Halloween 1/2

John finished molding the plaster in between his forefinger and thumb and sighed appreciatively, admiring the work he'd done. The small white tooth looked like a perfect fang.

Sherlock snatched the fang and shot it a smoldering glare; as if IT were the cause of his problems tonight. He slipped it over his canine and waited for John to finish molding the other tooth; in the meantime though, he occupied himself by rushing off to the kitchen to keep his experiment from burning over the open flame. Already the viscous brown goo was at a steady boil and threatening to lap over the rim of his Erlenmeyer flask.

"What a perfect waste of a beautiful evening! Think of all the ruined potential!" he wailed flipping the switch and killing the flame.

John sighed as he patted the tooth with his thumb. Sherlock had been whining and complaining all evening and John had to practically force him into his clothes, but no matter how much Sherlock tried to worm his way out of his sole social obligation John prodded him along steadfastly, unwilling to relent.

"It's just one night, and one party. You would be spending the evening in anyhow."

"Yes, but I would be working on PRACTICAL matters John, now throwing away my time on petty and senseless frivolities!"

"You owe me." John reminded Sherlock for the twentieth time that night.

Sherlock sulked, knocking his tongue against the already-hard plaster fang that threatened to protrude from his lips. He usually loved Halloween, it was the one time of year that occult-based murders rose exponentially but the candy and costumes were always a heinous, heathen ritual based on pagan beliefs and out-of-control consumerist greed.

John handed him the other tooth and Sherlock hastily shoved it over his last canine to match its brother.

"There, the transformation is complete; Sherlock Holmes: Vampire!"

Sherlock's eyes threw daggers and John almost faltered in his conviction that he should accompany him to the party. Almost.

Though John had to admit, he made a convincing vampire. His already pasty, pale skin and deathly expression mingled with the furious countenance he wore at the moment which was perfectly framed by noble-looking black tresses that had been touched lightly with some product in the spirit of the costume. Otherwise Sherlock was wearing his normal clothes, save for his scarf and his usual shirt. John thought that a simple poet's shirt would make him look more old-fashioned and vampirish, and it did.

The effect was intimidating, especially when Sherlock's lips parted revealing his long, white fangs in a snarl of contempt.

"I don't see why I have to go!" he growled.

"Because I said so. Doctor's orders." John said pulling on a pair of rubber gloves to complete his surgeon's costume. He had been thrifty and just used a pair of scrubs he had borrowed from the hospital with a few touch-ups to help them stay clean throughout the night.

Sherlock looked him over once and groaned, flopping backwards onto the couch and curling into an unhappy ball.

"Toothpaste green is not your color, John." He snapped viciously.

"Come on, we're going to be late." John said patiently, feeling that he was probably the longest-suffering man in all of London that night.

"Oh no, were going to be late!" Sherlock mocked glancing once over his shoulder sharply at him. "Maybe they'll kill us? A stake through the heart perhaps?"

"One can only hope." John smiled.

---

After they had hailed a cab Sherlock took to sulking silently while John gazed distractedly out the window. On the streets he saw princesses and monsters skipping merrily while exhausted parents lumbered along trying to keep up and trying to stay positive; a stark contrast to all of the gayness and youthful joy he saw silhouetted in front of the glow of every open door on the street.

"Disgusting." Sherlock said. "Absolutely disgusting, letting small children wander up to the houses of strangers and beg for candy. It's the twenty-first century John! I thought that we were above all this barbarism."

"It's the twenty-first century, and you are still loath to have fun, Count Sour-grapes."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He watched the children on the street dancing in between shadows and light, imagining how many ways they could suddenly disappear; a killer at the corner, a pedophile with some smooth words at his door while the parents are turned away; there were literally millions of ways to lose a child that night. Why would otherwise cautious, rational people put their children in such deliberate harm? Where was the fun in that? Surely a mother somewhere wouldn't be able to find her boy and she'd send a wail into the night like a screeching siren, asking desperately for the police, who if they had no luck would come to him, and then where would the fun be?

---

John paid the cab and stepped out into the crisp autumn night. He could smell cinnamon and sweat drifting idly in the air and from inside the massive gym he could hear music and the roar of chatter alternatingly.

"It's cold. Why couldn't I bring my scarf?" Sherlock demanded becoming angrier every second as they inevitably drew closer to the party. He'd been hoping that Lestrade would have a case and somehow save him from the evening, but John had warned Lestrade not to bother them ahead of time. Plus, Lestrade was going to be at the party. There was no work for them that night.

"Come on." John said, sensing that at any moment Sherlock's limited tolerance might break and he would simply sprint off into the night. "It'll be hot inside."

John opened the doors and the ungodly noise of people nearly knocked Sherlock off his feet.

