Chapter Text

Liberty’s was packed. Absolutely packed. And thank God, Greg thought, he was nearly out of there. He had promised his sister a picture of the spectacular Christmas tree that stretched up from the ground floor almost to the skylight; its deep green magnificence set off by the drapery of thousands of sparkling soft buttery-yellow lights and glittering baubles of all shades, and what looked like hundreds of those box-shaped, fake presents in tinny-looking foiled wrapping paper. Greg eyed those and felt sorry for the poor bastard who’d had to wrap them for the tree. That kind of paper was a right pig to fold and it never creased neatly. He set his bags down carefully at his feet and got his phone out to take a picture for Angie. Immediately, he realised he wasn’t going to be able to do it justice from this angle - he simply couldn’t fit it all into the phone screen. He glanced around. The coast was clear directly behind him, so he stepped backwards a little and to one side to avoid a cluster of woolly-hatted Japanese tourists, also admiring the tree and pointing out the painted plasterwork. Greg faced the tree, taking aim again. ‘Bloody hell,’ he thought, ‘still too bloody big!’ Slightly irritably, he picked up his bags in one hand, clutching his phone in the other, and still looking in consternation at the massive great tree, he stepped blindly backwards into what he knew only moments before had been a clear space.

Alas, his foot came down on a tiny, tissue-wrapped booby trap and something small and hard and round gave way immediately under his heel with a horrid twinkling crunch. “Jesus Chr—!” he yelped in shock, as he leapt away instinctively, managing to stop himself from actually saying anything worse aloud just in time - and also managing not to lose his balance or send anyone flying as he jumped away; but the damage was already done. “What the—?” he started to say quietly to himself, looking down and behind him at the crumpled and flattened bright red tissue ball which he had just crushed under his boot heel - as simultaneously the man now standing directly behind him said smoothly, “Oh dear…it would seem you’ve just made rather a good job of that...”

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Ten minutes earlier, one Mycroft Holmes had been in the Christmas department, selecting some small decorations for his family’s Christmas stocking gifts. He’d found some fantastic martini glasses for his father that he was exceedingly pleased with. However, as a result, he was now running late to meet Sherlock to decide on the contents of the Christmas hamper that they were giving to their parents as a joint gift, and so he realised that he needed to fire off a quick text to warn his brother that he would be approximately 13 minutes late. He couldn’t abide tardiness. He had known the place would be busy, (obviously!), however, he hadn’t bargained for quite so many people still shopping at this late hour. Hadn’t these people got lives to lead, he thought grumpily. He went down on the escalator to the ground floor, vaguely admiring the massive tree that he had seen ten times already, and en route to the ground, he spotted a tiny space across the room where he might be able to pause for a moment and just check his pocket watch…at least there would be one when those Japanese tourists had finished gawping at the monstrous tree and the ornately painted plasterwork.

He reached the foot of the escalator and made his way across to the small person-free bit of floor space that he’d seen from above. Encumbered by bags and struggling to hold onto the narrow box under his arm - which contained his father’s new Derek Rose pyjamas - Mycroft retreated behind the tourists and the tree, and towards the display of scarves and hats.

It was an extremely small space indeed, but he stepped into it and waited for the right moment. Surely the tourists would move on soon? How many photographs of a Christmas tree did one need? Suddenly the moment came - directly in front of Mycroft, one of the men asked his wife if she had seen where the lavatories were. She didn’t know, but Mycroft did and was delighted to tell him; in his native language of course, accepting the man’s startled thanks with an equally polite bow and a courteous smile. Three of the men left the group to seek the loos, leaving Mycroft with his blessed space - and which he intended to claim as his own immediately by setting his bags and boxes down in an artfully arranged construction/barrier-against-humanity.

“Thank Heavens for small mercies,” he thought, appreciating the space to stand still for a moment in this Hell hole of frantic Christmas cheer.

Of course, the one disadvantage of wearing a pocket watch as opposed to a wrist watch was that one first needed to fish the thing out of one’s watch pocket to read it, and this required a free hand. He set down all his bags on the floor before him. On the top, he carefully placed the smallest of the rectangular paper bags containing the delicate Christmas bauble he’d just bought, and, pausing briefly first to make sure it wasn’t going to fall over, he then positioned the long, thin pyjama box down at the side of his bag-and-parcel pyramid to wedge the whole thing upright. It really should have held, but just as Mycroft retrieved his pocket watch and opened it, and while both his hands were engaged, a fast-moving woman walking quickly in order to catch her bus, dodged towards his construction to avoid an idiot that was walking backwards - actually walking backwards! - towards him, also trying to get a photograph of the Liberty’s Christmas tree.

In a series of unfortunate and rapidly unfolding events, as she passed, the rushing woman bumped the pyjama box with her own bags of shopping and carried on going; the pyjama box abruptly toppled over onto its face, destabilising the rest of the bags and so the smallest paper bag containing the bauble wobbled, tipped and then fell over on the top of the pile and the jaunty tissue-wrapped bauble rolled out and then bounced joyfully down the side of the cascading bag mountain…only to come to a sad and sorry end beneath the clumsy, idiotic, backward-walking boot heel.

