Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mycroft stepped into the flat of 221B Baker Street and was assailed by the hurtling body of an excited eight year-old girl. The impact shoved the air from his lungs, and before he could even catch his breath, the eager imp released him from her hug. 

“Uncle Mycroft!” Rosie squealed, her flaxen hair bouncing in a beribboned ponytail. She wore a black velvet dress with a burgundy red bow at the waist. “Hi!”

Mycroft straightened as he inhaled. The smell of mulled wine spices and woodsmoke hung in the air. “Well, to what do I owe such an expressive salutation?”

“It’s Christmas Eve! Papa didn’t think you’d come, but I said you come every Christmas Eve.” She pointed her thumb back at herself. “And I was right. Happy Christmas!”

“That is because you are clever, and your Papa could learn from you. Happy Christmas.”

Rosie beamed, then flashed a look of ‘I-told-you-so’ toward the kitchen where her fathers stood. Sherlock stood with a mug in hand, looking decidedly put out. He didn’t wear shoes though he wore an impeccable black suit with a cranberry coloured button up. His mop of unruly curls were half tamed with product. 

John sat in a kitchen chair with a look of exasperation at his daughter, though a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. His sandy hair had silvered over the years and the lines on his face had deepened. Quite obviously, Sherlock had purchased his jumper, as it was cashmere and matched the burgundy ribbon of Rosie's dress. Rosie didn’t resemble him as much as she resembled her mother, but Mycroft wasn’t one to speculate aloud on phenotypic expression. Her eyes were a dark blue, and her ears and nose were small and delicate. Her chin was pointed, and her skin fair. She ran about in superhero costumes and Guy Fawkes masks and witch hats. She once requested ‘grown-up make-up,’ which Sherlock purchased. She then asked him to make her look like a zombie. The results were rather ghastly but creative.

And Mycroft delighted in her. She wasn’t a Holmes, but she was perceptive, attentive, and curious. Mycroft encouraged her curiosity by providing books, museum visits, tickets to creative kids workshops, and story-telling. He could tell it had taken John Watson by surprise when Mycroft began telling his daughter stories. He regaled her with popular myths, folklore from around the world, and tales of mystery and horror. He’d done the same for Sherlock when they were young. And like Sherlock, Rosie showed a particular interest in tales of horror.

Something which Sherlock abetted, while John cautioned them against giving her nightmares. It didn't stop her from begging for "scary stories" all though September and October, and Mycroft couldn’t resist her pleading.

The flames crackled, while fairy lights twinkled in the garland above the mantel. A tree stood in front of the tall, right window; its ornaments included many homemade crafts among shiny antique baubles. He leaned his umbrella up against the frame of the door, and hung his peacoat over the hooks on the wall. 

“Dear god, he’s staying,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Papa likes to pretend he hates it when you’re here, but I’ve detected a 2.5% increase in his mood for a full hour after you leave,” Rosie said primly.

“That is a lie. You don’t even know how to do percentages,” Sherlock fired.

“I know the difference between more and less,” Rosie defended. 

John laughed as Sherlock turned away in a huff. The brothers’ relationship had become less adversarial over the years. Fatherhood had softened Sherlock a bit, though he was fiercely protective of the small girl. Mycroft was certain the child had built a bridge between him and the two men at Baker Street, as fragile and as tenuous a connection it might be at times. 

Mycroft helped himself to the mulled wine on the stove, since neither Sherlock nor John would ever treat him as a welcomed guest in their flat. There was a certain distance John kept from Mycroft that not even his sense of propriety would overcome. Mycroft didn’t question it. If he were to be allowed visits to a brilliant child that referred to him as “Uncle,” he wasn’t going to stir anything up with John Watson.

It had taken years to even reach this point. Rosie, for some reason, had taken a liking to Mycroft when no more than two. It delighted Sherlock to no end to see Mycroft’s discomposure with the grubby fingered child at his knee who gazed at him adoringly. 

“Well, John, there is no accounting for taste in children,” he’d said, his eyes glinting at Mycroft. “I suspect she’ll grow out of it once she knows better.”

John had also delighted in Mycroft’s fluster, and did nothing to stop her from staining his fine suits.

It was laughable now, because not only did Rosie continue to be enamoured of her uncle, but she had wormed her way into his heart. He often thought of her as a sort of protégé. 

“Well, Rosie, a Christmas story by the fire, then?”

“Yes! Please!” She looked to her dads. “Can I have cocoa?”

“It’s ‘may I,’” John said. Sherlock was already reaching for the cabinets.

“May I have some cocoa?”

John rolled his shoulders back and sipped his wine. “I suppose, since Papa is already making it.”

Sherlock winked at Rosie and started a pot of milk to warm up on the stove.

Mycroft sat on the sofa with his mulled wine. Rosie slid up next to him and pulled her dress over her knees. “What’s the story about?”

Mycroft thought of her predilection for ghost stories. “I thought we might do A Christmas Carol.”

“Oh, I watched it yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. With the Muppets.”

Mycroft suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Mm. And, would you like to hear the real story?”

“Nah. I want to hear something really scary.”

Mycroft didn’t miss John tossing his gaze to the ceiling. Sherlock placed his hand on the man’s shoulder as he passed and sat on his chair by the fire. John joined him in his own across the way, their feet touching as they cradled their mugs, eyes on each other.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock spoke first.

“Oh yes, brother. You missed Lestrade.” The predatory stare shifted from John’s face to Mycroft’s. “He was on his way to a date. Seems like this one is sticking.”

