eight days, get your facts right Sherlock." Mycroft corrected. "And John Watson was irrelevant then."

Sherlock shook his head. He stood up, picking up the handbag and then tossing that to one side, scattering the contents across the room. "John was never irrelevant, you just couldn't accept that I had a friend."

"Sherlock, are we ever going to address the point of this conversation or will we talk in circles for the next five hours?" Mycroft sighed. "The point is – Christmas is coming, and of course-"

"Mummy will expect us home." Sherlock filled in for his older brother, sitting back down again when a quick glance at the kitchen accounted for Mrs Hudson's statement. "And I won't be going, like normal."

Sherlock could hear his brother rolling his eyes. "At least try and be festive." Mycroft said, a little hypocritically. "Maybe remember to get the Christmas tree out? Possibly?"

"Christmas is boring." Sherlock replied, in a monotone. "And you won't be celebrating this year Mycroft, will you?"

There were ten seconds of silence. The Mycroft began to speak again. "If you come to Mummy's for Christmas then I promise I will leave you alone for six months."

"Done." Sherlock said, before pressing the 'hang up' button and throwing the phone away as well.

It was another ten minutes and thirty-two seconds before John came home. Sherlock was up before he could reach the kitchen, pulling him back down the stairs to the front door, grabbing his coat and scarf as he did.

"Sherlock?" John sounded surprised, wearing his blue coat today, Sherlock noted. He was feeling a little festive, which would be good for Sherlock's new plan to eleven minutes and forty-six seconds ago. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock thought that it was quite obvious what he was doing. But still, he humoured his flatmate by slowing down, looking at John placidly and saying: "Christmas shopping, what else? It's minus two point six degrees, snow is forecast, and you've brought milk."

John couldn't see the logic in this, at all, but when he saw his best friend stride out the front door with an uncharacteristic cheesy grin, his eyes widened and he hurried after Sherlock.

"…Christmas shopping?"