Christmas in the Cotswolds

         I heard the bedroom door creak slightly as it opened, then closed again. It was finally Christmas morning, the end of the whole infernal season, and Greg had sneaked out of bed thirty minutes or so prior. He returned, accompanied by the warm, comforting scent of cocoa, dancing in the air with the vetiver and patchouli of his cologne.

        I heard a wooden tray land on top of his bedside table as he climbed back into the bed next to me. I was still tired. The sun had barely risen. Perhaps if I remained still enough, Greg would actually believe I was still asleep.

        The room was so silent, I could hear the light fabric of his tee shirt as he flung it onto the bedpost. Cold air snuck under the bedclothes as Greg crawled across the mattress, not stopping until his bare chest met the satin shirt covering my back. His right arm wrapped around my ribcage, and he pulled me even closer against him, resting his chin on my shoulder.

        "George Bailey," he whispered. 

         Not this again. He had returned, evidently, to his insistence upon discussing my affinity for It's A Wonderful Life.

        "I know you're awake." I felt his breath on my neck. "George Bailey," he paused again, apparently assuming I'd acknowledge that he was talking to me "sacrifices everything for his little brother. Saves his life even. But the brother gets all the accolades - all the attention - even though George is really the hero."

        I remained still and silent, panicking internally as a tear began to build in my eye.

        "He did it. He broke you."

        Playing dead was failing me. I rolled onto my back and Greg nestled himself onto my chest.

        "When did it happen?" he asked, running his hand up between my shirt and torso.

        I exhaled, still not wanting to expound on the topic.

        "Talk to me, Mycroft."

        Even if he'd back down on this now, he'd just try again later. I was fighting a battle I'd already lost. "I was seventeen," I said.

        "Which means Sherlock was - ?"

        "Ten."

        "Good God. Ten? He screwed up that bad when he was ten?"

        "It was Christmas Eve."

        "Of course it was." Greg began unfastening my buttons as I spoke.

        "I was alone in my room watching my favourite film on the telly. They only ran it once each year."

        "Hmmm," Greg hummed to point out that the added details of my story were merely a stalling tactic.

        "Suddenly, he was missing. No one knew where he was. No one could find him."

        "Except you?"

        "Except me." I paused, as the vivid memory of my baby brother convulsing in the snow ripped through my mind. "Except me. I found him lying in an alleyway behind a pub in Croydon, covered in snow, nearly hypothermic." I felt a pit begin to form in my stomach as I remembered how cold his little body had felt to my touch.

        "Jees." I could see the gears turning in Greg's mind. "But, he was ten. How could he have gotten enough drugs to do that?"

        "He's Sherlock Holmes," I reminded. "He had, I later found out, started his homeless network at the age of eight as a means of manipulating favors and transportation around the city that could be hidden from our parents and me. He talked his way up a drug chain. Once I woke him, he informed me that he was conducting an experiment."

        "You sure it's your sister that's the liability? My God! Ten." Greg shook his head back and forth in disbelief.

        "Unlike this year," I continued, "he was so euphoric from the amount of cocaine in his system that he didn't argue. He came with me willingly, but he had to be hospitalised for nearly a week after that." Another memory drew my attention from Greg. I could almost feel the cold glass of the hospital window against my back, remembering how I'd sat next to him in that room refusing to leave him even to go to school or meals. They had kept him well asleep for most of his stay, but I remained with him, read to him, talked to him.

        "Is that when you started the notebook and the lists?"

        "Unfortunately, I didn't think up the idea of making him agree to the lists until he was a teenager. The notebook, though, yes." Greg knew that I carried with me, at absolutely all times, a book of notes as to the details of Sherlock's life, movements, and mental status. I tracked him constantly, evaluated him constantly, and worried about him - constantly.

        "So, the little boy who wanted to be George Bailey with a million friends ready to save him and someone special to love, ended up being the George Bailey who lives his life every day, having sacrificed his greatest dreams for his baby brother?" he concluded, referencing the film's main character again.

        I wrapped my arm around Greg's shoulder, squeezing his body tight to mine, but chose not to speak.

        "You scoff at the idea of friendship, you're unbelievably hesitant to love, and you avoid Christmas like a viral plague."

        "I know what I am, Greg." My voice was shaking with emotion that I simply did not want to let surface. "I know what I've let myself become."

