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“John, look at me!”
Sighing deeply, John turned from the mirror, his bow tie hanging loosely around his neck. Through the doorway into the living room, he just caught sight of Sherlock doing a rather bent-legged, albeit energetic, cartwheel across the living room, followed by a loud crash.
“Ouch, that was rather painful! Oh no, my skull! John, my skull fell off!”
“For God’s sake,” John muttered under his breath, walking briskly into the room. “Oh, for – Sherlock, you knocked over the whole bloody table!”
Sherlock grinned up at him, sitting in his pyjamas in the middle of large stacks of paper and a spilt cup of tea. Thankfully, it looked like the table had survived the fall.
“John, where are the–”
“No! You are not having anymore! Now get ready, we have to be there in half an hour.”
“Oh please, John!”
“No, I’ve had enough of you like this–”
“But John!” Sherlock whined, pounding a fist into the ground.
Turning his back on his friend, John snapped, “If you’re not ready in ten minutes I’m going without you.”
Sherlock continued to grumble as John walked away to finish tying his bow tie, a frown engraved onto his face. I knew I should have stopped him after his fourth packet, though John, except he would have found my hiding place in a matter of seconds.
“Yippee!” An ecstatic cry echoed through the flat.
“Oh, bloody hell,” John muttered, running back to the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, an even bigger grin on his face as he tore into the largest pack of flying saucers yet.
“Ooh John, you thought you could hide them from me but I saw the way you moved your left shoe in the vague direction of this cupboard–”
“Sherlock, if we don’t get to this party on time Lestrade will have your head. So, unless you want to go in your pyjamas, get a bloody move on!”
“Yes!” Sherlock shouted with wild eyes as he bounded to his feet, still cramming flying saucers into his mouth. “Pyjamas!”
Well, thought John, I never should’ve suggested that. But he knew that, once Sherlock had got an idea into his head, he’d never let it go and so decided that his flatmate would be attending this high-profile Christmas party in his pyjamas. Whilst on a sugar rush.
What could possibly go wrong?
*****
“So then Henry told Francesca about the job, much to Peter’s horror, so he was forced to…” John laughed politely along with the rest of the crowd, although he’d stopped following the short, grey-haired banker’s story five minutes ago. He’d left Sherlock a few minutes ago to circulate; his friend had begun to entertain himself by making complicated battle plans with Mycroft’s shoelaces under the table. His brother was attempting to make conversation with the Deputy Prime Minister and did not look impressed.
They were at a prestigious Christmas party in the heart of London on Mycroft’s invitation, mingling with some of the country’s most influential people, along with a few other notable law enforcement figures. It was supposed to be a thank you gesture for a case they’d solved back in November for a high-ranking MP, but John suspected Mycroft had some kind of ulterior motive; probably a case Sherlock was unlikely to take on willingly.
Speaking of Sherlock, he was now writing out what looked like complicated scientific equations in sharpie on the edge of the expensive tablecloth, staring intently at the man at the centre of John’s conversation. Sighing, John excused himself from the exceedingly dull discussion to return to Mycroft’s table.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” hissed John, snatching the sharpie away from him only for Sherlock to produce another from inside his dressing gown sleeve. After a few more scribbles, he seemed to have reached some sort of conclusion as he grabbed John’s arm and yanked him to the floor to join him under the table.
“Sherlock, what–”
“Shh John, I’m thinking,” Sherlock stated loudly.
“People are starting to stare–”
“That man. I knew something was off but I didn’t really understand quite what… Look at him, John.”
John gaped at the short, grey-haired man who had thankfully not yet noticed the commotion Sherlock was causing. He was unable to find anything out of the ordinary about the man.
“Don’t you see?” Sherlock cried impatiently as he clung to the sleeve of John’s jacket.
