A/N: Okay folks. Here's the requested Halloween chapter. Though it may not be rich in costumes or anything, it does incorporate it within. And since Andrew Scott's B-Day is Oct 21st, that is why I chose that particular date for Jim's same B-Day. Whew. This was fun to write, but it came out a bit pressured as I was pushed for time with the Halloween deadline. Any errors noted, please message me so I can correct. Thanks!

…..

..…

BANG!

…..

Jim's eyes closed in ecstasy as he whispered into the taller man's hair, "Yesss…" His hands slowly loosened their grip and slid over the detective's, relinquishing their shared hold on the gun as a small stream of smoke spiraled up from the barrel. The woman in red lay splayed on the floor before them. Ribbons of crimson life ran forth from their vessel across the marble flooring, creating a map of murder. People fled in all directions, voices raised against the din of their mass exodus. Dining furniture was overturned and scattered across the open flooring. Somewhere, a wine bottle shattered and spilled its contents like so much further bloodshed. And there, amidst it all, stood the criminal and his detective. The crowd flowed around them as a river around bedrock.

Sherlock lowered the gun, and Jim's hand snaked back around his waist and relieved him of it, smoothly replacing it in its holster under his suit jacket. Looking around them to ensure no one was going to be stupid enough to approach anytime soon Jim straightened his cuffs and dusted himself off. The smaller man then came to the side of the detective, not to behold the murder victim, but to behold the effect said murder had rendered. And it was worth it. Everything. All of it…was worth this moment.

Sherlock stood still. Very still. His face was blank, smooth and almost alien in its casting. Not so unlike his general sociopathic projection, but different…somehow. Like an empty vessel, but for his eyes. Gray-green alit with something as yet unrecognized, and his thoughts blazed white hot behind them. He was poised with limbs loose, arms hanging as if forgotten by his sides, ignoring all that occurred about him. And when he did turn to Jim eventually, his eyes held no recognition of the enormity of his actions, and they simply sought out the criminal's familiar visage. He simply refocused on the consulting criminal, tilted his head, and asked a question.

"Are your parties always this boring?"

They were sweetest words Jim had yet heard issue forth from the lanky, wild haired man before him. With just those few syllables strung out together, Sherlock had confirmed what the criminal had been playing for all along. A distraction. He had searched his entire life for distractions…and here was the greatest of them all. Jim's gaze tracked to the body on the ground, but his mind was elsewhere. He closed his eyes and just breathed, reveling in the sheer sensation of his triumph. Sherlock Holmes…had just killed someone…in cold blood. And he was the orchestrator of the fall. There was no challenge or thrill more delicious than what he felt at this very moment. No drug could compare to this final conquest. Sure, in actuality, neither of the men would ever know which of them had initiated the trigger's release…but both of them had finished it. And the sheer intensity of the moment threatened to drown James in its depths.

No time to linger over these thoughts, however, as someone would soon return with a mind for retaliation. Jim had already depressed an emergency alert on his mobile before even approaching the detective about initiating the events that had led to their current situation. A chopper should be there momentarily. The criminal smiled and held out his hand with a motion of his head that said 'let's go.' And he tried unsuccessfully to hide the thrill it gave him when there was so little hesitation this time from the detective. Those long musician's fingers slid home with his own, and they ambled to the north side of the structure. The rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades soon became apparent, and was drawing near, so they waited on the grass as it came down to take them away somewhere…anywhere. Jim's eyes found Sherlock's.

Anywhere with you, my detective…

They spent the night flying, James simply not wanting to return to the mansion just yet. They went through one night and into the next, changing to a jet at one point, before landing in a remote seeming town where they ended up buying out the entire floor of the only hotel. It was quaint, in an old fashioned sense, with tiny television sets, lace curtains, and not much else in the way of amenities. Sherlock had his own room off to the end of the long hallway, which he retired to almost as soon as they arrived. His mind was awash in things he did not understand and could not, as yet, process. The criminal mastermind chose a room more central in location while the few of his men who accompanied them spread out amongst the others.

