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Mycroft Holmes had grown accustomed to being surprised by his lover. In fact, it was one of the most delightful things about the man which, given the bounty of delightful things he associated with Gregory Lestrade, was a stellar accomplishment. However, there were times, few though they might be, where the surprise was more surprisey than normal.
“That is… our entire liquor cabinet.”
He was only recently recovered from his partner’s foray into cooking an entire American-style Thanksgiving feast that necessitated the use of every cooking surface, utensil, pot, pan, dish, fork and appliance in their household, for pity’s sake! Was his lover trying to send him completely mental? Without leaving even an ounce of good alcohol on hand to make the sending a kindler, gentler thing in the spirit of the holiday…
“Not quite! Left the gin and vodka because there’s really no manner in which they’re appropriate. At least not that I’ve found with my very thorough and expert research.”
Research…
“I am hereby forbidding you, in perpetuity, from using Google.”
“Noooooooo!!! I need my recipes!”
Stalking forward to peer more closely at the most gorgeous face in the world, Mycroft felt no surprise whatsoever that the flush on Greg’s cheeks had a decidedly high-proof root cause.
“It is scarcely seven o’clock in the morning and you are thoroughly inebriated.”
“Wrong. Just a touch tipsy, thank you very much. Have to taste to know how it’s going, don’t I?”
Perhaps it was a mistake to leave Gregory home alone while he worked through the night. It might have been a better thing to let the banking sector collapse into ruin than leave his normally mature and responsible partner to his own unpredictable and Google-enabled devices. The man was a menace!
“For how long have you been doing… whatever it is you’re doing?”
“Since… dunno. I got a bit bored after you were called in to save the world or bring a gift to a manger or whatever it was you were up to and remembered Donovan mentioning there was an unofficial contest brewing, which means it’s already gotten cutthroat and dangerous, so I decided to join in!”
Looking once again at the spirits bottles littering the kitchen, Mycroft’s eyes this time took in the eggs… far more than they’d owned when he’d departed for work… the spices and, again, the stacks of unwashed saucepans, utensils and appliances.
“Eggnog. You are making eggnog.”
“Incorrect! I’m making the best eggnog. The prize for winning is… frankly unbelievable.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll show you!”
Greg darted over to get his mobile from the counter and proudly showed Mycroft the photograph of the prize.
“It is a plastic egg with a crown glued on top.”
“It’s a glorious thing.”
Which, Mycroft had no doubt, the DI would proudly display on his desk. Likely after scouring the physical shops and online retailers for a properly sized throne to make the tableau all the more regal.
“And, to win this… thing… you have spent hours attempting to make eggnog.”
“Not attempting. Succeeding! It’s not hard, really, but I haven’t found the best recipe yet. There are lots of variations but Greg Lestrade isn’t one to let lots defeat him! Mum yelled at me, though.”
His lover’s self-designated tipsiness seemed somewhat of an understatement.
“Might I ask why?”
“No clue! I just phoned her to ask if she had a recipe and she started yelling. And called me a bad name.”
“And… what time was it when you phoned?”
“Four, maybe five, hours ago, why?”
“Yes, it is quite a mystery why she would take offense at being phoned between two and three in the morning.”
“I know! She complains I never phone and when I do, I’m a bastard. Which really is more insulting to her than me, to be honest. HA! Mum dragged herself. That’s funny!”
While Greg giggled, Mycroft sighed, set down his valise, removed his coat and jacket then decided which of the seventeen thousand bottles shimmering on the countertop would be the first to sacrifice some of its contents down his throat.
“Gregory… perhaps it is time you took to bed.”
“Nope! I have today and tomorrow free and I’m not going to rest until King Egg is mine.”
“I shall buy you a crowned egg. A BIG one.”
“Wouldn’t be the same.”
“Perhaps provided with a scepter.”
“That… that’d be brilliant actually. NO! No, I must be victorious in battle. Nothing else will do. For the glory of the nog!”
Greg holding aloft a dripping whisk did Mycroft’s fussiness very little good.
“Put down the whisk, Gregory.”
“It’s my sword. My battle sword.”
“Put down the battle sword and let us turn attention, instead, to finalizing whatever you had planned for that bowl of… materials.”
“It’s nogcipe #31.”
“Nogcipe?”
“Nog recipe. I thought it up myself. Clever, right?”
