A/N: I do not own BBC Sherlock, the BBC does. Along with Steven Moffat, Mark Gattis, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
This is not a song fic but the title is taken from a song. King for a Day- by Green Day. This is impart inspired by my own fic "Funny Girls" and while their are some similarities and cross references it is not necessary to read one before reading the other, or at all, in fact. "Funny Girls" is an AU this is a case fic that if it were to go in the episode canon would fit somewhere in the summer before they met Irene Adler, late July to mid August. There is also a quick reference to this fic in my other story "The World's a Stage."

"King for a day, princess by dawn.
King for a day in a leather thong.
King for a day, princess by dawn.
Just wait 'til all the guys get a load of me" –Green Day

23:38 hrs.

Sherlock was running at full speed in pursuit of their suspect, desperately ignoring the awkward gait caused by his missing shoe. He had lost that when? Probably when he had had to jump that fence, he answered himself. Damn, those shoes had been expensive. He had hoped to put minimal wear on them with the thought of being able to return them.

A steady rhythm of "thump, thump, thump" let him know John wasn't too far behind but he dared not look back to confirm it. His target was so close.

Sherlock reached down mid-stride and pulled his other shoe off. He tried not to wince at the sound of fabric tearing. This was it, the last projectile Sherlock possessed. He brought the shoe up and eyed the sharp edge of the heel with a powerful toss he sent the blue velvet pump sailing through the air and watched triumphantly as it hit its mark.

Earlier that night:

20:30 hrs.

Sherlock was tapping his patent leather clad foot against the floor in the living room of 221B. Seated at the sofa he was trying and failing to not fidget. The piece of silk twisting between his fists was being mauled to death. It had been expensive. It had all been expensive. It wasn't too late; he could still change his mind, call Lestrade and explain. Yes it was that easy and there would still be plenty of time to return it all too the Shoppe's. Sherlock stood up, then, promptly sat back down.

What was he thinking? It most defiantly was too late. John was already upstairs getting ready. Sherlock shook his head in slow defeat. Wait, John, he hadn't heard anything from upstairs in some time now. What if he had changed his mind? Sherlock looked at the ceiling like it might hold all the answers, but it doesn't.

"Thump, thump, thump" and then suddenly it does. Sherlock lets out a ragged breath. He almost smiles at the thought of John walking around his room, getting used to the shoes, even if he's a bit graceless about the whole affair. Sherlock listened to John walk around his room for about a minute as he adjusted. Across the hardwood floor, over the rug, and back over the floor again. Sherlock only realised he had stopped tapping his foot when it started again, damn. Then he heard John open his bedroom door and Sherlock inhaled.

"Shit." He heard John hiss from the top of the stairs. Sherlock nearly face-palmed stupid, stupid he chided himself, the stairs! John hadn't thought about how he'd get down the stairs. Sherlock strained his ears waiting for John's shout of "not coming" or angry footsteps heading back into his room, neither happened. Instead it was a tentative and uneven "thump, th-thump" that met Sherlock's ears as John hobbled his way down the stairs. 'Good God', Sherlock thought, 'he must be coming down the stairs sideways, no doubt clinging to the banister.' Sherlock was half tempted to look to confirm his suspicion but no need, soon enough they would both have to make their way down the seventeen steps that lead to the front door. Well they'd just have to cross that bridge when they got there.

…..

John enters the living room on unsteady legs. He contemplates sitting down but doesn't know if he has the energy to make it back out of his chair if he does. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa and he hasn't so much as glanced at John.

"Well, what do you think?" John prompts sticking his arms out to either side and doing a slow turn. There is still no sign of life from Sherlock.

Sherlock, John notices has on a straight black wig that falls well past his shoulders, with a lengthy fringe that cuts almost too even across his brow line. He is wearing a matte red satin dress and the hairless expanse of pale legs holds John's attention a moment too long. He notices Sherlock twitch from the attention. The back of the dress has a large vee cut out from it but thankfully has a swath of black lace to obscure Sherlock's back. Sherlock's high cheeks are a dusty rose and his lips a light pink, to offset the dark shade of the dress, John assumes. A black silk scarf is being murdered in a death grip that has Sherlock's knuckles turning white.

John brought his searching gaze back to Sherlock's bare knee.

"It's not as short as it looks" Sherlock comments, tugging at the hem of his dress. "It's only because I'm sitting down." Sherlock still hasn't made any attempt to even look in John's direction and promptly looks to the window. It isn't fast enough though and John notices when Sherlock's cheek reddens. Sherlock starts tapping his foot again, and that's when John's attention is brought to Sherlock's feet, and the closed toe shoes that grace them.

"Sherlock" John starts cautiously, "what are you wearing on your feet?" a dangerous edge was creeping into his voice with every word.

For a moment Sherlock visibly stills, he knew this was coming but still, he wiggles his foot in John's direction, "Oh, you mean these?" he asks, a hint of playfulness in his voice as he cocks his head back, finally looking at John. "They're called Marry Jane's; I'm rather partial to the name, aren't you?" Sherlock lets his eyelashes fall almost completely shut. Turning to look at John was a mistake.

John's silent rage was hiding just beneath the surface; "Sherlock if I have to wear these" pointing to the four inch high silver platforms strapped to his own feet, "then you have to wear heels as well." Sherlock watched John's blonde ringleted wig sway dangerously with every shake of his head.

John had had work today so Sherlock had been the one to pick out their outfits for the evening. Sherlock looking to stick out and make a statement had gone with a deep red dress for himself but John who looked more at home in wool sweaters was a particular challenge. In the end Sherlock had gone with a baby-blue knee length dress in Chiffon, sparkling silver platforms, and a short sleeved shrug to match the shoes.

"Oh please," said Sherlock standing and striding over to John "I'm taller than you on a good day." He scoffed. "Even in those" he mirrored John's movement of pointing at the shoes "your nose still only comes to my chin." He raised his eyebrows daring John to call him wrong.

"Don't care, find some pumps or I'm going back upstairs and taking everything off." John said with a note of finality and to prove his point started tugging at the shrug covering his shoulders.

"Ok, fine, NO, stop, fine. I planned for this." Sherlock huffed. He turned and marched back over to the bags in which he had brought home the clothes in and pulling out a third shoe box triumphantly raised out a pair of blue velvet pumps.

"Kitten Heels?" John asked.

"Oh God, is that what their called?" Sherlock makes a face at the shoes as if they'd personally insulted him "and when did we start naming foot wear after felines?"

In no time Sherlock has slipped out of the flats and into the heels. "Ready?" he asks looking back to John.

John hasn't stopped to wonder why Sherlock put up relatively no fuss over changing his shoes or why indeed he bought two pairs for himself in the first place. Oddly enough the dark blue looks okay with the red of the dress. John only hopes they don't have to do any running tonight; where John's platforms have a neat little buckle around his ankle, Sherlock's do not.

By some miracle they make it down the steps, out the door, and into a cab.