I do not own Sherlock or Disneyland in any way. Depressing I know.

Warning: If you have not been to Disneyland and wish to be left in the dark about it, please skip the details about the rides. I will from now on be going into full detail about Disneyland rides, etc. in case you won't appreciate that, you have been warned. Read on at your own discretion.

The Case of the Disneyland Ripper

Chapter 1:

Grim Grinning Detectives

It was a beautifully sunny morning, un-blotted by clouds and rain; in essence a typical day for southern California. After a bird chirp permits admittance through a gate and meandering beneath a tunnel, one discovers a new world, even a new era. A miniaturized turn-of-the-century town in, perhaps, the Midwest greets you with its colorful two-story buildings and complete with a firehouse, opera house, and even at the end of the street a pink castle with an accompanying moat peers nobly down upon its subjects.

Even now, jaunty band music wafts down from on high and last calls for weary-footed passengers blare from the train station. The ambrosial aromas of dishes roasting or baking and savory treats lingered in the atmosphere to tempt the milling crowds as they sped past, but most at the moment were too single-minded upon adventure to take notice as yet, but they would trail back soon enough to replenish their drained energies. No one could resist the cuisine for long, even at prices as steep as these.

Midst the throngs of thrill-seekers young and old there appeared a strange-looking, unlikely pair of men who were now vacating the town hall and trudging down Main Street U.S.A, one in shorts and a British army T-shirt who carried a distinct air of carefree excitement, the other was clad in a tailored black blazer, black suit pants with a purple button-down shirt beneath, and a pale frown of frustration and uncertainty. Many passers-by stared at them with creased foreheads, wondering vaguely who and what manner of beings they could be…and what blokes such as they could be doing in Disneyland Theme Park at all.

"This is irritating!" the taller, dark-haired man exclaimed.

The older blonde one answered in a placating tone, "Now, calm down, Sherlock. It's not a big deal. Just because she wasn't at the town hall like she said she'd be doesn't mean anything other than that she has business elsewhere. At least the fine lady there was willing to give us a map and show us where we'll find her," he tried in vain to hide his smile at the memory of the pretty young clerk who winked at him. "It'll all be fine, you'll see."

"And why are you so foolishly happy?"

"Isn't it obvious? I thought you would have figured it out by now."

The one called Sherlock tipped his head to the side in mock consideration. "Hmm, you mean that your light mood originates from the fact that you have wanted to come here since you were a child and were never able to, therefore you have finally come to realize a life-long dream? Obvious, yes, John. What I meant was why are you still in said light mood when obtaining our case is being so indecently delayed?"

His shorter companion gave an easy laugh. "That's your side of the bargain, Sherlock, not mine. I'm just here for that so-called 'life-long dream' and I intend to revel in it as long as I can. But don't worry, all right? You'll have your case soon enough, I'm sure." The man took in a deep breath. "There's just something special here, you know? You can feel it in the air, it's almost tangible!"

The tall one scowled.

They disembarked from Main Street to take a left through a jungle-like footpath with tiki huts and bamboo fences decorating its sides, drums and monkey squeals thrumming in their bones. Steadily, they passed a lofty tree house and rose over a swooping bridge.

"You look ridiculous in shorts, you know," Sherlock observed in a monotone.

John's lip twitched good-naturedly. "And you look ridiculous in that suit. Not to mention hot. You should get into cooler clothes unless you get your kicks by getting heatstroke."

"Not hot enough for that."

"Not hot—Sherlock, it's twenty-six degrees Celsius!" John sighed heavily. "At least I convinced you not to bring the Belstaff or your scarf."

Sherlock harrumphed, leading the way with his companion a step behind to his left who held aloft the map of the park before his face. "All right, I think we're here. Yeah, New Orleans Square, I think."

