A/N: It's my birthday today, so in the tradition of hobbits you all get a present! I hope you like it… Admittedly it's a present for myself as well, as it's a chance to play in all my favorite fandoms :)

Disclaimers (and there are quite a few this time…):

I know Halloween is mostly an American holiday, and the British celebrate it differently than we do. For the sake of this story, I'm assuming otherwise. This is Halloween as I'd like it to be, not as it is. If you aren't familiar with the holiday, all you need to know is that on the night of October 31st you dress up in costumes and go door to door begging for candy or go to parties or go to haunted houses or corn mazes or watch scary movies… It's loads of fun :)

Warnings for ghastly amounts fluff, crack, and massive fangirling nonsense.

I own nothing but my crazy imagination. Not Sherlock, the Hobbit, or the Lord of the Rings (even thought I wish I did...). I don't even own the OC—Ellen is the property of the most fantabulous star-eye, who has graciously permitted me to borrow her.

You really should check out "The Godfather" to get some background on this wonderful character!

I'm not kidding. Don't read on until you've read that awesomeness!

…

K, now you have, right? It was amazing, right?! Now on with the story!

(Sorry for the super-long A/N btw. Think of it as really thick wrapping paper.)

Enjoy!

"So Sherlock…"

"No."

"But…"

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, Sherlock, it's not that big of a deal. Just a little Halloween costume party at the 'Yard," Lestrade cajoled.

"I have given you my answer. Desist in your entreaties, they will not avail you," Sherlock sniffed.

"There's a group costume contest. Anderson claims his idea cannot be beaten," Lestrade offhandedly said, turning away.

"Obviously. Ellen had better ideas than Anderson when she was barely a month old," Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.

Lestrade couldn't exactly argue with that, so he just walked away, (solved) cold case files in hand.

"Unka 'Lock?"

"Yes, Ellen?"

"Read me story," the precocious child demanded. "Pwease?"

"Of course. Anything you would like in particular?" her godfather replied, hand hovering over the large bookshelf. After his last disastrous attempt at bedtime storytelling, which involved the events leading to his Hiatus, he had been restrained to reading from a carefully censored selection of children's books. Yet another one of the seemingly never-ending rules, regulations, and requirements demanded by The Rules Regarding the Care and Keeping of Ellen. Who knew raising a child could be so complicated?

"Somting wif a dwagon. 'N a wizard. 'N a hero. Like poppa."

"Well, there aren't any heroes like your father, Ellen," he admitted softly, "But I think you will enjoy this story regardless."

"Kay, Unka 'Lock."

Flipping open the red-leather-bound book, Sherlock began.

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…"

"What would you like to be for Halloween, Ellen?" John asked, squatting down so that he was at her eye level.

"I wanna be a hobbit," she stated, nodding firmly. John looked over his adorable daughter, golden curls ringing her face, cherub cheeks always rosy red, large blue eyes twinkling.

"I think you will make a lovely hobbit, Ellen. Let's tell your mother and Mrs. Hudson so they can start working on the costume, shall we?"

"Do you think you could convince him, John? We really do need him to complete the group," Lestrade pleaded.

"I can try. He owes me several large heaps of favors, and I think I can use Ellen to my advantage for this one," John mused.

"Blackmail?" the DI questioned.

"Blackmail," John agreed. "And dirty fighting to boot," he added with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"I. Am. Not. Putting. That. Thing. On."

"Do it Sherlock. Or I will throw out your fungus collection. And the skull. And hide your violin. Indefinitely."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock gasped.

"I would, and you know it," John looked him in the eye, speaking in his 'Captain' voice. "Now either you are going to wear this without complaint and behave at the party, or Mary will use your precious purple shirt as a dishrag. And Lestrade will finally post that video he took of you after our trip to Irene Adlers'."

"This is blackmail! Ridiculous!" Sherlock screamed, flailing arms hitting the walls of the hall bathroom where John had finally cornered him.

"Poppa?" a timid voice wafted from around the corner.

John just turned and stared. He knew his daughter was precious, but this… This was just too much, even for him. Scooping the endearing little hobbit into his arms, he placed a quick kiss in her perfect curls. How could he possibly resist?

"Why is Unka 'Lock mad, Poppa? Is it 'cause I broked his 'speriment?"

"No, he's not mad at you—and that was an accident. He's just getting into character for the party. You'll love his costume, he picked it to match yours," John smiled wickedly, knowing that Sherlock could hear every word.

