On the Eleventh Day of Sherlockmas... "Snowmen", a gift for thesmallhobbit
Author: ?
Title: Snowmen
A gift for: thesmallhobbit
Rating: PG
Warnings: None (a few bad words but that’s about it)
Pairings: Gen/none mentioned
Summary: A freak snowstorm shuts down trains in and out of London on Christmas Eve, stranding Greg Lestrade far from his family in Herne Bay. What’s a man to do with three selection boxes and an overwhelming urge to play in the snow? (pretty much just as fluffy as the summary makes it sound...)
God bless the British publican, Greg thought, dropping his heavy bags down on the floor next to his bar stool and signaling for a beer. He had made it almost all the way back to his flat before deciding to Hell with it, it was after noon, he could have a drink. Lord knew he--and what seemed to be most of London--needed one right then. The tiny pub was half full, unusual for that early in the day, even on Christmas Eve, but the sudden closure of most of the lines into and out of London thanks to the freak snowstorm had sent everyone scurrying like rats, panicking for cabs and demanding alternatives from an already flummoxed travel infrastructure. Greg had sighed, cursed, and called his father to let him know that, if things worked out, he’d be down for Boxing Day, otherwise New Year’s, and began the long slog back to his flat. He didn’t relish the idea of Christmas on his own--his kids were with the ex this year, and now he was in London while every other person he was related to was down in Herne Bay. His thoughts turned to his friends, few that there were these days, and he sighed again. John was off to visit his aunt and grandmother in Glasgow, Dave and his bloke were having their first official Christmas as a couple and that just wouldn’t be on, intruding on that milestone... Greg took another sip of his beer and tried to watch the muted news program on the telly over the bar, sending up a prayer of thanks when his phone buzzed in his pocket, hoping it was an emergency at the Yard to keep him distracted.
Stuck here till Monday. Sherlock is about to drive me spare. Fancy a pint? JW
Greg laughed and sent back, Beat you to it. Already at the Queen’s Cock, one pint into the day.
Ignore John. Come to Baker Street immediately. BORED. SH
Ignore Sherlock, but come by when you’re done. I have tins and tins of biscuits and chocolates to get through and lord knows Himself won’t eat any. JW
Greg laughed, feeling a bit lighter, and downed the rest of his pint. Baker Street was a bit of a hike but he was warm now, and the afternoon looked a little less dreary.
“This is Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft,” John said, voice light and friendly but with an undercurrent of something that Greg could only call calm annoyance. “He’s come by to check on Sherlock.”
“I’m an adult,” Sherlock muttered, picking desultorily at a tin of chocolates. “You may leave now, Mycroft.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But no, I’m afraid that even the British government’s minor functionaries must obey the whims of nature.” Mycroft smiled thinly but politely at Greg. “Detective Inspector.”
“Er, Mr. Holmes.” Greg shifted a bit uncomfortably, and John grabbed his bags, making noises about settling in, having a cuppa, and generally fussing like a mother hen as Greg eyed the Holmes brothers. “So...um. Haven’t seen snow like this in London in ages,” he finally said into the tense quiet. Sherlock rolled his eyes but Mycroft smiled. “Sherlock’s never said but does your family live in London?”
“Just my brother and myself,” Mycroft replied, looking distinctly amused. “Well, and our Aunt Honoria.”
“Aunt Honoria believes she’s Saint Wilgefortis and has been attempting to grow a beard for the past twenty years.”
John stopped in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and stifled a laugh. “I’d love to meet her. She sounds miles more interesting than my Aunt Agnes with her dozen rabbits and Grandma Catriona and her jar of all sorts that hasn’t been touched since the Queen was a girl.”
“I do hope that’s not a euphemism,” Greg said dryly, and after the briefest pause, all three of the other men made sounds of amusement and the slight tension was broken. “Look, I’ve got far too much chocolate for the lot in Herne Bay so consider this,” he dug out one of the selection boxes, “is my contribution to tea.” He waved off the token protests from John and settled in, watching with his own amusement as the Holmes brothers deduced the fillings of the sweets, each one of them making subtle plays for the marzipans. Greg thought that he could have spent an entire afternoon like this, in unexpected camaraderie, but a cheery halloo from downstairs made John shoot to his feet and Sherlock pause mid-chew.
“Mrs Hudson,” John explained.
“Ah, yes. Very kind, even during drugs busts,” Greg murmured, ignoring Sherlock’s glare. The landlady called up the stairs, asking for some ‘strapping young men’ to give her a hand with her bags. Greg found himself trooping down, bundled back up in his damp coat and gloves and following John, Sherlock and Mycroft down the seventeen steps and out onto the pavement.
