Author's Note: I am having a great deal of fun with this. Fanfic is new to me and I've only written a few. Please let me know if you like what I'm doing and check out my other stories. Reviews are love, people. Almost as good as cupcakes.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Sherlock-"

"No, John. Under no circumstances. Not if you set me on fire and threatened to have Anderson spit on me to extinguish the blaze. Not-"

"Sherlock, you're being ridic-"

"-if it were the only way to save one hundred doe-eyed children clutching kittens to their collective bosom. No. I will not, I repeat, not wear that."

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock. It's only a costume."

"That," Sherlock sniffed, "is not a costume. It is a polyester abomination of the first order. And I will not allow it to touch my person. Take it back."

"You're impossible!" John spluttered.

"Irrelevant. And despite your adorable utterances to the contrary, I'm still not wearing it."

"It's a fancy dress party, Sherlock! You have to wear a costume!"

"Well, what are you wearing?"

John produced the costume from the garment bag and frowned at Sherlock's snort of disgust.

"You can't be serious! You're going to parade around in that? And the hat, John! Dear God, it's an affront to polite society!"

John groaned. "It's a costume, Sherlock! Polite society has no bearing-"

"No bearing? You want us to traipse around London dressed at the Mad Hatter and the March Hare?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you ill, John? Or worse, are you high? Because for you to entertain the notion that I would voluntarily-"

"You're making a fuss over nothing, Sherlock." John's fists began to clench and unclench in an unconscious gesture of anxiety. "And Mycroft and Lestrade are going as Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I thought we could blend."

Sherlock barked out a hard laugh. "Mycroft and Les-? That is just disturbing." His eyebrow twitched. "Yet oddly appropriate. But, no. I am not wearing a," he ground out the words, "bunny suit."

"The March Hare, Sherlock. Not a bunny. For chrissakes, I'm not asking you to hop around and pass out chocolate eggs!"

"You've got a better shot at getting me to do that than wear this horrific thing." He fingered the material. "Oh, God, John, it smells like mothballs and liniment!" He shook his head vigorously. "No. Never." He frowned pointedly at John. "Over my dead body."

"Then I'll have to kill you," John shot back, irritated. "But it'll be a bitch dragging your corpse on the Tube."

"Why this, John? Why must you do this to me?" Sherlock whined. "Didn't I wear those ridiculous boxers with the hearts all over them that you bought me for Valentine's Day?"

"You did," John nodded.

"Without complaint, John! Without. Complaint." The consulting detective said through gritted teeth.

"There wasn't much to complain about if I remember correctly," John insinuated with a smile.

"Yes, well." Sherlock flounced onto the sofa with a petulant huff. "Why did I agree to this nonsense in the first place?"

John's smiled turned devilish. "Because you'll agree to almost anything when I have my mouth wrapped around your-"

"Yes, yes," he snapped, sitting up, waving long arms into the air. "I am well aware of the damned persuasive abilities your mouth seems to possess." He pursed his lips in annoyance. "And your penchant for exploiting me in the throes of passion."

"Throes of passion?" John laughed. "It was last Tuesday in a storage closet at the Yard! Hardly a romantic assignation. And you were the one who started it, don't you forget! One minute I'm discussing blood spatter with Lestrade, and the next thing I know, you've got me in a dark room with my trousers around my ankles humming the first verse to 'God Save the Queen' on my-"

"Still irrelevant, John!" Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him. His mouth quirked into a grin. "And we both know how patriotic you are."

John flushed. "All right, I suppose it was unfair of me to turn the tables on you, but I knew you would never agree otherwise. And besides, this means a lot to Molly. She's been so excited about throwing this party."

Sherlock huffed.

"Won't you even consider it? Please?" John shook the bag at him. "Please? It will be fun."

"Fun," Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. "God save me from fun." He groused for a moment then opened one eye. "Fine. But, I'm not wearing that and you're not going as the blasted Hatter."

"What do you suggest, then, if you've made up your mind?" John sighed.

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Thinking, John. I'm thinking."

John rolled his eyes and set the bag aside. "Christ, we'll be here 'til Christmas."

"Don't get snippy."

"It's not being snippy if it's the truth. Seriously, Sherlock, if you want to forgo the Alice theme, then what did you have in mind?"

The consulting detective thought for a moment more, then rushed past John and bounded up the stairs.

"Where are you going?" John called.

