Allergic to Christmas (BBC Sherlock, Mystrade)

[bangbang]

So I haven't written anything at all in forever, but I woke up this morning with this in my head. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas.

Thank you (as always) to the ever-wonderful Spoo for giving an advance opinion and for suggesting the title!

---

Mycroft didn't do Christmas. He had stared incredulously as his parents tried to pass off the microscope he had located under their bed weeks ago as "from Santa", he cringed at the sight of tinsel, and on a forced viewing of "A Christmas Carol" he found himself siding rather strongly with Scrooge.

This year was no different - although he had to admit he felt slightly more festive than Christmases past. Greg was scheduled to be off work Christmas Day, and although international emergencies rarely had the courtesy of announcing themselves in advance, it would take a little more than a mysterious star in the Middle East to drag Mycroft into the office this year.

So he was practically humming a carol as he arrived home (first, for once) and discarded his coat in the hallway. Loosening his tie and making his way into the kitchen, he flicked through a mental Rolodex of recipes Greg had painstakingly taught him that he could get started before the DI came home.

Boiling the kettle for tea, he absently brought up a hand and scrubbed two fingers at the side of his nose. There was a vague hint of an itch there that only intensified with his rubbing, and he blinked past a sudden film of tears that sprung to his eyes. He reached over to the kitchen table, still comparing the merits of a chicken Alfredo vs prawn risotto, and thoughtfully plucked a tissue from the box.

He brought it up to dab at his nose; but the first gossamer touch of it against his nostril had him whipping away from the work surfaces and sneezing with unexpected ferocity. "hiiiSSH! hi--hihhh!RSHH!"

Lowering it, he experimentally wrinkled his nose before tucking the tissue away, slightly bothered. Although a sneeze out of the blue was far from unusual, the accompanying itch in his sinuses threatened at an oncoming cold or allergy he was determined not to succumb to. But no other symptoms were making themselves known, and satisfied that it had been a random occurrence he turned his attention back to dinner.

Washing his hands, he gathered the ingredients for risotto. Greg liked to put on the radio while he cooked, singing along to some horrendous 80's pop song, but Mycroft preferred the meditative silence after a day of whirring thoughts and buzzing computers.

This time, however, the silence was broken by his own frequent sniffling. He was beginning to doubt his prior assumption that his sneezing was truly random. The drippiness of his nose could be attributed to the hot-cold-hot change of leaving work and entering the house, but the incessant scratchiness of his eyes and upper palette suggested something more troublesome was going on.

Mycroft often had a blessed few allergy-free months in the dead of winter; with nothing blooming, he almost forgot what it was like to wake up every day sneezing. But his body remembered, and the way his nostrils were flaring irritably now was ringing alarm bells.

He sniffled again, and this time it upset something in the delicate inner balance of his sinuses. He lurched frantically away from the packets of ingredients and, in want of a tissue, steepled his hands over his nose and mouth.

"hiiii-ischh! hihh'ISCH! hihhhh'ISCHH'OO!"

Watery-eyed now from the spraying, ticklish sneezes, he rinsed his hands and abandoned dinner preparations in favour of some allergy-inspired investigation.

It hadn't been anything at work, he knew. His allergies were rarely triggered within the confines of his office - it was climate controlled and Anthea had learnt very early in her career with Mycroft that changing her perfume could lead to disastrous consequences. Besides, the reaction had only started when he arrived home, and there had been no such discomfort this morning. Therefore, he decided, it was obviously something Greg had introduced to the environment after Mycroft had left for work and before Greg had started his own shift. Unlike Sherlock, who had been known to douse himself with air freshener as soon as he heard Mycroft ascend the stairs in 221B as a petty protest, Greg would never dream of triggering Mycroft's allergies on purpose. So that left an accidental introduction, and he set out in search of what that could possibly be.

There didn't seem to be anything in the kitchen; the only plants present were some sad, wilted herbs on the windowsill that they both forgot to water and it didn't appear as though Greg had brought a stray kitten home. It was clearly one of his more serious allergies; his eyes were now burning and the tickle in his nose was approaching unbearable. He muffled a quartet of sneezes as he entered the hallway, a stunted little cough following them, and silently cursed his immune system.

He didn't bother checking his study - Greg never went in there anyway, and certainly wouldn't change anything inside. The downstairs bathroom also yielded no answers; no new air freshener or even a soap that wasn't on Mycroft's approved list.

