Chapter Two
The Tree – We Are All Druids – Not Here – Two Days Before Christmas – Applied Machiavellian Techniques – Four Unpleasant Facts – The Glass Heart – Too Long in the Job – The Problem of Gifts – Confounding Sherlock – Signs – A Walk in the Dark.
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Lying on their bed, swathed in a silk quilt and feeling unusually languorous, Cate watched her husband dress. He was an elegant dresser, she decided. Everything went on properly the first time and seemed to wrap itself quite naturally around his tall form without fuss or effort. No awkward fumbling for buttons or zips, no sucking-in of stomachs. Mycroft putting his clothes on was rather like watching a reverse-strip. He enticed.
"People would pay to watch you dress, you know," she said.
"I shall bear that in mind should I ever find myself in need of alternative employment," he smiled, twisting cufflinks into place.
"We may have to do this more often so I can ogle you at my leisure," Cate murmured, sliding an arm under her head. "I quite like it." She sighed, settling deeper into the warm softness of the covers and enjoying the pleasantly heavy sensation of her limbs.
Brushing out a wrinkle from his shirt-sleeve, Mycroft walked over to the bed, and, kneeling on the edge, rested his arms either side of her to gaze down into dreamy brown eyes. Lowering his shoulders, he brushed her mouth with the lightest of kisses.
"As my lady commands," he smiled.
The impulse to pull him down into her arms and make him stay sent tingles of anticipation to her toes, but the sound of a heavy vehicle growling through the main gates at the front of the house made the thought vanish.
"The tree!" she froze, staring up at Mycroft and remembering. "Nora said it would be here this afternoon. Bloody hell."
Wriggling madly out of the suddenly confining throw, Cate launched herself off the bed and into the bathroom where the sound of running water barely muffled a gleeful chorus O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, thou tree most fair and lovely …
Shaking his head, amused, Mycroft swung into a jacket before heading downstairs to see exactly what his wife had chosen to grace their home this festive season.
Mrs Compton was already at the door where two substantial young men stood, one with an electronic delivery pad.
"It's alright, Nora," he said. "I'll deal with it."
"Afternoon, Sir," the one with the pad said. "Delivery of your Noble Fir as scheduled."
"Might I see it before you bring it in?"
"Certainly, Sir," the younger of the two nodded cheerfully. "We always like our customers to 'ave a look before we bring it in, in any case, as it's a bit 'eavy like to keep lumpin' up an' down."
Catching more than a trace of a Welsh accent, Mycroft's lips twitched. Cate's crisp Received pronunciation sometimes held faint echoes of the valleys. Especially if the discussion were heated.
Walking out to the rear of the lorry, it was plain that several deliveries were yet to be made. The back of the vehicle was half-full with meticulously-wrapped trees of varying shapes and sizes, each one held securely in a substantial tub.
"These are live trees?" Mycroft was surprised. He'd expected the usual pre-cut variety.
"Oh, yes, Sir," the second of the men nodded confirmation. "We don't like our trees to die before their time," he said. "Life is precious; even trees."
"I think my wife would agree with you," Mycroft nodded. "Which one is ours?"
Jumping up onto the flatbed, the younger Welshman carefully manoeuvred a specific tree into view. It was tall. Very tall. Wrapped entirely from trunk to tip in careful hemp sacking. Extracting a wicked-looking penknife from his back pocket, he slit the coarse material from bottom to top.
What sprang into view was the most classic of all Christmas trees.
Dark green, straight, dense, conifer pyramis. It was a perfect specimen.
"Mae hynny'n goeden hardd," Cate announced from behind him. "I love it."
Turning, Mycroft watched as his wife pulled herself easily up onto the back of the lorry to slide her hands deep into the thick foliage of the tree. The expression on her face was beatific.
"I had no idea you were a Druid," he said, watching her.
"We all are," she said, smiling at the heady scent of the living thing before her. "We just forget sometimes."
"Are you 'appy with the tree, then?" the younger of the two men wanted to be sure.
"Oh, yes," Cate smiled. "It's exactly what I wanted, thank you for bringing her to me."
"Shall we get it inside for you?"
