Hello all! I couldn't resist but to write a Sherlock oneshot just for Halloween, somewhat inspired by another fanfic writer. It's longer than I intended, but one can never pass by a good whimsical repartee between these two spectacular characters!
I hope you like it!
Something Wicked This Way Comes
"I feel utterly ridiculous!" John Watson lamented to his companion, of whom he doubted was actually aware of anything that came out of his own mouth considering how deep in thought the man was over their latest case.
"Shut up, it's quicker than walking…" Sherlock Holmes responded idly. He didn't even deign to glance up from his locked-in-my-Mind-Palace-away-from-the-distracting-world stance which involved palms parallel and hovering on the sides of his pale, sharp face, his ice-blue eyes closed in concentrated deduction.
John's head shot up in surprise. Perhaps the consulting detective was listening after all.
The hour-plus train ride over to the quaint Old-World town of Faversham had felt like a hellish eternity. For the duration of their sluggish journey, Sherlock had done next to nothing but sit and stare out of the grimy window as the remains of the city dwindled away only to be replaced by the vibrant green of the countryside, his fingers drumming a rhythmical beat against the sill all the while. It very nearly drove John batty.
But even more maddening, and not to mention suspicious, was the healthy helping of Sherlock's pointed silence. Usually by now, he was ranting on and on about what he had already figured out, how clever he was, as all show-offs do. However, for some reason, Sherlock was proving to be rather tight-lipped about this particular mystery, despite the doctor's persistent questions to remedy that. Not an encouraging sign of what was to come, not at all. Just add in the disturbing squeals and strident chatter of the more-than-usual amount of teenaged passengers robed in various costumes and before long the trip descended into a veritable purgatory.
Why did they have to investigate on Halloween of all times? By now, John should have been out at some lively party with Mike Stamford, tossing back a few and turning on the charm for a scantily clad temptress or two; but no, how could he have forgotten? With Sherlock Holmes as his best friend and colleague, opportune chances for entertainment were swiftly pilfered and burnt to a crisp once the detective sniffed a murder to be solved. Instead of enjoying the night of terrors in a decent fun-inducing environment, he was relegated to an old-fashioned broken-down carriage being half-froze in the harsh autumn weather and jostled about like cargo in a pirate ship's hold.
"But how can a whole city not have access to a single cabbie?" John continued to grumble once Sherlock's posture relaxed and his arms fell back to the sides of his ever-present Belstaff coat, marking his return to the real world at last.
After readjusting his blue-striped scarf and straightening his reedy shoulders, Sherlock responded in his customary impassive baritone, "Small country town. Anyone with half a brain would have expected it." This warranted the weak watered-down version of a glare from his flatmate, but Sherlock ignored it. "But what does it matter? We've found sufficient enough means of transportation."
"Sufficient—!" John sputtered then took a deep breath to try and ease this renewed upsurge of anger, to no avail. Clenching his teeth was all that prevented undue violence. "Why couldn't we have phoned in a cab from somewhere else?"
"Closest service was too far away. Time is of the essence here, I'm afraid."
"Oh, marvelous," was John's bitter retort made under his breath. "Well, even you have to admit, anything would have been better than this bloody princess coach!"
"Barouche."
"What?"
"This isn't a 'carriage' exactly. It's called a barouche, a fancy four-wheeled form of conveyance from the first half of the nineteenth century, drawn by two horses as opposed to just one," the dark-haired man elaborated in a speed that took his hearer several moments to fully register past a spinning head.
"I don't care what it's called! All I know is that every pothole in the road is killing my backside and the wind is giving me frostbite! And there's no need to mention the horses, their prominent barn smell is a constant reminder of their presence, thank you very much." Right on cue, the black monstrosity dipped and bobbed once again, making John wince in pain.
Even worse, the driver, upon being hired, had accused them of celebrating their anniversary, or something of the like. Why did people always assume they were a couple?!