“Exceedingly clever. And we shall see it completed before tidying up our kitchen and…”
“I don’t like it, though.”
“Your addition to the English language?”
“No, silly. The recipe. It’s not going to gain me King Egg. It won’t. I already know.”
Taking the bowl to the sink, Greg poured it down the drain, then set down the bowl to give the failure a parting salute.
“Very well. We may proceed straight to the tidying.”
“Nope! We proceed straight to nogicipe #32. Here.”
Taking back his mobile, Greg tapped a few times, then presented the result to Mycroft. More specifically, he held it up to Mycroft’s face at a distance requiring Mycroft to step back to have any chance of reading the print.
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes!”
“Under no circumstances are you crafting tofu eggnog.”
“It’s vegan! It’ll be unique and judges like unique.”
“Absolutely not. It is an affront to the culinary history of the holidays.”
“Fine. I’ll do the coconut milk version instead.”
“This is not Hawaii. You will neither make a coconut milk eggnog or serve any final concoction in a Tiki mug with umbrella.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a smashing idea!”
“NO! If you insist on persisting with this lunacy, then you will make a proper eggnog and not some maniacal variant!”
“Father Christmas is going to be angry that you got shouty.”
“An Englishman has every right to be shouty about Tikinog!”
“Perfect! I’m definitely making it now!”
Mycroft was a second faster snatching up the tin of coconut milk and quickly had it hurled out the window while Greg watched and pouted.
“There. Perhaps a wandering pixie desires a tropical cocktail and thus we have made their holiday a merry one. Now, Gregory Lestrade, it appears I must monitor the situation or you will careen into areas that are wholly unsuitable for Christmas and its revered traditions. You may select another recipe to try, however, be warned that I will be watching for any hint of New Age hoodoo or Polynesian chicanery.”
“So… goat milk is out of the question?”
“I will murder you and send your sainted mother a package of steaks and sausages made of your flesh and innards.”
“She’d eat them, too. And tell me how gamey I tasted. Fine! I’ll… do boring.”
“Which is, in essence, the spirit of eggnog. Familiar, inoffensive, comforting.”
“At least you like it. I was beginning to thing you were a Nooge.”
“What?”
“Nog Scrooge.”
“Dear god… never utter that again. In any case, in truth, I am rather fond of eggnog. Mummy used to make it every year and it was something of a highlight of the season for me. I have not had it since my youth, but it remains a very happy memory.”
A small bulb haltingly flickered in Greg’s brandy/rum/whisky/bourbon laden brain.
“Do you have the recipe?”
“I… hmmm… perhaps. Though there may be a faster way to obtain it than looking through boxes in the attic.”
Mycroft took out his own mobile and placed a call, knowing well that he wouldn’t be called a bastard since his mother routinely rose at 5:00 am. At least, that would not be the sole reason she anointed him with that title.
“No, Mummy, Sherlock is not in jail. At least not today. Pardon? Most likely, though my wager is still £20 it will be for something far more humiliating than general mayhem. In any case, I have a request. I wondered if you might share your recipe for eggnog. Are you joking? I refuse to pay you £500 for it. That profoundly is a lie. Ridiculous. I am not acquiring a cat! Yes, he has agreed to sing at your birthday party. I will make very certain Les Mis is not performing that night so there are no conflicts. Now, your recipe? Out of the question. I do not care if you will take cash or a cheque, Gregory hopes to… pardon? Yes, Gregory is the one who desires it. I see. For him, you freely divulge your secrets but your own son you bleed dry for the privilege? This shall be remembered, Mummy. Yes, we will stay the night when we visit. Yes, we will assist with the erection of the tree. Are you giggling? Mummy! That is… tawdry. Oh very well, it was a linguistic blunder. Now, for Gregory, might I have your recipe? Thank you.”
Greg shimmied happily as Mycroft reached for a pen and paper.
“Yes, I am ready, go ahead. What? Are you… really? Have you been drinking? I will not! I simply… dear lord, that much? Well, that explains matters. Yes. Yes! I will pass it along to Gregory. I have little doubt he will duly report back to you the results. Yes. I would rather not. That is acceptable. Goodbye, Mummy. No, I will not forget.”
Mycroft put the mobile back into his pocket and walked out of the kitchen. And out of the house. And back into the house. And back into the kitchen. Carrying the tin of coconut milk.
“You will need this. And the one that remained unhurled.”
“Really?”
“Evaporated milk.”
