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"Is there any conceivable way I can duck out of this this year?" Lestrade asks, picking his keys and his phone up from his desk. He pats his pockets to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything.
"Absolutely none," Donovan replies with a slight smirk on her face. "Your name went in the bag just like everyone else's and now it's gone."
"Gone?" Lestrade frowns, pulling on his coat. "How d'you know?"
There is a faint but definite blush that coats Sally's cheeks as she rattles the bag impatiently under Lestrade's hand. She avoids his eyes. "I wanted to make sure I got Anderson, so I took them all out and checked."
"Oh, Sally..." He says, a warning in his voice as he shoves his hand in the bag, jumbles the papers around a little bit.
"I know, I know," Donovan snaps the bag away as soon as she feels his fingers close upon a slip of paper. "I don't want to hear it. Who did you get?"
Secretive, like a child, Lestrade holds his slip of paper away from her so he can check the name, enjoying the game briefly. He smiles. "Not telling."
Sally rolls her eyes at him. "Night, Sir."
"Night, Donovan."
Lestrade double checks the paper again, sees Sally's name there in her own messy scrawl. Maybe he should get her a few ounces of common sense, maybe then she might finish this stupid thing with Anderson.
Sighing, he stuffs the little slip of paper into his pocket then goes out into the cold London night.
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He's never liked Secret Santa.
How's he supposed to know what to buy Sally bloody Donovan for Christmas? They work together - work really well, most of the time - but Lestrade doesn't spend time getting to know her likes and dislikes. He knows she's not too keen on checking the pockets of corpses and running his petty errands for him but that's hardly grounds for a Christmas gift.
Lestrade stands in the middle of London's biggest department store and realises he could literally be here all night at this rate.
Thoroughly pissed off at being shunted around by the hoardes of Christmas shoppers, he eventually resorts to every man's standard choice of gift.
"What smells the best?" He asks the highly made up woman behind the counter. She looks like one of those Girls World dolls kids play with, after the inexperienced make over.
"That depends on the lady really, sir," she trills, and Lestrade already feels uncomfortable enough to grab the first thing he sees and run. "What scent does your wife usually wear?"
He wonders why she's talking like someone on an afternoon game show.
"It's not for my wife."
"Mistress?"
Lestrade blanches. "Excuse me? No, I haven't got a mistress. Or a wife. It's for my colleague."
"Ah," the lady says, with a tone that implies she knows exactly what colleague is a euphemism for. "May I recommend this then, sir?"
He takes the first thing she offers, hands over a sizeable wad of cash and gets out as quickly as he can.
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On Christmas morning Lestrade wakes up with the faint trace of a hangover from the office Christmas party and some woman's phone number pressed deep into his jacket pocket.
He throws it straight in the bin, horrified at the thought.
It's only after the third cup of coffee and an hour sat in front of a tired re-run of It's A Wonderful Life that he remembers the Secret Santa gift stowed safely under his pathetic little Christmas tree in the corner. It had been left on his desk a few days ago and the unusual size and shape of the thing had driven him bloody mad for a few hours before he'd finally given up trying to guess what it was and slung it underneath the tree.
Putting his coffee down on the table and padding barefoot over to the tree, he picks it up and gives it one last shake before he opens it. No noise, so not sweets. And it feels soft and moveable, so not one of those generic packs of men's toiletries that always boast smells like 'Ocean Spray' and 'Cool Meadow' despite actually just smelling like fruit.
Lestrade plants himself back on the sofa and glances once more at It's A Wonderful Life before tearing the wrapping from the present on his knee like an eager five year old. He's been wondering what this is for days.
Pulling the final piece of precisely wrapped paper away, he finds -
A teddy bear.
A cuddly teddy bear.
Lestrade frowns. Which bastard thought it would be funny to buy him this?
And then on the paw he spots a little sticker which says, 'Press here!'
Still frowning, Lestrade does just that.
"Wrong!" The bear says in one of those cheerful animated voices, and it takes him a second to work out what he's just heard. Affronted, he presses it again. "Your work is shoddy at best!"
He almost splutters. Someone has bought him an offensive teddy bear.
Which one of the gits would have thought to -
And then he realises.
None of them would. There's only one person rude enought to do this.
Pressing the soft furry paw again, he listens. "Ineffective reasoning, as usual."
Lestrade feels the beginnings of a smile creeping up onto his features. "That really is a pathetic idea," the bear says, jovially. And then, "Are you actually in possession of a brain?"
By this point he realises he's grinning and Lestrade looks almost fondly at the bear for a moment before reaching forward and grabbing his mobile from it's place on the coffee table. A second later, the line picks up.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Really you should have got him a curly wig," Lestrade says, realises he's still smiling at the bear and tries to stop.
"None of them would have been stylish enough," Sherlock replies easily, and Lestrade wonders how long he's been waiting for this phone call. He knows Sherlock well enough to know he enjoys his little experiments being found out.
"Well obviously," Lestrade answers, unconsciously ruffling the bear's fur. "You could have at least got him a little blue scarf though, and a flappy coat."
"My coat is not flappy," Sherlock says, sounding offended.
"He's very inventive - how did you programme him to have such a surly disposition?"
"A little tinkering, simple electronics."
"You thought I might need insulting in my personal time as well as at work?"
"Well, I can't be there every minute of the day," Sherlock replies, as though it's exhausting carrying the sole burden of pointing out everyone's faults all the time. "Think of him as my little helper."
"I'll call him John then, shall I?" Lestrade asks, glancing at the bear's friendly little smile. He is actually rather cute.
"I'll tell him you said that."
There is a brief pause in which Lestrade likes to imagine Sherlock is smiling, but that's probably pushing it.
"You spending the day with John and Mrs Hudson, then?"
"John is going to Sarah's," Sherlock sighs, as though all human interaction disgusts him. "And Mrs Hudson has some wrinkly friend of her's coming over." Lestrade manages not to laugh too loudly at that one - Sherlock's ego doesn't need encouraging. "Mycroft believes we're having dinner together at three, in time for the Queen's speech."
"Believes?" Lestrade frowns.
"Yes, of course I'm not going. By four he will have arrived here, I'm going to sit quietly with the lights off until he leaves."
He waits a beat before speaking, wondering whether his next few words will be a carefully planned disaster. "You might as well come and hide over here, then; I've got a Tesco ready meal. Big enough for two."
There is the faint crackle of static on the line and Lestrade realises he's gripping the arm of the poor teddy bear, lets go and pats the fur down gently.
"Alright, put it in now as I haven't had any breakfast."
He was expecting a sharp, 'No, bugger off' so much that it takes Lestrade a second to realise what Sherlock has said. "Oh, right, okay."
"And some of that whisky you always keep."
"Right, yes."
"I'll get a cab, though you may have to pay as John has gone out and taken the money."
Ignoring the implication that they live from a joint account like a married couple, Lestrade nods into the phone. "Naturally."
"See you in ten minutes, then."
When the phone clicks off Lestrade takes a minute to process what has just happened - he's invited Sherlock (of all people) around for Christmas dinner and he's said yes. Shocked, Lestrade presses the paw on his little bear again.
"You complete and utter fool," the bear says, and Lestrade can't help agreeing with him.