Sherlock smirked. "Feeling cold is just a device of the mind which can be overruled. And for the others, you'll survive. Or you could try holding your breath…" He tilted his head to the side in mock consideration.
Another dirty look from his companion.
"Hilarious, Sherlock. But you're not the one who'll be sore in the morning. You never are…" Sighing in severe aggravation, the ex-soldier flipped his shooting jacket collar up higher above his jumper and checkered shirt to attempt to shield his neck from the chilly night breezes. If he intended to be of any use to his friend, he was going to have to find a way to snuff out his irritated distemper; or the very least, to try and contain it. He certainly had a hard climb before him.
Across the desolate moonlit moor, an immense oblong thing broke away from the general gloom and rose up against the cloud-shrouded sky, growing closer as their ride slowly approached. John's breath stilled until he realized it was just a building, manor actually, by the sheer size of it.
"Where are we going, anyway?" John said, unsure as to whether he wanted the detective to answer. Something was telling him he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. But he plundered on, his curiosity and inane instinct of survival overruling his desire to remain ignorant. "Sherlock…What aren't you telling me exactly?"
Beforehand, the subject of his interrogation had been avidly scrutinizing the bleak landscape, his keen eyes roving from rock to rock and weathered foliage to the next, missing nothing. Was he avoiding looking directly at John? That couldn't be. Sherlock only did that when…
John swallowed hard.
Finally, Sherlock slanted that omniscient sight onto the doctor but with blue-gray orbs that suggested a hint of guilt. He knew that look all too well. The thin curve of the detective's frown and slightly slumped shoulders left John without a doubt of what was to come.
With sinking stomach and narrowed eyes, John spat, "What?"
"As you already know, I got an email this afternoon about an interesting potential for a case, an email from a young woman from Faversham to be exact, hence the tedious train excursion. A few nights ago, Caleigh Winthrop as she is called was out late cycling with a friend of hers higher up along this unassuming highway and both were…attacked rather roughly, I should say, by a man on the roadside, and before long Miss Winthrop blacked out."
The increase of the horses' clomping and loud snorts muffled Sherlock's low voice, so John leaned forward to try and hear better. His hands clutched at his knees and his hazel eyes widened.
"Next thing she knew, she was waking up in a very old kitchen with her friend being sliced open and, consequently, murdered not ten meters away from her. After utilizing her boyfriend's pocket knife, she was able to free herself and escape from the man's lair and managed to make the long trek back to town before she could get captured again and partake of her friend's fate."
The doctor stiffened. "Didn't she go to the authorities?"
Sherlock smiled in excitement and admiration of his friend's sudden insight. "She tried. No one would take her seriously without solid evidence, especially since the two girls were known for their pranks. Ordinarily, the police would have tried procuring a warrant but the suspected crime scene is an historic manor that has been preserved for tours but has been closed down for years due to a frivolous turf dispute. And besides, no one within a hundred-mile radius would willingly venture inside…many of the locals consider it haunted," he finished with a disdainful sniff, his expression teetering precariously between condescending nonchalance and piqued delight.
"I did some research. Seems there have been quite a few missing persons reports centralized in this area, never resolved, which can only mean one thing. Brilliant, isn't it? I just love serial killings, always something to look forward to, you know…"
"Wait, wait, just hang on," John choked, his voice shaking and his hand coming up to emphasize the enormity of every word. "Are you telling me that we are heading toward an abandoned old haunted mansion with a probable serial murderer hiding inside, without back up, and on Halloween?" He all but shouted the last word in his sudden panic.
Sherlock gave his best you're-such-an-idiot scowl before sighing in irritation. "Isn't that what I said? I knew you would overreact."
"Overreact?" John lashed out, nostrils flaring. "How can you possibly think that this is okay? And without telling me everything first? Or Lestrade—"
"Oi, we're here, then," the eye-patch-wearing barouche-driver interrupted, saving Sherlock's skin. The rickety contraption slowed once he reigned in his overtaxed nags.
