"Coffee at this hour?"

Donovan looked up with a wan smile, raising her take away cup slightly in greeting. Lestrade bundled his hands into his pockets and sat down on the bench next to her.

"I'll be up all night anyway," she pointed out.

"You do have an office, you know. Inside the Yard. It's nice and warm in there."

She chuckled wryly, sipping her drink.

"I've got the coffee. And I needed a bit of air. I thought maybe it would help the thoughts chasing themselves around in my head."

"Has it?"

"Nope."

Donovan sighed, taking another sip of her coffee, then rested her arms on her knees, staring at the small, nearly empty courtyard. She wondered if it was hard for Lestrade to be here; even though there was only one other person out there with them, huddled in the lee of the building, she could still smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke. She generally avoided the place because of it, but it was private – as private as anywhere in the Yard could be, anyway.

"You know when you have to do something and you really don't want to? When there are a thousand good reasons not to do it but one reason to that blows them all out of the water?"

"I know," Lestrade replied.

"We can't find him, Greg. He might as well be invisible. Some days, I wonder if we're just all imagining him – maybe something in the water. If we went outside of London, maybe we'd forget about him."

"Oh, he's real enough," Lestrade said.

"Especially if that's his fingerprint from twelve years ago."

"Especially then."

She sighed, chewing on her lower lip, then turned to look at him.

"What if we're just chasing ghosts? What if it is a coincidence?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"That's our job."

"True," she murmured.

"But you're not thinking of charging him with a twelve year old murder. If you had any evidence, you'd have told me first. And you wouldn't be sitting here mulling over it if you had something concrete."

"I wouldn't," Donovan agreed. She sighed again, breath hanging in front of her face, a tiny white cloud that vanished slowly. "God, Greg, whoever did this to him – I don't want them coming back for him. All it would take is a phone call pretending to be a panicked family member."

"And you won't let anyone in there without at least one constable."

"I won't. Still..."

"Still," Lestrade echoed.

"It's almost Christmas."

"Are you hoping for a miracle?"

"I'm a cop; I'm always hoping for a miracle." She gave him a sardonic smile. "And knowing I won't get one."

Lestrade gave a dry laugh.

"You never know your luck."

"Oh, believe me, I know mine."

"You're a good cop, Sally. A good DI. I know you're worried. I think you've waited long enough. It's up to you."

"That's the rub," she sighed. "Why didn't you warn me that being the boss was like this?"

"I did. Repeatedly."

She smiled and took another sip of her coffee, enjoying the contrast of the warm liquid against the cold air.

"We spend so much time with names and no victim to go along with them. Now we have the victim but not the name. Forty-eight hours... I thought by then someone would have reported him missing."

"Does the most crucial time apply when you've got the person?"

"Looks like it doesn't."

She sighed again, shaking her head.

"It's going to be a mess."

"It always is."

Donovan bit her lower lip, nodding, looking away again. At least it would be her mess. Her decision, her terms. Her people would do what was needed and Scotland Yard could foot the bill for all of the overtime.

It might be worth it, if they got anything off the tips.

"I'll call the BBC in the morning," she said. "And send a sketch artist over to St. Tom's. Get the phone lines all sorted tonight."

"And then you'll go home and get some sleep," Lestrade said. Donovan looked back at him and raised her eyebrows.

"I might go home," she conceded. "But I won't sleep."

"Should I be jealous?" Sherlock enquired without looking up from his book as John walked through the door.

"Jealous?" John asked.

"Home late every night this week," his husband murmured in reply, flipping a page. "Visiting a stranger in the hospital? Or are you having an affair with your secretary?"

John grinned.

"Don't have a secretary," he pointed out.

"You have a receptionist."

"The surgery has a receptionist. Not the same as a personal secretary."

"Hmm, that could be a problem, then," Sherlock sighed, tapping his book absently, still not looking up. "One of the nurses at St. Thomas' perhaps? It's not Sandra, is it?"

"First, that was years ago," John countered, taking off his jacket. He saw Sherlock's lips twitch upward. "Second, she works at St. Mary's and you know that. Third, she's not the only nurse in the NHS."

"Yes, but she's the only one who isn't rubbish."

John rolled his eyes as he hung his coat and scarf and turned back to Sherlock, who still hadn't moved.

"Since you would know before I did if I was having an affair, I don't think you should be too worried about it."

"Too worried? Perhaps just a bit worried?"

"Somehow I think it only crosses your mind when you want to tease me about it."

"I don't 'tease', John," Sherlock sniffed.

"Like how you don't guess?"