        His head now rested on my bare chest.  The smoothness of his freshly shaven cheek moved across my skin as he nuzzled, trying to somehow get even closer. The rawness of his fingers caused my hair to stand on end as he brushed my abdomen. "Maybe you should reconsider that idea of friendship sometime."

        "Why in heaven's name would I do that, Greg?"

        "George Bailey's friends saved him in the end. Don't you think you deserve a bit of saving?"

        I did. I knew I did. That's why I'd exploded at Sherlock at dinner. That's why I'd yelled at my mother and quashed Greg. Everything I'd ever done for Sherlock - and Eurus - had always gone unnoticed, or, at least, unacknowledged. It was frustrating at times, but the truth was, I didn't care as much as Greg was implying I did. My main concern was that they were both okay - or whatever state closest to okay was possible for each of them given their mental conditions.

        Placing my fingers under his chin, I coaxed Greg's eyes to meet mine, then moved to brush my cheek against his. Savoring the scent of his cologne and the cigarette I was just now realising he'd enjoyed before warming the cocoa, my lips grazed his chin and his mouth opened slightly in anticipation. I spoke in a breathy tone, deliberately sharing my air with his mouth as I did. "Why would I need friends to do what you've already accomplished?" I asked, then took his bottom lip with mine. I closed my eyes, both to savor him and to try to stifle the arousal in my trousers.

        "Slow down," Greg instructed, pulling away from me. "It's Christmas."

        "Sex is off-limits on Christmas?" Without giving him time to reply, I concluded, "and you wonder why I dislike this day so much."

        He shot me a crooked smile. "Very funny." I watched as his defined shoulders leaned toward the wooden tray, picking up a cocoa mug in each hand. "Nothing is off-limits. I just have the morning planned out." He handed me one of the mugs. The enamel was decorated with images of holly berries and the drink was still so hot that steam was flooding onto my chin.

​

***

​

         Once I had finished my cocoa to its very last drop, Greg had allowed me to get out of bed and dress. Actually, he had allowed me to partially dress. He refused to allow a tie, garters, or jacket. He insisted the top two buttons of my shirt remain open, even if I refused to go without a waistcoat. To this day, I will never understand the unending correlation he makes between clothing and relaxation.

        He had led me, by the hand, down the staircase, requiring that my eyes be closed until I was seated on the sofa. As he guided me, I was already aware of my surroundings and the fact that he'd moved both the sofa and the tea table. The saltiness of bacon mingled in the air with the sweetness of warmed jam.

        "Open your eyes," he ordered, as I fell onto the sofa.

        I was first faced with an embarrassing spread of breakfast and snack foods laid out on the table. As I shifted my glance, I came to find that the sofa, at this angle, offered a view of the Christmas tree of which Greg was still so proud, as well as the bare white wall beside it.

        "Since we had to cut our trip short," he began," I thought we could sit back and imagine we're still there. I know it drives you nuts, but that tree is beautiful."

        "It doesn't bother me that much," I argued.

        "Yes, it does."

        "Okay. It smells and my eyes itch." I paused. "It is beautiful, though," I conceded, reaching for his hand to pull him down next to me.

        He resisted my pull. "Hold on. Here's the best part." He ran behind me, flipping off the light switch. As the room went black, illuminated only by the twinkle of the tree in the parlour, I could hear it. Apart from Greg's voice, it was, without a doubt, my favorite sound. The mechanical hum and grind of my film projector began to echo in the large room, soon covered by the tune of Buffalo Gals.

 

***

​

        With my arm resting on the back of the sofa, I felt Greg's fingers tracing mine. I watched the images moving on my sitting room wall, quietly choking back tears. The main character's little brother had just returned home, war medals decorating his jacket, as the dozens of people surrounding them began singing Auld Lang Syne around the Christmas tree.

        Greg squeezed my hand as the film faded to black. He flipped the lights on and appeared back at my side with a square box wrapped in green paper with shimmering gold ribbon. "Happy Christmas," he said resting the box on my lap.

        "We agreed...."

        He interrupted me. "I lied."

        "Greg," I whined, irritated by the fact that he'd broken our promise not to exchange shop-bought gifts.

        "Technically, I didn't buy it," he offered in self-defense.

