221B Baker Street, one week before Christmas
"Sherlock isn't here right now, Inspector," Watson called as the DI dashed through the open door. "However, I do believe he will be back momentarily if you wish to wait."
Lestrade nodded wearily, before realizing that John, not being in the room, couldn't see him. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," he called back, collapsing into an armchair with an exhausted sigh.
He glanced around the room out of habit, one which had been established in the BJ (Before John) years—that is to say, before Sherlock made an effort to keep himself clean of drugs. In the background, he could hear the doctor banging around in the kitchen, intermittent with occasional curses as said doctor discovered yet another body part that his flat mate had decided to store in some (in)convenient location. Lestrade's half-hearted search of the living room turned up nothing suspicious (thank God): just the usual piles of paper, chemistry glassware, and what was tha—never mind, he didn't want to know. No Christmas tree (though God only knew what would happen to a tree, not to mention the flat, with Sherlock around), no holiday decorations of any kind. Except, wait…what the…?
John entered the room to see the Inspector gaping in disbelief at the skull on the mantle, which now had a cheery Santa hat draped over its cranium.
"Ah, that's Sherlock being festive," he explained mildly, "Tea?"