A/N I'd like to thank my beta, Old Ping Hai, for her help. Any remaining errors are my own.

A reminder: 'a chroí' means 'my heart'.

Disclaimer—I do not own the rights to Sherlock.

Chapter 4

Sherlock was only partly successful in his plan to distract John with sex. Yes, he was able to strip his leprechaun bare. Yes, he was able to warm his adorable leprechaun up with a good snogging and a bit of groping.

Unfortunately, the leprechaun cut their lovemaking short, because he felt that he and Sherlock should actually attend the party given in their honor. Besides, he refused to hide from Death, saying in a sepulchral un-John-like voice that 'no one could hide from death', then adding in a more normal John-like tone, 'except in very rare circumstances.'

The stubborn sprite refused to tell Sherlock what those rare exceptions might be, due to some mumbo-jumbo about 'disruptions' in the 'natural balance' and 'things were tottering already', which made no sense at all.

This led to sulking on the part of the detective until it became clear that this was one time that John would not be swayed by pouting.

At least John was more than happy to answer Sherlock's other questions. No, John did not find the lusty Fionn attractive—not in that way. No, John did not find any of the vampires downstairs alluring; in particular, he found Richard very repellent.

And yes, yes, yes John was fine, although he had rather depleted his vitality, due to his exertions during the Fianna's charge/storm, which was why John didn't dare to try healing his own wounds now. The leprechaun smiled and told Sherlock not to worry about it. Sherlock worried.

Of course, Sherlock cleaned John's shoulder wound, using more care than he usually took with his own injuries—not that he told the former doctor any of that. The laceration over John's shoulder probably didn't need stitches 'Only a nice gauze dressing, thank you very much, because he was the one who had medical training and was a powerful healer to boot. Tsk'ing like a mother hen, Sherlock put plasters over the remaining superficial cuts.

He did not have to treat the cut on John's face because that had already closed up. John explained that Richard had treated the wound when he licked John's face—due to the healing properties of vampire saliva. This revelation was both fascinating (Sherlock longed to get a sample of vampire saliva for detailed analysis) and upsetting (because he feared that having had a taste, Richard would crave Sherlock's delectable leprechaun even more now). Sherlock had no idea how to kill a vampire, aside from John's earlier rambling about wooden stakes.

There was one slightly positive note: John assured the detective that this minor exposure to vampire venom almost certainly wouldn't turn John into Richard's thrall. The key words were'almost certainly',which ruined anyrelief that Sherlock might have felt. Clearly, the consulting detective urgently needed to study supernatural arcana.

Further questioning revealed that with such vague portents, John really didn't know who was at risk of dying, although he was forced to agree with Mycroft's earlier assessment that John himself was the most likely target.

The situation was exceedinglyworrisome for Sherlock; it was hard to credit that there even was a real threat. Nevertheless, if both John and Mycroft believed in these mysterious omens, then the World's Only Consulting Detective had no choice but to determine the intended victim and eliminate the threat—with precious few clues and very little knowledge of magic and mythical beings.

John insisted that they return to the party to await Death. Sherlock agreed, but only so that he could begin interviewing his relatives to determine if any of them had developed murderous tendencies since the last Holmes family reunion.

He gave his leprechaun an oversized turtle-neck jumper to wear, which would keep John warm and might hide his tempting neck from the bloodsuckers. It was a hideous black and white striped jumper, which reminded Sherlock of prison inmates; John, of course, loved it.

Downstairs, the candle-lit sitting room buzzed with chatter. The excited voices of Sherlock's relatives all but drowned out the sounds of wind, rain and not-so-distant thunder.

The consulting detective kept his leprchaun close at hand, while sending a baleful gaze out over the guests. He had no idea what they were blabbering about and normally would have turned his back on the inane chaos. But he needed to question every one of them, A thin, bony woman with badly dyed red hair spotted him and hurried over to him.

His first volunteer.

"Isn't it dreadful, Sherlock!" cried Cousin Cecily.

