(A/N: Unbeta-ed and unbrit-picked. Apologies for any inadvertant Americanisms I may not have caught)

One: Christmas Tree

"Sherlock, you know this isn't helping my shoulder," gasped John as he carried up a giant Christmas tree with Sherlock up the seventeen steps. Sherlock could only quietly grunt in response. It took much huffing and puffing, a few expletives before they finally had the tree in the flat. They gently lowered the tree by the door.

"Where do you want it to go, Sherlock?"

"Let's put it by the window there."

"Wait, that means we have to move that sofa."

"And your point is?"

"Why can't we just leave it by that corner? We won't have to move anything if we do."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "We should have it near the fireplace. Just like mummy used to have it."

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock. Bad idea. You know a tree is flammable, right? Do we really need to accidentally put 221 B up in smoke?"

"Don't be ridiculous John, I'm not an idiot. I already calculated the perfect spot by the fireplace that will avoid such an accident. I even marked it with an X."

John manoeuvred his head around the tree to see the X that Sherlock was referring to. He could only sigh in frustration.

"An X on top of the sofa! Really, Sherlock?" exclaimed John furiously. "You didn't even bother to move the sofa, you lazy sod!"

"Of course, why would I? I have you to help me."

"I hate you."

"No you don't," grunted Sherlock as he began to lift the tree. "Now stop being idiotic and help me move this."

After half an hour of shuffling, swearing and a few stubbing of toes, the tree was in its corner by the window, near the fireplace. Sherlock brought out a shoebox full of ornaments from his bedroom and sat on the sofa next to John.

He looked at John quizzically. "Don't you have any ornaments? You're free to put your own on the tree. It's your flat as well."

"I'm not...that is... I'm not into this Christmas lark," sighed John with a point upon expression.

Sherlock looked up in puzzled confusion. "Christmas is not a lark. Don't you have any ornaments? It's a bit of tradition."

"No, Sherlock, I don't," explained John. "I haven't kept any. It has never been important to me. You can have the whole tree to yourself. Besides, I never liked decorating the tree, my mum and dad always forced me to help them do it and I never enjoyed it."

Sherlock had an odd indecipherable look in response. "Oh. I suppose you wouldn't want to help me with this," Sherlock said tonelessly. "I've wanted to show you some of the ones I've made as a child. Particularly the ones I made with my own home-made moulding clay that I perfected at the age of twelve."

Sherlock got up and tried to dismiss the idea with the wave of his hand and stiff nod of his head. John heard Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like "It's silly really..." Sherlock scratched his head awkwardly while he tried school his face into something other than an expression of quiet disappointment.

John hadn't realized it was so important to Sherlock that he share this tradition with John. John associated tree decorating with his mother's nagging perfectionism, the way the garland was hung wrongly and how they shouldn't have two identical balls side by side on the same branch. But John was curious about Sherlock's home-made Christmas ornaments and it was so rare to see Sherlock sentimental about anything, he could only conclude that decorating with Sherlock would be interesting to say the least.

John grabbed Sherlock's arm before he left the room. "No, it's fine Sherlock. I wouldn't mind decorating with you; you're not my mother after all, so the experience can only be an improvement from the past."

John gave Sherlock a small smile. Sherlock returned with a larger one, dramatically plopping himself on the sofa, opening his box for John to see.

Two: Christmas Music

John hated Christmas music. The Christian ones like Silent Night or Little Drummer Boy were alright with him. They were cheerful, but they lacked the irritating cheeriness of Frosty the Snowman, Jingle Bell Rock and I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. He heard it in the shops, at the clinic, on the radio and it irritated him to no end. By New Years, he would have heard ten versions of Santa Claus is Coming to Town fifteen times each and Jingle Bell Rock seemed to have a Pavlovian effect on him...mainly inspire him to smash things.

So when he came home and heard Jingle Bell Rock play through tiny but powerful speakers in the kitchen, it was all John could do to keep himself from smashing Sherlock's tiny IPod that played that insipid music. Instead, he walked over and promptly unplugged the tiny speakers attached to the IPod and stomped off. He didn't catch the hurt look from Sherlock, who was wondering what was wrong with the music?

It was midnight on a Sunday that John heard Sherlock play a mournful version of the Silent Night on his violin and found it beautiful. He padded down the stairs to find Sherlock in his bed clothes and dressing gown, looking out quietly on the street below as he played.

Before John could say anything, Sherlock began playing Jingle Bell Rock on his violin. It was obviously a punishment for John's rude behaviour earlier that week. But John didn't mind Sherlock playing it on his violin, it was fascinating watching his wrist furiously move in accordance to its rock n' roll rhythm that was not made for the violin. It was an oddly beautiful interpretation. He finished with a defiant look, putting down his violin, waiting for John's response.

John sat down with a smile on his face. "I suppose I deserve that for my rudeness this week. I'm sorry. And that was actually quite good. I've never heard Jingle Bell Rock like that."

Sherlock gave John a small smile, signalling that his apology was accepted.

