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flawedamythystTitle: Skeletons: Chapter Five
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 8,333 words this chapter (60,024 total.)
Summary: Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.
Halloween-esque AU. Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so putting it behind a cut: The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.
It should be noted that I have ignored some aspects of canon, particularly S2 canon.
Masterpost: HERE
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
****
Knowing that Sherlock was alive – or, at least, not dead in the way that most people understood it – did not make the drudgery of John's day-to-day life dissipate, or make time pass faster. In fact, now he had next Halloween and the chance to see Sherlock again to look forward to, it seemed to go even slower. The two months until Christmas went at a snail's pace, punctuated by a weekly visit from Mycroft and Sherrinford that John tried to be out for as often as possible, although he never actually succeeded. There was no way to hide from the British Government, he thought morosely the fifth time he came home from a long day hanging out in the nearest graveyard only to have Mycroft arrive five minutes later with a smug smile.
Sherrinford turned out to be a much better conversationalist than the other two Holmes brothers, if you could ignore the talking-skull aspect. He asked after the details of John's life in a way that betrayed just how much attention he had been paying as he sat on the mantelpiece for all that time. Once or twice he brought up a subject that John and Sherlock had discussed months ago, or that John had tried to discuss and Sherlock had dismissed as pointless, in order to give his views on it.
“It was frustrating at times,” he said when John commented on that. “I wanted to join in, or tell Sherlock to be less of a brat, or try and explain to you what he meant by some of his more cryptic or convoluted statements.”
“Why didn't you go and live at Mycroft's, then?” asked John. “You'd have been able to talk there.”
“I live alone, and spend a great deal of time at work,” said Mycroft. “When he is at mine, he spends a great deal of time on his own.”
“I like having people around,” added Sherrinford.
John nodded, remembering Sherlock saying the same thing about him.
It wasn't until they'd gone that he realised that Sherrinford must be spending most of his time now sitting alone on Mycroft's mantelpiece. No wonder Mycroft kept bringing him around for tea. For a moment John wondered if he should ask Sherrinford if he wanted to return to his place at 221B, but he dismissed the thought. He was just about getting used to the idea of having tea with a talking skull; he wasn't sure he was quite up to the idea of living with one, even if he had before. Now that he knew Sherrinford was alive, it was a different thing entirely.
Mrs. Hudson decorated her flat and the hallway with holly and pine branches in the week before Christmas, then insisted on putting some on the mantel of 221B as well.
“Makes it look much cheerier in here,” she said, standing back to admire it. “I always thought it was such a shame that Sherlock was so against Christmas. I'm sure carols would have sounded lovely on his violin.”
“Most of what he played sounded lovely,” said John.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Hudson. “When he wasn't making those awful noises with it. He was so talented. Oh, it's such a shame.” She stopped herself and gave a sad sigh, and John had to clench his fist and drive his nails into his palm to avoid telling her that Sherlock was still around, that he was probably still making an awful noise with his violin whenever he got stuck in a black mood.
Or was he? Mycroft had taken the violin after Sherlock's funeral, presumably to give to him, but Sherlock hadn't had it when Jack had dragged him away. Was he trapped without even his music to keep him company? A sick feeling sat in John's stomach. He might be Sherlock-less, but at least he still had his things, his work, and his friends around him. Sherlock was stuck without any of it.
“At least you can celebrate this year,” said Mrs. Hudson, pulling herself back together. “Put your cards up without risking one of his tantrums.”
“Yeah, that's true,” said John. She gave him a look that said she knew that he was thinking that he would much rather give up Christmas for the rest of his life if it meant he could have Sherlock back, and squeezed his arm.
John did put his cards up, although there were pitifully few of them. Mycroft and Sherrinford didn't come over for tea that week and John assumed that they had gone into hiding for the festive season. In case Father Christmas finds them, he thought, then had to shake his head at the absurdity of it all. He'd thought his life was ridiculous enough when he was chasing after rooftops after criminals and opening the fridge to find body parts. Trust the Holmeses to find a way to make that seem positively mundane.
He spent Christmas Eve alone, despite Harry's attempts to get him to go to hers. He poured himself a drink the moment he could persuade himself it was late enough to be evening, then sat and watched some horrendous Christmas film that would have made Sherlock throw things at the screen, if he could have been persuaded to watch it in the first place.
At around six, as the sky outside went fully black, there was an odd thump from upstairs. John glanced up, then dismissed it as one of the many sounds that came from a house as old as 221 was. A moment later there was a scraping noise, and then another thud, as if something very heavy had fallen to the floor in John's bedroom – the room he barely used now that he'd taken to sleeping in Sherlock's bed more often than not. He stood up, intending to investigate, but before he could move, there were footsteps coming down the stairs, and the door flew open.
“I don't understand why so many houses these days have their chimneys blocked,” said the figure standing in it. “Don't people realise how tricky it is to get down to a bedroom window from a roof?”
John stared. The man was so fat as to be round, dressed in a red suit trimmed with white fur, and had a long white beard. “Jesus Christ,” he croaked.
The man scowled. “Not at all. Father Christmas,” he said. “Or Saint Nicholas, if you want to be religious about it, but that's not really your thing, is it?”
“Oh god,” said John, sinking back down into his chair. Knowing that Father Christmas was a real person was one thing, but having him break into his flat and be snarky about modern chimneys was quite another. His brain flicked back to the idea that everything since Halloween had been one long hallucination and that he was actually losing his sanity.
“No time for disbelief,” said Father Christmas. “I've got a lot to do tonight, as I'm sure you can imagine. I can't spend too much time here.”
John clutched at the arms of his chair and tried to get himself together. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “If you're here about Sherlock, he's back in Halloween now.”
Father Christmas shook his head impatiently. “I'm here about you,” he said. “It's not very often I get the chance to appear in person, not to an adult at any rate, and I thought you might like a rather special Christmas present.”
“Present?” repeated John.
“Of course!” said Father Christmas. “That is what I do, you know. You're on my Good List this year by quite a way, so I've come to give you something better than the rather ugly jacket your sister is intending to give you tomorrow.”
“Right,” said John. “Okay.” Of course, Father Christmas had arrived to give him a present, what else would he be doing here?
“Get up, then,” said Father Christmas. “I'll take you to it.”
“Take me to it?” repeated John. “Where is it?”
“In Halloween, of course,” said Father Christmas. “We both know there's only one thing you really want this year.”
John stared at him. The only thing he wanted was to see Sherlock. That was the only thing he'd wanted for months now. “You can do that?”
Father Christmas looked annoyed at the question. “Of course,” he said. “I can do almost anything on this night.”
John jumped to his feet. Father Christmas was right; there was no point in wasting time on being surprised. “Right, let's go then.”
“You'll need a coat,” said Father Christmas. “It'll be cold in the sleigh.”
“Right, of course. The sleigh,” said John. Of course they'd go in a sleigh. He grabbed his coat and tried to school himself to act as if this was all completely normal. A thought struck him. “Wait, does that mean we have to get back up to the roof?”
“No, no,” said Father Christmas. “Rudolph and the others will bring it down to the road for us. The roof thing is just habit, really, and it keeps me out of the way of traffic.”
When they got outside, Baker Street was deserted except for a very out-of-place sleigh parked right in the middle of the road, hitched to a long line of reindeer who turned to give John unimpressed looks.
“Right then. A sleigh,” said John.
“Get in, get in,” said Father Christmas. “I can only keep people away from a street this busy for a few minutes.”
John climbed into the sleigh, noticing the pile of sacks in the back. Filled with presents, he thought, then had to shake his head to clear the overwhelming surge of what the hell am I doing? He was going to see Sherlock, that was what he was doing. Nothing else was important.