He eyed her askance; her behavior was indeed suspicious, since she usually avoided Sherlock like the plague.
She continued on undeterred by Sherlock's habitual scowl. "It was just terrifying," she gushed, clearly not terrified. "Phil just set himself on fire using stove, what an idiot! Luckily for him, your mother had the presence of mind to dump lemonade on his arm." Cecily took a deep breath to continue her recital of woe. "Thank goodness, dear little Leonora and your mother weren't injured in that little debacle, but it was a close call. Your mother lost part of an eyebrow in the fireball!"

"Fireball?" exclaimed John.

"Oh, yes. And afterwards, Phil fussed and moaned even though he was barely burnt. He blames the stove of course and not himself. He's such a cretin. Your father checked, and of course the stove is perfectly fine. It was just Phillip being clumsy and stupid as usual. I often wonder if he was secretly adopted; I don't see how he could possibly be related to us." She sounded more gleeful than distressed. "And this must be your date? He's very short. And my goodness, just how old are you, Jim?" she asked John.

"John," corrected the leprechaun, ignoring her question about his age. "Are you sure your cousin wasn't hurt badly?"

"He's thirty-six," lied Sherlock, (thirty-six was the age listed on John's false ID's).

The consulting detective already knew that Phillip wasn't badly injured and that Cecily was not guilty of murderous intent, so it was time to move along. However his cousin latched onto Sherlock's arm like a lamprey.

"He looks so much older. It's the bags under his eyes." she confided in Sherlock, before turning back to the leprechaun. "Jim, I could give you the name of my plastic surgeon. She is…"

"John, this is Cecily," said Sherlock. "Just now, Cecily is sadly embarrassed for funds due to her impending divorce, which is why she is trying to save money by dying her hair at home. Sadly, this will not bring back her husband, who recently left her for an older woman, which explains her stupid remark to you just now. She's jealous. Cecily is also Cousin Prudence's eldest daughter. I often wonder how either of them could be related to Mummy, because neither of them is very astute, while Mummy is a genius. Regardless, I suggest you avoid Cecily and Prudence at all cost. They won't attempt to murder you, but listening to their stupidity might induce brain damage."

Cecily glared daggers at the consulting detective, who strode away, dragging his confused leprechaun behind him.

"Maybe I should just quickly examine your cousin, Phillip," suggested John.

"Unnecessary," said Sherlock. "His arm has been cared for, probably by my father,as Mummy never had the patience for nursing. It is obviously a minor burn, given that he's now able to use his 'injured arm' to perform card tricks for Aunt Prudence and the younger two members of her brood. No, John, they're over by the Chesterfield. Prudence is the one with the prune-shaped mouth and hair like steel wool. Remember to avoid her; in addition to her deep stupidity, she's as venomous as an adder."

"Oh, yeah...well...he does...look all right," murmured John, wearing his wrinkled-brow-because-I'm-concentrating face. This either meant that John was deep in thought or about to work some magic. And the latter was just not on.

"Do NOT assess his health magically," Sherlock hissed in John's ear, making the shorter man jump and cutting off his incipient glow. "Any idiot can see that he's not only fine but also thrilled with the attention that his accident garnered."

"Yes, but…"

"Nooo," said Sherlock, impaling his lover with his pale-blue gaze. "You said your 'vital powers' were depleted."

"Yes, but…"

"No! You did not fool me when you skimmed over the significance of that depletion," snapped Sherlock. "What you failed to mention was that further depletion of said vitality by utilizing magic could hurt or even kill you."

"That's. Amazing," said John, his blue eyes wide in wonderment. "How could you possibly have deduced all that…"

"Please, John. You know my methods."

"Yes, but…"

"John, stop saying, 'Yes, but.' It's annoying."

The two lovers frowned at one another, but remained shoulder to shoulder in the crowded room.

"Sherlock! Come and greet your Aunt Beatrice," instructed Mummy.

"Yes, but..." said Sherlock, desperately searching for an excuse to avoid his amazingly dull and famously narrow-minded Aunt Beatrice.

"No buts, young man," said Mummy, who was looking unusually frazzled. "My poor sister fell when she got out of her car, and luckily only cut her hand. Oh, but it could have been so much worse..."