"To see what else lurks in your closet besides an obscene amount of jumpers!" he yelled back.

"Obscene?" John started after him.

"Yes, John, obscene," Sherlock said, rifling through the closet. "While I applaud your support of the obviously thriving wool industry, you have to admit, you own more jumpers than any man in the country."

John huffed loudly.

"Don't get me wrong. It's one of the most endearing things about you, actually. You have the uncanny ability to turn an ordinary jumper into something extraordinary by merely donning it upon your person. In fact," he murmured, "the more hideous the jumper, the more I want to shag you blind."

John stared back at him, mouth agape. "How do I even respond to that? Should I be flattered or insulted?"

"Flattered, John, of course. The sight of you in cable-knit does shocking things to my libido." More clothes hit the floor. "Bloody shocking things."

"Uh-huh. Why do I not feel flattered?"

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed. "This." He pulled a garment from the closet. "You should wear this."

"Sherlock, that's my dress uniform. It's ceremonial. For, you know, ceremonies."

"It's perfect!" Sherlock turned to face John with a bright smile. His smile quickly faded at John's drawn up expression. "What?"

"I was sort of saving that."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Saving it? For what?"

John began to stare at an invisible spot on the floor, scuffing it with the toe of his trainer. "Something, I don't know, special."

"Special?" Sherlock blinked rapidly. "I'm confused. How is getting me to parade around in costume in public not special?"

More scuffing. "It's just…I was just-"

"Yes, just what?"

John threw his hands up in consternation. "I don't know, Sherlock I was just-" John's voice went low," -thinking to save that for our civil ceremony. You know, whenever we got around to getting married."

"Married?" The pieces fell together. "Oh. Special. Right." Sherlock laid the uniform on the bed and reached for John, putting his arms around the doctor's waist, pulling him close. John returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. He let out a soft, contented sigh and dropped a kiss on John's head. "Oh, John. You should know that it doesn't matter to me at all what you wear to that." He drew back and looked into John's eyes. The concern on John's face tugged at his heart, the doctor's concern palpable in his gaze. "It's sweet that you think of things like that, but I would have you no matter what you were wearing. You're my John." Sherlock's mouth turned up in a slow smile. "You could wear a burlap sack and I would still marry you."

"I know, but-"

Sherlock hugged him again. "Fine. Wear it to our ceremony, if it means that much to you. But, wear it to the party, too. I would love to see you in it." He smiled into John's hair. "Please?"

"Damn you," John murmured against his chest. "You know when you say 'please', it's my undoing."

Sherlock chuckled. "'Please' isn't the only thing. Ow! No poking!"

"Then stop being insufferable, you twit." John stepped back and frowned. "I just thought-"

"I know what you thought. It's sweet, but unnecessary. Really."

"Fine," John sighed. "Although I'm not entirely sure that dressing up as an Army captain is a stretch for me."

"Bollocks. You'll look fantastic."

"And what will you be then, while I'm looking so damned fantastic in a suit I haven't worn in ages?"

"Good question." Sherlock returned to the closet, this time concentrating on his side. "Here," he said, pulling out an expensively tailored tuxedo. "I'll wear this."

"A tuxedo? Really? You're going to hurt yourself thinking outside of the box like that."

"Shush," Sherlock admonished. "It's perfect. I'll go as James Bond, the leaner, more Connery version, not like that swarthy Craig brute, and I'll spend the evening looking posh and formidable while swilling back vodka martinis like nobody's business."

"Vodka martinis aside, how is that any different from your normal appearance?"

"John, you wound me," Sherlock scoffed. "Just think, I'll get nice and pissed and let you take advantage of me on the way home. It may be the only way I will survive this whole horrendous ordeal."

"I will admit, that idea has merit," John smiled, "but I hope you have another tux, because I refuse to let you wear that one."

"Of course I do, but what's wrong with this one?"

John flipped back the front of the jacket, exposing the label. "That's why."

Westwood.

Sherlock's face scrunched in dismay. "I see your point." He slung the garment over his arm and pulled another from the closet for John's approval. "Ralph Lauren?"

John nodded.

"Fine. We will," his eyes flicked down to his arm. "We will burn this one in effigy."

"Whatever."

"Excellent!" Sherlock shouted as he raced downstairs.

John's eyes widened. "No, Sherlock! Not in here! NOT IN THE SITTING ROOM!"