A/N: Thanks for all the positive feedback! You guys (and gals) totally made my birthday :D

Sorry for (another) super-long a/n...

I do not speak any of the languages written in this story (besides English, and some days that's debatable). If you can offer a better translation, please PM me!

I own nothing but my crazy imagination. I can't claim Sherlock, POTC, Star Wars, the Princess Bride, Dr. Who, LOTR, the Hobbit, Star Trek, Harry Potter, Firefly, or the Matrix. Basically, if you recognize something, it ain't mine. If you don't recognize something, it still probably isn't mine… even the OC belongs to the wonderful star-eye, who has loaned her to me for this fic :)

Check out "The Godfather" to get some background on Ellen! (Although I shouldn't have to remind you, because you read it before reading the last chapter, right?)

Warnings for swearing (albeit in made-up languages), fluff, crack, and (more) massive fangirling nonsense.

Oh, and pre-emptive apologies to all the Trekies out there… I love Star Trek, but I had to... you know how those evil plot bunnies are... I have committed a horrible blasphemy (and know it)...I am ashamed *hangs head* and I apologize. You will understand later.

The trip to New Scotland Yard was mostly uneventful. Anthea texted blithely as Mycroft whispered some last-minute instructions. John and Mary speculated with Lestrade over what Anderson's group costume might be, and Sherlock entertained Ellen with various puzzles and riddles. For a three-year-old, she was rather good.

When they pulled up to the entrance, John ordered his daughter, "You keep an eye on this dragon, Ellen. Keep him out of trouble, and don't let him have too many sweets."

Ellen nodded sagely, clinging to her godfather's clawed hand. "Pwomise. We be very good, right?"

Sherlock had covered his face with the mask in an attempt to salvage what little remained of his pride from the stares soon to be coming from the police force and their families.

"I thought the point of my presence was to watch over your offspring, not the other way around," he growled.

"Same difference, Sherlock," John smiled, helping his wife out of the limo.

"Do try and not murder anyone, there's a good chap," Lestrade thumped the uncomfortable-looking dragon on the back. "Although if you manage to get away with it under the noses of the entire collected police force, I'll be mighty impressed. And no, that is not a challenge."

They managed to enter the party (which had already started) without much fuss. Sherlock, Ellen in tow, made a beeline for the children's table, where they were in the process of decorating pumpkins. None of the parents there knew him personally, and hopefully would not make the connection between the masked dragon and the famous detective. Especially when Ellen's cuteness acting as a distracting factor. Soon he was happily covering his pumpkin with diagrams of the chemical structures of various poisons, including Botulinum and anthrax. Ellen, on the other hand, was attempting to draw her family. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at the discrepancies in the heights of the stick figures. Both he and his brother were ridiculously thin and stretched almost the entire height of the pumpkin. Lestrade was more broad-shouldered, and about three-quarters tall. Mary, John, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson were about as half as tall as the Holmes brothers, while Ellen herself barely reached Sherlock's shin, forcing both of their arms to be inhumanly long to allow them to hold hands.

"Whacha fink, Unka 'Lock?" Ellen asked, eyes hopeful.

"It is surprisingly accurate," Sherlock replied truthfully, noting the small details she had included, such as Mycroft's brolly, a plate of cookies in Mrs. Hudson's hands, a crooked heart between her parents, and a small magnifying glass in his own grasp. "However, your proportions require adjustment, unless your intention was to portray us in the abstract style."

Ellen merely stuck out her tongue at his impertinent observation, turning instead to his pumpkin.

"Whydja cover it wif squibbles, Unka 'Lock?"

"Squiggles, Ellen," he corrected. Most of the time, he let her childish lisp and grammar go unchecked, but he was a stickler for proper vocabulary. "These are the chemical formulas of some of the world's deadliest poisons."

Ignoring the incredulous looks he was receiving from every adult in the near vicinity, he continued, seeing the curious gleam in Ellen's eyes. "You see, Ellen, everything is made up of very, very small pieces, somewhat analogous to your Lego bricks. They can only fit together in certain ways. Do you understand?" He made sure she nodded before continuing. "The pieces are called 'atoms' and there are over 100 different kinds. The atoms bond together to make molecules, and different molecules behave differently." Seeing that he was confusing her, he tried again. "If you put your Lego bricks together one way you can make a castle, correct? But if you put them together in another way, you can make a house, or a bridge, or a wall, or a tower. It is the same with atoms."