It was like a barb to the gut. Mycroft tried to school his expression, but could only manage one of repugnance as he considered the implications. He was never mine.

So what if Lestrade dated? So what if that cold trickle of unease skirted his gut?

He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “I’m glad for him.”

Sherlock smirked. 

Rosie let out a loud, melodramatic sigh. “Are you just going to interrupt, Papa? I want him to tell a story.”

“My apologies,” Sherlock said. The glow from the fireplace limned his features starkly like the pages of an illuminated manuscript depicting the denizens of hell.

Or, perhaps, the monsters of a cautionary tale. 

“Ah, Rosie. Have you heard of the Christmas Witch?”

Rosie’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “There’s a Christmas Witch?”

“Of course. In a season of magic, there are always witches to be found somewhere.”

Rosie’s face screwed up in thought. “Witches aren’t real.”

“In the world as we live it, of course not. But as the powerful archetypes of fear and transformation in our minds? Those which can affect the natural processes and shape the environment around them? In that sense, witches are very real.”

“Psychobabble,” Sherlock murmured from his chair.

“Sherlock, you forgot the milk on the stove.” John stood from his chair and went to the kitchen.

Sherlock sipped his wine. “I didn’t.” He smiled into his cup. “I knew you’d get it.”

He exchanged a knowing smirk with Rosie. Despite the lack of blood relation between them, Rosie’s imitations of Sherlock were uncanny. 

Mycroft pretended not to have seen the exchange and continued. “Once upon a time, there existed a village. It lay perched on the edge of a great river, at the base of the mountains. At the end of the village, there came to live a woman. No one could quite remember how she got there, nor how the cottage she lived in came to be. Her garden was always a tangle, and some thought a man lived with her, for they could sometimes hear his voice through the tiny windows, but mostly, they would see her. Gryla.

“Now, the village was made of simple folk. The kind with godly beliefs and a strong work ethic. If you didn’t work hard during the growing season, you would likely starve in the winter. If the crops failed to yield, you had to have faith that something would somehow see you through the winter scarcity, be it the fish in the river, the game on the mountains, or the livestock they tended.”

John appeared with a cup of cocoa. Rosie accepted it with a big smile and a quiet thank you. 

He didn’t look at Mycroft, only went back to his chair and took up his mug of mulled wine again, sliding his slippered feet between Sherlock’s bare ones. In many ways, it made Mycroft glad to see John and Sherlock sort themselves out. It was difficult not to try and intervene early on, but it seemed his help was not needed, in the end.

He only wished it had been sooner. He hadn’t realized that his brother having a partner would temper him in ways that didn’t necessitate Mycroft’s constant worry.

It did, however, open a space in Mycroft’s chest, that was now filled with something he might term loneliness. 

“So how come the village didn’t know how Gryla and her cottage got there?”

“Goldfish,” Mycroft said. “Bad memory. Preoccupation with survival, perhaps. I cannot say, for I was not there.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft caught the nudge from John’s foot. Surprising, that John would prevent his brother from no doubt making a scathing remark at Mycroft’s expense. 

“Gryla seemed harmless enough at first. An old woman, but she worked hard in her garden. Gryla grew many potatoes and kept to herself. It didn’t get strange until the winter. 

“There was a boy in the village who was quite mischievous. He was very smart, and that made him very bored with the rest of the villagers. And in his boredom, he played pranks on his parents, his siblings, and the other children. In time, his pranks grew cruel.”

Sherlock’s eyes met his.

Mycroft smirked. “It was very tiresome for his parents, to make reparations again and again with the other villagers.”

“I bet,” John scoffed from his chair. Sherlock pinned him with an affronted gaze.

“Gryla was seen, in the shadows of night, standing outside the home of the boy. The next day, he was missing. The boy was never seen again, but from Gryla’s cottage came the smell of a meat stew.”

“Gross, ” said Rosie.

“But an effective way to get rid of a shiftless layabout child who only caused trouble with your neighbors,” Mycroft said, aware of John’s piqued expression.

“Still, gross.”

“I can’t argue with you. The winters continued to be hard, and the children who were the naughtiest in the year went missing in these winters. It was said Gryla could be heard whispering outside their homes. It was said she went to their parents and begged for food. In time, she grew bolder, and inquired after their children on the streets like a beggar woman asking for food. It wasn’t long before the people panicked, and the woman was driven out of the village and into the dangerous hinterlands.”

“What are hinterlands?”

“It’s a German word which means ‘the land behind.’ It is the undeveloped or sparsely populated land behind a city or port. Essentially, in those times, it was the wilderness outside the village.”

“Okay.” Rosie took a noisy slurp of her cocoa. “Carry on.”

Even that little command with her small voice smacked of Sherlock’s condescension. Mycroft had to smile this time. “As you wish.” He’d said the same to Sherlock when he used to tell him stories as children. “As I mentioned before, it was thought a man lived with Gryla. They set upon her cottage and found inside the bones of a man nailed to the wall. The bones rattled when they walked across the floor, and they paused. One man said, ‘does it speak?’ Of course, that caused a panic, and the men left quickly, hoping the skull wouldn’t speak before they left. They burned the cottage down with the bones inside that very night.

“And that would be the last of the strange Gryla and her unnatural appetite. Or so they thought.”

“She came back?”

“With a vengeance. She married a troll in the mountains, and there, she came into her power. The next time she was seen, she was traipsing back up the mountainside, having grown in size with thirteen forked tails, and her massive arms carrying two large sacks.”