"Do you have any requests?" Sherlock asked while applying resin on his bow.

"Last Christmas by Wham," replied John, after a long moment of thought.

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. "Odd choice."

"I'm surprised you know it, considering pop music isn't your thing."

"It's Christmas music, John. In case you haven't noticed, Christmas music is the only form of popular music I can stand for long periods of time. Never the less, it is a fine choice. Your wish is granted."

They spent the rest of the night doing just that. John listened and made some tea while Sherlock played John's requests, as well as his own favourite Christmas pieces. John was constantly amazed at how musically creative Sherlock was, there was not a Christmas song that Sherlock couldn't play on his violin. How he managed to play Little Drummer Boy on his violin never ceased to amaze John. John found that Christmas music was actually quite beautiful when played by his best friend on a cold snowy night.

Three: Christmas Shopping.

John hated Christmas shopping. The shops were packed with people, the Christmas carols were grating on his nerves and the politics of who to buy gifts for and who just gets a card was usually a demoralizing experience. He never forgot the time he gave his first girlfriend a gift card to the chemist, Boots to be exact. He thought it was a thoughtful gift because she always buying so much make-up. He made the mistake of telling her so, and she promptly broke up with him a week later on Christmas Eve. John was sixteen then and he couldn't help be cynical, nervous and upset at the thought of Christmas shopping every year. Not to mention, he didn't have much of a family to give gifts to, his parents were dead and Harry was difficult to buy for. He lost touch with most of his friends and relatives since he was in Afghanistan and he couldn't decide what sort of gift he should give them, or if maybe a card would suffice.

Sherlock had no problems with Christmas shopping. He had his list on his blackberry, everything researched down to the very aisle where he could find his gift. He deduced every whim and wish of his recipients, making no complaints about the rude shop keepers, the long lines and the crowds. He was currently looking at a series of high end umbrellas for his brother, the compact automatic sort, not the long old-fashioned cane-like variety he often carried with him.

"John, how far along are you on your Christmas Shopping? I haven't seen you buy a thing in all the time we went shopping."

"I haven't actually bought anything," replied John.

Sherlock gave John inquiring look. "Why not?"

"It's not...I mean, I don't...it's just tricky alright?" said John in frustration. "I never know what to get anyone and I'm always wondering if the gift was too cheap, or if they think I'm a sod for just giving a card when they expected something more. It's just very tricky."

"Ah, I see. Not a problem, John. Give me your list and I can deduce what sort of present to give them with a few given details and whether or not a written card would suffice for distant acquaintances."

John looked at Sherlock in astonishment. It never occurred to John to ask Sherlock for help. Of course it would be taken with a systematic and logical approach that was utterly Sherlockian, but John found that he didn't mind. It gave clarity to the whole gift-giving process.

"Alright, thank you."

"It is not a problem, John. I have time since I've already finished my Christmas shopping."

"Already? This has only been our third day shopping."

Sherlock smiled smugly. I'm a master of efficiency, John. Have you've learned nothing?"

John could only grin at that.

Four: Snow and Cold

They walked through St. James Park on a cold and dark December afternoon. Sherlock spotted a park bench and decided to sit on it, admiring the view of the park. If there was one thing John disliked, it was the cold. It was only a year since he returned from Afghanistan and after three years in the Afghan desert, he found the cold harder to adjust to. He disliked the extra layers of clothes, the gloves, scarves and hats he had to put on a daily basis now that the temperature dipped below zero. Which was why John could not help but look at Sherlock with impatient dismay, wondering why Sherlock deigned to sit on a park bench when it was bloody freezing outside?

"Isn't it a lovely night, John?" asked Sherlock. He had an odd wistful look in his eyes, scanning the scenery before him. "I love it when London has that lovely thin layer of snow, especially in St. James Park."

John could only shiver irritably. "It's bloody cold. Couldn't we enjoy the sight of snow through a window? Preferably indoors?"

"Nonsense, it's incomparable to being out in the cold, feeling the chill sharpen your senses, clearing your head and...well, look, it's absolutely beautiful out here."

John scanned the park. It was lovely out. The trees were lightly sprinkled with feather light snow and the snow was beautiful, sparkling in the moonlight. He sat beside Sherlock, putting his gloved hand in his jacket pockets.

"As children," Sherlock began, "it was only during the days leading to and after Christmas when Mycroft and I played in the snow that we were able to get along amicably. We used to make elaborate snowmen; Mycroft used to and still does make his signature snowman in the shape of Winston Churchill."

Sherlock smiled at the memory and took John's gloved hand in his. They sat quietly there for another half hour, while John listened to Sherlock's childhood antics with Mycroft in the snow. He found that he didn't mind the cold after all, especially when he had Sherlock's warm hand in his.

Five: Mistletoe

John detested the mistletoe. The bloody thing was hung at almost every office party, house party and dinner party he attended during Christmas. As a preteen, he was made to kiss Juliet Winterton at a friend's Christmas party, with everyone looking. John had never blushed as deeply as he did that day, kissing the prettiest girl in his grade. He also had never felt so embarrassed when Juliet laughed joyfully and patted him on the head like a little school boy.

