The clouds loom overhead, dark and heavy and giving the impression that there is something waiting behind them, something large and sinister and bent on destroying mankind. Greg shifts his weight from one foot to the other and bites the inside of his cheek. He has, at a young age, learned that he tends to bite the inside of his mouth or his lower lip when he's nervous. He's nervous now, quite, and beneath this deep, gripping feeling of anxiety, he thinks how ridiculous he is for being scared of a few clouds.

The wind picks up once more, bringing with it a low wail that makes the hairs on the back of Greg's neck stand up. He tightens his coat around him, then lifts the collar up to get lost in its scent. It smells rich and dark, like spiced wine, like Mycroft. It should since it belongs to him. It's that nice charcoal one with the silver stitching and brass buttons that Mycroft told him-many times-not to take. Greg, being Greg, took it anyway. Still, in spite of the thickness of the fabric, Greg feels a chill settle at the bottom of his spine.

Something thin and sharp presses against the spot, making him jump a bit. "Boo," Luke says cheerfully. His words are garbled and when he smiles brightly, Greg sees the cause.

"I saw those in Chuck's mouth a while ago," he says as Luke spits out the ridiculously large plastic white fangs in his palm. Luke waggles his eyebrows playfully but says no more on the subject. As of now he's the complete opposite of Greg, ridiculously energetic, almost wild in spite of the unspeakable terrors the night might bring. Then again, Luke is one of those terrors.

He puts an arm around Greg's shoulder then steers him to where the rest of the group are huddled under the awning of the small diner. "Cold," one of them complains and Greg cannot help but agree wholeheartedly. It's a bad, horrible weather, but considering the task at hand, it must be viewed as a wonderfully accommodating weather. Luke seems happy with it; Chuck, apathetic as always; and Greg apprehensive, his mind already wondering what the coming rain might do to his motorbike.

"Anyone want some hot chocolate?" Luke asks. "Chuck's paying."

"How much longer?" Dina Burgess asks. She's shivering uncomfortably, but this time, the weather is not to be blamed. She's showing far too much skin to be considered decent, even in a hot day. Then again, if her mission turns successful—seducing Chuck it seems, judging by the way her eyes keep jumping to him—then braving the bone-chilling wind will be a small price to pay. Neverthless, Greg still shoots Luke a glare in warning. He has no intention of hosting an orgy on Hallow's Eve, nor on any day for that matter.

"The Altairs' place isn't far off," Luke promises with a pat on Dina's shoulder, far too close to her left breast to be considered an accident. Then again, with breasts the size of that, they're incredibly hard to miss. "Right, Greg?"

Greg purses his lips but nods. They're not even there yet and he's already starting to have doubts. He wishes he never agreed to this. It's not that he's scared of ghosts-he doesn't even believe in them. Well, not really. But he's not too keen on being held responsible for a good number of the kids in his class.

The Altairs' place is an abandoned Victorian-esque mansion that's even bigger than the Holmes' manor—which is saying something as Mycroft's home is large enough to accommodate the population of a small village. It's a famous place, known for the rumours of poltergeists and the sad, lonely ghost of Celeste Altair, who, if the urban legends are to be believed, was repeatedly sexually abused by an uncle before she stabbed herself to death. The stories must be true. There've been several reports of trespassing in the past, but so far, no one's been arrested yet. Most likely, the police are afraid to venture too far in the house.

Guns are no good against ghosts, after all.

It's the perfect place to spend Hallow's Eve, which is really the reason why they're heading there, no matter how many times Luke insists that they're just going to frighten a few kids as a prank. Luke absolutely loves Hallow's Eve, though he'll never admit it out loud. He's not exactly fooling anyone, not even the people they're planning to scare. Greg knows they're well-aware of their fate, knows from their grim faces and their weary frowns at Luke whenever he rakes his crummy fingernails on the backs of their necks. Why they bother to entertain his childish whims is a mystery to Greg.

Well, no, not really a mystery. The group is easily divisible by five divisions: a) the kids who have nothing better to do, b) the kids who genuinely want to go ghost-hunting, c) the kids who are mad enough to be infatuated with Luke, d) the kids who lust after Chuck, and, embarrassingly-amusingly group e) the kids in love with him. Surprisingly, despite having a pre-bond with Mycroft, the number of kids in division e is quite a large one. It's funny. It never fails to piss Mycroft off. And that little fact makes it even more hilarious.

