"Twelfth Night" by Maureen S. O'Brien PROLOGUE: Before the Birthday CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord? DUKE. What, Curio? CURIO. The hart. -- Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene i. (After "The Musgrave Ritual") She waited impatiently in the dark, watching for her quarry. The night grew colder, and the wind picked up. She shifted from foot to foot, wishing her jacket was long enough to cover her legs or that her pants were thicker. But at last a hovercruiser with its bubble light off came down the street a little too fast, braked abruptly, and then landed in front of the building. She hurried to meet it before its driver, a tall woman in the white uniform of a detective officer, could get inside. But the driver's stride was long and quick, and the watcher had to resort to calling out, "Oi! Inspector!" "Deidre?" Inspector Lestrade's voice went from incredulous to concerned in two syllables as she turned around and strode toward her. "What happened, kid? Moriarty back?" Deidre shook her head uncomfortably. "Nothin' like that." Lestrade's voice turned stern. "Then why aren't you home and in bed?" "Tonight's not a school night. Not that it's any of _your_ business," Deidre flared. "But I... wanted to say something to you, and I didn't get a chance before. And I didn't want to just leave a message." The Inspector's voice changed again, rising and turning quiet. "So how long you been waiting out here?" Deidre shrugged. "Hour, two hours." Lestrade snorted. "Then you're coming inside with me, kid. Whatever you have to say, you can say it while you thaw." She turned back and coded open the door, then stood holding it open. "C'mon. I'm not gonna stand out here all night." Mr Holmes said every room had a story. Deidre wondered what story he saw in this flat. Not much in it but furniture, the computer, and that bookshelf full of old paper books. She turned her head from the kitchen counter so she could read their spines. Mysteries and crime stuff, looked like. Huh. Figured. In alphabetical order by author. That figured, too. Everything around here was so neat it gave her the crawlies. But that was the Inspector for you. She might throw a tantrum when she felt like it, but underneath, she was still totally under control. "Bathroom's through there," said the Inspector. It was an order, not a request. "Ja wohl," Deidre muttered. Which wasn't to say she didn't need to visit the facilities after standing out forever in the cold. But the Inspector could've been nicer about it. "Lights," she muttered, and lumies revealed an equally bare bedroom. Deidre glanced around as she hurried to the facilities. The bedroom mirror table only held a couple of combs, a brush, and a tiny makeup box that wouldn't have lasted Deidre a week. There _was_ a nice rose duvet on the bed, though, and pink pillows. Pink? She grinned. When Deidre was done with the business at hand, she took a listen. There were still noises coming out of the kitchen, so she risked a peep into the closet. Its contents left her shaking her head in dismay. When had the Inspector last gone shopping for civilian clothes? Other than T-tunics, there didn't seem to be much that wasn't five or six seasons old. But what was this in the protec bags? Deidre's jaw dropped. "Stellar! To the max-o!" "Thank you," said the Inspector dryly from behind her. "But I don't remember seeing your search warrant." Deidre ignored these irrelevancies in favor of examining the hang and the hand of an electric blue Victorian...or was that Edwardian? ...dress. "Where did you buy 'em? I ain't never seen nothing this nice at a costume shop." "That's because it's not a costume. It's clothing," she said severely. "Sewed it myself, up at university. Part of my little stash of Sherlockian clothes." The Inspector took the protec bags out of the closet and carefully laid them out on the bed while Deidre oohed and aahed. "Not too bad," she said, concealing her own obvious pride. "Not everybody wears period clothes, but most people end up with an outfit or two. I ended up with a few more, before I got too busy to sew." Deidre approved. Nice long lines, and all in good colors for her -- maybe the Inspector wasn't as hopeless as she thought."So this is what you'll be wearing to that Birthday Weekend we're all invited to?" "Well, one of them." She gestured toward the purple Edwardian one made from something that felt really nova -- could it be silk velvet? "Most of the older ones don't fit me right anymore. One of these days I'll have time to let 'em out a bit." "You really like all this old stuff," Deidre deduced. "You sure you're not an Anti-Tech?" The Inspector laughed. "Pretty sure. You might meet a couple of them when we go. A lot more reenactors and people like me, though. We like to visit the old days, but we're not stupid enough to want to live there." She jerked her head toward the door. "C'mon, kid. Let's go drink some hot chocolate." So Deidre sat and sipped her cocoa. The Inspector had made