Red Door Black

by hobbitsdoitbetter

There is a house in old Soho, a house which has many secrets. A house which should be left alone. But when Sherlock Holmes tempts both Molly Hooper and John Watson inside this house one Halloween, he has no idea what he's unleashing or the price to be paid for his curiosity. After all, there's no need to fear the dark- Is there? And what sort of detective believes in ghosts anyway?

1. Prologue: Sweet-Bitter

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. I originally tried posting this story before, but couldn't seem to get into it. Now though, I think I know where it's going... So strap yourselves in for a good, old-fashioned ghost story...

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PROLOGUE: SWEET-BITTER

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London, Soho,

Midnight, October 31st

"Sherlock?" she says. "Sherlock?"

Scream of splintering wood, slivers of it cutting into his skin. Voice hoarse, hands scratching, but no purchase to be found, none, no, none at all. None at all. Just the cold, swift slide downwards into the pit- Into Perdition-

It closes around him like an embrace.

Impact comes, hard and sharp, body tossed about like a rag doll. He lands, face down, wetness in his lungs, against his palms. Snatch of pain in his forehead, a dull ache, then blazing agony in his chest, his leg. Broken, he thinks, broken. He's broken… Something…

Something…

Someone.

And the someone isn't him.

The someone is never, ever him.

Echo comes then, a beat of music. A measure.

If he could move his lips he'd sing it…

"Darling, you send me…Oh darling, you send me…"

Blood in his mouth now- Tongue bitten, eyes pressed tightly shut. He doesn't want to see the thing he knows he'll see if he looks into the darkness. Doesn't want to see the thing he knows he's done. He can hear people far away, moving debris. Trying to reach him. Footsteps scuff the floor above him, the sound of someone scrambling down to touch him, to pull him up, to bring him back-

But it' s too late.

She's gone, she's gone.

He wants to say it but the words won't form.

She's gone, she's gone and I did it, I did that to her -

The music is in his head, inside him. Around him. Honey-toned and golden, sweet-bitter as a lullaby…

"You send me…" he murmurs, "you send me, darling you do…"

He feels the press of a finger against his pulse then, thinks he feels himself being moved. He can hear a voice- "Sherlock," it's saying, "What did you take, Sherlock?" And then-"Get an ambulance, for Christ's sake… I'm a doctor. Get an ambulance now, you moron-"

Molly Hooper sinks slowly, woodenly, down to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. She stares at her bloodied fingernails, tries to make sense of what she has just done...

And inside Sherlock's mind the music lilts on.