And the finale to this little distraction. Now I can get back to writing my other fics. Lots of love to everyone following this and thanks for reading!

Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading a book when John walked through the door. He looked up briefly as his flatmate entered, giving him a small nod of acknowledgement. "John."

John nodded in turn, shrugging off his coat. "Sherlock." He looked around the flat, noting with a sigh of relief that nothing was burned, blown up, or missing altogether. "Had a nice Halloween, then?"

Sherlock set his book down, turning instead to pick up his violin. "I suppose. And yourself?" He settled the instrument under his jaw and started playing loudly before John could answer.

The doctor just rolled his eyes, setting his things aside as he walked through the house checking that everything was still in order, which was his routine for whenever he left Sherlock alone for more than a day. Nothing broken, nothing stained, nothing dripping with blood. He smiled once satisfied and made his way back to the sitting room, where Sherlock had dropped his music to a quiet wail. Well then, all seemed to be in order, aside from the usual clutter that made it's home in 221B. He turned to the kitchen, ready for a nice cup of tea after a long weekend.

He brought a couple of mugs down from the cupboard and was just setting them down on the counter when something caught his eye. An everyday black sharpie pen smeared with red and surrounded by splattered drops of dried blood, was resting casually on the counter as though it belonged there. He gingerly picked it up, avoiding the sticky crimson stains and brought it out to the sitting room. "Sherlock." He held the pen up for his flatmate to see. "What's this?"

Sherlock finished off his quiet melody, letting the last note fade out into nothing before dropping the violin from his chin and replacing it back by the window. He turned to look at what John was questioning, giving him that 'Isn't it obvious?' face. "That's a pen, John."

John nodded "Ok, yeah, and whose blood is on it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snatching the sharpie from his hand. "Mine." He set it down on the desk before making his way back to his chair and picking up his book.

John stared at him for a moment, taking a chance to really look at him for the first time since he'd entered the flat. Dark circles had begun to form under his eyes, and he looked even more malnourished than usual. A fresh bandage was wrapped neatly around his hand and a few faded black marks adorned his pale skin. "... What happened to you?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"Your hand"

He glanced down at the bandage, flexing his fingers slightly. "Oh, I cut myself yesterday."

John gave him a skeptical look "You were out on Halloween?"

"Yes, does that surprise you?"

"I wouldn't expect you to go out on such a nonsensical holiday."

"Oh quite the contrary. I had a marvelous time."

John raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I can't remember."