"Obviously," Sherlock sneered. Shops with French Creole architecture surrounded them including second-story overlooks accented with painted iron banisters and Mardi Gras beads flowing from them like brightly-hued waterfalls. Jostled and harried, though no worse for wear, Sherlock and John approached the door for Disney's hallowed Club 33 and entered. A finely-dressed receptionist in a magnificently-designed hall alerted them to a complication: the object of their pursuit was unavoidably detained and wouldn't be free to discuss business with them until seven o'clock that evening.

"If anything changes, she'll call you," the middle-aged woman with spectacles claimed in her American accent. "In the meantime, she asked me to give this to you." She handed two palm-sized green cards with Mickey Mouse smiling on their upsides to John who took them automatically. "Just show these to the cast members at any and all rides you choose to go on and they will let you bypass the lines, even the Fast-Pass ones and you can get right on. Special treatment for VIPs such as yourselves." Her blue eyes twinkled knowingly.

John's grin matched that of the cartoon character on the slip of heavy paper in his hand. "Thank you very much. We'll use it wisely." And with that he walked out of the door with a spring in his step and a griping companion at his side.

"Delayed yet again," Sherlock growled. "You lied."

"I did not lie! How was I supposed to know the supreme manager of Disneyland would actually be busy," he responded sarcastically. "And stop being such a wet blanket. You'll still have your gore-covered, treachery-ridden case by the end of the day, mark my words. Just try and have some fun while we're here. Even you can't resist the attraction of this place. Don't you need to…" he waved his hands expressively, "get the lay of the land or something, isn't that a part of the process? Ask questions, see what you're dealing with here before jumping right in?"

"Unnecessary."

"It could help and you know it. Besides, what else are we going to do before tonight? Sit about, doing nothing? At least the rides are interesting if not downright a scream. I'll let you detail everyone's life story to me, if it'll make you feel better. And if you're good, I'll buy you a churro or something."

"Don't like sweets." Sherlock released a loud breath. "Fine then. I am overruled. Where first, Mr. Tourist?"

Humming in concentration, John consulted his map. "Oh, oh! Haunted Mansion is close by."

The consulting detective groaned. "The supernatural is stupid, John, completely and utterly primitive and only for witless morons."

"Oh, come on! It's legendary and it'll break us in slowly…speaking of which, how are you on roller coasters, just so we're clear and open from the start so no risks are taken."

Sherlock shrugged. "No idea, never been to an amusement park before." He spoke the last words with a grimace of disgust. "You know my brother and I well enough, our parents were worse. They would never have set foot in such places as this. Too degrading and a waste of time."

His doctor performed a double-take at his friend's carefully neutral expression. "Sorry, what? You've never been? Even to a fair?"

"No," his companion said, pronouncing the single word with care as though he were conversing with someone missing half his brain.

"That's—that's actually kind of sad…" John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Okay, well then, you'll get the full initiation in the next few hours. All the more reason to start slow then."

With VIP Fastpasses cradled reverently in his hand as though they were the Holy Grail, John skipped with light feet over to the iron-wrought arch of the Haunted Mansion entrance with Sherlock not far behind; he knew he was there not because he bothered to look but because he could sense the storm clouds of his black mood as easily as if it were his own. But for the moment, the detective's negativity couldn't touch John Watson. After proudly flaunting their tickets to the employee standing there, whose eyes popped out in surprise and practically bowed to them with "sirs" on his lips, they were urged inside the gate.

"I feel like the queen," John sang.

"Or Mycroft," Sherlock supplied.

Whether he meant it as a joke or not, John snickered heartily anyway then glanced about the sporadic patches of lawn and stunted trees. "Wow, a creepy hearse-carriage with an invisible horse leading it…Oh look, Sherlock, a little graveyard! How cool is that?" He chuckled again. "A cat grave with tiny bird graves around it how delightful. Get it? The cat ate the birds!"

