Christmas in the Cotswolds

        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 helpful." 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 odour as the tree but didn't induce even the smallest respiratory tickle.

        "Trust me. Relax a little. Undo a button and let loose." His sarcasm was accompanied by his uniquely endearing grin. "You might actually enjoy Christmas this year if you give me a chance."

        He certainly did have an ability to soften me in unexpected ways, but Christmas? Unlikely. "Allow me to wish you luck at that endeavor, Inspector. Now, go shower, " I ordered.

        "Yep." He said standing. "And you're not invited."

        "Good."

        He shook his head at me with a combination of disgust and amusement as he walked toward the stairs.

 

***

 

​

       You are part of my existence, part of myself. You are in every line I have ever read.
 

        Greg's voice suddenly pulled my attention away from the book on my lap. "Of course we can. How can I help? Can I buy anything for you ahead of time? Would you like me to bring anything along?" His deep cadence echoed in the marble hall, finally returning downstairs from his shower. "Well, you let me know, alright?" A few seconds of silence passed, and then I heard, "I know. I know. But he will. I'll make sure of it." He disconnected his mobile as he walked into the room.

        "You shouldn't make promises you can't keep to a tender-hearted woman," I explained, closing my book and placing it on the nearby tea table. "It's cruel, really."

        Greg walked to the sofa, worked his way into the corner, and then reached for my shoulder, pulling me back to rest my head in the crook of his neck. "I've promised your Mum we'll go for Christmas dinner - and we will. Everything went just fine last year."

        "Yes, just fine," I said with a sigh, remembering the childish tantrum Sherlock had thrown over my father insisting that his mobile be turned off at the table.

        "I'm going to have you so happy by then that you won't even think a thing about going to dinner."

        "Really? How, may I ask, do you plan to create such delirious joy within me?" I quipped.

        "We're going to take a trip."

        "What exactly does that mean?"

        He leaned down to kiss my cheek, then whispered in my ear, "It means we drive somewhere. We get away from all the same old things we see and do every day. We sleep somewhere else. We do fun things."

        "Fun?"

        "I can get the dictionary if you need it," he said, starting to slide out from under me.

        I grabbed him near his rib cage and pulled him back to me. The shirt he'd thrown on post-shower was tight to his strong torso and noticeably soft. Bamboo perhaps? I ran my fingertips down his bare forearm, noting, as always, the difference between my pale, freckled skin and the golden, chestnut pigment of his. "Where do you plan to go?"

        "I found a little place in Bourton-on-the-Water. It has..."

        "Cotswolds?" I interrupted. "Why?"

        "Because it will get you into a Christmas spirit."

        "Oh, will it?"

        "Do something for me?"

        "You mean besides putting a pagan, evergreen offering to the Egyptian sun god in my parlour?"

        He inhaled deeply, then exhaled through pursed lips. "You know, your brother deletes silly facts that don't matter."

        "He has a smaller hard drive."

        He exhaled, again, forcefully. "One thing for me?"

        "Yes, Greg." I paused, hesitant to speak the painful truth of my devotion to him. "Anything for you," I promised, sliding down his body and lifting the bottom of his shirt to reveal his freshly washed skin.

        "No more complaining. No more sarcasm. Give me this one chance to make Christmas tolerable for you. If I fail, I promise we'll completely ignore the entire thing next year. But just let me try?"

        I kissed his athletic abdomen gently where the waistband of his joggers stopped. "No more complaints," I agreed.