"Precisely." Sherlock flipped another page. "So not an affair, but a fascination with a man who has no memory. Tell me – how is he more interesting than me?"

"Who says he is?"

"You've been there every night this week. I did just point that out."

"Yep, and I remember being there every night this week. And then I remember coming home to you ever night this week, too."

"Ah, you so you admit it," Sherlock said, finally looking up, grey eyes dancing.

"I admit to being there, yes."

"Has he told you anything?"

"If you mean 'has he suddenly remembered who he is and where he's from and what his favourite colour is?' then no."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and John smiled at the expression, heading into the kitchen to fetch himself a beer then returning to the living room to settle into his chair.

"I'm very concerned," Sherlock drawled in a tone that completely belied his words. "What if he finds himself attracted to you?"

"Oh, well, then I'll leave you at the first sign," John said. "For a man who doesn't remember anything about himself and who is – odds are – straight."

"Well he can't remember anything," Sherlock reiterated. "Perhaps he's forgotten that, too."

"Yeah, I don't think that's something you can really forget."

"You did."

"No, you just convinced me otherwise."

Sherlock grinned. John rolled his eyes and took a swig of his beer before sighing and relaxing into his chair.

"I see you did absolutely nothing with the tree," he commented.

"Very observant of you, John. We'll make a consulting detective out of you yet."

"Then you wouldn't be the only one in the world."

"Mm, good point," Sherlock said, frowning. "Best not, then. Can't do with the competition."

John grinned and shook his head, glancing at the tree again. He'd left the box of ornaments next to it, but it was really no surprise that Sherlock hadn't decorated it. At least he hadn't decided to throw the tree out or burn it down – John wasn't sure how well a gift from Mycroft would last in their flat.

"I did consider it, believe me," Sherlock said and John rolled his eyes, wondering what had given him away. "I thought you might not like having to buy a new one."

"Of course it wouldn't occur to you to buy one yourself if you got rid of this one."

"Couldn't. Busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"Busy being busy."

"Right," John said, pushing himself back to his feet. "I'm going to reheat something for my tea. There's not going to be a head in the fridge, is there?"

"Probably not."

"What do you want?" John called from the kitchen, pulling open the thankfully head-free fridge and skimming the shelves with his eyes.

"Not hungry!"

"Suit yourself," he muttered, pulling out a container of casserole and dumping it onto a plate. He thought the smell might entice Sherlock – or make him try to steal John's food – but the detective ignored it. Instead, he turned on the television, flipping through the channels and muttering under his breath about the lack of crap telly at this hour. He finally settled on a German program so he could complain to John about the inaccuracies in the subtitle translations. John rolled his eyes but listened, resisting the urge to flick a bit of pasta at his husband.

"I'm going to decorate the tree. I need your help."

"It's really a one person job," Sherlock pointed out. John tapped his fork against his empty plate, arching an eyebrow.

"It is not, and I need your help with the lights anyway. You're the freakishly tall one."

"Oh, yes, thank you," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "That will certainly help persuade me, won't it? It's hardly my fault you're a tiny person."

"I'm not tiny, I'm short," John said. "And that's not my fault, either. Genetics."

"Well then," Sherlock sniffed. "You can't mock my height."

"I wasn't mocking you, I just said you were freakishly tall."

Sherlock shot him a dark look and John chuckled.

"Remind me again why I put up with you?"

"Because no one else will put up with you?" John suggested. "Also, you love me madly and to pieces and your life would be dull and meaningless without me."

Sherlock sighed, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"All right, fine. But you're not allowed to tell anyone."

"Everyone knows it anyway," John said with a grin and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. The doctor went back into the kitchen to put his plate in the sink and he heard Sherlock changing the channel to the BBC, which was something John could understand, at least.

"Really?" John sighed, coming back into the living room. "Isn't there a Doctor Who Christmas special or something else we could watch instead?"

"No," Sherlock sniffed as Crimewatch logo was splashed across the screen. "Feel free to ignore it if you want."

"It's not very festive," John pointed out.

"It's informative. Lestrade doesn't always see fit to notify me of cases that require my attention."

"I wonder why not?" John muttered, not quite under his breath. Sherlock affected his "listening to you is beneath me" attitude but set to work on the lights, at least until he determined the winding strands were low enough for John to finish, at which point he abandoned his work and wandered into the kitchen. John let him go – he did this every year and would eventually come back to lend his haphazard help. For Sherlock, 'helping' meant putting in an appearance more than it did actual assistance.

"Don't change the channel!" Sherlock called as soon as John started to reach for the remote. The doctor sighed and went back to work, finishing the lights and starting on the ornaments. As he had predicted, Sherlock came back and made a cursory contribution by hanging a handful of decorations near the top of the tree.

