Halloween

"There had to be a case on Halloween," moaned John, flashing Sherlock a look of long suffering annoyance.

"What's the trouble with that?" Sherlock slipped his mobile back into his pocket and put a hand on John's jacketed arm. "And don't bother taking your coat off, you and I need to catch a cab." He locked eyes and saw the shorter man's iron-will fade to submission.

"The trouble," said John, retrieving his gun from the desk and concealing it in a pocket, "is that Halloween night isn't the most opportune time to crime-solve. Think about the pranking and the stumbling drunk men and women, and the convenient costumes and face masks. It's a detective's nightmare!"

"Or a delicious challenge," Sherlock remarked.

John cast the ceiling a last look of despair before following Sherlock downstairs and into the darkness. The streets of London possessed an electric, almost spectral quality that Sherlock had always secretly enjoyed as a boy. Halloween, to him, was not a night for tawdry costumes and sweets—it was a time of ghostly, gloomy enigma, of secrets withheld, of haunted minds and candles burning. It suited him perfectly. He turned to John and wished there was something he could say or do to relieve his flatmate's obvious frustration. "Shall I bestow you with the case details?"

John furrowed his brows and dodged a small vampire in shockingly white face paint.

"Fine. Whatever. Yes."

"Alright, there's been a series of rather violent murders—I assume you've seen the headlines," Sherlock added. "Five people slain: Police suspect homicide. Idiots," he murmured, disgusted. "Anyhow, Scotland Yard has narrowed down the long list of suspects and believes they may have found the killers, a man and women who live on the outskirts of London. My job is to found out if this is a load of rubbish, or a legitimate assertion. And you're going to help."

"How?" asked John, instantly suspicious. Knowing Sherlock, he had a right to be.

"The couple is hosting a Halloween party, and have invited over two hundred guests, which—"

"How do you know all this?" John interrupted.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said succinctly.

"Of course, carry on, then."

"Which, as I was saying, is the perfect circumstance for a pair of psychopathic murderers; lots of people milling about, costumes and too much noise to hear a person scream." He paused. "Here's the precarious part—Mycroft's gotten us a forged copy of another couple's invitation. They were invited to the party and had asked if they could bring their two friends along. Our supposed killers, lovely hosts that they are, agreed to let two more people attend their Halloween party."

"I still don't get it," said John, getting into a cab beside Sherlock.

"That couple," Sherlock smirked, "is currently ill with a rather nasty case of food poisoning."

John gasped. "What the hell did you do to them?"

"Followed them to their pre-party dinner date an hour ago."

"You told me you were at the shops, Sherlock!"

"Never mind that, John. We now have our in!"

"Which is what?"

"We," said Sherlock, encircling John's wrist with his impossibly long fingers, "are the two extra party-goers. And we are going to stand in for our 'dreadfully ill friends.'"

"I can't believe you!" John whispered, fiercely. "I can't believe…this!"

"And another thing," said Sherlock. "The two men we're playing the parts of are dating."

"Excuse me?"

"They. Are. Together."

"The hosts don't know that!"

"Unfortunately, they do. They wouldn't have allowed anyone who wasn't a couple to attend."

"Damn," John said with angry wonder. "Another fine mess you've gotten us into." He glared at Sherlock for a few heated seconds, then—of all things—laughed. "This is utter insanity, Sherlock! Total rubbish! You're telling me that we have to act the part of two starry-eyed boyfriends in order to spy on a pair of killers?"

"It would seem so." Sherlock realized that he suddenly sounded cool and rather unfriendly. This always occurred when he tried to keep his anxiety in check. He was terrified that he was forcing John into an uncomfortable, dangerous and potentially very awkward situation, and feared a verbal explosion later on.

"Bugger. Do I have another choice?"

"If you'd rather I go alone…" Sherlock was pleased with John's immediate look of concern.

"No, Sherlock, absolutely not. We're bloody well going together or we're not going at all!"

"Good," said Sherlock. "It's settled, then. By the way, my name's Oscar and yours is Harvey. We've been together for two months." He arched an eyebrow at John. Do you understand?

John nodded. I do.

When they arrived at the party, a steady stream of guests were entering and exiting the house; it was a strange assortment of those in costume and those not, and some without much coverage in general. The house was enormous, stony and endowed with many windows through which Sherlock could see people chatting, dancing, and even—in an upper window—snogging. He blushed and regretted it.

"Here," he said, producing a plain black mask and a pair of spherical glasses from his coat. "The mask is for me. The glasses are for you."

John took them and frowned. "I'm going to look like a real moron in these, Sherlock."