"Really Unka 'Lock? Show me! Who you dressin' up as?" Ellen asked sweetly, turning liquid blue eyes questioningly towards her godfather. Sherlock felt his resolve disintegrate. He could never deny Ellen anything before, and now… despite knowing the mathematical and evolutional reasons behind why his goddaughter was so adorable, he could not resist her charm.

John, however, had no such looks in his favor. If looks could kill, he would be nothing more than a pile of smoldering ashes. Unfortunately, his blogger was immune to Sherlock's death glares.

"One moment, Ellen," Sherlock ground out tightly before slamming the door to get changed, promising creative and excruciating death to John, Lestrade, and whoever else was in on this despicable plot to humiliate him.

"Is he gone?" the consulting detective whispered conspiratorially through the door.

"Yes, Unka 'Lock. Are you gonna show me now?" she bounced on her toes excitedly.

Sherlock creaked open the door. Ellen screamed in delight.

He was dressed in a rather tight red jumpsuit, absolutely covered head to toe with glittering scales. A mask imitating a dragon's muzzle covered his face, and a long tail trailed on the floor behind him.

"Smaug!" she cried, rushing towards him and attacking his legs with a hug.

"Is such a pwetty cos-tume Unka Lock. Isa perfect!"

And somehow, Sherlock didn't feel quite so bad about wearing it anymore.

"Dr. Watson?"

"How many times must I tell you to call me 'Mary' Mycroft, before you actually listen to me? 'Dr. Watson' is just too confusing with John around!" the woman in question admonished.

"I am merely endeavoring to give honor to your professional achievements, Dr. Watson. But if you continue to insist…"

"I do. Professionalism is for the workplace. This is home, and you are family, whether you like it or not. Professionalism checks itself out at the door," Mary crossed her arms, daring the British Government to disagree.

He didn't dare.

"Mary," he said delicately, the word strange in his mouth, "I have brought something that I believe will compliment your costume very nicely."

"Why thank you Mycroft!" Mary crooned, taking the simple box, "How thoughtful!"

She almost dropped the box, she was so surprised at the contents.

"Mycroft! Good to see that you could come," John greeted. He'd already put on the majority of his costume, but still needed Mary to add the last few finishing touches.

"The thanks are mine, John. I am glad that my presence is welcome."

"Oh John, look! It's perfect Mycroft, wherever did you get it?" Mary interrupted, picking up the intricate diadem.

"I simply called in a few favors I had in the filming industry. I'm afraid it's only on loan Mary, the museum wouldn't allow me to purchase it."

John more dropped the thin circle of metal onto Mary's head than placed it there.

"You… you mean… "

"Why are you so surprised, John? My work often requires me to collaborate with mass media of all sorts. It's just a piece of silver-brushed steel, nothing particularly valuable…"

"Other than it was actually used in one of the most popular films on earth, you mean," John snapped.

"Let him be, John, he's just trying to be nice. It's lovely, Mycroft, thank you," Mary smiled, spinning slowly in her ethereal white dress.

"Lady Galadriel, most beautiful in all of Middle Earth, would you please help a poor hobbit glue on his ears?" John asked sweetly.

As the couple headed upstairs, Mycroft returned to his car. He had his own costume to prepare.

"It's too quiet down there," Mary confided, adding the last bit of makeup to her husband's nose.

"I agree. That's never a good sign, silence when there is not one, but two two-year-olds alone together. Trouble for sure."

The couple quietly crept down the stairs, eager to catch their two miscreants in the act. They paused at the landing, chuckling silently.

"Where… are… you? Come now, don't be shy. Step into the light!" Sherlock growled, voice an uncharacteristically deep rumble. Pouncing, he pulled a squirming Ellen out from behind the couch and proceeded to tickle her mercilessly.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! HELP! HELP! STOP IT!" she squealed.

"RRRRRRRRAAAAAAWWWRRR!" Sherlock snarled, causing Ellen to giggle with glee. "That was an impertinent insult, young one! I may be old, but I am old and strong, strong, strong," he snarled fearfully. "I kill where I wish and none dare resist!" Recognizing the quote, John finally lost the battle to hold in his laughter, sobbing with mirth. He'd never heard his friend's voice dip quite so low—he really did sound like a dragon. Hearing the sounds of glee from the stairwell, the detective froze in mortification, allowing Ellen to escape towards the safety of her father's arms.

"Slay the dragon, poppa! He's bein' mean!"

Sherlock tried his level best to sink into the woodwork.