The fact that the environment was unfamiliar wasn't what kept him awake so long after lying down, but it didn't help either. In fact, everything felt unfamiliar, new, raw. He was overloaded with data. It made him feel lost and adrift. And it surprised him to no end that Jim had left him alone since they had boarded the first helicopter. After the emotional uprising he felt when they had locked eyes after the party, he had been certain that the other man would finally choose this time to press his suit. And Sherlock was unsure of whether or not he would have offered any resistance at all. But as of yet…nothing. Although he had noticed once when he woke during the early morning hours that Jim had entered his room. Nothing nefarious. The criminal was simply perched on the edge of his bed, looking out into the darkness of the small space. Perhaps the man was lost within his own mind as the detective was sometimes wont to do himself? At any length, it didn't worry him, and he returned to sleep quickly only to wake in the morning to an empty suite.

When he awoke, it was on the dawn of Jim's birthday, October 21st, though Sherlock made sure not to make mention of the fact, given how adamantly the other man had shown his hatred of the event. They were to return to the mansion later, he had learned over the breakfast he didn't eat. And that was just as well. The timing couldn't be better for the surprise he had in store for the criminal, provided everything had been accomplished by that agent (Sean? Sebastian? Steve?) Moron person. If so, he was certain that Jim would be pleased. And for some reason, this was of great importance to the detective. He didn't stop to contemplate it, though, content to simply let things evolve as they would for the time being.

They had just boarded yet another private aircraft, the last one before home, when a dual text came through both of their mobile's. Jim looked puzzled as the alert chime went off, and even more so when he realized that Sherlock's had sounded, too. The detective, however, was already smiling, knowing that it had worked. His gift was complete. He beamed down at the small screen before flicking his eyes up to Jim who glanced suspiciously his way. Still, the criminal followed the directive in his agent's message, opening his laptop so as to view an attachment on the larger screen.

Sherlock's stare at Jim was as intense as a wildfire bearing down on a sapling, explosive and heated. The criminal's eyes were neutral as he brought up the message with its attachment, noting it was a video feed. Curious. He clicked play, leaning back to watch….and then sat forward again quickly as it began. Sherlock knew when Jim understood. Those brown eyes widened in shock…and then shone with an inner pleasure that the detective fancied only he ever got to witness. And when those deceitfully honest eyes left the video feed, they locked on the taller man as the criminal set aside the laptop and quickly crossed the distance between them. The aircraft was about to pull out, but Jim came on anyway, coming to a stop in front of Sherlock.

He stood there for a moment, as if deciding, then placed one knee on the space between the detective and the arm of the seat. Next he leaned down and put one hand on the seat back while the other snaked around behind Sherlock's head, fingers twining into the dark curls. Jim's face came level with the other man's, and cerulean met doe in an amplified silence that bled into nothingness when he finally spoke.

"You did this?" Jim whispered, unable to be heard over the engine, but Sherlock read lips well enough.

"Yes," he answered simply, having his lips read in turn.

"For me? For…my birthday?" Again, a nod from the detective with his verbal, yet nonverbal, reply in confirmation.

And then suddenly Jim was no longer there in front of him, but had retreated quickly back to his seat. The laptop returned to his knees, and Sherlock watched with an attention bordering on obsession as the other man played and replayed the video feed of what Sherlock felt was an entirely appropriate gift, one that wouldn't lead to his imminent torture or disfigurement. Jim's smile, true and unfiltered, made the criminal look so much younger, so beguilingly innocent. And the detective took that image and placed it deep within his Mind Palace in a special place reserved for memories that had the power to shatter his heart.

They flew on, back toward London, neither saying a word to the other for the rest of the trip. But their eyes stole glances at each other, taking turns to pretend they weren't. And amidst all of this, Jim continued to marvel at the most thoughtful gift he had received in many years. His laptop lay open across his knees while his mind was left open to feelings he didn't even realize had been slowly infiltrating his carefully constructed walls. Only the roar of the engine in the air permeated the space as the video feed was played out over and over across his monitor….

