"Look, Molly!" Mrs. Hudson slurs. "Mistletoe!"
Molly looks up, where a fresh sprig of mistletoe on a silken red ribbon hangs above and between herself and Greg Lestrade. She feels her cheeks warm as soon as she sees the way the older man looks at her. There's a mischievous smirk playing at the corner of his lips until he forces a nervous chuckle. She can't help but force one either.
They both know that their friends have done this on purpose. Since his divorce with his now ex-wife and her breakup with her now ex-fiancé it hasn't been unusual for their friends to joke about the two of them getting together somehow, but this time they've gone too far.
Naturally, the entire room–minus Sherlock Holmes, of course–chimes in and chants "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" with the occasional "Go on!" or "You know you want to!"
Greg looks like he might burst into uncontrollable giggles as he shakes his head. Molly forces back her smile and pretends that the glass of wine in her hand is more interesting. Eventually, the two share a look and shrug.
"Oh, sod it!" Greg says. "If it'll shut 'em up."
She agrees and they both go in for the kill.
At first it's nothing more than a mere brush of the lips. Knowing that their friends will not accept a quick peck, they linger a while. At some point it becomes deeper and as lips part to make room for tongues, their hands begin to explore one another. His hands snake around her waist and caress her frame while hers wrap around his neck and her fingers run through his short silver hair. She can feel his smile forming against her mouth as cat calls and wolf whistles echo through the room. They ignore their cheering friends and continue to enjoy the closeness between them, having been practically starved of it for too long.
Then it's over.
There's an applause followed by more cheers and wolf whistles from their friends. They only laugh it off as if it's nothing more than a joke played against them, though the won't dare to admit how much more they crave.
He walks her home at nearly two in the morning. They don't snog, grope or even hold hands. All they do is talk until they reach her flat, where they bid their farewells.
"Happy Christmas, Molls," he says. "See you New Year's, I suppose."
"Yeah," she nods. "Happy Christmas, Greg."
He doesn't kiss her on the cheek in hopes for one on the lips. She doesn't invite him inside for a coffee that they'll never have. They don't say anything until her door is closed and he's around the corner.
"Shit," they both say to themselves. "Shit, shit, shit!"