Title: A Christmas Carol
Author: Mottlemoth
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John
Length: 40,385 words
Rating: Teen
Warnings: None
Verse: Sherlock BBC/A Christmas Carol

Author's summary: "All lives end... all hearts are broken."

Mycroft Holmes never needed a reason to loathe Christmas - but getting dumped by the love of his life certainly did the trick. It's been a year since Mycroft lost the man he adored, and with Christmas Eve fast approaching, he's counting down the hours until all this festive lunacy is over.

Sadly for Mycroft, fate has other plans.

It's going to take three ghosts to show him the error of his ways. But can he make amends in time? Or will he prove to himself, once and for all, that caring is not an advantage?

Reccer's comments: It's a Mystrade Christmas Carol! Yes, maybe you think the premise is tired and unoriginal but I urge you to think again. The author puts their own unique twists on the tale, and I promise that you won't be bored. You might suffer from emotional whiplash, though, because this fic is in turns funny, heartbreaking, heartwarming, exasperating, tearjerking... and last but not least, joyful and life-affirming. Just like the Dickens tale.

And never fear, Johnlock fans. This story may center around the Mycroft/Lestrade relationship, but even though Sherlock/John is background, their presence is keenly felt throughout. I especially liked Sherlock's relationship with Greg in this, as well as his interactions with his brother. A more human Sherlock you'll never meet!

Grab your hot cocoa, a comfy blanket, and settle in for a whopper of a ghost story.

 "How do you feel?" Sherlock asked. "This very moment, now."

Mycroft's entire face contracted. "What a ridiculous question," he spat.

"You may be surprised," Sherlock hummed. "John taught it to me. The simplicity of it is often rather illuminating. Now answer. Let's see the truth of things."

Mycroft threw back another finger of scotch.

"Weary," he snapped. "Of you, Sherlock. And your histrionics . Tired after my working day, and - …"

After very little sleep.

"- … and - exasperated. Exasperated with this tedious over-dramatising upon which you insist. Concerned, deeply, that you are going to be unbearable to - … him, at a time when he is - ... I am aggravated, Sherlock. I am aggrieved. I am annoyed. Are we quite finished here?"

"Mm… I think you are, Mycroft. Entirely finished."

"For God's sake." Mycroft readied his thumb on 'terminate call'. "I don't expect to hear a word of this again," he snapped. "Ever. Do not be callous to him, Sherlock. Do not - taunt him for your entertainment, like you have me. If you do, I will ruin you."

Mycroft slashed the button, switched off his phone, drank another glass of scotch and went to bed.

As he turned onto his side - tucking himself through habit onto his half of the bed - and slid his hand beneath the pillow, Mycroft's fingers discovered a fabric that was different to the smoothness of his bed linens. He frowned, grasped hold of it, and tugged it out.

A cotton t-shirt.

Darkest grey; loose, and soft.

Comfortable as the Sunday mornings on which it was worn.

Cooking breakfast together, half-dressed. Television - old films - the duvet dragged down to the living room, as if they were students. Mycroft's couch transformed into a nest of warm skin and gentle touch. Those deep brown eyes, so readily drawn to his own. All the things he'd been forgiven. All the things overlooked. Stubble, smoke - three years in a flash.

Mycroft stared at the fistful of fabric in the darkness.

As he began to shake, he told himself - viciously - that caring was not an advantage; that all lives ended; all hearts were broken.

Today, it was simply his turn.

.