A/N: I'M SO SORRY YOU GUYS. I was super busy this last week and spent the weekend recovering BUT I AM BACK FOR THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THIS FIC.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any part of this story except the plot. Everything else belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. Please don't sue me!
John had just poked his head inside the oven to check on the turkey breast when the doorbell rang. "Just a moment," he called, straightening up and shutting the oven door.
Leave it to Mycroft, he thought as he made his way to the door. To not only invite himself to dinner, but to arrive to said dinner... John glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes. A full hour early.
He was dressed in one of his mum's hand knitted jumpers; this one a crimson red with white detailing along the neck and bottom hem line. When he opened the door, John was briefly speechless.
When he did manage to speak, all that came out was "You're not Mycroft."
Sherlock smiled a little and shook his head. "No," he replied.
John blinked a few times. "I'm in a horrific looking jumper."
The detective laughed at this. "Yes,"
Eventually, something like anger came into John's eyes. "You're dead."
Now Sherlock looked embarrassed. "No."
Sherlock didn't see John's fist coming until it collided with his nose.
After the bleeding stopped (pretty quickly, thankfully) and Sherlock attempted to explain himself, John began to angrily set the kitchen table for two.
"Three years!" He set down their plates so violently they almost shattered.
"I'm sorry John," said Sherlock, suddenly sounding very very small and far too young. "I would have told you, somehow, but it wasn't safe."
"Safe for whom?" BANG! That would be the turkey.
"Either of us!" Suddenly Sherlock bolted up and toward the door. When he returned he was carrying a cardboard box full of paper. He thrust it out to John.
Looking suspicious, John selected a paper at random and read it quickly. His mouth dropped open, and he shoved the paper back into the box and disappeared up the stairs. He returned carrying a similar box.
Sherlock took a paper and read it. He smiled a little. When he looked up, John looked ashamed of himself.
"Sorry I hit you," the doctor said, now putting down the silverware much more gently.
"I deserved it," said Sherlock quietly. "I love you, you know."
John swallowed hard. "You read that one?"
The detective shook his head. "It's obvious in your body lang-"
He was swiftly cut off when John pressed his lips firmly to Sherlock's own.
When they finally pulled away for air, Sherlock looked up. He looked at John and arched an eyebrow. "Mistletoe, John? Really?"
John turned back to the table, smiling.
"Happy Christmas, you bastard."
A/N: The End! Thank you all SO much for reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing! I appreciate it so much. I plan to do another next year, don't worry. Until then...
DFTBA darlings, :)