((I honestly thought I had gone off for good, but I have been thinking of this story for at least a month now and had to write it. My friends, I apologize for all my unfinished fics, and thank you all for your patience and lovely reviews.))
John Watson leaned back into the pillows on the king-sized bed with a sigh. Trust the Holmes' to hold a week long gala over Christmas. John wasn't sure what was more terrifying about the whole business, watching Sherlock making a mess of the concept of small talk every few seconds (at least here everyone was used to the constant deductions and simply started ignoring him after a while), being forced into ballroom dancing with a pair of lesser known Holmes cousins (one corpulent, the other spotty), or the copious amounts of treacle-tart that he had managed to put away over the course of the evening.
Unbuckling his belt, John eyed the room he had found himself in. It certainly wasn't what he had expected, the whole think had a forced, Americanized flair to it, probably from reading far too many foreign fashion magazines. It was definitely expensive though, solid furniture painted white and done in a sort of rustic country style with blue gingham curtains and what looked like a blue, handmade quilt. It didn't quite fit the public school boy image both Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to conjure up everywhere they went; he had half expected to walk into rooms decorated like the queen's sitting room, but even the aristocracy had to keep up with the times and allow for personal preferences, he assumed. And it wasn't as if the room was completely lacking in rich antiquities. The exception was a wardrobe, an ornate, solid hunk of rich wood carved intricately with pictures of flowers, leaves, birds and insects.
His belt buckled jingled as he stood up, and he took the opportunity of privacy to scratch his arse and run his hands through his hair the wrong way, scratching the scalp. There was only so much black tie function that John could take, and he was fairly sure he reached his limit two hours ago. The whole Holmes family gave the impression that they had never been told to scrub the dishes as small children, and droned on and on about accomplishments rather than sensible things like work ethic and functionality. Mycroft was a bit of an aberration, every grey haired lady had mentioned what a hard worker he was with something a little like awe.
There were brisk steps in the hallway, and John sighed in resignation, quickly buckling his belt and flattening his hair with spit, ready to be dragged unwillingly to the party. He was relieved beyond belief when Sherlock Holmes entered the room, dragging his suit jacket and vest off his shoulders and practically tearing at the tie around his neck. "Good John, I knew you must have made your escape when I couldn't find you." He gave a tight lipped smile. "And how did you find Amelia and Katherine? I understand Amelia lost one stone last year, and hat Katherine has had an affair with her sister's husband within the past three months."
"They're both lovely girls," John said loyally, sure there was some unwritten rule about being unkind to one's dance partners.
Sherlock just snorted and flopped backwards onto the bed, undoing his cuffs. "If we're especially lucky, Mycroft won't notice we're gone, which is sadly also unlikely. If we aren't so lucky, he will notice and either come to get us or berate us extensively tomorrow."
John yawned, sitting at the foot of the bed. "Just so long as we don't have to go out there again. That," John nodded at the door and the ensuing hallway and ballroom, which had contained too much tile, gilt molding and plaster, "Was hell."
"Always good to know we see eye to eye on so much, John," Sherlock said with a chuckle.
John lounged backwards, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock held his gaze with hard clear eyes for a couple moments before looking past him to the ceiling, steepling his fingers. "We need a back up plan."
"In case we're found out?"
"Hmm. Especially since we're lounding on the bed together. We must protect your virtue John, otherwise you'll never be perceived as completely heteronormative again."
John gave a bark of uneasy laughter. "People do nothing but talk, Sherlock. I think I'm past caring about it by now."
The consulting detective looked up at his friend with slightly sad eyes. "That's probably for the best John. Caring is not an advantage."
The statement seemed a little off and too ironic, but John cautiously decided not to delve. He dropped backward onto the bed, completely, breathing in deeply. "We can always hide in that wardrobe if your brother comes to find us," He said, nodding towards the antique monstrosity. "I'm sure that thing will hide two grown men."
