And from the sandy shores of Panamá, with the shores of the Pacific Ocean well in sight and my two-headed pet dragon named Fred for company, I bring you…an update! It is, as a matter of fact, a Christmas present for all you lovely people :) I have never, ever come upon a group of more supportive, kind, wonderful people like yourselves. You have helped me more than anyone else in the world in so many ways. Thank you. Thank you ALL. (Now let's just hope that mosquito that's sitting on my notebook goes away and doesn't give me typhoid fever, hmmm?)
This fic is inspired by the wonderful, amazing, gorgeous columbine-and-asphodel, aka one of my dearest friends and long-lost twin sister. Last night, columbine experienced a vision straight from our mutual God himself, Benedict Cumberbatch. In this vision, a certain consulting detective and his partner were in a sleigh. Pulled by reindeer. And dressed as Father Christmas and a very foul-mouthed elf, respectively. I said, "Columbine! You have been blessed!" and then proceeded to pass out from laughter. I give you all the result of a hyperactive brain – unfortunately, the boys pitched a hissy fit when I tried to get them into full costumes, so you'll have to settle for hats instead ;)
This is not my best work, just to warn you. It's almost crack and a bit scattered and rough and random, but tough. I want it up tonight. I'll edit more later.
Written to 2Cellos' cover of 'Smooth Criminal', originally by Michael Jackson. I must thank my brother for this.
Holy cow, that was a ridiculously long author's note. Must disclaim: Gatiss, if you put those two gorgeous men in Santa outfits, I may have to hug you. Aka, ain't mine to do for real *sniffles*
Merry Christmas!

It was utterly, completely, without a doubt John's fault.

Perhaps it was partially to be blamed on the amount he had had to drink.

But it really was mostly John's fault.

After all, John was the one who had insisted that they attend that infernal Christmas party, saying that it would most certainly NOT kill Sherlock to go (ignoring all evidence to the contrary, it should be noted) and after all Mike Stamford had done for them – including introducing John to Sherlock, he might add, which Sherlock did have to admit was a good point – it would be very rude for them to turn down the invitation. And no, they did not have a case they were working on that night, so do not even THINK about trying to worm your way out of this, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes did try to worm his way out of 'this', and it was only after a night of, er, bribery, that he agreed to go to this ridiculous excuse for a social function. He had flat-out refused to dress up, but luckily John understood that just getting Sherlock to leave his latest experiment for a night was a remarkable feat and that getting Sherlock into a tux, while it would be nice for John's viewing pleasure, was completely unrealistic. Also known as not going to happen.

(Sherlock did wear the shirt, though. You know, THAT shirt. The shirt that made John and Molly's heart rates skyrocket, the shirt that had once caused a teenage girl to actually walk into a lamppost because she had been so busy staring at him. Yes, that one. If you still don't understand – purple. That's all I'm saying. Purple.)

Anyway. They had arrived at the party, which was being held in a backstreet club, almost an hour late. The cab they had taken had driven over a rusty nail and as such, had popped a tire. The driver, a shy twenty-year-old from Bosnia who could only say "Good day" and "Please pass me the ketchup" in English, had absolutely no clue what to do in a situation like that. John ended up changing the tire while Sherlock messed about with the engine, but Sherlock accidentally moved a few important bits and they couldn't start the cab again, and after a argument that just worsened over time, Sherlock and John took off running for the nearest tube station while the cab driver screamed a few choice curse words in Bosnian after them.

Once they arrived at the club, Sherlock's first instinct was to turn tail and run back home. He abhorred being social in any case, and going to a standard Christmas party was almost too much to stand. The party was far too dim and crowded, the music too loud, and the thought of drinking absolutely repulsed him. But he tried to ignore this and followed John to the bar, because after all, he was doing this for John. He did want to make John happy.

Sherlock has the alcohol resistance of a very small Jack Russell terrier on a combination of steroids, caffeine, large amounts of sugar, and speed all at once. The last time he had had a drink was ten years ago at his sister's funeral and that had ended so embarrassingly that Mycroft (!) had made him promise to never drink in public again. So John and Sherlock had never gone down to the pub for a pint, never stayed up together talking over a bottle of red wine, never cracked open a few bottles of Guinness and sat down to watch a football match. They were not ordinary blokes, it was true, and of course, as John said, "You don't need a pint in you to do some bloody stupid things, Sherlock!"

