The mistletoe appears suddenly. It hangs in the archway of the door, deceptively innocent, the small red berries nestled within the leafy greens. John doesn't know how it got there, but he suspects a certain landlady as the culprit.
It is a nice gesture, he supposes. An excuse for two smitten people to kiss, but he is quite certain the only person that he might kiss would be the girlfriend he brings over for Christmas. It certainly would not be the consulting detective currently sawing away on his violin.
"So what did the violin do to you this time?" he teases from behind his newspaper as the strings whimper under their abuse.
There is no reply from the owner, but something whacks violently against his newspaper seconds later, jolting him. John folds the newspaper and rests it against his knees as he bends over to pick up the card.
Dear Sherlock, the card reads.
Your father and I will be in town during the holidays and we will be visiting you on Christmas. Mycroft says he should be able to come along too.
We will see you soon.
Love Mummy.
John grins to himself. He taps the card against his hand and asks, "And this bothers you why?"
Sherlock growls in displeasure. "I do not want my parents or Mycroft coming around here," he says, accompanied by a particularly vicious grate and a glare out of the window.
He gazes at Sherlock's back in bemusement. "You do know that we are having a party this year right? Meaning friends and presents and socializing?" The detective whirls around, mouth open to deliver a sarcastic remark but he cuts him off.
"It's too late now, Sherlock. The invitations are sent and everything. Not to mention, I told you about this last week."
Frustration colours Sherlock's face but he turns back to face the window indignantly and the sawing resumes again.
John invites his girlfriend, Natasha, to the party. Privately, he thinks it would be a Christmas miracle if she stays the whole time.
Natasha shows up half an hour after the party has started, after Molly and Mrs Hudson have arrived. He ushers her in and kisses her cheekily under the mistletoe. Sherlock, as he can see from the corner of his eye, is nowhere to be found. The door to his bedroom is closed so John supposes he is sulking inside.
He is a good host so John fetches the champagne from the freezer and searches for the wine glasses he has secreted away in the back of the cupboard so Sherlock can't use them for an experiment. As he unscrews the bottle, he hears cheerful laughter and greetings. From the kitchen, he can see Greg has arrived, faced flushed with cold, bundled up in his coat.
"Hello Greg," he greets, carefully balancing the champagne on the tray. All of a sudden, there is a loud hoot and he looks up to see the three women grinning at him.
"What?" he asks in confusion before the realization strikes. He tilts his head back and yes, the mistletoe waves down at him and Greg. "What?" he says again but good-naturally this time. Next to him, Greg is shaking his head imploringly at the three women, who all but cheer them on.
"I don't see a way out of this, Greg," he laughs in embarrassment. The DI scratches his cheek clumsily in mute agreement. John hands the tray to Mrs Hudson before shuffling around to face Greg.
"So…" Greg says. They shuffle closer and hesitantly wrap their arms around each other. He tilts his head and so does his partner. They lean closer, noses bumping, before their lips meet in the middle.
Their teeth click for a moment before John adjusts his position minutely. The kiss lasts for less than a second, and John registers Greg's lips are chapped before he pulls back.
He grasps for a glass of champagne and gulps it down, he can feel his cheeks burning. Greg is no better, he has gone absolutely red.
Mrs Hudson, Molly and Natasha are still laughing among themselves and John grins, mortified, at Greg. He bows his head, in an effort to avoid meeting anyone's eyes.
"Hello?" comes a familiar voice and he looks back up to see Mummy and Daddy Holmes peeking around the door, their faces smiling and jolly. Mycroft stands politely behind them, his face carefully blank.
Well, thank god, they weren't around to see the kiss.
Sherlock Holmes has been acting weird this last week.
Well, his behavior has never actually been within the spectrum of ordinary but for the last week, his behavior has been odd even for him.
He has been just a bit too quiet, not quiet in the way that he was if he was in his mind palace, but quiet in the way he was when he thought Irene Adler was dead.
"So heartbroken then," he says out loud. He flinches when he hears the sound of his voice, eyes darting over to look at Sherlock but there is no response from the detective.
What could he be heartbroken about?
To the best of his knowledge, no one close to Sherlock had died. Nothing precious to him had been broken recently, so what was it?
He could be wrong, John supposes. Sherlock could simply be in one of his black moods, albeit an unusual one.
"What's wrong then?" he asks, surprising himself as the words flow out of his mouth. Sherlock remains curled up on the sofa. Just as John gives up the hope of getting an answer, Sherlock suddenly flips over and sits up.
He jabs a finger at John. "You kissed Lestrade," he says accusingly.
John blinks. "Yes?" he questions. He's not sure where this is going.
"Why?"
"Because we were standing under the mistletoe? And it's traditional?"
Sherlock harrumphs. "Well I don't like it," he declares. "Don't kiss Lestrade."
It all clicks together. "You're jealous," he realizes and a grin spreads across his face. "You're actually jealous!"
He beams in triumph at Sherlock, who turns his face away. "No," he denies and his nose wrinkles.
"You are!" John says. He gets up from his armchair and approaches the sofa. Sherlock still faces obstinately away from him.
John leans forward to whisper in his ear. "I'm glad you're jealous," he confides and his smile grows wider when Sherlock turns around slightly. "You do?" comes the hesitant reply.
John's hands rest on Sherlock's shoulders. He tilts his head to press his lips against Sherlock's cheek, who leans into the touch. He can feel the tension draining out of Sherlock's body.
"Is that a good enough answer?"
Sherlock turns around, and his hands reach for John's hips. He feels himself being pulled forward and he goes with it.
Sherlock smells like honey, and the shampoo he uses. His shoulders are bony and the shirt is smooth under his fingers. The tip of his nose is cold as it bumps into John's face but his lips are smooth under his. He tastes like tea and the toothpaste they share.
John smiles into the kiss and his fingers tighten around Sherlock a bit more.
Okay so yeah, maybe he was wrong about only getting to kiss his girlfriend under the mistletoe, but the way he sees it, he is damn glad to be wrong.