it the old-fashioned way, heating up the milk in the microwave before adding the flavoring. Deidre'd heard her grumbling out in the kitchen the whole time she'd been making it. All the same, it tasted good, and it was just the right temperature so you could drink it without burning your tongue. Deidre wrapped her hands around the blue mug and let the warmth seep into her hands, which still hadn't thawed all the way. It felt good. "So." Lestrade pulled a barstool around on the other side of the counter and sat down. "What's so important you can't wait for daylight?" Deidre bit her lip. "I wanted to say I'm sorry about talking smart to you today at museum. You really were looking out for us." Lestrade shrugged and looked uncomfortable. "No biggie." Then her voice changed again, turning speculative. "But you didn't wait outside all that time just to apologize. Now what did you really want to say?" "Oh, not much," Deidre said slyly. "Just to say I think you and Mr. Holmes looked really cute together." "What?!" "Oh, don't worry. Wiggins didn't notice, and neither did Tennyson, I think. But please. The way you two were flirting this morning was so obvious." Deidre rolled her eyes, then adopted a simper. "'Oh, I'll do it for Mr. 'Olmes,'" she misquoted, then batted her eyes. The Inspector really was fun to play with, Deidre thought appreciatively. The Inspector's face turned impressively stony, but two spots of color burned in her cheeks as she gritted out, "No more sugar for you." "Oh, it's not the cocoa. That's what I came to tell you. You know, Mr. Holmes _really_ likes you." For some reason -- although this afternoon had maybe shown why. Not many people would still have their minds on a case after nearly getting buried under a building. "And you seem to like him." 'Cos you don't act the witch with him like you usually do with us. "So I think you really ought to get together with Mr. Holmes." Lestrade stared hard at her. "You are out of your mind." "Oh, don't tell me you're still in denial," Deidre said, not buying it. "Seeing as he was practically clawing at the plascrete to get you out of there, I don't think...." "You _don't_ think," Lestrade said flatly. "So shut up and listen for once, kid." The Inspector rose to her feet and leaned over the counter, levelling her pointer at Deidre's nose. "Metropolitan Police Regulation Number 574, subparagraph B. 'Similarly, no officer supervising a civilian consultant, clerk or other personnel employed by the Department should present the appearance of sexual harassment or undue influence by engaging in a non-professional relationship with said personnel. Failure to observe this regulation may result in disciplinary action, including dismissal, for either or both of the involved parties.'" "Oh." "'Oh' is right." The Inspector dropped her finger. "You'd get in a lot less trouble if you were caught sha...snogging your partner on a stakeout in front of 10 Downing Street than if you went after a civilian employee, thanks to a couple big scandals back in 2090. There's an anonymous vidphone number, and a webpage, and even word of mouth, if you know somebody who knows somebody who works in Internal. So even if I _was_ interested in Mr. Holmes -- which I'm not saying -- that kind of trouble I don't need." Her lips twisted as she sat down again. "I'd get in less trouble dating Moriarty." Deidre spit her cocoa back into her cup. "Don't even joke about that! I'll be traumatized, and who knows what effect it'll have on my social development?" Lestrade laughed at that. It made her face look lots different. She wasn't all that old, really. Then the Inspector got her breath back and protested, "But he's such a catch! Multinational businessman, good with math, knows his computers...and a nice Catholic boy!" This time some of the cocoa didn't make it back into the cup. This woman was so twisted, she was a Moebius strip. "Don't think he loves me anymore, though," Lestrade added, not without a touch of satisfaction. "Now he's trying to kill me. I must be doing something right." "You're space-happy," Deidre said. "Totally zerk!" The Inspector's face turned serious. "Kid, if I could get a guarantee that I'd get Moriarty first, I wouldn't worry too much about dying." "Yeah, but this afternoon he could have killed you for good, like. No cells left to revive." Her smile twisted again. "Well, I don't want Moriarty around forever. It's a fair trade." That was cold. Depressing, too. Deidre didn't approve of either of those moods. "I bet Mr. Holmes doesn't think so. Not the way he looked this afternoon," she teased. Lestrade rolled her eyes. "Nobody wants their associates squished." But bits of expressions flicked around Lestrade's face almost too fast to see -- what Mr. Holmes'd once said were called micro- expressions. Deidre'd seen similar ones flash across his face today. It wasn't funny, she realized. It wasn't like the kids at school, one by one going zerk over boys when a few months ago they'd been worried about boy plague. It