Mystrade - Christmas in the Cotswolds - from The Personal Journal of Mycroft..

Chapter 1

        I abhor Christmas. I loathe it. There is nothing I detest more than festive Christmas gatherings. I've always spent each December avoiding Mummy's phone calls, hoping to also evade a family dinner, along with the scents of cinnamon, turkey, and mulled wine. I'm certain to reply to Sherlock and Dr. Watson's invitations each year with silence - God forbid I have to listen to Sherlock play carols on his violin.

        If you remain ignorant, a common ailment of most people, you should be aware that Detective Inspector Lestrade and I made our romantic relationship official and public during the winter that followed the disaster at Sherrinford. I'm quite certain you've heard about that incident - everyone has.

        Our decision to be together - and live together - came after years of late-night rendezvous. Well, I should have deduced that welcoming an ordinary human being into my home would add a unique and particularly irksome obstacle to my avoidance of Christmas cheer. I entered into this year's supposedly joyous season with my usual disgust, but also with a newfound sense of dread. Ever my antithesis, Greg loves Christmas. He adores every bit of ghastly music, lights, food, fellowship, and, as he calls it, "magic."

        Though most assume such a sentiment impossible in my case, I do love this man. I love him with every bit of my admittedly dim, hard, and arctic heart. It is precisely that ridiculous human emotion that found my nose itching and eyes watering in my parlour as Greg wrestled with a twelve-foot Nordmann Fir by the window.

        "Why are we doing this?" I asked between sneezes.

        "It's Christmas, Mycroft."

        "To be accurate, Christmas is twenty-three days from now. Again, though, let me ask, why are we doing this?"

        "Would you just come here and help me, please? You don't have to lift or anything, but your height would really be great right now." He attempted to balance on the balls of his feet so that he could reach high enough to steady the ludicrous monstrosity into its pot. I stand only ten centimeters taller than Greg, but my habit of a straight back and raised chin often make the gap appear larger.

        I took a few steps, reaching above my head to stop the top of the tree from falling onto Greg. "I went with you in that preposterous vehicle to a lot covered in filthy overpriced shrubs. How much more of my dignity would you like to rob me of today?"

        "Thank you." He ignored my inquiry, stepping away from the tree, rubbing his hands together in an effort to remove the bark and needles that covered them - and the rest of his body.

        In silence, I walked away, toward the sitting room.

        "Waistcoat okay? Didn't snag the silk or anything, did we?" he jibed, following me to the sofa.

        "Oh, shut up." My throat caught on the last word. "I'm sorry," I offered. Feeling particularly cross never warrants disrespect.

        "You could at least have an open mind," he suggested, standing next to me, unbuttoning his sullied shirt.  

        I watched as each bit of skin was revealed, but had, by that time, become a master at hiding my penchant for gawking at him. "My mind is open. My mind is open to information, to knowledge, to logic. That leaves little room for asinine spectacles."

        He sat next to me on the sofa, now shirtless and glowing with perspiration. His warm lips suddenly snatched mine, as he hummed through his nose. "For me?"

        "What other reason can you possibly imagine is behind everything I've already done?" I murmured into his mouth. His body carried the same odor as the tree but didn't induce even the smallest respiratory tickle.