Helping Cate jump down from the back of the lorry and standing well clear, Mycroft watched as their tree was oh-so-very-carefully brought to ground-level.
"This way, please," Cate beckoned them into the house.
Waiting until the tree was in its rightful place and the delivery had been signed for and the lorry had gone on its way, Cate stood in front of the beautifully fragrant fir and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.
"Flawless," Mycroft's fingers stroked the nape of her neck before leaning her back against him. He wasn't sure if he meant Cate or the tree. Possibly both.
"I love trees," Cate sighed. "After Christmas, I intend to begin planting a new copse of conifers half-way between the house and the far woods," she said. "And this one will be the first," she added, turning in his arms and looking serious. "I'm not sure if you know what this means to me."
"I had no real idea, no," he said. "But I'm beginning to see."
"I shall wait until John's here before I start decorating," she said. "If that's alright with you?"
"My love, I shall be happy if you are happy," Mycroft smiled. If Cate wanted John to help her with the tree, that was fine with him. After the … events of the day, all he really wanted to do was settle down with the paper and a glass of good malt. But there was one more task before he could bid farewell to his responsibilities.
"Sherlock and John should be on the four o'clock train," he said. "Since I've advised virtually my entire staff to begin their holiday, I'll take the Bentley and collect them myself. Assuming the train's on time, I'll only be a few minutes."
The Boxhill and Westhumble railway station was about two minutes away by car.
"Nora and I are going to make up the guest rooms," Cate paused, thoughtfully. "Are there any issues Sherlock might have in this house?" she asked, a thinking look on her face. "Despite everything he tells people, Sherlock is not an insensitive person, and I don't want to do anything that might upset him."
Mycroft saw the seriousness of Cate's question. Such empathy with his, often misunderstood, younger brother, made his chest feel tight. He smiled. How had he managed to find a woman like her?
"Sherlock's early years were not unhappy ones," he said, slowly. "It was only when he began to discover the appalling limitations of adulthood that he developed certain … idiosyncrasies."
"Will there be a problem if I don't put him in his old room?" Cate wanted to be absolutely sure.
"Not in the least," Mycroft looked into his wife's eyes and felt, once again, an overwhelming sense of appreciation.
"Good," Cate nodded. In that case, I'll put John in the Blue bedroom and Sherlock in the Green one, either side of the second-floor bathroom. Since they share a flat, I doubt they'll mind sharing a bathroom."
"And I'll be off," Mycroft checked his half-Hunter. "Their train'll be in any minute."
"Drinks and canapés when you get back, my love," Cate touched his mouth with her lips. "And then we can all begin to relax."
Realising he was looking forward to not having to do anything, Mycroft found he was whistling O Christmas Tree on the way to the car. He smiled.
###
"What do you mean, 'not here'? the more experienced of the two asked. "He lives here, how can he be 'not here'?"
"Looks like he's buggered off for Christmas and is not here."
"Any ideas when he's going to be back?"
"We can keep an eye on his house, but apart from that …" the man spread his hands and shrugged.
The older man frowned. "We can't delay the plan just because Holmes is out of town for the holiday," he said. "Is the copper still around?"
"Lestrade? Sure," the other nodded. "But we hadn't worked out how and when to lift him, had we?"
"Then we'd better get out thinking caps on," the first commented. "We'll see what we can organise around the Yarder, and then nab Holmes as soon as he's back."
"The boss isn't going to like any delay, if there is one," the younger of the two made a face.
"Then we'd better get the Inspector under wraps sooner rather than later, 'ain't we?"
###
Two days before Christmas, and a report arrives on his desk advising him of the disappearance of a Level One Scientific Personnel (Risk Level One) from Porton Down; missing, possibly kidnapped. There is no indication of how or why the man had disappeared; no wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, to add texture to the picture, nor, apparently, are there enemies or debts. The man's mother stated he had been taken away from home by persons (unknown) in a dark, medium-sized van, probably a Bedford, but not really sure. Although the scientist's mother was an old girl, she wasn't so elderly as to miss the number-plate. LG1 1, was all she managed to get before it pulled away, but it was better than nothing.
But, honestly … two days before Christmas? What kind of rat-bastard kidnaps someone at Christmas?
