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A couple of weeks before Halloween there was a knock at 221. John could hear Mrs. Hudson answer, close the door quickly, and call as she headed upstairs, “Yoohoo, boys! Package for you.”
Sherlock swooped to the kitchen door, intercepting the box before John could even get up from the table in the living room. He was struggling to come up with a catchy title for their latest case, which had involved a hobby farm on the outskirts of the city where the criminal ended up being a territorial ostrich.
“Thank you, Hudders,” Sherlock said, while giving her a brief kiss on her cheek. Mrs. Hudson tsked and grabbed the dishes from their morning tea, depositing them in the kitchen before retreating to the ground floor. Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom and was on his way out again when John asked as casually as he could manage, “What’s in the box, Sherlock?”
“Surprise.”
“Costume?” John knew that Sherlock was planning their couple’s costume for the NSY party.
Sherlock flopped into his chair and pulled out his phone, ignoring his husband’s inquiry. It was clear this wouldn’t be a fight worth having.
On Friday the 27th, John got home from a long day at the surgery to find Sherlock in his chair and stopped short. He wasn’t in a suit. And he wasn’t in pajama bottoms and a dressing gown. John couldn’t remember ever seeing a middle ground, and yet - that evening he was wearing jeans.
“Jeans.”
“Very astute, John,” Sherlock replied, smirking.
“Why?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s the NSY party tonight, don’t tell me you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget, but that doesn’t look like much of a costume, Sherlock.”
“I’ve never worn jeans, John.” Sherlock looked down sneering. ‘These are horrible. Would you tell me that you actually enjoy wearing them? They’re so restrictive.” Sherlock picked at the fabric displeased. John would have to admit that it was enough unlike his husband to wear jeans that it could be construed as a Halloween costume on him.
“Well?”
“Well what, John?”
John shifted onto his left leg and sighed. He’d had a long day, and would rather not play games. “Where’s my costume, Sherlock?”
“Your outfit is laid out on the bed.”
John put his bag down on his desk chair and went down the hall. Upon entering the bedroom he stopped short - Sherlock seemed to be having that effect on him this afternoon. He recognized the jeans, vest, shoes, and socks as his own. The printed t-shirt (T-shirt, Sherlock? Really?) was not his, though. He picked it up. The fabric was very soft; of course Sherlock would get a high quality blend. John didn’t understand the numbers and vertical lines though. And they were only on half of the front of his shirt. It almost looked like...whatever. He was determined to get to NSY and drink. They’re paying, he’s drinking, and the rest didn’t matter.
John joined Sherlock in the living room as he was pulling on his Belstaff and scarf. “Car’s waiting, John.”
They pulled up to NSY and met their friends inside the ballroom. Molly, her boyfriend Bob (“Boring,” Sherlock had said on their first meeting. “I happen to like a little bit of boring sometimes, Sherlock,” she’d replied), Greg and Mycroft (Finally, brother, Sherlock’s eyebrows stated, while Mycroft’s replied, Say anything and I’ll tell them about the experiment accident of 1999), Anderson and wife number two, and Sally and her girlfriend were all in attendance, as well as hundreds of people John and Sherlock didn’t know. Or care about.
John and Sherlock removed their coats and gave them to the young woman collecting them. John put a quid into the tip jar and thanked her. He’d probably put five more in later. No doubt drunk coppers were bad tippers. Or maybe they’re good tippers? Either way, she’d have to deal with drunk old men, so he’d tip well.
“John, you must remember to stay on my left side tonight,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s right hand and stringing their fingers together. “Otherwise this costume won’t work.”
John threw a grin at his husband. “What about in the loo? Can I go in there alone, or do we have to piss side by side?”
“Don’t be crass John,” Sherlock said as they reached the bar and ordered their scotch. Sherlock was surprised by the quality of liquor he was drinking. He’d expected it to be low-shelf, but in fact he recognized the subtle honeyed undertones. His eyes locked on John’s as he took his first sip, his eyes widening predictably when he remembered the first time he’d had this scotch.
“Do you remember that night, Sherlock?”
“I do, John,” Sherlock nearly growled at his husband.
“How’s that kilt faring,” John stage whispered.
“It’s seen better days.” Sherlock took another draw from his glass and closed his eyes, letting the memories of their first time together flood his senses.
“Oi! Mates! I don’t see any costumes over there,” the DCI bellowed from across the room. Sherlock glared at his brother. The person interrupting his reverie belonged to him, therefore it was his fault. He probably deserved worse, but, after all, it was a holiday.
John and Sherlock turned away from the bar to face Greg, dressed as a silver fox, and Mycroft in a banana suit. Sherlock put his arm around John’s waist and pulled him close. Public displays of affection weren’t something they did often, so it took John by surprise.