Father Christmas climbed up after him and rummaged under the seat for a blanket that he handed to John. “You'll need this,” he said.
As John tucked it around himself, he became aware that flakes of white were beginning to fill the sky. “Oh, it's snowing.”
“Yes,” said Father Christmas, taking up the reins. “That's a side effect when I perform a Christmas miracle.”
John looked at the flakes settling on his arm. “I can't remember the last time it snowed in London for Christmas.”
“Then that's two miracles for the price of one,” said Father Christmas, and he flicked the reins. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he intoned, and the reindeer all started moving along the road for a couple of steps before leaping up into the sky.
“Jesus Christ,” said John as they flew up above the rooftops and London began to fall away beneath them. He gripped at the edge of the seat, staring down at the city. “That's just amazing!”
“Thank you,” said Father Christmas, sounding rather smug.
The journey probably didn't take very long, but it seemed like ages to John. The anticipation of seeing Sherlock again was beginning to mount in his stomach, making impatience fizzle through him.
The sleigh headed up higher and higher over London, then turned to head north. John half-recognised the places they were passing over until they reached the North Sea and Father Christmas pulled on the reins and called, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” again.
The reindeer went into a steep upward spiral, making the stars above them whirl and blur together. When they straightened out and started to descend again, John was completely lost. They were passing over a dark wood of leafless tress with white bark that shone in the moonlight, and which didn't look like any part of the world that he knew of. He wondered if that meant that they weren't in any part of the world he knew.
“Nearly there,” said Father Christmas. “Rudolph!” he called to the lead reindeer. “Head for the house of Sherlock Holmes!” He glanced across at John. “He's on my Good List as well, but not by much. You might want to suggest to him that he try a bit harder next year, or risk not getting a repeat miracle. This present is for both of you, after all.”
“Uh, right,” said John. “I'll mention that to him.” He wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock's reaction to being told to be good for Father Christmas would be, but he had a suspicion it would involve a fierce frown. Something to look forward to.
As the wood came to an end, the sleigh sank down low enough for John to see a graveyard stretching from it. It was a higgledy-piggledy mess of moss-covered, slanting graves, surrounded by a low brick wall topped with elaborate ironwork. Beyond that lay a dark town with twisting streets and grey brick buildings that looked extremely architecturally unsound. The reindeer flew them over the whole town, right to the other side where the cottages started to peter out into woodland again.
Father Christmas flicked the reins so that they turned parallel to one of the lanes, slowing until they landed in front of a small cottage with a very crooked chimney. From inside, John could hear the sound of a violin playing something both beautiful and melancholy. His heart jumped into his throat. Sherlock did have his violin after all.
“I won't come in,” said Father Christmas. “Lots to do, and all that. I'll be back for you just before sunset tomorrow. Don't try and hide from me; it'll only irritate me.”
“I- right,” said John. He climbed out of the sleigh, his eyes fixed on the door that Sherlock was behind. The violin soared to single, high sound, then descended through a flurry of notes. He could remember Sherlock playing exactly that sequence in their sitting room, looking out over Baker Street and frowning with concentration.
“Time to go, boys,” said Father Christmas to his reindeer. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Thanks,” said John belatedly, but it was too late. Father Christmas disappeared up into the sky, leaving him there. Well, no point in hanging about. John strode to the door and knocked on it.
The violin paused long enough for Sherlock to shout, “Go away!” then started up again even louder.
“It's me!” called John, hammering at the door again. He hadn't come all this way just to be left out in the street.
The violin ended abruptly in a shrieking noise that made John wince for the strings, then there were hurried footsteps and the door was thrown open.
Sherlock stared at him with shocked, wide eyes.
“Hi,” said John after several moments had passed without anything more.
It broke Sherlock's frozen trance. “John,” he breathed, then stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug that John was more than happy to return. They clung to each other tightly enough to hurt, and John felt the solid, reassuring shape of Sherlock's body against his. Sherlock repeated John's name, then pulled back to stare into his eyes, as if making sure that it was really him.
“John,” he said for a third time. “How did you-” he cut himself off, glancing at the lane behind John. “Oh, no, obvious. Of course. Sleigh marks on the ground, and it's Christmas Eve. Father Christmas brought you.”
“Spot on,” said John. “Can I come in?”
“Always,” said Sherlock, pulling him inside and shutting the door behind him.
The inside of the cottage was cluttered in the same way that the sitting room at 221B always had been, although John noticed there were rather more old bones and what seemed to be samples of poisons than he was used to. Sherlock didn't give him time to look around properly, instead he pushed John back against the door and kissed him as if he had been starving for it. John kissed him back just as desperately. It almost felt as if he had been starving for it, as if having Sherlock's lips against his was feeding something inside of him that had been withering away.
Sherlock pulled him to the sofa, cleared it of a layer of papers with a sweep of his arm, then pushed John down and settled himself on top of him, covering John's body with his own. He buried his face in John's neck and let out a long breath, relaxing his whole body into a boneless thing that melded perfectly against John's.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and let himself spend several minutes just revelling in his presence. Everything on Halloween had happened so quickly - he'd barely had time to realise Sherlock was alive before he was being dragged away again. It was bliss just to be able to hold him, and know he was alive and here with John, finally.
Alive was possibly a bit of a stretch. With Sherlock pressed so close against John's body, it was impossible to deny that he was lukewarm rather than a true body temperature, and that no pulse was throbbing under his skin. John carefully inspected what little of Sherlock he could see, but there didn't seem to be much other evidence that he was technically dead. The back of his head, which John had seen smashed in and leaking blood, looked like it might be a little flatter than before but it was hard to tell with all of Sherlock's hair in the way. His skin might have had a faint greenish-grey tinge to it, but Sherlock had always been so pale that it was only with careful observation that you could tell the difference.
“Father Christmas said he'd be back for me tomorrow before sunset,” John said after a while, when it didn't seem as if Sherlock was going to move, or speak, any time soon.
Sherlock nodded against his neck. “Twenty-four hours, from sunset to sunset,” he said. “That's Father Christmas's window. He'll have to take you back before then.”
“Right,” said John. “Bit less than twenty-four hours, then.” He sighed. “That's not nearly long enough.”
“No,” agreed Sherlock.
They stayed pressed together on the sofa like that for a long time. They talked a little – John updated Sherlock as much as he could on Mycroft and Sherrinford, then told him about his new job, about his evenings at the pub with Stamford, about Mrs. Hudson's latest book club intrigue. Sherlock didn't seem incredibly interested in any of it, but whenever John let his monologue end, Sherlock prodded him with questions until he started talking again. In the end John just gave in and indulged in a ramble about his life, such as it was without Sherlock to enliven it.
“What about you?” he asked eventually, when he really had run out of anything more to say. “What's it like here?”
Sherlock made a disgusted noise in his throat. “It's awful,” he said. “I hate it. There's nothing to do, and everyone is extremely dull and they all think I'm mad for wanting to be anywhere else, and they all watch me all the time, in case I escape again, and there's no crimes and nothing to do and I hate it, John.”
John squeezed him even tighter, feeling impotent and useless. He knew all to well how badly Sherlock dealt with boredom. The idea that he never had anything to break the relentless monotony of life as well as no one who understood just how intolerable Sherlock found that made something in John's chest throb with pain. He wanted to be able to help in some way, but there was nothing he could do, not from London.
“And there's no you,” added Sherlock in a voice so quiet that John thought he was meant to miss it.
“I'm here now,” he said, all too aware of how woefully inadequate that was.
“Yes,” acknowledged Sherlock, and they lay together in silence for a while.
Some time later – John had long since lost track of time – there was a tap on the door.
