Chapter Text
“No.”
Greg stops in the middle of entering the flat, hands still fumbling with the key, and pokes his head in through the narrow crack with a frown and his mouth agape.
“What?”
“I said no. Is that monosyllabic word unfamiliar to you, Lestrade?” Sherlock says. He whips his bow before setting it down on the table.
“I haven’t even said anything!” Greg protests.
“You are obviously here to ask me to do something that is unrelated to a case. And my answer: No,” Sherlock says, turning around to put down his violin.
Greg purses his lips, pauses in the doorway, before deciding that he would rather stay inside for at least an hour rather than go back onto the snowing streets to freeze his ass off. He will play host and pour himself a cup of hot tea.
“Why are you still here?” Sherlock asks in irritation as Greg comes inside while pulling his scarf off. He looks affronted when he sees the scarf, which is now on the couch. “And why are you wearing a red scarf?”
“I am here because we are doing some shopping later, like it or not,” Greg replies as he moves over to the kitchen and boils himself some water. He looks at Sherlock and grins, “And can’t you figure out why I am wearing a red scarf by making your keen observations?”
“Recently bought, cheap quality. Still has a tag on it–“ Greg looks over to the scarf, which has a tiny tag sticking out from between the scarf and the sofa, “–so definitely not a gift from someone, unless they are really careless, which none of your friends, and by friends I am referring to those who you see more than once a year, which include Mrs. Hudson, John, Molly, and Donovan, are. That means you bought it recently. Not for comfort, your normal grey one is of much higher quality than this cheap one, so for special purpose. You don’t like red. Too bright. You picked this color specifically. So red is symbolic for that special occasion. Something worth spending money on, but not personally significant enough to spend more money on. A public occasion then, which narrows down to public event or festival. Festival would be more likely, seeing you rarely go to public events. But what festival? What festival occurs at this time of the year? Festival, festival, festival…” Sherlock frowns and taps his finger on his chair.
Greg snorts.
“What?” Sherlock snaps. “Tell me what it is.”
“Oh, I don’t know, something with Santa Claus and some carols?” Greg says as he pours the tea into a mug. He sighs happily at the warmth from the steam.
“What’s Santa Claus? Is it a person?” Sherlock stares at Greg.
“The big jolly guy with red hat who delivers presents down chimneys on his reindeer sledge? Ring a bell?”
“No.”
Greg laughs. He goes back into the living room and points at the newspaper headlines on the coffee table.
“Christmas, Sherlock.”
Sherlock stares at him for a second, and then rolls his eyes.
“I am not doing Christmas shopping, Lestrade,” he spits out the word like it is venomous. Greg just looks at him, and realization dawns.
“Oh for God’s sake, you are going to threaten me again, aren’t you? Bullying me into satisfying your every whim. I sometimes do wonder how bad an influence Mycroft is on you,” Sherlock snaps.
“I have that tape,” Greg raises his eyebrows and lifts his phone from his pocket.
“What tape– oh,” Sherlock breathes, and then stares pointedly at Greg, “You won’t do that.”
“Who knows?” Greg shrugs.
Sherlock deflates and sighs.
“Why are we doing Christmas shopping anyway? We never do it!”
“Well, a first for everything, doesn’t it?” Greg grins.
“No, Lestrade. Go away.”
“It’s also the first Christmas of little Sheryl,” Greg mentions offhandedly as he sips his tea. He looks at Sherlock for his reaction.
He knows Sherlock has a soft spot for John and Mary’s baby. Even though he would never admit it, for all his bemoaning of the dullness and stupidity of the baby, Greg could see that Sherlock cares about the baby as much as, perhaps even more than, John. He could even claim that, perhaps, Sherlock loves the baby, from the way he changes the diapers while complaining about the toxicity of the absorbent (he is sure it is not toxic at all even to baby standards) to the way he holds the baby in his arms and frowns at her like she’s the most intriguing and unfathomable creature in the world. And Greg loves watching them, watching the cold immovable mask slowly ebb away to an almost loving face when the two look at each other and one of them coos and grabs his nose. It’s almost surreal, and Greg can’t help but smile, not able to look away from the face.
Said face loses the edges and turns toward the windows.
“It’s snowing.”
Greg smiles.
“Yes, genius. Now let me finish my cuppa and you can get something more than just your bloody coat before we go catch a cab to the shopping center.”
In a flurry of motion Sherlock rises from his chair and swiftly goes into his bedroom to change.