With headlong enthusiasm, Sherlock leapt gracefully from the hull of their makeshift cab and paid the stout, bearded man in full, bidding him to return in an hour. John's surprise made him pause. Usually, he made John relinquish the dues and have the smaller man catch up later. His own way of apologizing, John imagined. Well, he would have to do loads more than that to make up for this sodding madness!
So much for keeping a restraint on the rage…
"Sherlock Holmes, you are a nutter, true to form," John murmured to himself whilst wearily rubbing his face. "I always knew you would be the death of me someday. I just wish it wasn't today."
Reluctantly, he hopped down beside the carriage's wheel with less dignity than his flatmate—and not just because he was vigorously chafing his hindquarters in despair—and trailed after the tall, lanky figure who had stuffed his gloved hands into his overcoat pockets, rolled back his shoulders, and was now winding his elegant way up a flagstone path that had been left in considerable disrepair, sagging and crumbled it lay with overgrown roots attacking the masonry. Above them, on the crest of a modest hill, the indistinct silhouette of their destination loomed like a stumpy leviathan in the murk, patiently awaiting its prey to wander unwittingly into its cavernous mouth and suck them down to their deaths.
John shook his head. No need getting hysterics over something as childish as an imagination over-stimulated by the time of year. All of it was superstitious nonsense! It was just another case…wasn't it?
A weather-worn placard announcing the site's name, its momentous significance in English society, and a pay box had long been neglected. They moved on without delay. In spite of his endless stumbling and blindness in that sooty air, John was somehow able to pursue the ghostly retreating back of his companion and reach the manor not long after the latter who was now pacing back and forth across its expansive veranda as though searching for something.
"What are you—?"
"Looking for a way in!" Sherlock cut savagely across John's inquiry. He gave no apology for his rudeness and John never expected him to. It was unnecessary since the dynamics of their relationship were simple: Sherlock was a prat and John forgave him for such. "The serial killer must have gotten into the place somehow…" Sherlock proceeded his prowl on the estate grounds and John took the opportunity to properly examine the building itself.
Boasting at least three stories and likely a sizable attic, it was undeniably a mansion in every sense of the word. And, by the style of its countless windows and the fancy white Corinthian columns decorating the arching alcove over the threshold door and the frontal section of the structure, John would have placed its origin to the nineteenth century, but then he had never been much of an expert on period English architecture.
"Victorian style, yes, now you know. Stop thinking, it's annoying," Sherlock snapped, making John start.
The smaller man clenched his fists. "No, you stop reading my thoughts," John growled back, "it's…weird, to say the least. And people might talk. Something about finishing each other's sentences…"
"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, crouching before a boarded-up casement beside the main doorway. He didn't hesitate to yank out three of the loose planks. Underneath was a crawl space large enough for an average-sized man to squeeze through.
"Oh, good, my lock-picking skills are rather rusty." Sarcasm was John's most reliable defense mechanism.
"Mine are quite adept, actually."
John blinked in shock. "You're joking. You know how to pick a door lock?"
"Of course, doesn't everybody?"
"Only criminals," John mumbled for only his own ears. Usually, he didn't let the detective's relentless indifference and arrogance get the better of him in the best of circumstances. But this was not one of them.
Producing a torch from his pocket, Sherlock clicked it on, making John flinch from the sudden brightness, and shone it on the broken panes.
"Careful," John warned as Sherlock slid his finger along the edges of the glass.
"There are long hairs stuck here…and blood."
"Perfect, just what I wanted to hear: confirmation of murders," was John's sardonic response. The younger man persisted in ignoring the concern and worry riddling John's tone. Just then, a distant howl soured the companionable silence.
"Did you hear that?" John whirled in a circle, panic-stricken, but of course could spot nothing on the moor in this merciless darkness. "Was that a—"
"Don't be ridiculous, wolves have been extinct in England for centuries."