was dead serious, and it looked like it hurt. But if you were in trouble, it wouldn't be too bad to have someone go frantic like that.... "You've got it just as bad as Mr. Holmes does," she heard herself say. "Why don't you tell him?" "Nothing to tell." "Oh, right. That's why you've got all these other boyfriends running around. I bet you haven't dated a single guy since Mr. Holmes came back to life." Lestrade shook her head, smiling an odd smile. "You just don't get it, do you, kid?" "Get what?" "You're not going to get anything out of me. Even if there was anything to tell -- which there isn't -- I wouldn't tell it to you. I know all the tricks, and I'm not falling for them." "You think all this -- you think I'm trying to do a con on you?" Deidre couldn't decide whether she was more offended personally or professionally. "Listen, copper. If I was trying, I'd've gotten it all out of you by now. There's not a being in New London who's better at the goldjaw than me, and...." Lestrade raised an eyebrow, and Deidre's tongue skidded to a stop. "If I was still working that lay, I mean," she added lamely. Lestrade didn't actually laugh, though her lips quivered. "What I _meant_ was all that touchy-feely girltalk stuff. I had four years of that in college from my friends Edith and Alice. They shoulda joined Special Branch as interrogators, but I never told them anything they didn't need to know. And you don't need to know, so don't try that stuff on me, Deidre." "You're zerk," Deidre repeated. "Maybe." She took the mugs over to the dishwasher. "Now, let's go see if that electric blue dress of mine fits you. If it does, you've got something to wear to the BSI banquet that won't give any of the geezers an urgent need for a prosthetic heart. If you go, that is." "Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to miss a free trip to _Gotham_. We're all three going. Too bad Mr. Holmes isn't." Deidre's eyes gleamed wickedly. "So, was it _really_ because he dislikes crowds and fans, or is it just that he's afraid to spend a week in a city with you and no distrac...." Lestrade stopped her with the old evil eye. "Don't worry. Holmes has changed his mind." She grinned and fluted, "Oh, I can't imagine why...." The Inspector smiled grimly back. "Professor James Moriarty has registered to attend." "_Inter_stellar!" She stopped. "Er...I mean, how terrible that the master criminal would...." "I know what you really meant. But don't get too happy. Since the Professor hasn't committed any crimes on US soil -- that we know of, anyway -- and the US doesn't extradite to countries that use crypnosis, we won't be able to do anything but watch him closely." She sighed. "And I thought the Birthday Weekend was gonna be a nice, relaxing vacation." "With all of us along?" She grinned. "You _are_ in denial." A few days later, Inspector Lestrade reported to Chief Inspector Grayson's office. She stood in front of his desk while he finished a piece of paperwork, wondering what this was about. Their regular meeting on the progress of her cases was done for the week. If it were an urgent new case, he wouldn't've kept her waiting, and if he were mad at her, he would've let her know as soon as she'd stepped across the threshold. Grayson looked up. "I'm taking him off your hands, Lestrade." "Sir?" He brandished the printout he'd just signed. "Your dead detective. As of January 1st, I'll be his supervising officer. Since we're paying that retainer and letting him take up all your compudroid's time, we might as well get more use out of him. So I'll be assigning him cases that other inspectors are having trouble with, as well as letting him assist you." "And the other inspectors won't be complaining to me." She nodded slowly. "Very good, Lestrade. I know you let them all know that Holmes was a resource open to everybody, but they've been a bit too...shy about taking advantage of his help. Now they're going to have to." He smiled grimly. "Or they'll answer to me. Meanwhile, you'll have a little more time to take that leadership training program I've recommended you for." "The leadership training program? But sir, I...." "Don't 'but' me, Lestrade," Grayson said gruffly. "If you can make Holmes listen to you occasionally, you've got more administrative talent than most. Besides, I want you out of my section and into the higher-ups' hair as soon as possible!" She didn't know what to say, so she said, "Thanks, Chief. This really means a lot to me." He waved her out of his office. "Just don't run into any statues this week, that's all I ask." For the rest of the day, she was floating on air. She'd never expected to rise above Inspector; that had seemed more than enough to her. When she said so to Holmes and Watson later that day, Holmes chided her. "False modesty! You'll be promoted as soon as we catch Moriarty, or possibly sooner." "Yes," Watson agreed innocently. "Holmes always says that you're the best of the current crop of Yardies." Holmes shot Watson a glance of irritation, and