A/N: In the original stories, there is a degree of stage performance in Sherlock Holmes's actions. That performance is twice fold. Not only there is a bilateral feed from emerging whodunnit theatre plays that affix the detective archetype with the long coat, the pipe, the murder unveiling in a room (stage) with all the suspects that the creator incorporates to make his character the more extravagant and memorable; but there is also a nod to the talented theatre actors of the time, when Sherlock Holmes uses stage tricks to alter his appearance in several stories, so much so that he always succeeds in conning his hapless best friend, doctor Watson. So, undercover is the inspiration for this short piece ahead.

AKA, I browsed for a Halloween costume, even though I am not planning to go out this Halloween.

Still not British, a writer or anything other than myself. -csf

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'Sherlock!' John protests at the rough manhandling he's getting from the overenthusiastic detective, currently making John stand still in the middle of the living room. Beside them, a mysterious trunk, from which the detective extracts all sorts of garments and accessories, holds them up by John, shakes his head, and tosses them to the ever-growing pile of discarded items on the sofa.

'Keep your arms out to the sides for me, John, no flagging. You're a soldier, can't you follow simple instructions?'

'I don't know,' John answers, monotone. 'Ask my Commanding Officers, they often wondered the same thing.'

Sherlock smirks smugly, as he bends down to get a bright yellow vest. He's got the right army captain for sure. It's best John doesn't know this, and Sherlock quickly scolds his features back to aristocratic boredom as he holds the vest in front of his friend. It fits, but hardly serves a purpose, so the vest gets tossed too.

'Sherlock, I don't need a disguise,' he promises earnestly.

'Just drop it, John. You will do as you are told.'

The former army captain tries to cross his arms in front of him, but is forcibly stopped and returned to the original stance.

'I'll be in and out in two minutes, that's the plan. The gangsters won't recognise me.'

'Not taking the risk… Can't you grow a foot taller for a couple of minutes? These are my disguises, they don't fit you.'

'I'll add that to my "to do" list, shall I? Meanwhile, what does the item that I need to get back looks like? I don't want to grab the wrong thing, you know?'

Sherlock holds a black leather and spandex mesh with metal spikes in front of John and the doctor blinks as if all speech is lost to him. That too gets thrown away but this time the blond doctor follows it with guarded eyes. Before he can ask, Sherlock's triumphant cry startles him. He checks the garment in front of him.

'Postal worker? Seriously?' he recognises the red tones of the Royal Mail. Sherlock grabs the skull from the mantlepiece and plants it in John's hands tilting his head to check the ensemble from different angles, critically. 'We'll fake a parcel, add some stamps… This is the ticket inside the Garroters Gang, John!'

'I can see it straight away. They open the door and say "Another head? We got plenty, return it to sender, will ya?"'

'Don't be daft, they love heads, they are garroters.' Sherlock snatches the skull back possessively. 'They are not having this one.'

'Yeah, your friend. You said that. Quite dramatic and macabre, Sherlock... And where will you be, while I run your errands?'

'Run my errands, you say? Fine, then I'll run yours. There's a supermarket at the end of the street, I'll get the milk.'

John sighs. The detective adds:

'And get that grin off your face, John. I won't be your errand boy!'

The doctor still mutters under his breath: 'You know I do a lot more for you than just getting the milk, right?'

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Yellowed light from a streetlamp angles in through the tall windows. 221B's living room is otherwise dark. Over by the kitchen sliding doors, an old alarm clock glows 1:32 AM in uranium painted dials.

Two figures dress quietly, without self-consciousness. A former army doctor and a cocky cover model looking detective get rid of their usual clothes and don A&E doctor scrubs.

'Surprisingly comfortable, if deplorably cut', Sherlock comments, looking all around himself.

'Comfort wins over style in 12 hours shifts, mate… Are we seriously nicking an ambulance today?'

'Haven't we been through this enough, John? You oppose on the basis that patients will be denied urgent care. I remind you that a triple killer is on the loose, aiming to be a quadruple killer. We compromised for an ambulance out of commission, being serviced.'

'Okay, okay, got it… Here. Take my stethoscope and wrap it around your neck. Ugh, grab a couple of pens, place them in the breast pocket, then promptly lose them and spend forever looking for another pen.'

'Is that what you do at work, John?' Sherlock squints at his friend.

'That and saving lives, yeah.'

'Stethoscope, pens. What else do I need?'

John smiles at the uncomplicated show of trust. This is John's world and he'll guide his friend along it.

'Look a bit more tired and detached. This is not like the medical shows on the telly, you know? You're not about to fall for another handsome doctor.'

The detective gives his friend a once over. 'If you say so.'

'Excuse me?'

'I said you're looking tired already. You are quite the method actor, John.'

John glances at the clock. 1:41 AM. Only an hyperactive detective can keep up with this demanding pace.

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Mrs Hudson is washing 221B's dishes in the kitchen while John holds a warm cuppa in trembling hands, sat in his armchair, wrapped in a blanket, facing an empty chair.

Flushed cheeks and bright blue eyes from the fever, he looks defeatedly at the enticing liquid in the mug. Pounding steps on the wooden stairs behind him alert him for Sherlock's animated entrance. John opens his mouth and only a pained croak comes out.

'Throat infection. Streptococcus sp., John. We have reached a diagnosis, remember? Pointless to try to talk now.'

John snaps his mouth shut. Sherlock is still being curt from being left on his own when it comes to the case at hand.

Of course, John will throw all caution to the wind and fly out of 221B at the first hint that his friend needs him.

'I trust I won't disturb you if I work at the desk?' the energetic detective checks, uncharacteristically considerate.

