Setting up the flat for the annual Christmas party was a tedious thing for Sherlock Holmes.

A tree had to be set up complete with tinsel - that got bloody everywhere -, ornaments that varied from store-bought to homemade by John when he was younger and had taken along with him when he had moved out, and lights that gave Sherlock headaches with how they flashed and did other unneeded things. Not to mention how John felt the need to decorate the rest of the flat with things that made the flat look gaudy.

Everyone else found it pleasant and a nice seasonal thing.

Idiots.

This year Sherlock had decided to put his own two cents in on the decorations. Nothing big or noticeable. Just a simple thing that John had easily overlooked. One little sprig of mistletoe over Sherlock's bedroom door. Insignificant to think about but, to Sherlock, it was something he had planned out perfectly.

Harder than anything else that Sherlock had come across was loving John. John didn't see that he did. That made the plan perfect. His blogger wouldn't see it coming one bit.

The bait was in place and Sherlock just had to suffer through the damned party like he had done last year, when the only intriguing thing that had happened had been the woman's 'death'. He would call it a death loosely since death seemed escapable for her.

Just as the year before Mrs. Hudson got drunk, Lestrade hit on Molly, John danced with Mrs. Hudson as soon as she started begging him, and Sherlock, well he just watched everyone, waiting for them to leave and taking trips to the bathroom, specifically his, to make himself smell drunk but not actually have to get it.

It was a part of his plan after all.

By the time he got out of the bathroom he found that John was walking people out of the flat, smiling widely and telling them to have a happy holiday. Sherlock was by his side with a slightly drunken smile on his face.

"Are you drunk," John asked, his brow furrowing and lips pursing.

"Perhapsh."

And John sighed, reaching over to grip Sherlock's arm. "Come on you. You're going to bed so I don't have to deal with you until the morning when you're shouting about having a headache when you caused yourself the pain."

"Bu-"

"No buts."

Sherlock allowed John to drag him from their front door and up the stairs, through the kitchen and down the small hall that lead to Sherlock's rather bare bedroom. He stopped John with that smile still on his face and looked up at the doorway. John's eyes followed his.

The mistletoe.

"You've got to kiss me, it's the rules," he said, nodding his head as the smile turned slightly cocky.

John was turning red quickly and leaned up and pressed an almost angry kiss to Sherlock's lips. As he pulled away he murmured, "Don't tell anyone about this." Then he left.

Sherlock looked down and went into his room, closing the door behind him.

"Oh," he breathed to himself, walking to his bed and laying down on the freshly made sheets. "I guess I was wrong."