Happy Birthday to: TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot China may be on the other side of the world, but everyone counts in the kitchen!
Warning: Extreme Fluff Ahead: May present a choking hazard!
It's For a Good Cause
"What are you going as, Sherlock?" John asked as he turned a page of his newspaper.
It was time for the annual Charity Masked Ball, one of the largest events the Yard held every year for the benefit of the Widows and Orphan's fund. Sherlock Holmes glared across the room at his flat-mate, and dug his heels into his favorite chair that he was perched on.
"I am not going," he stated flatly.
"You went last year," John reminded.
"That is precisely why I am not going this year."
"Just because Anderson showed up in a Robin costume last year, and you were Batman, doesn't mean it will happen again," John argued reasonably. "You should be pleased that you and Anderson brought in over a thousand pounds alone during the voting."
Sherlock scowled. "We were voted 'best couple,'" he said in an affronted tone. "We were not a couple!"
"That just made it better!" John tried to explain. "If you had planned it on purpose, no one would have even noticed. The fact that you accidentally chose coordinated costumes and would have never come as a couple was perfect!"
Sherlock scowled and made a huffing sound.
"It's for a good cause, Sherlock. Everyone will be there."
"Including Anderson, so I'm not going," Sherlock growled.
"You are such a child sometimes. Are you are actually going to let someone like Anderson tell you whether or not you can show up at a party? I thought you were better than that, Sherlock!"
"It has nothing to do with Anderson being there. I just don't want to go," Sherlock said.
"Yes it does," John said. "You two did look cute together," John grinned. "You reacted like you were going to kill him, and I thought Anderson was going to have a heart attack!"
Sherlock glowered in his chair and refused to speak. After a few minutes, John casually mentioned, "Molly is sure to be there."
Sherlock hunched his shoulders and put on an air of indifference.
"I overheard her talking in the lab the other day. I could have sworn she said something about a harem costume," John said innocently.
Sherlock sniffed and wiggled a bit in his chair.
"Anderson will like that. With his wandering hands, someone should be around to protect her," John commented.
"Molly knows how to take care of herself, but if you think she needs protection, you do it," the sleuth drawled indifferently and flounced about in his chair.
"Oh, I don't think I will be able to do that," John smiled. "I plan to be the hit of the party, and I'll be much too busy to watch over Molly. You better come along Sherlock. You know how Anderson gets when he's chasing women."
"I'm not going. It's not going to happen. I refuse to be humiliated again," Sherlock growled.
"Well, you got even when you spiked his drink," John pointed out with a grin.
Sherlock smiled slightly. Remembering the sight of Anderson drunkenly staggering about making lewd comments to every woman in sight had been a highlight to what otherwise would have been a boring function.
"Even Anderson should have realized that you can't tell a woman her arse is beautiful in such a loud and obnoxious manor," Sherlock smirked.
"You have to admit, Molly took care of the problem well," John laughed. "Poor girl thought it was a prop. How was she supposed to know he was wearing a working Taser?"
Sherlock grinned remembering Molly's horrified face as Anderson had jerked about on the floor.
"It couldn't have happened to a better person," he agreed.
John laughed. "So come on mate, say you will go, if only to protect everyone from Anderson."
"Mmmph! Maybe."
"So, what are you going as?" John repeated.
Sherlock frowned and said nothing.
ɸ
Flap flap flap, Flap, flap flap, Flap flap, Flap flap, Flap flap flap.
"John, what is that awful sound?" Sherlock yelled from his bedroom.
"It's my costume," John explained as Sherlock entered the living area. "My feet are too big and it's hard to keep them on," John said mournfully.
Sherlock frowned at the plastic 'feet' covering John's shoes. "What are you supposed to be? Quasimodo?"
John frowned. "I'm a hobbit of course!"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, you don't look anything like a hobbit. Here, let me help." He grabbed the wig off John's head and disappeared into the loo. A few minutes later he came back. The hair of the wig had been teased and sprayed to stand on end. As John replaced the wig, Sherlock bent down and began cutting John's trousers off mid-calf length. Standing up he handed John a pair of braces.
"Put these on!" He commanded.
"Sherlock! This was a rented costume! They're going to make me pay for it now!"
"It's worth it, you look better, still extremely hairy of course, but better."
John walked into Sherlock's bedroom and looked in the floor length mirror, and adjusted his waistcoat and jacket.
"You're right, I do look better. Thanks!" John said.
"You still look like a hairy troll," Sherlock grunted. "Why would you want to be seen in public looking like that?"
"Women think hobbits are cute," John said simply.
"Women are crazy," Sherlock answered back.
"Yeah, but you don't argue with what works. They will think I am adorable. I'll be knee deep in girls all night," John grinned.
John looked at his friend and frowned," you had better hurry and get dressed Sherlock, it's time to leave."