Sherlock raised his head and shouted, “Go away!” loudly, right next to John's ear.
“Christ,” he said, flinching away. Sherlock's arms tightened as if in an automatic response.
Despite Sherlock's shout, the door clicked open. Sherlock let out a low groan of annoyance. “Piss off! I'm busy!” he snapped.
“I can see that,” said a voice, and John craned his neck to see Jack taking in their position.
Sherlock didn't move his position at all, which meant John was trapped in place - not that he was really interested in moving. He was perfectly happy where he was, and if Jack had a problem with it, then he could piss off.
Jack didn't seem to have a problem with it if the amused look plastered over his skull was any sign. He tipped his head to one side. “Hello, John,” he said. John wriggled enough of his hand free to be able to give him a brief wave. “I dropped by to find out why Sandy Claws had been here, but that seems obvious now.”
“Sandy Claws?” repeated John.
“He means Father Christmas,” said Sherlock into his neck.
“Ah, right,” said John. “Yeah, he brought me by for a visit.” He frowned. “You're not about to try and send me home, are you?”
“Of course not,” said Jack. “That would be rather cruel of me, don't you think?”
“You were the one to take Sherlock away in the first place,” John pointed out.
Jack sighed. “It's not what I would have chosen to have done,” he said. “And even if it had been, the impressive amount of suffering that he has been emitting ever since would have changed my mind.” John held tighter to Sherlock at that. He couldn't even begin to imagine how Sherlock was coping with the level of boredom he must be experiencing here. He used to be bad enough when it was just a few days between cases.
“I must uphold the laws, however,” continued Jack. “Most of the holiday council are still annoyed with me, and it would not be impossible for them to replace me as the ruler of Halloween. The Pumpkin King is not as ingrained in society's subconscious as Father Christmas or The Easter Bunny are.”
“You can disavow responsibility all you like,” said Sherlock. “It doesn't change that these stupid laws are your fault in the first place. Now, go away. I'm not wasting any more of our few hours together talking to you.”
“I'd have thought seeing John would put you in a better mood,” said Jack.
Sherlock blindly reached down to the floor for the first thing he could put his hand on, and then threw a femur at him. Jack darted back out of the door before it hit him, so that it just thudded against the wall instead. “Goodbye!” he called, and finally left.
John let out a long breath. “He creeps me out,” he admitted.
“He creeps everyone out. That's his purpose,” pointed out Sherlock. He finally pulled away a bit, raising his head so that he could look down at John's face. “It is the purpose of everyone from here.” There was a note underneath his voice that said there was more to what he was saying than what was on the surface.
John thought for a moment. “Mycroft creeps me out as well,” he said. “Sherrinford- well. He's an animated skull. Although, the more bad puns he tells, the less creepy he is. There was one about the milk from Anne Frank's dairy that silenced Mycroft for nearly ten minutes with pained horror.”
“And me?” asked Sherlock, looking as if he was trying to pretend the answer didn't matter to him, but failing.
John smiled and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. “Even dead, all you make me feel is affection.”
Sherlock's face relaxed. “I'm sure I'll inspire annoyance as well before the day has passed.”
“Probably,” admitted John. “Still, you're not creepy. Even now you're – I don't know. A zombie?”
Sherlock looked mortally offended. “A zombie? Do I look as if I'm rotting? Or have any desire to eat brains? Or have lost all ability to string together rational thought? Honestly, John. A zombie!”
“I'm so sorry that I don't know the correct terminology for the precise variety of animated dead person that you are,” said John. “It's not really something we covered at school.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and it was so familiar that John couldn't hold back a smile. “I am merely dead,” he said. “There is no need to get technical about it.”
“Right then,” said John. “Have I told you yet how very glad I am that your version of dead is so very close to being alive?”
Sherlock blinked. “No,” he said. “I thought you'd be furious that I lied to you.”
“I was,” said John. “And then I got over it. Two months is a long time.”
Sherlock tightened his grip on John again. “It is,” he agreed. “And ten months is going to be even longer.”
They were both silent for a moment and John felt cold tendrils creep into his stomach that were all too aware of how little time they had now, and how long they would then have to wait before another day together.
Well, there was no sense in wasting all their time by dwelling on it. He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “Are you going to show me around, then?”
Sherlock blinked at him. “This is the sitting room,” he said. “There's a kitchen through there,” he nodded vaguely at a door behind them. “No bedroom – the dead don't really need to sleep. Or eat, but the kitchen is useful for experiments.”
“Thanks,” said John, “but I actually meant, are you going to show me around Halloween?”
“Why on earth would you want to see that?” asked Sherlock, apparently dumbfounded by the idea.
“Because you grew up here,” said John. “And it's where you live now. I want to be able to picture where you are when I'm back home.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment, then he nodded abruptly. “I can understand that,” he said. He glanced at the window, where it was still dark outside. “When the sun comes up, though. Halloween is not a particularly welcoming place for your kind of person, and especially not at night.”
“Ah, okay then,” said John. “Any chance of some food, then? I haven't eaten since lunchtime.”
Sherlock was silent for a minute or two. “I think the water might be safe,” he said after some thought. “And tomorrow we might be able to find some bread in town. Possibly.”
“What?” asked John. “Come on, Sherlock, I'll need a bit more than that!”
Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “Very little that we eat here is safe for you,” he said. “Even the things that wouldn't kill you would probably make you ill.”
“I- right,” said John, trying to absorb that. “Right, okay. So I'm just going to be not eating until tomorrow night?”
“That's one of the reasons why you can't live here with me,” said Sherlock. “This town isn't set up for people who are as fragile as you are.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John, deciding not to dispute 'fragile' with someone who jumped off a building and survived. He pulled Sherlock's head down to his so that he could kiss him. “Well, we'll just have to stay like this until the sun comes up then, and you'll have to distract me from how hungry I am.”
Sherlock smiled against his lips. “I approve of that idea,” he said, and kissed John again.
****
John eventually dozed off. When he woke up, Sherlock hadn't moved and was watching his face carefully.
“That should be creepy,” said John in sleepy tones.
“And yet, you don't find it so,” replied Sherlock.
“No,” agreed John, then pushed at Sherlock's shoulders. “Get off me now, though. My legs have gone to sleep.”
Sherlock got off him with far more grace than John felt was really fair in a man who had been in the same position for hours. Even, or perhaps especially, a dead one. He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen as John pulled himself upright and tried to shake feeling into his limbs.
Sherlock came back with an earthenware cup of water. “This shouldn't harm you,” he announced.
“How reassuring,” said John, but he took the cup and drank it anyway. It tasted stale and dusty, but otherwise seemed fine. “You're not having anything?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I'm dead,” he said. “Food is irrelevant. Do you still want to see Halloween?”
“Of course,” said John, setting the cup down amidst a pile of metacarpals.
“Come on, then,” said Sherlock, holding his hands out to help John up, and then steadying him when standing sent a rush of pins and needles up his leg. “Just don't touch anything unless I say it's okay, or wander off without me.”
“Why would I go anywhere without you?” asked John. “Seeing you is the whole point of this visit.”
Sherlock squeezed his hand and smiled, then led him out of the house.
The sun had come up but it was a weak, pale light. John squinted up at it, and was surprised to see that it appeared to be in the shape of a pumpkin. “Oh,” he said with surprise.
Sherlock followed his gaze. “This is a different world,” he reminded John.
“Yeah, getting that,” said John, glancing around again. It was one thing to just be surrounded by strange buildings and odd-looking trees, but quite another to look up and see that the sun had changed. “Do I want to know what the moon looks like?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It's just a bit larger than you'd expect,” he said. “Unless Oogie-Boogie is up to his tricks. Come on – I'll show you the town first, while most people are in bed.”
