Work Text:
Mycroft hated Christmas for all sorts of valid reasons. The general hypocrisy and the obligation to spend it with family, the pain of searching for the perfect gifts for people who already had everything and the dreadful Christmas dinner. The mere thought of pigs in blankets and stollen was enough to make Mycroft feel nauseous. The pre-Christmas days were a nightmare as well. The streets filled with drunk, half-dressed people and catchy Christmas carols, and Sherlock's annual party. Mycroft always received an invitation and always ignored it. However, the first December after nearly losing Sherlock made him change his mind.
It was as horrible as he feared. He was forced to spend time with Sherlock's friends and behave. They already thought he was a complete Scrooge. There was no escape from constant questions about his unnatural dislike of the joyous season and why he told his little brother that Father Christmas wasn't real. Mycroft endured it with dignity, thinking that it was still better than what could have happened had Sherlcok pulled the trigger.
Mycroft thought he would leave first, yet he stayed to the very end. Molly and Lestrade were going to share a taxi, Mrs Hudson was escorted downstairs by John. Mycroft was suddenly alone with Sherlock. They didn't exactly avoid each other, but it seemed easier to keep the distance. Mycroft was nearly sure Sherlock still resented him for his involvement in Moriarty's schemes.
Sherlock appeared oddly happy to be with Mycroft. His features softened and he did not comment on Mycroft's obvious weight gain. Perhaps he finally understood how much comfort food provided. A warm smile on his face was puzzling. Mycroft gave him a questioning look and wondered how much Sherlock drank. He was almost entirely sure Sherlock wasn't even a bit tipsy.
'Um, I should go,' he mumbled awkwardly. He didn't know what was going on and the simplest solution was running away.
'If you have to,' Sherlock replied, strangely crestfallen. He couldn't be disappointed to be left alone... right?
Mycroft took his coat, accidentally dropping his scarf in the process. Sherlock picked it up and simply wrapped it around Mycroft's neck. The gesture was unexpected and sweet. Mycroft was stunned. Even a perfectly safe 'thank you' was impossible to say in that moment. To make it even more confusing, Sherlock's hands definitely lingered there, nearly touching Mycroft.
'Look up,' Sherlock said.
Mycroft knew what it was. Mistletoe. They were standing under the mistletoe. Sherlock leant in and kissed him on his cheek, softly. Mycroft nearly breathed a sigh of relief, but the innocence of the contact didn't last long. Sherlock's palm cupped his other cheek in a very non-brotherly manner. Mycroft couldn't believe it. All those years he thought the attraction was one-sided. Focused on hiding his feelings for his brother, he missed the signs.
Sherlock kissed him again, now closer to his mouth. Encouraged by the lack of dramatic reaction from Mycroft, he continued his journey to his lips. Mycroft didn't stop him. Still a bit shocked, he also felt unreasonably giddy. It was insane. Wrong. He knew that, he had been telling himself that for years. And yet he embraced Sherlock, gently pulled him closer.
'Merry Christmas, Mycroft.'