There was a teasing, insidious sort of tickle flitting through his nostril as he exited into the hallway, and he allowed his head to tip back and his breath to stutter. Eyelashes fluttering and chest heaving, he unfolded another tissue and waited.

And waited. His build ups were frequently excessive (and always humiliating) but if he wanted any sort of relief from the torturous tickle he was forced to indulge them.

"hihhh... hhih! ahh'hihhh..." His hitching was growing more and more vocal, and his lips were parted in a rictus of sneezy agony. He took one last inhale - and then his shoulders slumped as the sneeze slipped away.

He swallowed a curse; the unfulfilled buildup had simply increased the tickle and he knew that the sneeze would return with vengeance. Probably at the most inconvenient time possible, as well. Scrubbing at his septum irritably and pulling out a handful of tissues, he pushed open the door to the living room.

Instantly, it hit him like a brick wall, and he frantically pinched his nostrils shut to try and limit the allergen entering his system. Eyes flooded, he blinked sharply to try and distinguish the source of his torment.

And there it was, proudly in the corner of the room, festooned with tinsel and baubles and a jaunty star on top, as though it was mocking him. Mycroft stared at the tree for a brief second - and then collapsed feverishly into his handful of tissues, bent almost double by the fury of his reaction now that he was at such close quarters.

"ISHCHH! hih-RSSSCH!-RSSCH!" The first trio burst out almost as one, wet and unfettered and so terribly unsatisfying. The next were no less ferocious, tearing out of his throat with all the force of a steam engine. "hah!RSSCH!-RSSCH'OO! RRSZZCH'OO! hahhRAHHSH!" His tissues were all but destroyed at this stage, and still he needed to sneeze so badly.

Desperate, he seized a handful of tissues from the box on the living room mantelpiece and clutched them tightly over his nose. Far from slowing down, his sneezes only seemed to grow more violent, tumbling out of him in long, rapid expulsions and ending in a sharp pitch and an insatiable tickle. Each one led to another and he realised with a sinking feeling that he had shifted from simply a reaction into an allergy attack.

"hahSSCHH! HAHSCHH! hhahh!hiiSSSCHUE! HASCHHOO! ihhhSHWW! hihh-HISSHUE! Oh, God."

As he drew a long breath in between sneezes, he nuzzled into the tissues - and remembered, far too late that they had sat for hours being coated in the light, pervasive allergen from the tree. Idiot, he thought to himself, wrenching them away. But as he turned to leave the hellish, pine-scented room, he was hit by another wave.

His tissues from the kitchen were in shreds, and he was dizzy from the continued allergy attack; all he could do was lean one hand on the wall to steady himself and sneeze uncovered, again and again, towards the floor.

"ihhAHSHWW! HISHHUE! hahhhahh!IHHSHUE! hhSHHWW! ahhhihh!ahhihhAHSHUE!"

Blurry and damp and with his breath catching in his chest, he finally dragged himself to the hallway and blew his nose hard with the untainted tissues on the coat stand. His eyes were swollen and his nose was streaming, but the last frantic fit seemed to have cleared his sinuses enough to grant him a reprieve for the moment.

With the tissues tightly clamped over his nose and mouth, he made his way into the kitchen. The kettle was still hot from being boiled and he made himself a cup of tea, allowing it to steep as he searched one-handed through a box of medicines for the strongest anti-histamine he could find. He also dug out an emergency inhaler prescribed for his particularly severe colds or - as he was using it for now - breathless allergy attacks. Taking two puffs and feeling his lungs start to ache a little less, he slipped the pill packet into his jacket pocket and gripped his tea.

He held his breath through the hall, finally drawing a ragged inhale halfway up the stairs. Holding his tea out from his body, he clenched in on himself with a wet, miserable "ihhhSHHUE!"

He continued to sneeze in short, damp bursts as he undressed and reclothed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, alternating between burying his abused nose in a handful of tissues and being caught unawares, forced to simply aim towards the floor. It was a level of lax carelessness he rarely experienced; but he was so worn out from the attack, and his breathing was still settling into a rhythm that wasnt an asthmatic wheeze, that he didnt feel too guilty about his lapse in decorum.

Finally discarding his allergy-coated suit in the landing, he settled onto the bed, downed his antihistamine, and pulled out his phone.

A Christmas tree, really?

He mopped at his eyes and squinted down as his screen lit up with Greg's reply.

- You don't like it?

I'm currently taking refuge upstairs.

- Because you're a Scrooge, or because...?

He could almost see the dawning realisation on Greg's face from miles away, and snuffled hard in order to be able to use both hands to answer.

