Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017

Friday 1st December 2017

Advent Calendar

Tuesday, 28th November
A frost-dusted, London morning, sky streaked with wispy pink clouds. Two men sit closely on a dewy bench - close, but not yet too close.
"You've never had an advent calendar?" Greg raises his eyebrows from behind a strong cup of mobile-van coffee. "Then again, I'm not entirely surprised..." he grins.
"Well... no... I never felt an explicit need for one, nor found the concept exceptionally thrilling." Mycroft tentatively sips from his own hot cup. "I suppose you have." Mycroft smiles thinly, tracing the warm edge of the styrofoam with cold fingertips.
"Ever since I can remember - that is until I grew up, of course. Mum used to individually wrap each little gift... all rubbish stuff of course - plastic yo-yo's and all that. S'pose that's the novelty of it though?"
"Indeed..." Mycroft murmurs pensively. "Christmas was rather different in the Holmes household - not horrible, far from it, but cold. I could never help but feel the expensive gifts and elegant decorations were for the approval of our neighbours, not for Sherlock and I...." That same thin smile again.
"Well - well, how about you come out with me and the Yard boys this Friday evening? Celebrate the season properly, yeah?" Greg smiles eagerly, reaching to take Mycroft's hand.
Mycroft freezes. Still. Tense. Afraid.
"I... I am desperately sorry but-but, I'm awfully busy at present. England requires me." He somehow manages to get out.
"Alright then... I guess I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" Greg draws back, sighing. "Coffee?"
"Coffee." Mycroft nods once.

***
Wednesday, 29th November
"Morning!" Greg waves cheerily to Mycroft. "How's Mr Government this fine morning?"
"Bloody cold!" He chuckles. "I'll get these."
£3 later, they sit again at the dewy bench. Close, but not too close.
But closer than yesterday.
"So... erm... apparently snow's forecast?" Mycroft starts, leaning forward on the bench in the hopes of maintaining at least some of his body heat.
"Oh god help us if it does snow. We're halfway through a nasty case and the last thing we need is to have to call your brother to work figure it all out from the living room of 221B because we're all snowed in." Greg gulps some of the coffee - bitter and gritty, but blessedly hot.
"Doesn't Scotland Yard usually end up asking Sherlock for assistance?" Mycroft frowns.
"Yeah, but can you imagine the backlash if we can't solve it in the office, then the next day Sherlock Holmes solves it from his sofa?"
"I see the issue... Perhaps as the British Government, I could command the skies to not drop snow upon us?" The auburn says coyly, raising a single eyebrow.
"That would be most agreeable sir - and whilst you're at it, could you command Scotland Yard's Cold Cases to be miraculously solved?" Greg grins back.
"Now that's a miracle I could implement."
"But would you?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Depends.."
"Fine. Good lord, is that the time? Coffee again tomorrow?" Greg offers, chucking his empty styrofoam in a bin.
"Coffee." Mycroft smiles, a hint of warmth at the core of it.

Thursday, 30th November
Greg's already bought two cups of the steaming mobile-van-special, when Mycroft meets him at that same bench. He takes the coffee, thankful for the warmth that works it's way into his ice-block fingers, thawing them a tad. It's a bitingly cold morning, one of stinging car fumes and visible breath.
"Cold fingers?" Greg nods towards Mycroft's pale digits, which are beginning to blush as the blood runs towards the heat.
"Freezing fingers, you mean. I would wear gloves, but I think you can guess who's 'borrowed them'."
"I see... I'll tell him off for you next time I see him." Mycroft smiles at this, reminding Greg of just how much he's come to like Mycroft's smile, and how wonderfully different it is from the indifferent mask of Mr Mycroft Holmes.
"First of December tomorrow. My, my where has the year gone?" Mycroft wonders aloud. He shuffles a frost-crisped lead with his foot.
"Who knows, Myc? Who knows... Can't quite believe it's Christmas in just a few weeks."
"Christmas, yes..." Mycroft sighs, melancholy and somewhat fatigued.
"Look, Myc, I completely understand why you won't come out with me and the Yard boys, but can I at least tempt you to our Baker Street party? I know your brother's gonna be there, but I can't bear to think of you on your own..." Greg asks, eyebrows raised, questioning.
"I... I don't know... I... my work..." Mycroft mutters.
A long sigh from Greg breaks the silence.
"Here, Coffee tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Coffee."

Friday, 1st December
The next day is quite the same as the previous day. Except for the unavoidable difference of it being December. As Mycroft walks into work he's greeted by an endless stream of
"It's December already!"s and "Nearly Christmas!"s.
He's eventually sitting at his desk, buried under a confidential file which had been delivered in a locked box. Dreadfully important.
Suddenly, a quiet knock at the door disturbs him from his thought track.
A little annoyed, Mycroft invites the knocker, placing a random ring-binder on top of the information he's been sorting.
"Delivery for Mr Holmes."
"Thank you."

He takes a scanner from the draw beside him, probing for - well, whatever the rigorous security measure could have missed. Finally satisfied thats what he holds in his hands is not a bomb, Mycroft peels back the crumpled wrapping paper.
"Happy First of December."
A note reads.
He reaches in further, feeling something soft and comfortable.
A pair of leather gloves.

Mycroft picks up the phone, starts to punch in the number for floor five of Scotland Yard. Then deletes every digit. Then types them in again.
"Gregory! Good afternoon!"
"Mycroft - what a surprise! How are you?"
"Perfectly well, thank you. And yourself?"
"Great, yeah, great thanks. What can I do for you?"
"You see I... I wanted to say how much I appreciate your kind gift."
"Oh it's nothing, Myc. I got fed up of seeing you looking so cold, and, well, I thought perhaps you'd like an advent calendar of sorts this year. Glad you like them."
"Oh, I do... Gregory, I was wondering if.. if maybe you would..." have dinner? No, not yet.
"If you would...like to have coffee again tomorrow - in a cafe, this time."
"Yeah, sounds great! Costa?"
"Costa."

One day, I'll ask.
Mycroft whispers to himself.
One day.