He gets jealous, Mycroft, no matter how many times he insists that he doesn't, of course not, he's beyond such a petty thing as jealousy. It's a lie, a big one, though it might not be blatantly obvious to people who don't know Mycroft or his brother. It must be a Holmes' trait—Sherlock might dislike John but he dislikes it even more when John's not paying attention to him. It's funny to make Mycroft jealous because he'll insist over and over again that he couldn't care less.

As if he didn't give Greg the silent-treatment when he found out Paul Lucca is with them.

Greg gets why Paul's presence upsets Mycroft. He's in Mycroft's age group but he hangs out with them for a smoke and a drink, and occasionally, for times like this. Paul's like them, a lover of loud music and bikes and leather jackets. He's an Alpha, and well, Paul's many liaisons with kids from their school and from out of town are no secret.

"I'm not even his type!" Greg yelled, half-amused, half-exasperated by Mycroft's silence. "He prefers girls, My."

Paul's preference did little to change Mycroft's behaviour, though.

He wonders what Mycroft's doing, before remembering the date and the event it's associated with. He imagines Mycroft sitting next to Sherlock, their faces blank as people encourage them to dance with them. Greg has been to the Mensa's annual Halloween party only once. It was depressing, the so-called geniuses turning dumb as they interacted with each other in their awkward manner. Greg didn't know whether or not he should laugh or cringe at their behaviour. He settled instead on gorging himself on all kinds of food, and, embarrassingly got drunk on the punch that had been spiked with tequila (the suspected culprit, Sherlock, denied everything and could not be proven guilty). John's with them now. Greg feels sorry for him, but not sorry enough to come up with something that would help him avoid attending the stupid party.

"You guys go ahead," he says, wrenching his arm out of Luke's grasp, "I'll just go check in on My." He jerks his head to where an ancient telephone booth is stationed. Someone—a Doctor Who fan, no doubt—has sloppily painted it blue.

Luke scoffs. It's all for show, though—Greg doesn't miss how Luke's eyes dart up and down the street, checking if it's safe to leave him alone. "Alright but hurry up. We'll get a seat by the window." A warning to stay close, hidden underneath nonchalance. Greg smirks. Luke's such a sap. "I'm going to eat all the waffles if you don't."

"Whatever, pig out, I don't care."

Luke sticks his tongue out at him before purposefully barreling into an unfortunate being. He slings his arm over the girl's shoulders to drag her inside the store, the rest following suit. The door slams shut behind them, closed by the sudden gale. Greg tries his best not to associate nature's howl with something supernatural. It's just a storm.

Things will be alright.

"We're lost. We have to be lost. This map doesn't even make any sense."

"Maybe you just don't know how to read it properly—give me that."

"No fucking way! You'd probably have us drive off a cliff if I let you take the lead."

Luke opens his mouth to argue, realises that Greg isn't far from the truth, then promptly closes his mouth once more. He ought to feel insulted but he has no room for hurt. He's not freaking out—not yet—anyway, but he can sense it coming, like an itch that, if scratched, would lead to the world's most uncomfortable rash. He's been lost before—is familiar with the feeling of being lost to be more specific. He's gotten lost with Greg as well, but he never panicked then because Greg can take care of himself. He's never been responsible for a group. This is why he avoids the things Mycroft likes—looking out for others, negotiating with adults, etc.

He tried once.

It didn't work out.

Greg looks at him with a mixture of amusement and what Luke thinks might be pity. It makes Luke scowl. It's stupid but for a second, he wants Greg to not know what to do. Selfish bastard, he chides himself. He admits, he gets jealous sometimes. It's inevitable—they grew up together. Hell, people say they even look the same, with their dark hair and usual get-up of an ancient band shirt and crumpled jeans. So it's a bit annoying when Greg's better at him than something. He'd feel a lot worse about it if Greg didn't get jealous either. So it's okay…

Sort of, anyway.

"I'll handle this," Greg assures him. He's put on that tone, the one that separates him from the rest of them. It's like Mycroft's, and they hate it, of course they do. It's just so confident, so mature and it makes Luke feel younger than his years but damn it, he can't hate Greg for that because he'll need to be able to speak in that way if he's going to end up with Mycroft. "Go have a smoke."

