A/N: This is my 100th fic over on AO3. Hence, it is a ridiculous little piece that makes reference in some way to most if not all of my previously published fics both here and there. No prior knowledge of any of them is required.
Irene and Janine considered a variety of possible costumes for Scotland Yard's Charity Fundraising Fancy Dress Party. (It was Sally Donovan's idea to invite them, having gotten to know them pretty well through Molly.) There was no doubt in their own minds but that they would attend, it being a bit of excitement for them and a reminder of the old days before Sussex and the farm.
An initial thought on the August day when the invitation arrived was for them to dress as John and Sherlock. That would be sure to raise a laugh out of all involved, however there were several stumbling blocks. A, Irene would be best suited as Sherlock, but that would leave her just slightly shorter then Janine as John. They had decided to go with it anyway, until problem B arose, problem B being that Sally and Molly had decided to go as John and Sherlock. Considering the formerly strained relationship between Sally and Sherlock, it was decided that it would be more amusing to let them play the part.
And so, the farming Sussex lovers returned to the drawing board. The possibility of Irene as Sirius Black and Janine as Remus Lupin quickly arose, only to be shot down in favour of a combination of Lee Scoresby and Serafina Pekkala. This, turn, was soon abandoned when Janine came to the conclusion that Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove would very possibly enjoy a romantic evening with Woodrow Call. Almost had Irene decided to indulge her dear wife in this fantasy, when she herself decided that she would love to dress up as a western whore. The corset, the fancy skirt and lace, she'd be sure to drive Janine mad. Coincidentally, this was at about the same time as Janine decided that Irene would love for her to go as Lynda Bellingham in her All Creatures Great and Small days, so they were back to square one once more.
By this time, October was coming on quick and they only had a month left to decide on costumes. Janine happened to have been bingeing on Loreena McKennitt, and, as inspired by her version of The Lady of Shalott, it was decided that Janine would take the role of Sir Lancelot while Irene was the cursed Lady herself.
That is, it was decided, until one evening when Janine happened to be milking.
For years, Janine has prided herself on having her best ideas in the milking parlour. Some of these ideas are more arguable than others, though there is no doubt that the better ideas have indeed occurred to her in the parlour. So it is here that she comes to the conclusion that their costume ideas are too bland. They need something troublesome and controversial. Playing it safe is so boring.
Irene thinks that the new idea is ludicrous at first, seeing as how they only have two weeks to gather the necessary items, and especially considering that it's a little odd and obscure. However, Janine knows how to play her wife in regard to things such as this. With the suggestion that of course Mycroft will be observing proceedings and of course he'll get the reference and the dig that they'd be making at the establishment and it will annoy him no end, Irene is persuaded.
The necessary items are easily enough acquired in the end. All they need is the party to roll forward.
John and Sherlock have their own difficulties in getting ready for the party, namely the fact that Sherlock spends the first two months adamantly refusing to go to it. Upon receiving the invitation, he declared the entire premise to be ridiculous and refused to discuss it beyond that. John, however, was under pressure from several quarters to persuade his detective to attend, not least from one Sally Donovan herself.
Eventually, Sherlock caves. But not until John has thoroughly bribed him with the suggestion of a fresh batch of that cheese Janine makes, and a box filled with jars of honey, shipped by courier. ("You'll rot your teeth," John admonished him, watching as he dipped a spoon into the first jar and sucked the honey lasciviously off the spoon. Sherlock didn't get to reply because the honey was rapidly followed by John's lips.) By this stage, they only have two weeks to decide on costumes. ("Why do we need costumes?" Sherlock whined. "Is it not enough that we agreed to go to the damn thing?" "It's only proper to get into the spirit of the occasion," John replied. "Now hush up and let me stitch your forehead.")
In the costume department, John is a traditionalist. Taking into account it is a Fancy Dress Party taking place on Hallowe'en night (Hallowe'en having unfortunately fallen on a Wednesday so there is a marked decrease on previous years in the realm of crime and anti-social behaviour, that being split between the two weekends which it falls between), he decides to go with a vampire outfit. Well, what he calls a vampire outfit and which Sherlock calls a Victorian gentleman who happens to have over-developed canine teeth. It is a simple outfit, really, comprised of a black suit, black shirt, black cape, red waistcoat, and gelled back hair. Still, Sherlock finds his own trousers – plain black jeans – oddly uncomfortable when he lays eyes on John.
