The Holly and the Ivy

The night was cold but the sky was clear. It was brilliant with stars, almost as though it too was celebrating Christmas with the people below. They were radiant lights given by God to give enrichment to those who mingled around savoring the cheer of the holidays. Trafalgar Square was also enriched and adorned with the paraphernalia of the holiday season. London went all out for the twelve day period. Shops were aglow with lights and toys and decorations. A huge tree stood between the twin fountains. It rose majestically high into the air, a ruler of all who surveyed it. It's bright twinkling brought to the surface of Locke's thinking that holidays were a time for loved ones. He gazed solemnly at the four bronze lions. Even in the darkness, they had a sheen. People surrounded him as he stood silently in Trafalgar Square, moving back and forth, but no one pushed, no one seemed in a hurry to reach their destination. 

His eyes moved slowly upward until they came to rest on the cold looking statue of Lord Nelson. Locke sighed and looked elsewhere. Nelson reminded him of Smythe, and Smythe reminded him of work that brought Graham to mind, and Locke desperately strove to stay away from that thought. Loneliness and mild depression started then. Everyone around him seemed to be with someone . . . yet, he was alone . . . like always. That melancholy emotion started every year near Christmas time. It was something he had no control over. Like a headache, it kept coming back. 
Carolers surrounded the tree. They sang "Silent Night" in loud joy. Someone in the group sang off key, but it did not faze the others who continued serenading anyone who wanted to pay attention to them. Locke listened to them a moment and then left the square. 
Wind blew moisture from the fountains. The drops touched his face with cooling beads. Down one street he went and then to the left. The sound of the singers vanished little by little until nothing was left but the hum of traffic, the buzz of people muttering to each other. A horn blared once . . . a man's voice raised in anger . . . but no one sang of joy and promise and hope . . . no one sang of Christmas and love and loved ones. For that, the slim, man was grateful. 
Locke had left the party at CI5 early. Revelry and music, booze and sexual tensions were mere aggravations to him. Watching Graham chatting up the women who were responding to his blatant sexually was not something he wanted to do. It wasn't something he could do. Besides, if he became inebriated, if his tight hold on the secret desire that burned brightly within him, were let loose . . . 

The CI5 agent shuddered. (Think about something else!) he commanded himself. He urgently sought something else to concentrate on. A toy store caught his attention. A tiny train ran around a miniature Christmas tree. An electric marionette of Father Christmas nodded his head wisely as he looked down at the tiny figure seated on his knee. The fake child was dressed in fake fur and red wool. Father Christmas wore his usual wreathe of mistletoe on his head. His gown was a pristine white. Locke smiled ruefully. It had been a long time since he had written a letter to Father Christmas. Sighing he moved on to the next window where a profusion of teddy bears, of all makes, all sizes, stood or sat, all waiting for children to come inside, for parents to buy them. 
A man came to the window, smiled at Locke. "Happy Christmas," he mouthed. 
Locke nodded and walked on. It wasn't a very happy Christmas for him. He was cold and damp when he reached his apartment. Locke found Graham inside, waiting, a small tin settled in the middle of the tiny table in front of the sofa. 

Graham searched his partner's face. "Have a bit of the gloom, do you?" Graham inquired gently. 
"I'd thought you'd be in Miranda's bed by now," Locke said, shutting the door behind him. He had heard the sympathy in the other man's voice, heard it and resented it. 
"Thought about it," came the truthful reply. "
She choose someone else?" 
"No," Graham said quietly, "I did." Locke looked at him, a queer expression on his face . . . he could feel it. He did his best to alter it. "Seemed to recall you had a touch of misery last year at this time as well." Locke shrugged. "Couldn't leave a friend of mine beneath a lorry, now could I?" 
"It'll go away, Graham." Locke jerked off his coat. "It always does." He hung it up. 

