It's Christmas Eve and DI Lestrade is working like usual. But things start to go weird very quickly. A little Mystrade. Rated T for swearing.

Author's Note:

Pairing(s): Mycroft/Lestrade (Beginning), Sherlock/John (mentioned).

Rating: Rated T for swearing. Also men kissing.

About: Lestrade is having a tough Christmas Eve chasing bad guys and getting buried under paperwork. Weird things begin to happen towards the end of the day and when Lestrade finally gets home he finds a surprise waiting. Just a short one-shot for Christmas.

Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

Murderers Are Easy To Catch

So far it had been the worst Christmas ever. Well, it wasn't technically Christmas yet. It was five pm on Christmas Eve and DI Lestrade was chasing a murder suspect down the ice-slick street. His back hurt, his head ached, and his nicotine patch had stopped working about four hours earlier, leaving him irritable and snappy.

It didn't help that Sherlock Holmes was running about like a psychotic four-year-old, finding apparently obvious clues wherever he goddamn went. Sometimes Lestrade really hated that genius, who was probably at home shagging his flatmate-turned-boyfriend while Greg was coughing up a lung.

The guy, Dustin Leonard, tore through a group of teenagers doing some last minute Christmas shopping. It was the same every year, Lestrade thought as he vaulted over two girls who had been knocked down. Every bloody Londoner left their shopping 'til the last goddamn minute.

Donovan had got ahead of him and threw Leonard off his feet. The man managed to scramble out of both their grips and took off again, earning a shout from Donovan and a rather lengthy curse that would make sailor's blush from Lestrade.

I'm getting too old for this shit, Greg thought as he pushed through yet another gaggling group of young people. Seriously, they were bloody everywhere.

Suddenly Leonard was gone, disappearing into the crowd, and Lestrade and Donovan stopped. Lestrade bent over panting, chest aching as he tried to catch his breath. Since quitting smoking he'd found the whole 'chasing after dangerous suspects' part of his job a lot easier. But still, he was forty-seven, he wasn't as young as other cops like Donovan. He couldn't run forever, unlike Sherlock Goddamn Holmes.

'Damn it!' Donovan shouted, already getting her breath back.

God did Lestrade hate her. 'Fuck it,' he groaned. He'd have to call Sherlock and let the sociopath know he'd lost Leonard. 'FUCK!'

He earned some reproaching glances as he and Donovan started walking again, eyes peeled for Dustin Leonard. The chances of finding the man were slim.

They passed a convenience store and Lestrade froze to look in. Someone was buying cigarettes and he had the sudden urge to grab a packet.

'Don't think so,' Donovan scowled and dragged him away.

'Just one,' he pleaded, 'Come'n, Sally.'

'No, sir, you're doing well,' Donovan said, hand reassuring on Lestrade's arm. He knew he was a pain in the arse when he quit (he'd quite about twenty-three times since joining Scotland Yard) but had so far gone three months without a fag. He really didn't want to fail now... but they were so damn good!

'Come on,' he begged again.

Sally shook her head and kept a hand on him, steering her boss back towards their car. When they reached it she opened the door and rummaged through the glove box.

'Here,' Sally said and pressed a box of nicotine patches into his hands. Lestrade managed a smile.

'Thanks,' he said and pulled one out, tearing the wrapping open. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and pulled off the used patch, replacing it with the new one.

'No worries,' Sally smiled.

There was a screech behind them and both turned to a see a large black car roll to a stop. The back door opened and a young woman, late twenties, exited. She kept her eyes trained on her expensive BlackBerry.

'Er, can we help you?' Lestrade asked, eyes narrowing. The woman was familiar... where had he seen her before?

'This is for you,' the woman said and nodded at the car. The back door opened and a man was tipped out, his hands and feet bound, a gag stuffed into his mouth.

'What the hell?' Lestrade said and stepped forward, going for his handcuffs.

The woman looked up at him and smiled. 'You're welcome.'

'Welcome?' Sally demanded. Before she or Lestrade could arrest the young lady she had stepped back into the rather posh car. Tires squealed as it tore off, leaving two very angry cops behind.

'What the fuck?' Lestrade muttered and dragged the tied-up guy to his feet. 'Son of a bitch!' he gasped.

It was Dustin Leonard; delivered wrapped up just for Lestrade and Donovan.

'I'm confused,' Sally said.

There was a note tied around Leonard's neck and Lestrade grabbed it as Sally pushed the man into the back of their panda car.

Murderers are easy to catch.

Lestrade scowled. Who the bloody hell had orchestrated this? Who, besides Sherlock and John Watson, knew that Lestrade and Sally were even chasing Leonard? Who had the power to deliver the criminal half-an-hour after Lestrade and Sally had lost him?

Greg growled. He really, really hated Christmas.