A/N: I ventured into BBCSherlock fandom because my flatmate/bestie demanded I write her a fic for Valentine's Day. So...this is it. Also, warning: John curses like the soldier he is. Inspired by this: http(colon)/reapersun(dot)tumblr(dot)com /post/ 1 2508205158/ party-day-fanart-for-every-fanfic-where-they-go
To my dearest Cork, I have no idea what this is. But Happy Valentine's Day anyway.
-Love, Hoot.
Wigga Wigga Wigga Yeah
John looked at himself in the mirror. He looked ridiculous in his tight black tee-shirt and just as tight jeans. He sighed gustily as he picked up the dog tag from the bathroom counter. He took a minute to wonder why exactly Sherlock wanted him to dress like a twenty-something out on the prowl tonight, but then reminded himself he had long since given up on fathoming some of Sherlock's more... peculiar instructions when it came to their cases. John moved away from the mirror, though not before telling himself loudly once more what a silly picture he made. Still, a case was a case, whether they were investigating in a club or some filthy, darkened alley on the dodgier end of town. He frowned at the thick zig-zagged white and brown belt Sherlock had put out for him.
"The fuck..." How was he supposed to put it on? Which part went in first? Both ends looked the same, for Christ's sake and where was the bloody buckl – oh. Fucking fashion these days. Made everything too fucking complicated. John tugged the belt on somehow, cursing everyone from the belt makers to the suspect to Lestrade for bringing them on this case. He made his way downstairs, striking a silly pose when he reached the living room."Sherlock?"
Sherlock was sitting in red arm chair, the one with the faded floral embroidery that probably looked beautiful some fifty years ago. "What do you think?" John asked, arms stretched by his side, held out in the universal check me out I look fucking weird gesture.
He got a little worried when Sherlock just stared, mouth curled in a little pout. It was a rather interesting look on him. John was about to say so when Sherlock stood up.
"Um..." A kilt. Sherlock – the Sherlock Holmes – was wearing a kilt under his usual white shirt and jacket. A kilt...and a blue tie with bright red kisses. "What."
"Ready, John? To the club!"
"Sherlock, what – "
"Hurry John. Or the killer will escape."
"Sherlock."
"No, honestly, we need to get to the club, John."
"Bu – but you – and the – you're just. Sherlock, why the fuck are you wearing a kilt?"
"For the killer, John!"
"The killer needs to see you in a kilt?" John asked, dumbfounded and quite possibly, just very slightly turned on.
"Of course. How else will he prey on me? He's a predator, John. Of course he needs to see me in a kilt. Don't you know? That's how they work these days?"
"Um."
Apparently, he was right. The sexual kilt preying predator attacked them the minute John and Sherlock set foot in the loud, flashy, sweaty fancy club that had too expensive drinks and not enough beer.
Well, John said attacked, but it was more like pawing at Sherlock and his silky thighs. Not that there was anything silky about Sherlock's thighs. Or that John had noticed. They were just sort of...there.
Also, very hard to miss when they had checkered wool swishing around it.
John turned to leave the crowded dance floor after Lestrade handcuffed and carried the kilty pervert away. (Apparently, the man missed living in Scotland and wanted to collect kilts. John wanted to tell him to invest in a fucking hand loom if he was so keen on bloody kilts). But there was a hand pulling him back into the crowd of gyrating youngsters. It was Sherlock.
John was sure he had exhausted his quota of saying 'what' in one night.
He was very, very mistaken.
"Come on, John! I'm sexy and I know it."
Yes.
"No." He ignored the Sherlock rubbing off against him. He was most definitely not looking at the way the kilt was riding up as jumped up and down in rhythm to the stupid song playing all around them. "Sherlock. Stop wiggling."
"But the song is telling me to, John! I must do what it says."
"You do not. And no, you do not have passion in your pants. Sherlock!" Shouting Sherlock's name over and over again was useless. All it prompted Sherlock to do was bend his head, and for one wild moment John was sure he was going to kiss him. But, no. He was...biting on his dog tag.
Also, not so seductively sliding his long hands over his legs, pulling his kilt up.
John gave up and jumped up and down idiotically with Sherlock, because the chain of his tag was cutting in his neck.
"Yeah, Sherlock. Wiggle it!"
John spun his head around. "Mori – the fucking hell?"
"Hi John! Hi! Look." What Jim Moriarty wanted him to look at happened to be himself jumping wildly in front of a man who looked as reluctant to be here as John. John had a deep respect for that man, despite knowing he was probably a highly dangerous man who skinned people's balls and enjoyed it immensely. "Whoo!"
"Oh god." John turned to Sherlock. "At least you aren't a bloody whoo girl." And he kissed him, since there seemed no better way to escape Moriarty's attentions.
Moriarty bounced off shouting something about him working out, his army friend trailing after him with a startled expression on his face.