12 days before Christmas

When John returned from Christmas shopping, Mrs. Hudson had hung up mistletoe in the flat.

He stopped in the doorway and stared incredulously up at it. "Sherlock," he said eventually. "How long has this been up?"

The consulting detective was sitting moodily in his favorite armchair, and at John's words he looked up. "Oh, did Mrs. Hudson put that there?"

John shrugged.

Sherlock blinked thoughtfully, gave John the once-over, then crossed his legs and continued staring blankly at the far wall.

Just as John was about to head upstairs with his shopping, Sherlock said, "You got me a Christmas present, didn't you?"

John stared back at him. "You'll have to find that out later," he said slowly.

Sherlock smirked, knowing better. John sighed and continued up to his room.

Christmas Day

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," John yawned, rubbing his eyes as he stomped downstairs.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, still sprawled in his armchair.

John stopped and pursed his lips. "Uh, yes."

"Oh." Sherlock turned around to look over the back of the chair. He looked like he hadn't slept all night—not that if that was unusual for him. His black hair was a poofy, tangled mess, and his gray-green eyes stared out from dark hollows. John smiled at him.

"Want me to make tea?"

Sherlock nodded. As John worked in the kitchen, he remained crouched in the chair, staring intently. John tried not to find that weird—it was the kind of thing Sherlock did from time to time. It was still sort of creepy, but a teeny bit endearing. For some reason.

He finished the tea and handed Sherlock's striped mug to him. The consulting detective took it in his thin hands and smiled up at John. As he sipped it, John patted him on the shoulder and dashed back upstairs.

After a few moments of sorting through his room, he found his present and pulled it out. It had taken him ages to find the proper gift for Sherlock. He was still convinced it wasn't perfect, but what was the perfect gift for a sociopathic consulting detective? Holding the present behind his back, John went downstairs and called Sherlock's name.

Sherlock saw him, and climbed out of his chair—right over the back, without bothering to turn around. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown and asked, "Yes, John?"

John took a deep breath, and walked forward to meet him. "Happy Christmas," he said, and brought his present out.

Sherlock's eyes flicked from it back to his face. He smiled. "I love it," he said.

"You haven't even opened it yet—" John began, but then remembered—this was Sherlock Holmes. He bowed his head. "Thank you," he said softly. He was confused—he thought Sherlock didn't like Christmas…

"Even if I don't participate in the holiday, I still appreciate the sentiment." Sherlock drew closer. "And even if I already knew what your present was, I still like it." John realized they were standing under the mistletoe.

And suddenly they were kissing, and John didn't know how it had happened, but he liked it. He leaned in, kissing deeper. The present was in their way, so he let it fall to the ground and reached around Sherlock's shoulders to pull his head down.

They kissed for a long time, sharing in their joy and love, before withdrawing. Even then, they didn't let go of each other. "Happy Christmas, John," Sherlock said softly.

John smiled. "What was that for?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It just…seemed appropriate." There was a flicker of doubt in his eyes as he looked at John, a wanting to be sure that he was doing the right thing. "Was it?"

"I think it was." John pulled him down for another kiss.

Merry Christmas! 'Tis the season to post sappy Christmas romances. I have more coming, so hope you like! (And yes, I was too lazy to think of what John's present is. It is hard to think of a gift for a sociopathic consulting detective. Maybe it's another skull or something.)

Please review!