"So what's the squiggles?" Ellen asked again, sounding out the new word carefully.

"These diagrams are the blueprint for certain molecules. Similar to the instructions, they show how the atoms are put together."

"Kay. So wazzat?" she said, pointing at a carbon atom. Sherlock patiently explained each symbol and bond, ridiculously proud of his young chemist.

It was 8:00 pm. Time for the costume judging contest to begin. The order had been decided by a rather complex algorithm involving the number of members in the group, the alphabetization of their last names, and their ages. Having no less than three Watsons put the Baker Street gang rather towards the end.

Anderson's group was first. Everyone waited expectantly. Both Anderson and Donovan had been ridiculously secretive about the whole affair, while still managing to give away just enough juicy tidbits to fuel speculation. They had even purposely arrived late, so that no one could see their costumes beforehand and therefore ruin the surprise.

The crowd was not disappointed. The crew burst in through the double doors dramatically, marching sharply to the sound of Star Trek theme music, their uniforms fitting perfectly, muscles rippling, badges gleaming. Anderson and his best friend, Wilson, led the way as Spock and Kirk respectively. Donovan was just behind them as Uhura, while another man from the forensics department, Kevin, was portraying Dr. Bones.

John had to admit do himself that they had done a rather nice job. There was at least a dozen people there, covering all the major characters in the original series, and several minor ones as well. All looked very sharp and well-rehearsed.

He was even more surprised when Anderson opened his big mouth and greeted them all with a lengthy speech in what John could only assume was Vulcan. Startled, John turned towards the rest of his party. Sherlock (who had brought Ellen over as soon as the contest announcements started) was staring, slack-jawed in shock that was rapidly turning into indignation. Turning towards Mycroft, John was stunned to see the normally poker-faced man visibly wince every third syllable or so that passed "Spock's" lips.

Seeing John's confused expression, Mycroft explained in a pained tone, "He is absolutely butchering that language, John. I can hardly recognize it, much less attempt to translate it."

"You speak Vulcan?" Mary asked incredulously. Ever-practical Mycroft didn't seem the type to waste precious time and brainpower learning such fandom drivel.

"Fluently. Sherlock was insistent. Although it has proved useful on several occasions."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade turned to the man in question with a quirked eyebrow.

"Mycroft can speak almost two dozen languages like a native, and has working knowledge of several dozen more," Sherlock managed to grit out between clenched teeth. "I bet him once that he couldn't learn an imaginary one in a week."

"Five days," Mycroft retorted proudly.

"Two dozen?" Mary gasped. She could hardly name that many languages, much less speak them…

"You know, normal brothers challenge each other who can run the fastest or who can throw the ball the furthest, not who can learn a fantasy pop-culture-classic language in the least amount of time…" John muttered under his breath.

"Normal people do not end up in the world's most powerful governmental position," Sherlock scowled, showing uncharacteristic pride in his brother.

Ignoring them both, Mycroft explained, "It is rather convenient to negotiate with dignitaries in their own tongue. Historically, translators cannot be trusted when dealing with… delicate… matters. It also expedient when individuals underestimate my linguistic abilities and 'secretly' plot underneath my nose, sometimes literally. Sherlock also has a talent for languages, but he chooses not to apply himself."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes before turning his gaze towards Anderson. He reflexively clutched Ellen, so much so that she started squirming.

"Ease up, mate, you're squishing her!" Lestrade admonished, reaching to take the wriggling child off his hands.

"No," Sherlock dodged his advances easily. "She's the only thing keeping me from ripping off that ridiculous outfit off that insufferable bastard and shoving it down his blaspheming throat."

Everyone present had heard Sherlock bash Anderson (ad nauseum) before, but never in such an absolutely terrifying tone. Lestrade wisely backed off.

Turning to John, he whispered quietly, "What's gotten into him?"

"I think I might have an idea… if Sherlock had a childhood hero, Lestrade, who do you think it would be?" John mused, keeping his voice low.

"Oh, I dunno… some theoretical chemist or somesuch. Certainly not a traditional superhero, too illogical… Mycroft mentioned something about pirates once…" Lestrade trailed off, lost in thought.

"How about a certain Starfleet science officer with a fondness for logic and a dislike for showing emotion?" Mary offered.

Lestrade looked over at the Enterprise crew, now parading on the conference stage, and blanched.

