Title: Mistletoe

Author: Hollow Haven

Rating: T

A/N: Hi guys! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so please be gentle! I am very much an American, so I apologize if there are any English inconsistencies. I also haven't done a whole lot of leisurely writing for quite a while, so I'm a wee bit rusty.

This idea came from an advent calendar on Sherlockology from last year. It had a posting about Mycroft having a decorated Christmas tree sent to Baker Street for Christmas. Part of the letter is in this story, but I tweaked it a bit. While in the post it was meant as a present for both Sherlock and John, I took artistic freedom and changed it addressed to just John and the whole apartment is decorated. I realize that the end point of this story has probably been written a hundred times over, but I wanted to take my spin on it.

This takes place after The Reichenbach Fall, long after Sherlock and John's reconciliation. There is no mention of TRF, however. It's just business as usual.

Enjoy!

A ray of light streamed through the glass and onto the closed eyelids of a slumbering John Watson. This uncomfortable change caused him to stir as his eyes fluttered open. Glancing toward the cause of his awakening, John squinted outside the window to see a blinding white glow.

Snow

While he would have much rather woken up on his own accord rather than a result of the morning sun hitting the glassy flakes, he was glad to see the snow. For weeks now it had been an unusually mild winter, causing rain to pour down onto the London streets rather than snowflakes. It was about bloody time too, given that it was already a week until Christmas.

John stretched lazily, his body forcing him to yawn. He lumbered over to a nearby chair and grabbed for his dressing gown that he had abandoned on it the day before. Tying its belt around him, he glanced outside with a smile.

He loved the snow. It was one thing he missed terribly during his time in Afghanistan.

Why did he love snow so much? Most people find it to be a nuisance; just something cold and wet that makes a mess or slows down traffic. Perhaps it's because it has always reminded him of a simpler time in his life when he was much younger. There were so many good times shared with him and his family. That was back when both his parents were still alive…before Harry started drinking and before John left for war.

He and Harry would spend time outside sledding down a nearby hill on a couple of makeshift sleds. They would make snowmen until the sun began to set and their mother rushed them inside with promises of hot chocolate and a warm fire.

Most importantly, every year on the day of the very first December snowfall, the Watson family would all huddle into the old family junker and drive out to a nearby plot of land to fetch a Christmas tree. They would spend the evening decorating the tree with old, homemade ornaments and strings of festive tinsel.

He had never much cared for the tedious process of picking out a tree and decorating it, but it was a tradition nonetheless. He just liked it when everything was finished. John loved nothing more than to sit and marvel at the beautifully trimmed fir tree as the freshly fallen snow created such perfect imagery through the nearby window. To him, that was Christmas.

As he grew older, even without his family by his side, he made sure to keep that tradition alive and well. Now that he lived with Sherlock, who had hardly a jolly bone in his body, he was forced to purchase and decorate their Christmas tree on his own. Thankfully, Sherlock indulged John's tradition and made no snide remark. He merely kept out of the way and would occasionally mutter a nicety about the work John had done.

John was grateful for the snowfall occurring on a Saturday, giving him plenty of time to take a taxi and pick out a fresh tree at a lot several miles away. He grumbled to himself at the thought of the arduous task. It is not the simplest thing in the world strapping a Christmas tree to a taxi with rope. The cabbies don't tend to like it much either. He tells himself every year that he'll buy one of those plastic trees that he could just keep in storage until the next Christmas. He never does, however.

'Next year,' he always says.

John showered and dressed properly before he made his way down the staircase to the main living area. He imagined he'd have a spot of tea and some toast before heading out. If Sherlock was awake, John would attempt to get him to come along (just like every year in the past), and Sherlock would just scoff and return to whatever dangerous task he was up to.

He was just about to reach the bottom of the staircase when he came to a grinding halt. As he blinked rapidly in order to possibly wake himself, he gazed around the room in confusion.

The night before there had not been a single item in their home that would even provide a suspicion that it was nearing Christmas; not even a calendar. Yet when he looked around the room it looked almost as if a holiday store had exploded onto the scene.