Sat behind his desk, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade rubbed his eyes. A headache resulting from a couple of bevies too many last night at the City of Westminster Chamber of Industry and Commerce Christmas bash, and the certain knowledge he was expected to put in an appearance tonight at the far posher Southbank Community Christmas Celebration, had had Lestrade wondering if he could nip off for a quick kip beforehand. It wouldn't do to have the nearby boroughs feel they weren't properly appreciated, especially as he was, in fact, a local boy.
Born and bred in Lambeth, Lestrade's first view of the world had been through the windows of St Thomas' Hospital, and he'd kind of been hanging around the area ever since. He knew every pub, club, illicit casino, drugs den and knocking-shop within an hour's walk in any direction. He could tell you where he was in the area by the sounds he could hear and the colour of the stone in the buildings. More importantly, everyone in the neighbourhood knew him.
Then the disappearing scientist arrived in his in-tray, and the chance to nick off for a spot of shut-eye disappeared too. Ah well.
Porton Down … one of the biggest and most secretive of all the British government research centres. Nothing much biological went on around the world that this place wasn't connected to, these days. Very hush-hush, and with all kinds of nasty undertones about the place … what it did … who it did it for … did it to …
Thus the disappearing biologist … sorry, microbiologist, had set off all sorts of alarms, and one of them had landed on his desk.
Rubbing his eyes again, Lestrade shouted for tea and aspirin. Maybe if he could think a little more clearly, he might be able to get out of here before midnight.
###
Cate was assembling the ingredients for a batch of Margaritas when she heard the Bentley pull to a stop by the door. A huge grin spread over her face, she skipped out to the hall, waiting for them to come in.
John walked through first, bag in hand, his expression uncertain as to the likely reception.
"John!" Cate squeaked, wrapping her arms around the blonde man's neck and kissing him on both cheeks. "How lovely you could come down at such short notice."
"Yeah, well," he smiled. "Thanks for inviting us … we'd be in a bit of a pickle otherwise."
"Anything for my favourite GP," Cate smiled. "Unless you want to go up to your room straight away, drop your bag and come into the drawing room for drinks and nibbles before dinner."
Seeing his shoulders relax, she pointed him towards the right door. "Go in and get warm," she smiled. "Be there in a tick." A cold breath of air at her neck suggested the front door had been closed.
Turning, Cate looked up into the pale, handsome features of her brother-in-law. Wrapped up in long coat and thick scarf, Sherlock looked like something out of A Christmas Carol.
"Hello, favourite relative-by-marriage," she smiled. "Be warned that I'm about to kiss you, but it shouldn't hurt much." Standing on tip-toe, Cate rested lightly against his shoulder while she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
"Come in and get comfortable," she said, watching as he pulled off his leather gloves.
"Drink, John?" Mycroft had disencumbered himself of his heavy cashmere coat and was standing at the sideboard by the drinks. "Scotch or something else?"
"I'm making Margaritas if you'd like a cocktail," Cate dipped a glass into rough salt.
"No, a scotch would be great, thank you," John nodded, still not entirely at ease.
"What brand of tequila are you using?" Sherlock looked faintly interested.
"I like the El Tesoro," Cate scrutinised the bottle. "This is their Don Felip Anejo, which is rather pleasing."
"With Curaçao?"
"I prefer their Triple sec which is a little more orangey than the classic liqueur," she inhaled the aroma, smiling. "Want to try some?"
Walking over, Sherlock picked up a shot glass and poured himself a small measure of the intense orange spirit. Tossing it back, he looked thoughtful.
"It's acceptable," he nodded. "What ratio do you use?"
"One-to-one, and double the lime."
"Too much lime for such refined tequila," he shook his head, picking up the cocktail-shaker and ice tongs. "I'll make them."
Smiling happily, Cate dropped the merest hint of a wink at Mycroft and sauntered over to a chair beside John who was attempting to hide an emergent grin.
"What exactly was your doctorate in?" he muttered, smiling over his scotch. "Applied Machiavellian Techniques?"
"I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Doctor Watson," she said, tucking her feet up onto the chair, watching Sherlock give a first-class performance of being a professional barman.
Handing Cate a perfectly-made cocktail, Sherlock waited while she sipped and smiled. "Impeccable," she said. "Thank you."