"I've smoked all my cigarettes," he says. It's a lie, of course, and Greg knows it. Anyone who knows him would know that it's a lie. Greg merely laughs and shoves him gently, dismissing him. Luke bites his tongue. He does have control over himself, no matter how much people insist that he's got no manners. Animalistic's what they use.

They've scattered, the others. Some of them are sitting on the hoods of their cars, others are huddled together muttering about the weather or his and Greg's lack of leadership. Luke fights the urge to pick a fight with one of those complaining. It is cold and raining a bit and they're in god-knows-where with no way to contact anyone sane enough to have rejected the invitation.

Crap, his ideas really are stupid.

"Are you going to mope all night?" Chuck asks. He's sprawled in the backseat of what might be Paul Lucca's car, head hanging over the edge so that he's looking at Luke upside down. He doesn't have a cigarette on him for once.

"Not moping," Luke says.

"Yeah, right."

He tells Chuck to shut up before he clambers inside, shutting the door behind him so that he gets a full blast of the car's scent, a mixture of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cigarettes. "Move," Luke grumbles, pushing Chuck's legs out of the way to make room for his own. There's not much room, even if he squishes him so he just settles for resting his legs on Chuck's lap.

Chuck narrows his eyes at him. He must be thinking the same thing. It's impossible not to when they're practically on top of each other in an enclosed space, but damn it, he's not going to do anything with Greg and a great number of their friends outside. "No fucking way," he snaps. Chuck rolls his eyes.

"I wasn't initiating anything," Chuck mutters.

"As if. You can't resist me." He gets shoved for that one. It's familiar, and immediately, Luke relaxes. They don't have to talk about it because Chuck's still his friend. He's still Chuck with his moods and fancy cigarettes and Luke can still hit him and call him ugly and not feel awkward about it just because they're sleeping together. Or, experimenting—he's not sure what he should call what they're doing. A mutual hand job isn't sleeping with each other, right? They're just boys dealing with sexual frustration, and it's better to do it with someone you know than with a stranger. At least, this is what they told each other after that first drunken night. But whatever this is, it's not going to go anywhere, because they both know they'll get bored with each other, they'll look for other people, and Chuck will settle down with someone, just like his older brother, and he'll become a businessman with a shiny red sports car and trophy wife. Luke's not sure where he'll end up, but he's sure of what Chuck will become once they get sick of each other.

It's not that he finds Chuck repulsive because, hell, if Chuck were ugly he would never, ever get on his knees for him. Luke's not hideous. In fact, he's got enough looks to pull someone to his bed. And yeah, Chuck's handsome. Even if Luke will never admit it out loud, he can't deny that fact. They like each other well enough but as friends. Friends who sometimes get naked with each other. But still, you know, friends. And what will happen to the two of them if they decide to try to turn whatever this is to what Greg and Mycroft have? They'd probably be dead in less than a week from smoking every cigarette in England.

"Do you think they do it?" Chuck asks once the momentary lull has gotten to the point of being uncomfortable. Luke turns his attention to him. "Mycroft and Greg, I mean."

Luke makes a face. He doesn't want to think about that. But once the repulsion dissipates, he begins to think about it. Okay, he doesn't really thinkabout it, but…you know, he thinks about it…in theory. "I'm not sure," he admits. Chuck raises an eyebrow at him.

He should know. He's not just Greg's sentinel, he's also his best friend. They tell each other everything. But since Greg and Mycroft became a thing, well, Greg doesn't really talk much about himself anymore which pisses Luke off a bit because he tells Greg everything, even the stupidest, most embarrassing things he's done. So maybe this is revenge, by not telling Greg his friends-with-benefits-relationship with Chuck—also Greg's best friend, mind you.

"I screw up all the time," he says out loud, for some reason. Must be the ADHD or the fact that it's too quiet. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. Chuck snorts then circles his ankle with his thumb and forefinger, stroking the skin there until Luke feels interest spark low in his belly. It's not even a sexual touch. Most likely, Chuck doesn't mean it to be.

Fuck, he thinks, as he shoots Chuck a half-hearted glare.

"You're good at some things," Chuck tells him, pointedly, and oh yeah, sure, he's good at that because he's had sex more than once and Chuck must find it good, of course he does, he's Luke fucking Rochewell, he's a bloody sex god.

