I clenched my pipe between my teeth embarrassedly. Sara stood between Watson and myself, one arm linked with Watson's affectionately. We stood before the home she shared with her siblings, a rather sorry-looking flat on the bottom floor, smelling faintly of wet fur. She was dressed in an exquisite gown of pure black, her lace frill around the neckline a blood red. Watson, looking a bit edgy himself, was bedecked in a rather gentlemanly, if not overly extravagant, Dracula costume. I had only to infer that Sara was Mina Harker, from the way she wore her hair that night. I smiled at the two of them, and looked up as the door opened.
Out stepped David McGuiness, looking healthier, and more muscular, than when I had found him six years ago. Yes, we had seen each other every few days after, but never had we joined forces in such an outing. He was sporting the military uniform our troops had worn in the previous war, the war we were all so very glad had ended in our favor. I smiled and tipped my unfortunate hat as he joined us. He turned toward the doorway, and laughed.
"Come on, girls, it's only Uncle John and Mr. Holmes!" He called to them jovially. I chuckled. The first to appear was the youngest, Alice. I felt a sadness in my heart. She still had not uttered a word since the fright of the kidnapping. Still, she looked happy as she greeted me with an embrace.
"Well, Alice, I see that the apple does not stray far from the tree," I told her as I surveyed her war nurse's costume. She nodded with a wide grin. I looked up as Anna trotted out wearing a dress covered in sequins that glittered in the fading sunlight. Watson raised his eyebrows.
"Anna, really, what are you supposed to be?" he asked incredulously. She curtseyed with a tiny motion and brought out the largest pair of sunglasses I had ever beheld.
"I'm a movie star from the States, Uncle John!" She twirled, letting the sequins dance. "How do I look?" She looked to me for the answer. I laughed.
"You are sure to attract the eye of many a rabid teenage boy, dear Anna," I responded. She blushed furiously and dug into her handbag as if she had found something important in there. I laughed. David looked to his watch, then to the doorway.
"Joan, if you don't speed it up, we'll be late!"
"D-Do I have to come, David?" Came a frightened voice from the darkened doorway. I raised an eyebrow. It was Joan's voice, but the tone was one I was not used to. I remembered Joan as a fiery girl, with a temper to rival that of a cornered Nazi. David sighed.
"Just come out of there, Joan-y, so we can get going!" Anna called, smoothing out the ruffles of her dress. There was the click clacking of heeled shoes from inside the flat, and in only a moment, I felt as if I had been bowled over.
There she stood, practically glowing with the blood in her cheeks, dressed in an elegant, flowing gown of blues. She held an umbrella, folded tightly, in her right hand, which matched her gown perfectly. Even though there were no sequins like Anna's dress held, Joan's dress seemed to catch the light, refract it into the thousands of possible colors. It was the most complete change I had ever seen in someone. She was demure, and perhaps even a little bit frightened, as she brought her eyes from the ground.
...And looked straight at me.
Then she smiled. It was the oddest feeling I had ever felt, when my mind no longer had control, and I smiled as well.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes!" This was not Joan's voice, and I looked abruptly to where a figure stood behind Joan. Her bouncing blonde ringlets gave her away.
"Ah, good evening, Mrs. McGuiness."
"Please, Mr. Holmes," she said with a little curtsey, "just call me Hannah." Hannah gently aided Joan out of the doorway, and I examined both of their costumes. Mrs. McGuiness's was easy enough to guess. She was wearing a French woman's dress from the previous century. I was still completely baffled by Joan's mystifying raiment.
"Joan," I said, shaking my head as I brought my eyes to her face, "I am at a loss as to what you have dressed yourself up to be." She dropped her eyes, suddenly very interested in the ground at our feet.
"I'm supposed to be.... rain..." She smiled at her feet, obviously embarrassed at her choice of costume. I felt compelled, suddenly, to walk to her and loop her arm through my own. She looked up, surprised.
"It suits you," I told her. Her shy smile widened into a grin. Hannah took David's hand in her own.
"Well, what are we waiting for, a parade?" Hannah asked. Watson laughed aloud.
"I do think that we could make quite a parade ourselves," he said with a grin.
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Night had fallen and a chill had taken to the autumn air as we arrived at the address on the invitation. I chose to ignore the fact that Joan was gripping rather painfully to my arm, perhaps in attempts to keep warm. Alice was now holding tightly on as she sat atop David's shoulders in glee. I looked from the happy family members, up the long drive to where the house stood. I shivered, but from the cold or from a tingle of fear, I did not know.