Lifting his eyebrows as if anything else would have been lèse majestè, he sank enthusiastically an overstuffed armchair, managing not to spill a drop of his own drink.
"John, Sherlock," Cate smiled. "We'd like you to be as comfortable as possible while you're here, so please do whatever makes you feel at home."
Sherlock met her gaze. "Are you quite sure?"
Something in his voice lifted her eyebrows. Mycroft used that exact same tone whenever she was about to put both feet in her mouth. It was the first time she'd heard Sherlock use it too. Detecting a challenge in his cloudless blue eyes, Cate turned to look at Mycroft who had the slightest of smiles on his face. Ah … a test.
"Indeed, dear Brother-in-law," Cate took the dare. "Whatever makes you feel at home."
"So," he smiled. "Naked at breakfast?"
"Sipping her perfect Margarita, Cate was impervious. "John's an army doctor and has seen everything; your brother is unshockable and I've drawn quite a few nudes in my time," she looked at his long frame assessingly. "If you wouldn't mind holding a pose for a few hours, naked at breakfast sounds a brilliant suggestion." She turned to her husband. "Did I bring my paints?" she asked, frowning.
Swirling his scotch, Mycroft was straight-faced. "I believe you did, my love," he lifted his brows and smiled faintly at Sherlock who crossed his legs and saluted them both with his glass.
Looking at Mycroft, Cate toasted him silently with her cocktail. This was going to be an interesting Christmas.
###
Collin Hamran was not having a good time.
He remembered that two men had grabbed him outside his mother's house at night. He remembered the cold and the dark. How long ago that had been, he couldn't say.
And then he came-to here: somewhere not-outside, this place had an indoors noise-level, somewhere very quiet, but still very cold, in a chill, damp kind of way. He shivered, glad he was still wearing his thick overcoat.
He had no clue as to how long it had been since he'd been kidnapped, or what might have happened between then and now. Nor did he yet understand why he'd been snatched, although he assumed it was probably something to do with his work. He peered around to see if there were any more clues to his location.
Though the place wasn't in complete darkness, the meagre illumination seemed to come from a single light high up on the wall above the door. There was something odd about both the light and the door, but his brain was still too fuzzy with the drug to pinpoint exactly what was strange.
When he had awoken, Hamran had been half-sitting, half-lying at the junction between wall and floor. Both were icy cold stone: cold and unpleasantly damp. There was a smell about the place of water and decay and … mud.
Trying to move, he discovered the unpleasant fact that his left wrist was shackled into a steel cuff, itself connected to a length of lightweight steel chain. Jangling the chain in an experimental fashion, the scientist realised that while it wasn't too heavy, neither was it very long. Just enough to reach a funny-looking table and chairs closer to the middle of the stone chamber.
Pushing hard against the wall behind his back, Hamran managed to stand upright, his fingertips picking out the enormous size of the wall's stone slabs: these were not simple bricks, but massive blocks of finely masoned stone that looked like they had been here for a very long time.
Still dizzy, Hamran suppressed a wave of nausea as he stood away from the wall, trying to gauge the dimensions of his gaol. The dripping moisture on the stones suggested that this place – wherever it was – was either very close to or possibly even below the waterline; the marks on the stones gave evidence of repeated and recent inundation.
It was then Collin Hamran discovered three other unpleasant facts.
The feeble glow of the single light was feeble because the casing of the light was thickened and slightly hazed: it was a waterproof fitting. The door looked weird because it was a sealed, steel, watertight door.
The third nasty observation was a growing awareness of a high-water mark.
The mark was at least six feet above his head.
If this place flooded on a regular, possibly tidal basis, he probably didn't have long to live.
###
"If you fall, don't think for a second that I'm going to catch you," John warned, as Cate leaned perilously away from the top of the old, wooden, A-frame ladder.
"I'm not going to fall," Cate muttered, her attention focused on affixing an antique-gold painted glass star to the very apex of the tree. "And if I did," she smiled, sitting back on the very top step and dusting her hands. "I'd probably fall on you, so any lack of catching on your part would be moot."
"There's a bare patch right here in the middle," he observed, critically. "It's going to look glaringly odd if we leave it like this."