"Hmm," he commented, looking past John's shoulder. "It's your friend."

"What?" John asked and the detective pointed a long finger at the television. John turned, a glass ornament still in hand, and stared at the screen. The host was asking for assistance on behalf of the police identifying the man in the sketch, instructing anyone with information to call the number being provided. John stared at it, surprised.

"Donovan said they weren't going to do that," he commented, feeling half a protest in his words.

"Clearly she's changed her mind."

John nodded slowly, frowning. What had she said to him the day before? That they'd spend time chasing down false leads and dead ends, that it would be a lot of work for uncertain results. He caught his lip between his teeth, aware that Sherlock was watching him.

Mycroft had offered his help last night.

John wondered if Donovan would want it – or if she'd even have time to be bothered with it. He wondered if the offer even extended to the police.

Right, he said to himself. He stared at the screen, thinking hard, then nodded once, decided.

Mycroft's secretary was not there yet but Anthea was, sitting on a couch in the anteroom outside of Mycroft's office, on her mobile as always. She didn't so much as blink when John came in and shut the door behind him with a deliberate click.

"That will give you eyestrain, you know," he said. It wasn't true, but he especially enjoyed the way it took her a full five seconds to look startled and glance up. At least now she recognized him – that had only taken three years. Part of John kept waiting for her to just forget who he was.

"Sorry?" she asked.

"Nothing," John replied with a grin and knocked on Mycroft's office door. He heard a muffled invitation and stepped inside. Mycroft smiled at him and gestured with an open palm to the chairs in front of his desk. He didn't get up, but this no longer struck John as unusual.

"Hello, Mycroft," John said, pitching his voice a bit louder. Mycroft nodded in return.

"Good morning, John. And what can I do for my brother today?"

"Uh, nothing, actually," John replied and saw the slight flash of realization flicker through Mycroft's eyes, followed by an expression of smug satisfaction that made John repress an inward sigh.

"So you've come for yourself? Or should I say, for our mystery man in the hospital? A strange case, isn't it? A man with no memory who has not been reported missing and whose fingerprint may have been present at a murder scene twelve years ago, a crime which has gone unsolved all this time… I would have expected Sherlock to enjoy this case. Still, one can never tell with him."

"No," John agreed. "What do you know about it?"

Mycroft gave him one of those infuriating superior smiles and leaned back in his chair, regarding John levelly for a moment.

"Nothing," he said simply. "Oh, quite right, I'm certain you don't believe me, but I can hardly involve myself in all of the little mysteries that make up London."

"What about the ones that make up Sherlock's cases?"

"It's not his case," Mycroft replied. John sighed again, this time not bothering to hide it. "I see you've taken quite a personal interest in it, though. Does it strike a chord with you, I wonder?"

"I don't think you wonder about much of anything, Mycroft," John said wearily.

Mycroft's lips curled upward in a smile that came nowhere close to his eyes.

"Not for very long at any rate," he agreed. "And what would you have me do about it, John? That is why you're here, I presume?"

"Yeah," John admitted. "Did you see the photo the police ran on Crimewatch last night?"

"I'm not as dedicated to that programme as my brother is, but I am aware that Inspector Donovan made an appeal the public for information, yes."

"I want it," John said bluntly.

"What, the information?"

"Yes. The results from the tips line, Mycroft. All of it – all the good stuff I mean. I want whatever they got that led anywhere. And," he took a deep breath, deciding to out on a limb, "I want access to the police files from the murder twelve years ago."

Mycroft twitched an eyebrow up.

"You have great faith in my abilities to produce information on demand," he commented lightly.

"Yeah, I do. And it's probably nowhere near strong enough."

Mycroft was silent for a moment that was just shy of being too long, then gave John a bright smile that did reach his grey eyes this time, making them gleam.

"Quite right," he agreed. He gave John another long, evaluating look that John held out against as best he could. "Very well, John. I won't say I will see what I can do, because we both know what I can do. Anthea will have the information delivered to your flat. Do try to convince Sherlock not to just dismiss her without accepting the files."

"I will," John assured him and Mycroft raised both eyebrows this time.

"Impressive," he murmured. "Sometimes, John, I envy your ability to get through to my brother so easily."

Easily? John thought, but kept that to himself.

"Still, if I consider everything else I can do with relatively ease... perhaps I wouldn't be so hasty to make the trade for that particular skill."

"I know I wouldn't trade you," John replied. He wondered what Mycroft thought of that, if he judged it smart or stupid.

"No," his brother-in-law agreed as John rose to leave. "I don't believe you ever would."