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 mocked 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.
"It's Jim, Jim Moriarty! He's alive and he's got John!" Sherlock snarled as Lestrade thumbed through his text messages.
"Hell." He growled realizing that his one night off was about to be spent working.
Sherlock nudged an old man away from the bowl and eagerly seized the arm from where it was steeped in fruit juice and lime reins. He placed it on the table and carefully scrutinized it muttering every fact under his breath as it came to light.
"Female, late twenties, office job." He said forming a picture of her in his mind.
"How could he have survived? We never found the body, but we found the blood. There was no way—"
"I did it and it wasn't that hard." Sherlock snapped. "Looks-dead clearly doesn't indicate death."
Sherlock carefully observed the ring on the woman's finger and pulled it off, noting both its newness and its expensiveness.
On the inside of the ring an engraving stood out from the highly polished silver. "Toujours l'amour, de Jean."
Sherlock did a quick translation in his head: "Forever love, from Jean." but noticed that the ring wasn't an engagement ring. It was a plain, silver ring empty of any jewels or other methods of endearment.
"Whoever she was she wasn't Jean's wife." Sherlock muttered, running through a list of Missing French women in London on his phone that he had snatched back from Lestrade.
"Based on the limited decomposition, which is not entirely due to immersion in alcohol she hasn't been dead long, so she was in the city when she…Ah!"
He found his most likely candidate: The secretary to a former French Ambassador who still took occasional business trips to London. The former Ambassador's name? Jean of course.
He ignored Lestrade's suggestion that the official police should be called and texted furiously into his phone.
Secretary to Jean Javeir, former French Ambassador. Coincidentally did Mrs. Javeir hire this one, or was it just luck? -SH
"I'll have our division…"
"Call no one." Sherlock demanded. "If this leaves the party people's lives could be in danger. You know how he works Lestrade, this is personal."
"In fact…" Sherlock thought silently while Lestrade fumed "I could have forfeited John just by mentioning it to you."
Suddenly his phone lit up and chimed merrily and in a flash Sherlock descended upon the message.
We actually get a surprising amount of work from Madame Javeir. Her husband keeps us busy. –JM
Where's John? –SH
There was a slight delay in response that set Sherlock on edge. What was taking him so long to reply? What took so long to type? A paragraph? Was he doing something else?
"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" Lestrade said, evidently annoyed.
"No. Stop talking."
Lestrade rolled his eyes but the action was lost on Sherlock. His phone rang again and he still jumped for it too energetically.
John's fine. He's awake now and panicking. Forgive the pause; I had to finish some arrangements. I find it hilarious that you both showed up to the party dressed as yourselves, but then again not everyone has the same depth for imagination as I have. –JM
Sherlock sighed in relief, and realized that he'd been holding his breath anxiously. Then the phone rang again.
If the party goers haven't noticed by now, the doors to the gym are now locked. I've placed a small yet powerful bomb in your midst. Thirty minutes should be more than enough time for you, good luck. –JM
"Christ." Lestrade exclaimed reading the message over Sherlock's shoulder. "A bomb? Here? There must be a hundred people in this room!"
Sherlock looked around and saw a small wave of apprehension sweep through the crowd as numerous people tried to force their way through the locked exits. If he didn't hurry the bomb would be the least of their worries; they would have to deal with a full scale riot.
Hint?—SH
He felt a twinge in his pride, but he swallowed it bitterly. There would be no way to find a single bomb among hundreds of panicking, frightened children acting like animals if the situation was allowed to fester any longer.
Sherlock, I'm surprised at you! I didn't think you could be that much of a dead-head! –JM
Sherlock's heart sank initially, for it sounded as though he had been denied, but his mind was working almost too quickly for him to realize what brief thoughts whizzed in and out of his mind palace on an almost unconscious level.
"Dead-head, that sounds odd, it's not a normal insult, could it just be Jim, no it couldn't, it must be a hint, head, dead, decomposition, where is there a skull?" words zoomed out faster than he could bear to utter them as he reflected on every thought spoken aloud.
"A skull?" Lestrade asked, feeling a bit slower than usual.
"Yes skull, the bomb is in a skull!" Sherlock said glancing around, seeing the rotted skull sitting next to the cupcakes and seizing it triumphantly, never noticing that when he said bomb he set off a chain reaction that sent several young adults into a panic and crashing into other party-goers causing a miniature riot that he had feared that raced over to the walls opposite the refreshment table.
He wrenched open the top of the head which opened like a flap and saw a little charge crisscrossed with primary-colored wires and on top a switch which had two buttons, a blue and red button. The blue button was covered in black print letters which said: "Kill Bomb." The red button was covered in white letters which said: "Bomb Kill."
Could it have been a prank, was it some more of Jim's messed up humor, was it a trick? Sherlock thought rapidly, trying to see through the plot (if any) Jim had laid out. What if the button that was supposed to kill the bomb set it off instead? That would be sufficiently evil.
Lestrade, whom Sherlock was consistently forgetting about, made the decision for him by reaching over him and pressing the blue button.
Sherlock tensed in panic, but to his great relief nothing happened.