"I've got something special to go in there," Cate nodded to a small red box on the side table by the sofa. "I want Mycroft to put that one up."
"Then is there anything else we've missed?" Walking around the entire tree and squinting for unadorned places, John tried to see where they might imaginably bestrew additional yardage of thick tinsel. It was impossible. The tree was splendidly festooned from every conceivable angle.
"What about the tub?" he asked. "Damn ugly great thing. It would look better covered."
Cate frowned. "I rather like the rustic look," she said tilting her head to scrutinise the chunky wooden container.
"Underneath all that glitz?" John sounded unimpressed. "It looks completely out of place."
"Excuse me," Cate disagreed. "Arts major here."
"Well, Arts major," John gave her a mocking bow. "It looks boring and we should cover it."
Looking in through the open doorway, yet well beyond the blast radius of any stray ornamentation, Mycroft and Sherlock wore identical expressions.
"This is why father never allowed us puppies," Mycroft was philosophical.
"He was wiser than I thought," Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, nodding sagely.
"A postprandial, little brother?"
"Why not?" Sherlock shook his head at John and Cate's continued bickering as he followed his brother into the study.
Pouring two balloons of a fine cognac, Mycroft strolled over to the windows where his sibling stood appreciating the sparkling starlit night.
"I smell snow," Sherlock swirled the mellow spirit.
"That'll please Cate," his brother nodded. "She hoped it would."
About to observe that his sister-in-law would inevitably want to make a snowman and he was not about to sacrifice his scarf, the conversation paused as Mycroft's Blackberry rang.
"Excuse me," Mycroft pulled the device from his jacket, answering in a low voice.
About to step away, Sherlock hesitated as his brother's tone sharpened.
"When was this reported?" the older Holmes was abrupt. "And why I am hearing this only now?"
Curious, Sherlock tipped his head. It was unlike Mycroft to become openly annoyed quite so easily.
"Keep me updated, this time," ending the call, Mycroft pursed his lips, clearly irritated. "An RL1 from Porton Down has been mislaid," the elder Holmes sounded impatient. "Comms go completely to hell at Christmas."
"RL1? What area?" Sherlock was rather well-informed about the research centre.
"Biological weapons research," Mycroft made a sour face. "Man's a microbiologist."
"Any clues as to who's responsible?"
"Nothing yet," Mycroft shook his head, biting his lip in thought. "All the usual suspects are being watched."
"A new player, possibly?"
"Possibly," Mycroft was already juggling scenarios.
"Should have had them all chipped as I recommended," Sherlock sniffed and looked righteous.
"Sherlock, the British Government has not yet descended to your level of paranoia," Mycroft looked sideways at his brother. "We do not tag our people as if they are Kruft's Best of Breed."
"But you have a tracker in your phone, don't you?"
"As it happens, I'm experimenting with a variety of potentially useful technologies," the elder Holmes smiled fractionally, but would be drawn no further.
Additional conversation was interrupted by Cate who entered the room cautiously.
"Am I stepping into anything momentous?" she asked, only partially in joke, as she scanned their faces.
"Not at all, my love," Mycroft turned to her. "Do you need something?"
"There's a small thing I'd like you to do for me," she said. "It will only take a moment."
"Of course," he smiled. "Lead on."
Slipping her fingers through his, Cate brought him back into the Drawing room where the tree – despite all of John's dire warnings and his loss of the eventual coin-toss – was beautifully complete in its temporary festive finery.
All bar one small place that seemed barren by comparison with the tree as a whole.
Handing him the red box, Cate smiled up into curious blue eyes.
"I shall have one of these made every Christmas, darling," she said quietly.
Opening the container, Mycroft lifted a sheet of heavy tissue-paper to reveal … the most exquisite crimson heart decoration blown in glass and hand-gilded. A fine gold chain was attached to a glass loop at the top. Clearly, it was intended for the tree. It was a stunning example of the glass-blower's art; its dark ruby glow filling his hand.
Turning it over, he observed some small gold lettering in the centre of the back. Looking closer he read the words 'C for M, with love.'
