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Early fireworks flashed across the night sky. Their bright bursts of colour reflected off glass skyscrapers and the underside of the low clouds that had been threatening rain all evening. So far it had held off, just a fine drizzle that wasn’t enough to deter people from their celebrations. Greg Lestrade watched a sizeable group stumble down the street towards the river and turned away to watch Sally pinning markers onto the incident map. Already their circle was spreading out from the initial scene as uniform canvassed nearby streets fruitlessly for witnesses.
“Every year,” he told her, “I say I’m never going to do this again.”
“I applied for Financial Crime over the summer,” she admitted. “At least if they’re working over New Year, they can polish their halos and know they’re having the worst night.”
He grunted his agreement. It was hard to complain about their New Year being spoiled in the circumstances, but just one year he’d like the whole of Christmas to go to plan. At least he’d had Christmas off, even if they’d had to spend it with Sherlock and the Holmes parents.
“Next year, I’m booking the full two weeks off and going to Australia,” he decided. “See if the Commissioner can call me in from there.”
Sally laughed. “Room for a little one in your suitcase?” She tipped her head towards the incident room, and he fell into step with her. “Nearly next year already.”
It was. Twenty to midnight. He’d had plans, if one could consider catching up on Christmas TV and watching firework displays on YouTube with a bottle of good Scotch and a Chinese while Mycroft pretended that he wasn’t enjoying the fireworks to be a plan. Greg thought it was a good one, and Mycroft had been puttering around the library picking out a book for it when they got the all-too familiar call. Doing a family notification visit had not been part of his plans, nor had pulling an all-nighter in the office.
Someone had put the news on the big screen, and the countdown in the corner had already started. It was showing the crowds gathering along the Thames and around the country, people bundled up against the cold and damp with bright, happy faces full of excitement for a new year and a fresh start. Greg had just resolved to call a pause for the final countdown when a constable from downstairs knocked on the door and leaned around it.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?” she called. “Your order has arrived. Do you want it in here?”
He’d been at this long enough that he didn’t react outwardly, even though internally he was rolling his eyes hard. “How big is it?” he asked. “Do you think we’ll have room?”
She looked around at the tables piled high with paperwork and computers and pulled a face. “I’ll book out one of the conference rooms, Sir. Can you come down and sign for it?”
Greg beckoned Sally to come with him and followed the constable out to the lifts. She got ahead of them, and Sally leaned in close. “What order would that be?”
“A surprise.” He caught her look and shrugged. “You know what he’s like.”
“Yup, and still haven’t got my head around it. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” She smiled awkwardly at the constable. “Quiet night downstairs, is it?”
“It was. How many people did you think you had on shift?”
Greg stared straight ahead and could feel Sally’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. When they got down to the lobby, it turned out that Mycroft, because it had to be him, had ordered enough Chinese to feed about twice as many people as Greg had on his team. There was a print-out of the order lying on top, with a folded note addressed to Greg, and he skimmed through the list with fond amusement.
“I think he ordered everything off the menu,” he commented. The constable looked at him warily. “My husband. Wasn’t pleased about me getting called in tonight.”
“Yeah, and this is what it looks like when he isn’t happy,” Sally interjected. She was poking through the bags and had extracted a parcel of wontons. “We’re going to need a couple of trips with all of this.”
Greg opened the note and smiled to himself. “Yeah, sure, I’ll just…”
“Boss?”
He gestured to the street. “There’s more in the car, I’m just going to… Look, if you give us a hand with all of this,” he told the constable, “you can bring enough down for tonight and to take home for tomorrow. We’re not going to eat it all, after all.” He was already backing away towards the doors. “I’ll be back soon. Tell everyone to take a break until next year, yeah?”
“Funny,” Sally told him flatly. “Go on, I’ll cover for you.”
“Thanks, Sal, I owe you one.” He didn’t need telling twice, just slammed the door release button with his elbow and strode out into the biting wind. For a moment he regretted his decision to leave his coat, but the car pulled up in front of him before he’d even had chance to get cold and he piled into the back seat.
“Good of you to join me,” Mycroft said.
Greg rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Come here.” He upped the back of Mycroft’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. “Thank you for dinner.”
“I always get my way, you know that.” Mycroft tapped on the screen between them and the driver and reached down into the shadows at his feet as the car pulled away. “I got you the duck with pineapple and ginger.”
“Thank you.” He accepted the take-away box and chopsticks and lifted the lid to enjoy the hot, fragrant steam. His stomach rumbled, a reminder that lunch had been early and dinner had been forgotten. “What would I do without you?”
Mycroft snorted. “Let’s not find out, shall we?”
“I’d rather not.” The car pulled a completely illegal U-turn and parked on the other side of the road. “I could have walked this far.”
“This is warmer.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in the fireworks?” It was dark in the car, but not dark enough to hide Mycroft’s shy smile. “Rude to miss them since we’re here, I suppose.”
They ate in a companionable silence as the minutes ticked away, until it hit two minutes to the hour and Greg set his food aside. “Right, come on, then.”
“Greg…”
“This was your idea.” He opened the door and piled out onto the pavement, and soon after he heard the other door open. Mycroft’s gloved hand slid into his bare one just as the London Eye lit up for the final countdown and the crowd roared into one voice. Greg pulled Mycroft to his side and tipped his head to look at him. “Three, two, one…”
Mycroft leaned in and kissed him firmly as cheers erupted around them, the first booming chimes of Big Ben rolled across the city, and the first fireworks exploded above them. He tasted of good tea drunk from an ancient Thermos flask, Chinese take-away, and home, and there was nowhere else Greg would rather be or anyone else he’d rather be with in that moment.
“Happy New Year, love.” He wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s waist to pull him in closer against the press of the crowd. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.” Mycroft tipped his head back to watch the fireworks, and Greg leaned against him comfortably. The sky was alight with every colour, and beyond the main display above them he could make out smaller displays all across the city. The fireworks were so close that he could feel them in his chest, London was throbbing with life, and Mycroft was warm against Greg’s side.
It was perfect.
They stayed to the end, until the crowds started to drift away back to home and bed or a night in the clubs and bars, and they let themselves be buffeted back towards the car, where Greg reached in to collect his cooling dinner. “I’ll walk from here,” he said wryly, gesturing to the office. “I think it’ll be quicker than driving.”
“Perhaps.” Mycroft allowed Greg to pull him in for another kiss. “Not quite what we planned, but acceptable, I think.”
“It was perfect. I needed this.”
Mycroft smiled down at him. “I must insist that we do it in the warm next year, though.”
“Next year,” Greg told him. “We’re doing it in Sydney.” He walked backwards down the road towards work. “Happy New Year, love. See you in the morning. I’ll pick up breakfast on the way home.”
No, it wasn’t what he’d planned. None of it was. But it was everything he’d ever wanted anyway.