Sherlock tuned out Mummy. 'Luckily?' he wondered, immediately thinking of his sprite. His head whipped around to the leprechaun, who shrugged, possibly signaling 'Hey, don't look at me. I didn't gift her with any luck.'

His Aunt sat at the kitchen, with a bandage wrapped around her left hand. As always, her hair was pulled back into a bun, like Mummy's. In fact, she had once been a beautiful woman, like Mummy. But Beatrice was a foul, judgmental old witch (not a real witch of course), so she was really not like Mummy at all.

Just now, she glowered disapprovingly when Sherlock came into the kitchen with his boyfriend trailing behind him.

Grim faced, like a man headed to the gallows, Sherlock marched into the kitchen. He tried not to grimace as he air-kissed his Aunt's cheek.

"Hello, Sherlock. Still thin as a rail, I see. I hope you're not using drugs again," said Beatrice, by way of greeting. "And I understand that you're still wasting your time playing at cops and robbers instead of making a decent living."

"Bea, you promised," said Mummy, who was actually wringing her hands.

Since Mummy was already distressed, Sherlock ignored his aunt's vituperous attack.

"Aunt Beatrice," said Sherlock with a voice like ice, "this is my partner, John."

"Partner? Is that what you call gigolos nowadays? He's very short and much older than I expected. And I understand that he hasn't a penny to his name. I suppose the little gold-digger is bending over for money?"

"Now wait just a minute," said the leprechaun.

"Never mind. Never mind!" said Mummy glaring at the back of her intolerant sibling's head and then waggling her eyebrows at John. Sherlock noted that John seemed to read Mummy's eyebrow signals easily, because he left the accusation unchallenged. John frowned sadly and then drifted over to the stove to help Avaril make more bad-tasting coffee. This at least made Avaril happy, even if everyone else in the kitchen seemed miserable, aside from Beatrice, who was happy being miserable.

"Bea, You promised you wouldn't carry on," hissed Mummy. "You promised…"

"I call them as I see them," pronounced Aunt Beatrice, who was stupider than Anderson and more stubborn than a mule. Sherlock thought that she looked like an ass and was about ready to tell her so.

Mummy had pressed her lips together, stifling a retort.

Father placed a reassuring hand on his wife's shoulder and turned to Sherlock and Beatrice, changing the conversation.

"It was a real shame, that fall," said Sherlock's father. "When she fell, your Aunt hurt her hand, and dropped all the canapés that she was bringing to the party."

"Never mind the canapés," said Mummy, "Beatrice narrowly missed falling on the tines of a pitchfork, Sherlock. She only cut her hand, but a few inches more to the left and..." Mummy shuddered, because for some reason, she still loved her unlovable sibling.

"Never mind the canapés?" growled Beatrice. "That's so typical, Violet. I spend all that money on those canapés, and you say never mind! I'll have you know…"

As his Aunt launched into a lengthy diatribe against her sister's ingratitude leading into her usual spiel about the unsuitability of Mummy's family and home, Sherlock took the opportunity to escape, dragging John away from the possibly hazardous gas stove and his dangerous Cousin Avaril with her nasty coffee and coy smiles.

"But John," cried Avaril plaintively, "the coffee will be done in just a…"

"John doesn't want any coffee," said Sherlock.

"Yes, I do," protested John.

"No, you don't. Her coffee tastes worse than that evil brew we got at the MET last week."

"I liked their coffee," muttered John, looking longingly at the stove.

"John, we have work to do," insisted Sherlock.

"We do?"

"Yes! We need to find out who is planning a murder."

"Sherlock, just because Death is coming doesn't mean that there's going to be a murder."

"Of course it does. If it's an accidental death, it cannot be predicted."

"Maybe not, but accidental deaths can be foretold," insisted the leprechaun.

"No, by its very nature, an accident cannot be predicted. That's why it's called an accident," pronounced the detective.

"But they can be foretold, there's a subtle difference."

"Really?" asked the incredulous detective, "And what is that difference?"

"The Fates…"

"I don't believe in fate."