He lead John through several narrow streets that were lined with large, decaying mansions and dark, foreboding-looking houses. John had to admit that if he had been going to design a town that embodied the spirit of Halloween, it would probably look very similar. Occasionally a dark shadow moved in an alleyway, and at one point a cat hissed at them from the top of a wall, but apart from that, the place seemed deserted.
They turned a corner at a house that was shaped a lot like the head of a howling wolf, and John got his first sight of the other citizens of Halloween. There was a band standing at the side of the road playing a slow, mournful dirge together. The saxophone player was probably only as tall as John's waist, with a long, pointed chin and two tufts of ginger hair on an otherwise bald head. Beside him, a hulking mass of flesh was playing an accordion that seemed to be at least partly made from a dead fish, and a slightly shorter, but still just as thug-like creature was playing a double bass.
“Oh,” said John faintly. There was a tiny person inside the double bass. He couldn't tell if he was a child or just a very short man, but he looked dead, which was only emphasised by the coffin-like shape of the double bass.
Sherlock squeezed John's hand in a manner that was possibly meant to be reassuring. “Good morning,” he said.
“Yo, Sherlock,” said the saxophone player, stopping for a moment. “You going to jam with us today?”
“Not today,” said Sherlock. “I'm busy.”
The saxophone player nodded, looking at John with a great deal of interest. John tried hard not to stare too obviously back at him. “Always nice to have a friend staying,” said the saxophone player after a moment. “Of course, it's Christmas, isn't it?” He glanced at his two bandmates. “Time for a special tune? A-one, two, three, four...”
The band burst into the most depressing version of Jingle Bells that John had ever heard.
“Oh,” he said again, then felt he should perhaps try a bit harder than that. “That's- You're very good.”
The accordion player beamed at him, and the apparently-not-so-dead man in the double bass gave him a wink. John felt his eyes widen.
Sherlock snorted with amusement. “Come on, I'll show you the main square,” he said, pulling him away.
“Right,” said John, faintly.
The funereal sound of the carol followed them down the road and once they were far enough away not to be heard, Sherlock said, “They've never really got the hang of any other tempo. I play with them sometimes.”
“Right,” said John. “They seem-” His mind went blank as he tried to think of an adjective for them.
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.
They emerged from the street into what must be the main square, and John looked around with interest. It was a large cobbled area lined with buildings that were larger than most of the others they had seen so far, and with a fountain in the centre. The liquid in the fountain was green and was falling from the mouth of a strange snake-like statue.
There were more people out-and-about here, and John did his best not to stare. There were a trio of what had to be vampires, huddled under umbrellas and apparently having an argument with a strange, bat-like creature. Swimming inside the fountain was an odd fishlike creature, leaning on the edge and gesticulating as it talked to a thing with snakes coming out of its hands where fingers should be.
“That's the Town Hall,” said Sherlock, gesturing at the largest building on the square. There was a large clock mounted above it that read 310 Days Until Halloween. “It's all pretty dull.”
“Not sure that's the word I'd use,” said John, as a pair of indistinct white shapes – ghosts? - swooped through the air past them.
“It would be if you tried to have a conversation with any of them,” said Sherlock. “Come on, let's-”
“Sherlock!” called a voice behind them, followed almost immediately by two more, overlapping each other.
“Sherlock!”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock let out a sigh, and turned around.
Behind them were three short, dumpy women, dressed in black and wearing tall, wide-brimmed hats. One of them was clutching a broom. John immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion that they were witches, then wondered if he was stereotyping.
“Sherlock!” said one of the women. “So good to see you out!”
“You shouldn't stay in so much, you know,” said another.
“We never get to see you,” added the last.
They all spoke in fast, twittering voices, one after another without allowing a pause for Sherlock to reply.
“Oh!” said the first, catching sight of John. “Is this your young man?”
“He's very handsome,” continued the next, giving John a look that made him feel very uncomfortable.
“Much too alive, though,” finished the last. “Haven't you had a chance to break him in yet?”
“Silly!” said the first one to her. “He's meant to be alive.”
“He's not meant to be here though,” said the middle one. “Does Jack know?”
“Oh, don't make Jack angry!” said the last one.
Sherlock held up a hand. “Stop!” he commanded. Blissfully, they did. “John, these are my aunts, Agrippina, Toffana and Catherine.” John blinked with surprise. Somehow he hadn't stopped to consider that Sherlock might have extended family here. If he had, these three women were the last thing he would have pictured. “This is John,” continued Sherlock. “And yes, Jack does know he's here. It's only for the day.”
“Oh,” said the first one – possibly Agrippina, although Sherlock hadn't really been clear on which one was which. “Only a day!”
“You'll have to come to dinner,” said probably-Toffana.
“Yes!” exclaimed Catherine. “A family dinner so we can all properly meet you! I'll make newt's eye stew!”
“Um,” said John. “That sounds lovely, but-” He glanced at Sherlock for help.
“What John means to say is that we only have a limited amount of time, and we're not going to waste any of it with any of you,” said Sherlock bluntly. “Even this conversation has gone on too long.”
“Oh, Sherlock,” said Agrippina, disapprovingly.
“There's no need to be rude,” added Toffana.
“I like being rude,” said Sherlock. Well, John could testify to that.
“Is that why you haven't introduced your man to your mother yet?” asked another voice.
“Lucrezia!” exclaimed all three of Sherlock's aunts at once.
Sherlock made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a swear word. “No,” he said, turning to look at the newcomer. “You know very well why I don't want you near him, Mummy.”
This was Sherlock's mother? She was as tall as he was, and had the same pale skin, but that was where the similarity ended. Her hair was a flamingly bright shade of red, and her figure was all curves, squeezed into one of the tightest black dresses John had ever seen, and a hat that was even wider than those of her sisters. Her lips and nails had been painted blood red. She looked far too young to have a child Sherlock's age, let alone ones as old as Mycroft or Sherrinford.
“Oh, don't be like that, darling,” she said. She tilted her face to one side in an obvious prompt. Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh, then dutifully kissed her cheek. She smiled at him brightly, then turned to focus on John, holding out her hand to him. “I am Sherlock's mother. You may call me Lucrezia.”
John reached automatically to take her hand but Sherlock grabbed tightly at his wrist to stop him. “Don't touch her,” he hissed.
“Honestly, Sherlock,” said Lucrezia.
Sherlock let go of John's wrist in order to grab his mother's. He turned her hand up and inspected her palm for a moment, then dropped it. “Arsenic,” he announced.
“Oh, really, Lucrezia,” said Agrippina, tutting.
“You've only just met him!” added Toffana.
“At least give him dinner first,” finished Catherine.
“Nobody will be giving John dinner,” said Sherlock. He grabbed John's hand. “In fact, if any of you come near him again, I'll wall you up in my cellar for a year or two. He's not for playing games with.”
“Rude!” exclaimed Agrippina, but Sherlock didn't seem prepared to hang around to hear what the rest of his aunts had to say. He pulled John off across the square at a speed that made heads turn to look at them.
John let him, perfectly happy to be getting away from the four women. Christ, and he'd thought meeting his first girlfriend's parents had been bad. At least her dad had only threatened to cut off John's penis, he hadn't actually tried to poison him.
“Did your mother just try to kill me?” he asked once they were out of the square and Sherlock had slowed his pace slightly.
“Don't take it personally,” said Sherlock. “She tries to kill almost everyone.”
“Right,” said John. “Okay.” He let a moment pass. “Suddenly, Mycroft's kidnappings seem almost normal.”
“Yes, he'd only kill you if he had a good reason,” said Sherlock. “Or if he thought you were with-holding cake.”