His phone chimed and he looked down to see another text from Jim.
Perhaps I gave away too much in the hint? No matter.—JM
Where's John? –SH
Same place. He's finding it a bit hard to get mobile currently. –JM
Sherlock hissed angrily, frustrated at his own inability to help his friend and that he was being forced to dance once more for Jim.
He looked up from the infuriating words and saw something which caught his eagle eyes. A woman in black, dressed as though she'd been attending a funeral, glanced left and right suspiciously, her face blocked by a thin grey veil. Her appearance was of no matter, for in her hands she held a blood spattered kitchen knife and Sherlock knew it to be more than just a prop.
She glanced around nervously once more, and then retreated through an unlocked door that led to a narrow cream colored hallway and ran off.
Just a few more puzzles and Halloween tricks before you earn your treat, love. Someone was just murdered in the room. Who, What and Why? –JM
At that moment a rally of screams erupted from a crowed as a hippie dropped to the floor clutching his bleeding stomach and allowing it to pool around him, staining his white jacket. Lestrade ran over to the man, informing the crowd that he was a police officer and that everybody should stay calm.
Sherlock saw all of this, but felt oddly distant and detached, as though he were floating above it all instead of fighting his way through people who were crowding around the body.
"An ambulance is on its way!" Lestrade declared clutching the man's fatal wound in an attempt to save his life, but Sherlock knew it wouldn't be enough.
Instead Sherlock followed the woman through the door into the back hallways of the gym. Once the door had closed behind him everything was weirdly silent and still. He was utterly alone, and only the faint echo of the misplaced music served as any reminder of the world he had left behind.
"He did the mash…He did the Monster mash." Some ancient track declared as Sherlock took his first echoing footsteps down the hall, ears perked for any sound.
From far away he heard the panicked racing pulse of racing feet and he started running to catch up with the woman-murderer. At best she would lead him straight to Moriarty, at worst he could interrogate her for the information Jim had requested.
The hallways behind the gym were a labyrinth of halls and doors, all of which looked exactly the same. Sherlock would race down one until he hit a dead end and be forced to back track down another. The footsteps sounded like they came from every direction at once, echoes bouncing off of every wall and he wondered briefly if Jim was just playing with him and leading him on.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock jumped, arms poised for boxing, and turned to face Lestrade who had found him (and truthfully startled him) once again.
"Where are you going?" he demanded. Sherlock noticed his hands were wet with fresh blood, which didn't show up necessarily against his black gloved hands.
"Don't ask stupid questions, the murderer went this way." He asserted running down the hall and pressing against all the doors, checking for a probable escape route. Lestrade followed him nervously, wishing that he'd brought a gun or something to defend himself with against the killer that they were chasing down.
Sherlock froze. There was no longer any sound whatsoever echoing from anywhere, save for Lestrade's breathing.
"Shh. Quiet!" He commanded. Lestrade obediently took slow even breaths silently.
Sherlock listened. Everything was perfectly still and quiet. Even the noise from the party had disappeared.
"Damn it all." He growled. "She's gone through a door and we've lost her."
The hallway broke into a fork that led in two different directions. Sherlock knew there was no time to waste and he was impatient to continue, but a thought gnawed at the back of his mind.
He slowly pulled out his phone from where he had hastily shoved it into his coat pocket and, motioning for complete silence, dialed John's number.
John swallowed hard. His mouth was completely dry; as was to be expected. He'd tried screaming through the gag earlier and had gotten a swift kick in the stomach for his troubles, now he lay silent feeling weirdly calm. It was as though another part of his mind had taken over as soon as Jim had walked away, keeping him cool and calm and focusing solely on escape. His fingers stretched and prodded at his bonds trying to find knots or something that he could use or manipulate to get free.
Whoever had tied him had a fair knowledge of knots and the ropes bit into his skin too tightly to be worked out of, every knot too intricate to pick easily. He'd been at it for quite some time.
Suddenly his pocket started ringing and John felt a tremor of fear. He squirmed, trying to silence the sound but he couldn't reach his pocket. Using a nearby box he worked himself into a sitting-upright position and tried to shake the phone out of his pocket by kicking his legs, but it was too late.
Jim casually strolled around some large metal shelves, though purposefully made a beeline for John.
John identified a slight tremble that his therapist (His third in a string of therapists after Sherlock's fake suicide) had correctly noted as being an attributed to the feeling of helplessness he felt as a result of the PTSD.
He did his best to appear defiant, but in his stomach cold fear clutched him making him feel a lot less brave than he wanted to appear.
Jim bent over and reached into his pocket and their eyes met momentarily. John wondered if Jim could read his feelings as the phone was wrenched free. He hoped he didn't look as scared as he felt, but his damn tremble probably gave him away.
Jim stood up, straightened his impeccably starched suit, cleared his throat and…
Sherlock held the phone away from his ear and listened. There was the dull ringing of the phone right next to him, and then from somewhere nearby there was a high pitched bell-sound, muffled by negligible distance and the walls to the direct left of him.
"Sherlock, have you given up already?" Jim's voice cooed from the other end of the phone. "No cheating!"