Thankfully, the other groups soon took the stage, providing ample distraction and therefore preventing a bloody murder. The 'Yard had outdone itself this year. Each group costume was unique and well-executed. Mary's favorite was the Princess Bride ensemble—each character introduced themselves with their catchphrase. The Bishop's rendition of the "mawidge" speech was so overdone that even Sherlock cracked a smile.

Lestrade admired the rag-tag collection of Star Wars characters. He was friends with the guy playing Han Solo, although they hadn't seen each other in ages since they were in different divisions. They caught up over a glass of punch and a few caramel apples, laughing as Sherlock and Chewbacca had a wookie-roar contest. Surprisingly enough, the gangly detective won the dubious honor of a plastic noisemaker, much to Ellen's delight (and her parents' later chagrin).

Although Sherlock would rather die than admit it, he was rather fond of the Pirates of the Caribbean group. Especially Captain Jack, although he couldn't quite figure out why… such irrationality was incomprehensible, but somehow still made sense… Molly also looked quite dashing as Elizabeth Swan. The pathologist had grown a backbone during the last few years, and it showed in her confident portrayal of the lady-turned-pirate. And if Sherlock felt a bit strange when William Turner gave her a teasing kiss, well… it must be something that he ate.

John rather liked the crew of the Serenity. "Excellent show, for America. Too bad they cancelled it…" he moped.

"There were… words exchanged over this matter, John. I'm afraid there was nothing to be done."

Ignoring the incredulous eyebrows aimed in his direction, Mycroft instead turned to the Minister of Magic, who happened to be passing by. The Harry Potter group was by far the largest, with almost twenty people involved, of all ages.

"Minister, I presume the little affair in Worchester has been taken care of?" Mycroft said, polished voice barely masking an unspoken threat.

"Of…of course, Mr. Holmes. All well in hand. The muggles… I mean, no one suspected a thing."

"Naturally. Do mind your tongue, you shan't be suspicious here, but I daresay you will be anywhere else."

"Of course, of course…" the poor man looked frightened out of his wits.

Taking pity on him, Mycroft said, "I shall expect a full report by tomorrow. Use electronic means this time, the owl was rather disruptive. You are dismissed."

Sputtering apologies, the Minister of Magic made a hasty retreat.

Of course, this conversation only caused the incredulous looks to intensify. Thankfully any awkward questions were avoided, as it was their turn to present their costumes.

The rules stated that each group had five minutes to present their characters, in any way they liked, be it via names or quotes or a skit or any combination therein. The audience later voted on their favorites.

Mycroft gave their introduction in (obviously perfect) Quenya, which Mary translated via a script. Lestrade and John played the "good morning" scene from The Hobbit, albeit as "good evening", with Dimmock (as Thorin) involved as well.

And then came Smaug.

Despite being more bedazzled than a disco ball, Sherlock somehow managed to be more terrifying than the Dr. Who Weeping Angels. Voice dipping so low that it was almost out of the audible spectrum, yet powerful enough to be heard echoing around the room without a microphone, he growled and snarled through his lines with terrible ferocity, matching word to action as he prowled around the stage. John, hardened veteran that he was, felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with fear. Suddenly anxious, he looked at his fragile young daughter.

She was laughing, completely blasé despite Sherlock's theatrics.

"Yousa bad dwagon, Smaug," Ellen lectured when he was through. "Go 'way."

"Nooooo!" Smaug roared, causing everyone in the room to step back unconsciously, half-expecting fire to start spurting from his mouth. Well, almost everyone. Ellen hadn't moved.

"Yousa go 'way or you share. Those the wules," crossing her arms and giving an adorable glare that somehow still looked just like her father's.

"But I don't waaaant toooo," Smaug pouted, towering over her. She wasn't cowed, only pointing towards the direction of the stage exit.

Beaten, he slunk away amidst the cheers of the audience for the brave young hobbit.

As soon as they were off the stage, however, Ellen latched herself back onto Sherlock once more, as if she were afraid he might actually "go 'way". He sat her on his shoulders piggy-back style so that she could enjoy the view.

"I'm not mad at you, Unka 'Lock," she whispered after a few minutes of observing the crowd. "You a good dwagon," she added, kissing him on the cheek (and almost falling off his shoulders in the process).

The idyllic moment was rudely interrupted by one of Sherlock's least favorite people.