The road they were walking down was busier than the ones they had walked along earlier. It was lined with what looked like shops, although after glancing in the window of a butcher's, John was carefully avoiding examining their wares too closely.
A man walked past with an axe buried in his brain, but John was getting better at not staring too obviously. He merely examined the edges of the wound out of the corner of his eye and concluded that the axe must have been there for quite some time. Must make getting through low doorways a pain, he thought.
Sherlock led John to a high iron gate made up of several old iron bars, and stepped between two that were bent apart enough to form a large gap. “Come on,” he said. “You may as well meet my other parent.”
John followed him through. On the other side of a gate was the old graveyard that he had seen from Father Christmas's sleigh. At ground level, he could see that it was filled with more mausoleums and elaborate memorials than John had ever seen outside of a film.
“No one here is really afraid of living the stereotype, are they?” he asked as they passed a large statue of a screaming figure.
Sherlock snorted. “I told you it was dull. Endlessly predictable.”
“You also said that people didn't stay dead here,” pointed out John.
Sherlock shrugged. “There are ways,” he said vaguely. “Although even they can be circumvented, if you're clever enough. Ooogy-Boogy has come back several times now. Most of these graves are just for show, really. Or are inhabited by ghosts. Bloody annoying things they are.”
There was an affronted humph from behind them and John's head whipped around, but the place still seemed to be deserted. “Right,” he said carefully, and quickened his pace to be able to take Sherlock's hand again.
They headed for a corner of the graveyard that was even more overgrown than the rest and stopped in front of a line of plain-looking graves lined up against the wall. They were easily the least elaborate memorials in the whole graveyard.
“These are my mother's husbands,” said Sherlock. “That one's my father,” he said, gesturing at one that read Daniel and nothing else. “Or maybe that one,” he said, pointing to the next one, which said Mark. “When I asked her, she couldn't remember which order they came in.”
John stared at the row of graves. There had to be at least ten of them, all bearing nothing more than a first name. “These are all her husbands?” he said.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I told you they never lasted long.” He pointed at one a few graves up that said Nigel. “We're pretty certain that one's Mycroft's father.”
John looked at the names on the graves. “No surnames,” he noted.
Sherlock shook his head. “She insisted they all take hers. I think she found remembering even their first names quite a trial. The only one I remember particularly well was the last one,” he gestured at the end of the row, where a Jerry was buried, “and I can remember him losing his temper because she spent two weeks calling him James.” He shrugged. “He was dead less than a month later.”
“And he didn't come back?” asked John. “None of them did? As ghosts, or whatever else it is you have here?”
“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “They came from your world, not Halloween. She'd go out into the world, find an easy mark and seduce him. Enough sex and he'd agree to marry her and come back here with her, and then she'd play the kind of games that hurt your kind until he died.”
The way he spat out the word sex told John rather a lot about how Sherlock must have come to view it, if he grew up watching that. “Right,” he said. “So, the no-sex thing isn't a Halloween thing, then?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It mostly is. The majority of people here don't bother with it. Mummy found a way to use it as a weapon though – there are rather a lot of people who are as scared of her type of woman as they are ghosts or vampires.” He reached out and took John's hand. “The council put an end to her marriages, though. It's hard to pick up a husband when you've only got one day a year to do it in and besides, they also forbade us from actually killing people. Frightening is fine, but actually harming one of you is illegal. Apparently holidays shouldn't be deadly, they should be fun.” He spoke the last word in tones of deep disgust.
“You killed Moran,” John pointed out.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. They were a bit angry about that, but then, I was already in quite a bit of trouble. Really, how can they expect me to obey their laws when they're so unendingly stupid?”
“They don't really seem to be punishing you for it,” said John. Sherlock's cottage was hardly a prison cell, after all, and none of the people they had met had seemed to treat Sherlock like a criminal.
Sherlock shrugged. “They knew that just being here was punishment enough. Besides, Jack has a soft spot for me. We used to do experiments together when I was a child.”
A mental image flashed into John's head of a much younger version of Sherlock and a walking skeleton in a pin-striped suit bent over a corpse together. “Please never tell me what kind of experiments,” he said, forcing the image away.
Sherlock grinned at him. “I'm willing to bet they weren't as disturbing as whatever it is you're picturing.”
John shook his head. “I'm not taking that bet,” he said. “Your idea of disturbing doesn't really match up with mine. And yes, I am referring to the kidney experiment.”
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh that John could tell was entirely faked. “The kidney experiment was the logical follow-up to the case with the lobsters. You should have been able to predict that I would do it.”
“When have I ever been able to predict you?” asked John. “Almost nothing you do is what I would have expected.”
“Would you want it to be?” asked Sherlock. “Predictable is boring.”
John thought of the dull inevitability of his days back at Baker Street now that Sherlock was gone. “Yes,” he agreed softly. From the look that descended over Sherlock's face, he was thinking of the predictability of his own life now, and John squeezed his hand. Time to distract them both from the reality of their situation. “Come on, let's find some of that bread you thought might not kill me. I'm starving.”
They went back into the centre of the town where Sherlock found some pumpkin bread that, after a careful examination, he pronounced to be safe for John.
“There's a lot of pumpkin-related products here,” said John, examining the shelves of the bakery.
“I know,” said Sherlock grimly. “Pumpkins are the only thing that will really grow here.”
“Got to love a bit of pumpkin!” said the baker, who John had been trying very hard to pretend wasn't a werewolf. “Pumpkin and a bit of nice, fresh liver – the perfect diet!”
Sherlock made a face. “Dull,” he said, paying for the bread with what looked like a handful of sweets. “I never thought I'd miss your risotto this much,” he added to John. “Or a really good cup of tea.”
“There's no tea?!” exclaimed John.
Sherlock gave him a pained look. “There's pumpkin tea.”
John shuddered at just the idea.
“Lovely stuff!” said the baker, apparently oblivious to John's reaction. “Goes down a treat after a run through the woods. The only thing better is a cup of mulled blood, but that's hard to get these days.”
John blanched. Sherlock immediately put his arm around his shoulder. “Idiot!” he hissed at the baker as he steered John out of the shop.
“I told you most of what counts as food here isn't suitable for you,” he said once they were back in the street.
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John. He looked back at the bread they'd bought. “You're absolutely certain that's okay?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock confidently. “It's definitely got nothing that's poisonous to you in it, and there's only a four percent chance that it contains something that was originally human.”
“Four percent?” repeated John. He gauged his level of hunger, which was really very high given that he hadn't eaten for nearly twenty-four hours, then sighed in defeat. “I suppose I'll have to risk it, then.”
“You do enjoy a gamble,” Sherlock reminded him.
John gave him a black look. “Not the kind that could end with cannibalism,” he said.
Sherlock let out a long sigh. “So picky, John.”
****
Chapter Six
*
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 8,333 words this chapter (60,024 total.)
Summary: Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.
Halloween-esque AU. Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so putting it behind a cut: The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.
It should be noted that I have ignored some aspects of canon, particularly S2 canon.
Masterpost: HERE
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
Knowing that Sherlock was alive – or, at least, not dead in the way that most people understood it – did not make the drudgery of John's day-to-day life dissipate, or make time pass faster. In fact, now he had next Halloween and the chance to see Sherlock again to look forward to, it seemed to go even slower. The two months until Christmas went at a snail's pace, punctuated by a weekly visit from Mycroft and Sherrinford that John tried to be out for as often as possible, although he never actually succeeded. There was no way to hide from the British Government, he thought morosely the fifth time he came home from a long day hanging out in the nearest graveyard only to have Mycroft arrive five minutes later with a smug smile.
