A/N: Shops are filling up with Halloween merchandise with over two months to go, and this seems to have triggered some people. As for me, I don't actually mind an early Halloween. Might be because I deal with these two on a regular basis. -csf


.

Sherlock and I aren't exactly part of Scotland Yard, but we are common sight around the place. So it wasn't much of a leap or a surprise when we started getting invites to their get-togethers.

Sherlock always suspected DI Lestrade had something to do with it, as our friendly inspector had the most to gain from a fluid partnership. And, as such, my friend defiantly refused to attend for the first years, up until Sherlock engaged in a far bigger disappearing act of his own, after the fall.

Sherlock Holmes's name was tarnished and he disappeared in infamy, at least for those who believed my friend had been a fraud, a fake, a scheming double-act of criminal masterminding and deducing.

My friend may never know just how hard I fought, through the paralysing constraints of grief, to clear his name. I did it out of loyalty for a brilliant man and even more brilliant friend; I did it seeking redemption for failing to stop Sherlock from jumping off that ledge and spilling himself on cold, hard concrete; I did it out of survivor's guilt too.

Anger mellowing over time and evidence atop more evidence, all contributed to a shift in opinions. Looking back, I was paving the way for Sherlock's comeback. At the time, I could only see it as clearing Sherlock's name.

One day I got an invite to a Halloween party from the Yarders. I was welcomed back into the fold, out of a recognition that Sherlock was just as brilliant as I always told them; or because some still thought I had been fooled by a criminal mastermind disguising as a socially awkward genius, and felt sorry for me, I don't really know. Halloween was Sherlock's season. I couldn't face it without him.

The Christmas party was one I forced myself to show up, act normal, represent the 221B's consulting detective duo that once was. I really shouldn't have. I wasn't ready. As I showed up at the pub, and heads turned automatically to look behind me; Sherlock's absence was more acute than ever. I dropped the Secret Santa gift and said I had left something behind, I would be right back, a pint of the house lager would be great yeah; and I never returned. I walked home, hoping the rain could drown me.

At that point, I stopped going to any get-together. I just didn't know how to face it alone, at first, and then I felt like an imposter – Sherlock was the reason we were invited, why would anyone think of inviting me, other than Lestrade, who was doing it out of pity and kindness? It was always he who kept up the invites, even as I stopped acknowledging them.

Until he too stoped.

Sherlock came back, and Sherlock's name was officially cleared, we were having our hand back in cases with Lestrade; yet the invites didn't return. I realised that I forgave Sherlock's deception faster than the Yarders would. Sherlock's little death-defying act was an affront to some, because Sherlock duped the best in the Yard too.

Once again, Lestrade tried to start slow, and build up our participation. A pub outing after a particularly vicious triple murder solved by Sherlock, we just tagged along. A parking lot water balloon fight during that heatwave that was making us all a bit mad, an exceptional thing.

Mary went with us to the paintball bash, she and I were the last two standing, up until she asked we did not to fight each other, I agreed and tossed away my gun, approaching her for a kiss, and she shot me bull's-eye to the heart. All is fair in love and war.

Then Mary was gone and again any invites lost their meaning to me. Rosie was a handy excuse, and if Sherlock went on his own, he never told me.

Now we're solving cases again, and Sherlock insists I attend this next Yarders get-together. A Halloween party. Sherlock's favourite.

'I don't think I can go, mate.'

'Nonsense, John! You have nothing else on!' the detective grumps, pacing the rug.

Where his agitation grows, I've become still as death, sat in the red armchair.

'John?'

He scatters the jagged edged thoughts swirling inside me with my name. A request to be let in.

I couldn't. It's not nice in here.

'Next time, Sherlock.' Negotiating, pleading, to be left alone.

Sherlock walks over, standing by my chair. Towering over me. Casting dark shadow below. Feels about right.

'I don't understand. You are an imminently social person, John. Usually you would pester me into going? When, exactly, did you decide to swap places with me without telling me?'

I frown. When you died. Only I couldn't swap places, could I?

Sherlock drops to a squat, levelling himself with me. 'John, you are being exceedingly dense, and I can't read you right now. I assure you, Lestrade has invited us for a Halloween party. A bit early, but it's good to see him thinking outside the box for once. Will you come, or must I go alone?'

He's willing to go alone. He's not cajoling me into going. For once, Sherlock wants to go to a get-together to hang around people, no dead body reward at the end.

Hell must have frozen over.

Since when is John Watson the unsociable one?

I need to do this, I need it to erase those years I was lost without him.

'Fine. What are you dressing up as, anyway?' I give in.

.

Scotland Yard is buzzing with activity. Hardworking officers pursuing criminals through the trail left behind at crime scenes all over London, and beyond. This is a familiar sight, and it never ceases to bring admiration and respect to me, whether we visit in a more professional capacity or just as friendly visitors.

Sherlock is the first at the door. His high cheekbones serve him well in the role of a vampire. A trail of congealed blood (boiled beetroot) dripped from the corner of his fangs, down his chin, staining the white ruffles of his white shirt. An elaborate filigree chain holding the dark purple velvet cape over his shoulders, swooshing dramatically after him as he makes his way into DI Lestrade's division office floor.

Some officers gasp, a couple of women squeal with what much sounds like glee, and Lestrade himself just groans.

Next I emerge too, and by now I fully know something is off, but I'm not about to bail out on my man Sherlock.

I quickly adjust the dark curly wig under the deerstalker hat. I'm wearing Sherlock's long coat, although it comes down to my ankles, spoiling the look somewhat.

Yes, I dressed up as Sherlock Holmes. I had to use what I had laying about.

I notice the Yard is eerily quiet, all of a sudden. Sergeant Donovan looks both mortified for us and about to burst into laugh. I search for Greg Lestrade.

'Loving the outfits, mate. Going to town after our pub run?' the inspector asks, a bit bewildered, sizing us up.

The consulting detective pulls out his phone to indicate the invite we got, that summoned us over in these clothes. He reads out loud: 'Hiya, fancy the pub tomorrow after four? We can meet you guys wherever. Either at the pub or the Yard. Likely our last before Halloween, lots of reports, nothing's ready, same old, same old. Bring your silly hat, lol. John will appreciate that. Lestrade.'

I do a double take. What? That's not what Sherlock relayed at all!

The inspector is dumbstruck. 'Yeah, I texted you exactly that, Sherlock. What's up with the old Count Dracula and Mini Me outfits?'

'So your invite was not written in acrostics?' Sherlock deduces, visibly annoyed.

I brush my hand over my face, likely spoiling the make-up. Won't get any fewer odd looks in the Underground.

'You said "after four"!'

'I meant four o'clock, what d'ya think I meant?'

'To only read after every four words, obviously. Which very conveniently reads out: Tomorrow, meet at Yard, Halloween ready, bring John, Lestrade.'

Lestrade chuckles, patting Sherlock's back like the old mate he is. 'Mate, you're something else. Nothing can ever be simple with you, can it?'

'This is preposterous! Do you know the trouble I went through to get this cape tailored at short notice?'

Greg's patting becomes commiserating. 'Don't tell me you're going to bail out on the pub now!'

Sherlock and I exchange glances.

Yes, a lot has changed, and yet it still feels like it's all gone back to how it used to be. The Yard thinks we're nutters, Greg has our back, and Sherlock is forever the centre of attention in the room.

.

I came outside, my head is spinning. I may have had one drink too many, lulled by easy conversation and camaraderie. I got rid of the bad wig, although I kept the deerstalker and the iconic wool coat. Feels like healing to be able to joke around in Sherlock's outfit. A while back, just the sight of these two pieces would have broken me for weeks.

Grief is a strange thing. I grieved for Sherlock's loss and for his return. Only now does it start to feel like I truly got the second chance I would have given anything for.

'John?'

It's Sherlock. My personal stalker couldn't let me out of his sight.

'It's fine, go back and enjoy the fun.' I give him an encouraging smile. 'You missed it too.' I can tell.

He eye rolls my thoughts, reading them easily off my face. 'Just drop it, John.' He comes stand next to me, with his back also leaning against the brick wall. We face the alley, and the purple-blue starry night above.

'What other parties, get-togethers and celebrations did I miss, John?' he asks, softly, looking up to the stars.

Oh, Sherlock. You missed everything and nothing. In the end, it was you who gave meaning to them.

'None, really.'

He faces me.

'You didn't go.'

'I couldn't do it.'

He looks up again. Maybe he just doesn't want to face me as he says:

'I thought I left you with a lot of friends, I thought you would be okay, John.' There is a hint of quiet despair in his baritone voice. Urging me to have done more, to have been his John.

'That was... not clever.' Nothing was ever the same.

'I know that now,' he whispers. He gets it now.

We stand in companionable silence for a while longer. Sometimes, I still need Sherlock's silent presence to just seep in gently and drive away the brokenness inside me. Sometimes, he has come back too quickly.

Suddenly the pub's back door opens and Lestrade pops his head out, the silly dark curly wig lopsided now. 'You two coming back in?'

Lestrade is like a father checking up on his teenage daughters.

'Your predictable hangover tomorrow will severely hamper your report filing, inspector,' Sherlock decries.

He shrugs. 'Yeah, self-sabotage is the plan. Got you to solve the difficult cases for me anyways.'

Sherlock grins, amused. He holds me by the hand and takes me back inside.

Things are different, yet they feel much the same as they always were.

SherLock still huffs and offers, as we return to the rowdy pub:

'You call this a Halloween party? This Friday night, midnight at 221B, bring snake venom antidotes just in case.'

'Is that an acrostic?'

Told you, Lestrade's drunk.

'No!' Sherlock hisses.

I impulsively lean against Sherlock. I'm drunk too, I remember. He doesn't hesitate to circle me in a strong hug, his magician-like cape draping around us.

.