"They're necessities, John! We can't be recognized, and I'm not bothering with a full costume. "These'll have to do."

"Someone's going to think they're funny and ask me when I'm planning on getting back to Hogwarts."

"You don't look at all like Harry Potter, John. You don't have a scar."

"You don't have a scar," John mimicked, irritated. "And how the hell you actually know Harry Potter has a scar, I can't imagine."

Sherlock pushed John forward. "I don't live under a rock. Ready?"

"No."

"Perfect," said Sherlock, and together, they moved toward the door.

Miraculously, the two men infiltrated the party without any unwanted suspicion. The forged invitation worked like a charm, and Sherlock's ability to beguile the hosts with his faked sociable appeal, also had its benefits.

"Brilliant," said John, shaking his head in undisguised disbelief. "Amazing. I can't believe we're in."

"Lower your voice," Sherlock advised him. "The night's just begun."

"Sorry. What's the plan, now?"

"We'll wait a couple of hours until everyone's a bit drunk and lost their powers of judgment, then keep a careful eye on the hosts. If they are our elusive killers, they'll not want to act when everyone's aware and alert, and the party's just starting. No, they'll bide their time until things get foggy and people are too relaxed, too unguarded. Then they'll go in for the kill."

John nodded. "Got it. Until then, we…?"

"What do you normally do when you're at a party with a date, John?"

The glasses did nothing to conceal the sudden crimson blush.

"Really, John," Sherlock teased. "You're the one with the experience in this area. You tell me."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not doing with you the stuff I usually do with women, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored this. "If you're so agitated, we can split up for the time being and meet back here in, say, an hour."

John struggled for a moment, then nodded. "I can live with that, yeah. Don't get into too much trouble."

"The same to you," Sherlock added, over his shoulder. "No chatting up the women, tonight, John. You're gay. Remember that."

John groaned and vanished into the throngs of party guests, leaving Sherlock alone; a rock in a river current. His first mode of action was to leave the overcrowded atmosphere of the entry hall and escape into one of the side rooms. He pushed aside a maroon curtain and found himself in a small recess with two giggling women dressed in extremely tight leopard print mini-dresses and velvet cat ears. Catching sight of Sherlock's lithe, lean figure, they sloshed a bit of wine on the carpet in happy surprise. "Are you lost?" the shorter one asked, stepping boldly forward. "If you are, I'd be glad to show you the way."

Her friend tittered and tossed her hair.

"On the contrary," said Sherlock, "I have an excellent sense of direction."

"Confident, are we?" The taller, green-eyed woman smiled cheekily.

"Confident, no. Truthful, yes." Sherlock leaned elegantly against the wall.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Would you mind shutting up?" Sherlock relished their expressions of hurt astonishment. "I'm trying to think."

The women left with speed, casting him distrustful looks as they went. He gave them a sarcastic wave and leaned his head back on the wall behind, dreadfully bored. After a moment of dull silence, Sherlock heard a low voice on the opposing side of the curtain.

"In here, Viola."

"Perfect room for a first snog, don't you agree?"

It took a superhuman amount of effort for Sherlock not to groan aloud. On occasion, the stupidity of the average person disgusted him as though for the first time.

"Are you sure this is private enough?"

"Let's not talk anymore, shall we?"

Kissing sounds ensued, leaving Sherlock with shivers of irritation skating up and down his spine. Dear god. After several moments of penetrating exasperation, Sherlock pushed the curtain aside and glanced at the entwined couple. "Pardon me," he said drolly, and left the room, smirking at their squeaks of surprise.

Before he could explore further, his mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he fished it out.

I'm upstairs trailing the hosts. They just went onto a balcony with a man. Man seemed intoxicated. Hurry, I'm in second bedroom on right. –JW

A hot jolt of adrenaline scorched Sherlock's stomach, and his fingers flew across the keyboard at supersonic speed.

Coming. Careful. –SH

He hoped that cryptic 'careful' would suffice. Really, he meant to say: "Be careful, John. I'm a git to you, but you're my best friend, my doctor, my person. Stay safe until I can properly protect you."

Sherlock split the crowd like a blade through paper and took the polished stairs two at a time. The second bedroom on the right had a door with an ornate handle, and a delicately molded doorframe. Feeling rather foolish, he knocked twice. "John."

The door flew open and John tugged Sherlock inside.

"Where are they?" Sherlock demanded, striding to the dark window.

"In a balcony connected to the room next door. Jesus, Sherlock, what can we do?"

"We can't panic," Sherlock murmured to the room at large. "We need a rational plan."

