"And just what are you meant to be?" Lestrade's laughter meant he knew more than he was letting on.
Chagrined, Sherlock huffed. "One could ask you the same."
Placing his fists on his hips Lestrade puffed out chest, showing off the exaggerated muscles of the costume armor, and dropped his voice to a low gravelly tone, "I'm Batman."
Sherlock drew the sword hanging from his side and used it to poke one of Lestrade's foam padded pectorals. "You look ridiculous."
Lestrade frowned as he swatted the tip of the sword away. "Is that real?"
"Of course it is. Why would I waste time with a fake?"
"Because this is a costume party, Sherlock. For God's sake, how did you even get that in here?" Lestrade reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, but was deterred by the mask he'd forgotten he was wearing.
"As you said, it's fancy dress. This," he brandished the sword with skill, "is part of my costume."
Walking a tight circle around Sherlock, Lestrade inspected the costume. Fitted brown leather trousers with matching boots that pulled up over his calves. A drab looking tunic under a fitted brown vest. Sherlock's longer than usual curly hair could have been a wig, or not, and he was wearing a bad fake moustache. "Though it is a fairly recognizable character."
"Then I don't need to say it," Sherlock resheathed his sword.
"No, you really, really do. There is absolutely nothing more in this world that I need than to hear you tell me who you are dressed up as. And I expect you to really sell it," Lestrade looked giddy.
"I will do nothing of the sort!" Sherlock huffed.
"What are we in a strop over now?" John chuckled as he stepped up next to Sherlock, a drink in one hand while the other rested casually on the hilt of the sword hanging from his side. He was dressed in a black tunic, laced loosely up the front revealing a bit of his chest, black gloves, fitted black trousers and black boots. He too wore a bad fake moustache, along with a black mask that concealed the top half of his face and his hair.
Lestrade laughed and nodded in appreciation. "I didn't realize you were doing a couple's thing."
"Sod off… You warthog faced buffoon*," John lifted his drink in a mock toast, which only made Lestrade laugh harder.
"Sherlock refuses to tell me who he's dressed as. Though I now suspect he's just jealous you got to be the pirate this time."
"I'm not!" Sherlock tossed his hair. "I simply find this whole exercise," he motioned to the party going on around them, "a colossal waste of time. And I refuse to clog precious space in the mind palace with useless bits of pop culture nonsense!"
"I thought this might be a problem." John handed Lestrade his drink, pulled something from his pocket and slapped it onto Sherlock's chest. "There. Problem solved." He stepped back to reveal a blue and white "Hello, My Name Is…" name tag, and he'd scribbled "Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, Prepare to die"* underneath.
"Brilliant!" Lestrade laughed until he was near tears.
"Hmm." Sherlock nodded and actually smiled. "Well done, John. Very clever."
John bowed with a flourish. "I've worked hard to become so."*
Sherlock drew his sword and assumed a standard attack stance. He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. "Dread Pirate Roberts?" John licked his lips, and with a slow, devious smile he drew his sword.
"Oh god. You two idiots haven't been sparring in your spare time have you?" Lestrade stepped back and glanced around the room for someone he could call on for assistance.
*"You seem a decent fellow… I hate to kill you." Sherlock's tone was serious, though his eyes flashed with glee.
"Dammit." Lestrade swallowed down what was left of John's drink.
*"You seem a decent fellow… I hate to die." John bit his lip and tried not to laugh as he copied Sherlock's stance.
"Shite." Lestrade took another step back and considered his escape strategy, even as a small crowd started to gather around them.
*"Begin." Sherlock thrust forward with his blade, forcing his opponent to action.
John quite ably blocked the strike with his own blade. *"As you wish!"
*One Year Later*
"What is the meaning of this?" Sherlock stormed into Greg's office and slapped the flyer he'd just torn from the hallway bulletin board onto the desk.
"Sherlock, what's got you so…." John slowed to a halt as he noted Sherlock's hurt expression.
Greg rolled his eyes and smirked. "You can't tell me you're surprised. We all know you planned last year's… fencing demonstration in order to get yourself off the hook from having to attend any future MET events."
Sherlock huffed and appeared sincerely incensed. "I am insulted by the insinuation. John and I were attempting costume authenticity…"
"Save it," Greg leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's too late." He turned the flyer toward John and motioned for him to take a look.
John read over the flyer and huffed a laugh. "So it's official then? We've been banned from the MET's Annual Halloween Fancy Dress party?" He read aloud, "'The festivities are for official personnel and their families only. No consultants, their assistants, or weapons (real or not) will be admitted.' Awfully specific, isn't it?" John chuckled. "I feel like I should be insulted…"
"Seriously?" Greg laughed outright. "After the destruction you caused? And Sherlock, you hate these things! I figured you'd be ecstatic to have an excuse to skip this year."
"Well, you were wrong." Sherlock spun with a dramatic swish of his coat and stormed out. "Come along, John. We won't stay where we're not wanted."
Greg sighed. "He's going to try to sneak in now, isn't he?"
John shrugged and feigned innocence. "You know Sherlock."
"That's what I was afraid of." Greg scrubbed his hand down his face. "Just… no swords this year, yeah?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," John grinned and turned to leave. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back and shoved his hands into his pockets. "You might be interested to know I recently introduced Sherlock to 'Die Hard.'"
Greg groaned and dropped his forehead to his desk with a thud. "Damn you, John."
"Yippee-kay-yay."
*Quote from "The Princess Bride."