The house before us was not simply a house, but a great mansion, windows shining out in every direction, shedding a yellow glow on the dead ground around it. It was the largest residence I had ever set eyes upon, including the orphanage that I had called home for nearly 13 years of my life. From afar, the mansion looked frightening, lit against the dark sky with dead branches scratching against the sides. But as we neared, the warm glow from within filled us, and we all calmed a few notches, Joan's grip on my arm easing. I turned to Mr. McGuiness.
"So, my dear friend David, who exactly is the owner of this establishment?" I asked. He grinned widely.
"Mrs. Ruby Ballantyne," he said, as if announcing the arrival of a Queen. "Her husband, God rest his soul, was the man who originally funded our troupe. Harold Ballantyne... What a man he was..." He gazed into the sky, as if in rapture. Joan tugged at my arm minutely, and I turned to her. Her face had returned to its normal, lively self.
"Mrs. Ballantyne still gives the troupe money every year," she told me, her eyes alight with life. "This is the first Halloween party she's thrown since her husband died ten years ago. Our family used to get invitations every year from the Ballentynes, even if we were off somewhere doing performances. Before Mum and Dad died, that is. They died the same year as Mr. Ballantyne..." She trailed off, and attempted a smile. She shook her head, "Mr. Holmes, you never told me who exactly you are supposed to be masquerading as." I watched for a moment as her lively eyes sparkled and her lips parted in a smile, then looked away, chewing absently at the stem of my empty pipe.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes."
The great mahogany doors were opened wide as we approached, and we were greeted by an old butler, at least in his forties, with short graying hair and a scar on his lip. He held out his hand, expecting an invitation. David produced it.
"Mr. David McGuiness, the McGuiness clan, and Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, reporting as instructed from the invitation, Mr. Acton." David referred to the butler by name. The butler smiled at the man and pocketed the invitation.
"One can never be too careful, Mr. McGuiness." He looked as the girls entered, then called to David again, "And please, Mr. McGuiness, call me George."
The sound of a string quartet filled the foyer, which must have been hard, for the foyer seemed to stretch into oblivion for its vastness. Hats and coats were taken, but I refused to give up my greatcoat. It completed my costume. Following the cavernous hallway back into the heart of the house, the music swelled and grew louder. We trekked deeper and deeper into the house until finally, two doors were thrown open, and we were outside once more.
It was a garden. A beautiful garden surrounded by arbor arches, bushes of different colors and shapes, trees in their autumn dress, and lights strung about in a jovial fashion. People clad in costumes were laughing, dancing and drinking to their heart's content, awash in a sea of happiness and camaraderie. I let the whole scene flood my senses, and suddenly, I didn't care about anything.
"Johnny," I heard Sara's voice from beside me, cooing, "put on your glasses."
"Damn and curse my confounded glasses," Watson grumbled. "Count Dracula doesn't wear glasses." Sara laughed, taking the glasses from his pocket and setting them on the bridge of his nose.
"I think they make you look distinguished," she said. Watson, taken aback, fixed the glasses onto his nose with a grin, then motioned for Sara to dance with him. She accepted with a tiny curtsey, and they were gone into the swirling mass of dancers. David and Hannah had already disappeared, taking the younger McGuiness girls with them.
"Mr. Holmes," Joan said from my arm, coyly, "would you... I mean..." I sighed and took her hand in my own.
"Joan, please..." her eyes faltered at the tone in my voice. Then I grinned. "Please, for God's sake, stop acting like a frightened child. I have come to expect a more lively performance from you." That spark in her eyes, the same life that I had seen in her the day I had first met her, lit up once more. "And for the love of all that is Holy... Call me Jack."
"Jack," she said, as if experimenting with the name in her mouth, "I want you to dance with me." She held her head higher. She was nearly as tall as I was. "And if you do not say yes, I shall be forced to slap you." I laughed, and the sound melded with the constant noise around us.
"Then I shall say yes," I told her, and, taking her waist in my other hand, we waltzed together to the dance floor.
After so long dancing, my mind no longer counted the minutes we twirled together on the dance floor. Neither of us really knew how to dance very well, but we worked with what we had. We quite literally bumped into Watson and Sara more than twice, but each time, we found it more and more hilarious. And when we weren't dancing, we were partaking of the lovely selection of alcohol that was laid with care on a table, which was being guarded by a stern maid. Her horse-like features and aging blonde hair, along with the calloused fingertips, told me she was the house owner's personal maid. We visited her many times to partake of the various drinks that were available.
After that, I was only vaguely aware that I went inside the house to find the loo, looked at a few of the books on the bookcases that seemed to populate the house, and was met by a rather old woman with graying red hair. She stopped me by holding onto my shoulders.
