Christmas in London
Words: 501
Crossover and Christmas

[Note: This is part of an ongoing series of mine that seems to never end, where Giles takes the Scoobies to London after the fall of Sunnydale and meets up with his old buddy Lestrade, thus getting them involved with the BBC Sherlock crew.]


“I must say, it’s very nice of you to invite us for Christmas,” Watson said as he shook Giles’s hand and moved past him into the rather large hotel suite. “Indeed, indeed,” Giles smiled. “Might as well share the wealth, so lucky to have landed this deal, and after all, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without—“

“I know this one!” Willow jumped forward, “Christmas won’t be Christmas without….” she intoned, looking around her expectantly and waving a napkin filled with some type of crumbly appetizer.

“Wet comic books and a sleeping bag in the backyard?” Xander asked brightly from the buffet table. “Staking vampires in a Christmas tree lot?” Buffy called out from the bar. “Mindless twaddle and small talk and meaningless gifts?” Sherlock pushed past John at the doorway and went to glare out the large bow window. "Getting embarrassed in front of your new girlfriend by your flatmate?" John murmured as he went to get a beer.

Giles’s smile faltered as he looked to greet the next guest. “While I’m tempted to add a wry observation from my own experience with Christmases past,” Mycroft said smoothly, only briefly grimacing at the memory of interminable roast dinners at his parents’ cottage, “I believe Ms. Rosenberg is quoting a well-loved book in saying “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.” From behind his back he produced a large shopping bag filled with brightly wrapped parcels and handed it to Willow, who squealed and started digging through it.

"I must say, that's most thoughtful of you." Giles steered Mycroft toward the bar. "I'm afraid we're not quite organized enough for gifts--" Mycroft waved a gloved hand. "No matter, no matter, mere trifles, and selected by my assistant, so I hope they suit. And I'm given to understand that you and your--" he looked around the room--"team have been most helpful in several of my brother's, and Inspector Lestrade's, undertakings, so consider this a small token of thanks. And, of course, hosting this lovely gathering." Despite the diplomatic tone and expression, Giles didn't miss the slight eye roll at the mention of the "undertakings" nor the small emphasis on the word "lovely."

"Quite, quite," he said heartily, clapping Mycroft on the arm. "As I was about to say, Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without friends and family gathered round." He paused for a moment, thinking of his young charges having lost so much of their family and friends. He raised his glass, cleared his throat, and was about to make a small, celebratory speech, when he noticed that no-one was paying any attention. Willow, Xander and Buffy were oohing and ahhing over the apparently more than trifling gifts; Sherlock and John seemed to be having an whispered argument at the window, and Mycroft was leaning against the bar, sipping a whiskey with his gloves still on, and staring at the blinking light above the mantel. Shrugging, Giles sat down with his cheese and gin-and-tonic, and prepared to enjoy Christmas in London in his own way.

Here's the mood board by mark_pierre




And here are the fics:

Drabble 1 Title: Lucky Day
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG
Theme: Friday the 13th

Greg grimaced at the headlines. As he reached for his coffee, he felt warm hands on his shoulders and a soft breath in his ear. "Happy Friday the 13th, my love." He leaned back into the voice, then started up and stared at the paper. "Friday the 13th, right enough," he said, "Someone could have warned me. Not a good day for coppers what with all the superstitious crazies out there." Mycroft settled in the chair opposite and reached for a piece of toast. "Not superstitious yourself?" he asked mildly. "My mum was, right enough." Greg thought for a moment. "She tried to hide it, Dad didn't care for it, but one thing she always did when one would come 'round--make sure we'd always go to bed early. Sometimes it'd barely be dark." Mycroft leaned across the table with a soft look in his eyes. "Early to bed, I suggest we follow that tradition." Greg grinned. "I'm in for that, I'll be home by 6." And as he finished off his coffee and stood to get his coat, he winked at his partner. "Guess it must be my lucky day!"

Drabble 2
Fandom: Elementary
Rating: PG
Theme: Friday the 17th

"Oh, it's Friday the 13th." Joan scanned the paper as she sipped her tea. Sherlock looked up from the tattered photos splayed in front of him; crime scene pictures from some cold case, gruesome and hardly suitable for the breakfast table. "Ah yes, that which in the superstitious becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy," he intoned. He reached for his mug of tea and fixed Joan with a stare. "Of course, were we in Italy, this date would mean nothing. No, rather vendredi diciasette would be the accursed day, full of dread and people avoiding black cats and walking under ladders." Joan regarded him with an expression somewhere between curiosity at this bit of cultural trivia, and "I haven't had enough coffee to hear more about this Italian thing." Sherlock shrugged and began gathering up the photos. "And yet. However meaningless these superstitions may be, they are not so to a shockingly large proportion of the populace, who regularly evince bizarre behaviors when in the throes of delusion. So, being that we live and work in the USA, I suggest we keep our eyes open while we are out and about today."
"Deal." Joan nodded and went back to the New York Times.