"When we get there," Luke says with a leer, though it's half-hearted. Chuck only sleeps with him when Luke's upset or bored or—but this is rare—head-over-heels happy. It's good but, he wonders what sex would feel like, if he did it with someone else and meant it.

Everything is ridiculous. This trip, agreeing to go to this trip, the people in this trip, and the two people who initiated this whole ridiculous plan to get everyone scared out of their minds in god knows where. The mansion deserves to be put in a dictionary to define the word 'horror'. They're not even inside, yet Frances Bradbury can already feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She never should have agreed to accompany them. She doesn't belong here, not with this group, anyway. Fuck you, Mycroft, she thinks as Rochewell nearly knocks her over. He's horsing around again, laughing loudly with Chuck Estaves at his heels.

Fuck them.

Greg's smile is apologetic and a little wary, like he's afraid that he'll be ambushed the moment he opens his mouth. "We'll be staying here tonight," he reminds her for what must be the tenth time. She gives him the dirtiest look she can manage, and fortunately, he drops the act and replaces the boyish smile with a frown. It's an act. At least, this is what Frances believes because Greg Lestrade and his cousin Luke Rochewell—sometimes with Chuck Estaves—are master manipulators. They have to be in order not to get expelled from all the stupid things they like to do. They're the most difficult people to drag to detention, or sometimes, the principal's office because they do this thing. Frances is not exactly sure how they do it but it's usually in the form of a smile or a few charming words, and they're free to go. Honestly, sometimes she hates them.

"You scared, Frances?" Greg teases, bringing back that smile. His front teeth are rather large, she notices, like a kid who has yet to grow into them. It makes him look innocent and she wonders if maybe those are what get him out of trouble.

"Lestrade," she snaps. "Quit it."

He looks a bit hurt but Frances bites the inside of her cheek and doesn't apologise. She feels guilty, but only slightly. This is Greg, after all. He's nicer compared to the other two but she suspects it's only because she's Mycroft's friend. They hate each other, deep down, hidden underneath all the polite smiles and inane greetings that they have to do because she's Mycroft's friend and he's Mycroft's boyfriend, so society demands that they become friends. Which will never happen.

He's not horrible, mind you. It's just…they're so different. At least she doesn't insult him to his face, unlike the others. Greg's not exactly someone they trust with Mycroft. Why Mycroft likes him so much is a mystery. Sure, they have a pre-bond and Greg's good-looking, but he's not someone you'd trust to take care of you when you're sick or hurt. And he flirts. A lot. He flirts with anyone who'll look his way, sometimes even in front of Mycroft.

It's just a game, Mycroft always insists. It doesn't mean anything.

"Well, what if it does one day?" Keith argued when they were seated in the prefects' lounge. "He might even be cheating on you right now."

Paolo Luchetti frowns at the reddish-brown stain on the moth-eaten tapestry. "This is blood," he announces matter-of-factly. It doesn't smell like blood. It smells like dust and bug-shit but that stain can't be anything else other than blood, unless someone before them thought of grabbing the tapestry to use it to wipe his arse. Well, it could be shit but, he's definitely not going to check.

Next to him, Greg Lestrade lets out a nervous chuckle. "Guess old Celeste got one nasty paper cut," he says, trying to sound nonchalant. It doesn't work. "What do you think, Paul?"

"It's definitely blood," he replies. Paul, he remembers. Not Paolo, at least, not outside Italy. It's confusing sometimes, especially when last week, he's just spent three days surrounded by Italian relatives, talking in Italian, and being called by his real name, not the one he got four years ago. He understands that most people have trouble pronouncing Luchetti, hence changing his surname to Lucca, but it's not exactly difficult to say Paolo. He suspects they're just too lazy to say more than one syllable.

Greg stares at him disbelievingly, having to crane his neck to do so. He's not short. Paolo's just too tall. He was 6'3 the last time he checked, though he guesses that he may have gotten taller. There's an added disproportion to their eye levels, although Greg's probably 5'11 now. Still, Paolo feels the urge to rest his hand on top of Greg's head, and oh, what the hell, he does it anyway. It must be a tall person thing, this urge to rest your hand or your chin on a shorter person's head, maybe to compare heights or just to annoy the other guy.

