Chapter 3: The Missing Mistletoe
The three sprigs of mistletoe kept ending up in different locations around the flat.
John first noticed on Thursday, when he stepped out of the shower, only to find a sprig hanging above the bathroom mirror. He checked the kitchen, sitting room, and hallway. The mistletoe at their front door had disappeared.
On Saturday, the mistletoe in the kitchen had moved to just outside John's bedroom door.
On Sunday, John asked Sherlock about it over breakfast. Sherlock shuffled out of the bathroom, hair sticking to his head in wet clumps, and John set aside his toast and cleared his throat. "Moving the mistletoe out of your way, are you?"
Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes flickered to John's bedroom.
"Don't be ridiculous, John."
John just smiled to himself as he sipped his Earl Grey. Two could play that game.
.x.x.x.x.x.
On Tuesday, the mistletoe were hanging above Sherlock's microscope in the kitchen table, pinned to Sherlock's bedroom door, and strung up with the fairy lights at the living room window, where Sherlock would stand and play violin.
On Wednesday, they were nestled in the tea cupboard, above John's bed (and when had Sherlock been in John's bedroom?), and sitting on top of John's stack of James Bond DVDs.
On Thursday, they were on Sherlock's pillow, in the fridge next to Sherlock's bag of thumbs (which, lord knows why, Mrs. Hudson had adorned with a shiny gold bow), and tucked into Sherlock's coat pocket. Shame that John had to bin the cigarettes to make room.
On Friday, John couldn't find the mistletoe anywhere.
Sherlock dashed into the living room and John leapt up guiltily, mid-search. He hastily shoved the sofa cushions back and leaned against the coffee table.
"New case, John. Coming?"
"Ah, fine. Be right there."
Sherlock's eyes flickered to the sofa and the corner of his mouth twitched. He raised one eyebrow at John, who studiously marched past him, gathered up his jacket, and pulled it on in a rush. "Shall we?" John asked.
Sherlock smirked and swirled towards the front door wordlessly.
.x.x.x.x.x.
On Saturday, John searched the kitchen and living room. No mistletoe. Maybe Sherlock had thrown it in the rubbish or something. John tried to push away the strange feeling of disappointment that settled in his stomach.
On Sunday, John searched through his bedroom and bathroom. And then, slightly embarrassed, he looked through Mrs. Hudson's rubbish bins. Nothing. Nothing.Well, there was an empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide, the crusts of three mince pies, and a number of very mouldy oranges. But no mistletoe.
On Monday, when John got back from his shift at the surgery, Sherlock was gone. There was a note pinned to the fridge. At the morgue, don't wait up. Leftover Thai in the fridge next to the eyeballs. Sherlock could be strangely considerate some days.
John opened up the takeaway box and sniffed. Ech. Not so considerate, then.
As John sat in his armchair, munching on toast and beans, the thought occurred to him that there was one place he hadn't yet searched for the mistletoe.
Sherlock's room.
Sherlock was out. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, right? John snorted. As if Sherlock wouldn't find out. He could probably read John's whole evening off of the stains on his shirt.
"Dull day at the surgery, with the possible exception of the hypochondriac who was convinced she had cancer, emphysema, and gout, all at the same time, and with none of the corresponding symptoms. You read my note and tried eating the Thai I left for you, but it had turned so you threw it out; I'd used all the jam in an experiment last week, so you ate beans and toast instead. You settled down at the telly to watch a Bond film, but then decided you wanted to find the mistletoe I'd hidden and so you went into my bedroom and disturbed my sock index. Well done. At least you weren't looking for drugs this time."
But what if Sherlock wantedJohn to find the mistletoe? After all, before this, he'd been putting the sprigs in places where John would find them.
Well, there was only one thing for it, then. John would have to look in Sherlock's bedroom.
There were no traces of mistletoe under the bed, on the floor, or in the closet - nothing, at least, that John could see without rummaging through Sherlock's belongings.
He opened the top drawer in the dresser next to Sherlock's bed and grinned triumphantly when he saw the mistletoe.
Nestled in between a bottle of lube and a box of condoms.
Condoms. Why would Sherlock own condoms? He'd never taken anyone back to the flat, to John's knowledge. Nor had he ever expressed interest in anyone, with the possible exception of Irene Adler.
The lube... well, even John couldn't be that naive. Surely his flatmate had a use for that. After all, John had a bottle himself, for those long stretches without a girlfriend. And Sherlock - Sherlock must -
John suddenly pictured the image of Sherlock, lying stretched across the bed, pants down at his ankles and his shirt unbuttoned, long pale fingers curled in a fist at his lap, with his head thrown back against the pillows, eyes screwed shut and mouth open in a perfect O...
When John's eyes fluttered back open, he was biting his lip, his face was hot, and his breathing laboured.
John slid the drawer closed and strode quickly out of Sherlock's bedroom.