"They don't care if you believe in them or not," rejoined John.

"Ah, a deep philosophical discussion as our guests are picked off one by one," said Mycroft.

"You didn't seem worried a little while ago," said Sherlock.

"That was before there were two nearly fatal accidents," snapped Mycroft.

"Bah!" scoffed Sherlock. "Nearly fatal accidents? No one was badly hurt."

"Probably because Death isn't here yet," offered John. The Holmes brothers looked at him as if he were an idiot. The leprechaun clamped his mouth shut, pretending to be suddenly interested in the rug.

"Yes, Sherlock," said Mycroft, pretending that John the Idiot hadn't spoken. "But two potentially serious accidents in less than one hour?"

"Coincidence."

"You know what we say about coincidence."

"Mycroft. The power is out. It's dark. As usual, Phillip has been drinking. I cannot fathom why he was allowed near the stove with a set of matches. He was an accident waiting to happen. And as for Aunt Beatrice, she was heaving her bulk out of a tiny car, in the rain, while balancing a truly enormous platter of cheap canapés. The laws of physics dictated her inevitable fall."

"How d'you know it was an enormous tray," said John the Idiot. The brothers gave him pitying looks. "You know what, never mind. I'm going to get some of that coffee…"

"You will stay here, John."

"Yes, but…"

"Stop saying 'yes, but,'" sneered the detective. "It sounds stupid and it's tediously repetitive."

He didn't intend to lash out at John, but he was on edge. Despite his protests, he found the 'accidents' disconcerting. Adding these freak events to that supernatural warning from allegedly lusty and mysterious Finn, and Sherlock found himself wrong-footed and more than a little worried. "You promised that you'd stay near me."

"Yes, fine," muttered John. "I only wanted some coffee."

"The point is, we've had two near deaths..." began Mycroft.

"Two easily predictable accidents…"

"No, you said that accidents can't be predicted," said John, wearing his confused face, which Sherlock usually found adorable, but right now that face was extremely annoying, because it contradicted Sherlock.

"Shut up!" countered Sherlock. "You'd have us believe it was 'fate'." The detective made a set of air quotes, which John couldn't interpret, based on the blank look in his eyes. This also rankled the detective's nerves.

"Trouble in paradise?" snarked Mycroft. John and Sherlock immediately grasped each other's hands, closing ranks against a common enemy, "Besides brother dear, I hardly see that his belief in fate is less reasonable than your belief in coincidence."

"And what is your explanation, Mycroft?" demanded Sherlock. "Is there some evil agency randomly targeting our relatives, tempting though that may be?"

"An evil agency? That might explain the warnings, which have been even vaguer than usual," said John, perking up. "Are you thinking of an evil spirit? If so, maybe we should hold a séance…"

"John, stop making ridiculous suggestions," snapped Sherlock. "Next you'll be suggesting that we find a Ouiga board."

John compressed his lips into two bloodless lines and narrowed his eyes until he almost looked dangerous.

"Clearly, the Ouiga board was going to be John's next helpful contribution to our discussion," said Mycroft dismissively.

"You know, Mycroft," said John, glaring darkly, "for someone with Faerie-sight and who has been briefed on Outworld affairs by government sources, you are amazingly parochial in your views. A spirit could standing over a dead body holding a bloody knife, and you'd be debating whether or not spirits fit into your limited world-view. At least Sherlock has the excuse that the Otherworld is new to him."

Mycroft's mouth moved soundlessly, shocked that Sherlock's puppy had just mauled him.

"Well said, John," said Sherlock, draping his arm around his vicious attackleprechaun.

John lifted his boyfriend's long arm off his shoulder, before saying, "That doesn't give you a carte blanche, Sherlock. I would have thought that spending time with me might have convinced you to at least consider supernatural explanations."

"Yes, but..." began Sherlock.

"On top of all this," said John, "an untrustworthy, uninvited vampire is loose in your home, and do either of you know where he is or why he's even here?"

"He can be trusted. He's registered," blustered Mycroft.

"Registered vampires can go rogue," snapped John, " as you very well know. Besides, he could be here for some nefarious purpose other than bloodletting. If nothing else, he's probably selling bad contracts to your cousins."