Sherlock looked with interest at the wardrobe, as though he hadn't ever seen it before. No, John thought, that wasn't quite right. He looked at the wardrobe as though it was unimportant, unspecial, and not fully THERE, sort of the way he looked at star charts and watched political debates on the television.
Why the hell would a person delete a bloody wardrobe? John wondered.
"Sherlock?" Sharp clicks of leather sounded in the hallway outside. Another door creaked open. Mycroft had come to find them. John jumped up with a start and grabbed Sherlock by the hand, dragging him into the Wardrobe.
Layer upon layers of thick fur coats muffled John's laugher as he pushed inward. "This is insane," he giggled, "Who on earth needs this many fur coats? Did a distant great aunt have a thing for them? This is completely enourmous!"
There was a muffled, agitated grunt from his flatmate's corner. John frowned, snaking out his hand to Sherlock; it would just figure if he suddenly found out he was claustrophobic for some nightmarish reason. Usually Sherlock was the leader and John was the follower. "It's okay Sherlock, it's quite large, really. Just come forward this way…"
"John, come back this way!" Sherlock snapped, "Don't go in there, I think I remember…"
"What? Jesus Sherlock, I can't find your hand. What are you yammering about, it's just a…"
A sharp rough prickle caught onto the back of John's neck,and he started as he realized that it was incredibly cold. He tripped over a root, and grabbed onto a coat, falling backwards into something cold and wet which felt oddly like snow, unwittingly pulling the coat over his face. He jerked the coat away, scrabbling to his feet in a hurry, but not before looking up through tall pine trees to a winter-white sky.
The soft, lilting voice of a young boy rang out, farther away from the wardrobe. "Where did you go? I'm sure I saw you follow me this time!"
"Sherlock?" John jumped upright and looked around. He had fallen through a gap in the bushes, into a land of snow, and unless he was dreaming, which (he thought giddily) was becoming more and more probable, he should be able to walk straight ahead and be back at the infuriating Christmas formal in no time. No matter how much he raked through the leaves, however, he couldn't seem to find the wardrobe, or even the scent of mothballs.
"Mycroft?" The voice was right behind him, and John swore under his breath, trying not to panic. He could deal with desert and guns, but this was beyond him a bit. He could only think of one child who would be looking for Mycroft. He stilled himself, wondering if he should run and hide, but he felt a tug at his coat-tails.
"Hey, have you seen my brother?"
John swung around, eyes wide with disbelief and fear. To his amazement, he saw a scrawny, wild-haired child looking up at him with eyes just a touch bluer than the winter sky. The little body had not grown into the correct proportions yet; he was long and awkward, but still only came up to the middle of John's stomach. "Oh God," John breathed, "Sherlock."
The boy sniffed, "I don't know you," he snapped, as if John's existence was an affront to Sherlock's very nature. It was like seeing an echo of the fully grown Sherlock's personality from long ago. The silence after Sherlock's statement was deafening, as John tried to recover from shock, and he realized that it had begun to snow, flecks of white clung to the boy's hair and eyelashes, making the contrast between his black hair and pale skin and red lips somehow even more stark.
"Your right," John said weakly, "You don't."
"Who are you then? You're carrying one of those fur coats, so you must've come from the house. Are you the help?"
John considered doing something melodramatic, like fainting, but decided against it, sitting down on a log instead. "Umm, yes, only temporary though. My name…" his voice trailed off. He had watched enough science fiction programs to know this could rip a hole in the space/time continumm if he wasn't careful. He estimated the young Sherlock's age. Eight? Nine? Early 1980s then, so no risk of being found out if he just called himself… "Blogger. My name is Blogger."
"Blogger?" Sherlock gazed at him in disbelief. "No wonder you're only temporary. Mummy would never permanently hire someone with that sort of name. And look at the way you wear your suit!" The young Sherlock sniffed disdainfully as if being 'help' at the Holmes' household were a keystone of one's existence and John was somehow being insulting him by not living up to his expectations.
"Yes, just temporary," John said, forcing cheerfulness despite his predicament and ruffling the boys' hair. "Now let's see if we can find your brother.