People chatting amongst themselves, screaming to be heard over the blasting music, the occasional roar of some masked man trying to get a rise out of his friends, the squeal of delight as scantily clad girls embraced bleeding, oozing, rotting boys with crooked yellow teeth and brains leaking out of their foreheads, or obscene amounts of animal fur. Yes, Halloween was a strange time of year.

Sherlock turned to John to complain once more, but found that the ear-splitting music carried his voice away soundlessly.

John; either oblivious to his displeasure or purposely ignoring him, had caught the attention of someone across the gym and he pushed his way through the churning, dancing crowd, fixated on a single point.

Sherlock followed his gaze and snorted in contempt. He was swimming though the dancers to try and reach a woman dressed as a sexy-nurse. He didn't need to look twice to tell that she was obviously already taken, but he'd allow John to deduce that on his own.

In the meantime he hunted down a corner of the gym not currently occupied by obnoxious monsters, movie stars, or girls-attempting-to-appear-desirable by wearing clothes that were so tight they hurt to LOOK at. He ended up behind the refreshment stand leaning against the wall and watching people pick their nourishment among assorted gross looking food.

Jelly fingers, fruit punch with the consistency of blood, assorted chocolates, candied eyeballs ( Wait, were those candies? No, yes, no, they were definitely candies) cupcake monsters and other fatty, sugary junk foods that were faux-gruesome. Even the table settings were nasty, a plastic half-rotted skull, an arm in the punch bowl, and a black cat that arched and yowled mechanically whenever anyone got close.

"How useless." He thought.

After looking over the foods in front of him with a certain amount of measured disgust Sherlock descended to people-watching out of sheer boredom. John would probably come to see him after he was mercilessly dumped by the apple of his eye and then with the mental stress and disappointment already taking their toll maybe he could convince him to go home early.

He had been told (unfortunately rather reliably) that every disguise was a self-portrait. He decided he should at least experiment while he was bored, and he constructively started observing people in their clusters.

Four women, each with an orange tinted spray-tan and bleached hair stood together in a huddle whispering and laughing amongst them and occasionally shooting poisonous glances across the room at a rather unfortunate looking brunette dressed as a fairy who nibbled on a cupcake.

The costume that the four girls had in common? Slutty witches: enough said.

A man sat in a corner gnawing nervously on his nails and rubbing thoughtfully at his pot-belly. His black pig eyes stared vacantly into space and he shuffled on his feet either in a nervous gesture or in a sad attempt to dance. Finally the man jumped in fright and reached into his pocket for his phone. He read the text he had just received and blanched with fright, taking only enough time to gasp twice before stumbling out into the street where he would hail a cab to take him to where Sherlock knew a fashionably high-end drug dealer was waiting to complete a transaction. There was no mistaking the fidgets from a major withdrawal, nor the obvious class of the man who wore a fat ruby ring on his middle finger and a (knock off) Rolex as part of his costume. Presumably he had run into foul times and was having trouble keeping up his addiction.

His costume? A police officer. Sherlock could always appreciate the irony.

---

John finished washing his hands and reached for the brown paper towels in the gym's public restroom. He had been horribly embarrassed when Julie's boyfriend had shown up mid-conversation and insisted on making out right then and there in front of him. He had been flirting with her only moments before but she immediately turned all of her attention to the man pressed against her face and John had been thankfully forgotten as he crept away with his tail between his legs to the long cream colored hallways behind the gym to find a bathroom to hide in.

Maybe Sherlock was right and they should just go home. He was loath to admit it, but he felt really uncomfortable sticking around when one of the only reasons he came just stomped on his heart.

But he reminded himself that there were other reasons he came too. He came to have fun, and enjoy a party, which as foreign a concept as that seemed to him was what most normal people did on Halloween when they weren't stuck at home hiding from trick-or-treaters.

He sighed and collected himself momentarily, checking his reflection in the cracked mirror. Sherlock was right, green didn't look well on him. But it was only a costume.

He pushed open the restroom door, now mostly calm and not as affected by his disappointment and reached into his pocket for his rubber gloves.

They were waded up and clung to the cloth as he tried to pull them out with only the tips of his fingers. He had to look down and work them out carefully. He paused and focused all of his attention to the stretchy annoying accessory that refused to come free.

He looked up and dropped the gloves in shock.

"…can't be." The words slipped out and he blinked rapidly, hoping to dispel the vision like casting away a hallucination.

No, the image stayed there. Standing at the end of the hallway, the party crashing on behind him was the devil.

Jim, Jim Moriarty. Long dead and almost forgotten; an unsavory aftertaste that still lingered around Sherlock long after the Reichenbach incident.

John caught a glimpse of red light flashing and instinctively looked around for a sniper, but inside the enclosed hallway that was impossible. It was only the lights reflecting off of Jim's sequined tie. His hair was slicked back and two black horns jutted on either side of his head and in his hand he spun a spade-tipped tail in lazy circles. The devil.

"Miss me?" he asked and John's heart sunk hopelessly. He was real, alive, standing there, talking to him.