“Jesus Chr—!” said the owner of the destructive boot. He muttered something else as he looked down and behind to assess the damage, while Mycroft gathered up his unscathed bags and the pyjama box, cursing inwardly. “Oh dear...” he said aloud, thinking black thoughts, but slotting the box under his arm crossly, trying to control the bag of chutneys he’d just bought from the food hall and not looking at the man yet. “...It would seem you’ve just made rather a good job of that…” he added, thinking, ‘You stupid, oafish, idiotic—‘ and getting his frosty glare in place for when he actually made eye contact with the clumsy fool. Meanwhile, the man had helpfully bent down to pick up the crushed bauble, still mostly encased in its tissue wrapping, and now he straightened up, holding it out to Mycroft apologetically. However, when Mycroft looked up and directly at him, all his boiling, seething contempt dissipated like steam and Mycroft’s mind was knocked off course, continuing its rant in a helpless re-directed blurt...‘—ridiculous—Oh!—gorgeous vision of silver-foxy-loveliness!’

“Oh Jesus!” the man gulped, his face a picture of stunned, mortified dismay, with huge and horrified puppy-dog eyes. “Was this yours? I’m-I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t—” he stopped. Then he glanced down and realised the smallest bag on top of the other man’s pile was the one from whence it had come. “Oh Christ! It’s from Liberty’s!” he yelped in horror. “What was it? How much was it? Just tell me the damage! It wasn’t some bloody Scarkofski crystal, was it?”

Mycroft laughed. “It’s Swarovski,” he said, but he said it politely. He had already automatically taken in his companion’s smart but not expensive coat; his scarf - which was from Next, and the gloves poking out of his pocket were from Next too - John had the same scarf and Mycroft recognised the unusual colour of the gloves from the model in the Next shop window that he had walked past earlier. This was not someone who usually shopped at Liberty’s. And this was therefore too good an opportunity to miss. The devil in him rose up and he deliberately pulled a bad news, I’m afraid sort of face. “It was over £150, I’m sorry to say…” he said, very regretfully.

If it was even conceivably possible, his companion suddenly looked ten times worse. He muttered something inaudible under his breath, but Mycroft was also a champion lip-reader. That had looked a great deal like, “Oh eff and bugger,” Mycroft thought, amused, but he expertly managed to keep a straight face.

“Look, let me replace it, it’s the least I can do,” the man continued and once again he held out the broken bauble - still in its tissue ball - to Mycroft, who held open the bag it had been in. Greg placed it gently inside. Mycroft smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m only teasing - it wasn’t really Swarovski at all. It was just one of Liberty’s own, from upstairs in the Christmas shop. Please don’t worry about replacing it. It was an accident.”

Greg put his own bags down as the cheap plastic handles were cutting into his wrist. “No, I insist,” he said honourably, looking straight at Mycroft. Then he breathed out hard in a comical show of pure relief and smiled. “Well, thank Christ for that,” he added, continuing, “but no, I do insist.” He was very firm about it. And then inspiration struck him. “…I was going up there now, anyway,” he lied.

Mycroft smiled again. It had been rather a lovely bauble and he knew his mother would have really liked it. He actually did want to get another one to replace it. Plus opportunities like this one didn’t come along very often. But he paused momentarily. He was already definitely going to be quite late for Sherlock.

Greg read the signs. “Are you in a rush?” he asked.

“No..it’s just…I’m supposed to be meeting my brother somewhere else at 8pm,” said Mycroft, guiltily. He abhorred lateness in others and was never avoidably late himself. “I’m running a little late already…”

Greg also felt that chances like this didn’t come along very often. He glanced at his watch. “Mmm. Well, you’ve got barely two minutes to get there!” he said. “Can’t you just text ‘im and say you’ve been delayed in Liberty’s?” he suggested, daringly.

Mycroft found the idea absolutely enchanting. Sherlock would be so intrigued. “Do you know, I will…” replied Mycroft and he did just that, using Greg’s exact words. ’DELAYED AT LIBERTY’S,’ he texted. ’SHAN’T BE LONG. M’ That’ll get him going, he thought mischievously.

Sherlock must have been waiting with his phone in his hand. Instantly, he texted back a single question mark.

Mycroft smiled. That had definitely got him going, he thought, delighted.

At the instant chime of the phone, Greg remarked, “Blimey! That was quick! What did he say? Is it ok?”

Mycroft smiled down at his phone where the three dots were already dancing as Sherlock composed another rapid fire text. When it arrived, he read it, and then he looked up at Greg. “He says, ‘Absolutely fine, no problem, take as long as you need.’ ”

Of course it had said nothing of the sort, but his companion didn’t need to know that.

Mycroft slipped his phone into his inner pocket, ignoring its indignant vibrations as Sherlock texted again. “Well. If we’re going to go shopping for Christmas baubles together, we should at least know each other’s names…” said Mycroft with a smile.

His companion laughed. “I’m Greg…well, Gregory. But everyone calls me Greg.”

Mycroft held out his hand and Greg took it. “My name is Mycroft; how do you do?’ he said as he shook firmly.

“Mycroft!” exclaimed Greg, shaking firmly back. “I’ve never met a Mycroft before. That’s…very unusual!”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, it is, rather,” he mused.

“How d’yer spell it?” asked Greg, rolling the name around in his mind.

“As it sounds,” replied Mycroft, but he spelt it anyway. “There weren’t that many of us at school!” he added.

Greg laughed again and it was delightful. “I c’n imagine! I was one of several Gregorys,” he said, still grinning.

’But none of them as gorgeous as you, I’ll wager…’ thought Mycroft.

Gregory gestured up towards the escalator as he picked up his bags again. “Well! After you,” he said, with a smile.