"Yes, yes, how…clever…for a small mind such as yours…"

Together, they strode to join the queue on the porch of an oversized manor fashioned after the southern Civil War era, its white columns, many windows, and balcony proving the assumption. At the front door, they were gestured inside. Sherlock and John waded through the pool of people that was accumulating in the square foyer before two large closed wooden doors, one leading to the left, the other straight ahead. Haunting organ music began to a play and a deep, ghoulish voice greeted them.

"When hinges creak in door-less chambers and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls, whenever candle lights flicker, where the air is deathly still, that is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight."

"That has nothing to do with ghosts. It's just the changing air currents and—"

"Sherlock! Don't you dare spoil this for me with your rational theories. I don't want to hear you being smart, I just want to savor the pretend supernatural, okay?"

Sherlock sniffed emphatically.

"Welcome foolish mortals to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host…your ghost host."

Their "ghost host's" cackle gave John chills of fear. Finally, the doors parallel to the entryway slid apart and the pair shadowed the others into a circular room the disembodied voice deemed a "gallery."

The fake candles dimmed and the floor moved downward, giving John the feeling of vertigo and making him stumble a fraction.

"Elevators," Sherlock muttered. And just as he said this, the four paintings about the room began to elongate downwards, capturing the figures of a bearded gentleman, a pretty young lady in pink carrying a parasol, a man in a bowler, and an old woman clutching a red rose in morbidly fateful ends, such as standing atop dynamite, hovering on a tightrope above an alligator, in a three-man tower in quicksand, or sitting atop a spouse's gravestone with a mallet in its bust, respectively.

"Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is your imagination, hmm?"

"If it were merely in our imagination, he wouldn't know about it. And it couldn't possibly be a collective one…"

"Shh!" John hissed at his flatmate.

"Everyone's already talking, John!"

It was true. John could scarcely hear their host's description of their disturbing tour over the chatter and laughter emanating from the other park visitors. Inexplicably, it offended him. "No respect for the old-fashioned haunted house anymore. Shameful."

"And consider this dismaying observation: This chamber has no windows and no doors. Which offers you this chilling challenge…to find…a way out. Ha ha ha ha!"

"Then how did we get in here in the first place?"

"Sherlock! Stop it! I'm trying to listen."

"Ah. There's about to be an effect on the ceiling…"

"What?"

"Of course…there's always my way."

Suddenly, a thunderclap exploded, causing John to start violently before the lights sputtered out completely, allowing a burst of lightning to be their sole illumination with which to see. The ex-soldier peered up and, just as his friend predicted, the ceiling disappeared, revealing a cupola above with a skeletal man hanging by a noose and swinging from the rafters in the wind. Then the night darkness returned, disorienting them all in turn once again as a high-pitched scream filled their ears before the sound of shattering of bones acted as its dénouement. John shuddered, his breath increasing in his blindness. Panic-stricken, he clawed at the air, attaching himself to anything solid and unabashedly clung there. Finally, the spark of incandescent chandeliers through an expanding opening in the wall reawakened his world again and he could breathe freely.

Darting his eyes from side to side and swallowing, John distantly heard the voice of his friend, his annoyed tone familiar, even unmistakable. "Huh?"

Sherlock pointed to his arm where John's hands were digging mercilessly into the sleeve of his blazer.

John's neck grew red with a blush. "Oh! Sorry…"

Embarrassed but still somehow reluctant, John released his companion's limb, straightening his shirt and lifting his chin in a last stab at salvaging his dignity.

"Oh, I didn't mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later…"

"Yeah right, just great," John contradicted, venting a few choice curse words for good measure.

"Do you want to leave?" Sherlock lilted, his mouth twisted sardonically. "I'm sure they have a way…frightened children and all…"

John mustered a formidable glare. "Not on your life. It's all good fun in the end, you'll see."

The flow of bodies swept them out of the gallery elevator and down a hallway with windows flashing and spattered by the fake thunderstorm to their left and more portraits on the right. This time, instead of unrolling down with its secrets, they merely transformed with the random spears of lightning from normal everyday works of art with a ship, a lady on a lounge, a horseman, and so on into more eerie versions involving skeletons, shredded sails, and aged hags. John willed the herd to move faster so he could get out of sight of their impressive technological advances.