Sherlock walked over to the door, took down his Belstaff and put it on. Winding his blue scarf about his neck he smiled and said: "I'm ready John. I'm going as a consulting detective this year!"
ɸ
The party was in full swing when they arrived. Held in the ballroom of one of the best of London's hotels, the function drew a wide range of participants. From politicians to lowly desk clerks, everyone who was anyone was there to see and be seen. It was rumored that the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge might put in an appearance this year.
The costumes were elaborate and often very creative. It was an honor to be selected as one of the twenty costumes deemed worthy to be voted on by the crowd. Votes were cast by placing donations in jars with the participant's costumed picture. The five 'winners' who brought in the most money were awarded titles and small trophies.
This year's function was humming along. It was so crowded; it was difficult to see everyone. The crowd mingled and flowed back and forth across the huge ball room floor.
Sherlock did spot Molly. She had indeed worn a harem costume. Sherlock pursed his lips. Who knew the petite Pathologist had so many curves?
Lestrade was clomping about in full armor. Sally sported a leprechaun outfit. She looked mean enough to be a leprechaun from hell. Even Mycroft showed up briefly in a skin tight cowboy costume. Sherlock knew he was flaunting his recent weight loss. There was no sign of Anderson. Maybe he hadn't come this year. One could only hope.
John had been right about women liking his hobbit costume. They fluttered about him like bees to honey. Who knew big hairy feet would turn women on? Sherlock sighed; this whole attraction thing was beyond him. Definitely not his area. He judged the odds of his friend returning to the flat alone that night as being less than twenty per cent.
Sherlock had received several curious looks, but no one commented on his lack of costume. He was pleased. In his opinion, he was the best looking man there.
John, in a brief break from his adoring audience, sidled up to Sherlock.
"I see your brother is here tonight. He looks rather dashing. He looks like he's come straight from the Bar-S ranch," John commented.
Sherlock snorted. "Straight from Broke Back Mountain is more likely."
John giggled. "That's not nice, Sherlock!"
"Neither is my brother!" Sherlock grinned back.
The two friends separated again, John to return to his personal fan club, Sherlock to pursue Lestrade. The D.I. had had a few drinks and was acting rather furtive, or at least as furtive as one could be in full armor. Interest peaked, Sherlock decided to follow him as the detective left the room.
Lestrade clomped carefully down the hall and turned the corner. Sherlock silently followed. "What was the D.I. up to? As he neared the corner, Sherlock heard voices coming out of a small supply cupboard.
"What do you want Gregory?" Mycroft Holmes's muted voice floated out into the hallway.
"You know what I want," Lestrade's husky voice responded.
"Not now, not here, there are too many people who might see," Mycroft whispered.
"So are you ashamed of me?" Lestrade demanded in a slightly drunken slur.
"No," Mycroft said carefully. "But we must be discreet. Neither of our jobs are so secure that they can survive a scandal."
"Come here," Lestrade said in a commanding tone that brooked no nonsense.
Sounds of armor squeaking and clothing rustling floated out.
"Ouch! You're hurting me!" Mycroft's voice quavered.
"Yeah, and don't you just love it!" responded the D.I.'s gravelly voice.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft always acted like such a girl! He had been hoping the D.I. was on to a new crime about to happen, but instead he had stumbled on a tryst! Boring!
He was about to slip away when he spotted the key in the cupboard door. What odds? He grinned. This was an opportunity not to be overlooked. He quickly shut the door and locked it. Pocketing the key he looked into the next open room and found what he needed. Returning to the supply room door, he wedged the small bit of wood under the door in such a manner that would cause opening the door a challenge. There! He knew Mycroft could call on his mobile and summon any number of his minions who could be relied on to be discreet, but the effort to make it difficult for him was worth it. He juggled the key in his pocket and headed back to the ballroom.
ɸ
As he reentered the ballroom, he spotted Molly Hooper swaying toward him. Normally, he would have turned about and lost himself in the crowd, but Molly was dressed rather sparsely tonight. Sherlock decided he needed to keep an eye on her to make sure she wasn't being bothered by any of the juiced up Yarders.
Molly's ponytail flowed out of a small fez perched on her head. Two veils attached the the cap hung down the sides of her face and caressed her breasts. The top and pants of the outfit were decent enough, larger than many bathing suits, but the veil like material gathered about her arms and legs made the outfit quite scandalous. Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked seeing his pathologist parade about in such a fashion.
"Hello Molly," Sherlock greeted as she came closer.
"Sherlock!" Molly squeaked. "Um, hi! Why didn't you wear a costume?" She asked blushing furiously.
"I did Molly, I would think even you could see that I came as a Consulting Detective."
"Oh," Molly said a little lamely and gulped a mouthful of her drink. She didn't say any thing else.
"Your costume is…" Sherlock paused for a second. "Your costume is minuscule, Molly," he finished.