“Got that.”
“Sweetened condensed milk.”
“Got that.”
“Cinnamon.”
“Yep.”
“Vanilla.”
“Sure.”
“Nutmeg, if desired.”
“Got it if wanted.”
“All that remains in that bottle of white rum.”
“Ooh. That’s potent. But… what the hell am I making?”
“Coquito. Mummy did not make eggnog, she made coquito. She and Father visited Puerto Rico not long after they married and found it to their taste. However, she called it eggnog because it felt more Christmasy to do so. And because Father came over queer at the thought of drinking raw eggs but didn’t want to appear that he wasn’t showing willing at the holidays.”
Greg breaking out laughing was fitting, in Mycroft’s opinion. Little was more fitting, given he was standing in their kitchen holding a dirty tin and wishing his mother droopy knickers from now until doomsday.
“I’m making it! It sounds delicious, too. I don’t know if I’ll win King Egg, but I’ll craft King Coconut and give him a bigger crown than King Egg because our eggnog is going to be the very best ever. Ever! Can’t say I want to call it coquito, though. Your mum’s right – not Christmassy enough. At least for a humble British bloke like me.”
“You will not call it Tikinog, Gregory Lestrade, or I will throttle you.”
“Ok. Ummmm… coconog? It’s not as catchy, but it could work. Eggnut is the other option and that’s balls.”
Given Christmas was ruined for eternity, Mycroft decided there was no gain to be had from standing strong on tradition. Or letting his lover continue to contrive nominative variations on a rather boozy theme.
“Of the three, and given this is for your extremely important competition, I believe… Tikinog, it is.”
“Hurray! Let’s make a test batch. I’ve never had this and, I have to tell you, I’m very excited about it. A piece of your childhood! Like one of those horror novels where you find that a cherished doll actually belonged to your dead twin brother that nobody ever told you about and now he’s haunting you because why not.”
Mycroft Holmes was officially too sober for this conversation and made haste to remedy the situation by pouring a very large brandy despite the morning sun trying to peek through the heavily overcast sky.
“I am ready and eager for the experiment to begin.”
“And, since I already know this is going to be delicious, maybe it can be our traditional holiday drink. It’s not properly traditional, I admit, but it’s your family’s tradition that we can bring back and make our own. What do you think?”
That is was a beautiful idea and utterly typical for the beautiful man who suggested it.
“I think it is a superb idea and am thankful for it.”
“Does that earn me a kiss?”
“Most certainly.”
Mycroft smiled and walked forward to give his lover a long, soft kiss that tasted unsurprisingly of spices and expensive spirits.
“Perfect! Even if I don’t win King Egg, I won the best prize in existence.”
“As did I. And, if you desire, we can seek the perfect vessels for our traditional drink. I remember Mummy served ours in sturdy, short glasses that were quite plain. I anticipate we can find something more unique to house our concoction.”
“Shopping?”
“My day is free, so shopping and then a delicious lunch in the city.”
“I’d love to! Then, maybe, back here for a holiday film, a warm fire and a cozy blanket to share?”
“The very thing to make the day complete. Now, I shall quickly change into more suitable garments while you gather our ingredients. I’ll be but a moment, my dear.”
After another lingering kiss, Mycroft trotted off to shed his suit and Greg began rummaging through the drawers for where he’d last seen their tin opener. This was great! The very greatest, actually. And it really didn’t matter if he won King Egg. This was now about making a life with the man he loved and creating those little things that made the life uniquely theirs to cherish.
Of course, it would also be unfair to enter the competition with their super special, tradition-tested Tikinog. It would also be rude to crush the other participants like teeny bugs with the glory they’d be mixing up today. Greg Lestrade wasn’t rude, so it would not happen. Couldn’t abide those long faces when they lost miserably! That being said, he could certainly bring some of their deliciousness for people to try, just for a lark. Just to show how much better their holiday drink was than theirs. That wasn’t rude. That was… Mycroft had a big word for that… what was it… got it!... munificent. Maybe. If that was the word he was thinking of. Mycroft had loads of large lovely words so it was easy to get fuddled. For the glory of the nog… the Tikinog… though, he’d look it up to make certain. It was only fair. The poor sods had to live with the knowledge that their poor eggy mess couldn’t compare to their tropical tastiness, so a bit of fairness was the least he could do. Didn’t need the holiday spirit showing up at the door to kick his arse for being evil…