"You, Sherlock Holmes, utter genius and mad man, believe in Santa Claus," John said with all of the sarcasm he could muster, crossing his arms and carefully setting his tone to exasperated.
Sherlock didn't so much as blink as he turned the page of the case file. "Well, I have to," he said. "He's my brother."
John really wished that this would stop happening.
The first call that had come in was obviously a fluke. Santarchy all over again, Lestrade thought with a sigh. He decided to put one of the rookies on the case - drunken trespassing and attempted burglary, shouldn't be too easy to cock up; Lestrade, though, was going home.
As Lestrade grabbed his coat and locked up his office, he thought happily of the white wine and warm body waiting for him at home. Life was good.
The old case was long since forgotten when Lestrade got the call two years later. The temptation was, of course, to hand it off to another division, but for some reason every other officer believed they could piss off just because it was Christmas Eve. Lestrade supposed he couldn't blame them too much; he used to be the same way.
Lestrade looked down at his wedding ring and sighed. He should have taken it off by now, Carol would certainly have hers gone (probably had done for months) but-
He glanced up and around. Being alone in the office aside from the odd PC, he figured it was about time he go and interview the burglary victim himself.
"Miss Parker?" he asked, as he walked into the waiting room. There was a lone young woman sitting at a small table, a drink and a packet of crisps from the vending machine in front of her.
She glanced over at him as he entered, "About time," she said, and he fought not to roll his eyes at her accent. "I've only been waitin' here for fuckin' ever."
"Sorry about that, Miss Parker," he began, pulling up a chair to sit at the table with her. "So about the burglary-"
"It weren't no burglary," she said, her tone dull and disinterested, and wasn't that familiar. "The bloke just broke in to leave things, yeah? I was just mindin' me own business, comin' home after work and I walk in and there's presents on the table by the little Christmas tree, and then I look over and there's this man just stood there in my kitchen eating the brownies I'd put on the oven."
He blinked at her, momentarily stalled. "Are you saying-" he began slowly "that someone broke into your flat to leave you presents and eat your food?"
She looked at him like he was an idiot. "Isn't that what I just got done tellin' you?" She looked away for a minute and held her stare up on the ceiling, seeming to take in a breath, the first sign during the conversation that she was at all bothered by what had happened. "But here's the weird thing, yeah." She waited another moment before shifting her gaze back down and staring straight into his eyes. "I know who I seen."
"Miss Parker, who did you see?"
"It was fuckin' Father Christmas."
After showing Andrea Parker out and browbeating his urge to laugh hysterically into submission, Lestrade once again took up residence behind his desk. It was nearing tea time, but he had to fill out the necessary paperwork, and get started on locating, as Miss Parker so delicately put it, fucking Father Christmas.
After several hours of sitting behind his desk and feeling relatively useless, Lestrade was forced to admit that he was stumped. All lines of evidence led to nowhere, the office was nearing empty and Lestrade had to admit, he was the slightest bit lonely. Sighing, he tapped out a message to Sherlock.
Mildly difficult case of Santarchy. Reverse-burglary. CCTV shows fuck all. Happy Christmas?
Less than a minute later, Lestrade's phone chirped, startling him out of his contemplation of his wedding ring, which had slowly migrated from his finger to the top drawer of his desk.
Out. - SH
Lestrade sighed, forwarding his earlier message to John.
Sorry, Greg, out with Sherlock.
Lestrade frowned at his phone. Surely not?
Afraid so. Dragged off to some holiday drivel. Still manages to be more interesting than your pathetic excuse for a case. Just go home, Lestrade. - SH
Aha! Christmas indeed - Sally owed him twenty quid! Lestrade grinned at the text. Ah, but, Just go home, Lestrade. In some sort of Pavlovian response to Sherlock's directives - the man practically had him trained by now, not that he'd ever tell anyone - Lestrade began packing up his work and headed home.
Sherlock sat with his body pressed firmly from shoulder to pinky toe to John, as John leaned into him reading the text he had sent. He sniggered quietly.
"Oh, Sherlock, you're a bad man."
"Hush, John. It was going to happen anyway, we might as well get some fun out of it."
"How long do you think it will take him to get home?" John scooted impossibly closer to Sherlock on the sofa, and Sherlock took a moment to assess his heartbeat before answering.
"Approximately 47 minutes, maybe 55, since it's Christmas."
"Hmmm."
