The two were sitting across from each other at the table. Sherlock was drinking a cup of coffee while going through the day's paper. He liked looking at the different articles, seeing what people were getting wrong in the world. John was sitting across from him drinking coffee and picking at some pastry Mrs. Hudson had left for them.
This morning was unusually normal for the two.
John was actually enjoying it. Even though everyone had decided that he thrived on adventure, calm Friday mornings were nice every now and then. Especially with it being Christmas, they deserved a break from crime.
When John finished up with his breakfast he glanced over at Sherlock. Every few minutes his eyes would flip to a new page of the paper and then back to a previous one making sure he was getting everything. John watched as his eyes darted back and forth, ideas whirring in his mind, piecing themselves together into some complete picture that no one else could figure out. It was beautiful, really.
"What's that?" Sherlock said without looking up from the papers.
A crimson blush quickly crept across John's face, thinking that Sherlock had noticed him staring.
"What's what?" John asked, taking his cup and empty plate to the kitchen. He nearly killed himself over an open box filled with jars of unknown substances.
Sherlock sighed and extended a long arm from the table, waving his hand in the general direction of the doorway. "The ball of fake greens – what's it doing there?"
"What? You don't know what mistletoe is?" A slight laugh was tacked to the end of the question.
In response, Sherlock put the paper down and threw a sharp glare towards John. "Of course I know what mistletoe is John," his tone biting. "It falls under the genus, Viscum album, the only native species in Great Britain. Although not often used due to safety precautions, mistletoe has its medicinal purposes, such as aiding in the treatments of certain cancers and cardiovascular diseases. And while I could go on, I'm much more interested in why it's hanging in our doorway."
"Sherlock, the Christmas decorations have been up for, what? A week and a half? And you're asking about this now?"
John didn't receive an answer in return, just a discontented stare, which meant Sherlock didn't really care what he was saying and just wanted him to respond correctly. Only John wasn't ever sure what the correct response was.
"It's just a decoration, Sherlock. There's no real reason behind it," John began as he walked back toward the table. He glanced again at Sherlock who still wasn't satisfied with his response.
Sherlock smiled mockingly. "Come now, John, there must be some tradition or sentimental value behind it. No one just hangs up things like that for fun, especially during Christmas. It's a holiday! Holidays are just traditions that have been blown far out of proportion."
John let out a defeated and annoyed grunt. "You're supposed to hang it somewhere in the house and if you're caught standing under it with someone you have to kiss them." For some reason he was blushing again.
Maybe it was because, for a brief moment, he was imagining being stuck between the tight quarters of a door frame with Sherlock pressed against one of the edges. John's hands were wrapped in his dark curls while Sherlock's hands were occupied with John's jumper. And the thought wasn't awkward at all.
"Interesting," Sherlock said at the perfect time.
"Yeah," John responded a little breathlessly.
The two had returned to silence, but they were still watching each other. John, observing his flatmate in a new light that, if he was being honest with himself, wasn't really all that new. He feared though, that Sherlock was figuring things out. Which was a stupid thing to be afraid of, seeing as his flatmate was Sherlock Holmes and he knew everything about anyone within the first two minutes of meeting them.
Instead of saying something, Sherlock picked up the paper again, ending the conversation. John waited a few seconds longer to see if any last minute comments would be dropped. When nothing came up he decided to go up to his room and busy himself with something else. Anything else.
"By the way," Sherlock called just as John was about to head up the steps.
His shoulders slumped and he turned around. "What now?"
"This Sunday, we're spending Christmas at Mother's house. I missed last year because of a case and she is insistent that you come along. Mycroft is bringing someone, too, I believe. I hope none of this is a problem." He flashed John one of his winning grins and returned to the paper.
"Fantastic," John grumbled, heading up the stairs.
Stupid, cheeky bastard, with his fucking grin, was the thought John had on loop for the rest of the night.
-x-
Saturday came and went with John reveling in his feelings toward Sherlock. They were only friendly feelings, something platonic and brotherly – nothing more than that. Even with that being said, John hadn't felt this strongly about anyone in years, romantically or not.
Sherlock had kept to his own devices most of the day, too, watching crap telly and paging through books on the shelf. It was disconcerting to John, all of this quiet thinking. It meant that he wasn't willing to share his thoughts with John, which usually wasn't a problem at all. Sherlock's comment about not talking for days when they had first met was something he had not held up to.
