From Chapter One

"Fine." John made a show of looking down all three paths, turning around slowly and looking up at the sky, and because it was that kind of day, and Sherlock wasn't the only person in the world who knew how to work up a damned fine strop, he closed his eyes for a minute and made sure that Sherlock could see that they were moving quickly beneath the lids. Finally, he opened his eyes and made his pronouncement. "The way I see it, we have the following options. We can sit down here and hope that someone eventually finds us and that that someone wants to rescue us."

Sherlock made a sort of humphing noise to that and opened his mouth, but was stopped from what was no doubt a brilliant retort by John's out-turned hand. "Ooooor," he continued, making sure Sherlock had indeed stopped. "We could take one of the paths and see what new games have been planned for us. Or finally, I think, we could go into the woods without the paths for guidance and see if we can find a stream or something to follow."

"Perfectly adequate summary," Sherlock admitted. "But tell me, John. Which shall it be?"

"We follow the cobbled path." That was it. A decision had been made. There could be no argument.

"But wouldn't it be better-" Sherlock was stopped by the most military of glares he had ever seen. He not only stopped. He found it slightly hard to breathe.

"You told me to choose." John voice was firm. Commanding even. "I chose. Let's go."

Sherlock stood at the intersection of the three paths, obviously questioning the equally obviously unquestionable demand. "John," he said, slowly. He felt the pull to explain why he must well, not question so much as… No. Actually he did. He needed to question this. But he would do so slowly and carefully. John would never really hurt him, but in command mode he packed a hard punch. "I understand why you wouldn't lead us blindly into the woods when it's getting dark and we don't have torches." Oh, God. The glare. He really hated the glare. John glared better than anyone he knew. It was almost frightening in its intensity. This was obviously non-negotiable to John, but still there was the need to try. "But surely, by that standard, it would be better to follow the yellow brick…"

"No."

"No?"

"NO!" Did John just bend his knees slightly and was that a bit of a crouch? Sherlock's eyes widened just a bit. John had just gone into combat mode over a fork in the road. Without even thinking about it, the taller man took his hands slowly from his pockets and backed up a few inches. He really did trust the John with his life, but John did have his bad days."We are not going down any goddamned fucking yellow brick… no. Just no." John shook his head to emphasize that no was indeed the answer. "Now I'm walking down THIS path. You follow or don't."

And then with almost military precision, John about faced and started walking down the path that was any color but yellow. Sherlock, for his part, looked at the broader, better lighted path they weren't choosing to the stiff back that was swiftly marching down the path less traveled. He frowned, stuffed his hands in his pocket and murmured something that sounded like git, and, for once, followed his friend.

He caught up quickly. Of course he did. John's short military stride was no match for the lope of long legs.

"John," he started. John did not break stride.

"John!, He tried louder and more demanding. John's eyes were straight down the path.

Sherlock sighed. "I just don't understand why you chose…" Sherlock's body stopped as his mind skipped to an answer. "Oh." And then louder with the I get it now form of the exclamation. "Oh!"

Sherlock's body caught up with his mind and jogged to catch up with his friend, who had somehow managed to move even faster without losing an ounce of tension. "You've never told me you were afraid of witches!"

John hung his head and then slowed. Sherlock wasn't sure but he seemed to be taking deep breaths. While John had been walking quickly, he certainly hadn't maintained a pace that would leave him winded. Angry then. But why? Surely he hadn't said anything that could be construed as "not good"?

"I'm not afraid of witches, Sherlock." John was still moving forward getting further and further from the path which Sherlock was sure was the correct path. "Especially green movie witches that I could melt with a bucket of water."

"Scarecrows, then." Sherlock finally caught up and was standing next to John who had stopped and was squinting at something in the forest. "Quite a common phobia, actually. Called formido-"

"What's that?" John moved to the edge of the path and squinted harder.

"Formidophobia." Sherlock was in full on encyclopedia mode. "It's the fear of scarecrows. Among phobias it's considered…"

"Not that, you git." John pointed in the general direction of his squint. "That. There's something red out there."