A view from above London panned slowly to the east, the day as bright as it was going to get anytime soon. It seemed merely a calming panorama of central London. There was a small flash off to the left of the screen, drawing the eye, and then…. BOOM! Buildings all around the city's center began to explode, one after the other. Or at least, seemed to. Upon closer inspection, one could see that it was actually more just the roof or top floor of each building. But as the fireworks progressed, a pattern emerged through the debris strewn air. And the configuration of flame began to form a shape within a circle. The form spread slowly, eerily, but revealed the surprise at its end. The letter 'M' became discernible after another minute's time, leaving no doubt in any viewer's mind who this was made for. The symbol of the Moriarty clan burned fiercely into the British air, with smoke rising up that would later be reported visible for miles. And the burning symbol, like its name source, was ever changeable and fiercely destructive.

Later that evening, once returned to the mansion and fitted back into what passed for normal in their lives for now, Jim found himself drifting towards the detective's location. A plan had formed in his brain that begged completion. And it required the complicity of the consulting detective in order to be accomplished. He found the other man bent slightly over at one of the many fireplaces throughout the older structure. He watched quietly as the taller man tossed something odd-shaped into the flames before breaking the silence.

"Sherlock? I wonder if you'd do something with me?" came Jim's almost polite tenor. The detective spun from where he had been surreptitiously burning things in the fireplace, hands behind his back like a child caught in the act. A few days had passed since their arrival back from the party, and Jim had practically been sequestered in one of his several offices. Because although he was internationally renowned and feared, he still needed to smooth over the 'event' they had caused. This had left the detective with far too much time on his hands in his own opinion. Hence, burning random things.

"Hmmm? What?"

"I was asking…" he began, but then looked hard to the fireplace. "Wha...? Is that my…?" Jim closed his eyes and shook his head, knowing he never should have left the other man alone for so long. This was his fault really. So he tried again. "I was asking if you would like to do something with me." The detective gazed back, interest piqued already because Jim never suggested boring activities.

"What did you have in mind?" came the taller man's reply. And Jim's eyes suddenly held something dark in response. Something wicked.

"Oh…..I - don't - know…" he bounced the syllables as he began to circle the detective, running a single finger along the length of one lean arm. "Maybe something for Halloween?"

"I don't particularly see the point in the holiday, but as you may observe, I am entrapped within a fair amount of stale and static activity here. So what is it?" The glint in the criminal's eyes darkened further as Jim ran the plan through his mind again. Yet another way of ridding Sherlock of his previous affiliations. But something inside of Jim gave an uncomfortable twinge at the thought of what he would do. It almost hurt to think things of this nature anymore when concerning the detective. He gave a mental shrug. No matter. This emotion was just another thing he needed to learn to deal with or burn out. And so his voice was low and soft as he finally replied.

"Let's seeeeeeeee…" he drawled out. "How about..…a magic trick?"

Decorations littered the windows and doorways of London. The wistful fall spirit of festivity dwelt amongst the populace as everyone's mind had turned to the evening's events, be it dressing in costume or simply getting home from work. Though Halloween had arrived with no more than the usual flare; unless you were a child, that is. In that case, magic was instilled in the very air… The lobby of NSY, however, held but a single decoration for the holiday: a small black and orange plastic tree with streamers. The rest of the police headquarters was bare, as were the hearts of many within.

DI Greg Lestrade was sitting at his desk running over a case file, one of hundreds, when Sgt Donovan came clattering in with a, "You've got to come see this, boss." And so he followed, wondering what in bloody hell could possibly move her like this. She led him down the hallway and around a bend, until they turned sharply and entered one of the teleconference rooms that was still set up from a last conversation with Mycroft Holmes. Several others were there, but really, there weren't that many officers actually inside of the NSY building this day. Halloween could lead the public to commit various crimes that they normally would never chance, and so the police were out in force today in the field.

