Possibly, I'm Insane

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It’s odd to John how familiar it’s become for him to spend Christmas at a grand estate. It’s all so beloved to him now as the place where so much perfect madness happened. He navigates its layout, including its multiple staircases. He recognizes the sounds of its various antique clocks around the hallways. But mostly he associates the house with the smells of Christmas: the freshness of the greenery, the spices from the mulled wine, the rich steam of decadent puddings. John would marvel at the Christmases he experiences here – but he marvels daily at Sherlock, so that’s nothing new.

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There was mistletoe hung all over the house and Sherlock was annoyed by it.

“I know,” John agreed, “it’s a lot, but I think your mother is just happy we’re happy.”

“It’s like she’s testing us,” Sherlock spat out, “to make sure we’re really dating this year. But anyway, mistletoe is a terrible tradition. Christmas traditions are awful.”

“I don’t believe you really think that,” John said, mindful of the twelve days.

Sherlock continued, “A special plant for kissing, but where’s the plant for nuzzling? Not enough nuzzling is being encouraged,” Sherlock sulked. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

John, charmed, promptly nuzzled him.

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The note read, The way you say the word ‘obviously.’

Sherlock said, “You only add to your list of what you love about me after we quarrel.”

“They’re little reminders,” John explained.

“Reminders that you love me?”

“Reminders that I love you. Not because I think I might forget because I’m worried you might.” John looked at him evenly.

Sherlock didn’t respond.

But the next one he found read, You’re right, I only leave them after we quarrel, so here’s one with no quarrel: The way you helpfully labeled the cinnamon as ‘toxic,’ thank you, I love you for that.