The Holly and the Ivy

Part 2 

There was a blanket of snow over the village of Loch Mary. Graham's car went into a minor skid once at the outskirts. It only took a moment for him to regain full control of his car. 
"To the left at the next turn-off," Locke said as he studied the map Smythe had given Graham. 
"Right, sunshine." 
"What did you get back at HARRODS?" 
"Told you, it's a surprise" Graham turned left, leaving the town behind them. 
"Find." 
"What was it you placed in your case you wouldn't let me see?" 
"It's a surprise." Locke took out a pack of gum, offered one to Graham but his friend shook his head. The slim, green eyed agent pealed one for himself, popped it into his mouth. 
Graham muttered, "And you call me a fiend." 
"Often." 

Graham's low chuckle made shivers run up and down Locke's spine. Ten minutes later, Smythe's cottage came into view. It had been a long drive from London. They were both tired, but it was a good type of tiredness. There was that wonderful shared feeling of companionship, friendship, trust. Locke's depression had receded into a dull grayness that tarried at the back of his awareness. He was glad he had agreed to go with Graham. It felt natural being here with him. 
Graham parked the blue mini close to the small cottage and they both left the vehicle, stretching their muscles as they did. "Hope Mrs. McCray lit that fire like I asked her to when I called." He opened the door, peered inside. "She did. Let's get the groceries in first, sunshine. I could use a cuppa right now. 
Locke shivered slightly. "Temp's falling. He have electricity in here?" 

There was an oil lamp lit in there. "We'll make do. It won't be the first time, now will it?" 
"Nah." 
They took the groceries into the cottage. While Graham brought the small, leather cases and the bags from HARRODS into the cottage, Locke went into the tiny kitchen area and located the tea pot. Within moments. water was heating up on the stove. Electric lights burned merrily around the cottage. "Found a generator," Locke said as he sipped his hot tea. 
"Glad you did. It cover the heat as well?" "Yeah. He pulled of his shoes and wiggled them before the fire. 
"I don't suppose you picked up a tin of biscuits at HARRODS, did you?" 
"I picked up two." His blue eyes twinkled merrily in the firelight's dancing beams. "I don't suppose you'd want to open one?" 
"Are they covered in chocolate?" 
"Of course. Nothing but the best for us. I set them in the kitchen on the table." 
Locke stood up. "I'll play the mother then." 

Graham lifted his cup. "Could go for another, sunshine. Be the proper mum and fetch me more?" Locke laughed and took the almost empty cup. He watched his partner stretch and yawn, and an upsurge of love filled him. Locke hurried away before that emotion could show. That wouldn't do. No . . . That wouldn't do at all. The need for escape became overwhelming. 
"Let's go outside," Locke said, grabbing up his black and white checked coat. 
"Out in that?" Graham complained. "Aren't you that fagged out?" 
"It'll do you good." 
"You should be dead on your feet . . . up all night awake in the car while I drove."
"Lazy..." Locke teased. He liked that idle expression in that face, in the way his partner was sprawled on the sofa. 
Graham's eyes narrowed. "Lazy? Is that what I am?" 

The tall, slim man thought, (No . . . you're beautiful and sexy and I want you so bad at night, I can't sleep.) Aloud, he replied casually, "Yeah." 
"Is that the thanks I get? Bringing you up here to this splendid cottage by the sea? Lazy?" He stood up slowly, sauntered to his coat. Locke knew that look. Graham was up to something, but what? As Locke stepped onto the snow covered pathway, Graham lagged behind. 
"Isn't it beautiful?" Locke asked with a pleased sigh. When there was no reply, he turned, a questioning look on his face. Splat! A snowball smacked Locke on his chest. "Hey!" Another hit him, right in the midst of the remains from the first. "You are a fiend," Locke muttered. "No wonder Miranda turned you down." 
"I told you, I turned her down." He grabbed another fistful of snow, began to compact it tight in his hard hands. Locke viewed him in astonishment and mild dismay. He crouched down, made his own weapon of cold, white snow. And the fight was on. An hour later, cold, wet, but laughing and joking, they reentered the warmth of the modest dwelling. They made supper together and sat afterwards, drowsy before the fire, talking about old times. The old clock on the mantle, an ornate one of chipped bone china and gold leaf, struck ten in its gentle murmur.
"Glad you came, Ray?" Graham asked as they stood up, ready for bed. 