Sherlock's outfit, too, is decidedly simple. It had crossed his mind to dress as a pirate – if he was going to have to get into the whole make-believe aspect of the evening – however, he came to the conclusion that that would be best saved until another time. The costume – which isn't much of a costume as these things go – is a suggestion of John's, made while he talked in his sleep one night. ("Yes, you would be a sexy cowboy," he murmured into Sherlock's shoulder. For Sherlock, it was a light-bulb moment and he really ought to stop using such slang.) A little research, and he decided that the best thing would be a cross between a wealthy ranch owner and a cowboy – which amounted to little variation from his usual standard of dress, aside from the exchange of black trousers for black jeans, oxfords for cowboy boots, and the additions of an embroidered waistcoat with a gold chain and a black Stetson.
So pleasing is the effect that John comes perilously close to needing to take a cold shower.
In fact, both Baker Street boys find it difficult to restrain themselves when the evening arrives. Just kissing makes the warmth low in Sherlock's stomach grow into a fire. John remarks that perhaps he ought to handcuff him to ensure he'll keep his hands to himself.
They are not the only ones who have difficulty behaving in costume. When Sally catches sight of Molly, dressed in an oatmeal jumper just like she's seen John wear more than once, she has to stalk into the kitchen and splash water on her face. Molly laughs as her lover's coat swishes behind her and goes back to brushing her hair.
Those two end up arriving earlier to the party than most, having thoroughly snogged each other in the back of a cab so as they could compose themselves. Greg is already there, sipping at a beer, dressed like someone out of one of those old Irish films, tattered clothes two sizes too big, flat cap and hob nail boots.
"And who are you supposed to be?" Sally asks, hands in her pockets and shoulders back.
"1920s Irish Republican," he smiles, casting an appraising eye over her own costume effort. "I didn't think you'd get his stand right."
"Oh it's easy. Just pretend like you know everything better than anyone else and you have it."
"I don't imagine he'll be too impressed."
"He won't, but that's half the fun."
And sure enough, when Sherlock and John arrive themselves not long afterwards, Sherlock scowls at Sally, refusing to speak to her in spite of their friendship for making a mockery of him. John spends the evening laughing at how well she scowls back at him. She could be a mirror. Philip Anderson, dressed as Capaldi's twelfth Doctor, claps her on the back and buys Sherlock a drink which Sherlock begrudgingly accepts, causing John to laugh harder.
By the time that Irene and Janine arrive, the party is well underway, meaning that people are so well on the way to getting drunk that they hardly notice. Even Sherlock has gotten over himself and is knocking back whiskies beside Sally, who is curious as to where he acquired such a fine black hat.
Greg thinks, at first, that Janine is dressed as a forensics officer, though that doesn't explain the fake blood on the cuffs of her white coveralls, or Irene, whose costume seems to be comprised of loose green rubber trousers and a matching coat. Anderson, too, frowns, at them and the sly smiles that both wear. Molly gets the joke and laughs into her drink, disguising it as a cough.
"I should have known you two would come out with something like this," she grins, as Irene leans up beside her at the bar, watching Janine laugh with John.
"Janine decided that we needed to get a dig in at the establishment," Irene smirks. "She suspects that Mycroft is watching and feels that she needs to show him how unimpressed she still is, especially considering that Pirbright have been pulled up again on biosecurity issues."
"So she got you to dress up as a Ministry of Agriculture official even though it's been the Department for years now, and she's, what? A slaughterwoman?"
"Yep."
Molly smiles at her smile. "All right. I suppose it makes it easier not to snog her half to death."
Irene flashes a grin. "You'd be surprised."
The night flows on in pounding music and swirling alcohol. The last song played is a slow one, and Greg leans back against the bar, videoing the various couples for the sake of future nostalgia. Molly and Sally are wrapped up in each other's arms while not that far away the real John and Sherlock are slow dancing, John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder with Sherlock's head on his, the broad-brimmed hat hiding both of their faces from view. If someone had asked him before if he'd ever thought those two would get their act together, he would have said no. In the end it took a marriage and a shooting for them to sort themselves. Greg wonders, idly, if the pain was worth it all, then decides that it was. Of ocurse it was. They had to get burned by the fire before they could see what they really had in front of them.
Irene and Janine are closer to Greg, so that he can hear the murmur of their voices below the music.
"The cows are fine, there's no need to check up on them. And Ned will be in bed by now anyway. There's no use in waking him."
"But-"
"No buts, now hush." And Irene silences her wife's protests by pulling her head down and kissing her.
Greg chuckles to himself, wondering idly what Mycroft must think of this whole thing, those two whom he disapproves of at the best of times making snide references to a foot and mouth crisis from nearly thirty years ago. Surely he'll find out soon enough, over one of their chats.
Greg surveys the room, and smiles. Even Anderson has found himself a Sergeant to waltz with, one who happens to be dressed as David Tennant's Doctor. And for this night, at least, all is well.