"So this is the famous Ellen," Donovan not-quite-sneered, looking over the glittering detective with just a hint of amusement.

"Yup, that'sa me!" the youngster gleefully cheered from atop her perch. Sherlock said nothing, merely eyeing Donovan warily. After the Fall, Mycroft had spared her (and Anderson), on the condition that they change departments and were civil with Sherlock if they ever happened to cross paths.

"So what are you dressed up as?" she asked sweetly. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the inane question.

"Ima burahobbit," Ellen announced proudly.

"A burahobbit?" Donovan's eyebrow quirked, unfamiliar with the term.

"She means a burglar-hobbit," Sherlock clarified with a monumental amount of patience.

"Training her to do your dirty work for you already, I see," Donovan retorted.

The antagonistic gathering was further aggravated by the arrival of their least favorite fake-half-Vulcan.

"So that's Watson's little brat. Or is she secretly yours, freak?" Anderson sneered. Donovan quickly vanished. She wanted no part in whatever fight Anderson was picking—she liked her head on her shoulders, thank you very much. A few snide comments were one thing, but using the f-word around Sherlock was quite another. And insulting any child of Captain John Watson was definitely not conducive with one's long-term well-being.

"Hi! My name's Ellen, what's yours?" the innocent child asked sweetly, waving from behind Sherlock's curls.

"My name is Mr. Spock, senior science officer of the starship USS Enterprise," he grinned in a way that made Mycroft's smiles look positively warm and friendly, daring Sherlock to retaliate. He was not disappointed.

"QI'yaH," Sherlock spat loudly, causing a sudden silence to echo across the room. "Wogh. Lo'Be Vos. Yintagh. Qa'Hom, petaQ. Soj, ghuy'cha'!" (1)

Sherlock was halted in his tirade by a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Whirling about (almost dislodging a rather confused Ellen), his newest indignant harangue was halted before it even began by a soft voice that carried in the hush left by Sherlock's screaming.

"Daro, onooro. Lavamin," (2) Mycroft purred before turning to the shell-shocked forensic voice dripping with mock politeness tinged with poison, The British Government simpered, "Mr. Anderson, you look surprised to see me. Again." Gulping, the man in question cringed, looking like he couldn't decide whether he should faint, pee his pants, or run screaming from the room (and not necessarily in that order). Anderson had met The British Government once before, if you could call a kidnapping an introduction, after Sherlock's 'death'. He had been scared out of his mind then, and he was even more frightened now. He was dead. So completely dead. Anderson tried to run for his life, but the terrifying man with the brolly (the wig, dress, pointy ears, and tiara didn't diminish his commanding presence one whit, in fact they highlighted it) pinned him in place with a stare that was eerily similar to that of a snake. The forensic scientist found that he was frozen, unable to move, held by that hypnotic glare. The rest of the room held their breath, waiting for the Apocalypse that was about to be unleashed.

In his most bone-freezing voice, the one that made world leaders, dictators, and terrorists alike want to run and hide under their beds in fear, Big Brother condemned the piece of slime that dared to call his precious niece a 'brat' and his younger sibling a 'freak'.

"You disappoint me, Mr. Anderson." The brolly spun across the floor threateningly. "I warned you before that there would be… consequences."

The erstwhile bully let out a rather undignified whimper when Mycroft ground the point of his ever-present symbol of authority into the carpet with a resounding thump.

"You have until I am finished here, Mr. Anderson. I suggest that you use the time wisely."

Suddenly finding himself released from Mycroft Holmes' imposing glare, (which had been joined by Sherlock's, John's, Lestrade's, Mary's, and even little Ellen's) Anderson fled the room, not even slowing in his flight when he tripped over a well-placed foot and landed flat on his face. Nose dripping blood, he bolted out the doors, not even glancing back.

The silence was deafening, until Ellen made a rather rude noise with her tongue and puffed out cheeks in the direction of the coward's retreat. In the awkward laughter and forced conversations that followed, Lestrade surreptitiously made for the thermostat. Never had the nickname "The Ice Man" seemed more apt. He could have sworn that the temperature had dropped several degrees.

TBC

(1) (worst curse available in the Klingon language). You go too far. You are a thing without courage. A big mouth. A small animal—an unimportant thing trying to look impressive. Useless garbage. You will never understand. (general invective ) [Klingon, Star Trek]

(2) Stop, brother. Allow me. [Sindarin, LOTR]