"What about the other two, the twins, are they to be trusted?" asked Sherlock quietly. He'd never been rebuked by John before; even worse, John might be right.

"Frankly, I make it a policy to trust no one, aside from you, a chroí," said John, thrusting his chin up for added belligerence. "But I doubt that the twins are here for any purpose aside from observation. They are recognized diplomats and Death's acolytes. Surely they would not violate any strictures which would force them to surrender their special privileges. Besides, they're in your mother's study, playing Parcheesi with a couple of your cousins. Now, you two can get back to bickering; I'm going to go find Richard."

"Well, he's wrong, of course," said Mycroft. "Richard's lineage and reputation are spotless. If there is something nefarious occurring here, Richard will not be the source. I wonder..." the elder brother tapped his chin. "I wonder if the source of the threats isn't that renegade Faerie of yours."

"He's not a fairy," muttered Sherlock. "He's a leprechaun…"

"The label is rrelevant!" snarled the bureaucrat. "The point is, Fionn mac Cumhaill allegedly came for John, who fled the Hunter. Why did Fionn seek out John? Why did John flee from him? Could it be because John has violated the laws of Faerie? And now we find that Death himself is coming to the tea party, and of course he's coming for John, that much is obvious. John knows he can't run from Death, so he's trapped. Unless he can offer someone else in his place, a sacrifice if you will. Hence Phillip and Aunt Beatrice's unlucky accidents. No doubt he'll keep trying until he succeeds."

"You're insane. John doesn't even like blood sacrifices, let alone live sacrifices."

"Listen to yourself, dear brother. You are seriously discussing blood sacrifices in the same sentence as your paramour. The imp with whom you consort has accepted blood sacrifices in the past; don't deny it! He's probably not even a leprechaun at all; he's probably an incubus."

"Wrong! If he were not a leprechaun, wouldn't your diplomatic twins have informed you by now?" snapped Sherlock, whose fingers itched to Google the term incubus.

"The supernatural community is only a community in name. Every population is insular, and to prevent constant warfare, they mind their own business. The twins would never expose another supernatural, unless they or their own people were directly threatened. In fact, if John is truly a rogue incubus or imp that would explain why so many of the supernatural are gathering here tonight. They dislike rogues intensely because it upsets the status quo. They wouldn't report him to me, but they might take care of him on their own. Yes...yes, that may be the explanation."

"Are you sure that you didn't strike your head in the storm? John is not an imp or an incubus. John is kind, brave and wise. He's the best man...leprechaun…that I have ever had the privilege to meet."

"Don't be blind as well as foolish!" snapped Mycroft. "He's manipulated you. Don't you find it even a little bit suspicious that you've gone from asexual to mad for it? Don't you wonder why?"

"I was never asexual. I merely restrained myself…"

"Exactly! And now you do not! It's because that thing, whatever he is, has bewitched you. He's using you, and as soon as he gets what he wants, he'll move onto his next victim."

"Shut up, Mycroft," snarled Sherlock, stung by his brother's words.

Naturally, Sherlock didn't buy into Mycroft's ludicrous theories; he knew that John sincerely cared about him. However, Mycroft's accusations renewed Sherlock's fears that the leprechaun would someday leave him for greener pastures—sooner rather than later, given Sherlock's dubious history with relationships.

Mycroft, who observed everything, noted his brother's discomfort and pressed his advantage, "Even if he is a leprechaun, you cannot trust him. Leprechauns are all alike: flighty and fickle. Even now he's given up on searching for Richard to flirt with Cousin Avaril."

The dim-lit room certainly encouraged philandering in the shadows, and Sherlock could see that Avaril was clinging to John's arm and whispering intimately into his ear. John didn't seem to mind, instead, he allowed Sherlock's lovely cousin to lead him back into the kitchen.

Sherlock was furious. He was furious with himself for arguing with his admittedly flighty leprechaun and driving him into the arms of his wretched cousin, who couldn't keep her claws off of John.

