Disclaimer: There are so many things I could do if I owned these guys, but I don't, so I can't!
The flat was plain and ordinary looking, just another 1960's high rise in the east end of London. Filled with plain, functional but cheap furniture, it wasn't a home – just a place to live.
The man who sat at the kitchen table was a thin, wiry individual, with a thin sharp face and cruel eyes, and he was looking through some thirty year old psychological reports and doctor's notes. At last a cruel smile spread slowly across his face – Sherlock Holmes would regret getting involved in his business.
xXx
Cutting through Regent's Park on his way home, John smiled at the number of Frankenstein's creatures and Dracula's, the Scream masks and the gruesomely painted zombies, amused that this very American celebration had been so thoroughly taken to the hearts of British kids. His smile at their antics grew wider as he remembered that night – exactly a year ago – when his best friend and flatmate had returned from the dead. That had been the first time he'd really noticed how many children there were out and about on Hallowe'en, and for him it was the day Hallowe'en became special.
Dodging a large crowd of teenage witches, bad fairies and devil dolls, he diverted across the grass to take a more remote path, walking around a large dogwood bush. A rustling sound caught his attention, and he slowed down, turning as he did so. Unfortunately for Dr Watson, that was the last thing he was to remember for a few hours.
xXx
Sherlock came out of his mind palace and looked around. The flat was dark, and the fire had almost burned out.
"John?"
There was nothing but the echo of his own voice. Kicking his legs off the couch he stalked through the kitchen and then back out and along to their bedroom.
Staring into the darkness of the empty room he felt unusually unsettled, as if the very air was vibrating with expectancy. John was, underneath the tough exterior, a sentimental man. Only this morning, as he headed out to cover a shift for a friend at UCH, he had promised to be back to cook something special tonight to celebrate. It hadn't been until much later that realisation dawned about what it was that John wanted to celebrate – a year since he, Sherlock, had come home, a year since they had admitted there was more than just friendship between them.
Glancing at his watch he saw it was nearly nine o'clock. John should have been home three hours ago. He would never have stayed late, not tonight. Tonight he had promised…
xXx
Dizzy still from the effects of the chloroform, John barely registered the cold damp of the ground, nor the chill stone that he was anchored to with a thick chain around his chest. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool.
"Drink, Dr Watson?"
The voice was somewhere behind his left shoulder but when he tried to turn his head all he felt was the cold grey marble of a Gothic Angel's skirts.
"What's going on?" John's voice was hoarse, rasping.
"I asked you if you wanted a drink!" this time the voice was closer, as out of the darkness the darker shape of a man loomed up, and a hand reached forward, pinching his nostrils shut and forcing his mouth open.
Despite the restraints and his sluggish reactions John tried to pull away, but the other man was stronger, pushing the top of a water bottle into his mouth, tipping it so that he was forced to swallow.
John gagged, trying not to ingest the bitter liquid, but he was severely disadvantaged, chained as he was to the stone monument, and his assailant managed to get almost half of the bottle's contents down John's throat before he started to choke.
"Soon, Dr Watson." The voice whispered harshly into the captive's ear. "Soon your boyfriend's meddling will drive you mad." And with a high pitched giggle he moved back into the darkness
xXx
Enquiries made to the hospital confirmed that yes, Doctor Watson left at five o'clock sharp. They had been grateful for his help, and happy for him to leave on time. The A&E duty staff expressed concern that John seemed to have disappeared, and promised to get in touch if they heard from him.
Next Sherlock tried Lestrade, but the Detective Inspector was off duty and was out 'trick or treating' with his children and a clutch of their ghoulish friends. He recommended contacting Dimmock as he would know if John had either been asked to help out or – God forbid – had been involved in some kind of incident. With a cheery admonition not to worry, that John was a grown man and more than capable of looking after himself, he ended the call, leaving Sherlock with the echoes of children's shrieks overlaying the well intentioned advice.
Frustration and fear boiled up inside of him – a fear greater than he had felt since Moriarty and his time spent away from home and from John – and almost in desperation he pulled on his coat and scarf, intending to walk the route he knew John would have taken home, but as he pulled on his gloves his phone vibrated chirping out a text alert.
Hope and fear warred inside the consulting detective as he opened the message and stared at the picture, his worst fears recognised. Another text message followed almost immediately.
'Find me'
xXx
By the time the photograph had been taken, the effects of the psilocybin were evident, and his captor would have known how the horrified expression on John's face would affect the consulting detective.
Kneeling in front of the terrified man, and with a laugh that wouldn't have been out of place in a Hammer horror film, he switched on a flashlight, holding it under his chin to illuminate his face. John's screams echoed and bounced off the surrounding marble and granite monuments, as the face of the clown moved closer, smiling at his fear.
"We're coming for you, John Watson. We're coming for you soon!"
With a flick of a switch the gravestones surrounding them took on a life of their own, lights flickered on and off, each one revealing a different figure or large painted face – and each one a clown.
Walking away from the chained man he smiled in satisfaction as the screams grew louder and more intense. After this, Doctor Watson's mind would never be the same.
A/N:
1) References to last Hallowe'en can be found in my story Long Leggity Beastie, although it's not necessary to read that to understand this.
2) Coulrophobia is the fear of Clowns
3) Psilocybin is found in magic mushrooms and can be either eaten or extracted and made into a drink. It is bitter, and it seems our bad guy just added it to water.