In that moment, he wished they were alone; wished he could respond to his wife's gesture in the way he suddenly desired. Contenting himself with a subtle smile, his fingers stroked Cate's cheek.
"My love," his voice was low.
Seeing the empty space – appropriately – near the heart of the tree, he looped the chain very carefully over a strong stem and watched the glass heart sway momentarily.
"Be careful you don't break it," Cate smiled.
"I shall take every care not to," meeting her eyes, Mycroft was lost for a moment in their private conversation. His own heart beat a quicker tempo.
John's soft cough brought them back to reality.
"As a reward for helping me decorate the tree," Cate turned brightly to her favourite doctor. "You get to choose the first game we play," she said, grinning. "Monopoly, Cluedo, Trivial Pursuit, the London Game, or Risk," she said. "Or if you're feeling especially brave, there are all sorts of card-games we can play, up to and including seven-card stud poker, at which I am a demon."
"Cluedo!" Sherlock derided the very word.
"Not Cluedo," John sounded fleetingly desperate. "How about Monopoly?"
"Monopoly?" Sherlock scorned again. "Where the entire success of each player rests upon the chance of the dice and the turn of a card? Where logic and skill and economic theory are hopelessly perverted by the ludicrous whims and avarice of others and where John, despite all reason, usually ends up with hotels on Park Lane?"
Smiling, John looked happy. "Monopoly it is, then."
###
Based on previous years' experience, Lestrade was sufficiently savvy to keep some spare kit at the Yard: you never knew when a blood-drenched, axe-wielding maniac might be having a go all over your best shirt. Opening the tall cupboard at the rear of his office, Greg realised he'd been in this job for too long: there was an entire wardrobe of clothing in there, including several pairs of shoes and even – God help him – a dinner jacket.
Grabbing a dark suit still wrapped in its dry-cleaning plastic, a white shirt still in the packet and a silvery tie, the Inspector also picked up a small toiletry bag before heading downstairs to the Rec area for a fast shower.
If he hurried, he could still make the Southbank do before all the hot food got cold.
###
"So …" Cate was hesitant. "You didn't bring them with you?"
"For what purpose?" Sherlock frowned.
"Well," she shrugged lightly. "It is traditional to have them on the day. Or the previous evening."
"There seemed little reason."
"You have a point, I suppose," she nodded. "Not to worry," Cate looked thoughtful. "I shall improvise."
Watching a small smile appear on her face, Sherlock analysed his Sister-in-law's thoughts. Obviously, Cate had decided that, since neither he nor John had brought their Christmas presents down to Deepdene, she would have to fill such absence with some interim deux ex machina. The fact that she had originally prepared their gifts, currently tucked away at Baker Street, made no apparent difference to an irrational desire to watch them being opened. This made absolutely no sense and consequently would be filed under the heading of 'sentimentality'. He wondered briefly how his brother coped.
That he already knew what the gifts were had no bearing on the issue. His was a microscope; by the dimensions and weight of the container, one of the new split-screen comparative ones from Brunel. He had been after one of these at a low level of covet for some while. Given that Cate should have, and Mycroft certainly would have surmised his deduction of the contents of the package, it seemed counter-productive then, to drag the thing all the way down on the train, only to drag it all the way back. Sherlock also knew that John's gift contained two bespoke dress-shirts, most likely from Mycroft's tailor, based on measurements supplied by himself to Cate at the beginning of November. Knowing her joy of colour, there would be matching ties in there as well. Possibly cufflinks. He had chosen not to enlighten John on these details based on his flatmate's reaction to a similar, prior instance when he had elected to share such information.
In any case, apart from Cate's advice that neither of them were to consider reciprocation, they had not imagined there would be any occasion to do so and thus hadn't thought about it any further. So far, so obvious. But …
Sherlock realised he and John were in something of a quandary.
"John," he said, finding his flatmate in the kitchen with Nora. "We have a problem."
"And what's that, then," John looked away from the kitchen table where Mrs Compton was practically forcing him to eat a slab of fruitcake.
"Cate is going to have gifts for us."
"Oh shit," John's concern was somewhat lessened by a mouthful of fruit and icing. "What do we do? I didn't bring anything," he coughed, inhaling cake. "Did you?"
Sherlock blinked slowly.
