A/N: A lovely little Johnlock one-shot for Halloween. Whipped this up in two hours and only mildly beta'ed.

I sent it to the lovely old ping hai as per usual, but because I wanted this out on Halloween and was going to be super busy the next couple days with it being my son's first real Halloween that he gets to go trick-or-treating at, we were forced to go back to old method of editing. The one that didn't work so well for us before. The dreaded corrections via email, instead of instant messaging on Skype (I have attention issues and can only handle one correction at a time, apparently. *shrugs*)

If she thinks this isn't too terrible for you poor folk, then we'll leave it as is. But if she thinks it still needs work, we'll get on Skype when I'm not so crazy busy and get it all prettied up for you darlings. Until then, enjoy and happy Halloween!

John was a rarity in the magical world. He was a magician who preferred not to use his ability. In his life as an army doctor, the ability to make things levitate often caused more damage than good. With all the flurry of activity all the time it was too easy for someone to run into his flying objects and if that object was a scalpel, then "I'm sorry," didn't cut it when the person is bleeding profusely.

He often wished that he could have fire or healing magic, something useful. And while being able to make tea from the couch sounded great, the novelty wore off fast. Plus, he was an active sort of person; sitting down, even after a long day, was abhorrent.

But after getting shot in the shoulder while in Afghanistan, he couldn't even raise a fucking teaspoon. And the lack left a static over his skin that itched. It also had the side effect of repelling other magic users. He was nauseous and dizzy and everyone he spoke to just shook their heads when he walked in.

He was going lose his mind if he couldn't find someone who could at least cure the physical effects, even if they couldn't bring back his magic.

One day he was talking to voodoo master, Mike Stamford. "I'm going mad, Mike," John said. "The symptoms are getting worse and the thought of trying my magic makes me vomit."

Mike sighed. "There's one thing you haven't tried..."

"I'm not going to a witch, Mike. We've discussed this. They are more likely to steal your soul and then thank you for the favor. I'm not doing it."

"What choice have you got? It's killing you. You know that, don't you?"

John hung his head. He did know. He only has a week, two at most, before whatever this was took his life. "Do you know any witches, then?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap.

"I know a couple. But you don't have time for most of them. You need someone who could figure out the problem, fast. There's only one person who can do that. He's just an arse."

"I don't care what his bedside manner is- wait... did you say he? I thought witches were female. Wouldn't he be a warlock?"

Mike shook his head. "Different schools of magic. At least according to him. So, will you go see him?"

"Like you said, what choice have I got. What's his name?"

"Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. The name of the shop is The Irregulars."

John chose to walk; taking a cab would have only exasperated his nausea. He looked up at the shop. It looked so ordinary, so safe. He shook his head and walked into the shop.

An old woman called out from the back, "Be right there, dearie."

When she came out, John was surprised to see a sweet-faced older woman in a deep purple dress. However, when she saw him, she pulled up short.

"Sherlock! This one's for you!"

"I don't understand," John said.

"Non-magical people come in all the time and it annoys Sherlock to deal with them. So he hired me to do that exact thing."

"Oh. Right." John looked up to see this ethereal being leaning against the door from to the back room.

His dark, curly hair framed his long, narrow face. His light colored eyes were watching John and his pale lips were in a tight line. He wore a black robe over a dark suit.

John gulped. This is why he didn't like witches. They saw too much, too deep, too fast. He staggered forward, with his hand out, for the other man to take it.

"John Watson, how do you do?"

"Why don't we skip the pleasantries? You really don't have for time that, wouldn't you agree?" The man who was surely Sherlock Holmes turned around and walked into the back room. The lady indicated to John that he was meant to follow the gorgeous creature and he rushed to catch up.

The back room was a mess compared to the almost clinical neatness of the shop itself. There were bits and bobs all over the place. Some of which John couldn't hope to identify.

"I need you to tell me everything," Sherlock said as he began pulling books off the shelves. "From your power, your strength in that power, how often you used it, when and how you lost it. Don't leave anything out, no matter how insignificant you think it is. If we are going to find the cause and subsequently, the cure, you mustn't leave anything out."