"I say, young man, are you feeling all right?" she asked me. Her voice was younger than her face. I nodded, the alcohol in me not particularly helping. She gave me a wan smile then went on her way. I returned to the garden, most of the party having calmed to a less noisy, calmed point. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, searching for my dance partner. I could see Watson fiddling with his glasses, still undetermined as to whether he should wear them or not. David McGuiness and his wife were talking in low voices, a tired Alice asleep on her brother's lap.
Then there was Joan, sitting alone on a stone bench on the fringe of the garden. I stood in the doorway to the garden, just watching her as she smoothed out the ruffles in her rain dress, fidgeting with her umbrella, playing with her curls. I leaned against the doorway, more for support than for contemplation. I watched, and thought, for minutes on end. Then I straightened the brim of my hat, as if preparing for battle, and strode over to where she sat and placed myself beside her.
"Good evening, Joan," I said, fighting off the fatigue from the alcohol. She looked up from her dress and smiled. "My dear, are you quite sure you are old enough to be drinking?" She smirked that spiteful smirk she had used on me so long ago.
"Jack, I am hardly two years younger than you are. Of course I can drink." She observed my manner, then giggled. "Though I am not entirely sure that you should be drinking anything." I laughed and looked out upon the weary string quartet, the giggling dancers, their hands intertwined, then brought my eyes back to Joan's. When I had first met her, I had almost suspected her of planning a kidnapping on her brother. I grinned widely.
"Joan," I called, and she turned her head away from the dancers and looked, almost surprised, toward me. "Do you remember when you said you wouldn't trust me as far as you could hit me with a cricket bat?" She laughed and looked away.
"I also said that you put me in my place," her bashful demeanor had taken over again. I cocked my head, then emboldened myself.
'Jack,' Sherlock muttered quietly, after not interfering all night, 'do not do something you should regret.' I ignored him. There were times to take advice, and there were times to take things into your own hands. I chose the latter.
"Joan," I said again. She glanced at me, and I saw that her face was flushed vividly. "Would you be adverse to the idea of me kissing you?" She caught her breath, then laughed.
"Jack, I think you've had quite enough to drink..." I stopped her before she could continue.
"No, Joan, listen... I would not have a woman who would sit demurely in some corner and only emerge to cook dinner. A woman who speaks her mind, who is... who is... strong in her opinions, lively, fiery... Joan," I smiled widely, "It would please me overly much if you would allow me to kiss you." For a moment, it seemed like the whole party had stopped to watch us. Even Joan had stopped breathing. No one wanted to move. Then a sound from above caught our attentions, and we looked up sharply.
"Friends, partygoers," came a familiar female voice. I squinted. There was a human from looming above us on a third-story balcony. It was the red-haired woman that I had seen inside the house. It hit me then. It was Ruby Ballantyne. "The time is almost come for all to return home, but before you do, please, please, I wish to thank you all for making this night a memorable one." Clapping, calls, followed her speech, and I could see that Ruby Ballantyne was smiling lovingly. I joined in the clapping.
Soon, all of the guests were filing out of the great front doors, chatting amiably between themselves. Again, Joan's arm was slipped into mine, but now her grip was not so tight. I was quite ready to return home, to lay in my bed and await the imminent headache the next morning. If only I hadn't heard the voice close to my ear.
"Hey, detective!" I stopped and turned. It was an unfamiliar face, but I was not surprised that he knew who I was. I was rather eminent, by then. I was faced with five young men, ranging anywhere from 16 to 23 years. They were dressed not for the occasion, but as they would normally dress in society. They were rabble-rousers, ruffians, wearing jackets of black leather, from the look of it. I glared in their direction. One stepped forward, obviously the one calling me.
"Yes?" I asked, gripping Joan's arm closer. She looked from my face to the thug's.
"You got no right t' hold her arm," he said, looking at Joan. "She belongs with someone like us," he added with a foul smirk. "Come on, lovely, d'you really want t' be with such a stuck-up lout?" Joan's eyes grew dark. It was the same foul look she had given me six years ago.
"How dare you?" She asked in a growl. I was quicker than she. I placed her behind me.
"How dare you suggest that she house with the likes of you, you filthy ruffian!" I said quickly. I admit, it wasn't the best I had ever assembled, but, as I had said, I was rather drunk.
The last images I remember were the grass rushing up to meet my face, and Joan's fists flying like a whirlwind into the faces of the thugs.
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AN: There... Maybe one of the longer chapters I've written for Mr. Holmes. Please, no one crucify me, or anything. I'm adverse to pain. I hope everyone likes it, or I'll cry... Have fun reading!