A/N Please allow me to take a moment to thank my beta, Old Ping Hai. She is generous with her time and expertise, and this story would be so much less without her help.

Also, I apologize for the long delay. Thank you for not giving up on me or my story. And with out further ado…

Chapter 5

Sherlock surprised himself when he realized that he felt a small pang of guilt for leaving his partner in the hands of Sherlock's irritating relatives. However, the detective quickly justified his actions. The crime scene should be examined immediately, John enjoyed playing doctor and the leprechaun was learning about selfies. John always enjoyed learning new things to do with his mobility telephone; although the former 18thcentury soldier was, to put it mildly, technologically challenged. Finally, on the off chance that John was at risk from Death's imminent visit, the Holmes and Vernet relations might serve as human shields. Aside from Mummy, Father and possibly Leonora, the rest of his relatives were, in Sherlock's opinion, expendable.

The World's Only Consulting Detective held a bright LED hand torch as he stooped under the low lintel and stood at the top of the cellar steps. He swung the light back and forth, briefly illuminating baskets, an old desk stained by chemicals and blood (it had been Sherlock's desk many years earlier), and a lamp, which leaned precariously against several worn volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The bright cone of light settled for a moment on his parent's wine rack. In reality, it was Mycroft's wine, since their parents couldn't tell the difference between an adequate Cabernet and cooking wine. Next to the wine rack was a cabinet storing canned vegetables and two tins of homemade fruitcake. Sherlock shuddered delicately at the thought of having to eat Mummy's fruitcake yet again.

His sigh broke the silence. The basement was quiet, aside from the laughter emanating from the kitchen. The fools had already forgotten their concern over Leonora's brush with death and now babbled and chortled over their ridiculous selfies. The detective's sharp ears picked up John's soft giggle, indicating befuddlement and self-deprecation. Yes, even Sherlock's precious leprechaun had fallen prey to mobile phone inanity.

Sherlock's nose wriggled at the cellar's musty smell. He noted regretfully that there was very little dust; dust was always a good friend to an observant detective.

Aside from the lamp, everything appeared to be untouched; even Mycroft's better wines had been left undisturbed. The would-be assassin was no oenophile.

He crouched on the second step to study the simple trap. The old brown extension cord (taken from the tipsy lamp—obviously) had been plugged into a broken electrical socket. (The socket had been dead since that experiment involving a hairdryer, a bucket of water and several goldfish.) The other end of the wire had been secured by wrapping it around a copper pipe.

It was a crude yet surprisingly effective trap, since a fall from the top of the steep wooden stairs would have been dangerous...perhaps even fatal.

But it was also a stupid trap. Once sprung, the trap was obvious. It was now a simple matter of determining who had ventured down the stairs this evening. No doubt the clumsy culprit also left behind incriminating fingerprints, which the police could obtain—later, after Sherlock found the culprit using his keen intellect.

As cases went, it was barely a two, except that the attempted crime had been committed in Mummy's cellar and the probable victim was either an almost innocent teenaged girl or one of Sherlock's parents. This made the case a ten, well, maybe a six, but an important six.

Sherlock massaged his lips with his index finger as he considered all possibilities. Was there any reason to suspect that the trap had been set for John? No. The culprit could not have predicted that John would decide to go into the cellar; after all, John didn't even like fruitcake.

But wait. Leonora had been present at the incident at the stove—and so had Mummy.

Sherlock scowled as he deduced that the target was either Mummy or Leonora.

This raised the case back up to at least an eight, a very, very important eight.

Oh all right, let's call it a ten, because no one threatened Mummy, and since Leonora was one of the few relatives that Sherlock almost tolerated, no one should threaten her either. Leonora was bright, curious and did not suffer fools lightly, which meant that she didn't get along with their relatives either. Frankly, the young girl reminded Sherlock of his much younger self.

He rose from his crouch, carefully avoiding the low ceiling.

"I shall take this case and solve it at once," Sherlock muttered to himself. "I shall solve it before this Death arrives."

'Indeed, if the case is solved,' he thought, 'Death won't even have to bother to put in an appearance.' The consulting detective smirked, because he'd be able to protect the potential victims and keep Death away from John.

Sherlock planned his next move. Obviously, he'd have to be subtle to avoid alerting the murder suspect. Nevertheless, he thought, it would all come down to who, aside from Mummy and Father, had been in the cellar. In order to preserve any incriminating fingerprints, Sherlock would have to 'secure the crime scene'—to quote Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It was a pity he couldn't get Lestrade to take over the official investigation (which would occur after Sherlock had completed the case), but the detective inspector would only refuse the case, bleating about jurisdiction and the cost of petrol. He might even complain about not having been invited to the death tea. Sherlock grimaced at the very notion of Lestrade interacting with his ludicrous relations.