Their conversation was disturbed with the approach of footsteps. John locked eyes with Sherlock, and beckoned him to the stretch of wall beside the door hinge. Quickly, Sherlock crossed the room and pressed his back against the wall, pulling John alongside him. They waited, accompanied by the faint sounds of conversation from the neighboring balcony and laughter from the first floor. Sherlock looked down at John and noticed for the first time that he'd removed his glasses, and that his blue eyes were blazing with adrenaline. His skills of observation obviously needed improving.

The footsteps paused outside their door—but blessedly moved on again, turning the knob for the neighboring room and closing the door once more.

"We need to move," said Sherlock. "You have the gun?"

John patted his jacket. "Of course."

"Good. I doubt we'll be able to hide in the bedroom, we might as well charge and get it over with."

"Cheers," said John, squeezing Sherlock's nearest hand. The gesture was unexpected but completely applicable; it was so uncharacteristic and therefore, so very them. Sherlock squeezed back, and let go hurriedly, feeling like the cat whose paw had touched a stove. Burned.

They re-entered the hallway with utmost caution, relieved to see that it was devoid of guests. Sherlock pointed to the next, closed door, and John nodded. It was the one. As one well-oiled machine, they pushed the door wide and surged over the threshold, absorbing the scene.

The bedroom was empty and the French doors leading to the balcony were closed, and possibly, locked. John had been correct in his observations; the two hosts were out in the night air, backs to the bedroom. A rotund man stood beside them, and a fourth person whose face was inconveniently out of sight.

"In here," said Sherlock, gesturing to a fractionally open closet door. A minute later, they had squeezed into a most uncomfortable corner. Sherlock struggled to breathe from his crushing position.

"What now?"

"Now we wait."

"For what?" The prickle of light that touched John's face cast an alien glow over his cheekbones. Sherlock's pulse skyrocketed.

"I don't know. For when it seems right." Are we speaking in metaphors? Sherlock wondered. If taken out of context, this exchange would seem rather…suggestive.

"What if the man and woman aren't the murderers?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Then we call it a Halloween prank, John."

"A damn good one, too." John shifted slightly, his knee bumping against Sherlock's. He did not move it and Sherlock appreciated John's warm, solid, physical presence. If he had to force himself into a closet, there was no one he'd rather have with him than John. Not least because the experience was growing more sexually charged by the second.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"If you insist on us staying in here all night, I'll go barmy."

"Just until they come back into the bedroom. This might be a good time to exercise your rarely perceived patience."

John sighed. "Fair enough. By the way, I'm bloody freezing right now."

"I don't feel a draft."

"You're wearing a coat and a scarf. You wouldn't."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then silently unwound his scarf from his neck and winced as a breath of cool air reached his exposed skin. Going by feel, he wrapped the scarf once around John's neck. "Better?"

John said nothing, but Sherlock felt the wool brush against his own neck yet again. "John, what are you doing?"

"Sharing."

And so they sat, wrapped in Sherlock's scarf, waiting for when it seemed right.

Apparently, were not destined to wait long, for the French doors clicked open and the foursome entered the bedroom.

"It's no trouble at all," said a woman. "Your situation required financial assistance and we were willing to help."

"It was bloody good of you," a man's voice replied. "Thank you. I'll be getting back to the party, then."

Sherlock tensed, waiting for a reply.

"But Lewis, dear, there are rules."

"What?"

The woman's voice took on a distinctly ominous quality. "I do recall telling you that payback is essential. Did you expect to take our money and not reimburse it? Lewis, that's as good as being a thief!"

"You didn't say that," the man replied foolishly. "You didn't."

"I shouldn't have to."

During times like this, people imagine that normal, usual things don't happen, and that these situations are like crime movies; entirely slick, smooth and secretive. Nevertheless, Sherlock was suddenly overtaken with a distressing tickle in his right nostril and nothing on Earth could prevent him from firing a terrific sneeze.

A asphyxiating wave of panic dulled his mental abilities as he gazed at John's dark form, horrified. The voices outside the door halted. Help me, Sherlock thought at John, Help me, think, do something, I can't think, help, oh god, oh no…

A millisecond before the closet door swung open, John seized Sherlock and pulled him into devastatingly deep kiss. The door flew open and Sherlock did not see who looked down; his eyes were closed and he was reciprocating John's baffling gesture with tremendous enthusiasm. It was incredible; John's hands were everywhere at once, he was kissing Sherlock both roughly and gently, and Sherlock was still trying to ascertain how that could be.

"Oh, God." The woman's voice ended their kiss and they diverged, faces burning. "How long have you to been cuddled up in my closet?"

"God, sorry," said John, feigning a look of sincere apology. "We didn't know anyone was in here."

