A. N. Today's prompt comes from Wordwielder: Mistletoe. I have struggled with it, because I know many people don't like Johnlock, but honestly, not writing this as such seemed like such a waste. My compromise is: read it until the tjlc line-breaker, you can pretend there's nothing between the boys. Go further, you know what you'll find.

"Absolutely not," Holmes declared that morning, vehemently taking down the sprig of Mistletoe Watson – as usual, the earlier riser – had decorated the sitting room with, among a few other Christmastide baubles.

"But Holmes...it's traditional," the doctor protested, in a weak attempt at defence. True, the depth of his flatmate's frown might be due to being faced with sneak seasonal cheerfulness before coffee, and not to utter hatred. Still, there was little hope to reason with the man when he was so stern.

"And in the name of tradition, I'll let you have the garlands – even if they're a fire hazard – and the other trinkets. If you feel particularly festive, I'll even consent to a Christmas tree, if you wish. But no mistletoe will inflict its parasitic self where I live," the sleuth declared firmly, glaring at the twig in his hand as if it offended him personally.

At this, his Boswell frowned himself, clearly baffled. "If you're not against decoration on principle, why so much heat against a tiny bit of greenery, my dear boy? Don't tell me that you have bad memories about a case in which it was used as a murder weapon. I know it's poisonous, but..." he wondered loudly, voice trailing off in sheer puzzlement.

"Oh no, nothing of the sort. If anything, it would make for an interesting addition to my collection," the consulting detective replied, with an amused smile at the prospect. "No, it's its common use I strongly object to. I simply cannot conceive how obligating people who don't feel reciprocal attraction, or even affection, to kiss each other in the name of tradition and sheer happenstance might seem like a good idea. The only woman who should have to stand underneath mistletoe is Bellini's Norma. And even she was cutting it, probably to protect herself and the other priestesses from idiots looking to exploit the tradition."

Naturally, Watson's first reaction was to chuckle. There was no need to point out to Holmes that Norma, in the homonym opera, cut mistletoe because she was taking part in a druidic religious ceremony and they worshipped the plant – of course the man knew. Then again, considering the amount of shenanigans these supposedly chaste priestesses got up to, the detective might have a point...

The doctor's second reaction, though, was to consider the sleuth's description of the custom. "Well, when you put it like that..." he remarked hesitantly, voice fading out before he could follow that thought entirely. He'd always found it a fun and harmless practice...but had he accidentally made people – at least some of them – desperately uncomfortable for years?

"How else would you describe it?" the consulting detective challenged, raising an eyebrow. When no answer came, because Watson could change the adjectives he felt the habit deserved, but not the description of facts, Holmes smugly continued, "Besides, the only women likely to frequent these rooms are: Mrs. Hudson, whom I don't think either of us particularly wishes to kiss. The maid, whom you don't fancy kissing either or you could already have made a move. And obviously, clients. I hope you don't suggest than a stranger's kiss would be welcomed by a woman already anguished or ill, or they wouldn't have come to see either of us in the first place."

His Boswell sighed. "Fine. You're right, as always. Take it down. Burn it, for all I care. I'm sorry, Holmes."

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"There's no need to burn it," the sleuth remarked, a soft glint in his eyes. "There's a perfect place for that." That said, he marched back into his room and pinned the mistletoe with a flourish over his bed. "Here, I wouldn't be protesting its intended use."

The doctor laughed. "So all that tirade against this poor plant was just you being jealous, wasn't it? The jab against me making the moves on the maid should have clued me in. Don't worry, love. You're and will always be the only one I will want to kiss," he assured, grinning. Of course, the both of them being men of science, such an assertion couldn't be accepted without immediate – and multiple – evidence...