"Son?" It was Sherlock's father, standing in the doorway.

"Don't touch anything!" barked Sherlock.

His father recoiled slightly, looking hurt and confused. Oddly, father reminded Sherlock of John, or vice versa.

"You mustn't tamper with the evidence," explained Sherlock speaking rather severely. "This was indeed a trap, and we'll have to contact the authorities, after I have identified the culprit."

"The culprit?"

"Yes, yes. The culprit who laid the trap," said Sherlock barely reining in his frustration as he came back up to the landing. "I don't suppose you saw anyone lurking around the steps this afternoon?"

"No, no one," said father. "But why would anyone…"

"I suspect," the consulting detective whispered to his father, "that someone is attempting to kill Leonora."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Father.

"Shhh!" hissed Sherlock. "We don't want to alarm my cousin or alert the murderer."

"Good God! But are you sure it wasn't the result of carelessness?" whispered Mr. Holmes.

"Oh, please!" sneered the consulting detective. "At the very least someone attempted to grievously injure the girl."

"But are you certain that they were after Leonora?" asked Father who looked very pale.

"No, not certain," said Sherlock. "but Leonora was present for two out of three of the so-called accidents."

"So-called accidents?" muttered Father. "Son, maybe they are accidents. It could just be an unfortunate series of coincidences."

Sherlock's eyes shifted around the dimly lit kitchen to ensure that no one was eavesdropping before responding with more patience than he usually exhibited, "No, Father. You know what we say about coincidences."

"Oh don't give me that old saw about lazy universes. I regret the day that your mother taught you boys that one," scoffed the elder Mr. Holmes. "But seriously, Sherlock; Leonora? Who would hurt a nice young girl like her?"

"Well, she is not that nice. I know that she was involved in some mild cyber-bullying; although to her credit, she's since apologized and become friends with the victim."

Sherlock's father nodded without interrupting. He was used to both of his sons' uncanny observational and deductive skills.

"Then too," said Sherlock, "Leonora is a bit of a flirt," said the consulting detective, congratulating himself on not becoming jealous when she'd began to flirt with John.

"I don't see how that pertains to someone trying to murder the poor child," complained Father.

"Well, it doesn't obviously, unless one of her jilted beaus has snuck into the house, which is unlikely," admitted Sherlock. "I was merely pointing out that Leonora isn't all that nice. Interesting? Yes. Intelligent? Certainly. However, not particularly nice."

Sherlock's father sighed and pinched his nose in a motion familiar to most people who spent time around Sherlock.

"Actually…" said Sherlock, oblivious to his father's body language. "…I suspect that someone is after Leonora's not insignificant fortune."

"Ohhh," said Father.

"When she was orphaned, Cousin Leonora inherited a sizable fortune, which is currently held in trust. If we knew who inherits the money upon her death, we would have our suspect."

"Good God!" huffed the senior Holmes, shaking his head.

"More like the work of the putative devil," said Sherlock, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "I shall of course investigate so that we can determine the culprit's guilt far in advance of the incompetent police force, who should be notified sometime tomorrow, after I apprehend the criminal. Now, I will want to question everyone—alone. I shall need to secure the crime scene..."

"What are you two on about now?" whispered Mummy, who had snuck up to eavesdrop on her son and husband. She had taught Sherlock almost everything that he knew about stealth.

"Sherlock thinks someone tried to murder poor Leonora," whispered Father.

"Nonsense. It was simple carelessness…"

"Mummy, the wire was stretched across the steps. It had no reason to be there except to trip someone. Now, can you tell me who went down into the cellar this afternoon"

"Well, your father and I went down several times today to find the table cloths, fancy tea towels..."

"My old electric coffee urn," added Father.

"That old thing! How many times have I told you that I binned it..."

"No!" interrupted Sherlock before the annual coffee urn battle could get underway. "Who went down besides the two of you?"

Mummy looked at Father, who blinked and scratched his thick, white hair. Mummy, who understood the meaning of this gesture, nodded.

"Nobody went down there."

"And when you and Father were down in the cellar, rooting around for useless towels and nonexistent urns, was there a wire stretched across the top of the steps."

"Well...no."

"Then someone else must have gone down there after your last trip, hm?" snapped Sherlock. "If you didn't notice who it was, then we need to question everyone. We shall begin with everyone in this room."