He was about to ask what she had dragged him down there for when he noticed the text on the screen hanging in the middle of the semi-circular table set up. At first, his mind deemed it a curiosity. But as he mulled it over, he realized his error, and who the author must be.

All good children, friends of William,

please do be kind enough to gather round for a story.

All names below are nonexempt

and must be present for the show to begin:

-G. Lestrade

-S. Donovan

-J. Watson

-M. Holmes

Greg grabbed Sally's forearm in a vice-like grip. It was him. Had to be. And this was it. Perhaps finally they would have news, or at least something further to go on afterwards. He spoke quickly, looking again at the list of names.

"Get John. John Watson. Here. Now." She nodded in understanding. And as she hurriedly ran for her car, he issued further orders and the room erupted into action. "Trace that sender. Bring out everything we've got from the computer investigative services. Everyone on alert until I give the order to stand down. This man is capable of anything, so be extra cautious with any contact made. And someone…get me Mycroft Holmes on the line…Now!"

And such was the sheer emotional charge behind his rolling orders that even Greg began to believe he had things under control. He laughed pitifully inside, though, desperate for something, anything, that would end all of this. They may already have a lead on Moriarty that would go down in just a few short days, but things always seemed to go differently where that bastard was involved. A little help would be welcome at this juncture.

He was so wrapped up in preparing for whatever might be coming their way that he barely registered when Mycroft's voice was directed into the earpiece he had acquired in the last fifteen minutes while waiting for the others.

"I'm here, Lestrade," came the cool tone often heard from the man behind the government. The DI began to hold his hand up for his people to allow Mycroft to access the same feed they were getting, but he was halted by the continued words in his ear. "No need, Detective Inspector. I am already accessing your side, and I am apprising the situation as we speak. What else are we waiting on?"

"John. He's the last one on the list; should be here any second. Sent someone to get 'im."

"Good. Now, have you any…" the voice was interrupted by another, just arrived.

"Greg? What's going on? Sally grabbed me up at the flat. No explanations, except that it might deal with Sherlock." The doctor crossed over to the DI, and Donovan strode briskly behind him, coming to a stop at one end of the angled tables. John was about to say more when his eyes caught the screen. They all waited as he read it, coming to his own conclusions quickly. "It's him, isn't it?" he asked quietly, feeling a sickness building slowly.

"We believe so, yeah." Then the overburdened DI grunted a halfhearted laugh. "Who else could it be at this point?"

"I don't believe this is the time to be joking, Lestrade," came the reprimand in his earpiece.

"Yeah, alright," Greg grimaced. And John noticed.

"Mycroft?" the doctor inquired. And the DI confirmed with a curt, and almost apologetic, jerk of his chin and a hand indicating the ear bud's presence. "Does he know…." John began, only to be interrupted by a voice he'd hoped to never hear again. The Irish lilt and dancing tone of Jim Moriarty drifted out of the surrounding audio system like a cloying fog of bloody death, as if sucking out any hope that may have ever dwelt within their hearts.

"Hello everyone! I see you've all shown up as asked; with even a few extras to spare! I would tell you not to bother tracing this, but….I know you do love to feel like you're doing something. Also, I didn't run audio back to myself because I didn't want to hear your pathetic protestations. This will be a one way conversation. So no talking while daddy puts on his play, alrighty?" A throaty chuckle followed this statement, and then the screen blacked out so that the text no longer hung on the display and they were left with just the sound of his voice echoing through the room. A small circle appeared and then wavered before flickering into life like an old fashioned television screen. And there on the display was a black and white video feed of the consulting criminal himself, complete with a set of devil's horns sticking out of his slicked back hair. Everyone in the room could feel the tension level crank up several degrees as the most sought after man in England continued to address them.

