Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, that honour lies with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream!
John Watson was by no means a fair-hearted man. A doctor, first in his class at St. Barts; he was once a Captain in the army - had served several Tours of Duty in Afghanistan; AND he lived with Sherlock Holmes - which was actually a classification itself, anyone would tell you, of just how unsqueamish John Watson was.
That said, nobody could exactly call Sherlock Holmes yellow-bellied either.
Sherlock Holmes, whom would give a grammar lesson to a convicted killer because 'the murder of the English language is unjustifiable, even to a man on death row.'
Sherlock Holmes, whom does not understand the problem with storing a bag of thumbs in the fridge, next to the tomatoes.
Sherlock Holmes, whom can deduce that you had a cat when you were nine years old by the way you fold your napkin!
Sherlock Holmes, whom was standing in the living room of 221B wearing a large, furry, wolf costume - the mask of which was on the couch - and inspecting an equally furry Easter bunny costume, in a smaller size.
You can excuse John for dropping the shopping bags upon entering and seeing such a spectacle.
"What are you doing?" John didn't know whether to laugh or be concerned. Sherlock didn't appear to be high though. So one must assume he is either on a case (likely,) or have some sort of brain injury (just as likely, knowing Sherlock.)
"The milk container broke, it's going to congeal with the frozen peas if you don't clean it up." John waited for Sherlock to answer the question. When it was clear he was going to do no such thing - obviously in 'detective mode' - John resigned himself to clearing away the shopping; cursing when he realised Sherlock was right and he would have to get more milk. He was giving sideways glances to the consulting detective; who was now trying to fit the mask on just right - a near impossibility given that his hands were now giant paws. The mask itself resembled a frankenstein-like wolf head, complete with an row of polyester teeth stuffed with cotton.
"You didn't answer my earlier question." John said, arms folded watching Sherlock struggle. He managed to keep a smirk off of his face. Just.
"Hmmm?" Sherlock had fixed the mask and was now looking in the mirror inspecting himself. His eyes were barely visible through the slit in the mask, positioned inbetween the wolf's jaws.
"What are you doing, and why are you wearing that?" John reiterated.
"Case, obviously. Here, put yours on." Sherlock pushed the Easter bunny costume into John's hands.
"What?" John was dumbfounded.
"A Mr. Arthur Schofield of the Furry and Proud Society came to me this morning with a most delectable case; it would appear that at each of the last four parties he has held, one person has been drugged and stripped of their costume - the police refuse to look into it because there is no evidence of any form of assault, there are no marks on any of the victims - and they can't identify the culprit because everybody wears masks and is anonymous."
"What is the 'Furry and Proud Society?'" Asked John confused.
"A group of individuals who attend parties and practise a form of eroticism known as 'fur fetish.'" Explained Sherlock in his unique matter-of-factly way.
"Okay," John drew out the word, feeling befuddled, "and you're dressed up as a wolf because . . . ?"
"There is a party tonight and we are both going undercover." Sherlock motioned for John to hurry up and put the bunny on.
John didn't move, instead he eyed up the costume. It had a big, white, fluffy tail on the backside and was made of very heat retentive material. The mask was made of plastic, with fluffy, foot long ears sprouting up the top. There were little pinpricks for John to see out of the bunny's big, blue eyes; which had long, feminine eyelashes. The mouth was turned up in a goofy grin with long buckteeth.
"No. Just no, Sherlock." John was shaking his head slowly, horrified. "Why did you even get me this costume? It's a bloody female Easter bunny!"
"It was the only fur related costume the shop had left in your size!" Sherlock collapsed into his chair. "Plus it works with the cover story."
John looked at Sherlock, distracted. "Cover story? I thought you just said it was anonymous."
"It is. I meant from a sexual perspective. Fur fetish is about dominance; a wolf is a predator, you would be a rabbit - my prey."
"Sherlock. I'm not gay, and you're not interested. People talk enough as it is!"
"It's a cover! Not real - obviously! I just need a partner for entry. It's one of the rules." Sherlock motioned with his hand again that John should put the costume on.
"No, I'm not doing this! I am not dressing up as the Easter bunny to be your pretend date at a sex party. This . . . this is too far, Sherlock - even in the name of justice this is too far!" John draped the costume over the back of his chair, folding his arms.
"But I need a partner!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Find somebody else!" John stormed off into the kitchen.
There was silence in the living room. John flicked the kettle on, about to make tea before he remembered that he'd lost all the milk when the container split open.
Sherlock started talking again. "Detective Inspector Dimmock? It's Sherlock Holmes." John whipped around to see the giant wolf sitting in Sherlock's chair, with it's phone to it's ear and it's furry legs crossed in a civilized fashion. It was disconcerting to hear Sherlock speak so cordially.
"I'd like to call in a favour. Meet me at Baker Street in twenty?" John hurriedly grabbed his coat and wallet as Sherlock got an affirmation and disconnected.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked perplexed as John rushed out the door.
"To get the milk. I do not want to be here when you tell Dimmock what you want him to do."
A/N: Yeah, I wrote this after skim-reading an article in the weekend paper about 'fur fetish.' Truth be told I have no idea what it is.
Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.