John was hanging plant life around the sitting room.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.
John looked at him. “It’s Christmas.”
Oh, thought Sherlock. Maybe it was. He didn’t really pay attention.
“Look.” John gestured to the greenery over his head.
“I see it,” Sherlock said.
“No, look,” John said.
“Yes, it’s mistletoe,” Sherlock said. “Mildly poisonous to pets. Hemlock would have been more impressive.”
“You’re supposed to kiss me,” John said. “Under the mistletoe.”
“Why?”
“Tradition.”
John kissed him. Sherlock was fairly certain he was making this mistletoe thing up, but who was he to argue with a kiss?
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.
John looked at him. “It’s Christmas.”
Oh, thought Sherlock. Maybe it was. He didn’t really pay attention.
“Look.” John gestured to the greenery over his head.
“I see it,” Sherlock said.
“No, look,” John said.
“Yes, it’s mistletoe,” Sherlock said. “Mildly poisonous to pets. Hemlock would have been more impressive.”
“You’re supposed to kiss me,” John said. “Under the mistletoe.”
“Why?”
“Tradition.”
John kissed him. Sherlock was fairly certain he was making this mistletoe thing up, but who was he to argue with a kiss?