"Do you like my costume?" the criminal inquired, reaching up and flicking one of the plush horns. "I thought it quite…appropriate." A small giggle, and then he resumed speaking. "I just thought I'd save you all the trouble of looking for your dear old friend. What was his name?" An exaggerated pause followed with Jim holding a few fingers up to his chin in a thinking pose. "Real name William, but exchanged with, ah yes, Sherlock was it? Mhmmm…." Another bit of light laughter trailed after this. "Shall we find him? Yeeeessss…I think so…" The camera zoomed out so they could see a generic photo set up behind him like one would see for graduation pictures and such. The background was grayed out from the black and white recording, so there was no telling what color it may have been. Jim smiled as the camera angle adjusted somewhat lower, too, so that first the top of a wild head of dark curls was revealed, and then slowly down to the upper chest level before stopping.

Sherlock was most likely kneeling down on both knees; and he was gagged, with his arms angled downward in a fashion indicating that his hands were restrained behind him. He struggled somewhat weakly, leading the observers to the obvious conclusion of further drug induced compliance. His eyes were a bit reddened as well. Perhaps the drugs; perhaps misery. And John had eyes only for his friend as Moriarty began to pace slowly around the restrained man's form. The way he did it, with the predatory grace of a great cat put those in the room in state of sick anticipation. It was like watching animals on TV, just as the panther was about to capture its prey and rip the life from it. So, too, did Moriarty's eyes hold the coldness and steely concentration required of such ruthlessness.

Jim stopped just behind Sherlock's right shoulder and a fleeting smile stole across his lips as he placed a light hand upon that same area. He ran his fingers lovingly along there and around to the front of the detective's throat, where he flexed his fingers as if they had talons with which to rend the delicate flesh thereon. The man kneeling before him merely shivered, and Jim drew the hand higher, along the angular jaw and up into the nest of darkness. Suddenly, the gentleness ended as the criminal's fingers tightened and pulled back hard, exposing the long column of Sherlock's pale neck; at the same time, the smaller man bent forward and down, bringing his mouth within inches of that same area.

Jim's eyes flicked back up at the camera, and he tilted his head with a smirk. He closed his eyes and inhaled as if in rapture, then placed his lips chastely upon the detective's throat before returning to a standing position behind the other man, releasing his hair. And it seemed to John as though he spoke directly to him and no one else for a moment.

"Delicious, is he not? Too bad, really." And the criminal reached behind himself to pull a gun from his rear holster. Heart rates elevated, and the cold adrenaline of fear burst through the gathered witnesses as the barrel was then run along the same path that Jim's hand had just traveled minutes before. The prisoner trembled perhaps a bit more this time, jerking in small motions as if he were attempting to slip his bonds. But Jim paid it no mind, ever confident in his methods.

"Are you all wondering what I brought you together for? It's a special holiday surprise for an extra special and happy Halloween. You'll love it!" Jim laughed at his own idea of humor. "Are you ready?" He waved the gun haphazardly through the air, and everyone's eyes traced its path with horror. "It's a trick…" His tongue darted out across his lips, and he whispered, "…just a magic trick." The criminal stepped back from the weakly struggling man before himself, pulling the gun into line with the back of the detective's head. Greg's heart leaped and stuttered. John's did likewise, and a single tear of frustration and helplessness leaked down from his left eye. This had to be fake. It was wrong. Moriarty would never end his enemy, his equal, in this way. So simply… No….he couldn't. No…

Jim looked up from where he was pointing the gun and then dropped its aim to the floor as if something had just occurred to him. He slapped his forehead comically as if an errant thought had returned to him.

"How silly of me! I forgot about saying goodbye. You can't possibly end a fairy tale without a long goodbye." The watchers felt the stress of the moment still, but with the resurgence of hope that the criminal still had more of his "game" to play, which would give the detective more time. Time they desperately needed. Was this his game then after all, just to torment them? If so, it had worked well and thoroughly. But as long as he chose to play with their emotions, Sherlock still had time. Time they could use to rescue him. They all awaited what new riddle Moriarty might throw their way, what piece of the puzzle they would have to scramble after next.

But it never came….

The gun raised back up, level with a kill shot to the heart from behind. Jim's smile had never been grander as he spoke again.

"Then again…."

