A/N: So here is day one of my twelve days of Christmas. I appreciate that different countries may have different versions of this song and some countries may not have even heard of it (type it into your search engine of choice and take a look, it's fascinating), I also appreciate that some people may not agree with the dates of the twelve days, but this is my take on it, and I need the twelfth day to fall on twelfth night. I've almost finished writing day two, and I already know what gifts are going to be given for the other days. I will apologise right at the outset and say that some of them may be a little tenuous, but please don't hate me for that.
Warning & Disclaimer: There will be some slash in the final chapter (nothing too graphic), if you don't like, don't read. I don't own any of this, wish I did. :)
Please enjoy!
On the 1st day of Christmas my true love gave to me ...
26th December – Boxing Day.
The tension in 221B Baker Street was palpable as consulting detective Sherlock Holmes faced off against Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. Using his height and deep baritone voice to full effect Sherlock stared down the sergeant as he demanded that she place the skull back where she had found it, whilst simultaneously ignoring every word she uttered.
'Sherlock! If you have information about the murders, you need to tell us!' yelled DI Lestrade, 'God, where's John when we need him?' he muttered quietly to himself as he stood up from the chair he had been lounging in.
Sherlock turned to the inspector and replied, 'he's spending a few days at his sister's. I don't understand everyone's preoccupation with his whereabouts. I had to put up with Mycroft earlier, questioning me about John. He's a full grown adult male for God's sake. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself!'
'Yeah, it's not John we're concerned about, mate.' answered Greg as he regarded the younger man with fond exasperation.
Sherlock huffed indignantly in response, walked over to his desk, picked up some papers that were lying there and turned back to the older man. Holding the sheets of paper out in front of himself he walked back to the inspector. 'This should be everything you need, even you should be able to work it out from this.' he said as he handed over the collection of papers in his hand. 'Now go! Go away!'
Greg smiled in amusement at the childishness displayed by the young consulting detective as he turned to leave, gathering the other police officers as he went. Walking through the door, he walked straight into the owner of the house, Mrs. Hudson, almost knocking her over.
'Mrs. Hudson, are you okay, I'm most dreadfully sorry.' Greg apologised profusely as he held the elderly woman in his arms keeping her upright.
'Oh dear, silly me. I'm quite alright dear, though it's been many years since I've been in the arms of such a lovely young man such as yourself.' Mrs. Hudson replied as she giggled a little in embarrassment at her predicament.
Greg smiled charmingly as he led her towards John's chair, helping her to sit down, then raising her hand to his lips, he placed a small kiss to the back of her hand as he said, 'well, it's been a long time since I held such a beautiful woman in my arms Mrs. H.'
'Oh get away with you! I'm old enough to be your mother.' she replied with a smile. Greg returned the smile with a cheeky one of his own, his warm brown eyes sparkling in amusement.
The banter between the two of them was suddenly broken by a loud huff from across the room. Turning they saw Sherlock standing next to the window, his arms folded, a grumpy look on his face. Realising he finally had their attention, he asked, 'well, I assume there was a reason you came up to the flat, other than to make a fool of yourself over a man young enough, as you say, to be your son, Mrs. Hudson?'
'Sherlock!' Greg looked shocked as he heard the way Sherlock spoke to his landlady.
'It's quite alright, he's just missing John. He always gets like this when John's away. He doesn't really mean it.' said Mrs. Hudson.
'He should know better, Mrs. Hudson.' replied Greg.
'Well thank you dear. Oh, but I nearly forgot, I found this package on the doorstep when I came home just now.' Mrs. Hudson said as she handed over a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper to Sherlock.
Sherlock took the parcel and immediately began to examine it closely. Holding it in one hand told him the approximate weight (not heavy enough to be a bomb), while he took note of the label (hand delivered of course, royal mail don't work on Boxing Day), printed on a generic laser printer so not particularly helpful. The wrapping was a little more helpful as it had been done by whoever sent the parcel and showed the person to be patient, caring and precise.
Carefully, he placed the package on the table and observed the parcel from every possible angle, kneeling down at eye level he leant forward and took a large sniff but could not detect any unusual odours. There appeared to be very little about the package, other than the precise way it had been wrapped that would help him discover the identity of the sender, so finally, pulling his knife from the stack of letters it was currently holding, he placed the point into a gap between the tape holding the brown paper in place.
Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's arm, 'Don't you think we should check it out first, get the bomb squad down here to take a look at it?' he asked.
'No need, Moriarty is dead, remember. I doubt anyone else would be clever enough to come close.' Sherlock replied as he slid the knife through the wrapping. Pulling open the paper, a plain black picture frame was revealed.
Sherlock picked up the frame and turned it over, his eyes widening slightly as he saw the picture held within the frame. After glancing at it, he handed the frame to the inspector who took it and gasped when he saw what was depicted in the picture. 'It's a pear tree! Look, there's a pear hanging from one of the branches, and, what's that peeking out through the leaves?' Greg exclaimed.
'I believe it's a partridge, going by its shape and the pattern on the feathers, inspector.' replied Sherlock as he picked up the note he had found underneath the frame.
'It's beautiful, what's it done in? Is that pencil?' asked Greg, an amazed tone to his voice.
'Hmm? Oh yes, I suppose it is.' replied Sherlock distractedly. Opening the note, he read it silently to himself, his eyebrows rising ever higher as he read it to the end.
Lestrade finally noticing Sherlock's distraction, looked up from the drawing and saw that Sherlock was immersed in the note. Plucking it from the consulting detective's long fingers, Greg read it out loud.
'My dear Sherlock, please forgive my desire for anonymity at this time. I do not yet feel ready to reveal myself to you. I hope however that you will appreciate my first gift to you. Always, Your True Love.'
'Oh my!' stated Mrs. Hudson as she placed a hand over her mouth in surprise, 'it's just like the song, you know, The 12 Days of Christmas.'
'Yeah, that's exactly what it is, a partridge in a pear tree is the first gift, isn't it.' replied Greg as the shock he had felt when he first read the note was beginning to wear off slightly. 'So who do you think it is?' as he asked he turned to see Sherlock standing with his hands raised to his face in his typical thinking pose.
Realising that he had been asked a question and quickly deducing the content of the said question, Sherlock replied 'well there are a couple of possibilities, but I may need more data.'
'Oh I don't think that will be a problem, mate. There's a reason the song is called the twelve days of Christmas. I doubt this is the last we've heard from Your True Love!' Greg said with a grin.