John's head rocked back from the questions that bombarded him. But he launched into answering every one of the things the witch wanted to know.

"You are certainly interesting," Sherlock said when John finished.

"Yes, well. But can you help me?" John snapped in irritation.

"Of course, I can. But it will take a couple days to make sure I'm correct and to gather the ingredients. And we'll have to wait until the full moon," he said as though he was talking about the weather and not John's life.

"What!" John bellowed. "That's a week away. I could be dead by then!"

Sherlock waved his concern away. "I'm going to prepare you a daily drought to keep this at bay until we can get you cured."

"Oh. Well thank you. Is there anything you need from me?"

"Your soul..." Sherlock said. John turned pale. "Joking, joking. I really don't know how that silly rumor started, but seriously? What would we do with all those souls? Ridiculous. No, what I will need from you is, on the day of the ritual, a drop of blood and a tuft of hair."

John let out a breath and nodded. That seemed simple enough.

"Oh and you'll need to stay here," Sherlock added, nonchalant.

"What!"

"What if the curse got worse while you were elsewhere? I wouldn't be able to help you, now would I?"

"So, I'll have to stay here the whole week?" John asked.

"Yes."

"And where would I sleep?"

"There is a spare bedroom not being used at the moment, you may use that."

"There really isn't any way I can say no, is there?" John asked with a smile.

Sherlock shook his head with an answering smile.

The witch spent the week following the ex-army doctor around. John knew he should find it annoying, but instead he found it oddly endearing.

He even let Sherlock do experiments on him after the witch explained that what hit him in the shoulder wasn't a bullet, but a curse and a rather nasty one. The experiments were to determine where the curse came from. Apparently, even as far curses go, this one was particularly repulsive.

John found himself fond of the witch by the end of the week. More than fond if he was honest.

When it came time for the ritual, Sherlock dressed John in a plain, white cotton robe sans any other covering. It made his bits itch. It took effort to refrain from scratching them. Sherlock was in his usual black robe over his fitted suit.

He took John's hand and led him carefully to a diagram, written in chalk on the pavement behind 221. He pulled out a pair of scissors and snipped the tuft required for the reversal of the curse.

Sherlock dropped the tuft into a brass bowl and added the other ingredients. He then dropped a match in the bowl and it created a smell that made John's nose wrinkle in disgust.

Sherlock began speaking a strange language John did not understand. The witch became more and more animated as time wore on. As soon as the moon reached its apex in the sky, Sherlock took out a wicked-looking dagger and held it over his head.

John looked at the dagger and then with trust in his eyes met Sherlock's. He nodded encouragingly and Sherlock brought the dagger down. He cut a thin strip across John's forearm and let it drip on to the diagram.

There was a flash of light and a roar of thunder. John screamed. When the light cleared, Sherlock found the doctor in a heap on the ground. He rushed over and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that not only was John alive, but that the curse was gone, too.

He picked John up in his arms and held him close. He carried him into Baker Street and up to his room.

Sherlock paced back and forth as John slept. He tugged at his hair. In one short week, the simple army doctor with a complex curse had become integral in his life. He just wasn't sure how to convince John to stay.

By morning, Sherlock was no closer to an answer, but he should have known better to doubt the magician. John came down and began making tea for the both of them, from the sitting room.

Sherlock smiled. "Feeling lazy this morning?"

"Oi! I think I'm allowed. That curse reversal or whatever it was knocked me out," John said with a chuckle.

The silence that stretched between them was awkward and uncomfortable.

"I want to stay."

"I want you to stay," they said together.

They looked at each other and began to laugh. Soon they had their arms wrapped around each other holding on for dear life as they laughed.

Once they stopped, John cupped Sherlock's face in his hand and pressed his lips to the witch's.

Sherlock hummed happily and slanted his face to take better advantage of the situation.

"Stay forever," he breathed.

"Always," John replied.