There were fairy lights and garland tastefully placed around the living space. A very handsome wreath hung above the fireplace while two scarlet stockings with their initials on them were hanging from the mantle. The skull that Sherlock had once referred to as a friend was even sporting a miniature Santa hat.

And there, in all its glory, stood a gigantic fir tree adorned with lights and baubles. On the very top was a beautiful silver star. He had never seen such a glorious tree in his life. He doubted that the Queen herself had ever owned such a treasure. Yet here it was… in his living room.

"Do you like it?" John heard a deep baritone voice ask. His heart seemed to jump slightly as he turned his head to see Sherlock sitting at his usual chair with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled.

The older man furrowed his brows and cocked his head to the side. "Did you-?"

"Oh don't be silly, John. I was merely asking to gauge your reaction," Sherlock said flippantly.

"Then who-?" he started, once again not being able to finish his sentence properly.

With a flip of his wrist, Sherlock produced a white envelope with the name "John" written on it in beautiful swirls. He wasn't the least bit surprised when he saw it had already been opened. He was more surprised that Sherlock wasn't able to detect what the letter said by just looking at the type of ink used for his name or what material had been used to create the envelope.

Removing a card from the envelope, John opened it and scanned the wording thoroughly.

To John,

An early Christmas gift for the both of you. Anthea has informed me she has chosen the very best Nordman Fir tree from Scotland and arranged for it to be decorated, as well as the rest of the living quarters. As accordance to your family's tradition, this message will not reach you until the first snowfall.

Do enjoy the tree and all that comes with it,

Mycroft

Mycroft. Of course. Breaking and entering, unbelievably expensive trinkets, knowing personal information that no one else knows… this had Mycroft Holmes written all over it. "Ah," he stated, pushing the card back inside its envelope. "Well that was…thoughtful of Mycroft." The words felt forced coming out of his mouth. Perhaps his brain couldn't compute the words "thoughtful" and "Mycroft" in the same sentence.

Sherlock's eyes flashed open, a distraught look lining his face. "But it doesn't make sense!" he exclaimed, rising out of his seat and motioning with his hands.

"What? That your brother would do something unselfishly nice for a change?" John asked, his eyes following his roommate as he began to pace back and forth. He understood that sentiment immensely.

"No, no, no," Sherlock began, wagging his finger in the other man's direction. "You don't understand. It's all a game for him. He makes it look as if he is being unselfish and kind because it's Christmas." His face cringed at the sound of the holiday. "The gifts he gives are used as a device to manipulate you in some way. He turns you into his pawn, and you end up doing exactly what he wants you to without you even knowing it." John watched as the younger man began to examine every bit of their flat, evidently looking for something.

"So in the past when he has given me Earl Gray Tea and a Snuggie, it was all part of a devious plan?" John said, looking at his flatmate as if he had finally lost it.

Sherlock stopped his rummaging and looked him square in the face with perplexity. "No, of course not. Don't be daft." John sighed and began to make his way toward the kitchen to make a cuppa. Sherlock resumed his mission, examining each bit of tinsel thoroughly. "He will only make an extravagant gesture when he believes the victim can provide him with something of value. Clearly he had no intention of using you until now."

John prepared his porcelain teacup, waiting for the kettle to finish boiling. "So… hypothetically, if you weren't barking mad, what doesn't make sense then?"

"This!" Sherlock motioned all around him, his gestured hand getting caught on a strand garland that was cascading from the ceiling. He muttered angrily to himself as he attempted to shake off the foliage.
"It's too simplistic!"

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "This? This is simple?"

"The gesture… he used the knowledge of your family's tradition, yet there is nothing here to suggest manipulation." The brunette's eyes continued to scan the room while John made his way to his usual seat with his tea at hand. "What am I missing?"

"D'you ever think that maybe he might be doing something nice for once? No ulterior motives." John knew that there was no point in asking such a thing, but he did enjoy the look he received from Sherlock. Actually, he enjoyed just about any look that Sherlock gave him.

John coughed to himself at that last thought, trying to knock it out of his brain.

It wasn't working.

