Betaed by Lord of the Dance, branwyn

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Eventually Sherlock returned the little blonde boy back to his bed, his parents never the wiser. Tears of grief and the fear of the unknown was another delicacy Sherlock knew he was depriving himself of, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Before he left, Sherlock cut an X into a tree near John's property, telling other nightmares to back off, this was his territory. Only once or twice had slendermen fought over the same territory, and it never ended well. There was a reason the original settlement of Roanoke was erased from history.

Sherlock was hesitant to return the next day, the memories of Sally and her sudden fear of him still fresh in his mind. He kept to himself, near the edge of the forest, a grand spot to watch John as he played in his backyard.

There were a few times it appeared John had spotted him among the trees, looking at a specific part for long moments. But it seemed he was always looking at something else, like a bird or flying insect. Sherlock kept his distance, content in simply watching.

He'd spent the next two weeks watching John, trying to figure out the boy.

Really, if he wasn't planning to eat the boy, he should leave. There's no point in hanging around, especially since Sherlock knew his mere presence caused unnatural disturbances in nature. People were already noticing the sudden influx of dead birds and patches of dead soil.

He did try, a few times. He snacked on a forgotten hope from a nine year old in Japan. He then stood in a thirteen year old's bedroom for two hours, drinking in the fear from the girl who refused to leave her spot from underneath her blankets.

When he had enough to sustain him for another week or so, Sherlock found himself back in the forest near John's house.

And to his surprise, despite the fact that it was nearly three in the morning, John was playing around in his backyard.

The boy was afraid of many things, Sherlock observed. He didn't like snakes, or bees, or the large dog from down the street. (The dog Sherlock immediately killed once he learned John was afraid of it.)

And yet it seemed John was fearless. He'd never back down from a fight, he wasn't afraid of the sight of blood (fascinated by it, really) and despite his fear of the now dead neighbor's dog, he'd always scared it off if it came too close to him or his sister.

Tonight, John played in his backyard with the moon as his only light source. Earlier in the day he had fought with his sister for sharing rights of the swing set. She refused to share and once she relented, it had started to rain.

Despite the wet grass and possibly still wet seat, John sat on his little swing and contently swung himself back and forth. Not exactly someone who walked to the beat of their own drum, but knew what he wanted and was willing to break the rules to get it.

Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, unsure if he should make his presence known.

John however, seemed to have been born with a sixth sense. At some point in his play, he felt someone was watching him and slowed his swinging to look around.

He spotted Sherlock immediately.

Last time John had laid eyes on him, the boy was half-asleep. Though that was no excuse (even in dreams children ran from him) Sherlock played the smile off as an accident.

The smile that was being given to him now was no accident.

"I remember you," John said, taking a flying leap off his swing. He landed, tumbled for a moment in the wet grass, and ran over to the edge of his wooden fence. "You're still here?"

No hesitation, no fear. Despite the darkness, the boy's soul burned brightly.

John squinted at him. "Can you come closer?"

Sherlock only hesitated for a second. Slowly, he moved away from the cover of the trees, drawing himself to his full height. He didn't know why he did such a thing, when he knew even at 6'5 he scared people off.

He walked closer to the fence, waiting for the moment John suddenly screams at him and runs.

As Sherlock got closer, John's eyes grew wider.

At 7'8, there's no mistaking Sherlock for anything but a supernatural creature. At this height people have ran from him. Many simply die on the spot, their hearts unable to take the sight before them.

Sherlock doesn't know if it was because of John's age or simply because it was just John. A mere five feet away from the edge of the fence, the boy hanged off as he stretched his neck out, staring up at the tall monster.

"Wow," he said almost nonchalantly. "You're tall."

Sherlock doesn't giggle. Nightmares have no mouths, it was impossible, but he does make a sound and it resembled that of a low flying airplane while a trumpet was steamrolled to death.

John clapped his hands against his ears. "Owwwwww!" He whined, wincing.

So, he wasn't immune to everything Sherlock was and is. Still, he was a fascinating little boy.

In apology, Sherlock brushed a single lock of hair away from John's head. John lowered his hands away from his head, and he reached up to grab at the long, protruding finger.

He giggled, and it was like bells.

Thus it became Sherlock's nightly ritual, coming around to John's backyard to see him. Many days John couldn't find the time to come outside to greet his tall friend face-to-face. During those days, John waved to him from his bedroom window, or simply left it open for Sherlock to step through.

There were a few close calls in which his parents entered the room, wondering why their son was still talking to his imaginary friend at two in the morning. Neither of them took a better look at the darken corner, or else they would've noticed the tall man standing there.

For nearly a month, beyond the occasional doe falling dead for no reason, the neighborhood and town John Watson lived in was quiet.

And then the murders began.