Drabble 3 Title: Cultural Awareness
Fandom: Superstore
Rating: PG
Theme: Tuesday the 13th

Jonah strolled up to Amy, who was standing in the aisle looking incredulously at a chart on a clipboard. "Heyyy, what's up?" She gave him a disgusted look. "The staffing schedule is totally screwed up; we're short three people today." Looking closer at the chart, she groaned. "No wonder, I should have known. It's Martes Trece." Jonah looked blank. "So?"
"Martes Trece. Tuesday the 13th. Bad luck day."
"No, no, no, that's Friday the 13th."
"Up yours, you narcissistic imperialist. In Mexico, it's Tuesday the 13th. Also in Greece, if you'd like to know. Well, just for that, you can go restock the fertilizer. Go on. Do it now." She turned on her heel and marched off, leaving Jonah staring after her, shaking his head.

The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Prompt Used: code, disguise, gadget, reward, secret, undercover
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock BBC, Grimm
Word Count: 327
Note: Part of an ongoing crossover series in which Giles brings the Slayerettes to London after the fall of Sunnydale, and they get involved with the Sherlock crew. They're drawn into an investigation of a series of supposed serial killings which might be vampires, or might be something else entirely. Mycroft has come to the Watchers’ Council, as has his distant cousin, Sean Renard, lately of the Portland Police Department. Both sets of teams are zeroing in on the culprits of the multiple murders.

With Sherlock sniffing the door jamb, Buffy managed to pry open the rusted hatch of the battered door set into the stone wall at the back of the Tennis Club where the last, half-drained victim had been found, using a metal gadget she’d had, oddly but conveniently, in her purse. Sherlock’s eyes lit up and the two slowly wrenched open the door, as Lestrade and the others hurried over.

Willow, who’d been reading about the legend of the dearg-du, continued her litany as to how the myth entailed that the beautiful woman, killed by her lover, somehow had spawned a secret brood of blood sucking creatures, doomed to roam the night, sometimes in disguise, waylaying victims. But once the two had the door wide open, and the cold and clammy blast of air seeped out, even she was staring, like the rest, into the dark entrance.

“Well,” said Giles, clearing his throat and reaching into his jacket pocket, “Shall we?” With that, he brandished a small penlight, and advanced into the entry. Sherlock likewise produced a flashlight, as did Dawn from her pink backpack and Lestrade from his overcoat pocket. John looked askance, Willow alarmed, and Xander looked eager but rueful. “Don’t got a light,” he muttered, and John chuckled and drew him and Willow back. “What say we wait here, and let the rest go undercover,” he said mildly, then reaching to grab Dawn as she headed forth. “You too, love, not this time,” as she pouted but drew back obligingly.

“Yes, yes, best wait here,” agreed Giles, as he ducked to follow the others. "And don't forget the code," --waving his phone-- "In case we need to send for help."

"Fat lot of good that'll do anyone," grumbled Xander as he plopped down on the stone wall and fumbled in his backpack. "Crazy librarian forgets we've got no codes for Jolly Old England." With that, he pulled out a Heath bar and began munching contentedly. "But as we know, craziness has its own reward."

Doing drabbles off of phrases in other people's drabbles, so fun.

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...for tv_universe...
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Title: Mycroft at Les Mis
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Word Count: 310 (not including song lyrics)
Notes: Sherlock: Just my parents.
John: Your parents?
Sherlock: In town for a few days.
John: YOUR parents?
Sherlock: Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of Les Mis. Tried to talk me into doing it.

“Everybody raise a glass/Raise it up the master's arse/Everybody raise a glass to the Master of the House!”

Mycroft pressed his fingers against his forehead and stifled a moan. This was truly a new low. The audience were laughing and whooping, not adding at all to the non-existent decorum of the situation. He slid his glance to his right, where the lights from the stage were beaming on his parents’ upturned, rapt faces. At any rate they seemed to be enjoying the raucous cacophony, had been throughout. Already his mum had squeezed his arm multiple times, cooing “Oooh Mikey, isn’t it grand!” or some other such platitude. And his father had actually been singing along! Damn Sherlock. Surely he could have taken up Mycroft's very generous offer to perform this interminable duty. After all, what else had he to do? Lie on his couch all day? Mycroft was the one who had, shall we say, better things to do. Such as balance the world's economy, restore peace in distant lands; stir up unrest in others, if he were to be honest?

Ah well, surely this couldn’t go on for much longer. He stole a look at his watch. Oh, good heavens, still more than halfway left to go, plus intermission. Intermission! His face brightened. Shepherding his parents through the lobby throng would be arduous but a drink? Yes, yes, a substandard watered-down scotch would be just the thing.

As the song and singer crashed to the end, again his mother pulled on his arm with excitement. "Aren't they a laugh! Oh, I do like this!" Ah, well. A few hours to make them happy, surely he could withstand this, and worse, which was no doubt what was yet to come. Schooling his features into as pleasant a smile as he could muster, he patted her hand, settled back in his seat, and turned his mental attention to calculating the potential deleveraging of the shadow banking crisis in China.

...for a challenge at gameofcards. I liked the prompts--they come from this tumblr. The picspam is all Sherlock BBC.