"Dead." John gasped. It was the only thing he would comprehend. He was DEAD, no questions asked. He stayed dead for so long. John wanted him dead so badly.

"And the dead shall rise…" he said starting to walk down to him.

John was so surprised he didn't hear the restroom door open and shut behind him; he only noticed the strong grip around his throat and the smell of chemicals bleeding into his nose and mouth before the darkness engulfed him in one great swift maw.

---

Sherlock was beyond ready to go, he was about to get off of the wall he was leaning against and run home, John or none.

He had been standing still minding his own business when a scantily-dressed little-red-riding hood had flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in an iron-gripped hug. He had been so absorbed with a drama unfolding between a blue ninja and a snake-man that he hadn't even seen her until she was breathing hot alcohol vapors into his face.  

"Bite me?" she offered turning up her scarlet hood and offering not only her neck, but a view down her checkered dress.

"On a diet." Sherlock said pushing her away into a gaggle of her friends.

"Honestly, what was with the sexy-costumes now?" Sherlock thought straitening his black overcoat. "Is there any point, or is that all that is available?"

His coat pocket vibrated and thinking it was John he greedily snatched it, hoping for a heartfelt "I'm sad, let's go home" text that would free him from the infernal party all together. Instead he had gotten a text from some blocked number.

     Missing something? –JM

JM? Did he know a JM? Did a JM know him? His number was on his website The Science of Deduction for potential cases but usually they would attempt to email him first. Or at least send him a 'Please Help Me' text. This was just suspicious.

     Do I know you? –SH

Sherlock's mind was already racing, taking him miles away from the party which faded into white noise. Was he missing something? He glanced around and tried to take in at a glance what could be absent from his surroundings.

It took all of seven second for him to find, identify and observe the nurse John had had his eyes on at the beginning of the evening locking lips with a man wearing a lab coat. It was obvious John's advances had fallen short and he must have retreated dejectedly somewhere into the crowd, but Sherlock couldn't see him.

     I should think you know me, I killed myself for you. –JM

"Only one man…" Sherlock muttered feeling his heart start racing anxiously whilst his blood ran cold in his veins. "Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock's thumbs itched as he jammed his keypad furiously, typing much faster than he was used to

     Where's John?—SH

     Know who I am yet?—JM

     Jim Moriarty—SH

     That's a good lad. –JM

     Where's John?—SH

     Hanging out, safe and sound. For now. –JM

     How did you do it? –SH

     Timing and Chloroform –JM

     No, survive. –SH

     I have my secrets. –JM

Sherlock growled feeling his fake fangs protruding over his lower lip. It was clearly Moriarty, no one else was privy to the fact that he'd taken a bullet to the head up on that roof. No one but him and John.

"Damn," he thought "How could I have been so stupid!" he snarled. He had assumed that one of Moriarty's men had taken the body to keep it from being found and to tie up loose ends. It had never even occurred to him that Jim had been playing the same game he was. Looking back now it seemed so obvious.

     You've done a nice job of cleaning up my snipers. Here I thought they'd be a little challenge. It only took you three measly years. –JM

     What do you want?—SH

     To alleviate the boredom.—JM

Sherlock stumbled through the party still searching for John, hoping for some kind of miraculous prank to be revealed to him and to find John dancing around clueless to the texting standoff. He'd had the crazy idea to call John's phone, as though he could hear it ringing and track John like that. He decided against it for the moment but kept it up his sleeve just in case. Jim had never bluffed before, a text stating that he had John was almost as iron clad as a picture.

     Been bored lately, that happens when you get dead. I just thought of all the fun we used to have and set up a few obstacles in the party. Nothing to serious, just some party favors. You should start by seeing whose arm is floating in the punch bowl. –JM  

Sherlock let his eyes drift over the snack table and suppressed a gag as he saw younger teens drinking out of small punch cups and an older gentleman with a ladle working his way around the severed appendage, all blissfully unaware that it was a real human arm.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock all but dropped his phone. He didn't realize just how fast his heart was beating or how completely excited he was until Lestrade had called out to him from nearby.

Sherlock scanned Lestrade in a glance, dressed all in black with large old fashioned silver buttons and a short black cloak that lay around his shoulders topped off with a tall, dome shaped hat.

"I didn't think I'd see you here!" He said in a friendly enough manner.

"What are you supposed to be?" Sherlock asked the first thing on his mind.

"It's the Scotland Yard uniform from the Victorian era, can you believe it? I found a nice little shop that…"

Sherlock blocked out the rest of what he said and made another short mental note towards his experiment. Lestrade: Old fashioned Police officer. Enough said.

"Moriarty." Sherlock said holding up his phone and beginning to work his way over to the punch bowl.

"What?" Sherlock could almost see the gears in Lestrade's head clicking and whirring together as he tried to make a feeble connection, but Sherlock had no time to waste and Lestrade's brain was working too slowly.