Sherrinford turned out to be a much better conversationalist than the other two Holmes brothers, if you could ignore the talking-skull aspect. He asked after the details of John's life in a way that betrayed just how much attention he had been paying as he sat on the mantelpiece for all that time. Once or twice he brought up a subject that John and Sherlock had discussed months ago, or that John had tried to discuss and Sherlock had dismissed as pointless, in order to give his views on it.
“It was frustrating at times,” he said when John commented on that. “I wanted to join in, or tell Sherlock to be less of a brat, or try and explain to you what he meant by some of his more cryptic or convoluted statements.”
“Why didn't you go and live at Mycroft's, then?” asked John. “You'd have been able to talk there.”
“I live alone, and spend a great deal of time at work,” said Mycroft. “When he is at mine, he spends a great deal of time on his own.”
“I like having people around,” added Sherrinford.
John nodded, remembering Sherlock saying the same thing about him.
It wasn't until they'd gone that he realised that Sherrinford must be spending most of his time now sitting alone on Mycroft's mantelpiece. No wonder Mycroft kept bringing him around for tea. For a moment John wondered if he should ask Sherrinford if he wanted to return to his place at 221B, but he dismissed the thought. He was just about getting used to the idea of having tea with a talking skull; he wasn't sure he was quite up to the idea of living with one, even if he had before. Now that he knew Sherrinford was alive, it was a different thing entirely.
Mrs. Hudson decorated her flat and the hallway with holly and pine branches in the week before Christmas, then insisted on putting some on the mantel of 221B as well.
“Makes it look much cheerier in here,” she said, standing back to admire it. “I always thought it was such a shame that Sherlock was so against Christmas. I'm sure carols would have sounded lovely on his violin.”
“Most of what he played sounded lovely,” said John.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Hudson. “When he wasn't making those awful noises with it. He was so talented. Oh, it's such a shame.” She stopped herself and gave a sad sigh, and John had to clench his fist and drive his nails into his palm to avoid telling her that Sherlock was still around, that he was probably still making an awful noise with his violin whenever he got stuck in a black mood.
Or was he? Mycroft had taken the violin after Sherlock's funeral, presumably to give to him, but Sherlock hadn't had it when Jack had dragged him away. Was he trapped without even his music to keep him company? A sick feeling sat in John's stomach. He might be Sherlock-less, but at least he still had his things, his work, and his friends around him. Sherlock was stuck without any of it.
“At least you can celebrate this year,” said Mrs. Hudson, pulling herself back together. “Put your cards up without risking one of his tantrums.”
“Yeah, that's true,” said John. She gave him a look that said she knew that he was thinking that he would much rather give up Christmas for the rest of his life if it meant he could have Sherlock back, and squeezed his arm.
John did put his cards up, although there were pitifully few of them. Mycroft and Sherrinford didn't come over for tea that week and John assumed that they had gone into hiding for the festive season. In case Father Christmas finds them, he thought, then had to shake his head at the absurdity of it all. He'd thought his life was ridiculous enough when he was chasing after rooftops after criminals and opening the fridge to find body parts. Trust the Holmeses to find a way to make that seem positively mundane.
He spent Christmas Eve alone, despite Harry's attempts to get him to go to hers. He poured himself a drink the moment he could persuade himself it was late enough to be evening, then sat and watched some horrendous Christmas film that would have made Sherlock throw things at the screen, if he could have been persuaded to watch it in the first place.
At around six, as the sky outside went fully black, there was an odd thump from upstairs. John glanced up, then dismissed it as one of the many sounds that came from a house as old as 221 was. A moment later there was a scraping noise, and then another thud, as if something very heavy had fallen to the floor in John's bedroom – the room he barely used now that he'd taken to sleeping in Sherlock's bed more often than not. He stood up, intending to investigate, but before he could move, there were footsteps coming down the stairs, and the door flew open.
“I don't understand why so many houses these days have their chimneys blocked,” said the figure standing in it. “Don't people realise how tricky it is to get down to a bedroom window from a roof?”
John stared. The man was so fat as to be round, dressed in a red suit trimmed with white fur, and had a long white beard. “Jesus Christ,” he croaked.
The man scowled. “Not at all. Father Christmas,” he said. “Or Saint Nicholas, if you want to be religious about it, but that's not really your thing, is it?”
“Oh god,” said John, sinking back down into his chair. Knowing that Father Christmas was a real person was one thing, but having him break into his flat and be snarky about modern chimneys was quite another. His brain flicked back to the idea that everything since Halloween had been one long hallucination and that he was actually losing his sanity.
“No time for disbelief,” said Father Christmas. “I've got a lot to do tonight, as I'm sure you can imagine. I can't spend too much time here.”
John clutched at the arms of his chair and tried to get himself together. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “If you're here about Sherlock, he's back in Halloween now.”
Father Christmas shook his head impatiently. “I'm here about you,” he said. “It's not very often I get the chance to appear in person, not to an adult at any rate, and I thought you might like a rather special Christmas present.”
“Present?” repeated John.
“Of course!” said Father Christmas. “That is what I do, you know. You're on my Good List this year by quite a way, so I've come to give you something better than the rather ugly jacket your sister is intending to give you tomorrow.”
“Right,” said John. “Okay.” Of course, Father Christmas had arrived to give him a present, what else would he be doing here?
“Get up, then,” said Father Christmas. “I'll take you to it.”
“Take me to it?” repeated John. “Where is it?”
“In Halloween, of course,” said Father Christmas. “We both know there's only one thing you really want this year.”
John stared at him. The only thing he wanted was to see Sherlock. That was the only thing he'd wanted for months now. “You can do that?”
Father Christmas looked annoyed at the question. “Of course,” he said. “I can do almost anything on this night.”
John jumped to his feet. Father Christmas was right; there was no point in wasting time on being surprised. “Right, let's go then.”
“You'll need a coat,” said Father Christmas. “It'll be cold in the sleigh.”
“Right, of course. The sleigh,” said John. Of course they'd go in a sleigh. He grabbed his coat and tried to school himself to act as if this was all completely normal. A thought struck him. “Wait, does that mean we have to get back up to the roof?”
“No, no,” said Father Christmas. “Rudolph and the others will bring it down to the road for us. The roof thing is just habit, really, and it keeps me out of the way of traffic.”
When they got outside, Baker Street was deserted except for a very out-of-place sleigh parked right in the middle of the road, hitched to a long line of reindeer who turned to give John unimpressed looks.
“Right then. A sleigh,” said John.
“Get in, get in,” said Father Christmas. “I can only keep people away from a street this busy for a few minutes.”
John climbed into the sleigh, noticing the pile of sacks in the back. Filled with presents, he thought, then had to shake his head to clear the overwhelming surge of what the hell am I doing? He was going to see Sherlock, that was what he was doing. Nothing else was important.
Father Christmas climbed up after him and rummaged under the seat for a blanket that he handed to John. “You'll need this,” he said.
As John tucked it around himself, he became aware that flakes of white were beginning to fill the sky. “Oh, it's snowing.”
“Yes,” said Father Christmas, taking up the reins. “That's a side effect when I perform a Christmas miracle.”
John looked at the flakes settling on his arm. “I can't remember the last time it snowed in London for Christmas.”
“Then that's two miracles for the price of one,” said Father Christmas, and he flicked the reins. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he intoned, and the reindeer all started moving along the road for a couple of steps before leaping up into the sky.
“Jesus Christ,” said John as they flew up above the rooftops and London began to fall away beneath them. He gripped at the edge of the seat, staring down at the city. “That's just amazing!”
“Thank you,” said Father Christmas, sounding rather smug.
The journey probably didn't take very long, but it seemed like ages to John. The anticipation of seeing Sherlock again was beginning to mount in his stomach, making impatience fizzle through him.