Greg doesn't get mad. Maybe he's used to Luke or Mycroft Holmes doing this to him or he really doesn't care. His hair is startlingly soft, a bit like a baby's actually, and when Paolo says this out loud, Greg shoots him a death glare. "It's not," he mutters.

He catches a flash of movement in his peripheral vision and catches sight of Frances Bradbury watching them, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why'd you invite her?" he asks Greg who looks over his shoulder to frown at Frances. "You're not friends."

Greg shrugs. "Guess she's watching out for Mycroft." He grins all of a sudden. "His friends don't trust me. Especially, with you. They think we'll go at it like fucking rabbits if she takes her eyes off me for even one second."

Paolo blinks slowly. Sometimes Greg surprises him because if you put him with Luke and Chuck, he's mild, more level-headed. Possibly Mycroft's influence or it's an Omega thing or he's been trained to look out for Luke who Paolo would never trust with any living thing. But then he says things like this, things people wouldn't normally say in public or even when alone with one person, and Paolo is instantly reminded why Greg's one of them.

"You're not my type," Paolo tells him. And he's not, really not, because other than the fact that Greg is like a little brother who sometimes worships him and is sometimes annoying for worshipping him, he's male and looks a bit like a kid and still acts like a kid, like when he sticks his hand in a jar of peanut butter because he's too lazy to get a spoon or when he whines at Luke whenever the two of them go his house and play Galaga. Besides, Greg's got Mycroft and, Paolo admits, it's weird that they get along since Mycroft is the epitome of prim and proper and Greg…well, he's Greg. But they seem to genuinely like each other. And sure, Paolo sleeps around, he's not going to clean his reputation for being a bit of a whore, but he doesn't do infidelity, despite the rumours

Greg clutches his chest, pretending to be wounded. "Dork," Paolo says as he ruffles his hair, earning him a two-fingered salute before Greg moves away to join Luke. They're laying sleeping bags on the dusty floor, exchanging ridiculous anecdotes and ghost stories. Chuck is crouched in front of the blackened fireplace with a lighter, looking flushed and rather rumpled.

"I brought sausages," Emily Morris says. "And other stuff."

"Okay, but who brought the fucking alcohol?" Luke asks. His hair is sticking out at odd angles and his shirt is wrinkled. Paolo wonders why Greg hasn't seen it yet. Chuck and Luke's friends-with-benefits relationship has turned into an open secret and while they don't talk about it, it's pretty obvious that it's going on. Unless, Greg has never thought of the possibility, or…

Paolo turns to Quentin Grace and taps him on the shoulder. "You owe me," he whispers, and Quentin scowls but readily hands him a wadded fifty-pound note.

You're never too old to bet on your friend's virginity.

"…and then it just grabbed her throat and—"

"Wait, it just what? When did that happen?"

"It just did! You're not listening!"

"Ow, there's no need to hit me!"

"Your story sucks anyway."

"Yeah, well, so does your mum!"

"Ow!"

"Oi, quit it!"

Luke shoves Norton. "Fine!" he slurs, spitting beer and saliva all over Norton's face. "My story sucks but you better tell something better."

Greg peers at the can in his hand and wonders why on earth they came here in the first place when they could have just drank in Paul's place or gone to a bar. A clap of thunder outside silences Luke and Norton and Greg's half-sober mind goes, oh right, it's Hallow's Eve and this is supposed to be scary. And it is scary, honestly. The mansion's sitting room is huge and dark, even with about twelve candles and the fireplace, and the shadows seem too dark and long to even be real. Plus, there's a storm outside. The wind is howling and crashing against the walls. It is frightening but there's alcohol present and alcohol just makes things less scary. If Greg wasn't half-drunk right now, he'd probably be climbing the walls.

"Hey, I've got one," Emily says. She slides off Paul's lap to grab a fresh beer. "Ever heard of Mrs Darlington's doppelganger?"

"Seriously?" Dina mutters scathingly. The envy in her voice is hard to miss. Greg wonders if he's made the mistake in thinking Dina wants to sleep with Chuck when she really wants to sleep with Paul, or if Dina just wants to get laid tonight. Greg wonders if he should remind her that Emily's got a girlfriend before remembering that just last week, Dina tried to kiss him, making it look like an accident.

Best keep quiet, then.