Sherlock looked around and blinked rapidly.
"Where is everyone?" queried the detective. "Surely you didn't let anyone leave the house in the midst of a criminal investigation."

The formerly crowed kitchen was now almost empty Only Beatrice and Prudence remained. The two looked like witches, as they sipped their spiked tea and whispered to one another. No doubt they shared salacious gossip and possibly exchanged recipes for evil potions or fruitcake. They looked up from their tête-à-tête to frown at Sherlock—they were probably talking about him or casting some evil spell on him.

"…I wish you'd pay attention to me when I'm talking," complained Mummy.

Sherlock's lips began to droop into a scowl, but he forced himself to smile and bite off any retorts, because it was Mummy.

Once she was assured of Sherlock's attention, Mummy hastened to reassure him that, "…no one has left the house since Leonora's unfortunate accident, unless he or she used a window." Mummy fancied that she had a sense of humor—encouraged by her husband, who nodded and smiled, as always. "Actually, no one wants to go outside now; not with the storm worsening again."

"Yes, the storm is getting much worse again," parroted Father.

Naturally, it was very tedious dealing with his family, but Sherlock only nodded and said, "Mummy, Father, I need to go and question your…our guests, but we also need to keep this door shut, locked and guarded."

"I don't see why..." began Mummy.

"It's a crime scene and must not be disturbed," urged Sherlock, pointing to the steps.

"The door doesn't have a lock," said Father.

"Not since that regrettable incident when you locked your brother in the cellar for an entire day," said Mummy frowning. "He ate half a fruitcake and was sick all night."

"It's not my fault that he's a pig," said Sherlock.

Mummy's frown turned into a scowl.

"I can stay," Father hastily volunteered.

"But you'll miss the rest of the party," protested Mummy.

"The boy is right, Violet. Something suspicious happened down there. It must be investigated, and the crime scene must be safe and secure," said Father, pulling a chair over to the door. "I won't mind sitting awhile to enjoy a nice cup of tea."

He smiled, and Mummy smiled back.

'God! How insipid,' thought Sherlock. He hoped he wouldn't be like that with John in twenty years, except part of him might not mind if John still smiled adoringly at Sherlock many years from now.

His maudlin thoughts were interrupted by the harsh nails-on-the-blackboard voice of Prudence.

"Oh for heaven's sake! You won't be alone. Beatrice and I will keep you company," announced Prudence, who had eavesdropped as usual.

Father's smile wobbled, looking a bit sickly at the prospect of spending quality time with Prudence and Beatrice; then he nodded with quiet bravery, waving his spouse and son out of the kitchen.

Most of the guests had crammed themselves in the sitting room, which was the most comfortable room in the house, and thanks to the roaring blaze in the huge fireplace, it was also the warmest.

The relatives seemed to be enjoying wine provided by Mycroft. It was the cheap stuff that Mycroft specifically purchased for these family get-togethers, saving the better wines for himself.

The guests chattered enthusiastically about the slightly frightening but undeniably exciting events of the evening. The consensus seemed to be that Violet had never hosted a better tea, especially now that the wine was flowing freely.

John was in a corner, locked in conversation with Richard, who had drawn his cape tightly around himself. It made him look even taller and more dramatic than before.

The detective should have been glad that they weren't arguing, but he didn't like the way John stared with wide, dark eyes up at the vampire. He didn't like the way Richard loomed over John.

The jealous detective forgot about interrogating his cousins, pushing his relatives out of the way to regain the attention of his leprechaun.

"…and only Sherlock!" John was hissing at the vampire hiding in the shadows, like an angry little hedgehog. "He's my heart. I cannot leave him. I would die…"

Sherlock froze, unashamedly eavesdropping—as were at least half the people in the room. The detective couldn't hear the tall vampire's response, and he certainly didn't appreciate the way the ghoul leaned in to whisper in John's ear.

"Fine! Fine!" snapped John. "Fade. Wither. Diminish—whatever! Can you see now why I can't leave? I love Sherlock. I will always love Sherlock. I can't leave him. I won't leave him…"

Richard grabbed John's arm, hissing at him. Sherlock wanted to charge in but was blocked by Cousin Philip, Uncle Magnus and Avaril who was passing around stupid bits of cheese.

However, it appeared that John was capable of handling the tall, overbearing vampire after all. The short sprite had already freed his arm and shoved the bloodsucker further into the dark corner.

"Then I'll just have to stay and make sure that no one gets caught in the crossfire, won't I?" spat John. "I think this conversation has run its course."

Sherlock edged closer, and John's eyes jerked sideways, finally seeing the consulting detective.

