Holly by InSilva

Disclaimer: do not own anything Sherlocky.

A/N: for otherhawk. Thank you for all things, mate, and happy belated Christmas!

A/N: pre-John.

Mr Chatterjee leant in the doorway to Speedy's, sipping his cup of tea and enjoying the mild December morning. There was an advantage to owning a little café on a busy London street, he thought. Not just the foot traffic which was reassuringly steady but also the sheer buzz of life. It reminded him fondly of Islamabad where he'd grown up – all full-on and a hundred miles an hour and no inhibitions. Only yesterday, he'd seen a couple argue like the world was about to end and then fall into each other's arms and kiss with similar urgency. Definitely no inhibitions.

He'd never had any of this with his burger van on the Doncaster industrial estate. Yes, he had certainly done the right thing in packing up and moving to the capital even if he had had to do it in the dead of night, creeping out of Elaine's house and driving south like his life depended on it – which to be fair, if Elaine's brothers had caught up with him would have been the case.

He sighed. He was a simple man who just loved women and women loved him back. This was not his fault. He never meant to hurt anyone. Perhaps –perhaps- he should be a little more forthright in disclosing previous attachments before embarking on new ones but he never started out to deceive: just that relationships became very complicated very quickly and being economical with the truth was the path of least resistance.

The florist van pulled to a halt just in front of him and roused him from his reverie. He watched with interest as the young woman climbed out. Out of habit, he stood a little taller and straighter but she didn't even glance at him. Instead, she was walking with purpose with a delivery towards the house next door where the lady with the girlish smile lived. Mrs Hudson, she had introduced herself as and a very proper English lady she appeared to be. Mr Chatterjee approved wholeheartedly. In his experience, ladies who conducted themselves respectably in public had an altogether more adventurous approach to their private lives.

Spotting a regular customer walking up the road, he forgot all about good-looking neighbours, his mind moving immediately to matters of a more commercial nature.

The lunchtime rush swept over Mr Chatterjee and Joey, the confusingly named young woman who helped out for minimum wage. After it had died away, Mr Chatterjee left Joey wiping down tables and headed out for an early evening newspaper. He glanced at 221's front door which now sported a fine holly wreath with glossy green leaves and frosted pinecones. Most festive. He liked Christmas. People were very generous with their tips.

Returning with a Standard tucked under his arm, he could see Mrs Hudson's new lodger coming towards him. That boy – Shylock? – who was always in a hurry and had a permanent sneer. Mr Chatterjee could not say he had warmed to him. On the one occasion that he'd met him face to face, he had not felt comfortable in the slightest. Shylock had looked at him as if he knew all his secrets and then some. The last person to look at him that way had been Sima's father back in Islamabad shortly after the wedding and shortly before he had found the very urgent need to travel to the UK.

As he watched, Shylock marched briskly up the steps of 221 and opened the door then froze on the doorstep and backed up, staring at the wreath. Mr Chatterjee was close enough to see Shylock's mouth twist before he threw the door open and stormed inside. Well, that was…what did the boy have against Christmas? Most wonderful time of the year, no?

Even as he was frowning, Shylock reappeared, pausing only to pull the holly wreath from the door, before hailing a passing taxi-cab.

"Oh, Shylock!" came the wail from 221 and Mrs Hudson emerged on to the street moments after the cab had pulled away, her face flushed.

"Mrs Hudson, are you alright, my dear?"

"It's just that…infuriating…annoying…ooh, I could cheerfully strangle him! What's wrong with a little decoration, I ask you?"

What indeed? He nodded sympathetically.

"Walks in, demanding where things have come from…what does that matter? It's only a bit of greenery."

Exactly. The nod became more sympathetic.

"You should see what I have to put up with in that refrigerator," she finished cryptically.

A sudden vision of dissolving kiwi fruit danced across his mind. He shook himself.

"Perhaps you would like to take a cup of tea with me? I find that tea is most efficacious at such times."

Mrs Hudson drew herself up and turned on her heel and he wondered if he had been too forward. Then she pulled the door to and smiled. "That would be very nice."

He ushered her towards the café, his shoe nudging a stray holly leaf as he did so. He considered it thoughtfully. Perhaps he could pick up a replacement Christmas wreath for her. She would like that. Maybe some mistletoe also. Yes. Maybe she would like that too.

In another part of London…

"You can't go in…Mr Holmes? There's a-"

"He knows." Sherlock pushed past the secretary and into Mycroft's office.

"You will have to excuse me, Martin," Mycroft was on the phone. "I suspect we may lose one another shortly-"

Sherlock pulled the receiver from his brother's fingers and cut off the conversation.

"That was the Home Secretary," Mycroft protested without heat.

"Discussing citizens' rights when it comes to surveillance?" Sherlock dropped the wreath on the desk. He snapped off a pinecone, exposing the tiny wireless camera inside. "Don't bug me, Mycroft."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Since you won't co-operate by telling me your whereabouts-"

"Well, forgive me for not being micro-chipped-"

"-I have to take measures that will-"

"-or perhaps you prefer an electronic tag around my ankle? That's got to be more accessible-"

"-ensure I am kept informed at all times-"

"-though why stop there? I bet you're dying to just lock me up?"

"Don't tempt me."

They glared at each other.

"Look," Mycroft began, "if you insist on being irresponsible, I must insist on appropriate levels of scrutiny."

"Why?" The word was rapped out. "Why do you demand to know every last detail about what I'm doing?"

"Because I don't particularly want to have to explain to our parents the circumstances of your death."

The words hung in the air between them and then Mycroft added:

"Especially if I have to lie about the details. You know how lying to them brings me out in a rash."

Sherlock exhaled slowly and flopped down into a chair. "We are feeling sentimental. Must be the season."

Mycroft fixed him with the withering look that had stopped working on him twenty years ago. "I mean it, Sherlock. After the latest dalliance with substances-"

"I was bored."

"You know the offer's there-"

"Please!"

"-any time you want to-"

"I am not working for you!"

"Then get a hobby."

"I've got one."

"I don't mean annoying Scotland Yard."

"You want me to grow prize marrows in central London?"

"Or get a flatmate. Someone you can bore to death with how clever you are. I could introduce-"

"No, thanks."

"Sherlock-"

"No, thanks."

There was a silence.

"Very well. But I don't want next year to be like this year. I have a country to run and I can do without the worry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Seriously. Hobby. Flatmate. Consider it, at least."

"No promises," Sherlock sniffed and got to his feet, heading for the door.

Mycroft gave a small sigh and called after him, "Will I see you at home for Christmas?"

Sherlock stopped and stared at him as if he'd suggested they can-can down the Mall together.

"Well, of course. Can't disappoint Mother."

There was just a hint of relief in Mycroft's nod. "Try and keep out of trouble till then, brother dear?"

Sherlock crooked a smile. "Like I said, no promises."