Realizing his nerves were probably playing tricks on his senses, John decided to let it go. "What did I say about finishing sentences?" he half-joked, hoping and failing to lighten the mood. "Can we at least get someplace warm? I'm freezing here!" Nose and cheeks burning with cold, John resorted to tightly hugging himself and bouncing on his heels to try and keep his circulation going, not to mention to prevent hypothermia. Sherlock readily obliged, bending the worm-eaten wood slats back as far they could withstand and motioned for John to slide in first.
Momentarily, the doctor balked. "How do we know he's not in there?" he piped.
Sherlock gave John a look that he recognized all too well. "It's All Hallow's Eve, John…do you think an abductor-slash-murderer will be holed up in his lair all night with so many gullible victims out and about, ready for the macabre reaping?"
"Er…right, okay. Just making sure…" And with that, John plopped onto the damp weedy mulch with a cringe of disgust and wriggled his way through the rabbit-hole crevice, keeping his arms close to his sides to prevent snagging himself.
Once he dropped to the scratchy Persian rugs and impatiently awaited Sherlock to follow, regardless of the slight warmth and shelter that extravagant house provided, he profoundly regretted his decision to humor the eccentric-but-clever detective on this strange case. Instantly, he was engulfed in musty, decay-smelling blackness and an unnatural quiet that seeped into his bones and made the skin of his arms rise with goose flesh. Every tiny creak of the floorboards or the pipes or whatever made him jump and his heart cower in his throat.
Hoping for something, anything really, to distract him from his mind-numbing fear in the scant seconds before the presence of a more rational human being gave him the allusion of safety, John gazed around himself, at what little the moonlight penetrating the small rift in the window revealed, and got his wish. A silvery glint just in front of the impressive front door caught his eye and he bent down to get a closer look. Without a second thought, John explored the molding until he touched some kind of metallic wire just as he vaguely heard his flatmate landing lithely at his back. Taking hold of the coil between two fingers, John pulled but found it to be stuck to the wall. That was how far he had gotten in his impulse-driven attempt at deduction before a strange click broke the silence.
Suddenly, he was being thrown to the floor with the wind being knocked out of him by a great weight pummeling against his chest. A cloud of filth flew into the air as John coughed and struggled to remove whatever had fallen onto him which, he quickly learned by the wool coat and bony limbs entangled with his, was the body of Sherlock Holmes himself who had easily removed his person from the carpet and was already regaining his standing position. "Sherlock, what the hell—"
John's well-contrived rant died on his tongue halfway through its birth. After limping back to his feet, John noticed the detective glowering at the door which was now peppered with multiple knives, their bone handles jutting out from the century-old wood like an unspoken threat. By their positions, they seemed to have been pitched from another part of the room before striking home, blades jabbed straight into the wood, but they had not been there before…until…
The doctor gulped dryly, his heart thundering in his chest and his entire form being overtaken by violent shudders as a terrible realization of what just almost happened coursed into his head.
"Booby-trap against unwanted intruders; triggered by a pressure gage. Brilliant," Sherlock mused in admiration, completely oblivious to John going to pieces a meter behind him, the small man's knees wobbling dangerously. "Further evidence of misbehavior from a frequenter…obviously, someone doesn't like interruptions."
"You...you just…" John breathed with a great effort, willing himself to calm, but was near impossible once he felt the sting of a scrape along the top edge of his ear, he had come that close to being skewered, after all. "You s-saved my life, didn't you?"
Through with his observations, Sherlock pivoted on his heel and brushed by his companion, avoiding his eyes. "You've done it for me enough times. The least I can do…Perhaps I should take the lead. And keep your hands to yourself, yes? Let's not have a repeat performance tonight."
