Hello, every one! I'm writing this out of sheer boredom, if it gets any worse I'll have to go steal my neighbors paint ball gun and re-re-re-repaint my dorm-room. It wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, this is just something odd I thought up as I twirled about in a daze. "What would Christmas be like with the Sherlock guys?" quickly followed by a shudder and, "Christ…"
This story includes a new character (Idden Skyborne Holmes)(not related to Sherlock, she just changed it herself) who was created by moi, based upon myself. She is a main-role character in another Sher-fic I'm writing, but that one hasn't been posted. I think you will find she is witty, kind, funny, smart, and in need of a nice boy who will care about her safety. Like I said, she is based off me… (hint, hint)
"Morning all," Idden said cheerfully as she staggered out of her bedroom.
Sherlock mm-ed in her general direction, but John smiled at her and handed her a cup of tea, saying, "Morn'n,"
She took a gulp of the steaming tea, and sighed happily, just enjoying the blissful sensation of boiling British tea in her stomach at four in the morning. Nothing better. Idden set the cup down on the counter, then strolled towards the door, her silk pants legs making a soft noise as they brushed against each other. "I'm just going to get the mail," she said to no-body in particular.
The door shut behind her and Sherlock looked up suddenly, starring at it. "Who's arrived?" he asked John, craning his neck to see him in the kitchen without actually moving his body.
John looked at him oddly. "Sherlock, that was Idden leaving."
"Leaving? Leaving where, where's she going?"
"I was leaving to get the mail," said Idden as she walked back in, kicking the door shut behind her as she flipped through a pile of letters. "And what do you know; we actually have some this time!"
"Not more bills," groaned John.
"'Fraid so," Idden said, fingers trailing across the letters. "Bill…bill…bill…" she said slowly, looking at each one in turn then throwing it like a Frisbee across the room so that it landed on Sherlock's shoulder, lodged in a bullet hole between the eyes of the abused smiley face, and in John's coffee. "Sorry, John."
Sherlock twisted his head so that he was staring at the coffee cup. John walked over and fished out the bill, dripping and sopping in coffee. "It's alright, I'll get another cup."
"Bill," Idden continued, sending another letter flying (this one landed on a Bunsen burner.) John and Idden simultaneously lunged at it; John got there first and snatched it up. (The burner wasn't on, of course, but with Sherlock….)
Crisis averted, Idden finished off the pile of mail. "Bill," flick (lamp shade), "bill," flick (Sherlock's forehead), "bill," fli- "Hang on." John poked his head out of the kitchen and Sherlock cautiously came up from behind the sofa where he had taken cover. Idden was starring at the last letter, a look of amusement mixed with amazement. Quite an interesting expression.
"What's wrong?" John asked and came out of the kitchen and peered over her shoulder. He paled.
"What?" Sherlock said impatiently. John and Idden looked up at him slowly. Wordlessly, Idden handed him the letter. Sherlock yanked it out of her hands and scanned it. His eyes widened. "No…"
Idden's face was red with contained laughter. "Yes," she grinned, "Mycroft's invited us to a Christmas party."
Great God Mycroft, what are you thinking? Have you finally snapped? Has all the pressure of the high-standing government official's life driven you around the bend at last? More importantly; HOW WILL WE TELL?
Please review, because reading them almost makes up for the fact that, unlike Idden, I have no life. But that could easily be remedied by a kind hearted boy…