Mistletoe was always short hand for Christmas embarrassment. As a very small child, he was forced to kiss various cousins and grand uncles on the cheek under mistletoe, while his parents laughed joyfully and happily snapped pictures of him awkwardly trying to kiss his relatives. As a teenager, he loathed them. He was always either kissing a girl he was indifferent to (those weren't so bad, it was the audience that rankled John, whooping and yelling), kissing a girl he liked (who rarely ever returned his affections) and he was still kissing random cousins, grand uncles and aunts on the cheek (those were getting less embarrassing a he got older).

By the time he was at Uni, he was a popular athletic student who played a lot of rugby. That on top of being a medical student meant that he found that a lot of women thought he was more attractive than he thought he was. John never thought of himself as conventionally handsome, but he cultivated an amiable personality that attracted many people. He found himself unwittingly the victim of a lot of staged "accidental" happenings under the mistletoe, which he suffered through with as much grace as he could. Occasionally he was able to snog a girl he liked, but he would be too nervous do to it properly. It always left him disappointed. For John Watson, mistletoe always spelled embarrassment and awkwardness on his part and wry amusement for everyone else in the room.

It was only at the Scotland Yard Christmas Party that he felt that his humiliation could be complete. It was a private party that was held at a local pub that was popular with Yard. The warm Christmas music and inebriated detectives, sergeants, forensics crew and numerous police officers ensured the usual harmless mischief that happens at these parties. John scanned the pub, looking for that blasted mistletoe. Last year, it was by the coat rack near the entrance. Every time John went to his jacket pocket to retrieve something, he found himself snogging some intern or forensics officer he had only known by sight. It was damn awkward. This year, it was nowhere in sight. John sat at the bar, chatting amicably with Molly.

Molly noticed John's wandering eye. "Am I boring you, John?"

"Oh, no Molly," said John abruptly. "I'm just looking for that blasted mistletoe."

Molly laughed. "You were quite popular last year. Evelyn from the fingerprint department was quite smitten with you."

John flushed in embarrassment. Evelyn gave him quite a sloppy one. "Yes, she was."

John turned to the bartender. "Paul, do you know where they put the mistletoe this year?"

Paul could only smile mischievously. "Now, that would be cheating the ladies. You're quite a popular man. That is, unless you're taken by that young man you're always seen with."

John sighed. "Why do people always think we're shagging?"

"You two look like you're thick as thieves," replied Paul. "It's the twenty first century, people are always gossiping about friends who look too close to be anything but platonic."

"Not to mention John, I encourage the rumours," a smug low voice interjected.

John turned around abruptly to be faced with the smug bastard, Sherlock Holmes himself. John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Do I want to know what you mean by that? You encourage the rumours?"

Sherlock quietly smiled. "It means you should never under estimate the clever mischief a group of policemen can get up to with enough alcohol in their system."

Sherlock looked and pointed upwards. "Look up."

John did so and bloody hell. There was mistletoe hanging off a string attached by a long stick, held by Paul himself.

"Wandering mistletoe," replied Sherlock. "I'm surprised you haven't encountered one before, John. You've been caught under mistletoe enough times last year to know better."

Before John knew it, he was kissing Sherlock Holmes. It was a chaste and sweet kiss that lingered for a few moments before he heard whooping and hollering by various members of the yard. They parted awkwardly. Sherlock brushed off his suit jacket and pretended nothing had happened while John felt the familiar feeling of embarrassment creeping up on his face. The party continued on and Molly quietly excused herself, giving John a knowing smile. Sherlock sat on the stool that Molly had recently vacated and asked for glass of brandy.

"You've set this up, haven't you?" accused John.

Sherlock took a long sip, before he faced John. "So I have. What are you going to do about it?"

Only Sherlock could have an expression that was simultaneously defiant and nonchalant. As if the mistletoe that he planted above John bored him. Right. John Watson was tired of what amounted to nearly 35 years of being at the mercy of this holiday foliage that literally followed him around during Christmas to humiliate him. This time, he was only going to kiss someone by his own volition and he was going to enjoy it.

He grabbed Sherlock by the jacket, causing Sherlock to spill his drink over his hand, and John gave Sherlock one of the fiercest kisses he could. Sherlock let out an indistinct muffled sound in response, his eyes wide with surprise. They parted abruptly after a few long moments. John felt a bit of smug satisfaction at the sight of Sherlock quiet bashfulness. Served him right, the infuriating sod, thought John affectionately. John hastily wiped his mouth and ordered another pint of beer.

If it was any consolation, John and Sherlock were not the only targets of the travelling mistletoe that night. In fact, it became a yearly ritual at the Scotland Yard Christmas party to find Paul sneaking up on unsuspecting couples with his mistletoe on the stick. That night, John left the pub with Sherlock's hand in his and he realized that he had actually grown to like Christmas with Sherlock. Sherlock somehow managed to make everything that annoyed and bothered him about Christmas bearable, and at times, very enjoyable.