It's my story, let me tell it.

Christmas Card: 3 December 2012

It was so completely the opposite of what everyone expected that no one won their bet.

And there had been bets. Everyone had seen last year’s Christmas card. Everyone knew there would be a card this year. Mostly because John had told them. Repeatedly. Lestrade, Dimmock, Superior, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Merrick—if John had even a glancing acquaintance with you he told you to expect a card. “Wait until you see them.”

That was in late November and the bets were laid mere hours after and ranged from, “Twenty pounds Sherlock makes a face like someone put a dead hamster in his tea,” (“Oh but he’d like that,”) to “I bet a hundred quid the card shows up down at the pub before nightfall, on the dart board, with Mr. Sourpuss the bull’s eye.”

What everyone got instead was a card by way of Esquire by way of GQ by way of WTF?

Still, the wit with the hundred quid should have collected because she was at least half right. John and Sherlock’s 2012 Christmas card—actually, dozens of them—did indeed show up at the Met local before nightfall. Tacked up all over the mirrors in the women’s loo. And more than a few in the men’s.

It would be indelicate to mention the things written on them.

Previous: Size Matters (2 Dec)

"You go first."

"No, you go first."

"Where did you get your coat?."

Alphabet Challenge

Day Thirteen: M