Lestrade shared a grin with Watson. Apparently he wanted her to know he thought she was good, but not how good. But now that it seemed that it might be possible to work her way up the ladder, why should she stop dreaming at Chief Inspector? She needed to do some serious reevaluation of her career. She didn't need to daydream, but she did. That was why it wasn't until she got home that it occurred to her -- that everything she'd told Deidre about dating personnel she supervised was no longer true. Her career wasn't the only thing that received a reevaluation that night. (after "The Blue Carbuncle") Someone was pounding on the bedroom door. Surely it wasn't noon yet. "Holmes!" Watson called. "You must wake up! There's been a break-in!" Holmes woke up with a start. He slung on his dressing gown and hurried outside. Watson stood by, wringing his metallic hands. "I came downstairs to the sitting room, and...." "You have not disturbed the scene?" "Of course not! All is as I found it." Holmes nodded. He strode across the landing and opened the sitting room door. Piles of cruelly cut branches topped the furniture. Sharp leaves with blood-colored berries hung by the windows. A dead tree covered with strange symbolic objects sat by the wall with ritual offerings beneath it. Most sinister of all, two large socks hung by the hearth, stuffed so full as to resemble two amputated legs. There was only one obvious clue to the culprit; the ashes in the hearth bore the imprint of footprints which exited and returned to the chimney. He recognized the boot tracks. Rather small for the obvious suspect. So there had been two of them. Holmes strode about, looking at the scene. A smile pulled at his lips. "And you caught no sight of the criminal, Watson?" "Not at all," Watson said with elaborate innocence. "Well. Clearly, I must report this to Inspector Lestrade." He marched to the computer console and called her at her father's house. After a moment, Lestrade's image appeared on the monitor. She was dressed but looked decidedly frowsty. Her hair even hung in her drooping eyes. "My dear Lestrade," Holmes purred, "I do hope I didn't wake you." "No," she said vaguely, "I was up. Had to make breakfast and go to church, but afterward I just had to take a little nap." She yawned enormously, pushed her hair back with her hands and suddenly looked a bit more alive. "So, what can I do for you, Holmes?" "It seems there's been a break-in at Baker Street," he said calmly, and moved aside to show her the damage. "Shocking!" she commiserated. "Did you find any clues?" "Oh, yes. Indeed, I know the identity of the miscreants. Unfortunately, it may take some time to catch them." "How so, Holmes?" she asked, keeping her face admirably straight. "Ah, these are crimes committed to satisfy the strange compulsions of those who commit them. Billions of households around the world are affected, but only once a year. There is a whole gang of burglars involved -- led, I understand, by the Kristkindl and his capos the Three Kings, with such notorious underlings as St. Nicholas, Black Peter, and St. Lucy. However, I believe the culprits responsible for this break-in are...." Holmes turned and pointed accusingly at Watson. "Father Christmas." He turned back to the screen and turned his finger on Lestrade. "And La Bethana." She groaned. "Please, I'll come quietly! Just no more puns!" "But why?" Watson came forward. "You _were_ complaining about Christmas not being enough like the old days," he reminded Holmes. "And I'd been planning to decorate a bit more, since you invited Deidre, Wiggins and Tennyson to come over on Boxing Day. But Lestrade was the one who came up with the idea to surprise you." "Just like in The Nutcracker," she carolled. "I always liked that bit about waiting to see the tree. A lot better than putting all the decorations up in November!" She made a face. "Of course, Lestrade and I had no idea it'd _be_ Christmas morning before we finished dealing with that Carbuncle doll," Watson chimed in. "I told her that she should feel free not to come." "But I had to be on the job early this morning anyway; so I just stayed up, came over when Watson gave me the high sign, and then bugged out." She grinned. "Boy, you must have been dead to the world. We clomped into the sitting room with at least three loads of stuff and never heard a peep out of you." Holmes shook his head, but a smile pulled at his lips. "I suppose I should have known. Are you still coming over on Boxing Day, or should I open the present from Father Christmas with the tag written in your handwriting?" "Hey, I disguised my writing!" she objected. "Not well enough. I once wrote a little monograph on the subject, you know. Most persons have some peculiarity of style which persists even when, as is common, they attempt to write with the opposite hand. In your case, the 'a' is most distinctive, but there are at least seven minor features which I noticed at a glance...." Lestrade shook her finger at Holmes. "Yes, I'm still