'Interesting," Sherlock commented along the way. John should have known. At least he was at long last trying to enjoy himself.

"There are several prominent ghosts who have retired here from creepy old crypts all over the world. Actually, we have nine-hundred and ninety-nine happy haunts here. But there's room for a thousand. Any volunteers?

"Is he threatening us?" John whispered. '

"Apparently."

"If you insist on lagging behind, you won't need to volunteer."

Of their own accord, John's legs doubled their pace. "Come along, Sherlock. Oh, those sculptures are…following our every move."

"Concave, actually. Made to look like solid busts of heads. Simple. Boring."

"Well, they frighten me well enough."

Sherlock shot John a look that bespoke of his almighty condescension.

"That man is having an affair with the woman he's with but she doesn't know he's married. And has a young child."

"Sherlock! Be quiet!"

"You said I could deduce people," Sherlock pouted.

"Not the ones within earshot! And with such a loud voice! Just—just keep it on a more discreet level before we get chased and possibly pounded to death by angry Americans. They tend to eat a lot, you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Thankfully, the couple who had been the current subject of Sherlock's keen ice-blue eyes didn't seem to have heard them.

They wandered down a slight ramp, casting their eyes this way and that at the cobwebs, urns, and gold bat-carven ornaments crowning the poles with chains strung between them, guiding their path to a strip of rubbery moving sidewalk with black bowl-like cars upon it—their destination.

John glanced behind at the detective. "Do you want to go together or do you want your own Doom Buggy?"

"This was your idea so you choose."

The army doctor took a long gander at the far wall which was made to look like a gloomy midnight sky with a moon and wispy clouds crawling across it like restless spirits. And, upon hearing a mournful wolf howl, John made his decision. "Let's go in one together, yeah?"

Sherlock elegantly shrugged then stepped up into the little conveyance at his friend's heel, joining him on the gliding bench. Discovering a loose shoe lace, John made as to bend over to right it but Sherlock held the small man's chest against the back wall of their buggy, preventing the action.

"Sherlock, what—?"

Just then, the front portion of the car bounced toward them so that it to fit into their laps, sufficiently trapping them in their seats. If John had gone through with his intended motion, he would have been clocked in the head. "Uh…thanks," he said shyly.

"Have a scary time," a thirty-something woman in a nineteenth-century maid costume with brown hair standing beside a console with bright multi-colored buttons advised the two men with a cheery voice then added, "Aren't you two cute?"

After a moment of confusion, John grumbled, "We're not a couple! Californians…"

Their Doom Buggy climbed up a stairwell then swiveled to face a clanking suit of armor that bent and swayed under its own power and a long carpeted corridor with a three-spiked brass candelabra floating toward them in the air as though borne by unseen hands.

"Oh, how spooky, how lovely!" John cried, his pleasure in all things frightening for sake of amusement recovering with a vengeance. Perhaps he was feeling better because Sherlock was there with him, touching his side, a presence that could not be ignored that projected the feeling of protection and loyal companionship somehow comforting John and helping him rally the pieces of his courage. Not wanting to dwell on why that was so, John pushed the thought aside and listened intently to their host's disquieting monologue instead which was interrupted here and there by wails, maniacal laughter, and pleas for release.

"All our ghosts have been dying to meet you. This one can hardly contain himself…"

This was spoken as they slid by a conservatory with a black dusty coffin laid out there, a withered hand thrusting out of a crack in the lid, trying in vain to dislodge itself from the depths of the casket's maw.

Sherlock snorted. "Stupid pun."

John grinned in spite of himself. "If you say so, Sherlock."