"Yeah, I'm serious," Emily counters, staring Dina down. For such a little person, she manages to pull it off. Dina huffs but finally keeps quiet. "Anyway," Emily says, "I'm pretty sure you guys know Iris Farley. So the school's got the whole no Alphas entering the B building during break, right? Well, Iris and her friends went in since they were going to sneak Yuna Lee out and she was waiting for them in the music library. So they climbed in through the window of a classroom in the third floor. Iris got the shock of her life when she saw Mrs Darlington at her desk, checking papers. She thought they were going to get in trouble but when Mrs D looked up…she didn't have a face."

Luke's brows knit in confusion. "What do you mean she doesn't have a face?"

"It's blurred! Like, smudged or something. And Iris fell backwards which is why she broke her wrist two years ago. And when she and her friends went to the clinic, they saw Mrs Darlington just entering the school!"

"Fuck."

"No way."

"Christ, Mrs Darlington? Damn."

"Okay, I've got one even better," Chuck offers. He straightens himself so that the shadows cast by the fireplace slide off his body and—Greg blinks, surprised—highlights what appears to be a hickey on the side of his throat. "You guys know Annie Malkovich—I'm sure you all do."

Greg sits up as well, suddenly sober. The others murmur assent, that yes, they all know about Annie, how can they not? It's a serious topic and it doesn't really hurt—Annie was years ahead of them—but it's just too grave a topic to use as a ghost story. To be fair with Chuck, he's not smiling. It's less of a ghost story and more of a tragic tale about a girl who went to their school and was raped and murdered by a bunch of pricks less than a month before her graduation. Chuck tells the story as it is then moves on to the one Greg has never heard until now.

"So Room 401, the Year 11s are having their exam when all of a sudden, they hear this faint crying. At first, the class thinks it's just the wind or someone's toy or whatever. They ignore it for a while but then they hear it again, much louder this time, as if the person who's crying is right next to you. It goes loud and soft and loud and soft, like the person's moving around and then it just gets to the point of hysteria, screaming now, pleading. The class panics and they move out and for a week, none of them will go to class. That was, I dunno, maybe two or three weeks after Annie's funeral."

There's no jeering, no comments. One by one they raise their beers and drink in honour of the dead girl. Greg wonders if they're honouring or insulting her memory by drinking before he decides that it's far too sad a thought to reside in his brain. No, this night is for drinking and stupid ghost stories.

Finally, it's back to Luke who tips his head back to drain what must be his fourth can, then slams it on the floor and announces, "I've got one."

"Nothing stupid!" Frances yells. She's more than half-drunk already and she's got her head resting on Heinrich Poole's shoulder. She's not bad when she's drunk and judging from Poole's face, he's definitely enjoying having Frances draped all over him. Well, Greg thinks, he ought to do something about that.

Or not.

"It's not stupid," Luke argues. "It happened years ago. I was getting ready for school, facing the full-length mirror in my bedroom when this little kid passed by my window and waved at me. So I waved back and even thought, wow, that's nice to have a total stranger say hello to me…And then I realized I was on the fucking third floor."

"You had a little ghost kid see you in your pants?"

Luke blinks blearily. "That's…that was not the point of the story!"

"Okay, okay," Paul says. "No fighting. Anyone else?"

"Yeah, I've got one," Leaf Elgin says in that disturbingly quiet voice of his. If anyone could make a living out of telling ghost stories, Leaf would make billions. He's a small kid with hair so blond it's nearly white and eyes just as pale as Sherlock's, only Leaf's are a bit bug-eyed, giving him the impression of an awestruck fish or Casper, the friendly ghost. He creeps everyone out, and normally, they'd stay away from him, but this is Hallow's Eve and if it's Luke's favorite holiday, it's practically Leaf's second birthday.

"It's called the Knife Man," Leaf continues, dropping his voice and forcing them to move closer. "The story starts with this young woman going home from work. See, she's a workaholic, you know, fresh graduate, thinks she can get the highest position overnight. Yeah, shit, like that. Anyway, it's late by the time she gets in her car. There are few cars outside and when she makes the left turn that leads to her house, her car's the only one in the street.