"Sherlock," said John, relaxing into a small, private smile as he voluntarily scuttled over to the detective.

"John, we have an investigation," whispered the detective, trying not to gloat over John's public protestations of devotion. "Someone is targeting Leonora, and by the way, I know that you healed her ankle. You promised not to drain yourself further. Is that what is going to make you fade? Wither? Diminish?"

John blanched, and his eyes opened wide, looking like dark pools of midnight-blue in the candlelight.

"I…Um…" stuttered John.

"You will cease all magical intervention at once," demanded the detective. "If I catch so much as faint glow, we will leave this party—storm or no storm. I won't track down the murderer…"

"Attempted murderer," corrected John. "And are you sure they're after Leonora?"

"Attempted murderer sounds idiotic, John," Sherlock announced. "And I am indeed fairly certain that someone has targeted Leonora for death. I cannot accept that coincidence caused Leonora to be nearly killed twice in one evening."

"Hmmm, the universe is rarely so lazy, yes?" said the vampire, who was not Richard after all. This ghoul was in fact taller, paler and even more gaunt. And he clearly hungered for John.

And just how did this new challenger for John's hand know what the Holmes family said about coincidence?

"Sherlock," said John, "This is Mortimer. Mortimer, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried not to preen at John's choice of words, nor the way John slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Charming," sniffed the pale vampire.

"A word seldom used to describe my brother," said Mycroft, smiling blandly at the vampire and leprechaun. "I don't believe we've met."

"Mycroft, this is Mortimer," said John, "and…"

"Yes, your boyfriend's brother, a minor official in the government, isn't it?"

Mycroft blinked, "And you are from…"

"Originally…I believe you know it as Phrygia," said Mortimer. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to borrow John here. I have private messages…"

"Anything you have to say to me, you can tell Sherlock," said John, drawing his brows together as he looked at Mycroft. Even Sherlock could read John's facial expression as a request for Mycroft to bugger off.

"Hm," hummed Mycroft, who declined the invitation to leave.

"John Watson, I need your private attention for a few minutes. You owe me this much," said Mortimer.

John drew in a breath, held it as he considered the matter, then sighed, looking sad. "Right, Sherlock…"

"It's fine, John, as long as you remain where I can see you," said Sherlock, giving Mortimer another glare for good measure. "I need to talk to Mycroft anyway. "

"Wait…" said John, grabbing Sherlock's elbow. "Sherlock, I love you. No matter what happens, you are my heart, and I will always love you."

"Nothing is going to happen to you, John," said Sherlock and Mortimer in unison.

Sherlock exchanged a death glare with the ghoul.

John smiled sadly and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. Sherlock did not like this sad smile of John's.

Then the blond whispered, "Be careful, a chroí, death is here—at this party. Someone is going to die."

Mortimer scowled as if insulted and pulled John back into the corner, much to the disappointment of the onlookers who wanted to witness more drama.

Sherlock frowned, looking around the room for a handsome stranger named Death who carried a scythe and wanted to kill someone like Leonora.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, "I don't understand why your young man has so many vampire friends."

"Oh what does that matter?" said Sherlock. "Death is here."

"What?" said Mycroft, for once seeming surprised.

"John said death is here."

"Good God, at Mummy's tea party? Where is he? Which one is he? And who is he here for?"

"John didn't say, but I suspect that Leonora is the target. In fact, I was looking for you. I assume you know the details of Leonora's trust fund and her will. I need to know, who would benefit if she dies?"

"Bah, Leonora?" scoffed Mycroft. "No one tried to kill her."

"She could have died falling down those steps!"

"And yet she came away with only a sprained ankle and a crush on that mystery man of yours."

"No, you're wrong Myke," countered Mummy, who had snuck up on them yet again.

Mycroft winced at the moniker and said, "I do wish that you endeavor to use the name with which you burdened me at birth."

"Hush Myke," said Mummy. "To begin with, I informed you that she may have sprained her ankle, but now it is clearly fine. She recovered after John massaged it. He claims it is a secret West Indies massage that John learned while he was in the army. I take it John was an army medic?"

Sherlock glared at this confirmation that his leprechaun had indeed used his magic, even if it meant draining himself dry.

"Yes, indeed," said a deep baritone. "Our John was a medico in the army." Richard smirked at Sherlock. "I understand John was quite heroic, rushing into battle to save the wounded. Even now he can't seem to stop himself from trying to save everyone, no matter the risk to himself."