        I opened the box to find a pillow. Upon it, appeared embroidery resembling that of a piece of work shown in the film - a moon with a face, being lassoed. Among the threads that made up the rope, were the words, "Myc lassos the moon." It was a reference to the story between the character, George Bailey, and his wife.

        "Greg." That's all I said. I was at a loss for any other words.

        As my fingertips traced the stitching, Greg leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Your brother may get all the accolades," he said, "and he probably always will. But you should really have a reminder that you're always someone's hero."

        I scoffed with a chortle. "Whose?"

        Greg's rough hand slid toward my hip. He tapped the exact spot scarred from surgery, reminding me of the gun shot I'd once taken in his place.  

        I sat the pillow gently on the floor next to me, pulling Greg's body on top of mine, kissing him with the same power as my desperate desire to never lose him.

        Wait," I said. "You just watched it two days ago, though."

        "No. You just caught me watching it two days ago. I've watched it three times since I found your secret dungeon." He ended his sentence with sarcasm.

        "You have?"

        "I have."

        "And what do you mean you didn't buy it. You certainly didn't make it," I said, looking back over at the pillow.

        "That's where your lovely Mum comes in handy."

        That's what she had been taunting me about. She said that she knew things and talked to people. She had been talking to Greg. I nestled my body deeper into the cushions, bending my neck so that my nose could run through his silver hair. "Thank you," I whispered. It wasn't good enough, but no words could have been.

        "Thank your Mum too, alright?"

        "Yes, of course. That's not what I meant, though." I paused. "I mean, thank you. Thank you for everything - for the pillow, yes, but also for the tree, and the weekend. Everything."

        "Hating Christmas a little less, are we?" he teased, running his hand up and down my arm.

        "I suppose it's difficult to hate it if it's spent with you," I granted.

        "Good." He wiggled his back to slide between me and the back of the sofa. "I was thinking that next year, we could invite everyone here for a...."

        "Don't push your luck, Inspector," I interjected.

        He ignored my request. "Whose old silver serving dishes are those down in those boxes?"

        He really had gone through every box in my hidden collection. "My nan's," I answered.

        "They'll look wonderful on the table with some greenery and..."

        "Greg!"

        "Oh, let me plan," he said. "You know you can't say no to me."

        "Of course I can't," I admitted. "Perhaps today, though, we could just enjoy - today?"

         He wrapped his arms around my torso, kissing my chin. "Anything you want, Mr. Holmes."

         The last thing I remember of that Christmas is the touch of his lips pecking my jawline before we both fell asleep on the sofa.

        I have never and will never admit it to Greg, but have yet to be happier than I was that day, in the soft light of his Christmas tree, the sound of carol singers echoing through the neighborhood, comforted in the knowledge that, despite my icy exterior, there was one person in this universe who cared enough to see through me. 

 

THE END

 

​

​

Story Note: 

First, thank you so much for taking the time to check out this fic. I really hope you enjoyed it.
I thought I'd share that this story unexpectedly became a tribute to Mark Gatiss as I wrote.
I don't outline. No storyboards or plot maps. I just sink myself into the character's mind and write whatever comes out.
In this case, It's a Wonderful Life was a key element. While writing the scene in the "dungeon", the film presented itself as a connection to a possible childhood love of Christmas for Mycroft. I happen to know this to also be one of Mark's favourite films, so was excited to see where it would lead. I was as surprised as Greg in Chapter 8 as the parallel's between George Bailey and Mycroft's lives with their brothers were highlighted.
In Chapter 7, I found Mycroft longing to go back to his holiday away with Greg. An image of Sherlock playing with a time machine as a boy surfaced. Conveniently, this served as another homage to Mark, who would, no doubt, list The Time Machine by H.G. Wells as one of his favourite books.
The reference in this fic to Mycroft's notebook should ring a bell for Sherlock fans. This fic states that Mycroft carries the book with him at all times. Mark Gatiss, in fact, carried the book with him at all times throughout the Sherlock episodes, even though we only see it on screen in a few isolated instances. Perhaps that was a nod to Peter Cushing, one of Mark's favourite Hammer Horror actors, who made it a habit to always carry all of his character's effects at all times, whether or not they were seen on film?
For me, the unexpected adulation is welcome where Mark is concerned, but thought I'd share the coincidences with you.
.....or perhaps they're not coincidences - after all, the universe is rarely so lazy. 
Thanks for reading, friends!

xx Antarctica

​