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Mycroft Holmes had a weakness.
It was a surprise to most people, but the Iceman did indeed have a weakness, a soft spot underneath the hard exterior.
That weakness was Detective Inspector Gregory James Lestrade.
He’d not admitted his infatuation to another living soul. Frankly, he was shocked that his brother hadn’t called him out on it. And he certainly hadn’t shared this information with the object of his affection.
He usually took a holiday near St. Moritz in late December. Not only did he enjoy the peace and quiet of the area, there was the added benefit of avoiding the Christmas crowds of London, not to mention a tedious Christmas dinner with his family. He did, at least, make a point of spending a day with them in the week between Christmas and New Year’s, which usually quelled Mummy’s complaints.
Thus, he found himself alone on Christmas Eve, standing in the kitchenette of a cozy Alpine cabin preparing a mug of his favorite tea, watching as the blanket of white outside got deeper and the sun began to set. The silence was broken by the whistling of the kettle and, a few moments later, by the crack of overburdened branches in the near-silent forest.
Tea in hand, Mycroft settled on the living room sofa, pulling a warm quilt around himself and staring contentedly at the fire in the hearth. He was looking over the list of holiday songs on his phone when he heard an odd crunch of snow and ice outside, followed by loud pounding on the front door.
“What on earth?” he mumbled to himself, rising from the sofa and walking toward the door. Upon opening the door, he was stunned to silence.
There, dressed in heavy winter clothing, stood the detective inspector he so often dreamt of, removing his knit cap and brushing snow off his broad shoulders.
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” Greg said with a shy smile and a shiver in his voice. “Your assistant told me I’d find you here. May I come in?”
Still at a loss for words, Mycroft stepped aside and motioned for Lestrade to come in. He busied himself pouring two generous glasses of brandy. “To ward off the chill,” he said, handing one glass to his guest. “Now if I may ask, Detective Inspector, what are you doing here?” he carefully asked.
Having shed the remainder of his snow gear, Greg stood by the fire, warming his hands and his drink. “I have a problem you might be able to help me with.”
Curiosity piqued, Mycroft sat back down on the sofa, pulling the thick quilt back over himself as he watched Greg’s hands. “Oh? Something that couldn’t wait until my return to London?” He took a sip of the skin-warmed brandy he cradled in his hand.
“Yeah,” Greg replied without looking at the Mycroft-shaped bundle on the sofa behind him. “It is kind of important, and your brother said you generally disappear around Christmas time, but I needed to see you.”
“So, naturally, you asked Anthea,” Mycroft finished the thought, making a mental note to have a conversation on what the words “unreachable” and “undisturbed” meant to his assistant.
“Yeah. Good kid, Anthea. Organized my flight, gave me directions to this place and everything,” Greg grinned. “Told me you were all alone up here, like a Christmas hermit.”
“I typically spend my holidays alone, yes,” came a grumbled response, then a moment of clarity. “You said you needed to see me. Is there something wrong? Sherlock? A case?”
“No, nothing’s wrong with Sherlock, and work’s been surprisingly quiet this week,” he began.
“What could possibly be so important to take you away from London over the Christmas holiday?”
The detective turned to face him. “You see, I’ve taken a bit of a fancy to someone.”
Mycroft nearly choked on his brandy. “You’ve come to me for relationship advice?” he asked incredulously. “Surely you jest!”
“Sherlock said you were the best person to ask,” Greg shrugged, walking over to take a seat on the sofa beside his host.
“My brother said… never mind. I take it that I know this individual, then?” Mycroft made a mental note that, after his conversation with Anthea, he would need to have a similar conversation with his brother.
“Yes, you do know this person. Very well, I’d say.”
Mycroft took another sip. “So, who is it? Dear lord, don’t tell me it’s Alicia.”
“Good God, no. Lady Smallwood is not my type at all. Not that she isn’t pretty, mind,” Greg shook his head. “No, he’s just as posh, and smarter than anyone I know. And he’s got this little smile – I don’t get to see it often, but when I do,” he playfully put his hand over his heart “it gets me right here.”
“He? You were married for a time – to a woman”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m straight, you know. And I have reliable information that tells me this person is interested in me, too. Just hesitating on making the first move.”
Mycroft slowly digested this information, washing it down with more brandy. “I see.”
It can’t be, Mycroft said to himself, his disbelief apparent in his expression, in the tremble of his hands. Suddenly, warm hands enclosed his own. He looked down to see Lestrade’s hands gently clasping his, and looked up to see soft, dark eyes. “Do you really, Mycroft? Do you really see?” came the quiet reply.
Scrambling to regain his composure, Mycroft heard himself say “Detective Inspector, I…”
A finger pressed against his lips to silence him. “Please, call me Greg. I won’t kiss you if you won’t call me Greg,” Greg purred.
A small gasp escaped Mycroft as he breathed, “Greg…” and his thought processes were cut off by a soft press of lips against his own.
Abandoned on the coffee table beside the two empty glasses, Mycroft’s phone received a text message later that evening.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes.