Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to the immortal Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and SHERLOCK to BBC and the brilliant team of Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Only borrowing.

Author's Note: I had an idea and couldn't resist writing another Halloween type tale. This one was inspired by a line from the first of Sherlock Holmes movies starring Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. It is set roughly a year and a half after the St. Bart incident of Season 2 Episode 3 – and approximately two year following the events of Tick tock, Drip drop.

This story dedicated to the fans and readers of Tick Tock, Drip Drop – in humble thanks of their kind reviews and continued reading. The greatest compliment a writer can receive is that their stories are read and enjoyed. Thank you all. Without further ado, I offer you – When the Dead Walk.


And when the dead walk, the living will fill these coffins. – Sherlock Holmes


The bare branches of the scraggly patch of trees swayed drunkenly with an ominous creaking, reaching downward like giant grasping fingers as a low moan echoed through the park. A nervous twitter of laughter answered, followed by the sound of quickening footfalls as a loitering couple quickened their pace along the well beaten footpath.

It did not do to linger on a night such as this.

A few remaining leaves tugged free and swirled along with the gust of wind as it continued on its way. An abandoned sheet of newsprint slipped from a nearby bench, rustling quietly as it joined the odd dance. It twisted upward like a kite and then hung for a moment on the air, suspended in place as the wind stilled, before twirling toward the ground in an oddly graceful fall. It came to an abrupt halt as the toe of a well worn boot caught its edge, pinning it to the damp earth.

The boot shifted as a gloved hand reached down and plucked the battered paper from the dirt, smoothing it open carefully and angling it toward the yellow glow of a nearby lamp post. A pair of intelligent eyes narrowed beneath the brim of a tweed cap as they studied the large dark print of the headline.

HEADSMAN SIGHTED IN HYDE PARK

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade grimaced at the pronouncement. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and pitched it into the nearest bin as he resumed his brisk pace.

Headsman indeed.

Unlike the sensational string of murders that had plagued Hyde Park during the late eighteenth century, the current 'headsman' appeared to be less of a deranged murderer and more likely someone's idea of a Halloween inspired prank. There had been no murders as of yet, no assault...unless a splattering with pumpkin bits counted as such. In fact the whole matter seemed to revolve around a mere handful of reported sightings of a 'ghostly apparition' carousing about the park on horseback.

A headless apparition…on a glowing horse.

Not that sightings of this sort were uncommon at this time of year. In fact, they were likely to increase the closer the calendar crept toward the end of October…less than a week away. Already there had been reportings of vampires in the Underground (a promotional for an theater show), thefts attributed to an invisible man (a not so invisible thief and a small monkey), the usual amount ghost and goblins sighted in various parts of the city (greatest number near the cemeteries), a woman who had shot her neighbor's dog after mistaking the wolfhound for a werewolf (or so she insisted)…

….and now one distinctly American folk villain was carousing about in Hyde Park.

Some days he really hated his job…

As if there were not enough real horrors to deal with on a weekly basis. Lestrade's heavy sigh was muffled by the thick wool scarf, wound round his neck to ward off the chill of the damp October wind. His shoulders slumped wearily as he considered the thought….and the stack of case files which awaited his return. Perhaps he should have accepted John's offer to join him in Scotland for a holiday. Mary Watson had opted to visit family in Brighton while her husband attended a week long seminar at his Alma Matter in Edinburgh, and so John had suggested Lestrade join him for a bit of late season fly fishing in the north at its conclusion. At the time of the offer, Lestrade had thought it unwise to leave London…though he desperately needed a holiday.

More than a year and some month's time had passed since Sherlock's death. Life at New Scotland Yard had moved on…but it had not been pleasant or easy. Not that it ever was. A mysterious benefactor, whom he suspected to be the elder Holmes though the man himself had not surfaced since the death of his brother, had arranged for his suspension to be lifted and his position reinstated shortly after the incident at St. Bart's.

A great many meetings had been held behind closed doors, the conclusion of which had resulted in the closure of all investigations into the validity of the evidence of the cases solved with the aid of one private consulting detective. Definitive proof had been submitted confirming the identity of the late James Moriarty, as well as evidence linking him to a number of heinous crimes. It appeared that Sherlock Holmes had been wronged…though no one at New Scotland Yard had offered an official apology. Oh a statement had been given to the press, which addressed Moriarty's crimes and circumstances surrounding his death, however Sherlock was mentioned only in passing…

…a brief and unimpressive tribute of sorts to a man who deserved more…much more.

Despite Lestrade's reinstatement, the higher ups at the Yard had inflicted a punishment of their own for his actions and 'lapse of judgment', demoting him and placing another in his former position of head of the Violent Crimes Division. A pompous git by the name of Gregson. The man had made it his sole mission to make Lestrade's life as miserable as possible, as if he was daring him to give up…though Lestrade's dedication and sense of professionalism prevented him from responding with anything the best of which he was able.

Gregson had taken an unnaturally gleeful interest in the case of the headless horseman, assigning it to Lestrade with the bare minimum of support and an order that the matter be resolved inside a week's time. Bradstreet and Hopkins had volunteered their services, as had Donavan. His relationship with Sally was tentative at best, however she appeared to be truly sorry for the trouble she had caused…and ashamed for falling for Moriarty's scam so easily. She had apologized and he had forgiven her.

Loyalty was rare at the Yard these days...and he needed all the friends he could get.

"Half past nine and no movement of the north side of the park, though I have chased off my fair share of thrill seekers and lovebirds."

The sound of Hopkins' soft tenor through his ear piece drew Lestrade from his dark study and back to the cold reality of the present. No sense in dwelling on what could not be helped…not while he had a 'ghost' to catch.

"Quiet to the south as well," Bradstreet replied. "Though my nose suggests that the weather is going to take a turn for the worse in less than an hour's time. I say if the headman doesn't appear by ten, we let him have the park and retreat to a warmer location."

"By that you mean The Hart and Hound." came Donavan's dry retort. "The security cameras are not picking up anything unusual, though the coverage is a bit spotty. Your scarf has slipped over your cam, Boss."

Lestrade adjusted the offending item, wrapping it tighter around his neck and away from the pin camera secured in the lapel of his overcoat. The temperature had fallen at least five degrees in the last two hours. Perhaps Bradstreet was right in his assessment of the weather. "Better?"

"Much." Donavan replied.

"Why is it that you get to watch from the van while the rest of us freeze, Sally?" Bradstreet grumbled.

"I'm smarter than the rest of you lot, that's why."

"She's got you there, Roger." Came Hopkin's soft laugh.

Lestrade grinned to himself. "Alright, you jokers. Back to work." He stated quietly as he slowed to a stop beside the railing, which edged the banks of the Serpentine. "I've reached the scene of the most recent sighting. All appears to be quiet." He turned his back to the warm glow of the lamp to his left, shielding his face from view as he continued. "If he keeps to his pattern, he should show himself within the next few moments. With any luck we might just be able to put an end to this matter tonight, and send the ghoul back across the pond where he belongs."

"From your mouth to the good Lord's ears." Bradstreet mumbled. "We're coming around to join you."

"I'll be here."

The radio fell silent. Lestrade shifted his position, carefully pointing his camera at the shadow stand of trees just beyond the reach of the lamppost. It went against his nature to deliberately expose his position; however, the headsman seemed to crave an audience and perhaps his presence might encourage the apparition to appear all the sooner. He slipped his chilled hands into his pockets against the wind, and his right hand curled around the solid grip of his gun as he settled back to wait.

A few long minutes crept by with nothing but the sound of the wind howling through the trees and the rustling of dry leaves along the path. A few more crept by and still nothing.

"Boss, move to your left a bit." Donavan requested quietly. "The security camera nearest to your position caught a bit of movement."

Lestrade shifted his stance. A figure had appeared on the path a short distance away, moving in his direction at a casual stroll. Too short to be Bradstreet and too wide at the shoulders to be Hopkins. He suppressed a groan.

"Sally?"

"No clue, Boss. He just appeared out of thin air."

His gaze shifted from the stranger to the shadows and back as he considered a course of action. If he moved to warn the man of the potential danger, it would expose his identity to the horseman if he were watching. Then again, he couldn't in good conscience stand by and allow an innocent bystander to end up in harm's way, despite the fact that the man should not even be in the park to begin with. Not at this hour of the night. Lestrade glanced at his watch. There was still a little time before the phantom was expected to make his appearance. At the man's current pace, there was a small chance that he might pass on by if left to himself.

"Watch yourself, Lestrade." Came Sally's soft warning.

His hand tightened securely the weapon in his pocket as the stranger slowed his pace, coming to a stop just beyond the edge of the light. So much for wishful hoping. The man's face was shadowed beneath the rim of a well cut fedora, his body shrouded by the folds of a long overcoat. Only his trousers from the knees down, and his well polished shoes were visible. Not a drifter, then. The two men stood quietly for a moment, appraising one another, and Lestrade felt the small hairs at the back of his neck raise as the man shifted a step closer.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, we meet again." The words were spoken with a chillingly familiar measured tone. "Did you miss me?"

The gun was out of his pocket and leveled at the man before Lestrade registered the fact he had moved at all. His pulse thundered in his ears as he took a step closer, his voice a low growl. "I don't know who you are or what you are attempting to pull…"

"Oh come now." The man interrupted with a relaxed tone, as if he were simply remarking on the weather and not standing in the path of a gun. "You know exactly who I am, don't you?" He moved forward, pausing with his hands raised as Lestrade tightened his grip on his weapon in a warning. The man reached up slowly with a smirk and removed the hat, angling his face into the light. Lestrade felt the blood drain from his face as he studied the apparition before him.

"Moriarty is dead." He stated with a calm he didn't feel, ignoring the buzz of voices over his ear piece. "I witnessed the autopsy myself, and the cremation of his remains. I don't know what sort of sick prank you are trying to pull, but you chosen the wrong night."

The man's face morphed into a pout. "I am not here to cause trouble, Inspector. I simply have a question to ask."

"What question?" Lestrade stated through clenched teeth, his finger edging against the cold thin metal of the trigger.

"Where is John Watson?"

Lestrade shifted forward with a low growl, halting mere inches from the man as a gun suddenly appeared in the man's gloved hand. "Now, now, Inspector, that is hardly polite."

"What do you want with him?" Lestrade asked, a warning lacing his tone.

The answering twist of a smile failed to reach the man's cold eyes. "That is none of your concern."

"I'm making it my concern." Lestrade countered.

Moriarty shifted his gun slightly, pointing the silver muzzle directly at Lestrade's heart. "A simple question, Inspector. Tell me what I want to know and I will spare your life. Otherwise.." The thin shoulders lifted with a sight shrug and the thin mouth twisted in a grin. "Your choice."

Lestrade held the man's cold stare with one of his own. "There is a chance I can take you with me."

"Perhaps…then again, perhaps not."

An eerie laughter echoed through the tense space, joined by the pounding of hooves against the hard packed earth…

And in a moment all hell broke loose…


A/N: The headsman murders refer to an excellent book titled "The Hyde Park Headsman" by Anne Perry.