“And what’s in the sacks?”

“Children. Not just from the one village, but from several.”

Rosie gasped.

“Mycroft,” John said in a warning tone.

Mycroft smiled at his niece. “But only the children who misbehave. And our Rosie is on the nice list, isn’t she?”

“I’m too old to believe in Father Christmas. I’m eight.”

“And good riddance,” Sherlock snorted.

“Of course. Now, shall I continue?”

“Yessss,” Rosie put the cocoa down on the table, and grabbed the threadbare Union Jack pillow and held it to her chest. 

“Gryla cooked the children for herself, her husband, and their children.”

“She had kids?”

“Oh, she did. Gryla had many children.”

“And she didn’t eat them?”

“Perhaps some of them. No one is certain how many children she had with her first two husbands.”

“First two?”

“Oh yes. Gryla had three husbands. She killed the first two out of boredom.”

“Was the one nailed to the wall one of them?”

“He was.”

“Wow.”

John placed his head in one hand, his elbow perched on the arm of his chair.

“Gryla was not one to be trifled with. I expect the third husband understood what he was risking, and tried his best to please her, though he was said to be lazy. She didn’t seem to mind. She continued yearly to come down from the mountains and walk along all the villages, snatching up the misbehaving children. She particularly favored the ones who cried out for meat during Lent. She carved them up with her kitchen knife and fed them to her family. She and her third husband had thirteen sons to feed.”

“Thirteen? ”

“They called them the Yule Lads. Each of them engaged in different sorts of mischief during the holiday season. They stole leftovers from pots, harassed livestock, slammed doors, hid under beds and licked unheeded dishes, and stole candles from hapless children, leaving them in the dark.”

Rosie’s eyes were riveted to his face.

“But, they weren’t the most fearsome members of Gryla’s family.”

“They weren’t?”

“No. Gryla possessed a cat, a large cat with giant fangs and claws as sharp as blades. This cat hunted among the villages for his own meat - the meat of those who didn’t get any new clothes for Christmas.”

“What?”

“It became customary for parents to gift their children with socks, at the very least, to avoid the hunger of the Yule Cat.”

Rosie stared at him dubiously.

“Myth, my dear.”

She considered this. “Well, what happened to Gryla?”

“Oh, I imagine she still lives in the mountains with her shiftless husband. Her Yule Lads still stealing food and slamming doors and feeding on the bones of the wicked.”

“I wonder if she might like to eat Timmy Morton from school.”

“Rosie, if I get one phone call from your teacher that you’ve been frightening this Timmy Morton-,” John started. 

“Dad. He’s a wicked boy, is all I’m saying-”

“Rosie Watson. Do not tell Timmy Morton that the Christmas Witch is coming to eat him.”

Rosie frowned at her father. “Of course not.”

John turned to the fire, still shaking his head.

Rosie turned to Mycroft with a sweet smile on her shining face. She whispered, “But I am going to tell Helena Kensley, who’s my best friend, and she’ll tell Jamie Morton, who’s his twin.”

“Clever,” he said.

She stretched out, placing her stockinged feet on the coffee table.

“Feet off now,” John said.

“How could you see me?” She screeched and hopped up from the sofa. “It’s not the mirror. Is there a glass he can see from over there, Papa?”

“I’d wager it was the telly,” Sherlock mumbled into his cup.

“That’s so obvious though. It’s like he’s not even trying.”

A smile appeared on Sherlock’s face as he looked at John. “I agree, Rosie. The telly should be off limits from now on, just as the mirror is.”

“Fine,” John huffed.

“Did you bring me a present?” Rosie asked as she turned her attention back to Mycroft. It was shocking she waited even this long. 

“As a matter of fact, I did. Go into my coat. You shall find it wrapped.”

Rosie threw the Union Jack pillow to the side and plodded over to his coat. She pulled out a slender gift. Sherlock mouthed something to John, no doubt deducing its contents, but Rosie and Mycroft focused on her unwrapping. She left the piles of paper on the coffee table as she revealed a leather bound notebook with gilded edges. Tied to it in a leather strap was a gold fountain pen. 

“I thought perhaps you’d might like to pen your own stories,” Mycroft said.

She fingered the pen, and undid the strap. The pages flipped open, and Mycroft thought for just a second he got a whiff of the adhesives of its pages.

She smiled at him, her bright eyes shining in the Christmas lights. “Thank you. I love it.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and drank the last bit of his mulled wine. “Well, as I’ve finished my drink, and my story, I shall take my leave.”

“Awww, do you have to?”

“It’s time you were in bed,” John said. “Father Christmas doesn’t come unless the children are asleep.”

“There’s no such thing as Father Christmas,” Rosie pouted.

“And only people who believe in Father Christmas get presents.” John leveled a stare at his daughter. 

“Shaking down our daughter, John,” Sherlock said with a chuckle. 

Rosie crossed her arms. “I’ll go to bed, but I’m not going to sleep.”

“That’s a deal for me. Get on, you. Say goodnight to Mycroft.”

Rosie turned and grasped Mycroft into a tight hug. “Goodnight Uncle! Happy Christmas!”

Mycroft smiled, a warm sensation unfurling in his chest. “Happy Christmas, my dear.” He avoided looking at either John or Sherlock while he returned the hug, and then watched the girl skip toward the stairs. 

John grabbed her cocoa mug and his own and brought them to the sink.

Sherlock stared into the fire.

Mycroft rose and slid on his coat. “Happy Christmas, brother mine.”

