Day 3 deducetheworld - BBC Sherlock

From deducetheworld:

Eek! The day is actually here! You have no idea how excited I am for you all to read my story (I literally screamed yesterday when I realized what today was). I am beyond hyped to read all the other stories and comments! Without further ado, here is Mistletoe.

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Mistletoe

It was that time of year again. People were singing carols, buying gifts and, worst of all, decorating. It wasn't that Sherlock hated Christmas or anything; he just didn't see the point in spending a whole month celebrating one day. The only upside was the opportunity to play his violin as loudly as he wanted without any repercussions (so long as the songs he played were Christmas carols).

He was right in the middle of Deck the Halls when John stumbled into 221B with an enormous cardboard box in his arms.

Sherlock stopped playing mid-note and let his bow hand fall to his side, causing a quick swish to fill the air. "What's that?" he asked, gesturing to the box with his violin.

John set the box on the floor and wiped his hands together. "It's December first," he replied, pulling a knife from his pocket.

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock said, sarcastically.

John looked up and gave the consulting detective an unamused frown. "They're decorations." He cut the tape that was holding the box closed and pulled the flaps free, revealing yards of garland and tinsel, bundles of fake poinsettias, and several spherical tree ornaments. The only thing that Sherlock didn't see was a Christmas tree. Which was good: no tree meant no annoying pine needles all over the place.

However, he couldn't stop himself from commenting: "What? No tree?"

John smirked. "It's downstairs."

~•~•~•~

Two hours later and John had nearly completed his decorating. The flat was almost as Christmassy as it could get, and John had done it all without Sherlock's help.

"And now for the final touch," he said to himself.

Sherlock looked up and watched as John began hanging mistletoe above the door to the kitchen. "You can't hang mistletoe," he commented with a scoff.

John gave him an amused look. "And why's that?"

Sherlock crossed the room and snatched the mistletoe out of John's hand. "I'd rather not risk seeing Mrs. Hudson get caught under it." He tossed the branch onto the the living room table unceremoniously and plopped down in his chair.

John gave a disbelieving grunt. "You sure you're not just scared you'll be caught under it?"

His question was answered by the sound of Twelve Days of Christmas.

~•~•~•~

Over the next two weeks, a war for the mistletoe was waged. John would put the mistletoe up while Sherlock was away and Sherlock would tear it down the second he returned. After a few days, Sherlock decided to dispose of the offending branch. But no matter how Sherlock destroyed the mistletoe - with fire, acid, or questionable chemical - John always came back with more.

Then, a week before Christmas, John stopped fighting. The final branch Sherlock removed was not replaced. For the next couple of days, Sherlock kept a watchful eye out for the mistletoe. John wouldn't just stop hanging it; he must be planning something.

As the day of the annual Christmas party approached and no mistletoe was to be found, Sherlock stopped looking for it. He figured that if John was planning anything he would have done something by now.

It was an hour before the party and John was in a mad rush to get everything ready. For some strange reason, he had decided to make all the food from scratch. Something about "needing the challenge." Sherlock decided to let him stress in the kitchen while he played We Wish You a Merry Christmas for the umpteenth time.

John peeked his head out of the kitchen and looked Sherlock up and down with a frown. "You don't look very festive."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. "Do I ever?"

John sighed and reached for a green bundle. "Here. Put this on." He tossed the bundle at Sherlock, who barely managed to move his violin out of the way before catching it.

He held it up and frowned, eyeing the bright green Christmas sweater in his hands. Strands of gold and silver tinsel and multicolored spheres were precariously glued to the fabric. A pair of antlers, a combination of styrofoam and brown fabric, stuck out from the shoulders. In short, it was the ugliest sweater he had ever seen. "I am not wearing this," Sherlock said, throwing the sweater back at John.

John rolled his eyes and produced a red sweater. "It's that one or this one." He unfolded it and showed it to Sherlock. Overall, this one was an improvement. Its only ornamentation was a phrase printed on the centre of the shirt in white: "Santa isn't real."

Sherlock wasn't one to wear sweaters, but the slogan sounded like something he would say - something he had said on a number of occasions. Besides, if he had to look festive, then the red was a much better alternative to the green.

He looked back up to John, about to give a snarky remark about the jumper, but stopped when he noticed the hint of a smug grin decorating his friend's face. He narrowed his eyes. John knew that he wouldn't wear the jumper voluntarily. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't do it just because he was told to. He expected Sherlock to toss the garment aside and attend the party in his suit.