coming over. You can show me how I screwed up then. By the way, you and Watson examined the contents of your stockings yet?" Watson carefully unfastened his from the mantel. Lestrade had brought the stockings pre-assembled and strictly forbade him to peek inside until Holmes was up. Thus honorbound not to use his medscan, he had spent the next few hours contemplating the possible significance of the lumps visible through the fabric. "I am doing so now, Lestrade!" Holmes scrambled out of his chair. "Not without me, you don't!" Watson followed the most logical course for someone with his large metallic fingers; he squatted down and carefully upended his stocking onto the hearthrug. But Holmes took his stocking back to his chair and began to deduce the contents, based on the shape and weight of various lumps. He sat so that Watson could easily see his demonstration, and yet Watson could not help but notice that his friend directed most of his comments toward Lestrade. "In the toe of the stocking, the classic choice: an orange. Then some sort of sweets wrapped in foil -- chocolates, perhaps...and a chocolate orange. Then two flat discs glued to each other -- a toy of some kind...." It was something he had been noticing more and more often. Lestrade and Holmes both seemed to become more intense around each other, as if they were performing roles for each other's eyes. During the fall, that intensity had boiled over into bickering on Lestrade's part and highhandness on Holmes'. Then came the adventure of the Musgrave Sword, when Moriarty tried to assassinate Lestrade and very nearly succeeded. Both Lestrade and Holmes seemed to have been sobered by the experience, and peace descended. But the intensity remained, transformed into humor. "....Jackstraws! It's jackstraws, isn't it." Lestrade laughed. "You won't find out if you don't look!" she sang out. "_Eyes_ and brains, my dear Holmes." Watson surreptitiously used his instruments, tuning up his eyes to see at a higher magnification than a human. He checked the pulse in Holmes' neck. Yes, his heart was beating faster than normal again (but at its normal rate for talking with Lestrade) as he reached into the stocking and began pulling items out with a flourish. "Jackstraws it is. And the flat thing...hrm. I'm not sure." "It's a little music player, for listening to when you're not at your console. You can put your whole library of music files in there." "Ah. Then these must be the earpieces. Positively tiny. Bone induction?" "Yeah, you can put 'em on and peel off as often as you need to -- well, for a couple years. After that you'll probably be wanting a better pair anyway." Watson gazed at his own pile of goodies, which featured no food and only a few toys. But there were several boxes of interesting spices he'd never heard of before, a disk full of public domain books picked out by Lestrade as things she thought he'd like (embossed with stern warnings _not_ to model his behavior on the characters), and a modeling clay guaranteed not to stick to metal. Well. A brief survey of the net revealed that the collective price of the items was indeed trivial, but the trouble that had gone into it was not. So Lestrade had shown no less care selecting the stocking for Holmes. Well, what of it? She was a thoughtful woman, despite her harsh facade. The faster heartbeats could well be the anticipation of brain pitted against brain. Certainly neither of his friends behaved as the books portrayed sufferers from the condition he suspected. Of course, Lestrade kept telling him that the books he read were more romanticized than realistic. "This flat thing in the bag...a model aeroplane?" "Just a little one. You just put the wing into the slots....Yeah, like that. And then you can make it do different stunts depending on how you throw it." "I see. Well, let's test it. Watson, catch!" Holmes threw the little aeroplane straight and true. Almost exactly halfway to Watson's waiting hands, the aeroplane did a loop and flew back at Holmes. Holmes' look of astonishment was a picture. But when Watson glanced up at Lestrade, he surprised not only a smile on her lips, but a gentle look in her eyes, which were fixed on Holmes. Well. He knew exactly what the Watson of old would have thought about that! The day after Christmas dawned bright and clear. As the day progressed, the dusting of snow that had settled over London on Christmas morning lingered like a guest reluctant to leave. In front of Baker Street, the only footmarks to be seen were those of Holmes and Watson, and silence hung thick throughout the afternoon. The Irregulars did their best to change that as they strolled and hovered down to 221. Holmes rubbed his hands together with satisfaction as he watched his proteges bend to examine the footmarks in front of his residence. Then Lestrade appeared. She wore a civilian parka and boots, both a few years old but still looking new for lack of wear. There was a spring of holly in her hair. "What've you got?" she called as