A/N: I've never been to Harrods, so I'm not sure of the setup, but I've been looking at them online (so I at least know what they have?). Hope it's enough. Also, Jesus Christ. Harrods is surprisingly similar to our Macy's. But worse. And by worse I mean posh.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 8

8 December, 2013

Mycroft sighed heavily and harshly rubbed his face. He hated working with people who thought they were important. At the moment, he was on hold with three of the type, each worse than the last, and he was not happy about it. He had pressing matters to attend to, matters he doubted these... plebians would even understand, nor comprehend the importance of them. Anthea, who sensed his mounting stress and building migraine, had brought him a mysterious brown liquid, leaving it without a word within reach on his desk. For ten minutes he stared at it, not sure if it was safe to drink, one never quite knew with Anthea. When he felt the backs of his eyes begin to ache, he only wished that whatever it was was strong.

After a sip or two, he felt a little better, and decided to embark on his favourite past time. Hacking into London's CCTV. Though, at this point in his career it wasn't necessarily hacking, merely a slight abuse of his power.
After some flicking, something interesting caught his eye. The left side of his mouth turned up in amusement.

"It's warmer than it was yesterday," John remarked with a frown. Sherlock wasn't paying attention. A sudden buzz had alerted him to an incoming text and he quickly pulled his mobile from his pocket, hoping it was Lestrade with a case. He would gladly run away now at even a hint of a murder.

What are you doing going into Harrods?
MH

Damn. Not Lestrade, much worse. He pocketed the device and glowered at the first camera he could spot.

You're so cute when you're angry.
MH

Sherlock sneered and turned his back. John turned his head suddenly to look at his friend, frowning quizzically.
"Who was that?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No one important," he said casually, forcing his face into its former apathetic expression.
John tilted his head, but said nothing more.

When Sherlock glared at his mobile for the fifth time that evening in the span of fifteen minutes, John had to say something.

"Who the hell is texting you?" he asked, coming to a halt in front of a rather expensive-looking display.
Sherlock pretended not to hear, looking around them pointedly. "What are we doing here? Isn't Harrods a bit expensive for us?"
A shrug. "I like to look. Who's texting you." Not a question this time.
"No one."
"Mycroft?"
A menacing smile crossed Sherlock's face. "Exactly, no one."
John scoffed. "C'mon, let's look around," he suggested, taking Sherlock's sleeve for the second time in a relatively short span of days. Sherlock complied.

Not so long after, John was humming Christmas carols and looking through assorted jumpers. "Oh, this one isn't bad," he said to himself. Sherlock, hearing the sudden remark, looked up from an expensive-looking cashmere scarf. A glance at the price tag confirmed his suspicion. £165.00. Turning his attention back to his friend, he noticed - with a slight amount of horror - a Christmas jumper in his hands. It was white, and blue, and patterned all over with stripes and snowflakes. After a minute, he got over it. It wasn't as ugly as some other jumpers John owned. He wandered over to where John was, abandoning the scarf.
"It's better than that awful one you have at home," he commented over John's shoulder. His friend jumped.
"I quite like that jumper," he protested. "It's my Christmas jumper."
"It's hideous." Sherlock smiled. "At least that one's decent."
John assented and looked at the tag. "Gant, Fair Isle Knitted Jumper..." he mumbled to himself. "Jesus, £149? Nope." He promptly put it back.
With Sherlock and John both reluctant to look at anything else for fear of spending all of their money on jumpers and scarves, they headed towards the exit. They were doing well, until they found the sweets.

"'Super Strawberries and Cream'," John said longingly. When he didn't see a dark figure lingering just behind him, he turned. Sherlock was staring at a display of candy canes, hands in his pockets. John went to his side. "We can get some for the tree while we're here," he said, grabbing a couple of boxes.
They moved on.
Or, rather, they tried.

In another room, they found cologne, and the two of them weren't even sure of how they had gotten there. Nonetheless, John was assaulted by curious scents, and he just had to sniff a few. One bottle smelled strangely familiar.
"'Eau de Nuit'," he read. With a frown, he sniffed the air around Sherlock. The detective shot him a quizzical look.
"What are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't seem to mind the invasion of his personal space. John leaned in a little further, inhaled, then gestured to the bottle.
"So this is what you smell like!"
Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft hooked me on it."
On they went.

They were almost to the tills when Sherlock suddenly stopped. The light had glinted off of something, catching his eye and forcing him to a halt. Curious, John followed, peering around Sherlock's shoulder (he was too short to look over it).
In a display case, in a rather exquisite box, was a fountain pen. A very pretty fountain pen, according to the look in Sherlock's eyes. It was beautiful, with shiny black resin and gold accents. When John looked closer, he saw that the gold was actually... Arabic? John had no doubt that somehow his friend could read it.
"It has verses from the Qu'run..." Sherlock murmured absently, confirming John's assumption. He seemed entranced.
"It's very nice," John commented. Sherlock nodded in reply.
"'Visconti Limited Edition Mecca Fountain Pen'," he read softly. When he got to the price, his expression fell a little. "Twenty-five hundred pounds."
John's eyes widened. "That costs pretty penny." His eyes wandered back to Sherlock, who seemed at a loss. He looked like every child who had found what they wanted most in the world, only to have it ripped out of their reach.
Sherlock tried not to sigh.
"Maybe someone will surprise you," John said.
Sherlock shrugged, back to his usual self, though a hint of disappointment lingered in his eyes. After a pause, John tugged on his coatsleeve.
"C'mon. Let's actually get out of here this time."
As usual, Sherlock followed without hesitation. He learned that he liked John's hand on his coat.
No, that wasn't weird.