"You know... this was meant for both of us," John said matter-of-factly, returning his cup to its saucer after blowing on it to cool it down a bit. "The card, I mean. It said that the present was for the both of us."

This seemed to cause even more distress to Sherlock. "And yet the envelope and the letter were specifically addressed to you. Not to mention that these decorations have no significance to me. Other than a distraction," he muttered, tearing the Santa hat off of his precious skull.

That had John stumped as well. The whole Mycroft conspiracy aside, there was really no logical reason for Sherlock to be included in on this 'gift' other than the fact that this was also his flat. While he did not hate Christmas, per se, he certainly would not be expected to be pleased finding his flat all decked out in Christmas decorations. Mycroft should know that better than anyone.

Sherlock began to pace again, this time directly in front of the other man. John did his best to try not to stare at his movements, but he was making it very difficult. John thought it might be best to keep his eyes on the milky liquid in his teacup instead.

"There must be something else," Sherlock insisted. "Think, John!" He stopped his pacing and gazed directly at his friend. The sitting man could feel Sherlock's piercing eyes staring at him with such intensity that it caused him to shiver slightly. John meekly looked up from his cup. "Does anything look strange to you? Anything out of the ordinary?"

John looked at his surroundings, but he already knew the answer. Everything looked out of the ordinary. He knew that Sherlock really meant to ask was if there was anything that was out of ordinary of the things that were out of ordinary. "Well, the top of our Christmas tree always had an angel on it; not a star," he shrugged.

Sherlock pondered this new piece of information for a moment before shaking his head and rejecting it. "When Mycroft was four, a neighbor boy convinced him that Father Christmas used the eyes of a Christmas tree angel as surveillance. At first he detested them because they terrified him, but as he grew older and realized his folly he began to despise them for being a reminder of his ignorance."

John let out a small chuckle. "But he was only four!"

It was strange to picture Mycroft as being four. When imagining such a thing, the best John could do was put the head of Mycroft on the body of a four-year-old, umbrella and all. The same went for Sherlock, unfortunately. Sherlock kept no pictures of him or his family in the apartment. He claimed that all evidence of his youth had previously been burned. Whether the burning was intentional or not, he never said.

Sherlock made no response and continued his search. John watched him with amusement as Sherlock began to pick at each branch of the Christmas tree. It wasn't before long that John realized that his gaze had strayed from the back of his best friend's head to…other locations. He groaned inaudibly to himself, forcing his eyes to look elsewhere yet again.

Over the last several months he had found such a behavior occurring more and more frequently. It was immensely frustrating, especially given that these particular tendencies were hardly how a straight man should act.

He had not once ever fantasized about another man. Sure, there was always a small list of male celebrities that John had found to be attractive, but he'd never care to sleep with them. Ever since he met Sherlock, however, there was suddenly an exception to the rule… the rule of his sexuality, he supposed. As time progressed and as he became more aware of his own feelings, it became more and more difficult to defensively brush people off when they called he and Sherlock a couple.

It would never happen, though. He had accepted that from the start. Sherlock was married to his work; he had made that very clear. John would never make a move on his flatmate that could potentially end their friendship. He'd much rather keep this burden to himself and stay with Sherlock than admit his true intentions and never see the man again. It was hard, but he figured he could manage.

The sound of Sherlock's sigh brought John's focus back to the man. He fell into his own chair like an abandoned marionette. He didn't have to say anything; John could tell he was giving up the search… at least for the time being. Perhaps this was the trickery Mycroft was playing. He was manipulating his brother into thinking there was some sort of challenge when in reality there was nothing. Now that definitely sounded like Mycroft.

Seeing the loss on Sherlock's face, John thought that perhaps he could do something to distract him, if not cheer him up. Feeling peckish himself, and knowing that Sherlock probably hadn't eaten in days, he set his teacup down and stood up.

"How's about I run to the store and pick us up some food? Could make some pancakes or something." Sherlock loved his pancakes. Every time John would make pancakes, Sherlock's plate would practically be licked clean. Of course, he'd never admit that he actually enjoyed them. John could see the corner of his friend's lips twitch slightly, as if he were trying to suppress a smile.