she approached the Irregulars. Tennyson played something that might have been a hullo. Deidre was too absorbed to do more than wave an acknowledgment without looking. "Looks like 'e sped up there, then skidded, jumped a couple feet and came down...right 'ere.." Wiggins shook his head. "What in the world were Holmes and Watson doing?" "Flight tests," Lestrade informed them. The kids boggled at her, and she smiled. "You'll see. But hey, it's almost time! Let's get inside." Wiggins led the way. Lestrade trailed behind the Irregulars, taking one last smiling look at the telltale evidence of the street. Then she looked up at the bay window -- directly at him. She smiled knowingly, then waved. He waved back, then turned away. The Irregulars were at the door. The party was going very well, Watson thought as he refilled the pitcher of punch in the kitchen. For once Lestrade and the Irregulars were getting along splendidly, and the refreshments were disappearing into teenage stomachs at a good clip. What else could one ask for? "Something's missing," Deidre inadvertently answered his thought as she plunged through the kitchen door. "Where's the mistletoe, Watson?" "Mistletoe?" "Yeah, mistletoe. You know. White berries, grows in oaks...." "You can't eat mistletoe," he told her. "It's poisonous." "For decoration, I meant! You've got holly and pine boughs and stuff, but no mistletoe!" He consulted his databanks. "Oh, dear! It does seem to be an integral part of Victorian English Christmas rituals, doesn't it? But Inspector Lestrade selected the decorations. If it was that important, surely she wouldn't have left it out." "She picked the stuff out?" Deidre nodded slowly and portentously. "Well, that explains it." "Explains what?" "Mistletoe's missing 'cause she doesn't want us to embarrass her and Mr. Holmes with that particular ritual. Which we would, of course. In fact, we still might." Deidre grinned and headed back to the party, but paused. "Don't stay down here in the kitchen all night. Mr. Holmes wants us to play Charades, and he won't start till you come." Finally they opened the presents. Boxing Day presents for employees consisted of money, generally, with the small decorative box a mere dressing-up of the statement of transferred e-credits. In the old days, Holmes had simply given the Irregulars' current lieutenant a stack of sovereigns and instructions on their proper distribution. But these Irregulars were fewer, closer, and less in danger of starvation, so he had decided that Christmas presents were called for. Holmes subscribed to the old Victorian theory that presents ought to be small, inexpensive and useful. So he had bought them each several pairs of warm socks. He noted the Irregulars' rather muted enthusiasm and inwardly smirked. He was not altogether surprised to see Lestrade giving him her patented 'something is fishy' look. She then glanced at the mantel, which was totally free of Irregular stockings. Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced back at the socks before smirking a bit herself. Really, her deductive skills were coming along quite nicely...and yes, the toes of the socks contained several rather interesting small flat items. He hoped noone would be in too much of a hurry the first time a new sock was put on. Watson's present had been quite simple: a book on writing. Lestrade was a bit more difficult. What did you buy for a woman like her? He had always given Mrs. Hudson handkerchiefs or perfume. But these days everyone used disposable handkerchiefs, and Lestrade had commented during that little matter of the opopanax peddler that she thought most perfumes stunk. Finally he had hit upon a foolproof scheme. The Inspector had at some point obtained Volume Two of Flambeau's _Life of Crime_ from a rare bookshop at quite a low price. Volume Two was Flambeau's account of his work as a private detective, but it was far easier to obtain than Volume One, the account of his original career as a highly original thief. Holmes owned Volume One. It wasn't one of the books preserved from his estate, either (the Holmesian Foundation owned them, just as it owned Baker Street and his old Sussex villa). No, he had bought it out of a barrow on the Tottenham Court Road, and been amused at the strength of his own interest in it. These small touches of familiarity in a strange world! But when Lestrade had seen him come into Baker Street with Volume One, he had seen how much she envied his discovery. So today her set would be completed, and so would his holiday obligations. So as Holmes watched Lestrade pick up her present (observing, as she did, that there was a strand of tinsel on the shoulder of her red dress from her quick rescue of Watson's tiny Christmas tree) and open it decorously (though she had to visibly restrain herself from ripping the wrappings off as the Irregulars had), he in no way expected Lestrade to burst out laughing. "What is it?" he asked. She looked up at him, eyes apologetic and smile rueful. "Open your