As they inched backwards, doors materialized on each wall, some with their doorknobs being wrenched up and down and others bulging outward in an effort to reach the cowering, unsuspecting tourists. A shiver skimmed John's spine upon observing a distorted grandfather clock striking the hour of thirteen, a phantom hand swiping across its face.

"Oh, please, thirteen? How predictable! Not to mention boring. It's not even possible to have a thirteenth hour!"

"Sherlock, lighten up, eh? It's not exactly meant to be scientifically correct."

"I must admit the hand silhouette was quite catching though. No pun intended, mind."

The doctor shook his head fondly.

"Perhaps Madame Leota can establish contact. She has a remarkable head for materializing the disembodied."

"Séance room, I guess?" John queried.

Sherlock gave no answer as they floated through the next stage of their tour where the walls were swallowed up in darkness with a variety of instruments bobbing along them. In the central focus of the chamber, the eye was drawn to a crystal ball that drifted in the air above a round mahogany table and a high-backed velvet chair. Blinking, John realized that Madame Leota, the so called medium of the ceremony, was merely a woman's head that was locked inside the said ball.

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat, call in the spirits wherever they're at. Rap on a table, it's time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere from beyond. Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine!"

At this, one of the instruments, a tambourine of course, was wriggled from its place near the ceiling, unleashing its discordant sizzle.

"Caw, caw!"

Still, Sherlock was silent and a part of John was relieved. He had been beginning to regret selecting to accompany Sherlock along for the ride but now thought his original choice the wiser one. Just maybe John's colleague was loosening up for once. And he wanted to be there to witness it.

Upon leaving the otherworldly conference, they trailed onto a balcony that overlooked a ballroom, but not just any ballroom, for it was stock-full of ghosts who were celebrating some sort of birthday party, it seemed. An immense hearth suffused the translucent beings with a soft glow, more clearly showing them off as they sprung from a crashed coffin, danced to an off key organ ditty, hung from the chandelier, shot duels from their own portraits, even blowing candles off the mound of a birthday cake. Both of the men leaned over the restraining bar to gain better inspection.

"Trick produced from the glass, you see, the figures are actually below us—"

And he was back to his old ways. "Sherlock! I want the mystery to remain as such, will you please respect my wishes?"

Sherlock didn't seem to hear his desperate request. "Hmm, there's a bullet hole there in front of us, can you see it? Someone must have brought a gun in here and shot the glass…Fascinating."

"Sherlock, please, not here. You'll freak people out."

An attic came into view with trunks and various rejected knickknacks surrounded them. Portraits were suspended along the columns depicting a beautiful blonde woman and a different husband in each of them. When their carriage advanced, the men in the pictures suddenly lost their heads and the lady was holding them out as though in offering to them.

"I'm just looking for things that slightly interest me. Isn't that what you wanted?"

John huffed. "Not at the expense of others. Or me. Especially me."

"Oh look, John a cautionary tale about your potential dating life," Sherlock said, his voice heavily laden with mockery as they saw a bride standing beside the exit, the very woman that had been in the macabre pictures. John understood Sherlock's barbed joke once the woman quoted ceremony vows whilst a knife cropped up in her hand. Shivering in repulsion, John punched Sherlock in the shoulder.

"Ow!" Sherlock complained, rubbing his arm and laughing in that baritone of his, John's higher schoolboy giggle joining in as they bumped along to the mansion's "yard" though it was still inside. Tattered likenesses of ghosts flew up into the faux sky which John glimpsed before they were falling backwards, the Doom Buggie directing their view to a scatter of crooked trees, their trunks twisted into deformed face-like shapes. A black feathery form with red eyes perched on one of the branches, appearing out of nowhere.

"Caw, caw!"

Abruptly, Sherlock leaned so hard against the back of their seats that it made a loud banging sound which echoed easily under the black overhang of their shared carriage.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock's body was rigid as a wood slat, his wide in a taut and pale face. If John didn't know any better, he would have thought that Sherlock was scared out of his wits. As though prompted by divine forces, the memory of the séance room retreated back into John's brain and he was able to put two and two together.