In that moment, Sherlock's mind was made up: he would wear the red jumper to the party. He would do it not because he liked the sweater, or because he wanted to wear it, but with the sole purpose of proving John wrong.

Sherlock shucked off his jacket and put the jumper on, straightening the cuffs and collar of his dress shirt underneath the garment.

John looked momentarily surprised, but was knocked out of his shock by the sound of a timer going off. He rushed back into the kitchen. "That'll be the gingerbread!" he said loudly, more to himself than to Sherlock.

The consulting detective turned, picked up his violin, and began to play Jingle Bells. Honestly, he just wanted this stupid holiday to pass so he could go back to playing his own compositions. There are only so many times one can stand a Christmas song.

~•~•~•~

Sherlock avoided socialising for the majority of the event, electing instead to busy himself with his violin and seemingly endless mental library of classic Christmas carols. But that changed when Mrs. Hudson tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sherlock, dear, would like some gingerbread?" She held out a tray with several small treats on it, each decorated according to the Twelve Days of Christmas.

He was about to decline before the small woman fixed him with a look that said "if you don't eat one, I will be very cross with you." So, rather than face an angered Mrs. Hudson, he reached down and plucked a biscuit shaped like a hen from the tray.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and leaned over conspiratorially. "Secret family recipe," she whispered. She winked at him before leaving him to deliver gingerbread to the other partygoers. Sherlock set the biscuit on the table, not trusting the landlady to keep drugs out of the kitchen.

He looked over to his chair, about to cross the room and sit in it, before realising that it was occupied by none other than Molly Hooper. She looked very festive in her red and green dress, but her hair ruined the look. It was piled atop her head in voluminous curls and held down in various places with barrettes and bobby pins. It was far too much for her. If he had to choose between this hairstyle and her normal ponytail, he would choose the ponytail in a heartbeat.

"What?" Sherlock blinked before realising that he had inadvertently voiced his thoughts aloud. Molly looked up at him, a wounded expression on her face. For a moment he felt as if he had just kicked a puppy.

"What I meant is that you would look better in a simpler style. Curls really aren't for... you..." He trailed off, and looked around the room at the furious faces of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mary and especially John. The latter looked like he was one word away from murdering the detective.

Molly took a deep breath and rose to her feet, pushing past Sherlock and rushing into the restroom. Sherlock watched her leave, a part of him confused and a part of him regretful. Why didn't his second comment fix the situation? Surely she understood that he had meant it as a compliment.

"Nice going, Sherlock," Lestrade commented with a huff.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Now why did you have to go and say that? You've upset her!"

Sherlock turned back to the table and reclaimed his violin and bow, settling into Mary Did You Know, his favorite Christmas song. The dark tone of the song filled the flat with a gloomy, melancholy feeling.

His audience was effectively captured by the haunting melody. Everyone but John simply listened to him play, oblivious to any meaning Sherlock was pouring into it. John speculated that he had chosen that song to play because he felt bad for hurting Molly's feelings.

It wasn't that big of a leap, either. John had noticed early on that, despite how harshly he acted around her, Sherlock had a soft spot for the pathologist. If he didn't know any better, John would say the he loved her.

John cast a glance toward the kitchen and noticed Molly standing in the doorway. Her hair accessories were gone, save a single barrette holding her hair in a half up style. The curls had been brushed out, leaving her mousy brown hair with a pleasant wave.

She pulled a strand of hair behind her ear nervously and cleared her throat.

Sherlock stopped playing and whipped around to face her, taking a step in her direction subconsciously. He looked her up and down, noting her new hairstyle with an upward quirk of his lips. She had fixed her hair for him, because he wanted it simpler.

She gave him a small smile. "Is this better?"

He examined her hair again before frowning and set his violin back onto the table. Before Molly could react, he was standing in front of her. He reached up and, careful to avoid pulling her hair, removed the barrette. Her hair fell down, framing her face in a very flattering manner.

Sherlock smiled. "Much better."

Molly shyly returned his smile and pulled a piece of newly freed hair behind her ear.

John cleared his throat, gaining the pair's attention. With a triumphant grin, he leveled a finger at the top of the doorframe. "Well, well. Look who got caught under the mistletoe after all."

Sherlock and Molly's eyes widened and they looked above them. Sure enough, a single branch of mistletoe hung above them.