"Oh. Yes, that." Sherlock strode past John, off the path and into the woods, disappearing within seconds, his dark clothes and hair providing excellent camouflage. From somewhere in the trees came the disembodied voice that wasn't at all creepy in the night. Really. "Well, come on, John. Don't dawdle."

"This is just what we were not going to do." John growled. "I swear if you get caught in a vine and cut that bloody hard head of yours, don't come to me for the stitches."

"Noted." John startled as Sherlock seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Come see what I've found." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him further into the woods, and if John seemed to be holding Sherlock's hand right back, it was only because the woods were very dark and he didn't want them to get separated, and that's the answer he would give if anyone asked. He really hoped no one asked.

Three stumbles and a near collision with a low hanging branch later, Sherlock stopped in front of a tree and stood, grinning from ear to ear. "There you go." His voice was struggling to hide the excitement he knew John would not appreciate. "Your red thing."

There was indeed a red thing hanging from one of the limbs of the tree. "Oh," he said. "It's a hoodie."

"Not just a hoodie, John." Sherlock corrected. He was practically bouncing in his excitement. "A RED hoodie."

"Oh, right." John got it right away, but then what wasn't there to get. "Little Red Riding Hoodie. Clever."

"Said the man who once wrote The Case of the Vampire's Steak."

"Yeah, okay." John bent down to look at what was clearly a picnic basket. "What's this then?"

"Clearly it's a picnic basket." Sherlock squatted down next to it as well. "Presumably, it has goodies."

"For grandmother." John added.

"One would think so." Agreed Sherlock. He got down on hands and knees and crawled slowly round the basket, sniffing at it as he went. Finally, and with great care he opened the lid. Moving back so that he was balanced on his heels, he looked up at John, lips tight, the knuckles of his right hand to his mouth, as if he needed to bite them. "It's worse than I feared."

John squatted down as well and leaned in, but not too closely. Better to not disturb whatever was hiding in there. "What is it?"

"Biscuits, John." Sherlock said, a genuine smile growing slowly across his face. "Prepackaged biscuits, but no tea, no milk and no chocolate digestives."

"You cock!." John opened the basket now and found the biscuits, and yeah, no chocolate digestives, but there were jammy dodgers, so all was as right with the world as it could be in the middle of a deep, dark forest on a cold and starless night.

Sherlock reached in and pulled out a bottle of water. "I suppose that means there's a wolf out here somewhere."

"Mmm mffft." That probably meant "No doubt.", but jammy dodgers are notoriously hard to talk around when you have two or more in your mouth at the same time.

"There's a path over here too." Sherlock said, between sips. "What you want to bet it's a short cut."

"To Grandmother's house." John finished. "Hand me a bottle, yeah?"

Sherlock tossed one over. "Clearly we are meant to go down that dirt path.

"No, wait a minute." John was looking back to the path they started from. "Isn't that what got Little Red in trouble in the first place?" He got a far away look as he tried to remember the story he hadn't even really heard that much as a child. "Wasn't she tempted by the wolf to go down the wrong path and then eaten or something?"

"I thought it was the grandmother that was eaten." Sherlock picked up the basket and tugged the hoodie from its branch. "Either way, we can't stay here. There is undoubtedly a wolf somewhere in these trees." He held out the hoodie to John. "And it's getting cold."

John held the coat at arm's length, studying it warily.

"Put it on, John." Sherlock said, almost kindly. "It really is getting cold. I can feel it even in this." He held out his arms to display the Belstaff. "It's not like anyone is going to see you."

"Right." John really didn't need that much convincing. "But I refuse to go skipping down any lanes."

"As well you should. Now," Sherlock rubbed his gloved hands together in anticipation. "Let's go find Grandmother, shall we?"

(Drumboy100 asked me to take them into the woods, so into the woods they go. What will they find at Grandma's? The wolf, the old gal herself, a demented hunter with a sharp ax? And what happens when they get there? Will there be blood, or maybe tea? The answer comes from you, my friends. Leave your suggestions in the reviews. I want to hear them all!)