He waited a minute or two for John to reappear. Then he huffed, preparing to charge into the kitchen to put a stop to their assignation, but Mycroft put a hand on his brother's arm.

"Don't you think we should see what transpires," whispered the man who lived for plots and all things sneaky.

"Or I could put a stop to it right now," snarled Sherlock.

There was a cry and a shout and thumping, louder cries of shock and distress.

Sherlock was running and muttering, "John."

"If he's hurt Avaril..." said Mycroft, moving surprisingly fast for a man who despised legwork.

The brother's dodged past relatives who had gathered like vultures in front of the dark maw of the caller steps.

Avaril was crying into Aunt Beatrice's formidable shoulder, but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock eyed the door to the back yard suspiciously.

Sherlock's father shone a torch into the cellar, calmly calling out, "Leonora, John, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes. We're both fine….Coming up now," called John. "It's, well, it's just...there's an electricity-conducting wire stretched right across the third step down...it's very hard to see the trap, even when I know it's here..." said John.

"Trap?" cried Aunt Penelope, who had hobbled into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her cane. "What does he mean by a trap?"

"John, are you hurt? I'm coming down!" shouted Sherlock.

"I'm fine," said John, appearing in the doorway. He supported young Leonora, who was a bit pale and limping. "I'm not the one who fell. Leonora fell. Well, actually she tripped over the electricity wire. Now I know that I'm not an expert on electricity wires," said John, launching into one of his typically labyrinthine explanations. "But that wire was in a very awkard spot. But of course, it all started with the fruit cake. See, Avaril said…"

"Who in God's name ever wants fruitcake?" demanded Sherlock, finding this very suspicious indeed.

"I like fruitcake!" said Leonora indignantly, 'and so does Avaril and your own Mummy."

"Sherrrlooock," said John, while waggling his brows. Sherlock was fairly certain that this meant that John wanted his partner to stop talking, probably because John hated fruitcake too.

"Anyway," continued John, "Leonora ran ahead…"

"No one should be running about in this dark death-trap of a house," announced Aunt Beatrice.

"Yes, ma'am," agreed John diplomatically. "And she tripped over the electricity-conducting wire, which, as I said was stretched across the third tread from the top."

"I almost tumbled down the stairs," cried Leonora, as John knelt to examine her ankle under the watchful eyes of three matriarchs. "But," continued the teenager, "John grabbed me tight, and saved my life!"

"I grabbed your jumper and tore it," said John pragmatically. "Sorry about that." John was quite a different man when practicing medicine. He seemed quite focused and almost avuncular. "Luckily, your jumper held together long enough for me to haul you back." He gave Leonora a weary smile. "Now, tell me if this hurts." Doctor Watson palpated the injured ankle and twisted it gently. One did not have to be a doctor to see that Leonora was not in any pain, thought Sherlock dismissing the injury, because he now had a blantant murder attempt on his hands.

"John saved me! It's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me," announced Leonora. "The girls at school will be soooo jealous. They'll never believe that a handsome soldier…"

"Former soldier," corrected the leprechaun.

"…handsome former soldier rescued me from certain death. Ooooh, I need to take a selfie with me and John right now...come on, John," she urged.

"What?" asked John, still holding her ankle.

"Let's take a selfie."

"A what? What's a selfie?" asked John, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Everyone began to explain selfies at the same time. It was loud and annoying.

Sherlock had to leave at once before he yelled at everyone and upset John again—and Mummy too. And if he had to leave, thought Sherlock, he might as well examine the alleged crime scene.

A crime in his own parents' house! It was worrying, but interesting. And the intended victim was apparently Leonora and not John, who did not like fruitcake. Perhaps, no…almost certainly, this meant that John's death was not foretold. It was a great relief.

Of course, Sherlock was concerned for Leonora. He almost liked this young cousin. But this was a regular, non-magical mystery—something that the World's Only Consulting Detective could solve before anyone died.

He smirked just a little as he approached the dark cellar steps. At last, thought Sherlock, Mummy's tea party was about to become fun.

A/N Thank you for reading this story. I would be grateful to hear your comments, so please consider reviewing. :D