Mistletoe

"Hurry up, it's freezing!" John held the door open for Sherlock, doing a little dance to keep warm in the chilly, winter air.

"I told you to put on a heavier jumper," the consulting detective replied, striding past John without so much as a thank you. John huffed, closing the door and following the taller man to their living room. Sherlock stopped upon first glance of the room, making a noise of slight impatience.

"What is it-" but John's look around answered the question for him

In only the three hours they were gone, Mrs. Hudson had let herself in and had decorated the entire loft with tinsel, holly, and figurines of Santa and Rudolph.

"Where does she get all this stuff?!" John exclaimed, removing his jacket and scarf roughly before replacing them on the coat rack. "It's like she has a secret hoard for every holiday! Remember Valentines Day?! All those hearts..." John's words faded as he heard the deep laughter coming from the man to his left. John looked at Sherlock curiously. He didn't see the detective's smile often, but when he did, it gave him a bit of an odd sensation in his stomach and chest, though John always passed it off as just being glad that his dear friend could still feel happiness.

"Why are you laughing?" questioned the ex-army doctor, though with a slight smile at Sherlock's amusement. "This is hideous-"

"Don't you see why Mrs. Hudson did this?" Sherlock interrupted, as he usually did. John gave a puzzled look around the room, as if he had missed something.

"I would assume Mrs. Hudson decorated our flat like Christmas because tomorrow is Christmas-"

"Oh, John- You and your simple thoughts. How do you get by, day to day? It must be so boring." John let his expression fall, all hopes of Sherlock not insulting him for the holidays vanishing.

"Think, John. Really Think,"

Sherlock strode to the shorter man, placing his hands firmly on John's shoulders and leaning down. Eye to eye, John blushed a deep crimson. He didn't like his face being this close to Sherlock's. What if someone saw? People might talk.

"You always see, but never observe. Tell me, John- how long were we away?" John looked at his watch, happy to get away from the eyes he could never figure out the color of.

"About three hours," replied John, who insisted on averting his eyes anywhere.

"And of those three hours, how long had I been on my phone?" John calculated silently.

"Maybe ten minutes?-"

"Don't answer in questions, John, it makes you sound like an idiot," John furrowed his brow at Sherlock, though the detective never would have noticed.

"I would say it was closer to 15, if you include the three rings to connect and the point at which I stopped taking to cross the busy street,"

"Okay, so 15 minutes. What does-"

"By the way I was talking, who was I talking to?"

"How am I supposed to-"

"Think," John scowled, remembering the hushed tone and the way Sherlock cut off his snide remarks and sarcastic answers.

"Obviously you were talking to someone you didn't want to completely discourage, someone who might have what you need or could help you-"

"Brilliant, keep going." John was shocked for a moment. A brilliant directed toward him. He was astounded, to say the least.

"Don't just stand their like the rest of the blabbering idiots. Finish your deduction." John huffed once more, removing Sherlock's hands from his shoulders and pacing in a small line. Sherlock seemed amused, but remained quiet.

"Someone you'd be gentler with, most likely a woman. Someone who wouldn't allow your sarcasm or biting remarks, and someone we know well, as you knew the number by heart," Sherlock's eyes flashed with wonder, fascinated by John's sudden ability to observe. "It must either be Molly or Mrs. Hudson, but since Molly is so infatuated with you that she actually puts up with your personality, it has to be Mrs. Hudson," John finished, standing in front of Sherlock again, trying not to smile at the detective's excited expression.

"So then, Dr. Watson- what is your conclusion about our flat?" questioned Sherlock, staring down at John with an unreadable grin. John glanced around again, expecting to be surprised by his conclusion, but instead feeling something strange in his stomach; something that fluttered.

"I would conclude that you told Mrs. Hudson to decorate our flat-"

"Yes, obviously- but why?"

John's glance stopped on Sherlock, "I couldn't tell you,"

Sherlock let out a disappointed breath, spinning in a circle of disbelief before staring down on John.

"Extraordinary what your simple minds can miss-"

"Tell me, then- What did I miss?-"

"Everything!" John felt defeated, but stood his ground, awaiting the long explanation ahead.

"Speaking on the phone for 15 minutes, to Mrs. Hudson, you were of course right about that. But why was I keeping the conversation from you? Why was I speaking so quietly? Obviously, I didn't want you to hear what we were discussing. I took you past the light display, just off center of the fountain in the middle of town, because that is one of your favorite parts of this dreadful holiday. Next is the wreath on the door," Sherlock's eyes ran wild under his long, dark lashes. "In bedded with Babies Breath and small, blue doves, two things you like- Babies Breath and the color blue."

John had indeed admired the wreath before they stepped into the flat.

"Then the gifts on the side table, all addressed to you, blue and silver wrapping, small, because you hate receiving anything larger than your fist."

The doctor looked at the small stack of gifts and wondered how he hadn't noticed them before.

"The mantel, laced with tinsel- blue and silver. The fire burning at exactly the right degree and height. The fresh French wine, the one you loved so much from the restaurant, waiting on the coffee table. The figurines of the character's from those Christmas movies you say you hate, but always want to watch. Even the damned plant above our heads, John!"

John glanced up, watching the mistletoe sway slightly from the ceiling. John blushed again, bringing his eyes back to Sherlock with something way past embarrassment.

"You did all of this for me?"

"You really are an idiot. How could you not understand what has been going on between us?"

John's cheeks blazed even farther, "T-there's nothing- You said you were married to your work,"

Sherlock took this as a form of encouragement and took John's hand, "Everyone believes I cannot love in such a way- that I cannot feel sentiment," Sherlock began, placing his thumb on John's wrist. "But if they saw us now,"

"You mean to tell me, you- you fancy me?" John scoffed, wanting to pull his arm away, but loving the touch too much.

"And you, me,"

Now John laughed, one short snort, pulling away. "I have no such feelings for you, Sherlock,"

"Dilated pupils, quickened heart-rate, increase in breathing- signs of sentiment, John," Sherlock suddenly moved forward, removing his gloves and placing a hand on either side of the doctor's face. John shied away slightly at the detective's touch, rough, calloused hands meeting smooth skin.

"I'm not gay," John finally said, though without force or meaning, just one last shot at hiding some impossible feeling.

"Wrong," Sherlock replied, kissing John with all he had in him. John kissed back with something he had never felt for another, and the celebrated Christmas in each other's curious and confused arms, most times under the mistletoe.