I smiled proudly up at my boys, not stopping Sherlock when he raised his card again. "So, on to some funny stories –"
"Can you – can you wait till I sit down?" John asked, sighting slightly. I chuckled, rolling my eyes. Sherlock nodded awkwardly as the applause continued. I reached up a hand and patted Sherlock's shoulder encouragingly as John turned to sit back down, clearing his throat.
"So, on to some funny stories about John." Sherlock finally got out. John chuckled, meeting my eyes again before looking back towards his wife. Sherlock's eyes roved towards the audience, who was still dabbing at their eyes and recovering from their emotions.
"If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would..." Sherlock trailed off pleadingly as the audience laughed. "...be better."
"On we go." I finally put in, knowing that it was my turn. "So, for funny stories, one has to look no further than John's blog."
Sherlock produced his mobile from his jacket pocket and brandished it in the air, gesturing between John and me, adding, "the record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romaniticise things a bit, but then, you know, he's a romantic." Sherlock glanced down at John and Mary, giving him a wink.
"We've tackled some strange cases." I went on, smiling at the tiny gesture. "The Hollow Client..."
Sherlock led the way into 221B after a trip out to Scotland Yard, John and Elanor at his heels. The moment he entered the room he noticed a person sitting in the chair, but he looked strange. Then he took another glance.
All that was left of their elusive client was his empty suit, set out precisely as they would be should there be a person filling them, including a pair of shoes at the ends of the trousers. Okay, definitely interesting.
"The Poison Giant..."
They could see his head as he darted across the rooftop, racing along over a ledge. But as he came into view, they immediately saw his body, which was tiny. But his remarkably short stature did not diminish his lethality. He stopped abruptly, pressing a well-concealed blowpipe to his lips.
"Get down, John!" Sherlock cried.
Opposite him, John and Sherlock had to duck down as the Giant gave a sharp blow into the pipe. The dart which cut through the night hit the brickwork above their heads, and they instantly sprang back up to run on in pursuit of their quarry.
Sherlock raised his chin, checking with me with a glance before he went on, "We've had some frustrating cases..."
John sat at the dining room table, nursing a mug of tea. He glanced up as Elanor entered the kitchen through the side door, setting down their shopping. As she shrugged out of her coat, she gestured to Sherlock, who was sat in the other room, with a nod of her head.
"What's he up to?" She asked, deflecting John's attention to his flatmate. He was slouched in his chair, as was his custom, thoughtfully stroking his upper lip and scrutinizing a matchbox, perched in his other hand.
"What is that?" John asked. Sherlock looked up, a small sigh on his lips.
"A French decathlete found completely out of his mind, surrounded by 1,812 matchboxes – all empty, except this one." He said, his tone begging for them to ask what it was. So Elanor obliged.