He leaned his head behind Sherlock’s shoulder and whispered, “If your plan is to liquor me up and touch me all night, I approve.” Sherlock lifted half his mouth in a quick affirmation, but continued to glare at his brother.
John would normally give Greg a manly one armed hug/hand shake, but since he was tied up, he just raised his glass in a silent toast.
Mycroft pretended to study the pair in front of him. “Clever, brother. Did you plan on winning an award tonight?”
“We’ll win at least two, and we might squeak out a third depending on how drunk Anderson gets.”
Greg’s face brightened up, “Is Anderson on the committee this year?”
“Mate, how many is that for you so far tonight,” John asked his friend who seemed a few sheets to the wind.
“It’s only my second, but I’m a little drunk on the evening, aren’t I,” Greg replied smiling at his date. His date returned a smile that reached his eyes. It reached his whole face, actually. John had never seen Mycroft look so happy. He felt happy for them. Sherlock gagged.
“Ew.”
“Careful, brother mine, I may be inclined to kiss my boyfriend.” Mycroft said each word loudly enough for people within a two foot radius to hear him, but kept his smile and eyes on Greg.
John felt a strong tug on his waist as Sherlock pulled them away from the bar and the “grossest couple ever.”
John could hear them giggling behind him and knew that he’d be having a night at the pub this week with Greg. He thought it would be interesting, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Chelsea was playing Manchester United.
Sherlock would have been happiest just sitting in a corner with John, mocking everyone else’s costumes. But then theirs wouldn’t be seen. So he spent the next few hours drinking and mingling in a very un-Sherlockian way. He was seen whispering to a few people and they’d always end up laughing. John loved having him with him instead of just being near him, or in the same room as him. Sherlock insinuated himself with people he hadn’t cared about before and John figured they must have been judges. At 10:30 p.m. Anderson’s voice came over a p.a. system.
“Ladies, and Gentlemen, can we have your attention, please? First let me thank the honorable Chief Superintendent for his donation of tonight’s main prize, a long weekend at his Southampton house on the water.” A dignified (more so than John or Sherlock would have expected from a crowd this size with as much alcohol as has been served) round of applause sounded in the ballroom. “We have other prizes from Tesco, The Organic Pharmacy, Angelo’s Italian restaurant, and more. The committee has looked at all the costumes and we have our list of winners. Once you’ve been called up please stay for a group photo. Everyone has been judged fairly, and the winners are thus: For best couple (Sherlock squeezed John’s hand), Sherlock Holmes and John Watson for their costume: an item.” There was applause and murmurs through the crowd and John and Sherlock made their way to the front of the room. They took their prize and shook the hands of the judges and turned toward the large group.
When everyone could see John and Sherlock they saw two white t-shirts with black vertical lines from the left half of Sherlock’s shirt through the right half of John’s shirt. On each end, in the center of each shirt the lines went lower and were a bit thicker. There was a nine-number sequence under the inner-vertical lines and in context it was easy to see how they’re an item. Put together the pattern was a UPC. Hence, why John wasn’t allowed to leave Sherlock’s side. Without one, the other didn’t make sense.
Anderson read a few more categories out: best single, best on a budget (under ￡10), etc. “We have two more categories, and then we’re all being kicked out. For most ingenious costume...Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” Sherlock put on the smile he uses with clients when he accepted their second prize. “The last award, best over-all, goes to...and this probably won’t be a surprise, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”
John was surprised they’d actually gotten three prizes. He thought their costume was clever, but did it deserve best over-all? He suspected Sherlock had been whispering more than just the title of their costume to the judges. Had he flirted?! John sent a calculating glance at his husband, wondering if Sherlock would be willing to actually flirt to win a contest. He was pretty sure, that yes...yes he would.
“Let’s go home, John.” Sherlock said as the venue began to empty. Greg bounded over and congratulated them on their prizes, and the weekend in Southampton.
“Pub?” he asked. Sherlock groaned. Mycroft leaned over and whispered very quietly into Greg’s ear. Greg started blushing and said a hasty good-night before retreating to get his coat with a tall, minor government employee quickly following.
“Jooohn, I want to go home now.” Sherlock had had enough of people and wanted out of the party. John figured that his husband had been on very good behavior tonight, and he could give him what he wanted. Not to mention it had been a long day and he could use some sleep. He tipped the coat-check woman and met Sherlock outside, where he’d already secured a taxi.
John followed his husband in and sat next to him. He grabbed Sherlock’s left hand and played with his wedding ring. They hadn’t been married long, but after so many years as friends/flatmates/detective and blogger, it felt like much longer. Though their frequent touching was still new-ish. John started smiling at the thought.
“What is it,” Sherlock enquired.
“I’m just remembering what I’m allowed to do now,” John replied as he leaned over and kissed his husband.