Did you really think I wouldn't be allergic to fir? It's -

He paused in his texting and wearily raised one elbow, half-stifling into it. "HIH'NGCH! ihh'NSCH!" A long sigh and a knuckle at his nose and he returned his attention to his phone.

fine. Just get rid of it when you arrive home.

- Christ. I'm sorry. I'll be back in about half hour. Are you okay?

Perfectly alright. I've taken a drowsy formula antihistamine, so I may be asleep when you come in; if so, wake me when the deed is done.

Mycroft didn't feel the need to expand on his reaction. Greg would probably feel guilty enough without hearing the details. Besides, his partner would probably be able to guess how it had affected him; Mycroft rarely took the strongest antihistamines he had, specifically because he despised the drowsy side effects so much. Even if he didn't fall asleep, he was left out of sorts and woolly-headed for the rest of the day. However, needs must.

There was, as always, a box of tissues on Mycroft's bedside cabinet, and he pulled out a lavish handful and blew his nose. With his reaction subdued slightly, exhaustion was setting in. Settling his head on the pillow, he closed his eyes briefly as he waited for Greg to come home.

--

He must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing he knew there was a soft blanket draped over him and the shower was running in the other room. Nuzzling a now-sore nose into a tissue, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and listened to Greg's movements from the ensuite.

The antihistamine had certainly cooled the discomfort in his throat and eyes, but he still found himself snapping forward into the soft paper with a damp, voiceless pair of sneezes just as Greg emerged. "hhhhTSSCH! hiihhISSCH! "

"Bless you." His partner was towel-clad and wet-haired and Mycroft gave him a little smirk as he crossed the room. Greg, however, didnt play along, simply sitting on the bed beside him and rubbing Mycrofts arm softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better." Mycroft scowled at the congested croak in his voice and cleared his throat. "You dealt with that abominable tree?"

"Yeah. Thought Id take a shower before you start sneezing at me." Greg seemed comforted, although there was still a trace of worry in his eyes. "Maybe dont go into the living room for a day or two. I think I got rid of most of the needles but..."

"But your cleaning is rarely up to my standards anyway," Mycroft finished, and blew his nose. "The cleaner comes tomorrow anyway."

"I am sorry." Greg ran his hand through his hair. "I should have thought."

"I should have told you," Mycroft countered, "although in future its perhaps best to assume that any festive touches you try and bring to our home will be met with the same reaction."

"Should've known you'd be allergic to Christmas, you Grinch," Greg snorted, pulling out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and clambering into them. "Although you look more like Rudolph at the moment," he added, teasingly reaching out to tap Mycroft's reddened nose with a forefinger.

Mycroft pulled back before he could make contact. "Very droll," he said, deadpan, "and you know what results from you doing that at the best of times, let alone when hhh! When--" He trailed off, a desperately sneezy expression taking hold, before pitching forward into what he was sure must be his thousandth tissue of the evening. "hahh-HSHWW!"

"Bless you." Greg shifted a little closer, draping an arm loosely over Mycroft's shoulders.

Mycroft glared sideways at him through glossed eyes. "That was your faihh! Fault."

"I didn't touch you!" Greg protested, and pulled him in a little tighter. "That's all you. You can't blame me for your natural sneeziness."

"I can blame you for this one," Mycroft grumbled, still fighting the tickle, lips pressed together sharply. "What di-hhhh!hihNNGSCHH!" Caught unawares, he barely had time to lean away from Greg and stifle stuffily. "Ugh. Excuse me. What did you do with the tree?"

"Bless you. How many times do I have to tell you not to stifle? I left it on the curb with a note. Some Tiny Tim'll probably pick it up. You've accidentally made a kid's Christmas, you know. They'll probably be round to see if we have any more spare decorations." Greg put on a whiny, high-pitched voice, cupping his hands together in front of him. "Please sir, can I'ave some more?"

"That's Oliver Twist, you uncultured swine." Mycroft gave a little huff of laughter that turned into a sharp, wheezing cough.

"You okay?" Greg frowned slightly, and Mycroft nodded.

"Quite alright, thank you. Just left over from earlihh! Earlier." He sniffled wetly, squinting against the flickering itch.

"It got you bad, didn't it?" Greg said quietly, pressing into Mycroft's side and resting his chin on the top of the dark auburn head.

Mycroft felt inexplicably guilty about Greg's guilt and shuffled in the embrace. "I still need to sneihhh! sneeze," he warned, touching a curled knuckle to his septum as he hitched.