“Sherlock, I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re on about but–”
“The first thing was his hair. It’s grey, so he’s definitely old. His tie is green so he’s a wealthy man,” Sherlock was talking so fast John could barely make out his words, but nothing stopped Sherlock once he got going. “His right foot is pointed at an angle of approximately thirty-seven degrees from the centre so, judging by the average acceleration of his hand gestures and the angle of his stance from the ground, I have come to the conclusion that there is a 5.83% chance that this man is a terrorist.”
John stared at his friend, gobsmacked.
He was never buying another packet of flying saucers for as long as he lived.
“Sherlock, he seems like a perfectly nice man. Works in a bank, married, has three cats – I think you need to have a lie down.”
Now distracted from his seemingly random deductions, Sherlock replied indignantly, “No! No, John, this is not the time for lying down! How could you say such a thing? Now we must dance!” His words blurred together once more and he took off before John could make a move to stop him.
“Oh, bloody hell.” John put his head in his hands despairingly. What had he gotten himself into?
Sherlock was now in the centre of the dance floor, gyrating his hips awkwardly as he swung his arms up in the air, the ties of his dressing gown flapping as they caught the reflected light of the chandelier. A slow movement from a Beethoven symphony was his accompaniment but that did not stop Sherlock from galloping around the room like a heavy-footed, lanky gazelle. He attempted a very ambitious side leap before tripping over and falling into a heap on the floor.
“John.”
John spun around, hoping to God that whoever it was would act like that hadn’t just happened. His eyes fell on Lestrade, a glass of expensive champagne in his hands and a worried look on his face.
“What the hell has gotten into him?” The detective glanced over at Sherlock, who had begun using his fists as binoculars to stare at the chandelier more closely. “It’s not, um,” Lestrade shifted uncomfortably before leaning in closer to John to whisper, “It’s not drugs again, is it?”
“What – no!” hissed John, jerking backwards. “God no.” Meeting Lestrade’s eyes he continued more composedly, “It’s much worse than that. Flying saucers.”
“You – you mean those little sherbet things?” asked Lestrade, disbelief etched into his features.
“Those are the ones.”
“I – I see.”
They both turned to watch the world’s only consulting detective as he snatched a tray of fancy food from a waiter and begun running around the room making loud aeroplane noises. Almost the entire room was now staring incredulously, and Mycroft was staring at John with murder in his eyes.
John turned to Lestrade. “I’d better–”
The man nodded sympathetically. “Good luck.”
Intercepting Sherlock, he grabbed the tray with the air of one practised in the art of confiscating dangerous objects from excessively curious child-men, replacing it in the bemused waiter’s hands.
“John, John! That man over there, look at his fingernails! He’s an undercover superstar drag-queen! I knew I recognised him from somewhere, let’s go and introduce–”
“No,” John snapped, “Sherlock, that’s the Prime Minister.”
“Don’t be stupid John, I could recognise the Prime Minister anywhere – look, there he is, over by the desserts!”
“That’s a bust of the Queen. And those aren’t desserts, that’s the flower arrangement.”
“Ooh, I thought they tasted a little bit funny!”
“Right, that’s it,” John hissed into his ear. “We’re going.”
“But John, I want to dance.” Sherlock tried to pull away from John’s iron grip on his arm, but his flatmate remained vigilant, pulling him towards the exit and safety.
*****
Ten minutes later, after managing a quick thank you to the host, Sherlock and John were bundled in the back of a cab and on their way back to Baker Street.
“John?” Sherlock mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue as he began to come off his sugar high.
“Yes, Sherlock?” John sighed.
“Can I have some more flying saucers? Pretty please, I promise I won’t put any more amputated fingers in the fridge for a whole month!”
Now that they were away from the stress of public humiliation, John lightened a little. “I guess so. There’s another two in the cutlery drawer.”
Sherlock grunted happily, resting his head on his flatmate’s shoulder. John cracked a smile for what felt like the first time in hours. He didn’t think Sherlock would make it back to 221B conscious and couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed – although it wasn’t ideal for Sherlock to be on one of his sugar rushes on a day like today, it was never dull around him.
John suspected this wasn’t the last time he would be purchasing flying saucers.