"If my lady demands it, so I shall!" John cried, striking a heroic pose. Handing his daughter off to his giggling wife, he proceeded to tackle his best friend and give him the worst pretend-thrashing of his life. Sherlock, forced to play along or get pummeled for real, darted around like an overlarge lizard-cat, roaring and hissing as appropriate, staying just out of the reach of John's invisible sword. Before long, however, the ex-soldier had him by the scruff of his sparkly neck, about to send him to his grave (Sherlock bemoaning his imminent demise quite poetically) when they were rudely interrupted by a manicured voice.

"It would be rather inconvenient if you were to put an end to my little brother," Mycroft drawled, rolling his eyes. "The paperwork for a dragon-slaying permit after the fact is positively dreadful."

John roughly dropped Sherlock, gaping unabashedly. The British Government was wearing a dress.

True, it was a very high-quality, almost-exact movie replica of Lord Elrond's costume, but still, it was a dress. With a long-haired wig and a ruddy tiara. What made the ridiculous sight even funnier was that he still held his precious umbrella. The look Mycroft shot him was so close to the look Elrond wore the entire trilogy that it only made John laugh harder. Even Sherlock cracked a smile. He was a giant lizard, but his brother looked like a pretty princess. Sherlock might be wearing a bedazzled jumpsuit, but dragons ate princesses. Looking over his archenemy, he decided against it. He'd probably get indigestion, after all.

The insult-fest that was about to ensue was cut short by the sound of yelling.

"What do you mean, 'You shall not pass'? That's my line!" Lestrade's bellowing echoed up the stairs.

"I know dear, and you look very nice. Now go upstairs, everyone else is ready," Mrs. Hudson said.

Lestrade's distinctive footsteps could be heard pounding up the stairs, and soon he was in the living room with the rest of the Middle-Earth gang.

"Gandalf!" Ellen shrieked, wriggling out of her mother's arms and dashing across towards Lestrade's. Pulling up short, she put her hands on her hips and pouted, "You're late."

Deadpanning, Lestrade retorted, "A wizard is never late, Eleanor Watson. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to."

Laughing, Ellen rushed forward the rest of the distance to give him a hug.

"Didja bwing any fireworks, Gandalf?" she asked innocently.

"I'm afraid not, my little Ellen. But I did bring some sweets, how about that?" he bartered, looking briefly at Mary for permission.

"It's Halloween, give her the sugar," she shrugged.

"Glad to see that the beard worked out after all, Lestrade," John said, rubbing his chin. "You had far better luck than I did with that horrid mustache a few years ago."

"It was a grand day when you finally shaved the poor thing and put it out of its misery... I'm just glad mine was long enough for me to tie on the extensions," Lestrade stroked his half-real beard contemplatively, Ellen completely obsessed with the small bag of candy corn he'd pulled out of one of his many pockets.

"We good to go? Mycroft, I'm assuming your car is big enough for all of us. Dimmock is meeting us there, he had to pick up a few last-minute things for his costume," Lestrade explained, leading the way.

"Who is he playing again?" Mary asked John quietly as they walked down the stairs.

"Thorin. Last time I saw him, he was a skinny shrimp, more of an elf than a dwarf, but Lestrade says he's bulked up quite a bit in the last year, so we'll see. Regardless, I think tonight is a success."

"Why? After all, it hasn't even really started yet."

"Because Sherlock's as glittery as a disco ball, Mycroft looks like a queen, and Ellen is living her favorite story. And you are as beautiful as ever," he smiled, kissing her gently.

"And you are ridiculously handsome, as always, my dear Bilbo," Mary teased, kissing him back.

Mrs. Hudson was there to send them off, smiling happily. She had no desire to go to any late-night Halloween parties at her age, but had gleefully volunteered to help with the costumes. They had expected that 'help' to be a few tailoring adjustments or a bout of closet-scrounging. Mrs. Hudson had surprised them all (Mycroft excluded, but only because he'd already owned his costume) with hand-sewn masterpieces.

"It was no bother, dears. It gave an old lady something to do other than worry incessantly about what sorts of trouble you're getting yourselves into. Enjoy tonight, tell me how it goes!"

"The kids' portion ends at nine-thirty, we'll send someone back with Ellen around then, alright Mrs. Hudson?" John clarified, giving his adopted mother a hug. "Thank you so much for all the work you put into the costumes, they're perfect!"

"Off with you! Thank me by bringing me back the group costume award!" she smiled, waving as the black limo pulled away.

TBC