"John, are you there? We're coming!" Sherlock roared as he ran down the wall searching for the right door.
"He can't hear you." Jim assured him. Suddenly Sherlock heard a chilling click and Jim's voice became as cold as ice. "Not for long anyway."
"No! No!" Sherlock cried.
"I'm sorry, I really am…" Jim said, trying and failing to hide the thrill of pleasure in his voice. "But there is a penalty for cheating."
Sherlock threw open a door bellowing "No Jim! No!" he heard muffled groaning and, thankfully his own voice echoed back to him from the other side of the phone.
"…Damn." Jim hissed like a seething snake.
Sherlock had entered some room that looked like a long-forgotten storage until filled with boxes and shelves with more boxes all coated with enough dust to tinge everything gray and draped in black shadows.
Somewhere among the boxes Jim was hiding John, though as Sherlock peered into the disarray he realized that they could literally be anywhere. He ran blindly through the uneven aisles of shelves as a shot ricocheted through the room.
He winced, and then remembered Jim's threat.
"John!" he cried. "John!"
A door screeched open, and then slammed shut and Sherlock stumbled blindly towards that sound, kicking more boxes than he could count. He didn't stop until he kicked something soft and tripped into a puddle of hot, sticky liquid.
"Oh, Christ." Lestrade muttered as he took in the body and Sherlock, looking paler and more shocked than he'd ever seen him, covered in fresh blood.
A woman, dressed all in black, her face hidden by a blood-drenched veil had been shot once through the head. Sherlock nervously, with twitching apprehensive fingers removed the veil.
She was actually a remarkably ugly woman with yellow crooked teeth bared in a feral growl and a crooked nose that made her face lopsided, never mind the gaping hole through her right temple.
Sherlock realized what this meant and renewed his search for John.
"John?" he called into the darkness.
He heard the same groaning, like someone trying to talk through a piece of cloth and followed it around one more shelve to where he found John, hands tied behind his back and gaged with a scarlet handkerchief.
"Sherlock!" John gasped as soon as he was free to speak. "There's a coffin. Jim had a coffin."
Sherlock listened inquisitively as he tried to untie the knots binding John's arms. Lestrade stepped over him and using his pocket-knife (which he luckily brought with him in case of trouble) he simply slit the ropes.
"It's a coffin with your name on it…Literally."
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked as John rubbed his red, chaffed wrists.
"His whole plan tonight was to get you into the coffin, but a few minutes ago some people came through and moved it." John said standing up and gratefully stretching his spine. "I didn't hear anything else."
"There should be an ambulance outside. John, you should be looked at." Lestrade said.
"Are you listening to me?" John exploded. "Sherlock's in danger!"
"That's not our concern right now, our only concern is you." Sherlock said urbanely.
Suddenly Sherlock's phone rang and they each became as quiet as death. Sherlock whipped it out and read the extremely long texts.
Don't you hate it when nothing goes your way? Murphy's Law at work I suppose. Then again, I hadn't really planned this evening well; I just became antsy around this time of year and decided to step out. – JM
Costumes are a reflection of one's self. For example: Vampire, cold, dead, above all others; stronger and better, but still requiring something human to survive, something alive to live on. –JM
It didn't seem fair that I had to spend some time in my own coffin while you never even visited yours. After all, I am you.—JM
Don't worry dear, I'll fix that. Journeys end in lovers meeting. Three years hasn't changed as much as you think. –JM
Thought about you a lot whilst I was in hiding. –JM
Did you think about me? No, don't answer that. I think I know.—JM
Maybe if I'd used one or two more bombs instead of bodies you would have paid closer attention. I didn't foresee you're dangerous human apathy. –JM
Anyway, there was one message that I think got through to you tonight Sherlock, there is nothing that you have that I cannot soon take away.—JM
Keep your precious friends close, Sherlock. Your enemy will always be closer. –JM
I'll be in touch. Ta-ta. –JM
Sherlock received each of these as they hailed a cab back to Baker Street silently. John had refused to see the ambulance and was insistent on nursing his own wounds; Lestrade had stuck around the party to collect more evidence of the evenings 'tricks' and needless to say Jim had escaped unnoticed.
Sherlock sighed as he watched one or two more late children run up to a house. Tomorrow would bring the cases Jim had left in his wake to his door step, the identity of the dead hippie, the severed arm and the woman in black as well as the part they played in Jim's plot.
He would again have to start cataloging cases, searching desperately for indicators of Jim's presence among obscure and seemingly meaningless crimes that would seem to be in no way connected. He could not suppress a thrill of delight at having a challenge, though he quenched it with the reality of having a dangerous enemy.
John was sobberingly silent.
"Well." Sherlock said.
John turned and looked at him, a question playing behind his eyes.
"Was this better than an evening in?" Sherlock asked.
"Shut up." John replied.
There was a pause, and for one uncomfortable moment it lingered angrily, but John broke it with a short round of chuckling.
"Something tells me I'll hear about this night every time I want to go out from now on." He said smiling sadly.
Sherlock nodded, not telling John he planned on tailing him everywhere he was planning to go for a long time.
.