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"I know what you're getting for Christmas," Moriarty sing-songed, cackling evilly. He stared up at Sherlock and John, who were dangling from a rope a good twenty feet in the air.

"You always send us the same thing for Christmas, which is also what you send us on our birthdays, the anniversary of the day you first tried to kill us with Semtex, and every Bank Holiday," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and generally being unconcerned about his imminent death. "Cushions. Cushions you've made yourself."

"We have so many cushions they don't even fit on the sofa any longer," John said. "Even though we give them to the homeless and burn them for fuel in the winter."

"I don't fit on the sofa any longer," Sherlock said acidly. "Because of all the cushions."

"Boys! I cannot believe my ears! I have an Etsy shop now, you know!" Moriarty said, wounded. "It's back-ordered because people love my work! Possibly because I have such impeccable style," he added, brushing an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his Westwood pinstriped blazer. The effect was slightly negated by the crocheted fingerless gloves he wore, which were made from some sort of bobbly green wool with sparkly bits that winked under the harsh fluorescent lights of the warehouse.

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His other hand was tied to his body, which was in turn bound tight to Sherlock's body. "So, you want to tell us you've made us cushions again for Christmas? Was it really necessary to kidnap us and hang us over a pit of razor-sharp knitting needles for that?"

"I left you a hand free," Moriarty said with a careless wave of his hand. "You'll be fine. But no, you're not getting cushions for Christmas this year! Guess again!" He beamed widely, showing nearly all of his straight, white teeth.

"It's more scarves, isn't it?" Sherlock groaned. "After all the cushions you keep sending us, I almost long for the halcyon days of your handmade knitwear. Although it was tediously orange, John's hat with the pom-pom was nearly endearing."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock! I'm sooo changeable!" Moriarty chortled with glee. "You're getting these instead!" With the panache of Derren Brown revealing his latest trick, he brought a picture frame out from behind his back. John squinted. Inside the frame was a cross-stitched image of a gun. Not just any gun, but a Sig Sauer P226. John's gun, which was currently safe at home, exactly where it was least needed. Underneath the pistol was cross-stitched in lavender embroidery thread, 'Or Are You Just Pleased To See Me?'

"Oh, it's so sweet," Sherlock said sarcastically. "I can't wait to get home and hang it above the toilet."

"Sherlock, don't antagonise him," John hissed. "He could still change his mind and decide to kill us."

"Please, if he wanted to kill us he'd have done it already," Sherlock murmured. He raised his voice to address Moriarty, "It's lovely, thank you, we're so happy you've kept us in mind during the festive season. Can we go? We have a pressing engagement elsewhere."

"No, not just yet," Moriarty crooned. "Wait right there, I'll only be a moment!" He paused, a demented smile spreading over his face. "I hope you don't mind hanging around a little longer!" Giggling at his own joke, he disappeared out a side door.

"God, what now?" John whispered.

"Nothing good," Sherlock whispered back. "I don't suppose you'd like to take this unsupervised time to cut the rope?"

"I left my knife in my other jeans," John said, to Sherlock's disapproving groan.

"Why must I do everything myself?" Sherlock asked the ceiling above. The ceiling said nothing at all in response, which was just as well. "We're going to need to use our momentum to get across to that beam," he said, turning his head to nod at the aforementioned ceiling beam. Unfortunately John had his head turned towards Sherlock, and the consulting detective's lips brushed over his own.

There was a moment in which the only sound was Moriarty's humming emanating from the next room.

"Sherlock?" John croaked.

"Yes?"

"Can you have a gay epiphany whilst being tied to your best friend and suspended in midair inside a disused warehouse?"

"I don't see why not, since a scenario remarkably similar to the one you describe just happened to me," Sherlock said. "I'd like to discuss it in greater detail and possibly with less clothing on, but we are tied together over a pit of sharpened knitting needles with the world's only consulting criminal about to re-enter the room."

There was another silence. The ceiling neglected to comment on the proceedings. 

Moriarty returned, pushing what appeared to be an old-fashioned gramophone in front of him. "I can't just let you leave without getting you in the Christmas spirit," he said. "Let's have a sing-along!"

"If I wasn't thinking very hard about snogging you again, this is the bit where I would honestly ask you to kill me now," John muttered.

"But John, you have so much to live for," Sherlock murmured, a smile crooking one corner of his mouth. John shivered pleasantly.

"Any requests? I do have a playlist made, but I'm still open to suggestions," Moriarty said, far below them. He paused before breaking into giggles again. "Oh, I'm such a joker! Let's start with one of my favourites, shall we?" He pressed a button and thumping club music filled the warehouse.

"At least he had the foresight to install speakers throughout," Sherlock remarked. "The acoustics are still horrendous, but he did make a passable effort to utilise the space."

Just then the vocals cut in: Christmas is he-eere, and it's only just begun...
Moriarty had produced glow sticks from somewhere and was waving them about as he bopped around the needle-filled pit. “Join in if you know the words, boys!” he shouted gleefully. “It’s Jessica Simpson up next after this one! Come on and cheer, don’t forget tell everyone...”

“On the other hand, I’m given to understand that suicide pacts are considered incredibly romantic,” Sherlock said.

John nodded.

FIN.