Molly blushed even deeper. "Thanks," she frowned a little. "I think."
"Don't you find a harem costume a little demeaning Molly?" Sherlock asked.
"Harem costume? Oh no, this isn't a harem costume, Sherlock," Molly hastily replied. "This is a Genie costume. You know, like the old American TV show? I have a bottle and everything." She held up a long necked bottle for his inspection. Genies are powerful beings she asserted. They can grant wishes and control situations. She tilted her head up in a defiant arch.
Sherlock chose to ignore her last statements and zeroed in on the curious bottle nestled in the crook of her arm.
"I would think there are enough alcoholic beverages available here to prevent the need for you to bring your own Molly."
She was saved from further awkward explanations by a call from across the room.
"Got to go!" Molly smiled. "See you later Sherlock!" She turned and wobbled across the floor to her awaiting friends.
"Only Molly would think stilettos appropriate footwear for a harem costume," Sherlock muttered aloud as he watched her receding figure. "They made her . . . sway in a most curious manner."
ɸ
Finally it was time to vote on the costumes. A jury of ten senior officers had narrowed down the selections to twenty lucky participants. Some of the noisy crowd began to gather about the small raised stage in the front of the room.
A nervous Mike Stamford took a microphone and cleared his throat.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Please excuse me. This part of the program was supposed to be handled by D.I. Lestrade, but for some reason he has been unavoidably detained."
Sherlock smirked. Evidently his brother and Lestrade decided to wait the party out before coming out of the closet so to speak. He was about to turn and look for John, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
"Congratulations sir," One of the Judges was standing in front of him and slipping a cardboard tag with a string attached about his neck. You have been chosen as a finalist.
Sherlock frowned. "I decline."
"Oh I'm afraid that's not possible sir. Please take position number eight on the stage."
Sherlock sighed and made his way to the stage. Suddenly there was a hush as the doors opened and a tall man strode into the room. There was a collective gasp from the audience. The crowd parted and the scowling faced man joined Sherlock on the stage.
"Anderson!" Sherlock roared at the top of his lungs. "What do you have on?"
Anderson glared back. "I have on my costume of course." He said sarcastically. "I decided to come as you!" He twirled about in a lame attempt to make his coattails swirl.
Anderson was a sight. He wore a bushy black wig, long black coat and a blue scarf about his neck. It was eerie how much the crime tech looked like Sherlock.
"What do YOU think you are doing?" Anderson demanded back.
"I came dressed as myself," Sherlock sniffed.
When the crowd realized that the two men had not planned the costumes together, a roar of glee went up. Cameras flashed as the two men glared thunderously at each other.
ɸ
Sherlock scowled and tossed his half of the "best couple" trophy into the nearest bin. The evening had been a total waste. Well, maybe not at total waste. Locking up Mycroft and Lestrade had been somewhat entertaining.
The crowd was thinning out. He was about search for John when Molly came up to his side.
"Congratulations, Sherlock. That makes two years in a row. Are you sure that you and Anderson didn't cook that idea up together?" Molly joked and stared up at the Consulting Detective.
"No one in their right mind would cook that up on purpose, Molly," Sherlock said in his most sarcastic voice.
"Oh, right," Molly mumbled.
"And just when I think the night could not get any worse, that happens," Sherlock said disgustedly and pointed across the room to the sight of John Watson arms about two girls who were joined at the hip in a Siamese costume.
"What?" Molly asked as she looked at the three people in confusion.
"Oh please, Molly. Even you can't be so naïve. They are leaving together. I had hoped to have a quiet night of thinking, but if they are going home with him it's apt to get a little noisy. The walls are rather thin at Baker Street," Sherlock explained in a huff.
"Oh," Molly said. She thought a moment and then said. "Oh! You mean both of the girls?" Molly blushed scarlet. "Would John do that?" she squeaked.
Sherlock snorted in amusement. "I see I have shocked you."
"No, I mean , well…yes," Molly said with rather large eyes. "It's just, well I never thought of John being like that." Her voice trailed away.
"My problem is finding a nice quiet place for the rest of the night." Sherlock mused. Suddenly he straightened a little, stared at Molly for an intense moment and smiled. "Perfect!" he crowed, "I'll stay with you."
"Y-you will?" Molly stammered.
"Yes," Sherlock rushed on, "you are quiet. I will use your sofa. You won't even know I'm there. I should be able to solve several problems that have been puzzling me lately."
"O-okay, that's good," Molly responded in a whisper.
"Come along Molly," Sherlock demanded and strode out of the room.
Molly left alone for a moment, clutched her Genie Bottle and smiled. Tonight she was a Genie. She thought of Sherlock in her flat, surrounded by her things, sleeping on her sofa. Hmm. One wish had already come true. She still had two more, right?
"Wait up, Sherlock. I'm coming," Molly called as she laughed to herself. The night was still young. Who knew what might happen?
The End