Locke didn't have to pause for contemplation. His answer came immediately. "Yes." There was one bed. Without reluctance, Graham immediately shed his jeans, his shirt and climbed beneath the quilts. Locke hesitated a moment then he too discarded his clothing and went to bed.
"Don't miss the sound of traffic," Graham murmured as he turned over onto his left side and tucked his left hand beneath his cheek. 
"Me neither. I don't miss the phone either." Every movement Graham made sent Locke's pulse pounding. His groin reacted too. "Miss it? It means no Smythe calling with a case. Bet he's getting dotty over that. It must be hard on him not being able to call on his two best agents." 
"Not very conceited now, are we?" 
Locke remarked, "What? Us? Not bloody likely. Smythe gets us down close to the curlies, he does. There's no way we can get a swelled head around him." 
Graham yawned. "He won't let us. Night, Sunshine....pleasant dreams." 
"Night, Graham." It would be a while before Locke would drift off to sleep, a disturbed, dreamed ridden night that left him vaguely discontented when he woke the next morning. December 24th, 1988: Locke felt Graham's gaze on him. 

He wasn't surprised when the other man said, "You look like a lorry has rolled over you. You tossed and turned all night. What's wrong?" 
"The long drive, the lack of sleep it all caught up with me." 
"Want to go lie back down?" When Locke shook his head, Graham went to the closet door and took out the two bags from HARRODS. "I know you weren't in the Christmas spirit before, Locke, but what about now? You friends with Father Christmas yet?" 
"I'm feeling better." He went to the other man, stared in avid interest at the paper sacks. "What's in them?" 
"This big one contains a tiny tree. No . . . don't look like that. It's not a real one, just a bad looking fake, but what's Christmas without a tree, I ask you?" He removed a miniature tree complete with little lights and ornaments. "Nothing broken!" he said in satisfaction. "Where should I put it?" 
"By the window?" Why did the sight that object bring such quiet optimism and gladness to him? Graham's smile of delight brought an answering one from him as well. 

"Now, Sunshine, know I shouldn't have, but I picked you up a gift too. Hope you don't mind." 
"I have one for you too." When Graham turned surprised eyes to him, Locke explained, "It's in my bag." 
"Looks like we both had the same idea." The tree looked beautiful in front of the window. 
"What's in the other sack?" 
"Stuff to make a wassail bowl. Gonna help me?" 
"Sure." 
"Have you written to Father Christmas yet?" 
"I don't do that anymore, Graham." His eyes grew dark. "I haven't for a long time." 
"Well, this year, we both are. And we're going to hang our stockings too. Mark me, though, they must be clean. I won't stand for dirty ones on that mantle." 
Locke sighed at the obstinate, inflexible tone in his friend's voice. "And I suppose we're going to watch the Queen give her, speech tomorrow at three p.m." 
"Not likely without a telly," Graham chuckled. "We could always go back to London." 
"Nah. He smiled in honest liking for the man who had been his partner for so long. 

"Got any pens and paper?" Locke searched his coat pocket, located a biro. "We can strips from the sacks. I don't expect Father Christmas will mind," Graham teased. "Me first." He took the pen and went to the sacks. He tore off a strip and said, "No peeking." Locke made a rude noise and headed for the tiny kitchen area. "Want a cuppa?" Graham mumbled something. Locke took it for assent and proceeded to make two cups of strong, hot tea. "Your turn, Sunshine." Graham took the cup and handed the pen to his friend. 
"No peeking," Locke said sternly. Graham grinned cheekily and went to the fireplace. Locke began to write insane, unimportant things but within seconds, had scratched them out. He wrote: "I want Graham to love me." He chewed the tip of the pen, wavering, then added, "I want to make love to him." He crumpled the sheet into a tight ball and went to the fireplace. 
"Ready?" 
"Yeah. He felt himself flushing. 

"Asked for naughty things, did you?: Graham laughed. "Never mind, I won't tell anyone." 
"See that you don't." They threw their letters into the fireplace. The flames caught the crumpled sheets of paper, devoured them slowly. Black and white . . . the blaze flared . . .black bits of ash dust . . . then . . .nothing..... Graham's vanished first, followed quickly by the one Locke had penned. For one brief moment, Locke felt a surge of thrill, of anticipation, then it dissipated in a moment of sanity. Father Christmas was not real, and his letter would not be answered. Depression made him sigh in tiredness. 
"Ray?" 
"Nothing." 
"It's been a long day. Come on, young Locke let's go to bed." 
"You go. I want to stay up for a moment. I have some thinking to do." 
"You need an ear?" Locke shook his head. He saw the expression of worry and indecision, fleetingly cross, over Graham's face. The blue eyed agent said at last, "Well, don't stay up too long. I hate cold feet."