Sherlock's blood began to boil. Of course John would set this up. Why had he been so foolish as to stop looking for the stupid branch? He shot a deadly glare at John and vowed to get revenge on the doctor.

He looked back at Molly, who wouldn't meet his eyes. "It's fine, Sherlock," she whispered. "You don't have to."

With those words, he decided to kiss Molly Hooper.

He placed a hand on her chin and tilted her head up. Her eyes widened again in surprise as she met his determined gaze. "S-Sherlock?" she stuttered.

"It's just a kiss, Molly," he replied, barely audible so only she would be able to hear him. "No need to be nervous." He leaned in, flicking his eyes to her lips. She was wearing a bright red shade of lipstick, a color that he felt made her look even paler than she was. For a moment, he contemplated whether he should tell her the color drained her, but then he thought better of it. Now was probably not the best time to say something like that.

Sherlock was surprised to find that his heart was beating out of his chest. What was wrong? Why did his heart decide to pick up the pace now? Was it the unusual situation he was in? Or was there an underlying medical cause?

No. It had to be the situation. But why? Did he, dare he say, have... feelings for the woman in front of him? No, he didn't have feelings for anyone. He never had and he never will.

Still...

When their lips met, Sherlock was surprised. It was a simple act, nothing more than a kiss, right? If that was the case, then why was his heart filled with such emotion?

The kiss was short, but it was enough for him to feel the softness of Molly's lips. He could tell that she was more experienced than he was, not like that was a difficult feat; he wasn't one to be in a relationship with anyone, so naturally he wasn't as practiced.

They pulled apart a second later, and Sherlock felt a stab of traitorous disappointment shoot through his heart. He couldn't have feelings for her. He just couldn't! Why did his heart have to betray his mind like this?

Molly blushed. "Um... well... that was something."

Sherlock gave a low chuckle. "That it was." Curse you, emotions.

Lestrade whistled. "I never thought I'd live to see the day that Sherlock Holmes kissed Molly Hooper."

"No kidding," Mary agreed.

Sherlock suddenly felt everyone's eyes on him and backed away from Molly instinctively. He stood up straighter and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice held a familiar shard of indifference. "There you are, John. Mission accomplished. You managed to get me under the mistletoe. Bravo." He crossed the room and dug around for his slipper, retrieving a pair of cigarettes. Then, without another word, he left the flat, rushing down the seventeen steps to the front door.

~•~•~•~

Molly found Sherlock sitting on the front stoop of 221B, a cigarette sticking out of his mouth and remains of a second cigarette on the street below. "Sherlock?" The detective looked up at the sound of her voice before returning his gaze to the ground.

"Hello, Molly."

The young woman wrung her hands together nervously and plopped down beside him. She could tell that something was on Sherlock's mind, but she didn't know how to go about talking to him about it.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock's words startled Molly. "Sorry? For what?"

A sigh. Smoke flowed from his mouth and floated into the cold December air. He threw the remainder of his cigarette to the pavement. "For everything."

The pair didn't speak for a moment as they each silently collected their thoughts. Molly didn't know exactly what "everything" was, but she could take a guess or two. Perhaps the arrogant way he acted, or the rude things he said. Maybe everything even included his drug habits.

Without warning, Sherlock wrapped his arm around Molly's shoulder. "W-what are you doing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's an experiment."

"O-oh."

Molly took several minutes to finally relax. When she did, she leaned her head onto Sherlock's shoulder. He tensed involuntarily at first, but forced himself to relax again.

Sherlock didn't know what he expected from the interaction, but comfort was certainly not on the list.

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice sounded tired. If it wasn't so cold, Sherlock was sure she would fall asleep.

"Hm?"

"...What are we?"

He didn't quite know the answer to that himself. So he settled with the obvious: "Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper."

Molly chuckled. "That's not much of an answer."

"No," he replied with a smile. "It's not."

With a sigh, he stood up. "Well, I guess we should get back to the party. They'll be looking for us."

"O-oh! Yes. Right." She scrambled to her feet with a nervous laugh.

Sherlock smiled down at her. Even if it went against everything he stood for, he had to admit that there was something between them. He just wished he knew what that something was.

Molly caught him looking at her and returned his smile. Then she frowned and cast a glance to the side. "Do you think - um..." She took a deep breath and started again. "Do you think we could do this again sometime?"

Sherlock chuckled and stepped closer to her, pressing his lips to her forehead gently.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."