"What's new?" Greg joked, stroking Mycrofts cheek, but loosened his grip slightly and obligingly passed another handful of tissues.

"Thaahh!hhIHSHH! ihhSHUE!hihISH! Thank you." He swiped at heavy-lidded eyes and sniffled.

"No problem." Greg massaged the back of Mycroft's neck. "I saw you started to make dinner. It truly is a Christmas miracle."

Mycroft whipped his head around, outraged, and scowled at his partner's grin. "Shush. Or you're going on the Naughty List."

"Always knew you were Father Christmas. Who else knows everything everyone's done all year?"

"I actually worked on an assignment named Operation Kriss Kringle," Mycroft informed him, yawning and snuggling down into the pillows again.

"You didn't."

"I can promise you I did. There were camels involved. In twenty-five years when it's no longer classified I'll tell you about it."

"Grinch." Greg stroked the hair off Mycrofts forehead. "Do you want to sleep a bit more while I air out downstairs and make dinner?"

"Yes. Get to work." Mycroft watched Greg sleepily as he made his way to the door. "Greg?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm sorry about the tree."

"What?" A look of consternation crossed Gregs face. "Don't be, really. Nap a bit more now and by the time you wake up, Santa will be here."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny." Mycroft waited until the door clicked quietly and then slid his phone towards him, sleepily tapping out a message to Anthea. A moment later, after receiving confirmation that a six foot tall, decidedly fake Christmas tree would be on its way to the house within the hour, he lay down with a sigh and closed his eyes again.

Edited December 24, 2015 by bangbang

[Spoo]

She's STILL got it, folks. Merry Christmas indeed!

I've already given you my feedback/comments on this piece, but it goes without saying that you really know these two and write them unfathomably well (even after months of not writing them). Poor, allergic Mycroft having to school Greg on the classics (Oliver Twist, omg) was probably my favorite part tbh.

Also, I really like how you write Greg as not being overly concerned or suffocating. He shows concern, yeah, but he's not flipping out or fretting every time Mycroft sneezes.

Good stuff. I'm glad you posted it~

[Choobat]

Tbh I don't really ship these two much but the way you wrote this was remarkable! A+++ you get a cookie *throws box of oreos in your direction*

[Kaze Wo Hiku]

I wish I wasn't on my phone because I want to quote sooooo much. The fact Mycroft doesn't do Christmas is perfect. The scrooge comment by Greg I died at.

This was great!

[tenderwarrior]

I love this! I love Christmas fluff.

[ID2006]

I hate Christmas. .. except for the abundance of fics it brings. Love Mysteries fluff and bantering.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Yeah a bangbang Mystrade fic! I am pleased to see it. Poor Mycroft allergic to fir. I bet he doesn't ski much, either. I just love his and Greg's easy conversation about his allergies and sneezing. It's old hat to Greg now. Thank you for the lovely holiday fic!

[bangbang]

Thank you so much to everyone who's commented! I really enjoyed writing after so long. Merry Christmas, everyone!

[AngelEyes]

Bangbang!!!!!!!! A Mystrade fix by Bangbang!!!!! So much happy!!!

Mycroft often had a blessed few allergy-free months in the dead of winter; with nothing blooming, he almost forgot what it was like to wake up every day sneezing. But his body remembered, and the way his nostrils were flaring irritably now was ringing alarm bells.

I just love this line. So Mycroft.

Each one led to another and he realised with a sinking feeling that he had shifted from simply a reaction into an allergy attack.

Poor baby! But the fit. Deliciously wonderful.

A Christmas tree, really?

I love how vague and nonplussed he is.

"Should've known you'd be allergic to Christmas, you Grinch," Greg snorted, pulling out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and clambering into them. "Although you look more like Rudolph at the moment," he added, teasingly reaching out to tap Mycroft's reddened nose with a forefinger.

LOL!

"Quite alright, thank you. Just left over from earlihh! Earlier." He sniffled wetly, squinting against the flickering itch.

I love the little hitches in his sentences.

Mycroft felt inexplicably guilty about Greg's guilt and shuffled in the embrace. "I still need to sneihhh! sneeze," he warned, touching a curled knuckle to his septum as he hitched.

And this is just plain sexy.

"I can promise you I did. There were camels involved.

LOL!

A moment later, after receiving confirmation that a six foot tall, decidedly fake Christmas tree would be on its way to the house within the hour, he lay down with a sigh and closed his eyes again.

Awwwww! Sweet!

This was brilliant!!!