John pulled on his coat, pretending not to notice that Sherlock's attention was directed upon him now. "Back in a few," he said, opening the door and stepping through the frame.

"John…" Sherlock's deep voice called out to him softly. John looked and saw the other man staring back, his dark eyebrows knitted curiously, his body sitting at the very edge of his seat.

"Hmm?"

Sherlock quickly rose from his chair, his eyes still focused on John. The older man watched as the other man's look of confusion melted away and was replaced by a rather pleased grin.

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock. I am not going to go pick you up any acid or… various animal parts. Not again."

"John," Sherlock repeated again, moving closer to the door.

"Absolutely not. The butcher still thinks I'm some sort of nutter! Probably thinks I get off on pig intestines or something." John was frozen in place, beginning to wonder why Sherlock was getting terribly close.

"John," he said for a third time, finally reaching the other man. They were standing toe-to-toe, Sherlock with that mischievous grin still attached to his face.

"Oh for god sake, what?" John said at last, doing his best to control his racing heart beat that was brought on by the sudden close proximity.

Sherlock bent toward John's face, his lips practically brushing against his ear. "I've figure it out," he whispered lowly, almost as a purr.

John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly become incredibly dry. Even though his mind was racing and shouting a million things at once, his mouth could not seem to form any words. He just stood there like a statue, too afraid to make any sudden movements.

Sherlock moved back to look at him, their faces only a few inches apart. Gently, the taller man took hold of John's chin and began to slow raise it upward. His heart skipped a beat, thinking that his chin was being raised for a stolen kiss. It sank again when he realized that Sherlock was merely trying to direct his attention to overhead.

There, hanging above the doorframe, was a sprig of leaves with several small, white berries on it.

Mistletoe.

John's breath hitched when the reality sunk in. Mycroft had planted mistletoe in their apartment.

Before John could completely wrap his mind around this new development, he could feel his chin being lowered, his eyes meeting Sherlock's directly. The other man's expression was one John had seen so many times before. It was the face that, in the past, had driven John crazy. It was his "we both know what's going on" face. Only this time, John knew exactly what was going on.

With such precision, Sherlock closed the space between them.

The kiss was soft and chaste, just as John had pictured it a million times before. He could feel a small smile form against his lips, his chin still being held ever-so-gently. Before he had time to memorize every last detail of the kiss, Sherlock broke away.

Panic flooded through John's mind. Although Sherlock had initiated the kiss, the fact that he broke it so suddenly meant that he possibly regretted it. He was too terrified to open his eyes. He was too terrified to see what possible expression might be on his best friend's face.

"John…" Sherlock said quietly, moving his hand from his friend's chin to the side of his cheek.

John took a deep breath before opening his eyes, unsure of what might be facing him. Unexpectedly, he saw the other man smiling, a slight tinge of pink sitting on his sculpted cheekbones. The two seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the very same moment.

"Happy Christmas, John," he said, removing any contact between them.

With the sudden revelation that the world had not ended and that the man he was crazy about was standing right in front of him, he did what any bloke would do. With such great intensity, John pulled Sherlock toward him and closed his lips around his, his hands gripping tightly onto his best friend's collar. Sherlock's body seemed to tense up, not expecting this sudden behavior. Once he realized what was actually happening, responded by pushing John against the doorframe, pressing their bodies against one another, his hands wrapping around his waist.

John had kissed many women in the past, but nothing could possibly be compared to a kiss from Sherlock. There was such intensity and fire between their battling lips, something that John never thought could occur in reality.

They pulled away for a second time, desperate for air. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock," John finally responded as he practically panted out his words, trying to control the smile that seemed to be permanently stuck on his face. Sherlock grinned coyly before capturing John's lips, taking joy in his Christmas present.

((And that's it, folks. Just a bit of an explanation… Mycroft set it up to 'manipulate' this scenario to happen. He knew that the two men getting together on their own had a very small chance of happening. So yes, he did use his gift as a way of manipulation, but it was not in a selfish and negative way that Sherlock thought it would be. Mycroft can have a soft side ever now and then.

Reviews are loved! Thanks guys!))