Disclaimer: I am neither Steve Moffet or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and as such, claim no ownership of Sherlock Holmes (even if the Cumberbatch is gorgeous). This fic is the product of my twisted mind and rather strange sense of humour.

Chapter 3

As John sat in a carriage that smelt faintly like cabbage (there hadn't been any pumpkins around), he mused on just how he got into this position. It was all still a bit of a muddle, and he suspected his fairy godfather had something to do with that. The driver (a finch who just so happened to be sheltering within the sight range of his godfather), was whistling a jaunty tune, and the footman (who was the house cat, as he had eaten all the mice in the house) was eyeballing the driver with an unholy gleam in his eye.

Ah, you must be wondering why we are looking in on John in the carriage, well, as you may remember, when last we saw our erstwhile hero, fair of hair and John of name, he had been greeted by a man with questionable tastes in clothing, and what looked like glitter in his hair.

But how does one properly describe a fairy godmother (or godfather)? Oh wait, let me guess. The normal mental image is of a little old lady in a poofy, spangled dress, mostly pink, with little fairy wings on her back (fluttering madly in an attempt defy physics to keep her aloft), and a long thin stick with a pointy, glittery star on one end, which leaves trails of sparkles as it is waved around. It makes one wonder what the star is actually for. Certainly it would be a brilliant weapon against all types of unsavoury sorts.

Fairy godmothers/fathers are not a very prolific breed, for it takes a special type of person, who is very sure of themselves to be able to listen to the petty whining of a 16-year-old who has never had a real relationship (and the only reference they have is the ramblings of inane books like 'Twilight'), and who think that going to a ball or whatever dressed in something that comes straight from 'The Labyrinth', will win them the attentions of a handsome Prince. Thankfully for us, John is neither 16, nor had he ever heard of 'Twilight'.

Now how does one respond properly to such a greeting? John did the only thing he could do. He offered the fairy godfather a cup of tea in an automatic reflex when confronted with a man carrying a potentially dangerous weapon in his hands. The only other option was to scream in the godfather's face and race upstairs to hide beneath his bed. But that response is more the purview of the 15-16 year-old set. And as we have established, John is older than that, and being older, is more mature.

The fairy godfather had sat upon the stool opposite John, and spent a few minutes drinking the tea before telling John that he was not only John's godfather but quite a few others, whom he had just finished visiting and gotten ready for the ball. John was the last on his list, and was a bit of a relief as his previous clients were mostly idiot 16-year old girls (and one boy) who all wanted the sort of dress that involves over 300 yards of tulle, and enough sequins that would put Cher to shame.

John, being the pragmatic sort, told the fairy godfather, grey of hair and Lestrade of name, that it was very kind of him to come, but he was fairly sure that the ball wasn't for him. Also, tulle and sequins did nothing for his complexion. Alas, for our hero, this is a fairy story, as I have mentioned before, and to have the hero not attend a ball was simply not to be borne.

Within a half hour of his initial greeting, Lestrade had bespelled John's clothes, citing that no self-respecting man would be caught dead in clothes with setting plaster on them, and turned the afore mentioned cabbage (Lestrade had wanted a pumpkin but John had already turned the last one into a fine soup for his supper), the finch and the cat into their respective roles.

Much too soon John found himself alighting upon the steps of the castle, and heading up. He felt a lot better once he saw that there were others who were also as late as he, although it didn't leave him much time until the magic wore off, which was midnight. Lestrade bemoaned the fact that he could not change the basic rules and John had only 3 hours.

And so, John, fair of hair and unremarkable of face, told his name to the usher, and with supreme confidence, the automatic confidence that could only come when one has bespelled clothes, stepped out.

A/N: Oh, I am so sorry for not updating for 3 years. I was going to sooner, but I have had a writer's block due to a quite important plot device I intend to write in. However, as time wore on, I got more and more guilty for not updating, and before I knew it, 3 years had passed. However, with the third Sherlock season coming soon, I got a fresh wind of inspiration and FINALLY broke out of the writer's block. However, don't look for another quick update. I have a crime plot I want to write in, and I need to do a bit of research on which Sherlock story would be the best for this...