My heartfelt thanks go to Mapleleafcameo for betaing this story. Wouldn't have been possible without her! And here's the usual disclaimer, that I don't own any of the characters but still do as I please. ;-)

If somebody wonders about the relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade - the foundation was lain in the Story "Five Times Greg Lestrade saved Myroft Holmes Life".

Comments would be lovely.

"Where are they taking him?" John Watson's voice was anything but steady and he felt a tremor running across his shoulders. Mycroft Holmes' eyes appeared almost black. His gaze was following John's, settling on his brother who was just being searched by two men from Mycroft's unit.

"Military prison," he told John in a clipped tone of voice.

"Can I visit him? He needs clothing and other things from home."

"I will get those for him," Mycroft replied. Indicating the helicopter he had arrived in, he asked, "Do you want a lift back to London?"

John was about to shake his head but thought better of it. How was he supposed to get back from Appledore unless transportation was provided by the British government? He nodded meekly.

The moment Mycroft and John had climbed in and fastened their seat-belts, the pilot powered up the engine and two minutes later they were airborne.

John's head buzzed and question upon question came up. Would Sherlock have to face trial for murder? Was there anything John could do to help? Would Mycroft be able to get Sherlock out of this mess? He didn't want to ask Mycroft any one of them. Not while the pilot would be listening. Maybe later, when they had landed. However, John felt that most likely this wouldn't be the case. The politician had always appeared stiff and upright, but John had never seen him like this, as if he carried a great weight.

The helicopter had barely touched the ground when Mycroft got out. "You will be taken to my parents' house to pick up your belongings and your wife," he told John. Mycroft began to march away but stopped after a few meters. He turned around, and looked at the defeated form of his brother's best friend. "You need to come in for questioning tomorrow." His voice softened audibly when he added, "I'll be in touch to keep you informed about Sherlock."

John nodded that he understood and Mycroft walked away for good.

Against all expectations, John was actually looking forward to seeing Mary. When the limousine dropped him at the Holmes' cottage, Mrs Holmes was already waiting at the door, her eyes wide with worry. Apparently Bill Wiggins had left the house once he had noticed Mycroft coming round. He hadn't felt the urge to face the politician's wrath for drugging him. John followed Mrs Holmes inside and into the kitchen. He almost got knocked to the ground by his very pregnant wife who flew into his arms before she drew him into a desperate hug. John returned the hug and burying his face in Mary's neck, he felt his throat constrict.

Mrs Holmes was almost ready to burst, radiating a mixture of apprehension and curiosity but she made tea first and allowed John to sit down at the kitchen table. John downed the first cup and held it up for a refill, before he was able to talk. He told Sherlock's parents and Mary as much as he dared to tell. He left out quite a bit but now they knew that Sherlock was in prison for killing Magnussen and that Mycroft was doing his utmost to help his brother. At least John hoped he was.

When John was done talking, an uncomfortable silence settled in the kitchen. Mary cleared her throat. "I'd like to go home, John."

Both John and the Holmes parents nodded. A cab was called and half an hour later they were back in London's suburbs.

oOo

John felt odd coming back to the house Mary and he lived in until four months ago. When John had learned that she had shot Sherlock, he hadn't been able to go back. He had collected his stuff and moved back to Baker Street right away. The flat he had shared with Sherlock for so long had immediately felt like home again. Although at that time Sherlock had been committed to hospital after his gunshot wound had begun bleeding again. The flat in 221B had felt like an old friend, fit like his favorite jumper and smelled like his favorite meal cooked by his mother. For lack of sheets, he had slept in Sherlock's bed the first night and to his own surprise, John had slept like a baby. In the morning he had acknowledged that he felt quite odd. Odd because for some reason it had felt so very right sleeping in his friend's bed.

He had shared the bed with the detective only once before, when the window in his own room had been broken on a bitterly cold night. After having returned from a case they had been too tired to do anything about it but had climbed between the sheets of Sherlock's bed together and had fallen asleep right away.

The morning after Sherlock had been admitted to hospital John had taken a shower, paid Sherlock a visit and then he went back to the flat to clean the place from top to bottom. If there hadn't been the gnawing pain of Mary's betrayal and the overall looming question of what he was supposed to do, it would have been perfect. He had been back home at last. And that feeling had deepened considerably when Sherlock had been released from hospital and was back as well.

They had reverted to their old habits like nothing had ever happened, as if Sherlock hadn't been absent for two years and John hadn't been utterly heartbroken by the suicide Sherlock hadn't committed after all.

Now he was back with Mary in their house. Presently it was only a house, and John didn't know if would become his home again.

Being absolutely knackered John undressed, took a shower, brushed his teeth and went to bed. Mary went to bed too but they didn't cuddle. Both of them fell asleep right away.

oOo

Mycroft Holmes had never liked Christmas but this year it had exceeded all expectations in the worst possible way. When he left his office around 11pm, he felt emotionally drained. Sherlock had screwed up royally this time. Even if Mycroft called in every single favour somebody owed him, he doubted he could prevent Sherlock from being incarcerated. It was either that or being sent to Eastern Europe after all.