“Mmf,” came the reply. 

Mycroft turned to see John in the kitchen. “John,” he said in a farewell. 

John couldn’t seem to hear him. 

Mycroft pulled on his leather gloves. “Please give the good doctor my holiday greetings.”

“Mm. And what of you, Mycroft?” Sherlock faced him. “Have you been naughty or nice this year?”

It hurt to stop his eyes from rolling. “Have either of us ever made the nice list, I wonder,” he replied in a flat tone. 

“Take care Father Christmas doesn’t hear you. You’ll never land Lestrade with that attitude. He’s rather tenacious in his do-gooder efforts.”

Mycroft stopped himself from sighing. There was no point in denying his attraction, not to the second most observant man in England. “Sherlock, it would have been inappropriate for someone such as myself to court a subordinate’s favour.”

“Good heavens, have we become characters in a regency novel? Will you require a chaperone on your first date?”

“I know not why you choose to torture me on this, Sherlock. You have your happy little family. I will make peace with my lack of attachments. In the end, it will prove fruitful to my work, and to my life. I have told you before; I am not lonely.”

“Hm.” Sherlock’s eyes glinted. “Better make sure Gryla doesn’t get you on your way home.” 

He didn’t like the nastiness in Sherlock’s smile. He bowed his head, his own lips pulled into a frown as he left through the door and down the stairs.

The sound of footsteps behind him surprised him. He turned to see John, holding a package with a red bow on top. His demeanour seemed resolute, as if he were to face something uncomfortable or distasteful.

“Mycroft,” he said, and then exhaled. “She’s...very fond of you. And - I appreciate the time you spend with her.” John pushed the present to him. “That’s from all of us. Happy Christmas.”

Mycroft held the present, unsure if he should open it then and there. “Thank you, John.” 

John gave him a sharp nod, and headed back up the stairs. 

Mycroft clutched the gift. It was clearly a book, but he couldn’t guess at what book John Watson would buy for him.  

He stepped outside into the cool night air. Snow crunched beneath his feet. His car waited on the corner.

The car was nearing his Kensington neighbourhood when it screeched to a halt, and then shook with a bump that rocked Mycroft in his seat. His driver, Omar, could be heard cursing in his native language, before opening the driver door. 

“Oh, bugger.” The car behind them had hit them. Mycroft could hear a muffled conversation between Omar and another voice, presumably the other driver. He waited a moment before Omar opened his door. 

“My apologies, sir. It would seem in my haste to avoid hitting a stray dog, we’ve been bumped by an intoxicated person. I’ve notified the police.”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft said. He tried not to wonder if Lestrade were working - but then he remembered - date . Lestrade was on a date. On Christmas Eve.

It must be serious.

Well, you knew it would happen one day.  

It didn’t stop a black despair from - 

“I can arrange for Peter to pick you up.”

“Oh no. Peter is having Christmas Eve with his family,” Mycroft grumbled. Omar’s family didn’t celebrate Christmas, which is why Mycroft didn’t mind using his services. “It’s quite alright. We’re close, aren’t we? I can walk.”

Omar’s eyed widened. “Oh, but sir-”

“I know it isn’t usual, but aside from us and the drunk driver, is anyone else out on the streets?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I shall be fine. Neither of us need inform Anthea that I’ve slipped my leash for a night.” He smiled at Omar, who still looked nervous about a possible confrontation with his colleague. It pleased him to see that she handled them with a firm grip. His role with the government had waned over the years, while hers grew, but it was a satisfying occurrence for both of them.

“If you have put your mind to it. We are only a couple streets away from your home.” Omar looked over at the other car, where Mycroft could see a man leaning over and possibly retching into the snow by the car's tire. Omar’s mouth tightened in the lamplight. “I shall wait for the police and see this driver dealt with.”

“Thank you. Then consider yourself released for the remainder of the evening.”

“Very good, sir. Enjoy your walk. Please message me that you’ve returned home safely, and I won’t tattle to Anthea.” Omar winked at him.

Mycroft chuckled. There was a time when he would have thought such behavior impertinent, but Omar had been with him for a long time, and Mycroft had to admit - he'd softened.

“I shall. Goodnight, Omar.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft walked to the pavement, careful to pick his way through the slush in the road. His umbrella provided him with some stability in the icier parts.

The air was crisp, and the streetlights illuminated the neighborhood in a picturesque winter wonderland. Some flats had candles burning in the windows, while others put strings of white lights out on bushes and around doors and windows. Christmas trees coruscated in some of the windows. 

He turned the street corner and continued walking in the peaceful quiet. As he passed one window, he could see a man inside, joined by a woman who kissed him on the cheek. Before he could even harden his heart against the domestic scene, it sent a pang all through him.

What if?

What if he hadn't been so afraid to make his intentions known to Greg? The worse he could have done was to turn Mycroft down, and he would have done it kindly. The two of them had become close after the events at Sherrinford, but Mycroft could never quite take the chance. Greg was likeable, and gorgeous, and also under Mycroft’s purview. Not only was it laughable that Greg might be interested in him, but it would be inappropriate for Mycroft to act on his feelings with a subordinate.

Instead, he now left what little family he’d gained over the years at their flat, and would while away the hours at his own home, alone but for a bottle of scotch, wishing he cared a little less. 

“Bah, humbug,” he said to himself, smiling tiredly at his own little joke.

Footsteps sounded behind him. He turned, gripping the handle of his brolly as he did.

No one was there.

His eyes searched the darkness.

