An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
in which there are preparations, Sherlock gets his purple shirt of sex for his date with John, Irene styles his hair, and he talks to a mirror
Irene’s violent giggles tore him from the confines of his insecure mind. His neck snapped to where she was running to, John in tow. Both of them were holding confetti cannons, aiming at each other. Irene jumped on a couch older than Mrs Hudson, springs creaking under her weight.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Irene threatened, bending her knees. John kneeled, closing one eye as if assessing where his shot would end (everywhere, that’s the point of confetti).
“I’ll take the chance,” John said gruffly. He clicked his tongue as if cocking a shotgun, entwining the string around his finger. “Any last words?”
“My name is Jeff!”
They fired, squares of useless, wasted paper and plastic littering the air and ground; soldiers fell to the floor, muscles and bones no longer mattering, wounds inflicted. Irene flopped on her back on the sofa, holding her neck and heaving for breath. John clutched his left shoulder, falling on his back, eyes on the ceiling where Kate’s fairy lights dangled high above them. Ave Maria could practically be heard in the background (quite literally, Mrs Hudson was having one of her moments). Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbed a confetti maker himself and walked over to John.
“I see the light,” John gasped, the healthy arm stretching towards the artificial light of heaven. Sherlock bent over to look him in the face, scrutiny and curiosity mixed with wonder of how long he will stay in character. “David Bowie? Is that you?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock said formally, “but David Bowie was too busy to attend your last breaths. May an ordinary Brit accompany you instead?”
“Noo,” John groaned, and Sherlock could see the restraint as he tried not to break character. “I’ve got a date tonight with a gorgeous bastard that’s more British than you. I need to get back to Earth.”
Sherlock gave him a pitying smile, and drew his weapon. John’s eyes darted from the confetti cannon to Sherlock, daring him to try. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go yet. David Bowie is quite keen on seeing you. Any last wish?”
“Yeah, tell that gorgeous fucker he can keep my skull,” John fake glared, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then, all of a sudden, he surged forwards and snatched the cannon from Sherlock’s grip, dragging the taller boy down and on his back. John had him pinned, crouching over him, the cannon pointing at his chest, a victorious smirk on John’s face. “Ha. Didn’t expect that, did you?”
“Get a room, you two,” Irene said, feigning vomiting much to Kate’s amusement. Sherlock showed her the middle finger and she made to slap it, but John fired off the cannon above their heads declaring the war over.
