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Okay, the party isn’t so bad. But it isn’t great, either. It’ll take a lot more than spiked egg nog to convince Sherlock that these sorts of affairs are worth his time. To his horror, he has also discovered precisely what a “White Elephant” is.
Certainly when John told him to wrap a small gift for the party, he didn’t expect that it could go to anyone. He’d been working on developing a proper sense of humor recently and this gift was a great stab in that direction, except that not very many people would find it anything shy of uncomfortable. Sweeping his eyes around the room, Sherlock suddenly wonders if there’s any straight liquor left over.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lestrade asks, sauntering up beside him with a bright grin.
As much as the man hates socializations and parties, he can’t help feeling a little festive. Decked out in a ‘sweater’ that seems to be made mostly of crepe paper and ornaments, Lestrade almost seems to be enjoying himself even.
“Simply wondering what the odds of escaping before the gift exchange are,” Sherlock murmurs through gritted teeth. “Does everyone else in the world know what a White Elephant is? I’m quite sure I’ve never heard of this abhorrent tradition before.”
Lestrade laughs heartily, taking a swig of something that smells suspiciously stronger than anything this party is offering. “Yes,” he responds. “But just be grateful it’s not a Secret Santa.” He shivers exaggeratedly and claps Sherlock on the back. “Don’t worry, mate, I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
It is that bad.
The first several people choose the most beautifully decorated packages, a trend which does not surprise John apparently. “That’s why I always wrap mine badly. Throws them off the scent,” he explains.
“Because you have a surprisingly decent gift?” Sherlock asks, eyeing his companion.
“Nah, it’s shite. But at least they don’t know it’s me.”
Sherlock glances back at the table and the pile of presents there. “They know it’s you,” he responds, nearly laughing. Any further response is strangled off when Anderson’s number is called and the scraggly man makes his way to the table.
Ever the perfectionist, Sherlock has wrapped his own gift beautifully, and it’s clearly the best looking package remaining at the table. Unsurprisingly, Anderson scoops it up with a playful smile. It might have even been an attractive smile on anybody else.
“This is heavy,” he announces appreciatively, playing with the fixated crowd. “So at least I know it isn’t an empty box.” He throws a playful glance at Molly, who went second and chose a particularly large box, only to discover a pile of bubble wrap and a box of tea. She smiles softly, blushing.
“Open it!” John laughs, enjoying Sherlock’s discomfort. The detective glares at him but he merely shrugs.
The ribbons come first, then the neat wrapping paper, and finally the opaque plastic covering, all to reveal a—
“Fruitcake?” Anderson announces, surprised. Those gathered laugh softly, glad to have found confirmation that their own gag gifts won’t be taken so poorly. “Oh there’s a card.”
John leans forward eagerly and Sherlock covers his face with his hand. “Dear God, if you exist….”
“Stop it, Sherlock, this is great!”
Setting the dessert down on the nearest table and opening the envelope, Anderson reads the card to himself first before reading it aloud, laughing heartily as he does so. “From your very favorite fruitcake. SH. Sherlock, is that you?”
The crowd laughs, turning their attention to Sherlock with excited eyes. Pressing his lips together, Sherlock manages a shrug.
Anderson is silent for a moment until his face suddenly twists into a full laugh and he puts his hands in the air. “I don’t know too many fruitcakes, so I suppose it’s true!” he declares. “Who wants a slice?”