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11:35pm, Wednesday
It’s been a strange old day…
The pictures that followed the rather cryptic entry on Molly’s blog almost had Sherlock reaching for his gun; the bloodied man displayed there was quite stupid, he’d decided. Nevertheless, the skinny weirdo had captured his pathologist’s attention and, therefore, earned the detective’s interest. A quick word with Mary Watson had turned into a full blown lecture on Molly’s new crush, the name of which Sherlock hadn’t bothered to learn. His self-proclaimed sister-in-law had even suggested he dress as the superhero for Bart’s annual fancy dress fundraiser, something he’d never paid attention to. Until now.
Standing before the mirror, Sherlock shook his head, “no, this is ridiculous.”
“Oh, shut up, you look fantastic…you know, in a strange way” Mary beamed proudly, she herself dressed in a brown leather jacket, brown trousers and beige shirt, a whip casually tucked into her belt – Sherlock had a suspicion her husband had something to do with the overall decision of her outfit.
Glancing back at the mirror, the consulting detective had to admit the ensemble worked quite nicely; the long fluttery red cape, despite being completely idiotic, was made of a soft material and rested surprisingly lightly on his shoulders. The blue robes were comfortable and worked nicely with the belt. Mary had applied his bloodied make-up, rubbing at his face with her thumb for the finishing touches. Leaning closer to the mirror, Sherlock dragged a hand over his hastily grown goatee and nodded, finally satisfied.
“See? You’ll knock her dead…just,” Mary swept a hand through his hair, concentrating particularly on a single curl that had broken free from the copious amounts of gel she’d dumped onto the pristine locks. The curl refused to co-operate and bounced back into place. Mary shook her head, placing a brown fedora on top of her own neat do, “nevermind, Stephen, hopefully she won’t figure out your secret identity.”
Sherlock merely blinked at her, “I don’t know what that means.”
“’course you don’t,” Mary smiled, ushering her friend out of the door.
Sherlock didn’t know what was weirder, watching his assassin-turned-stylist snog silly a short, barefoot elf – hobbit, hobbit! - or their five-year-old dragon bound up to him, demanding a cuddle; he smiled at his goddaughter, her costume making her look even more adorable than usual. It was at Sharlotte’s cry of ‘Mowwy’ that finally brought Sherlock’s eyes up. When he at last laid eyes on his pathologist, he very nearly dropped his precious little niece. Molly was smiling at him – nothing new there, he thought as her nose scrunched. She offered Sharlotte a little wave, the child wriggling out of his arms to run over into her arms – Sherlock was too stunned to follow after her, his eyes raking over Molly’s body. Mary hated him, he realised, or at least she wanted him to suffer. It was the only explanation he could come up with as to why she hadn’t informed him of Molly’s costume of choice: pirate.
A pirate femme fatale, capable of bringing men to their knees and pillaging their goods with just a glimpse of the dagger on her- he shook his head, glancing away to keep his cheeks from flaring up any further. The sight of Molly in knee-high black leather boots had been an image he hadn’t thought of in months. A pair of black leggings, an intricate overcoat, shirt and captain’s hat completed the jaw-dropping ensemble. When he felt brave enough to look over at her, she was still smiling…in mirth? Oh, good, she was moving closer. He feebly smiled back at her, unsure of what to do – he stiffened when Molly leaned closer, talking into his ear over the blaring music.
“Hello, ‘stranger’,” apparently she’d said something amusing for she was giggling. He didn’t say anything in reply and Molly cleared her throat, gesturing at his clothes, “you look bloody…perfect.”
“Mary’s idea,” he replied simply, his mouth dry as a bone; should he offer to get them drinks? Judging by the looks she was getting, every bloke in the room had probably already done so. He ignored this in favour of watching her lips.
“Do you even know what you are?”
“Not a clue,” he answered honestly, smirking when she doubled over in laughter, clutching his arm for support, “I’ve been told it’s weird.”
Molly nodded, deciding an explanation would be pointless – he’d only delete the information anyway. They hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room for a moment, each reluctant to make the first move. Thankfully, neither of them had to; Sharlotte Watson had bounded towards the DJ, requesting her Aunt Molly’s favourite song. In her excitement, the pathologist had seized her detective pal and hauled him to the dancefloor, relieved to find no resistance on his part. In fact, when the music kicked in, she found her partner was quite enthusiastic to prove he was, in fact, an accomplished dancer.
“Now they’re just showing off,” John moaned, his chin resting in his hand; he had been watching his best mate leap across the dance floor in a blur of red and black, performing expert moves and effortless lifts. Mary nudged him, securing her sleeping daughter in her arms.
“You’re just upset because your clunky feet got in the way.”
He sighed, recalling the moment half an hour ago when he’d eagerly attempted to get Mary on the floor, only to trip her up and break her whip. Instead, he settled for leading Sharlotte around the room with her standing on his enormous hobbit feet. Raucous applause brought him from his thoughts and he looked up to see the detective supreme kissing Miss Molly’s hand, giving her a sly wink. A brief moment later and the two were hurrying towards the exit, neglecting to say their goodbyes. Well, he wasn’t having that.
“Oi!” The army hobbit jumped to his feet, his wig humorously askew; his friends stopped beside the door, clearly impatient. John glanced between them, confused, “where the hell are you going? They haven’t even started the auction yet! I thought you,” he addressed Molly, flushed and fidgety, her hand still grasping Sherlock’s, “wanted that holiday.”
“I know,” Molly hesitated, glancing at Sherlock – the man was glaring daggers at his former roommate. Molly bit her lip, “we’re just- getting some air.”
John had been about to reply with another skeptical comment when he felt the warm breath of his wife next to his ear. The music drowned out most of her words but from ‘pillaging booty’ and a final glance at his desperately fidgeting and glaring ex-flatmate, he could get the jist of his wife’s words. He grimaced and folded his arms.
“Right, um…enjoy the- err, air.”
With that, the two of them disappeared into the corridor and John shuddered, turning to his wife, “unbelievable.”
Mary smirked at the clueless love of her life, “I think the word you’re looking for is strange.”
He would have turned and walked out of the door if he wasn’t so keen on winning the holiday; instead, John narrowed his eyes at his wife and received their daughter from her, preparing himself for a night of pirate-magician related puns regarding what their friends were up to. He was going to need another drink…