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It was a winter day like any other. The skies were greyish white, the trees were naked and covered in fairy lights for Christmas, the cars along the street were covered in frost - it was absolutely utterly dull.
Sherlock grasped his hair with both hands and pulled at it, anything to make the boredom go away. There were no cases - there hadn't been any cases for two whole weeks now - and John was working at that surgery of his, leaving Sherlock to wallow by himself in the tedium that was 221b Baker Street.
Downstairs, he could hear Mrs Hudson decorate her flat for Christmas while singing carols. Something about bells, Sherlock couldn't tell - he had deleted all information about Christmas. He would yell at her to shut up, but he was too bored to move. There was a small Christmas tree, which John had insisted on getting, near their fireplace. Sherlock glared at it with gusto. His flatmate was insane, ridiculous even, bothering with a bloody Christmas tree. What was the point if they were going to have to take it down as soon as the holidays were over anyway? "Don't be such a Scrooge, Sherlock!" John had sang, as he put the sodding thing up. Sherlock didn't know what a "Scrooge" was, and he didn't care - probably something out of popular culture, irrelevant.
Through his musings, he heard a light knock on the door. He looked over and saw Mrs Hudson entering the flat with a smile on her face.
'Hi, Sherlock, still bored? Don't worry, I'm sure a nice murder'll turn up,' she said, going in their kitchen to stack some food in their fridge. 'Now, I brought you some food, it's not nice for two grown men to live on take-away,' she began with a frown. 'But I'm not your housekeeper.' Then did something that Sherlock couldn't see - although he did hear her giggle, which was odd - and left, and Sherlock grunted instead of saying thanks because, really, what was the point of anything if everything was so DULL.
Hours could have passed, or minutes, Sherlock couldn't tell, when John arrived. Sherlock had moved from his spot on the sofa and was now standing by the window, scratching the strings of his violin with the bow.
'Oh, for God's sake!' he heard John complain as he walked in, covering his ears with his hands.
'Good evening, John. How was your day?' Sherlock asked with disdain. How dare John go out and work in that stupid place, taking care of stupid children and lazy people with nothing but a cold? And worse, leave Sherlock to entertain himself all day? Some friend, he was.
'I will ignore your sarcasm and spite, and say it was a good day indeed,' John said and Sherlock could feel the smirk. 'If you're so bored, why don't you take up one of your experiments? I'm sure that toe-thing you were working on last week might be good by now.'
Sherlock scoffed, put his violin back on its case and threw himself on his chair, opposite to John's.
'Finished it two days ago. Boring.'
John chuckled and shook his head. 'You are incorrigible.' Then he went back to his newspaper.
With an eye roll, Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrests, fidgeting. He wiggled his hip, trying to make himself comfortable, to feel anything other than the sheer boredom.
He stood up abruptly, making John look at him. 'I need to do something.'
'What?'
'I don't know, anything! My head is going to explode with all the noise!' he grunted again and John gave him a pitiful look. He stood as well as walked to the kitchen.
'How about I make you some tea?' he asked. John's answer to everything was tea - it was infuriating. With a restrained nod, Sherlock agreed to the bloody tea. Always tea. Tea, tea, tea. As he approached the threshold to the kitchen, Sherlock noticed something that wasn't there before. A bunch of tiny green branches with a few leaves, wrapped tightly with a red bow, stuck to the top of the entrance. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, going through his mental database of plants and herbs, yet this seemed unknown to him. At least it was a mystery. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock looked at him.
'Here's your tea,' John handed him a steaming much, with the perfect amount of milk and sugar, of course. Sherlock hummed in thanks and proceeded to examine the plant from afar.
'Is that a mistletoe?' asked John and Sherlock gave him a surprised look. 'What?'
'You know what this plant is?'
'Of course I do, it's a mistletoe! Everybody knows what it is…' John replied, giving Sherlock an incredulous look.
'What is it doing here?'
John laughed and stood under the plant, looking up at it. 'Was Mrs Hudson here today?' Sherlock nodded and John hummed. 'She probably put it there, then.'
'But… why?' Sherlock's head was starting to hurt. It was one of those popular culture things, then. It was unimportant. But it felt important, he had to know why on Earth had Mrs Hudson place that plant there.
With a smile, John waved him over. 'Come here, you have to stand under it do understand.'
Sherlock sighed, but moved nonetheless. Then John removed the untouched cup of tea from his hand and placed it on the kitchen table.
'So?' Sherlock asked, looking up at the plant. John chuckled and touched Sherlock's forearm.
'Close your eyes,' he said and Sherlock obliged, for the sake of science. He felt a hand on the nape of his neck, pulling him down. Then a breath near his face, then lips on his, nothing put light pressure. He felt his breath catch and a shiver down his spine. It lasted less than twenty seconds, but for that time, it was quiet.
Pulling apart, John was grinning at him. 'You're supposed to kiss when you're under a mistletoe,' he explained.
Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. Christmas tradition of course. And Mrs Hudson kept thinking that they were a couple, surely she would have put that there just to make them kiss every time they entered the kitchen.
Although, putting some thought into it, Sherlock wouldn't mind doing that.
So he gave the mistletoe another look and then moved to John, who was still smiling softly at him.
'I see,' Sherlock said, then bent slightly to kiss John again, but deeper this time. His actions were more than welcome, so they just stood there, under the mistletoe, kissing.
And if Sherlock decided to carry a mistletoe everywhere he went with John, it was only because Christmas traditions were important.