***Author's Note***

This isn't really a crossover, I basically just borrowed the concept of the Christmas rom-com "The Holiday" and forced the Sherlock characters into it. You won't have to be familiar with the film at all to read this story (and if you have seen it, you'll notice significant alterations). And this isn't a typical rom-com in that the outcome for some of the characters is going to be friendship (epic best friends more like) than actual romance. But I have used quotes from the movie as the story and chapter titles.

"Sir, we have a situation," the personal assistant he'd been assigned mouthed silently from the doorway. The tinny beat of popular holiday music mixed with laughter echoed from the conference room down the hall.

Mycroft Holmes glared up at his latest in a string of unqualified and too young - this one was the youngest by far - personal assistants. He was military trained, judging by his posture and the haircut that did him no favors, obviously field tested, and seeking promotion if he'd willingly taken the undesirable task of doing the impossible job of assisting the impossible man. The British Government the others had called him. They were unaware that he was aware of the nomenclature. They were unaware that he was aware of a great many indiscretions.

Travis... Thomas... Tristan... Whatever his name was, had held his position longer than any of the others. Any since, her...

"What is that noise, Holmes?" A gruff, demanding voice barked from the computer.

"It's nothing, absolutely nothing Colonel. Please, continue." Narrowing his eyes at Timothy - yes, Timothy - Mycroft motioned for him to close the door and step into his office. His assistant stumbled over his own feet, fumbled but quickly recovered the tablet he carried, and managed to close the door with a soft click.

"A strike within the next three hours will assure the civilian workforce will be clear from the compound, and we can evacuate the adjacent residential area under the cover of night."

"And your operatives are certain our target is inside the facility?" Mycroft glared at Timothy, standing at awkward attention on the other side of his desk, a moment longer, then turned his full attention back to the secure video communication.

"We have eyes on him now. Three of his generals and a dozen foot soldiers are with him."

"Women and children?"

"There are..."

Mycroft frowned at the Colonel's hesitation. He repeated himself with cold fierceness. "Women and children, Colonel?"

"We've counted seventeen so far. Eleven children."

Exhaling deeply, Mycroft's demeanor shifted to something more commanding and terrible. Timothy swallowed hard and shifted reflexively at what he knew was coming. "Do it," Mycroft's tone was even, easily mistaken for calm. "Take as many of the women and children alive as possible, along with one of the generals and two low ranking underlings. The men will talk under threat of torture. If not for themselves, then for the children." He straightened his tie in a practiced, decisive motion. "Kill everyone else."

"Yes, sir." There was a pause, and Timothy knew the Colonel was saluting. Mycroft nodded his head once in response. The transmission cut out abruptly.

With a click of the mouse, Mycroft switched his monitors back to default, one set to observe security footage the world over, and one to a constant news feed that looked suspiciously like Twitter. He took up his pen and focused on the stack of documents in front of him as if he hadn't just ordered the execution of a high profile terrorist cell leader, and his top advisors, in the midst of an attempted government coup. He held out his free hand to Timothy without looking up at him.

"Right," Timothy cleared his throat. "Mr. Holmes, sir, there's a situation." He brought the images back up on his tablet and with trembling hand, passed it off to his superior.

Cocking his head in annoyance, Mycroft took the device. When wasn't there a situation? The end of the year was upon them. In the week between Christmas and the New Year last year he'd managed two cease fires, avoided four international "incidents," bailed out a failing economy, and staged a well timed military coup. Nothing, not even an unexpected turn to peace on earth and goodwill to all men, could phase him.

"Yes, you mentio-" The corner of Mycroft's right eye twitched involuntarily, and continued to do so as he crushed several pages of the document he'd been signing in his white knuckled fist. "Where did this come from?" His voice was a low, threatening rumble through clenched teeth.

"Ah... Uhm..." Timothy took a full step back.

"Speak! Now," Mycroft roared.

"Sir, it's a multimedia message sent to your personal mobile from, ha... From your m-mummy."

Tossing the pen and crumpled pages away, Mycroft pounded his fist on the desk and stood. He towered over Timothy and snarled down at him. "My mother sent this."