"Then what are we going to do? Mrs Compton," John put his decision-making voice on. "Are there any shops around here that might sell gifts or stuff?"
Shaking her head, smiling, Nora Compton gave them the bad news. "Only the local grocers," she said. "You could probably get a jar of honey or something like that."
Wincing faintly, John looked thoughtful. "There's got to be something."
Wiping her hands on a tea-towel, the housekeeper suggested they take a look up in the attics. "Who knows what kind of things are up there," she said. "Might be something you can jerry-rig into a present?"
"Brilliant," John grabbed another chunk of cake and turned to his friend.
Sherlock was unclear. "What?"
"Attic," John nodded upwards.
Heaving a world-weary sigh, the younger Holmes made for the door.
###
Sliding herself quietly along the sofa to sit beside him, Cate looked at her husband, but said nothing.
"Yeeees ..?" Continuing to read the paper, Mycroft waited to hear what was on her mind. Smiling on the side of his face she couldn't see, he realised she wanted him to do something but was unsure quite how to ask, and therefore wanted him to guess. He preferred to tease.
"I need your help to confound your brother," she said eventually, as if her request was the simplest thing in the world.
Wrinkling his forehead at a concept almost too alien to digest, Mycroft was intrigued despite himself.
"And why would you want to confound Sherlock?" he asked, turning to assess Cate's expression. The light-hearted curve of her lips suggested whatever she was planning was less than blameless, but entirely without malice.
"It's Christmas and we have no gift for either he or John," she said, meeting his gaze. "I think I have something quite perfect for John, but the idea I had for Sherlock's will demand your skills."
"What idea do you have for Sherlock's gift," Mycroft picked up her hand and inspected the diamonds of her wedding ring. "And what specific skills of mine did you have in mind?"
Tipping a handful of shiny, new, one-penny coins into his palm, Cate told him.
Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft looked down at the pennies as his face yielded to an enigmatic smile.
###
"There's nothing here I can do anything with in the time available,' John muttered unhappily as he cast about the trunks and chests of Deepdene's attics. "Unless Cate wants a tennis racquet restrung, or a couple of arrows refletched," he sighed. Mrs Compton's idea had sounded brilliant at the time, but he hadn't yet been able to find anything he could imagine as a gift for Cate.
Rummaging through a massive old steamer-trunk, Sherlock stood upright with a handful of old sheet-music.
"Ahah!" he murmured, a pleased edge to his voice.
"Ahah what?" John peered across at the yellowing sheets. "You can't possibly think of giving Cate those," he muttered. "Not even you could give her those."
Sighing, Sherlock waved the papers in the air. "A sign, John," he said. "A sign."
"Well, bloody good for you," the blonde man perched on the edge of an old tea-chest and folded his arms. "Like that helps."
Taking in the seriousness of his friend's expression, Sherlock relented.
"There is something you could give her that she'd both appreciate and be able to use, you know," he said, perceptively.
"Oh yes?" John smiled but looked sceptical. "And just what is that, then?"
Sherlock described the article in question.
John had to admit, it was a pretty neat idea.
"That's extraordinarily creative," he said, nodding. "Brilliant, even."
Masking the faint twitch of his lips by diving back into the huge trunk. "Don't mention it," Sherlock said; his reply, though muffled, was clear enough. John even heard the smile in it.
###
Despite all the rain there'd been for the last several weeks, the evening had turned unexpectedly chill and sharp. For once, the night-sky over London was clear and shimmering with cold.
Stepping out of the Southbank reception rooms, Lestrade wrapped his thick coat around him a little more securely. Not that he had a terribly long distance to go – he really only had to nip back over towards the Lambeth bridge and he was nearly home, no more than a swift twenty-minutes or so – but that he felt a brisk walk might clear his head a bit. This was the second night on the trot where he'd been encouraged to imbibe a little too freely, and he really didn't fancy another hangover in the morning.
So: a nice, fresh walk home, a cup of tea, couple of aspirins and a few hours of decent kip. He'd be right as rain come tomorrow.
Stepping out along the deserted pavement, Greg Lestrade wasn't really in any frame of mind to notice the slow-moving Bedford coasting silently down the near-empty road behind him.