Richard's eyes drifted over to where John and Mortimer stood. Sherlock could not be jealous—not after John's declaration of love. Still, if one liked tall, pale, overly thin men—and John did—Mortimer fit the bill just as well as Sherlock. Indeed, Mortimer even had rather distinctive cheekbones and a penetrating gaze. The striking black silk cape didn't hurt his overall presentation either.

"You know Sherl," said Mummy, using another annoying nickname. "I realize that I told John that he could invite some of his friends and family, but it would have been nice if I'd been informed ahead of time that he had invited his friends. I would have laid in more food for one thing. Although...none of John's friends have actually eaten anything."

Richard intercepted the arch look sent his way by Mummy, and interpreted it appropriately. He bowed stiffly and made his way over to John and Mortimer.

"I see that Mummy has doubts about John as well," said Mycroft, smoothing down his expensive suit jacket with immense self-satisfaction.

"Good heavens no!" cried Mummy loudly, attracting the attention of the room. Even John looked towards them with a cocked eyebrow. She continued in a softer voice. "I think John is delightful, although a bit flighty, what with wandering out into storms and such. But regardless of all that, he's clearly good for our Sherl."

"He'll break Sherlock's heart," argued Mycroft.

"Nonsense, that young man worships the ground Sherlock walks on. A blind man could see it," said Mummy.

"Really, then why is he holding hands with that Mortimer fellow?"

John's hands were indeed clasped within Mortimer's large hands, and the two were whispering...no, hissing. John was angry. He was trying to pull free. The vultures dressed like party guests circled, enthralled with the entertainment and hoping for a fight.

Thunder rolled through the room; the nearly subsonic vibrations that followed added to the increasing tension.

"Oh, dear," tutted Mummy. "I don't know why John bothered to invite these people in the first place, when all he does is argue with them." She raised her brows as she examined her younger son. "I suppose he's like you in that respect, Sherl—always ready to disagree. Perhaps that helps explain why the two of you get on so well together."

Sherlock wasn't sure if that was intended as a compliment or an insult towards John, but it hardly mattered since it was untrue. Sherlock was the disagreeable partner, and John was the one ready to be everyone's friend—except when John was having a bad day, because then he might punch someone.

"Oh, that's nice…I suppose," said Mummy.

No doubt Mummy was uncertain because Mortimer had wrapped his long arms around Sherlock's leprechaun.

The detective's jealousy spiked, and he instinctively stepped forward to reclaim his sprite from the arms of Death. However, he did not get far before Mycroft's arm shot out, stopping his sibling in his tracks.

"Let them go, Sherlock," whispered Mycroft. "If John is unfaithful, surely it's better to discover this now."

"Don't be stupid," hissed Sherlock, ripping Mycroft's hand off his arm and shoving his brother out of his way.

Mycroft stumbled backwards, tripping over Aunt Penelope's cane and making the older woman squawk in dismay. The minor government official staggered backwards like a drunk, his arms cartwheeling as he fell backwards into the antique glass fire screen, which shattered on impact, allowing Mycroft to topple into the dancing flames.

"Mycroft!" screamed Mummy reaching towards her child.

"No!" cried Sherlock.

For an eternal second, Sherlock was rooted to the floor, then Sherlock lunged forward to save his only brother, but it was far, far too late. The hungry yellow blaze rushed up to consume the British government.

Curses rang out. Someone screamed. Someone shouted 'Help' or 'Mycroft!' There was much more screaming, all while Sherlock moved in slow motion to save his dying sibling.

Mycroft himself was as silent as the grave, as his lips pulled back in a soundless scream. Sherlock lurched forward too slowly; it was as if his feet were made of lead. Suddenly Mycroft's hair burst into a halo of flames. The younger Holmes took another step forward. Then the hungry blaze swallowed his only sibling in a thunderous roar that drowned out everyone's screams and cries, even Sherlock's.

A/N Once again, apologies for the delay in updating this chapter. The good news is that Chapter 6 is already in the expert hands of my beta, Old Ping Hai. Hopefully, I will be publishing Chapter 6 in a few days time. As for Chapter 7, I need a bit of leprechaun luck to help me out with all my RL commitments, so that I can have more time for writing :D

Thank you for reading this story and I hope you will consider sending a review my way. I truly appreciate all your comments and con-crit. Special THANKS go out to those of you who have left me such wonderful comments already. :D

Ritual Disclaimer I still don't own the rights to Sherlock or any characters from Sherlock.

Special Note : Only one more day before The Abominable Bride airs. Here's hoping it's as fun and action packed as ASIP (my personal favorite). :$

***************************************Hapy New Year to you all****************************************