Sherlock stood and grabbed John's hand as he did so, pulling the doctor up with him. He didn't like the flash of silver blade winking from the woman's pocket. Her husband stood by, arms folded, glowering at John and Sherlock with utmost distaste. A gormless looking man (Lewis?) cowered by the door.

John looked at Sherlock for direction, and Sherlock spoke. "So sorry for the disturbance. I'm afraid we've made a terrible impression."

The woman's eyes faltered. "No, all's forgiven," she said, almost kindly. "Feel free to rejoin the party."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. "Care to come with?"

"That's very kind, but you'll have to excuse us. We're just a bit preoccupied, Mr.—beg pardon; I seem to have forgotten your name."

"Oscar," said Sherlock, and John snorted.

"I'm very sorry, Oscar, but you'll have to leave."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"You're endeavors at concealing lethal weaponry exhaust me."

The woman gaped at Sherlock with a treacherous amount of stupidity. "Sorry, what?"

"There's a knife. In. Your. Pocket."

John coughed. Tedious, this.

"No, there isn't."

"Dear god, are you actually attempting to deny it? Is that a nail file in your left pocket?"

She blanched, and her eyes flew to the door. A very angry John Watson obstructed it. "I don't understand what you're trying to accomplish here, but it's a tremendous waste of our time."

Sherlock met the woman's gaze and penetrated her façade with his figurative arrow of truth. As he did so, he leaned over and withdrew the knife from her pocket—triumphant, never severing eye contact. "You offer innocent people financial assistance, but know all the while that they won't be able to pay back the money in your required window of time. You make no effort to warn them of this fact, instead you provide them with a monetary lure and when they announce that they can't return the money soon enough, you blackmail them, scare them, give them hell and eventually—if they can't meet your conditions—brutally knife them to death. Why? Because it's fun? Gives you a bit of a thrill? There's no need to indulge in such exaggerated actions," Sherlock said dryly, "as we're all aware that you're quite financially endowed. Why take such drastic measures?"

"You're mental," the woman's husband interjected, speaking for the first time. "You haven't a clue what you're talking about."

"Wrong," said Sherlock.

"The knife isn't proof, you fool!"

"Why, because it's spotless? It seems that someone has taken great effort to clean it from something more sinister than mere culinary usage."

The man assumed to be Lewis, cleared his throat. "They've threatened my family," he remarked, slurring slightly. "Threatened their lives. My life, even. Tonight."

Sherlock gracefully plucked his scarf from where it had fallen on the carpet after the kiss (the kiss!) and smiled sardonically at their host and hostess. "A police car waits outside. I suggest you make no attempt at escape."

Ah. Yet another successful case concluded.

The moon was full that night, floating over London like a great, waxen globe. The events following the murderers' arrests were a hot, uncomfortable blur of awkward mentions of the kiss, forced laughs, and things left unsaid. Sherlock and John rode home in a cab in complete silence, and Sherlock was enormously glad for his mask. It prevented John from interpreting his expressions. If only Sherlock had the courage to break the weighty silence, but that would be akin to screaming in room full of unspeaking people. Excruciatingly humiliating. A question hung heavy in his heart, and it was a very simple one.

"John, why did you…do that? In the closet?"

John frowned. "Sorry?"

"You kissed me. Why?"

"We needed a quick excuse for being there."

"So—that's all?" Now Sherlock was flushing, heat trapped beneath his mask.

"Initially."

"Initially?"

John grabbed Sherlock's hand for the second time that evening, but this time he didn't let go. "And you say you're not idiot," he murmured, fondly.

"I'm not!" Sherlock said hotly.

"Sherlock," whispered John. "Get a clue."

It came to him then, John's wistful looks, his touches, his blushing, his very eager kiss. Oh.

Sherlock saw.

"I kissed you," said John, "because you're supernatural. Everyone deserves to experience that feeling at least once in their life. I wanted to experience it. You. "

It was most fortunate that they arrived at 221B just then; Sherlock and John left the cab without letting go of the other's hand, and pounded upstairs, sidestepping a most bewildered Mrs. Hudson.

Slamming the door behind them, Sherlock turned to John. "Dear goodness," he mused. "I'm having an emotion."

"By all means," breathed John. "Act on it!"

That story was a monster! No pun intended... I've been working on it for over a week now and couldn't seem to stop writing it. :) I hope you enjoyed my Halloween gift to you, and keep on the lookout for more Sherlock fics. My coursework is lightening up a bit for the time being, so I have a few extra hours here and there to WRITE!

Have a beautiful, frightful Halloween!

-Spark Writer-

And hey, if you happen to get crammed in a closet with a gorgeous friend...act on it! :-D