Wary now, he continued down the street. If he took a certain alleyway, he’d emerge on the other side even closer to his home. He headed for the shortcut. There were no further footsteps, and he decided it must have come from one of the buildings, someone entering or exiting their home, someone he missed somehow while spying on the couple through the window. While thinking of Lestrade.

Take the alleyway? Are you the ingenue of some ill-conceived horror film? Don’t take the alleyway.

There was a clang and a clash behind him. He whirled about to see overturned rubbish bins, one of them slowly rocking at the kerb. Nothing else moved.

A breeze lifted through the air.

Hold yourself together, man.

He regretted leaving Omar at the fender-bender.

Better make sure Gryla doesn’t get you on your way home, came Sherlock’s mocking tone.

He rolled back his shoulders and lifted his chin. Pivoting toward home, he marched with purpose across the shoveled pavement. Sherlock wasn’t the only Holmes with a map of London in their head, and Mycroft knew the shortcuts in every neighborhood just as well. 

When he reached the mouth of the alleyway, the darkness there gave him pause. The moon wore a shroud of fog, and little of the light filtered down the brick walls. Likely there were bits of rubbish on the ground, but he could pick his way through carefully, and he had his umbrella in hand. It would be a little like a character in a book walking into a great ink spill.

In that instant he recalled Gryla and her weapon of choice. What he hadn’t told Rosie was how the ogress enjoyed using her carving knife - or a sword depending on the tale - to carve up the bellies of little children. 

This is nonsense. You’re a grown man.

Wearing no new clothes.

“Ha,” Mycroft said, and entered the alleyway. Unbidden, a melody tiptoed into his head and the lyrics slipped from his mouth. “Into the woods, it’s time to go, it may be all, in vain you know…” 

Good Lord, enough Sondheim.

It was quiet, blocked from the breezes, not a window open, no traffic along the roads at either end. 

Except for the staccato of snow crunched underfoot behind him.

Mycroft whirled around.

Nothing moved. 

He fingered the release on his umbrella, a catch that would reveal a thin blade. As he stood straining to hear and struggling to see in the shadows, there came a creeping sense of cold fingers across his neck.

Which was impossible, since he wore a scarf. 

He swallowed, and turned slowly.

Nothing stood near him. 

A creepy crawly feeling slithered across his skin and snapped shivers down his spine. 

“Stop this,” he whispered to himself; his mouth was dry and his voice shook. 

His rib cage closed in on his lungs as he steadied himself, steeled his nerve, and continued down the alleyway. The cold air warmed in his throat and the sounds of snow grinding beneath the soles of his shoes seemed too loud in the tenebrous quiet. 

Until a dark chuckle floated from his right. 

He whipped his umbrella out to the unseen enemy. What little light he had from the sky seemed to outline a pile of crates. He stepped backwards until he felt the cold hardness of the wall behind him. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Flipping on the flashlight app, he pointed it toward the pile. 

Nothing moved in the crates.

He remembered another time when he was this frightened. In his own home.

“Sherlock?” he called. His own voice answered him, softer, and further down the alley. Nothing else. “Sherlock, if that’s you, cease this puerile prank at once.” Again, his own voice echoing in the darkness. 

Sherlock if that’s you -

- if that’s you -

- cease this puerile prank -

- at once -

- at once -

- cease this puerile -

The echo faded. His chest moved like a small bellows.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Please.” The last word was almost a whimper. Please. His heart hammered as he listened for a reply. 

Nothing. 

I must have misheard. Perhaps a window is open above?

He looked up. The windows were dark.

Keep moving.

Mycroft turned sharply to his right and hurried down the alley. He didn't move too quickly for fear of slipping - what was I thinking, I don’t have the right shoes and if I slip and fall this suit -

A thin, reedy cry pealed out in the air between the walls of the alley. The kind of sound that registers in the amygdala as a signal of danger, rattling the body with jerky waves of adrenaline. The kind of noise that shot fear right through his chest and into his throat as his legs froze and his mouth dropped open.

Too many things happened at once: the first cry was joined by several others, hoots and cackling and caterwauling that bounced around the walls of the alley. Heavy boots thumped against snow-muffled pavement. Mycroft clutched his umbrella and phone to him as he dashed down the alley, eyes fastened on the light at the end, the safety of the street to his own home.

His breath came out in clouds of air as he ran from the pack of voices in the alley - when it occurred to him.

The cacophony of noises increased in volume as he neared the light. 

A figure appeared before him at the end of the alley, tall and frighteningly large against the glow of the streetlamp. He tried to stop, but slid right into it. 

Mycroft fell backwards with a yelp. His arse landed hard in the slush and his gloved hands caught him from landing flat on his back. When he looked up, his heart jumped into his throat. The beast that looked back at him had immense jaws and a shining row of teeth. The eyes were large and glinted in green like a giant insect. The face was white, ghostly white, bone white, gleaming in the moonlight -

Mycroft screamed.

Shouts reached his ears as the looming monster pitched to the left, one second upright and the next thrown to the ground.

“Holy shit!”

“Mate, you all right?”

“Is he having a heart attack?”

A torch light shone in his face. He couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe -

“Mycroft?” A familiar voice, low and vibrating like an engine. “Shit, Mycroft!” 

Hands gripped his shoulders as a figure bent down in front of him. “Get that light out of his face! Mycroft, it’s me, it’s Greg!”

Mycroft’s vision shrunk into focus as his breath shuddered. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade came into view, his features gilded in soft moonlight.