"Your place is kinda bare. No tree this year?" 
"It seems a waste, it does. Chop down a tree, garnish it with tinsel and garland and wait for it to die." Locke shook his head. "Not for me." 
"That's your trouble, sunshine," the blue eyed CI5 agent remarked casually. Locke looked at him. "No Christmas spirit. Dickens should visit you." 
"Dickens?" 
"You know, those three ghosts of his . . . old king Morley, boo . . .rattle . . .that kind of thing." 
The slimmer man remarked in a tired voice. "It was his ghosts that visited people, not him. Look, I want to go to bed. Why are you really here?" 
"To play Santa Claus. Come sit on my lap, young Locke, and tell me what you want most for the hols." 
"Don't make jokes, Graham. I'm too tired to play along. 
"I'd be Father Christmas but I hate wearing mistletoe in my hair. Messy stuff." 
"Graham..." 
"Smythe's lending us his cottage up near Loch Mary." 
"Smythe never lends anything." 
"He's lending this. We can keep it until after Twelfth night. I'd hate to go alone. Drive up with me. Look..." He lifted the tiro from the table. "My landlady made a Christmas pudding. All we have to do is light it. She's even put a coin in it. Might get your wish, Locke." 

"He's giving us the cottage and time off? What's wrong? You catch him with his biscuits soaked in liquor?" 
"Something like that. Well?" 
"I don't think so. Like you said, I have no Christmas spirit. Hate to ruin your days off with my long face." 
"You don't like the glitter and serenading, do you?" 
"Nah, seems false, kind of." He went to the window, stood peering down at the outer world. His flesh tingled with the awareness that Graham was near. It always did lately. 

"Well then, you need time away from all that, don't you?" He stood up, walked slowly to Locke. He did not touch him but he stood close enough to notice the slight flush on the other mans cheeks. "Come with, young Locke. We'll hang stockings but we won't kill a tree...I promise. We'll write letters to Father Christmas, create the grandest bowl of wassail you've ever tasted. And don't forget the Christmas pudding. What's a hol without it?" 
God knew how much Locke wanted to be alone with Graham, but it wouldn't do. No, it wouldn't do. "I don't think so." 

"You need it, sunshine. You need the rest, you know you do. That last case took a lot out of the both of us." He grinned slightly. Locke's heart jumped. "Think of the privacy! Think of the quiet! Think of the change of scenery. Hell, think of Smythe actually giving us the use of his cottage. How can you think of turning down that?" Without giving Locke a chance to make a statement, Graham hurried on, "Don't make him regret his sudden burst of generosity. Who knows when he'll break down and do it again?" 
(Say no!) Locke's mind said, but his heart was louder. (Say no!) his sanity yelled, but his yearning was deafening. It drowned out all the lucid thoughts. 
"Think logically. You've been invited to Meridian's party, to the one Boelter is given, to Marshanti's. If you stay, you'll be expected to go to every one of them. Otherwise, there will be much anger, and hurt feelings and that will carry over into the work place. Smythe won't like that, now will he? But . . . if you're out of town, then you can't go to the parties, can you?" 
"No." 
"And they can't very well get angry with you for not going to their festivities, can they?" 
"No." 
"Do you want to go to them?" 
"No." Locke was weakening. He could feel it. He wanted to fight it but there seemed to be no strength in him.....no strength at all. 
"Well then?" Why did Locke hear triumph in his friend's tone? 

"I'll go to Scotland!" His breath halted in his lungs, frozen from the smile of delight Graham gave him. Uneasiness waited at the back of his mind, waited to spring forth and disturb him. He shouldn't go. Graham would find out and . . .No, he had managed to hide it this long . . he could hide it longer. Day after day they had worked side by side, in close contact, and Graham hadn't discovered the truth yet, had he? Well then, what was the harm in going? Graham's smile altered slightly and then reversed back to one of joy. Locke couldn't place that difference, couldn't give names to each expression. 
"Pack a bag, Ray. Mine's in the car." 
"You were that sure of me?" 
"Yeah." 
"I don't know if like that," Locke said dryly. 

"Course you do. We're partners and partners should know each other, don't, you think?" 
"Yeah." (Yeah!) Locke thought, (but I hope to God you never learn everything about me.) 
"Good, but first a stop at HARRODS." 
"Why?" 
"It's a surprise, young Locke. You shall have to wait until Christmas eve morning to find out." 
Despite his mild depression, Locke felt a stirring of interest. He watched that pleased smile pass quickly over his partner's face, and he smiled back. "No fair, Graham. Give us a hint." He went into the bedroom. 

"Nah. Didn't your mum ever tell you patience is a virtue?" Graham inquired from the doorway. 
Locke looked around and saw the heavier man leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. His mood lightened even more. "Yeah, but did I listen?" 
"Probably not."