He cocked the gun…

"I am…"

…and adjusted the angle of the barrel while finishing darkly…

"…so changeable."

He fired into Sherlock's body.

The detective pitched forward, falling to the floor like so much grain. It seemed to happen over and over again in John's mind as the doctor continued watching the scene unfold. In front of him, reality. In his mind, nightmares. Eyes the color of the most beautiful of oceans had gone blank with the sudden concussion of sound. The long and lean body had jerked forward and toppled. And above it all stood Jim Moriarty with a grand expression of triumph on his face, gun smoking, and the devil's horns lending him an even further air of insanity.

Silence drowned the room. None moved, none spoke, and some could barely breathe as they watched the criminal raise the gun to his expensive suit and wipe it down his side a couple times. Greg suddenly sat hard into a chair, and John almost followed suit but would have found the floor instead. He barely managed to remain standing as his eyes refused to leave the screen…the last place he had seen his friend alive and well. Mycroft's voice was silent in the earpiece, no doubt he had muted it anyway so as to prevent sound from escaping to Greg at this time. Who knew what the British Government would feel at the murder of his sibling?

John was the first to begin to recover his wits, feeling a boundless, endless, rage building from within himself as his heart dug through the ashes of its existence. He would kill this man on the display. No question. He would do it bare handed, with firearms, or with any number of various instruments. He did not care. It was simple. Moriarty would die. And John Watson knew it would be the only death he would ever cause that he would actually feel pleasure at completing. The thought of it brought him to near clear-headedness as he ran through many long and drawn out methods of torture he had been a student of in special forces. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. Fists tightened into deadly weapons, and knuckles stood white as snowcapped mountains as he radiated hatred at the screen, knowing Moriarty was observing each of them in turn. Let him see, then. Let him see who's coming for him, John thought.

And amidst the storm of desperate emotions and shattered hopes came a sound that rang out discordant with the atmosphere. It started out low, and then slowly grew. The beginning being a sound so deep and low that perhaps human ears couldn't have picked up on it anyway.

It was laughter, genuine and true. And it flowed through the audio system of the room, mocking those who remained in their shock of grief. But Moriarty was not laughing. He was only stood still with his grin in place and the gun in hand, as if posed for some strange criminal magazine cover. The smirk, however, deepened as the next sound, that of speech, flew like a whirlwind through the room, resurrecting hearts and hope alike in a painful cacophony of emotion.

Baritone and smooth, the voice of Sherlock Holmes rang out, off camera.

"Damn!" Followed by a cough. "You didn't warn me how much those hurt, Jim!" And Moriarty merely shrugged before answering back.

"Mmm… You didn't ask. But how would you have figured rubber bullets would feel?"

"Sarcasm is wonderful when not directed at yourself, is it?" And the detective's form rose shakily from the ground and into view of the camera once again. He stolidly began to march off of the set, with the last thing they could hear from him being spoken mainly to himself and trailing off as he passed out of range of the microphones. "Though this will create interesting patterns of ecchymosis, so it's not been a total loss. I might even….."

Jim smiled disarmingly at the camera and spread his arms wide as if to say, What are you gonna do with him? Then he addressed them once more.

"Well. That. Was. Fun! Don't you think?" He plucked his horns from his hair and flicked them to the ground, then spun round and tore down the posterboard backdrop behind himself. "I always try to clean up after myself at least a bit. Don't want to be a poor house guest. And I am so sorry to have to leave now in such a hurry, but…business calls!"

When the posterboard backdrop came down, the room was stunned speechless at the location it revealed. It was a lobby. Their lobby. The lobby. Of New Scotland Yard. And just as this realization dawned on them, while the camera feed cut off with Jim walking away toward the doors, the siren call of the building's lock-down system began to sound…and complete police quarantine was initiated. Doors all over the building locked, bars came down and across at various intervals within the police precinct. And all was chaos within the conference room as the monitor flickered once. Twice. Then the display lit once more with a cheery message:

Happy Halloween! –S & M