The snow stood in medium-high drifts up and down an unusually quiet Baker Street, the ravening throngs of angry Londoners and tourists seemingly quelled by the strange weather and the fairy lights and the preponderance of red and green decorations that seemed to dot every window Greg could see. All four men stood, staring, for a silent moment, and Greg felt giggle welling up in his breast. “When I was a boy,” he said finally, “I always begged for it to snow like this at Christmas.”
“You never got snow as a kid, then?” John asked, sounding as if he felt a bit sorry for Greg.
“Nonsense, John. Herne Bay received a small but measurable amount of snowfall, as was suitable for a location on the British coast. What Greg means is,” Sherlock paused and bent to retrieve one of Mrs Hudson’s bags, “he wanted enough snow to make one of these.”
Greg barely had time to realize what was happening before a loose snowball hit him square in the chest. “Oi!” He was laughing, though, and before he knew it, snow was flying in handfuls, he and John taking cover behind a parked car and Mycroft stepping back into the slight overhang of 221‘s front stoop as Sherlock knelt in the nearest drift, throwing snowballs as if his life depending upon it. One of John’s throws went (probably purposefully, Greg decided) wide and hit Mycroft in the thigh and the elder Holmes sighed visibly, stepping down to join Sherlock in the drift, starting his own stockpile of methodically made, neatly packed snowballs. Greg was gasping for breath and wheezing mirth when Mrs Hudson opened the door some minutes later. “Boys,” she scolded, smile fond, “bring those bags inside and warm yourselves by the fire! I’ve made cocoa and I just happen to have a few crackers on hand.”
Greg and John exchanged looks and shrugged, following Mycroft and Sherlock (both aloof and quiet once more) towards the front door. Greg was last in, pausing on the bottom step and glancing back at the street. He knew that, at some point, he would be summoned to the Yard. Some emergency that just couldn’t wait, especially once it was discovered he was still in town. He knew that this would not be the Christmas he’d thought he would have. He would work, most likely, he would miss his family even when the trains started up again and the airports reopened. Sherlock would get bolshie and Mycroft would remain inscrutable (mostly) and John would lose his temper in that quiet, sharp way he had, but for now it was snowing and quiet, the smell of cocoa and wood smoke beckoning him inside, the sparkle of fairy lights on rare snow like some carol come to life. He glanced at the drift where the Holmes boys had done their work and was unable to hold in the laugh. Two very small snowmen perched on the kerb, one with a rather pointy nose of sticks and one a bit on the thin side for a snowman. “
“Coming, Detective Inspector?” Mrs Hudson called from the door. “Cocoa!”
He grinned up at her. “On my way, Mrs Hudson. On my way.”
Title: Snowmen
A gift for: thesmallhobbit
Rating: PG
Warnings: None (a few bad words but that’s about it)
Pairings: Gen/none mentioned
Summary: A freak snowstorm shuts down trains in and out of London on Christmas Eve, stranding Greg Lestrade far from his family in Herne Bay. What’s a man to do with three selection boxes and an overwhelming urge to play in the snow? (pretty much just as fluffy as the summary makes it sound...)
God bless the British publican, Greg thought, dropping his heavy bags down on the floor next to his bar stool and signaling for a beer. He had made it almost all the way back to his flat before deciding to Hell with it, it was after noon, he could have a drink. Lord knew he--and what seemed to be most of London--needed one right then. The tiny pub was half full, unusual for that early in the day, even on Christmas Eve, but the sudden closure of most of the lines into and out of London thanks to the freak snowstorm had sent everyone scurrying like rats, panicking for cabs and demanding alternatives from an already flummoxed travel infrastructure. Greg had sighed, cursed, and called his father to let him know that, if things worked out, he’d be down for Boxing Day, otherwise New Year’s, and began the long slog back to his flat. He didn’t relish the idea of Christmas on his own--his kids were with the ex this year, and now he was in London while every other person he was related to was down in Herne Bay. His thoughts turned to his friends, few that there were these days, and he sighed again. John was off to visit his aunt and grandmother in Glasgow, Dave and his bloke were having their first official Christmas as a couple and that just wouldn’t be on, intruding on that milestone... Greg took another sip of his beer and tried to watch the muted news program on the telly over the bar, sending up a prayer of thanks when his phone buzzed in his pocket, hoping it was an emergency at the Yard to keep him distracted.
Stuck here till Monday. Sherlock is about to drive me spare. Fancy a pint? JW
Greg laughed and sent back, Beat you to it. Already at the Queen’s Cock, one pint into the day.
Ignore John. Come to Baker Street immediately. BORED. SH
Ignore Sherlock, but come by when you’re done. I have tins and tins of biscuits and chocolates to get through and lord knows Himself won’t eat any. JW
Greg laughed, feeling a bit lighter, and downed the rest of his pint. Baker Street was a bit of a hike but he was warm now, and the afternoon looked a little less dreary.
“This is Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft,” John said, voice light and friendly but with an undercurrent of something that Greg could only call calm annoyance. “He’s come by to check on Sherlock.”