present, Holmes." He picked it up. Gold holofoil paper patterned in silver snowflakes -- no more than ten e-credits the roll, but quite attractive -- the aforementioned "FROM Father Christmas/ TO S. Holmes, Esq." tag, and a spray of silvery ribbon pulsing with light and tied in a Moebius strip around the package. He admired the effect for a moment, then slid the package out of the Moebius strip (which he intended to hang from the ceiling in his room -- it would go well with his portraits of famous criminals). Then, in one long motion, he tore almost all the paper off the package. He had known at once, from the weight, that Lestrade was giving him a book. But he had failed to deduce from her comment that it must be Flambeau's _Life of Crime_, Volume Two. He threw back his head and laughed heartily. "The Gift of the Magi!" he said delightedly. Lestrade smiled at him lopsidedly. "Something like that." But her hand traced the letters on the spine of her book with obvious fondness. The evening rolled on, and finally Lestrade reluctantly rose to her feet. "Hey! You can't go home now!" Wiggins protested. "The party's not done yet!" "I gotta go to work tomorrow," she reminded him. "Even if you guys are on your vacs." "Well, you can't carry Watson's plant without damaging the book," Holmes pointed out. "Allow me to assist you. Your hoverbike is parked nearby? And the aspidistra will fit in the side compartment?" "Yeah, no prob, and I'll put the book in the padded box under the seat. As long as I drive slowly...." "Are you sure you remember how?" "Ha ha, very funny. But thanks for the help, Holmes." They bustled downstairs, both in a congenial mood. But they weren't paying enough attention. By the time they got down to the third step, there was suddenly a crowd of Irregulars on the landing above them, holding out a stick with some greenery tied to it. "Mistletoe," Deidre said with satisfaction. "It's not a proper English Christmas without it." "Oh, thank you," Lestrade said sarcastically. "What would we ever do without you looking after us?" Wiggins grinned. "You wouldn't be kissing, and we wouldn't be laughing." Lestrade gave him the evil eye. "Yeah, well, I ain't gonna be kissing for your entertainment." "Of course you are! It's the rule, innit?" Deidre huffed. "I believe," Holmes said dryly, "there's no rule about kissing under holly with circular white beads glued onto it. Particularly when the beads belong to the necklace you were wearing, Deidre." Wiggins and Tennyson looked resigned. Deidre shrugged. "Yeah, it's a fair cop." Tennyson opined that SimMistletoe deserved at least a SimKiss. Lestrade rolled her eyes and smacked her lips twice in the air, in their general direction. "Anything else?" The kids groaned and trooped back into the sitting room. Holmes and Lestrade proceeded down the seventeen steps to the front door. Holmes opened the door for Lestrade, who demurely stepped through it and waited for him on the front stoop. Directly underneath the piece of greenery she'd hung there. She grinned wickedly at the look on his face. "Gotcha." His ears flushed slightly, which she found amusing. In a Cockney accent, he acknowledged, like Deidre before him, "It's a fair cop." Then, with the same air of resignation, he walked forward, inclined his head, and touched his lips to hers. She kissed him back with the slightest bit more pressure. Because once you started messing with the man's mind, it'd be a shame to stop, right? Right. Their lips parted. He gave her a long considering look. She gave him a small smile. "Merry Christmas," she said quietly. He shook his head. "So that's why you hung behind -- to be the last to come in." "Yup," she said with satisfaction. There was nothing like a prank well played. "I was going to ask you for help carrying stuff or to walk me out, but you actually offered." "But why didn't you set up the mistletoe inside, or let the Irregulars participate?" Well, that was a perfectly good question. She shrugged. "I wanted to embarrass you, and I did. No need to do it in front of other people." "Hmm." A breath of cold wind puffed against her hair. She saw his eyes glint -- his turn to be amused. She felt the blood rush to her face. "Happy Christmas, then. Shall we?" Holmes extended the crook of his arm to her. She took it, and they walked down the road to her parking place. Holmes saw Lestrade off, then walked thoughtfully back to 221, deliberately crunching patches of snow under his feet. His fair colleague was full of surprises when she wanted to be. But there was also a trend to her actions which was becoming more obvious. So the question was whether he wanted to stop her now, or watch and find out where she intended for them to go. He walked up onto the front stoop, reached up and pulled down the bit of mistletoe. He weighed it in his hand. The white berries had been tinted a little red by the gleaming holly in her hair, and her lips had been soft and warm. He carefully tucked the mistletoe into his pocket and went inside.