"Yes, sir." Having recovered some of his decorum, Timothy did his best to stand, shoulders squared, eyes fixed and unwavering on his boss.

"Explain to me what I am looking at."

"It appears, sir, that the personalized gold banded Wedgewood bone China you commissioned for your parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary in two months arrived early, and your mum-" Timothy stuttered and took a halting breath. "Your mother, sir, has mistaken it for her Christmas gift. She said, 'It's lovely, dear...'" His voice trailed off and he slowly lowered the finger he'd raised to point at the attached text message.

"How did this happen?" Rage etched on his face, Mycroft's breaths came ragged and intentional.

"The company doesn't seem to know. They sent over the requisition. All of your specifications are clearly detailed." Timothy took his own calming breath. "I double checked. The matching tea service for your mother, and the hunting jacket and boots for your father, are still scheduled to be delivered to their home prior to your arrival on Christmas Eve."

"Well, that is good news, isn't it?" There was something lethal in Mycroft's unexpectedly cheerful tone. His disingenuous smile seemed almost painful.

"Is it?" Timothy grimaced even as he asked the question.

"No!" He shouted. Thinking better of throwing the tablet across the room, Mycroft shoved it into Timothy's hands and turned to pour himself a sloppy measure of expensive brandy. He tossed it back and poured another. "I can't. I can't do it. I won't."

"Sir?" Brows furrowed in concern, Timothy took a cautious step forward.

Grabbing Timothy's lapel in a tight fisted hold, he dragged the young man close. "The gifts. My parents will... appreciate them. They will attempt to show me appreciation."

"It is what families do at Christmas, sir." Timothy nodded.

"No!" Mycroft finished his drink, released Timothy's lapel and ran his hand through his hair. "I won't be subject to their affections and sentiment." He turned quickly to his computer. "I need a disaster. An uprising or epidemic. A good old fashioned war! Anything! Timothy, get me..."

"Sir?"

"What? Why aren't you," Mycroft motioned urgently toward the door.

"Mr. Holmes, sir, why not just, uhm, take a holiday?" Timothy mumbled.

"I- I'm sorry? What did you just say?" Incredulous, Mycroft stood once more to face him.

"A holiday, sir. Leave town? I heard you never..."

"Never. I never take a holiday. Not in an official capacity. How could I possibly..." Mycroft looked nearly desperate.

"You wouldn't have to leave the country even. Just London. Don't tell anyone where you're going."

"I could work remotely." Nodding, Mycroft sat slowly in his chair. "No distractions. Peace and quiet."

"And no family to shower you with love and appreciation," Timothy huffed an uncertain laugh.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, but nodded again. He paused to consider his options. "Christmas is... soon."

"Three days, sir."

"Three?" Mycroft seemed startled at the revelation. "Where could I possibly..."

"My cousin Iris told me about this website... May I?" He stepped nearer, and Mycroft relenquished control of the desk. "You basically trade homes with someone else for a designated amount of time."

"Homes? As in, my personal house? I..."

"It's very secure, sir. You supply a description of your home in your profile, and then you search for another home that meets your needs and time frame. Simple."

"Simple," Mycroft mumbled, slowly coming back to himself. "This is a rather rash idea. A very poor plan indeed. Timothy, I'm sorry, I think it would be best if you clear your desk. You'll be compensated well for your discretion in never speaking of this matter, and I'll personally see to your next assignment..."

"Oh, look! A cottage in Sussex is listed. This bloke seems desperate too. Willing to trade off any time. Could be ready tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mycroft shoved Timothy out of the way and intently studied the profile. "Do it. I'm going to do it."

"Yeah?" Timothy grinned.

"Yes," Mycroft replied firmly. "Clear my schedule for the next week."

"Just a week, sir?" Timothy started for the door.

"Yes, a week should be sufficient time for my mother's enthusiasm to fade. Wait, Timothy..." The young man turned back to face him with wide eyes. "How do I contact this..." Mycroft squinted at the screen, "Doctor John H. Watson?"