“Are you okay?” His eyes were wide with concern.

Mycroft stared as his awareness expanded. Four other men stood around them, dressed in puffy jackets and features obscured by the nighttime shadows. They were just outside of the circle of lamplight.

“I…” He looked behind him into the alley.

“Was someone chasing you?” Greg peered into the darkness. “You came out of nowhere, ran right into us.”

The monster.

“What was -," Then it became clear. Lying in a crumpled heap, Mycroft could see the head at the top - a mare’s skull.

“The Mari Lwyd,” Greg said.

One of the men picked up the pole upon which the skull was mounted, a dingy sackcloth hanging from the point where the pole met the occipital bone. 

“Sorry if we scared you, mate.” One of the men was smirking and sniggering. Another elbowed him. “I mean, yeah, sorry.”

A cold wetness was spreading through Mycroft’s backside. He allowed Greg to help him up to standing. One of the other men offered him his umbrella and his phone. Mycroft winced when he tried to take it with his hand. He pressed it to his chest, and accepted the items with his other hand. “The Mari Lwyd?” he said. His wrist throbbed with pain. 

“Uh, so Cam here has a friend who just moved into this neighbourhood from South Wales,” Greg said in a sheepish voice. “He thought we could all welcome the family with a little custom of theirs. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Mari Lwyd?”

“The Grey Mare, yes.” Mycroft wrist was in agony. He’d landed hard. “Someone was…” he looked back toward the alley again. Dark, quiet, and still. “There was someone in the alley.” His cheeks blazed with humiliation. 

The men were all peering into the alley, one of them shining the torch light down the narrow passage. “Don’t see nothin’ now. You been drinkin’?” one of them asked.

“Is your hand alright?” Greg asked.

The pain was lessening, but still there. “I think I’ve injured my wrist.”

“Oi, Greg, we’ve got a house to wassail.”

“Keep your hair on,” Greg said. “Mycroft, let me walk you the rest of the way. It’s the least I can do for scaring you like that.”

The tallest figure stepped into the lamplight. He was by all standards, a very good looking man with a square jaw and a wave of brown hair swept over his forehead. “You’re alright, aren’t you?” His voice was smooth, concerned. “Do you need Greg? We had plans, you see.”

Mycroft’s couldn’t quite gather his thoughts. His embarrassment stung, his wrist blazed with pain, and his heart was still coming down after the rush of adrenaline. That’s when he realized that one of these people - these men - was supposed to be Greg Lestrade’s date. 

“I - I would not wish to delay you from your frivolities-”

“Cam, don’t be an arse,” Greg talked over him. “Mycroft's a mate of mine. You’re all drunk. You won’t miss me a bit. Get on with the wassailing and get your drinks on. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Inspector, I don’t think -”

“Mycroft. You’re in pain. Let’s go to yours and check on it, and then if it’s all good, I’ll get out of your hair. These wankers aren’t going very far,” Greg said. “And, call me Greg. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Mycroft didn’t argue. He let Greg escort him down the snowy walk as his mates headed the other direction, bits of laughter and snatches of conversation resounding through the air. It wasn’t long before singing started.

“What are you doing out here anyway? I’d expect to see Sherlock come out of an alley at any time, anywhere, but you?” Greg asked.

“My car was hit by a drunk driver.”

“Jesus! You alright?”

“Fine. It was just a bump, but my driver takes it very seriously.”

“Peter?”

“No, it was Omar.” Mycroft smiled at the thought of Greg being on a first name basis with his drivers. 

“Oooh. Called the police, did he?”

“He did.” 

“Good. One less arsehole on the road.” Greg glanced over at him. “But, why are you walking home?”

“It happened only a couple streets away. I thought I’d walk home while Omar waited for the police.”

“You aren’t supposed to leave the scene of an accident.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes to Greg, who broke into a grin and just shook his head. “You two. Did you see Sherlock tonight?”

“I gave Rosie her Christmas story, as is our custom.”

“You’re wonderful with her,” he said.

Mycroft’s cheeks pinked. “She is a delightful child. I never expected...” He didn’t have to say more. He knew Greg understood.

They walked on, quietly. Over the years, the two of them had found an easy confidence with one another. At times, it seemed as though it balanced on a precipice into something more, but Mycroft wasn't one to entertain fantasies. And he hadn’t just been feeding Sherlock lip service when he talked about the issues of propriety within his work. It seemed inappropriate for he, who had been Greg’s superior through convoluted channels for so long, to be the one to initiate anything. Which reminded him -

“Sherlock mentioned you were on a date tonight,” he said. Then wished he hadn’t.

Greg side-eyed him. “Yeah. Cam was my date.”

Mycroft’s heart dropped to his stomach. He looked behind them, though the band of men had gone. “But, you…”

“We had a few dates, but we decided we’re better off as friends. He’s a bit much for me, if I’m honest. Fun, but he’s a bit high maintenance.”

Oh. Of course. Handsome, slender Cam with the square jaw and full head of hair. And he had wondered in the past if Greg would ever be public about his sexuality. It seemed Greg would come out of the closet for the right person. Even if Cam hadn’t been the right person, he was a prize-

“What are you thinking?” Greg asked softly.

Mycroft startled. Then he realized they were paused in the middle of the sidewalk. Snowflakes had begun floating down in the light of the quiet street. Rows of large expensive flats surrounded them, windows softly aglow. In the distance there was the hum of traffic, and someone’s dog barking. 

Greg stared at him with a wistful curiosity on his face. 

