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

Chapter 4

        The air was so incredibly crisp and fresh that I didn't mind the faint hint of cinnamon lingering in the breeze, nor did I scoff at the recording of the Christmas Waltz faintly playing in the distance. Greg's arm, bundled in his leather bomber jacket, was linked with mine and his gloved right hand ran up and down the forearm section of my overcoat as we walked.

        "You've never been to one of these have you?" Greg asked.

        "A Christmas Market? Not since before Sherlock was born," I replied. I could vaguely remember my Mum shopping through chocolates and baked treats at a stall playing jazz music.

        "Well, what do you think, then?"

        I stopped to look around. The stall closest to us had fountains of hot chocolate. Over from that, there was a stall of fresh fruits for holiday baking. A traveling carousel rested in the middle of the park, surrounded by children. I closed my eyes and could smell sausage cooking. I opened my eyes and looked at Greg's sweet face, waiting for an enthusiastic reply. "It's better than fielding phone calls about national crises."

        "And I'm willing to accept that's probably the best I'm going to get out of you," he said with a laugh, gripping my arm tighter. "Let's go this way."

        He led me away from the kiosks to the smell of evergreens. I could hear an engine and people - a great many people. Through the trees, I was finally able to spot a rink of ice, being resurfaced by a Zamboni.

        "No. No. No," I said, yanking his arm in the direction from whence we'd come.

        He pulled against me. "I don't want to skate. I just want to watch."

        I stared at him, waiting for his eyelid to twitch.

        "Honestly," he insisted. "Please?"

        "Alright," I conceded, following him to a bench near the side of the ice.

        I sat, as I always did, with my legs crossed, my arm at the back of the seat, and my umbrella resting beside me. Greg was quick to slide his way against my side and into the shadow of my extended arm. We sat without speaking for a few minutes. I spent the time watching his facial expressions as he found entertainment in watching the poor skills of the people attempting to maneuver the ice. His head dropped back to rest on my shoulder as he rubbed my knee. "Thank you," he offered quietly.

        "For?"

        "For coming here. For taking a few days off. For not arguing with me every step of the way."

        "Mycroft Holmes?" A woman's voice rang behind us before I could acknowledge what Greg was saying. I shifted slightly as she walked to the front of the bench. "It is you. Hello!"

        Greg and I stood in unison as I took her hand. "Gertrude. Very nice to see you. Here on an official call?"

        "Not at all. Holiday with the family," she replied, gesturing toward the carousel. "And you?" she inquired, glancing toward Greg.

        "My apologies," I said. "Gertrude, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

        "Oh, well, I'm very sorry to interrupt, Inspector," she apologised, assuming, then, that my purpose with Greg was business.

        "No, not at all," I began.

        "It's Greg Lestrade, ma'am," he offered on his own, interrupting me.

        "Yes. My -" I hesitated, but I knew I could do this. "My boyfriend, Gertrude."  I said it.

        "Oh my! Well, that's wonderful. I'm sure he keeps you quite busy, Mr. Lestrade," she said with a smile.