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As John ran behind Sherlock, all he could hear was the deafeningly annoying sounds of the bells jingling. He ducked once, the bullet barely missing him. Sherlock yelled something, but John couldn’t make it out from the noised of the bells in Sherlock’s shoes.
He wondered how weird his life had become that it seemed completely normal for him to be chased down alleyways by criminal thugs a fortnight before Christmas, dodging bullets and trying to protect his insane flatmate, who was currently wearing a rather flamboyant elf costume. John himself was dressed as a Santa Little Helper, but his ensemble was far less exuberant.
John noted that this could take hours and he really wanted to go back home and take off these ridiculous garments. So he used his soldier bit of the brain, which thanks to Sherlock’s antics was still quite lively, to form a strategy to maximise the chances of them a) actually catching the bad guy while b) staying intact, or at least c) alive.
‘Sherlock!’ John called out and his friend turned to face him, gigantic elf ears wobbling about on the sides of his head. John stifled a snort and pointed at the fire escape on the building they were running by. He then pointed upwards, so Sherlock understood that he was supposed to climb it. They had a better chance at catching this guy if they attacked from up, since he was rather dim and also holding a gun.
Sherlock did as told, which surprised John a bit, but they were in a rather risky situation, and John waited for him to climb, while still running, but slowing the pace. Then he stopped and faced the criminal. The guy’s Santa costume was barely holding up after the run, but the beard was still there. John allowed himself to muse for a second at the ridiculousness of his life, but quickly moved to grab the Sig Sauer from the back of his green elf spandex bottoms.
‘So you’re little friend left you behind, eh?’ asked the thug, pointing the gun sideways at John, who rolled his eyes at the Hollywood show-off manoeuvre.
‘Really? Sideways?’ he asked, holding the gun steady, aiming straight at the guy’s forehead. It was a close shot, and he would not miss it. However, he did not want to have to explain to Lestrade how the guy had got a bullet between his eyes since John most certainly did not own a piece of firearm. He wished Sherlock would hurry up and tackle this dolt.
But of course, that’s not what he did. Because Sherlock never did as he was told.
‘You wouldn’t use the gun,’ Sherlock yelled from where he was standing on the second floor of the building. The thug turned at his direction and John mentally groaned. ‘Your weapon of choice is the switchblade, and you would never get any satisfaction from shooting someone… Too fast.’
The evil Santa grinned, at which John actually groaned. Sherlock was an idiot. He was going to go now get himself killed in a bloody elf costume. Perfect.
‘Given that the two of you are tryin’ ta get me arrested, I think it’s gonna feel pre’y good when I shoot both of ya,’ he exclaimed, pointing his gun at Sherlock. Apparently the guy was smarter than John thought. He knew John was not going to shoot him, and he knew John knew he was not above shooting Sherlock. Fuck, John thought. He sighed, and put his gun back on the back of his “trousers”. I don’t have time for this shit, John growled and ran. He pounced on the thug, tackling him to the ground just as the police sirens began to approach them. Thank God.
The criminal put up a fight though, but John managed to throw his gun again and with a couple of well-placed, non-life-threatening punches, he knocked the guy out.
The police arrived and they took care of statements and all the usual business. Then John and Sherlock made their way back to Baker Street on a cab.
Entering the building, John’s adrenaline high crashed and he leaned against the entrance corridor. Sherlock turned to face him. He took a look at his mad man of a flatmate and could not contain his giggles, then his hearty laughter. Sherlock soon joined him, leaning on the banister for support.
‘We’re… dressed as elves, Sherlock! Elves!’ John said in the middle of his giggles.
‘And I thought invading a country had been the most ridiculous thing you’d never done…’ Sherlock said, and John laughed even more. He joined Sherlock at the stairs, where they were both sitting down now. As their chuckles subsided, they sighed in unison, leaning against one another.
‘Chinese, then?’ asked John, turning to face Sherlock, who nodded.
‘Fine,’ he agreed, but there was a strange shadow in his eyes. He leaned in and gently pressed his lips on John’s. John gasped slightly, snapping his eyes closed, and let himself be chastely kissed by Sherlock. It was a strange feeling, but it felt… right, somehow. So John placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee in front of him and rubbed gentle circles with his thumb.
They kissed for several minutes, lips becoming more passionate, but still calm. With a last peck and a brush against John’s cheek with a thumb, Sherlock grinned.
‘Don’t forget the dumplings, John,’ he announced, standing up and moving towards their flat. John watched him leave, the pointy shoes and jingle bells on his clothes still making loud noises as Sherlock moved. He then woke from his reverie, extremely confused, but since his stomach made a not-so-nice noise, John decided that food was more important than questioning one’s sexuality. Especially since dumplings were absolutely delicious.
As was Sherlock’s bum in the spandex.