“I…” 

Greg stepped closer to him. “Mycroft.” And in that word, Mycroft saw it. Greg’s affectionate smiles, his small kindnesses, his brown eyes always searching Mycroft for something, some sort of ... signal.

“Greg,” he said, his breath a cloud between them. 

Greg smiled, his soft looking lips in a gentle, upward curve that Mycroft yearned to kiss. His eyes shone. He said, “We’re nearly at your house. Shall we go in and check on that wrist?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes.”

They walked to his house in silence. Mycroft unlocked his front door with his keycard and let them in. They got situated - Mycroft at the dining table with his hand resting on its surface. Greg grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it around ice from the freezer. He helped Mycroft take off his coat and then he tossed it over the back of one of the dining chairs. He removed Mycroft’s scarf with a small smile, and placed it over the coat. Mycroft set his wrist on top of the wrapped ice as Greg took his hand, and gently palpated the palm, the back of the hand, and then the joint. “How does it feel now?”

“It aches, but I can move it.” He wiggled his fingers. Greg didn’t let go of his wrist, and Mycroft basked in the light pressure of the man’s fingers against his skin. 

“Let it sit with the ice for twenty minutes.” Greg looked around and said shyly, “Sorry to crash in on your evening here.” 

“It’s quite alright. I had only planned on sitting by the fire with a bit of scotch and a book,” Mycroft said. He’s waiting for you. “Your presence - is quite welcome.”

Greg grinned at him, his eyes twinkling. “Shall I pour us both some of that scotch?”

“If you please. Perhaps we should move to the library. But first, I should like to...uh, well my trousers are quite wet from the fall.”

Greg guffawed and slapped his thigh. “I almost forgot! Go get changed. I can take care of myself.”

Mycroft walked up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Greg Lestrade is in my house, pouring us drinks, and taking care of me.

He remembered Sherlock teasing him, telling him he’d lost his chance.

But had he?

He changed quickly, moving his wrist carefully, removing his suit jacket and trousers, wondering if he should just change into pyjamas, but finally deciding on a different pair of trousers and forgoing a jacket. He grabbed his towel of ice and held it against his wrist as he made his way down the stairs. 

In the library, Greg stood by the gas fireplace with drinks in hand. He’d removed his own coat and scarf. He wore a navy jumper that offset the healthy glow of his skin, over what looked like grey wool trousers. Mycroft liked seeing him there in this room. He belonged by the shining wood paneling, the books lining the shelves, the floor to ceiling windows with gold valances and heavy drapery, and even the antique furniture. Somehow, Greg fit.

“You know, somehow, I wouldn’t have figured you for a gas fireplace type of guy,” Greg said. Mycroft crossed the room and flipped the switch, watching the flames cast a warm glow over the room.

“I prefer a fireplace for atmosphere, but the idea of lugging around wood or getting on my knees in the soot to start one -,” Mycroft stopped, not wanting Greg to think him high maintenance. What did he mean by that, anyway?

“You like convenience,” Greg said.

“Well, yes.”

“I get it. You’ve got other things you’d rather be doing, I imagine.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. Greg was standing very close, and Mycroft hated that he was pressing ice against his sore wrist, and Greg held two glasses of scotch. It seemed like insurmountable obstacles between them. 

He was never more relieved than when Greg set the two glasses on the mantel and asked to look at his wrist again.

“It doesn’t seem to be swelling too much,” Greg said as he cradled Mycroft’s wrist in his hands. 

“No,” Mycroft agreed, his stare on Greg’s face, mere inches from his own. 

Greg’s eyes lifted to meet his. Then they lowered to Mycroft’s lips, and back. 

Mycroft gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if Greg had asked a question out loud. 

Greg closed the gap between them, kissing Mycroft softly. The touch of the man’s lips against his caused a swoop in his gut and a soaring sensation in his heart, like it had lifted aloft on wide wings caught in the winter winds. 

Mycroft smiled when the pressure of mouth against mouth eased. He could feel Greg’s answering smile against his lips. 

“Like that?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed into him. They kissed again. And again. Mycroft’s entire being suffused with warmth, a zipper of electricity sparked down his spine, and his toes curled inside his shoes.

Greg pulled back. “I...didn’t think you’d want this. Sometimes, I wondered…”

“I do. Please.” Mycroft clutched the shoulder of Greg’s jumper. “I…”

“Good. I’m very glad to hear it.” Greg kissed him again. “In another ten minutes, I think we can stop with the ice. And then I’d very much like to sit with you on that sofa over there...well, maybe. That sofa looks like it belongs in a museum and like it might be hard as rocks. Do you actually sit there?”

Mycroft burst into laughter. It echoed in the room, a room where he’d spent far too much time alone. “I don’t, actually. The chairs are far more comfortable.”

“But not enough room for two,” Greg said, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. 

“No.” Mycroft licked his lips. “Perhaps...we might go to my bedroom.”

“Yeah?” Greg’s smile grew wider. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said, then he wondered if he moved too quickly. Would Greg just want a one night stand?

“I didn’t get you anything for Christmas, though,” Greg said. He rubbed the back of his neck as his eyes dodged about the room. “I mean, if you’re asking me to stay the night...it’ll be Christmas in the morning.”

“I don’t need a gift. Not if - I have you.” He thought his heart might give out, it thumped so loudly and frantically inside his chest.

Greg’s smile grew soft, and his hands floated to Mycroft’s waist. “Would you have me? I don’t mean just tonight, Mycroft. I want...I want more than one night, if you know what I mean.”