The sleigh headed up higher and higher over London, then turned to head north. John half-recognised the places they were passing over until they reached the North Sea and Father Christmas pulled on the reins and called, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” again.
The reindeer went into a steep upward spiral, making the stars above them whirl and blur together. When they straightened out and started to descend again, John was completely lost. They were passing over a dark wood of leafless tress with white bark that shone in the moonlight, and which didn't look like any part of the world that he knew of. He wondered if that meant that they weren't in any part of the world he knew.
“Nearly there,” said Father Christmas. “Rudolph!” he called to the lead reindeer. “Head for the house of Sherlock Holmes!” He glanced across at John. “He's on my Good List as well, but not by much. You might want to suggest to him that he try a bit harder next year, or risk not getting a repeat miracle. This present is for both of you, after all.”
“Uh, right,” said John. “I'll mention that to him.” He wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock's reaction to being told to be good for Father Christmas would be, but he had a suspicion it would involve a fierce frown. Something to look forward to.
As the wood came to an end, the sleigh sank down low enough for John to see a graveyard stretching from it. It was a higgledy-piggledy mess of moss-covered, slanting graves, surrounded by a low brick wall topped with elaborate ironwork. Beyond that lay a dark town with twisting streets and grey brick buildings that looked extremely architecturally unsound. The reindeer flew them over the whole town, right to the other side where the cottages started to peter out into woodland again.
Father Christmas flicked the reins so that they turned parallel to one of the lanes, slowing until they landed in front of a small cottage with a very crooked chimney. From inside, John could hear the sound of a violin playing something both beautiful and melancholy. His heart jumped into his throat. Sherlock did have his violin after all.
“I won't come in,” said Father Christmas. “Lots to do, and all that. I'll be back for you just before sunset tomorrow. Don't try and hide from me; it'll only irritate me.”
“I- right,” said John. He climbed out of the sleigh, his eyes fixed on the door that Sherlock was behind. The violin soared to single, high sound, then descended through a flurry of notes. He could remember Sherlock playing exactly that sequence in their sitting room, looking out over Baker Street and frowning with concentration.
“Time to go, boys,” said Father Christmas to his reindeer. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Thanks,” said John belatedly, but it was too late. Father Christmas disappeared up into the sky, leaving him there. Well, no point in hanging about. John strode to the door and knocked on it.
The violin paused long enough for Sherlock to shout, “Go away!” then started up again even louder.
“It's me!” called John, hammering at the door again. He hadn't come all this way just to be left out in the street.
The violin ended abruptly in a shrieking noise that made John wince for the strings, then there were hurried footsteps and the door was thrown open.
Sherlock stared at him with shocked, wide eyes.
“Hi,” said John after several moments had passed without anything more.
It broke Sherlock's frozen trance. “John,” he breathed, then stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug that John was more than happy to return. They clung to each other tightly enough to hurt, and John felt the solid, reassuring shape of Sherlock's body against his. Sherlock repeated John's name, then pulled back to stare into his eyes, as if making sure that it was really him.
“John,” he said for a third time. “How did you-” he cut himself off, glancing at the lane behind John. “Oh, no, obvious. Of course. Sleigh marks on the ground, and it's Christmas Eve. Father Christmas brought you.”
“Spot on,” said John. “Can I come in?”
“Always,” said Sherlock, pulling him inside and shutting the door behind him.
The inside of the cottage was cluttered in the same way that the sitting room at 221B always had been, although John noticed there were rather more old bones and what seemed to be samples of poisons than he was used to. Sherlock didn't give him time to look around properly, instead he pushed John back against the door and kissed him as if he had been starving for it. John kissed him back just as desperately. It almost felt as if he had been starving for it, as if having Sherlock's lips against his was feeding something inside of him that had been withering away.
Sherlock pulled him to the sofa, cleared it of a layer of papers with a sweep of his arm, then pushed John down and settled himself on top of him, covering John's body with his own. He buried his face in John's neck and let out a long breath, relaxing his whole body into a boneless thing that melded perfectly against John's.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and let himself spend several minutes just revelling in his presence. Everything on Halloween had happened so quickly - he'd barely had time to realise Sherlock was alive before he was being dragged away again. It was bliss just to be able to hold him, and know he was alive and here with John, finally.
Alive was possibly a bit of a stretch. With Sherlock pressed so close against John's body, it was impossible to deny that he was lukewarm rather than a true body temperature, and that no pulse was throbbing under his skin. John carefully inspected what little of Sherlock he could see, but there didn't seem to be much other evidence that he was technically dead. The back of his head, which John had seen smashed in and leaking blood, looked like it might be a little flatter than before but it was hard to tell with all of Sherlock's hair in the way. His skin might have had a faint greenish-grey tinge to it, but Sherlock had always been so pale that it was only with careful observation that you could tell the difference.
“Father Christmas said he'd be back for me tomorrow before sunset,” John said after a while, when it didn't seem as if Sherlock was going to move, or speak, any time soon.
Sherlock nodded against his neck. “Twenty-four hours, from sunset to sunset,” he said. “That's Father Christmas's window. He'll have to take you back before then.”
“Right,” said John. “Bit less than twenty-four hours, then.” He sighed. “That's not nearly long enough.”
“No,” agreed Sherlock.
They stayed pressed together on the sofa like that for a long time. They talked a little – John updated Sherlock as much as he could on Mycroft and Sherrinford, then told him about his new job, about his evenings at the pub with Stamford, about Mrs. Hudson's latest book club intrigue. Sherlock didn't seem incredibly interested in any of it, but whenever John let his monologue end, Sherlock prodded him with questions until he started talking again. In the end John just gave in and indulged in a ramble about his life, such as it was without Sherlock to enliven it.
“What about you?” he asked eventually, when he really had run out of anything more to say. “What's it like here?”
Sherlock made a disgusted noise in his throat. “It's awful,” he said. “I hate it. There's nothing to do, and everyone is extremely dull and they all think I'm mad for wanting to be anywhere else, and they all watch me all the time, in case I escape again, and there's no crimes and nothing to do and I hate it, John.”
John squeezed him even tighter, feeling impotent and useless. He knew all to well how badly Sherlock dealt with boredom. The idea that he never had anything to break the relentless monotony of life as well as no one who understood just how intolerable Sherlock found that made something in John's chest throb with pain. He wanted to be able to help in some way, but there was nothing he could do, not from London.
“And there's no you,” added Sherlock in a voice so quiet that John thought he was meant to miss it.
“I'm here now,” he said, all too aware of how woefully inadequate that was.
“Yes,” acknowledged Sherlock, and they lay together in silence for a while.
Some time later – John had long since lost track of time – there was a tap on the door.
Sherlock raised his head and shouted, “Go away!” loudly, right next to John's ear.
“Christ,” he said, flinching away. Sherlock's arms tightened as if in an automatic response.
Despite Sherlock's shout, the door clicked open. Sherlock let out a low groan of annoyance. “Piss off! I'm busy!” he snapped.
“I can see that,” said a voice, and John craned his neck to see Jack taking in their position.
Sherlock didn't move his position at all, which meant John was trapped in place - not that he was really interested in moving. He was perfectly happy where he was, and if Jack had a problem with it, then he could piss off.
Jack didn't seem to have a problem with it if the amused look plastered over his skull was any sign. He tipped his head to one side. “Hello, John,” he said. John wriggled enough of his hand free to be able to give him a brief wave. “I dropped by to find out why Sandy Claws had been here, but that seems obvious now.”
“Sandy Claws?” repeated John.
“He means Father Christmas,” said Sherlock into his neck.