A hiss of air answers back: 'Not at all, but I will be poor company.' John winces at the rawness the words leave in their awake.

Sherlock shrugs, not without a careful observation of his friend's withdrawn features. Seriously, John can be, at times, only too human.

Mrs Hudson comes over with a second cup of tea, that Sherlock accepts but neglects to thank for, she tuts at the mess over the coffee table, and John closes his eyes to the narcoleptic effect of the painkillers.

He awakens slowly sometime later, still groggy and confused. Sherlock is still statue-like at his desk, only his fingers dextrously typing enigmatic messages on the laptop's keyboard and his eyes chasing imaginary theories at the speed of light. To Sherlock's right, Mrs Hudson is sat at the table with a portable sewing machine and at the same fast speed of Sherlock's inquisitive fingers, she sews some dark velvet fabric.

John smiles softly, opens his mouth to comment on Mrs H's doings, fails to croak out a sound, sighs and leans back in the armchair, knowing he's with family.

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Sherlock's iconic coat billows behind him like inky smoke as he crashes the secret society's underground hideout. He's clearly unarmed, which makes for a difference in the room. Everyone else, all six thugs, seem to be armed to their teeth. Only the leader of the secret society is as carefree as Sherlock Holmes, not bothering to pick up his gun from the top of the table at which he presides.

'Hello, we meet again,' Sherlock greet coldly, despite his words.

The leader barks orders to four of his men to cover all the points of ingress to the underground tunnels at once. He gestures roughly to the short man beside him to keep the detective at gunpoint at all times. The short man nods briefly and without hesitation trails his gun on the wild dark curls, a clean shot to the head.

'You cannot stop me, Holmes.'

The detective shrugs. 'Not right now, granted. But the Yard is two minutes away and fast approaching.'

'That's two minutes too late. What about your inseparable companion?'

'Ill. Streptococcus infection. Blessedly silent, though.'

'What are you waiting for? Your backup? Or perhaps my soul bearing confession?' He laughs. 'Yes, Holmes, I killed them all, and ten others you don't even know about. There's another dumping site for those bodies. I only keep fingers as mementos these days. A lot easier to stash away than full bodies.'

The gun trailed on Sherlock waivers momentarily in the new secret society acolyte, but steely decision settles on a strong jaw and Sherlock looks at the leader once more.

'Ten seconds. That's a fast confession. Do you think it broke our last record, John?'

The man with the gun glances at him, cobalt blue eyes meeting grey eyes. 'Might be,' a croaky voice responds. 'I'll ask our readers later.'

Anger flares in the leader as he really registers the unassuming man next to him, the new acolyte who fit right in as a nutjob with a penchant for guns and short grunted answers, and finally recognises doctor Watson, Sherlock's faithful companion. He tries to reach for the abandoned gun, but something in John Watson's eyes tells him that he will shoot to kill if given the slightest excuse. He stills himself before picking up the gun, knowing all is lost.

'You are under arrest, by the way,' the detective adds smugly, as John turns his gun on the leader.

A tense silence is broken by the shouts of incoming Yarders, storming the lair.

'Lestrade broke his record too,' John comments, wincing promptly.

'Just a tad eager. I still win.'

'Really? You took forever. I was undercover for three days. Most boring job I ever had in my life. Oh, and by the way,' he turns to the criminal, 'your lover has all the classic signs of a venereal disease, you should get yourself checked out. Don't worry, the NHS works very well in the prison system.' His voice thins out into silence at the end, but the point has been made.

DI Lestrade bursts in, charging on the arrests of the Secret Society of Killers of London.

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'So they all dress up as vampires and hang about the ruins of an abbey on a cliff edge?'

'Well surmised, John. Now place that black velvet cape around your shoulders.'

'I still don't get why this fancy suit reminds me so much of my army uniform.'

'That would be the shoulder epaulettes, the brass buttons, the overall cut, the real medals (I polished your distinguished service medals for you, John) and the army style boots. Apart from the medals, all in black and white monochrome aesthetics for the look, of course.'

'The inside of my cape reminds me of our living room wallpaper. In fact—'

The detective manhandles the doctor to look away from the wall behind the sofa to the mirror above the mantlepiece, to check the overall effect of the vampire look.

'Ugh, it's not working,' John says.

'Boots need a shine, granted, but your broad shoulders and exquisite posture give it a certain air of distinction, John, don't you think?'

'Thanks for the flattery, but it really isn't working.'

'We can add a few fake medals, you are pretending to be immortal anyway, you'd have gained an incredible number of medals in service. Maybe a sword in a long belt?'

'I mean, I can see my reflection in the mirror. Vampires aren't meant to have reflections, right?' John's grin is wide and contagious, and all but undead.

Sherlock reluctantly smiles at that, and so adds an eyeroll before he reaches for a pocket watch, a walking stick, kid gloves and a top hat for his own master vampire look.

They give each other side looks and giggle like kids about to do mischief.

'We should do this more often,' John reluctantly comments.

Sherlock's widen before he composes himself swiftly. Always a touch insecure, and taken in by John's wish to sincerely spend time and madness at his side.

'Indeed, we must,' he concurs.

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It's late at night. Sherlock and John are falling asleep on the sofa, watching some rubbish on the telly. Sherlock's breathing has slowed even as he stubbornly trails quicksilver eyes on John's familiar profile, while John pretends to care about the convoluted plot of the film being shown.

John grabs the blanket from the back of the sofa and spreads it open over both of their backs. Warm, cosy wool, and a hint of gunpowder – just right. Sherlock's head drops on his good shoulder, John's cheek brushes silky dark curls.

Tonight, this blanket over them is enough. This kind of undercover is just right.

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