John stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and sighed at the tight-fitting red dress that laid across the closed toilet as he sloppily applied the matching lipstick that he borrowed from Molly, "Sherlo—" he cut the name short, realizing that the detective was now a late 19th-Century writer and was only responding to his character's name since he put on the outfit, "Christian!" he called, feeling ridiculous "Can you help me with this?"
Sherlock came through the door, perfectly imitating the hopeless romantic writer, hair half-way straightened and floppy in all the right places, and he was even in his light blue shirt and black suspenders which held his slacks perfectly in place. He nodded, tightening the the black corset on his courtesan and tying it before retrieving and unzipping the dress that would turn John from retired army doctor into smoldering temptress. John let out a sigh of resignation and stepped into the fabric, it took a little bit of struggle and a lot of breath-holding on John's part, but Sherlock managed to get the dress all the way on the man.
John flipped around, bracing himself on the bathroom counter, "How do I look," he asked, eyes staying fixed on the writer/detective as he lowered his head, "Smoldering temptress?"
Sherlock chuckled, letting himself slip from one character to another, "My little strawberry! How could he possibly resist from gobbling you up?!" John giggled, letting his inner Satine shine through, and they headed out of 221B and into the crisp fall air.
After being driven past by several cabs, Sherlock decided that a little exercise wouldn't be too bad, considering Mycroft didn't live too far away. After perfectly imitating a duet from the film throughout the barren, leaf-dusted, city streets, they found their way to the flat they were looking for. Instead of knocking, Sherlock strode into the apartment, that was decorated with long, billowing, deep red curtains and they were greeted promptly by a less egg-shaped Harold Zidler, played by Mycroft, who smiled at John, "Why, yes. Hello, chickpea!"
John smiled lightly, kind of uncomfortable with the likeness to the on-screen bordello ruler, "Hello, Harold," John said awkwardly, unaware of how Satine would act, considering he'd only seen the movie a couple times, which was a vast contrast to the thirty or so times that the Holmes brothers had seen it.
Sherlock took his courtesan's hand in his own and led him away to the refreshment table, where a bowl of green lemonade rested with the label "Absinthe" as a joke, with a little sticker of a green fairy attached to the card. Sherlock chuckled lightly and had his first glass of it, sharing it with John. Quickly, other familiar characters crowded around the table; there was the Unconscious Argentinean played by the Scotland Yard Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who had his arm around Harold Zidler; a tiny Toulouse, played by Molly, standing awkwardly and alone by Sherlock's side; a poorly dressed Duke, portrayed by Anderson, along with his long-haired Manservant Warner, played by Sargent Donovan, who stood on the opposite side of the room, concealed by several of Mycroft and Lestrade's friends who were dressed up as a variety Moulin Rouge-style showgirls and the top hat wearing gentlemen who would be interested in getting to know them better.
As the party raged on upstairs, Lestrade had Mycroft pinned to one of the walls as he told him what he had planned for tonight, and Sherlock sung sweet songs at an increasingly intoxicated John. Molly shadowed the couple, adding obligatory w's into her words when she spoke, the only characteristic of the love-starved dwarf that she could clearly imitate. As the courtesan was lulled into a light sleep by his writer, the couple was approached.
John remembered one of Scotland Yard's officials dressing up as the character, and he looked up to the now fuzzy-looking Duke, "Go away, Anderson," he whispered, waving him off so that he could continue being sung sweet lullabies in his drunken slumber.
Molly coughed, looking to the familiar face which was dressed as the movie's villain. "That's not Andewson," she said shakily, a little fear creeping into her voice, in unison with Sherlock who pronounced the name with considerably less w's and in a steady tone.
The real-life evil doer chuckled lightly, devilish grin spreading over his features, "They're right, you know," he said, couching down so that he could become eye-level with Sherlock, resting his hand on his knee and another slowly coming down to caress the drunk courtesan's face.
Sherlock swatted the hand away, "Why are you here, Jim?" he asked, anger leaking into his voice as he read the intentions off of The Duke.
He chuckled, fingering circles in the air around John's face, "I think you know, Sherlock," he said as his hand was once again pawed at by the writer as a warning to back off of his Satine, "Mmm, touchy, touchy," he commented, returning his hand to himself and standing up again, wiping off the knees of his trousers while he spoke, devilish grin spreading across his features, "I'll be coming back for you, John."
As Sherlock growled and ran a hand through John's hair, the doctor spoke, "What does he mean?" he asked sleepily.
"He means that I have to keep a really good eye on you tonight, okay?" Sherlock said, petting more comfort into John's dirty blonde hair, "It'll be alright, just don't wander off." He made a point to make it clear that John was not to wander off, to stay by his side the entire night, and not to let Moriarty anywhere near him.
John muttered sleepy assent to the directions, "Mmmkay, Sherly," he said, nuzzling his face into the thigh of his detective with a light giggle, "You smell funny, baby," he laughed, "Are these new slacks?"
Sherlock smiled down at his silly courtesan, humming lightly, still running fingers through his light hair, "New laundry soap," he said before letting out an exclamation of shock as John was pulled from him, pulling a revolver from the waistband of his trousers and pointing it at the costumed criminal, "You give him back now!" he shouted, steadying his aim at Jim's chest, "I will shoot."
John wiggled and writhed, but calmed slightly at the sight of Sherlock coming in to save him as Jim pressed the knife closer into his throat. Moriarty laughed, "Lighten up, it's all a little bit of fun," he said, ignoring the raucous hoard of dressed-up policemen behind him, who were trying to diffuse the situation, "You knew how this was going to end."