"Sherlock…are you afraid of ravens?" Then he recalled something else just then. "Is that why you were so edgy at the Tower of London?"

Silence other than the wavering harmony of a gruesomely bouncy tune reigned.

The graveyard was filled to the brim with spirits that had come out to play, their forms pronounced with some kind of glow-in-the-dark paint outlining their boggling array of clothes form different eras and stations. Musicians fiddled with their instruments, ladies drank tea, an executioner repeatedly chopped off the head of a prisoner but John paid them little heed to them with his head so puzzled and arduously contorting in its effort to wrap itself about the new revelation that the great Sherlock Holmes, the fearless consulting detective, harbored a secret phobia of ravens of all things! He wondered yet again whether he was dreaming or not.

"Sherlock, are you serious? Please talk to me, I won't judge you, I promise."

"Fine, fine, if you insist!" Sherlock snarled. "I have been plagued by an…irrational, unexplainable fear of ravens."

"But why?"

"Didn't you hear me? I said 'unexplainable'!"

"But there must be a reason…"

"I'd rather not discuss it when four magnificent busts are singing so beautifully about 'Grim Grinning Ghosts'," Sherlock remarked with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It was true though, four sculptures of men's heads chanted charmingly in barber-quartet style about socializing spooks that had risen to terrorize them.

Once their host warned them of "hitchhiking ghosts" which, by the way, was advice bestowed too late to be of any use considering three ghouls with thumbs jabbing the air were already upon them and menacing them from mirrors that were nailed against the far wall, making it appear like one of the undead hitchhikers was sitting between them. In the reflection, John noted Sherlock's tightly folded arms, puckered brow and frown, and eyes that betrayed his inner turmoil, even despair.

John's heart coiled in sympathy and pangs of his own. Incapable of prolonging his best friend's pain and fears, John chose to drop the topic for now and gather it up again at a later time…

Abandoning their reliable Doom Buggy –their only salvation in such a dark realm—John and Sherlock stepped over to the escalator that ascended to the outer world. The pair of men stared as a miniscule woman shrouded in white gossamer, poised above a jutting section of the mausoleum proffered them her farewells in a sinister singsong-y voice.

"Hurry back, hurry back! Be sure to bring your…death certificate…if you decide to join us. Make final arrangements…now. We've been…dying to have you."

"Okay that was…truly weird…"John stated matter-of-factly, trying not to allow himself adequate time to think her threats through. Turning thoughtful and rather grasping at a change of subject, John continued. "Do you think they are trying to imply that she is very small…or that she is very far away?"

Sherlock rotated his jaw in consideration. "Let's not ruin the mystery, shall we, John?"

Once again, John found himself chuckling at Sherlock's humorous turn of his own phrase. Blazing light and heat welcomed them upon returning to the park's main thoroughfare. Without saying a word of agreement or discord, they shuffled aimlessly up an incline to their left, inclined to explore the unexplored.

"Where to next, then?"

"Er…" John uttered.

A chorus of screams rent the air and John and Sherlock spun their heads toward the source of the jarring sounds. Rumbling and rushing of water preceded a log with people stuffed into it balanced upon an opening at the peak of some brown and green man-made hill, a very large hill actually, with a tree trunk leaning precariously above it. Without warning, the log cascaded down a small river that spilled from the summit's mouth and, after soaring like a bird, landed somewhere out of sight with an immense geyser of water as its epic finale.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

John checked his crumpled Disneyland guide. "Splash Mountain…"

The men exchanged a long glance with mouths hanging ajar. After a moment, their lips reattached themselves only to make a home for huge, giddy smiles.

"Let's go," they said at the same time. And they were off like bullets toward their next adventure.

Thank you for reading! Please review! They are much appreciated! And if you have any ideas as to what you'd like to see later on, feel free to suggest!