John woke up to the sound of Sherlock cursing downstairs. He groaned sluggishly, not feeling particularly excited about getting up and stopping Sherlock from destroying the living room or setting the flat on fire. But, it had to be done, if only to keep a roof over John's head. No telling when Sherlock would bring it crashing down.
John climbed out of bed slowly, listening to his joints creak in protest. The room didn't have the best heater and was slightly chilly, raising goosebumps across John's arms. There was a bang from below, and he bolted out the door, not even bothering to grab one of his jumpers for warmth. He wasn't even wearing socks.
Sherlock was in the kitchen. Nothing was exploded. Nothing was blood splattered. Nothing showed any signs of having once been alive and possibly a person. He was wearing a Santa apron. It was even lined with white fuzz. He even had a matching hat.
John's brain stopped all functions for a moment to point how very fucking strange this was.
Most of the kitchen had been cleared of its usual debris. There tiny holiday wreaths hanging from the cabinet doors. There was a Christmas-themed table cloth spread over the table. There was an ancient radio John had never seen before playing “Jingle Bells” in the corner. The chair legs were wrapped in glittery red and green streamers. There was a vase stuffed with candy canes place in the center of the table. Sprigs of fake holly were taped to the door frame. There were Christmas ornaments hanging from the ceiling.
It was like a horror movie: Everything slowed down as John tried to process the monstrosity in front of him.
“Oh, hello John,” Sherlock said cheerfully, like he hadn't just woken John up and apparently redecorated the flat in the most tacky way possible. John swore that he could see glitter-covered fake fruit glued to several of the tiny Christmas trees that had forested in their living room over night. “Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.”
He didn't sound sorry at all, which pissed John off and if his brain hadn't decided to take a vacation, he probably would have punched his flatmate just to make his sentiments known.
Sherlock finally turned to look at him, and when he did, he froze. A surprised smirk flashed across his face before it was replaced by a carefully blank stare. John felt his hair prickle in warning.
“John,” Sherlock said, putting down the streamer he'd been twisting into a bow. “How interesting.”
“What's interesting?” John said, refusing to step back or look frightened. Not that he was frightened or anything.
“Where your standing,” his flatmate said, taking another long step. He was right in front of John now, close enough that John could almost feel the heat radiating from his chest. This time John did move back, but Sherlock followed him. Then he looked up.
John traced his gaze up, and up, and up, until he saw—
Mistletoe. Sherlock had hung mistletoe in their flat.
Well then.
Never let it be said that John Watson backed down from a challenge.
He reached forward, grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, and tugged him down a little so that John would have better access, and then he snogged him silly.
Prompts 1: Mistletoe, Sherlock BBC, Sherlock/John
John woke up to the sound of Sherlock cursing downstairs. He groaned sluggishly, not feeling particularly excited about getting up and stopping Sherlock from destroying the living room or setting the flat on fire. But, it had to be done, if only to keep a roof over John's head. No telling when Sherlock would bring it crashing down.
John climbed out of bed slowly, listening to his joints creak in protest. The room didn't have the best heater and was slightly chilly, raising goosebumps across John's arms. There was a bang from below, and he bolted out the door, not even bothering to grab one of his jumpers for warmth. He wasn't even wearing socks.
Sherlock was in the kitchen. Nothing was exploded. Nothing was blood splattered. Nothing showed any signs of having once been alive and possibly a person. He was wearing a Santa apron. It was even lined with white fuzz. He even had a matching hat.
John's brain stopped all functions for a moment to point how very fucking strange this was.
Most of the kitchen had been cleared of its usual debris. There tiny holiday wreaths hanging from the cabinet doors. There was a Christmas-themed table cloth spread over the table. There was an ancient radio John had never seen before playing “Jingle Bells” in the corner. The chair legs were wrapped in glittery red and green streamers. There was a vase stuffed with candy canes place in the center of the table. Sprigs of fake holly were taped to the door frame. There were Christmas ornaments hanging from the ceiling.
It was like a horror movie: Everything slowed down as John tried to process the monstrosity in front of him.
“Oh, hello John,” Sherlock said cheerfully, like he hadn't just woken John up and apparently redecorated the flat in the most tacky way possible. John swore that he could see glitter-covered fake fruit glued to several of the tiny Christmas trees that had forested in their living room over night. “Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.”
He didn't sound sorry at all, which pissed John off and if his brain hadn't decided to take a vacation, he probably would have punched his flatmate just to make his sentiments known.
Sherlock finally turned to look at him, and when he did, he froze. A surprised smirk flashed across his face before it was replaced by a carefully blank stare. John felt his hair prickle in warning.
“John,” Sherlock said, putting down the streamer he'd been twisting into a bow. “How interesting.”
“What's interesting?” John said, refusing to step back or look frightened. Not that he was frightened or anything.
“Where your standing,” his flatmate said, taking another long step. He was right in front of John now, close enough that John could almost feel the heat radiating from his chest. This time John did move back, but Sherlock followed him. Then he looked up.
John traced his gaze up, and up, and up, until he saw—
Mistletoe. Sherlock had hung mistletoe in their flat.
Well then.
Never let it be said that John Watson backed down from a challenge.
He reached forward, grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, and tugged him down a little so that John would have better access, and then he snogged him silly.