When Sunday morning rolled in John found Sherlock downstairs sitting at the table. He was sitting in his bathrobe, bare feet tapping against the floor. "Oh, good, you're up. Merry Christmas then, John," his tone of voice nothing more than a bored sigh.
"Merry Christmas to you, too," John said with a sarcastic tone to match. He hated how Sherlock did this to him, made him sarcastic and often bitter. "What time do we have to be at your mum's house?" he asked while pouring a cup of coffee.
"A few hours from now we should be leaving. Mycroft will be picking us up or sending someone, I'm not exactly sure. A jumper will do nicely for the evening, or maybe a jacket would be better. Whichever you prefer," he adds as an afterthought.
The rest of the time before their departure was spent in a silence that unnerved John. Sherlock was clearly up to something and he wasn't letting on about it, not that he ever does. Whatever it was, it wasn't about a case. He was thinking too hard this time, which usually means it's something he's never dealt with before.
When the time came to leave, Sherlock hovered in the doorway.
"What is it? Why have you stopped?"
"John, how long have you wanted to kiss me?"
There was nothing John could do to hide the surprise in his voice. "Kiss you? Why on earth would I want to do that?" He tried to be level headed, but he could feel a slight waver in his voice.
"The mistletoe, it was one of the first things you put up. Meaning it was something very-"
"No. No, that is not. That is not at all why, wait. First thing I put up? How do you? You weren't even around when I was putting the damned decorations up over a week ago."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Minor details. Anyways, without my observations, an idiot could tell by your defensive attitude that the mistletoe clearly means something to you. Plus, the fact that you explained that ridiculous tradition to me means something. If it hadn't been important you would've completely ignored me and left the subject alone. And seeing as we hardly have anyone come to the flat, and I don't think Mrs. Hudson is exactly in your field of interest, that leaves only me."
"No, that's not at all what. It was an old decoration of Harry's that I –"
At first John had tried to argue, deny any feelings that he could be having for ridiculous flatmate, but really, it was a pointless effort.
Instead of saying anything more, John leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. Like he imagined, John's hands gravitated to the nape of Sherlock's neck and worked their way through his unruly dark curls. Sherlock's body, rigid at first, loosened as he eased himself against John and kissed back.
Months of wanting and all sorts of tension were being released in this kiss from both parties. Sherlock's hands were wrapped in the layers of John's jumper, undershirt managing to become untucked with all of the grabbing and feeling. To his surprise, Sherlock was the one to slip his tongue into John's mouth, making him moan at the intoxicating sense of it all.
It was now that John wished they could've figured this out at a more convenient time instead of right before they were going to Sherlock's childhood home.
"Maybe we should stop, now," John breathes into Sherlock's neck and John is almost positive he hears Sherlock whimper, but maybe not.
"Right. Mycroft should be here by now, anyway," he said resting his forehead on the top of John's head.
They pulled apart from each other, but there was reluctance in their movements. John noticed the want in Sherlock's eyes and the need that was clearly written across his face making him more excited for later events.
Sherlock's chest was still rising heavily; both looked disheveled with their untucked shirts, red lips, and flushed faces. John laughed slightly causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow. "What is it?" a twinge of hurt in his voice.
John laughed harder. "It's not you at all. That was bloody fantastic, it's just that. Oh, god, now I get to go meet your mother."
The two of them were bent over laughing now, Sherlock's low laugh mixing with John's slightly higher one. It's just like the first time they came back from Angelo's with the way they're laughing and it felt great.
At first John was worried that things would be different between them now, they wouldn't have the same element when they were out at crime scenes and just around the flat. But then he realized that's the way the two of them have always worked. This pent up kiss has just made it official.
When their laughter finally subsided, Sherlock straightened up and fixed his jacket, retucked his purple shirt and looked John over once more. "She'll like you, I have no doubts about that." And he smiled at John, one of those few genuine smiles that John had been lucky enough to get once or twice before, but now it meant something more.
"Besides, if my guess is correct, and it almost always is, she'll have bigger things to worry about than just you and I. Come on, John," Sherlock said cheerily as they walked down the steps towards the main door of the flat.
"What do you mean?"
Before Sherlock had said anything, he opened the door to expose Mycroft sitting in the back of his vehicle with Lestrade sitting next to him.
"Lestrade seems to be my brother's date for the evening."