It was true then. John could hardly believe it. He had been a hair away from losing his life for a stupid, sodding reason and Sherlock had lifted a hand to prevent it. Out of nowhere, the self-proclaimed sociopath had just displayed how much he actually cared about his friend by risking his own life in return. Something told him he shouldn't be surprised, and strangely he wasn't. Once the former army doctor's heart returned to a semblance of normal speed, it unexpectedly brimmed over with elation at the heroic deed of the detective. Finally, John was less afraid at what was being hidden away in that horrible haunted manor and what may become of them, not as long as Sherlock Holmes walked at his side. They could do this; he could do this.
The torch's weak beam seemed like sunshine in that inky hideaway, and yet the distorted, scattering shadows it spawned were less comforting than John would have liked. It illuminated a long corridor stretching out before them until it came to an end by an ostentatious mahogany staircase that diverged into two opposite byways leading to the upper levels. To their right and left, more columns separated the foyer from a cobweb-decorated parlor and lounge that were crowded with antique furniture: chestnut bureaus, beige regency lacquered chaises, filigree looking-glasses streaked with patinas of dust, even an immense grandfather clock. There was an old doll curled up on a delicate, flowery chair and teacups on a predated coffee table arranged in such a way to suggest recent abandonment by a long-forgotten Victorian gathering. Perhaps it was meant by the former curators to be nostalgic, but to John it was just plain spooky. He couldn't resist a shiver from snaking up his spine.
"Let's just do what we have to do and get out," John whispered.
"Scared, Doctor?" Sherlock scoffed.
"Don't, Sherlock, I'm serious."
After studying John's strained face for several moments, Sherlock nodded once, renouncing his insults, then guided his companion down the nearest hallway. Old portraits of long-dead aristocrats stared down at them with mournful, haunting eyes as they drifted by, John hovering much closer to Sherlock's shoulder than was socially acceptable for two unromantic men, but John was much too frightened to care about the implications. The dark-haired man seemed to know where he was headed so the blonde one refrained from questioning him. John was more than happy to have someone else worry about direction and purpose for the time being whilst he kept a vigilant watch on anything, whether alive or not, that might spring upon them unawares.
As doors began to appear along the walls, Sherlock promptly and efficiently opened each and every one, peering into the rooms that lay hidden behind, leaving no stone unturned John speculated. Without warning, Sherlock halted midstride and, as John was too preoccupied with darting his eyes behind himself, he almost ran right into the detective's hip.
"Sherlock? What is it? Why did you stop?"
"John."
Just one word, his name, which in of itself was no tell of the situation, however Sherlock's tone though low was one he knew all too well. A tone that made his heart quicken again in dismay. Following the path of the torch's stream, he saw it. A figure in a black gauzy shroud was floating in a doorway not far away. John's pulse stuttered then picked up erratically.
"What is that?" he hissed in his friend's ear.
"Hello?" Sherlock called out softly. "We're here on police business; we're not going to hurt you, all right? Just stay calm, please, we're coming to you…"
We what? John panicked wordlessly.
As one—considering John's hand was clutching Sherlock's arm with iron-strength fingers, it was inevitable—they inched toward the motionless form, the only sounds coming from their hushed footsteps and the howling of the wind pounding against the windows. Closer and closer; the quivering sensation returned full-swing in John's limbs. He could feel beads of sweat trickling down his back, the urge to run the other way making it hard to think. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't follow him, but he couldn't leave the detective here alone. Therefore, he had no choice; he was soldered to the fate of Sherlock Holmes. Despite being seconds away from jumping out of his skin, he was satisfied with his lot.
At last, they were there standing beside the woman in darkness and Sherlock steadily extended his palm toward her. And before John could prevent him as his protective instinct demanded, Sherlock had touched her—well, it actually. It was not a living person, after all, but a mannequin with a grotesque mask plastered onto its pseudo-face, hanging by a noose from the top of the doorframe. It swung languidly back and forth across the space between them and all they could do was stare in disbelief until a faint sound wafted on the air and into their ears. Both their heads whipped down the section of the corridor that they had not yet canvassed, listening speechlessly for a moment as something like…music? Yes, music, a refrain of a piano sonata, perhaps, being performed somewhere in a distant part of the house, making its invisible way to them.