"John? Are you falling asleep on me?"
"Noo, m'just resting my eyes."
"It would take minimal effort to get to your room."
"Oh - " John looked up at Sherlock, suddenly cautious. "Do you want me to - "
"No. No, it's - it's fine." Sherlock smiled as John burrowed once again into his shoulder, saying softly, "Plus, we'll pull up CCTV within the hour." John shifted against him, his arm wrapping around Sherlock's middle, and suddenly, Sherlock didn't feel so much like dashing off to take the pancreas out from under the sun lamp. Instead, he felt very much like sitting with John wrapped around him, breathing softly into the satin of his shirt. That is, until they could pull up CCTV.
It was approximately 11:55 PM on Christmas Eve, after Detective Inspector Lestrade had climbed into bed with a bottle of beer and the biscuits he had intended to leave out for Father Christmas - so he was a stickler for tradition, sue him. With the flat as quiet and lonely as it was, however, Lestrade just found it all a bit too sad. He was halfway through the first biscuit when he heard a resounding crash from his kitchen. Bloody Hell, just one night off?
Cautiously, Lestrade climbed out of bed, grabbing his baseball bat from the floor, and made his way to the kitchen. Flicking on the lights, he found - no one?
Movement behind him. Quickly, without thought, Lestrade lunged at the shadowy figure, propelling both of them to the ground. His own harsh breathing filling his ears, Lestrade barely heard the amused drawl from below him -
"Well, Detective Inspector. Would you mind letting me up - only the suit wrinkles quite easily, and I do hate to have Steven iron - "
Spluttering, with a blush quickly climbing up his neck, Lestrade stayed put. He had frozen, it would seem. "Mycroft? My God..."
"So it would seem." Mycroft gave him a small smile, fingers wrapping delicately around the curve of his hip. Instead of pushing, however, Mycroft's hands stayed put. Testing, experimenting? No, that wasn't Mycroft's style.
Persuading.
* * *
"Oh, ohhhh!"
"Honestly, John, it's not rubgy. Contain yourself."
"I can't! Christ, this is priceless! I need to text him. Now." John pulled out his phone, and Sherlock, arm around the shorter man, leaned over to read the text in a blink, before it sent.
"Unoriginal. Let me." With one hand staying around John, tracing molecular structures along his spine, Sherlock shot off another, far superior, text to the Detective Inspector.
* * *
Lestrade and Mycroft were sitting on the rather dilapidated couch, in a silence that should have been awkward but somehow wasn't. Lestrade heard two chirps from his phone, and was happy for the excuse to look away from the sight of Mycroft slowly peeling off the silky jacket of his red suit. Mycroft smiled. "Go ahead, I expect it's my brother and Doctor Watson. I've always believed CCTV was far more entertaining than telly."
IIIIIII SAW LESTRADE KISSING SANTA CLAUS!
There isn't anyone that's going to keep me from calling you Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. - SH
Lestrade felt the blush returning to his neck, mixed with confusion at Sherlock's text.
"I believe my brother was referring to the song. He did always hate Christmas tunes, though, and I expect he found the poor grammar even more off-putting."
"Um?"
"Yes, I'm Santa. Getting a little more clumsy nowadays - I try to blend in with the annual Santarchy but haven't been quite as innocuous as I intended. Must look to pass off the title rather soon, perhaps the good doctor - well." Mycroft smiled at him again, letting the revelation sink in.
"Um. I'll be right back." Lestrade dashed off to his room, pinching himself firmly on the arm before returning barely a minute later. Holding out the tin, he asked hesitantly, "would you like a biscuit?"
Mycroft smiled again, a private smile this time - not grim, nor condescending, but genuine. Lestrade wouldn't call it jolly, but it warmed his heart all the same. "Thank you, Detective Inspector."
"Greg," Lestrade insisted, sitting on the couch once more, turning down the light next to the sofa - the glare, of course.
"Greg," Mycroft repeated. His voice was not quite a whisper, but gentle all the same. "What do you want for Christmas?"
Greg raised his head shyly, and looked right into Mycroft's eyes.
* * *
Meanwhile, in 221B, John and Sherlock shared a kiss over a toast of champagne, and Sherlock forgot to sneer at John's Christmas CD.
As long as there's a holiday called Christmas
As long as there's a snowflake left to fall
There ain't nobody gonna keep true love from callin' us
Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus.