Work Text:
“--Fat Man is go. Have the RAF on standby to provide an escort. Yes, he’s normally excellent at keeping to the boundaries of his congruent reality, but remember last year?” Mycroft rolled his eyes at the chatter on the phone, and Lestrade wondered if anyone was going to be given the gift of eternal rest this Christmas. “I see. And do you want to be held responsible if the activity is picked up by civilian instruments - specifically civilian instruments in the hands of anyone over the age of ten? I didn’t think so. Incidentally, if you can make contact, remind him of our request about the lights: a glowing nose does not provide sufficient illumination. Suggest lanterns or torches. Festive, of course.”
Then he ended the call and turned to the waiting Lestrade, who suddenly wished there was a desk between them. There was usually a desk. And several feet of posh rug. And a door that wasn’t moving. Today though, the man had actually been in the black town car that had pulled up next to Lestrade as he ran out for more gift wrap and tape. He knew, of course, that you couldn’t actually escape from Mycroft Holmes, but it was comforting to think that you had the option of leaving a room, rather than, say, leaping into traffic from a moving vehicle.
“And you,” said Mycroft, turning all of his unnerving attention to Lestrade. “You have my brother working on that case with the murderous auditor. I know his idea of holiday cheer is a serial killer wreathed in holly, but see to it that he - ha - wraps it up before 1 PM tomorrow. Our mother is expecting him for Christmas dinner.”
I’m a grown man, thought Lestrade. I made it all the way to detective inspector, I don’t have to kowtow to...the British government...
He rearranged the thoughts in his head in the interest of self-preservation.
“Look,” he said, “it’s a criminal investigation, not a ruddy playdate. I can tell him to stop working but I can’t promise he’ll listen, and I can hardly guarantee the case will be closed by - hang on. Are you saying it was the auditor?”
Mycroft didn’t even dignify that with an eye roll. “It was the knee pads, Lestrade. And now that you know that, you can have the investigation closed by 4 AM.” The car pulled up to the curb and he tilted his umbrella meaningfully towards the door. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Lestrade was happy to go. Really, he was. But as he reached for the door handle, his brain caught up with what his ears head been telling him a bare handful of seconds ago. It was probably suicidal, but - contrary to the opinion of some Holmeses - he hadn’t risen through the ranks of New Scotland Yard without the ability to pick up small details and the kind of curiosity that could kill a nine-lived cat several times over.
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ve got a question.”
“The knee pads were from when she had that job stocking shelves. I gather both Tesco floors and the concrete of an abandoned parking structure are hell on the knees, especially if you’re manhandling a corpse. Now--”
“No, not that. That I figured out.” Lestrade gripped his tube of gift wrap, almost denting the line of dancing robins. “What you were talking about on the phone there--”
“You don’t have the security clearance, detective inspector.” Mycroft was smiling, but it was the way snakes smiled, all cold eyes and venom underneath.
“Oh, come on,” Lestrade pressed on because once you’ve thrown caution to the winds, you might as well go all out. “When you tell me to jump, I damn well jump, right? Okay, sometimes I complain and I’m not as quick as you two would like - only human after all - but you can trust me. You know that. And I’ve never asked for anything, and you kidnapped me off the sidewalk on Christmas fucking Eve to make sure Sherlock gets to your Christmas dinner. I think I deserve an answer to just this one question.”
Lestrade inhaled, and was surprised he was still breathing. Mycroft...he wasn’t glaring at him, no, but he was looking at him rather as if he were a goldfish who’d swum to the surface of the tank and started talking. He blinked, the only outward sign of what may well have been a fierce internal struggle.
“Yes, Lestrade,” he sighed, after about a half-second of further deliberation. “There is a Santa Claus. We coordinate every year to make sure he stays on the right side of believability. I don’t have to threaten you, yes? Good. Now, get out. I believe you have an auditor to catch.”
“Yeah, and merry Christmas to you too!” Lestrade called after the retreating taillights.
He pottered about on the pavement in a daze for a bit, marveling at what he’d learned and the fact that he’d demanded classified information from the elder Holmes and lived to tell the tale. It really must be Christmas.
When he got home, he began to rifle through his fridge with a certain urgency. He didn’t have sherry or anything that resembled a mince pie, his flat couldn’t even be said to properly have a chimney, and he didn’t have kids, so he wasn’t sure if Father Christmas could be arsed to make it to his place, but he figured he’d leave out a can of beer anyway in a show of solidarity. Heaven knew he’d need it if he had to deal with Mycroft Holmes tonight.