Now this was truly creepy. One thing John always hated, what would make him more easily petrified out of his wits in a horror film than anything else was this, the player-less tunes heard from afar in a supposedly empty place…it signified an unfriendly presence had arrived. Regardless of the fear that was slithering up his whole body, making him rigid and frantic, John's temper was winning out, melting the chill feeling and making him uncharacteristically brave to the point of recklessness. Whoever was playing games and making him into a fool was through.
"Sod this!" he almost shouted in his rage. "I don't care who or what's making that noise, I am sick to death of this place! Come on, Sherlock. Let's be done with this."
And with that John Watson—the wary, dependable one of the pair—strode headlong down the hall without hesitation or even once bothering to glance about to ensure his safety. He was done whimpering in the corner. Adhering to the direction of the piano strains, John ended up leading Sherlock to the kitchen where he thrust through the wide door without a flinch. But he stopped short when he saw what lay beyond it.
After gasping in shock, John then had to cover his mouth to keep himself from gagging. Sherlock was by his side once again, his impassive expression for once betraying a hint of repulsion and distress.
In the decrepit scullery, large and crowded with out-of-date methods of cooking, body after body in various states of decay were strewn about the floors, the table, the counters, their bodies cut up and positioned in ritualistic manners, their clothes gone. Blood and other unimaginable innards had been cast every which way imaginable, even on the ceiling; knives and other sharp implements, even a machete, had been carelessly discarded wherever they had last been applied.
John eloquently and profoundly cursed. He had witnessed many atrocities, watched friends explode feet away from shellfire in Afghanistan, and been on duty at the surgery when horrifically mangled accident patients rolled in. But this, this took the cake. The hot, acidic bile rising up in his throat told him he had never been so sickened by human remains. Not to mention by human acts.
Without comment, Sherlock crossed to a side table where a stereo rested on its surface and turned it off, the room falling silent. So that was where the music had been coming from. The killer left on some background melodies for his victims? This was getting better and better.
"How could anyone do something like this?" John croaked. "It's absolutely sickeningly mad."
"The morality of it is not our concern. All we need to worry about is getting the culprit arrested. Speaking of…" Sherlock dug out his mobile and proceeded to photograph everything he could for evidence—well, John hoped as much. "At least this one's being interesting."
John bridled his next expletive, aimed this time at his best friend, and huffed out a heavy sigh instead, clenching his jaw and fists while he was at it. "You two would get along, I think. Same lack of respect for proper kitchen care…"
Sherlock glanced over at the doctor, his brow furrowed until he acknowledged John's small smile. Humor, good sign. The younger man mirrored the other's expression of tentative mirth.
Later, after collecting what evidence they required to elicit police involvement and phoning Lestrade, Sherlock and John took up a lift from the same barouche and the latter bid the rough-looking stranger to take them to the nearest inn. This suggestion drew out a frown from Sherlock but John ignored it.
"I'm very tired," John said as way of explanation and, for once, Sherlock didn't argue.
There was a small and charming Bed and Breakfast not too far away that leaned over the rim of a cliff overlooking the torrential sea and stood beside the highway but still outside of Faversham proper. The detective and his doctor approached the front desk and paid for a room. Cheerfully, the female employee complied and handed them a gold key.
"Wonderful," John muttered once they entered their assigned room and realized that they had been given one with a single king-sized bed, instead of two twins. "This is really getting annoying now. Why can't two grown men go anywhere anymore without everyone assuming they're gay? So stupid…ah no, I'm talking like you now. No wonder that's what people think."
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock replied. "I won't be sleeping."