Sitting in his car, he thought about going home. He had always felt secure in his solitude but tonight he rather craved company. His fingers had already typed a short text to Gregory before he had finished this string of thought.

Are you awake? MH

The answer came less than half a minute later.

Yes, what's up? GL

Mind if I came over? MH

Of course not. GL

20 minutes. MH

:-) GL

Mycroft rang the bell exactly 18 minutes later and Greg buzzed him up immediately. When he stepped into the Inspector's small flat, Mycroft already felt part of the weight that had been sitting on his shoulders lift. Greg's 'Happy Christmas' died on the man's lips though.

"Jeez, Myc, you look like hell. What happened?"

Mycroft was ushered inside and once Greg had hung up his coat and propped up his umbrella in the stand he had purchased just for this very umbrella, they went into the living room. That is, Greg stepped into the room. Mycroft, still distracted, stopped right in the doorway and underneath a sprig of mistletoe Greg's daughter had decided to hang up there.

Greg couldn't prevent a grin spreading all over his face. He walked back slowly towards Mycroft.

"Are you standing there on purpose?" He asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Greg pointed at the mistletoe and Mycroft jumped forward, when he spotted the twig, a peculiar expression on his face.

A few months ago Greg wouldn't have dared making fun of him like this but bit-by-bit Mycroft had begun to relax around him, had learned that he could trust the Inspector and had found a real friend. Only last week Mycroft had for the first time discarded his tie and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves to help Greg wash up the dishes after they had eaten dinner together.

"Wow," Greg had shouted. "You're literally naked, Myc. Next time give a guy a warning."

His words plus the following laughter had earned him a wet cloth thrown at his face. Plus a chuckle people around the government official got to hear only on very rare occasion.

"Come on, Mycroft. Relax. If I'd any intentions of snogging you, you'd get no warning. Greg winked and clapped him on the shoulder. "What would you like? I got wine, beer and a very nice apple punch. The punch is without non-alcoholic. Tastes really great with or without a shot of Calvados."

They both settled for the alcoholic version of the punch. Once it was heated up they got settled.

"Want to tell me what's bothering you?" Greg eventually asked.

Mycroft took a sip of his punch. "This is good," he told Greg. Rubbing his forehead he looked at the Inspector over the rim of his cup. "Sherlock killed a man. I had to have him arrested by MI6."

Greg's eyes went wide. "Oh god, can you tell me any details? Who and why?"

"Who, is Charles Augustus Magnussen, why, because he did something to John Watson."

"Shit!" Greg brought it to the point. "Where's Sherlock now?"

"Military prison. And before you ask, you can't do anything to help him." Mycroft's face softened when he added, "But you're helping me by listening, Gregory."

"You're always welcome, Mycroft."

They sat in silence while drinking their punch. When Greg had downed the last bit he left the room to return moments later with an envelope that was adorned with a red bow.

"Happy Christmas, Mycroft." Greg handed him the envelope.

Taking it, Mycroft looked at him in surprise. "You've got me a present?" Greg grinned. It really must have been unexpected, for Mycroft was not a man who stated the obvious.

"Well, friends do sometimes give each other a present for Christmas." He considered what he just said and added quickly, "I know we haven't talked about exchanging presents, so I don't expect anything in return but when I saw this", he indicated the envelope, "it more or less had your name written all over it."

Mycroft put the envelope on the table without opening it, got up, went to his coat and came back with an envelope of his own. He handed it over to Greg.

"Actually I have heard about the custom of exchanging presents at Christmas. So, Happy Christmas to you too, Gregory."

"You first." Greg suddenly felt quite self-conscious about his purchase.

Mycroft opened the envelope and found two tickets for a concert of Ragna Schirmer, a young concert pianist from Germany.

"I think you'll like her music but I can change the tickets for something else if you don't."

"No, I love her music, especially the suits from Handel and Bach. I didn't even know she was coming here for a concert." Mycroft regarded the tickets. "But I'm not sure who to take along. Unless you'd like to go."

"The concert is in Edinburgh but I had hoped you would ask." Greg gave him a somewhat shy smile. "I've never been to anything like that, but I'd like to give it a go."

"I'd like that very much." Mycroft nodded and smiled at his friend. "Thank you very much, Gregory. That is the most thoughtful present I've had in a very long time." He gave Greg's hand an affectionate squeeze. "But now..." He indicated Greg's envelope.

Greg opened it and found two season tickets for his favorite football club, Arsenal. Being a lot less reserved when it came to showing his affection, he jumped up and engulfed Mycroft into a hug, almost toppling them both off the sofa.

"Thanks, Myc. You're the best." Greg swallowed, releasing his friend who had blushed to a ferocious scarlet. "Care for a malt, before we call it a night?"