"But then there's a flash of light and when she looks at her rearview mirror, she sees another car following her. The driver's beeping his horn all the while, but he stops when she looks over her shoulder. She turns her attention ahead once more and the beeping starts again. But when she looks back, he stops. And this goes on and on and on, and she panics. He might be a rapist or a murderer or a combination of the two so she speeds up, with this guy following her, all the way to her driveway.

"She gets out of her car and this guy gets out as well. And then he tells her not to panic and that he's really sorry he scared her. See, he could see that there was someone sitting in the backseat of her car, holding up a knife. He was trying to warn her, but every time she looked back, the knife would go down."

"She thought he was just pulling her leg, but when the two of them checked the backseat of her car, they saw it lying there—one knife, coated in dried blood."

Greg keeps his eyes closed and prays for the room to stop spinning already. His pillow gurgles beneath his head. "Sorry," Luke burps. "Too much drinking."

"Thought we were going to move around and look for shit," Greg says. His breath reeks and tastes of beer and his stomach feels full and warm to the point of discomfort. He slides his hand under his shirt and scratches his belly, careful not to jostle Paul whose head is resting a little below his elbow. Fucking Leaf, Greg thinks as someone rolls to his side and bumps his leg. No one wants to say it out loud but Leaf has managed to frighten them with his stories. The first one was bad enough, but then he just had to revel in the limelight and add more, each one creepier than the last.

"You think our bikes are okay?" Luke asks. Greg cranes his neck to look at his face but it's too dark and cramped and the weird feeling that someone is watching them is making him make as little movement as possible.

"It's still raining outside," Greg says. It's confirmed with a flash of lighting that illuminates the room for a second, followed by a loud clap of thunder. "If there's still a storm tomorrow, we're screwed. Either we wait it out or Mycroft gets annoyed with my absence and sends people to come pick us up."

"Well, alright. Hey?"

"What?"

Luke keeps quiet for a moment, but just for a moment—you can't really keep him quiet forever without killing him. "You think if we die, we'll come back to haunt people?"

Greg blinks. The fuck, he starts to think, before he remembers the alcohol and it's effect on Luke's brain. "Uh, I dunno. If someone killed me…yeah, maybe?"

"I would do it," Luke says seriously. "I'd come back as a ghost and scare the shit out of our most-bastardly acquaintances. Probably turn into a poltergeist or something."

"I don't really think you have a choice."

"But if you could. Would you?"

Greg thinks about it. He doesn't think he'll be the vengeful kind of ghost-he doesn't really have anyone to hate. But if he did die before Mycroft and his friends and his family, then maybe he'd come back, just to see them. Or attempt to frighten Sherlock."If there's something to come back to. Yeah, why not? What's with all the questions, anyway?"

Luke pats his head. "I'm a very drunk man," he tells him.

"Okay…Wanna play Ask? Alright, uh, death by drowning or fire?"

"Er, fire, because I'm a hot babe." Greg rolls his eyes and forcefully buries the back of his head into Luke's stomach, making him heave and squirm in pain. "Ouch! No, seriously, fire. I'd die by suffocating anyway."

"Whatever. I'd rather drown."

Luke yawns. "Get eaten by a shark."

"Get saved by a really gorgeous mermaid."

"Get killed by Mycroft for flirting with said mermaid. You're so under him."

"Am not!" Greg pinches Luke's thigh. He's not, alright? It's not like he follows Mycroft's every whim. He'd always be dressed in a suit and tie if he did. "You Alphas are real jerks."

"Your boyfriend's an Alpha," Luke points out.

"So?"

"Whipped," Luke murmurs, the imitates the crack of a whip. Greg pinches him again, trying to dig his nails in deeper. Only Luke's jeans are practically made of steel and he only succeeds in making his fingertips hurt.

"Okay, that's it," he huffs. "Just because My and are a thing, doesn't mean he's not annoying sometimes."

"He's annoying all the time."

"Exaggerating, but…yeah, My's got a bad side to him. But it would be boring if we were okay all the time...And, I guess that's what makes him Mycroft."

"Ew, man, you're so sentimental."

Greg considers getting up to hit him but Luke's stomach rumbles again, distracting him. He's about to make a comment on it when all of a sudden, Luke lets out a snort and a low whistle. Dead to the world already. "Loser," Greg mutters, keeping his eyes trained on the dirt-encrusted window across him and wondering whether or not he'll be able to sleep at all.