Mycroft’s heart leapt and somersaulted between his ribs. “I should like that very much.”

“Yeah?” Greg reached up with one hand and touched his face. He was tender, affectionate. “Go on dates with me? Hold hands in the park? All that?”

“And more.” Mycroft wondered if he might have bumped his head when he fell.

That reminded him.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“What did you mean by Cam being...high maintenance?” He hated asking, but he had to know. 

Greg’s smile faded. “Well, Cam’s not...not the type to date someone with odd hours. And, even if I’m DCI now and spend more time behind a desk, with someone as nuts as your brother to chase around, my hours aren’t always set. And...when you need help...I like to be available to you.” His cheeks colored with his admission.

“Oh.” Mycroft was a little dizzy.

“I’m a bit of a workaholic, Mycroft. I’m not everyone’s ideal partner.” Greg’s face was suddenly very serious.

“My work is a bit consuming as well. It’ll be a wonder if we could even get a...relationship...off the ground.”

Greg started to smile, but then he frowned. “Yeah. I suppose I didn’t think of that. But, if we spent nights at one another’s places...and you know I don’t mind if you have to work. It’s important, what you do.”

“As is what you do.”

Greg’s smile came back. “Which is why I think we’d make great partners.”

An answering smile bloomed across Mycroft’s face. “I’m beginning to see your point.”

Greg seemed to be glowing with pleasure. “Excellent.”

“Has it been ten minutes yet?” Mycroft’s internal clock was on the blink. “My wrist is feeling better, and I should very much like to take you to bed now.”

Greg’s tongue slid out of his mouth and across his lips. “I think we can skip the last couple minutes.”

Mycroft let the soaked tea towel drop the the floor and took Greg into his arms. There were hungry and hot kisses. Mycroft wrapped one hand in that glorious silver hair, and tugged it just a bit, thrilling in Greg’s growling response and the arch of his back.

A pattern of beeps rang through the air, startling the both of them.

“Oh. The front door. That’s Omar,” Mycroft said. “I didn’t text him.” He’d left his phone in his coat pocket.

“Mr. Holmes?” Omar’s deep voice called from the hallway.

“In here,” Mycroft answered as he released Greg and took a step back.

Omar walked through the door and paused to see Greg standing there.

“Oh, sorry, sir. You didn’t answer your phone -”

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft said, though he was certain his cheeks blazed with a mix of shock and pleasure at having been caught in the middle of an evening with Greg Lestrade.

“Mr. Lestrade,” Omar bowed his head.

“No need to be formal with me,” Greg said with an affable smile. “How’re the wife and kids?”

“Wonderful, thank you.” Omar shifted his gaze to Mycroft, where his dark eyes asked a question Mycroft couldn’t answer out loud.

Yes. He’s here with me. Yes. In the way I want him to be.

“Thank you, Omar, for checking in. I should have texted you, but the journey home was...full of unexpected surprises.”

He could see Omar suppressing a smile. “Very good. I’ll be ready in the morning, sir, should you require my services.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft glanced at Greg before saying, “Please do enjoy your morning with your family.”

“I shall,” Omar grinned then. “Oh, and you left this in the car.” He produced the present from John, gold wrapping paper and a red bow.

“Leave it there on the side table. Thank you.”

Omar placed it down beside the bottles of liquor and nodded. “Happy Christmas, sir.”

Oh yes, Mycroft grinned. “Thank you, Omar.”

“Happy Christmas,” Greg said, and Omar gave him a funny salute. He closed the door behind him. There was a beep at the front door signaling his leaving.

“Alarm system?” 

“Every one of my staff has a certain signal when their keycard is inserted in the door. Only Peter, Omar, and Anthea have them. Sherlock and Rosie, too, should they ever have need of coming here.”

“Oh.”

And perhaps soon, you shall have one of your own. Mycroft catalogued the shape of Greg’s profile, an activity he did over and over and it never seemed to tire him. The straight brow, the slant of his nose -

“Are you going to open your present? Who gave it to you?”

“Mm?” Mycroft pulled his attention back. “Oh. It’s from John and Sherlock. I suppose now is as good as any time.”

“Excellent. I love opening presents. I even love watching other people open presents.”

Mycroft chuckled as he crossed the room and retrieved the wrapped gift. He undid the bow and the paper, to reveal a book with the macabre stare of a horse’s skull on the cover.

“It’s a book of ghost stories told around Christmas time,” Mycroft whispered. It weighed heavy in his hands.

“The Mari Lwyd.” Greg stared at Mycroft. “You don’t suppose…”

“No. He couldn’t possibly…”

Could he?

The universe is rarely so lazy.

Greg watched him with wide eyes.

Mycroft set the book down on the table. He looked around at his library. He was here. Greg was here. His wrist barely hurt. The room was warm.

And Greg wanted him.

“It doesn’t matter," Mycroft said. "We're here now."

Greg smiled. “Good. Because it would be super creepy if this whole thing was engineered by your brother.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mycroft said, and laughed.

Greg gathered him into his arms. “Can I keep kissing you?”

“Please.” Mycroft leaned forward, and their lips met again. Greg’s tongue teased at the seam of his mouth, and he opened to let Greg in. He slid his hands up around Greg’s face as Greg pressed his body against him, and moaned. 

Mycroft opened one eye to see the cover of the book: the blank socket of the horse's skull staring back at him, and the teeth bared in an eternal smile. 

He’d never been so thankful for a horror story.