So Sherlock downed only one glass and was about to decline another in favor of going to test the acidity of vodka until he saw that gleam in John's eye. John was taunting him, John was daring him to see how much he could take. He was very obviously saying, Go on. Have another pint. And then have another.

Well, Sherlock wasn't going to let John down, now, was he?

So he knocked back another pint.

A third.

And then a fourth.

Sometime after the fifth, he grabbed John and dragged him out to the dance floor and then – Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, that posh consulting detective, actually started to grind his hips against his gorgeous doctor friend. Let it be said right now that if Sherlock was sober, he would never have done such a thing, but as he was past drunk, it is a little excusable. John, who had a far higher alcohol tolerance, was also nonetheless blasted, and would have not normally grabbed Sherlock very roughly by the front of that very attractive shirt and started snogging him right in the middle of the dance floor if HE was sober, but what can we say? He was drunk.

The sixth was when everything started to go fuzzy. The last thing Sherlock remembered was the bartender pulling a hat of some sort out from under the counter, but then our favorite consulting detective woke up completely naked on top of an also naked John in the foyer of their flat, while a half furious, half amused Mrs. Hudson looked on.

That right there was enough to put any lingering thoughts of the previous night out of Sherlock's mind.

Until now, that is.

Yes, right now, as he was looking at a photograph that had been delivered from Molly Hooper directly to his email inbox. It was of him and John. Wearing a Father Christmas and elf hat, respectively. Sherlock looked absolutely, completely wasted and it was really a miracle that he was still standing, while John was glaring at him very ferociously with a look that said Sod it you wanker, just because I am short does not mean you can put this fucking elf hat on me.

And worst of all, John chose that precise moment to come out of the shower, peek over Sherlock's shoulder, and start laughing so hard that Sherlock really was a little concerned about the state of John's hungover mind. "Christ, Sherlock," John finally choked out, "you look so blasted I'm surprised you are standing on your own two feet."

Sherlock scowled.

John leaned over and dropped a sloppy kiss on top of Sherlock's head, which did nothing to appease the also hungover and very cranky consulting detective. "I'll go make us some toast," he said. "Close that damn picture, it's about to make me choke on my own spit."

Not his most eloquently phrased statement ever, but Sherlock obliged and followed John into the kitchen, where John grabbed the paper and started some toast and Sherlock returned to his experiment. Sherlock foolishly thought the picture incident might very well have blown over, if John hadn't snorted into his mug of tea, slapped the table, and said "God, Sherlock, you make a ridiculous Father Christmas."

"Why, pray tell?"

"Well, first of all, you don't have a beard."

Sherlock felt a little insulted. "I can grow a beard, John, don't be ridiculous.

"It comes out ginger."

Sherlock ignored this comment and returned attention to his experiment. He wished he'd thought to draw the blinds – the light coming in from the sitting room windows was hurting his eyes. He wanted to lie down on the kitchen floor and sleep for a thousand years.

"You also don't weigh 500 pounds."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and immediately regretted it; his head was pounding enough as it was and the additional contraction of facial muscles DID NOT help. "That's debatable."

John slammed down his mug of tea, slopping a bit on top of Sherlock's petri dish. "For the love of God, Sherlock! You don't mean to tell me you're anorexic, too? Haven't you got enough problems going on in that brilliant head of yours?" Sherlock huffed. He wished John hadn't shouted – his ears were ringing and he felt as if he was going to be sick.

"Ahh, I shouldn't have shouted. My head's pounding."

"Mine too," said Sherlock, and then he leaned over and threw up all over the kitchen floor.

Two weeks later, John had that infernal photograph framed and set it up in the middle of the mantelpiece, insisting that "it was our first Christmas together, Sherlock, and this is what we have to show for it." Sherlock couldn't argue with that.

And that's why it's there still, kept company by a knife, an old skull, three paperbacks, and a wedding photo.