Work Text:
T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the town,
A mystery was brewing, not a clue to be found;
A case had been opened, a new problem to solve,
With hope our detectives soon would resolve.
A handful of suspects, accusations aplenty,
Which undoubtedly led to a false lead or twenty.
Robin, red-haired, and I in my coat,
Had crisscrossed the town, so many things to take note.
A dark night on Denmark Street, we were disturbed by a clatter,
I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter;
My partner and I, we peered out at the night,
The roadway well-lit, by a full moon so bright.
The cars all were gone, light snow on the ground,
Strange for such a night, not a soul to be found.
Down the road came a sleigh, all in golds and reds,
And a sound we couldn’t quite place in our heads;
The old man who drove, shouting out with pride,
Assuredly pissed, out for ride.
As it came even closer it became suddenly clear,
That donkeys pulled the sleigh, not the typical deer.
The man shouted at them, though they barely did listen,
“On Noddy! On Douthwaite! On Ricci and Oakden;
To Whitechapel and Ealing, and all through the city,
Once we are done, we’ll arrive at the Tottenham quickly.”
“He’s got the right idea,” from beside me Robin muttered,
Her hand found mine, and my heartbeat, it stuttered;
I looked down to find, eyes bright, her smile aimed at me,
A face lit by only her small Christmas tree.
Thought of another dark evening, started just then to rise,
Memories of a night, ended with two black eyes;
Soothed by a talk, paired with a tall glass of whisky,
Loosening tongues, the topic teetering on risky;
Quiet words, confessions, and thoughts of a bed,
Visions of the green dress dancing in my head.
Long drives cross the country, and plain hotel rooms,
Crisp fish and chips, and her endless costumes;
Her accents, and how she disappears into a role,
Her expertise on the specific color of a foal.
Since the day I nearly knocked her down the stair,
She’s proved time and again, it was fate she was there;
Ever since he’d told her she was his best mate,
He’s understood why they all thought the Ritz was a date.
The jolly, old man finally rolls out of sight,
Leaving behind a blanket of pure white.
“A drink then?” he asks, with a dangerous grin,
Staring at her reflection, a beautiful twin;
She doesn’t answer aloud, but slowly she turns,
And her eyes into his, her stare nearly burns.
There’s a moment of tension, electricity fills the air,
He lifts his hand and runs it slowly through her hair;
Nick and Ilsa will surely think he’s taking the piss,
When he recounts to them their first Christmas-Eve kiss.
Neither notice the mistletoe overhead,
That just that morning Pat had hung from a thread.
Finally everything’s in place, and it feels just right,
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.