“I’m an adult,” Sherlock muttered, picking desultorily at a tin of chocolates. “You may leave now, Mycroft.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But no, I’m afraid that even the British government’s minor functionaries must obey the whims of nature.” Mycroft smiled thinly but politely at Greg. “Detective Inspector.”
“Er, Mr. Holmes.” Greg shifted a bit uncomfortably, and John grabbed his bags, making noises about settling in, having a cuppa, and generally fussing like a mother hen as Greg eyed the Holmes brothers. “So...um. Haven’t seen snow like this in London in ages,” he finally said into the tense quiet. Sherlock rolled his eyes but Mycroft smiled. “Sherlock’s never said but does your family live in London?”
“Just my brother and myself,” Mycroft replied, looking distinctly amused. “Well, and our Aunt Honoria.”
“Aunt Honoria believes she’s Saint Wilgefortis and has been attempting to grow a beard for the past twenty years.”
John stopped in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and stifled a laugh. “I’d love to meet her. She sounds miles more interesting than my Aunt Agnes with her dozen rabbits and Grandma Catriona and her jar of all sorts that hasn’t been touched since the Queen was a girl.”
“I do hope that’s not a euphemism,” Greg said dryly, and after the briefest pause, all three of the other men made sounds of amusement and the slight tension was broken. “Look, I’ve got far too much chocolate for the lot in Herne Bay so consider this,” he dug out one of the selection boxes, “is my contribution to tea.” He waved off the token protests from John and settled in, watching with his own amusement as the Holmes brothers deduced the fillings of the sweets, each one of them making subtle plays for the marzipans. Greg thought that he could have spent an entire afternoon like this, in unexpected camaraderie, but a cheery halloo from downstairs made John shoot to his feet and Sherlock pause mid-chew.
“Mrs Hudson,” John explained.
“Ah, yes. Very kind, even during drugs busts,” Greg murmured, ignoring Sherlock’s glare. The landlady called up the stairs, asking for some ‘strapping young men’ to give her a hand with her bags. Greg found himself trooping down, bundled back up in his damp coat and gloves and following John, Sherlock and Mycroft down the seventeen steps and out onto the pavement.
The snow stood in medium-high drifts up and down an unusually quiet Baker Street, the ravening throngs of angry Londoners and tourists seemingly quelled by the strange weather and the fairy lights and the preponderance of red and green decorations that seemed to dot every window Greg could see. All four men stood, staring, for a silent moment, and Greg felt giggle welling up in his breast. “When I was a boy,” he said finally, “I always begged for it to snow like this at Christmas.”
“You never got snow as a kid, then?” John asked, sounding as if he felt a bit sorry for Greg.
“Nonsense, John. Herne Bay received a small but measurable amount of snowfall, as was suitable for a location on the British coast. What Greg means is,” Sherlock paused and bent to retrieve one of Mrs Hudson’s bags, “he wanted enough snow to make one of these.”
Greg barely had time to realize what was happening before a loose snowball hit him square in the chest. “Oi!” He was laughing, though, and before he knew it, snow was flying in handfuls, he and John taking cover behind a parked car and Mycroft stepping back into the slight overhang of 221‘s front stoop as Sherlock knelt in the nearest drift, throwing snowballs as if his life depending upon it. One of John’s throws went (probably purposefully, Greg decided) wide and hit Mycroft in the thigh and the elder Holmes sighed visibly, stepping down to join Sherlock in the drift, starting his own stockpile of methodically made, neatly packed snowballs. Greg was gasping for breath and wheezing mirth when Mrs Hudson opened the door some minutes later. “Boys,” she scolded, smile fond, “bring those bags inside and warm yourselves by the fire! I’ve made cocoa and I just happen to have a few crackers on hand.”
Greg and John exchanged looks and shrugged, following Mycroft and Sherlock (both aloof and quiet once more) towards the front door. Greg was last in, pausing on the bottom step and glancing back at the street. He knew that, at some point, he would be summoned to the Yard. Some emergency that just couldn’t wait, especially once it was discovered he was still in town. He knew that this would not be the Christmas he’d thought he would have. He would work, most likely, he would miss his family even when the trains started up again and the airports reopened. Sherlock would get bolshie and Mycroft would remain inscrutable (mostly) and John would lose his temper in that quiet, sharp way he had, but for now it was snowing and quiet, the smell of cocoa and wood smoke beckoning him inside, the sparkle of fairy lights on rare snow like some carol come to life. He glanced at the drift where the Holmes boys had done their work and was unable to hold in the laugh. Two very small snowmen perched on the kerb, one with a rather pointy nose of sticks and one a bit on the thin side for a snowman. “
“Coming, Detective Inspector?” Mrs Hudson called from the door. “Cocoa!”
He grinned up at her. “On my way, Mrs Hudson. On my way.”