"Of course you won't. I never thought I'd ever be glad by the fact that you rarely give in to your body's needs." John cringed, acknowledging what he just said could be misconstrued for sexual implications. Oh sod it. He was much too weary to care, even about that.
Making his decision, albeit an uncomfortable one, John peeled off as many outer layers of his clothes as his self-consciousness deemed passable middle ground at having Sherlock as observant audience, no matter how disinterested he seemed. Afterwards, John sunk gratefully under the bed's duvet whilst his companion perched gracefully against the headboard an arm's length away and disappeared into his Mind Palace.
"Is it all right if I shut off the light?" John asked against the sheets, getting no response. With an aggravated sigh, John did just that.
What seemed like five minutes after falling asleep, John was being vigorously and rudely shaken back to reality. "What the hell—Sherlock stop that," he mumbled with his arms flailing feebly at his offender, but was soundly shushed by the detective.
Groggy, John sat up trying to distinguish Sherlock in the pitch-black motel room in order to make heads or tails of why he had been roused. He could feel Sherlock gripping his shoulder with unparalleled stamina and the ex-soldier could feel rather than see the taller man stiffen and stay still as stone. Before John could start yelling at him, he detected something strange in the corner of his eye. He turned to his right in the direction of the window and the recliner that he remembered was positioned below it. Above that chair, a pair of red eyes ferociously glowed…then blinked. John gasped once he perceived a crooked, malformed…vaguely human-like something as it was outlined by the moonlight filtering through the glass behind it. Indistinct hands clawed at its own head before it began to move, rocking back and forth, back and forth on its haunches like one gone mad, making the seat below it creak again and again.
If John thought he had been scared before, he had been terribly mislead. At that instant, he had never been more frightened in his life. His skin turned to ice, his stomach bouncing about in his abdomen like a rubber ball and incapacitating chills swarmed through his entire being, affecting him like a malady. It felt as though his heart was trying to escape from his chest, his head pounding so much with the pressure of his fear at looking at something that shouldn't be there, that shouldn't be real. And yet there it was. But it felt real! Some kind of intuition inside of him was convincing him that this couldn't be explained away but he clung to the hope that it could. What was worse was the sense that something horribly life-threatening was close at hand and yet beyond his means to guard himself against. For it was too…otherworldly.
"Sherlock…you're logical," John whispered, barely audible due to the voice in his head screaming at him to shut up; making any sort of noise was almost painful. "Could there be any possible way that that is not what I think it is? Is it a trick? Have we been drugged again or something?"
Sherlock didn't answer. Perhaps he couldn't.
That was when the thing by the window began to make noises. It keened in a high-pitched, agonizing cry and garbled in a strangled, unearthly voice, "Leave…me…be…Leave…Get out!"
With painstaking slowness, Sherlock shoved John toward the opposite side of the bed, away from that…creature and crept backwards toward the door, creating as little sound as possible. By some freak piece of luck and mustered courage, John grabbed for his shoes and clothes. Unfortunately, it also attracted the attention of the red eyes. With a hiss, the orbs swiveled toward the two men, the color darkening and burning straight into their souls. That was enough inspiration to break the spell of their paralysis. Without further delay, both Sherlock and John shot out into the hallway and rushed down the road, not slackening their pace until they attained the nearest train station.
"Probably—it's probably the cause of some…chemical substance or hallucinogen introduced into our systems somehow or Halloween nonsense," Sherlock divulged uncertainly, an unmistakable waver marring his usually unaffected voice. "It has to be!"
"You know as well as I, tricks like that aren't so easy to pull off. And I don't feel drugged, Sherlock!" John heaved. "Deduce all you want but it doesn't matter. I don't give a damn how it got there or if it was a hallucination or not. All I know is I am never coming back to this barmy town again! And neither are you!"
Sherlock frowned. For once, he had nothing to say.
The kind of ending I always want to get with "Hound of the Baskervilles" but was never satisfied. Forgive me, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I just had to...
Please review! They are much-appreciated