“Ah, right,” said John. “Yeah, he brought me by for a visit.” He frowned. “You're not about to try and send me home, are you?”
“Of course not,” said Jack. “That would be rather cruel of me, don't you think?”
“You were the one to take Sherlock away in the first place,” John pointed out.
Jack sighed. “It's not what I would have chosen to have done,” he said. “And even if it had been, the impressive amount of suffering that he has been emitting ever since would have changed my mind.” John held tighter to Sherlock at that. He couldn't even begin to imagine how Sherlock was coping with the level of boredom he must be experiencing here. He used to be bad enough when it was just a few days between cases.
“I must uphold the laws, however,” continued Jack. “Most of the holiday council are still annoyed with me, and it would not be impossible for them to replace me as the ruler of Halloween. The Pumpkin King is not as ingrained in society's subconscious as Father Christmas or The Easter Bunny are.”
“You can disavow responsibility all you like,” said Sherlock. “It doesn't change that these stupid laws are your fault in the first place. Now, go away. I'm not wasting any more of our few hours together talking to you.”
“I'd have thought seeing John would put you in a better mood,” said Jack.
Sherlock blindly reached down to the floor for the first thing he could put his hand on, and then threw a femur at him. Jack darted back out of the door before it hit him, so that it just thudded against the wall instead. “Goodbye!” he called, and finally left.
John let out a long breath. “He creeps me out,” he admitted.
“He creeps everyone out. That's his purpose,” pointed out Sherlock. He finally pulled away a bit, raising his head so that he could look down at John's face. “It is the purpose of everyone from here.” There was a note underneath his voice that said there was more to what he was saying than what was on the surface.
John thought for a moment. “Mycroft creeps me out as well,” he said. “Sherrinford- well. He's an animated skull. Although, the more bad puns he tells, the less creepy he is. There was one about the milk from Anne Frank's dairy that silenced Mycroft for nearly ten minutes with pained horror.”
“And me?” asked Sherlock, looking as if he was trying to pretend the answer didn't matter to him, but failing.
John smiled and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. “Even dead, all you make me feel is affection.”
Sherlock's face relaxed. “I'm sure I'll inspire annoyance as well before the day has passed.”
“Probably,” admitted John. “Still, you're not creepy. Even now you're – I don't know. A zombie?”
Sherlock looked mortally offended. “A zombie? Do I look as if I'm rotting? Or have any desire to eat brains? Or have lost all ability to string together rational thought? Honestly, John. A zombie!”
“I'm so sorry that I don't know the correct terminology for the precise variety of animated dead person that you are,” said John. “It's not really something we covered at school.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and it was so familiar that John couldn't hold back a smile. “I am merely dead,” he said. “There is no need to get technical about it.”
“Right then,” said John. “Have I told you yet how very glad I am that your version of dead is so very close to being alive?”
Sherlock blinked. “No,” he said. “I thought you'd be furious that I lied to you.”
“I was,” said John. “And then I got over it. Two months is a long time.”
Sherlock tightened his grip on John again. “It is,” he agreed. “And ten months is going to be even longer.”
They were both silent for a moment and John felt cold tendrils creep into his stomach that were all too aware of how little time they had now, and how long they would then have to wait before another day together.
Well, there was no sense in wasting all their time by dwelling on it. He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “Are you going to show me around, then?”
Sherlock blinked at him. “This is the sitting room,” he said. “There's a kitchen through there,” he nodded vaguely at a door behind them. “No bedroom – the dead don't really need to sleep. Or eat, but the kitchen is useful for experiments.”
“Thanks,” said John, “but I actually meant, are you going to show me around Halloween?”
“Why on earth would you want to see that?” asked Sherlock, apparently dumbfounded by the idea.
“Because you grew up here,” said John. “And it's where you live now. I want to be able to picture where you are when I'm back home.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment, then he nodded abruptly. “I can understand that,” he said. He glanced at the window, where it was still dark outside. “When the sun comes up, though. Halloween is not a particularly welcoming place for your kind of person, and especially not at night.”
“Ah, okay then,” said John. “Any chance of some food, then? I haven't eaten since lunchtime.”
Sherlock was silent for a minute or two. “I think the water might be safe,” he said after some thought. “And tomorrow we might be able to find some bread in town. Possibly.”
“What?” asked John. “Come on, Sherlock, I'll need a bit more than that!”
Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “Very little that we eat here is safe for you,” he said. “Even the things that wouldn't kill you would probably make you ill.”
“I- right,” said John, trying to absorb that. “Right, okay. So I'm just going to be not eating until tomorrow night?”
“That's one of the reasons why you can't live here with me,” said Sherlock. “This town isn't set up for people who are as fragile as you are.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John, deciding not to dispute 'fragile' with someone who jumped off a building and survived. He pulled Sherlock's head down to his so that he could kiss him. “Well, we'll just have to stay like this until the sun comes up then, and you'll have to distract me from how hungry I am.”
Sherlock smiled against his lips. “I approve of that idea,” he said, and kissed John again.
John eventually dozed off. When he woke up, Sherlock hadn't moved and was watching his face carefully.
“That should be creepy,” said John in sleepy tones.
“And yet, you don't find it so,” replied Sherlock.
“No,” agreed John, then pushed at Sherlock's shoulders. “Get off me now, though. My legs have gone to sleep.”
Sherlock got off him with far more grace than John felt was really fair in a man who had been in the same position for hours. Even, or perhaps especially, a dead one. He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen as John pulled himself upright and tried to shake feeling into his limbs.
Sherlock came back with an earthenware cup of water. “This shouldn't harm you,” he announced.
“How reassuring,” said John, but he took the cup and drank it anyway. It tasted stale and dusty, but otherwise seemed fine. “You're not having anything?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I'm dead,” he said. “Food is irrelevant. Do you still want to see Halloween?”
“Of course,” said John, setting the cup down amidst a pile of metacarpals.
“Come on, then,” said Sherlock, holding his hands out to help John up, and then steadying him when standing sent a rush of pins and needles up his leg. “Just don't touch anything unless I say it's okay, or wander off without me.”
“Why would I go anywhere without you?” asked John. “Seeing you is the whole point of this visit.”
Sherlock squeezed his hand and smiled, then led him out of the house.
The sun had come up but it was a weak, pale light. John squinted up at it, and was surprised to see that it appeared to be in the shape of a pumpkin. “Oh,” he said with surprise.
Sherlock followed his gaze. “This is a different world,” he reminded John.
“Yeah, getting that,” said John, glancing around again. It was one thing to just be surrounded by strange buildings and odd-looking trees, but quite another to look up and see that the sun had changed. “Do I want to know what the moon looks like?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It's just a bit larger than you'd expect,” he said. “Unless Oogie-Boogie is up to his tricks. Come on – I'll show you the town first, while most people are in bed.”
He lead John through several narrow streets that were lined with large, decaying mansions and dark, foreboding-looking houses. John had to admit that if he had been going to design a town that embodied the spirit of Halloween, it would probably look very similar. Occasionally a dark shadow moved in an alleyway, and at one point a cat hissed at them from the top of a wall, but apart from that, the place seemed deserted.
They turned a corner at a house that was shaped a lot like the head of a howling wolf, and John got his first sight of the other citizens of Halloween. There was a band standing at the side of the road playing a slow, mournful dirge together. The saxophone player was probably only as tall as John's waist, with a long, pointed chin and two tufts of ginger hair on an otherwise bald head. Beside him, a hulking mass of flesh was playing an accordion that seemed to be at least partly made from a dead fish, and a slightly shorter, but still just as thug-like creature was playing a double bass.
“Oh,” said John faintly. There was a tiny person inside the double bass. He couldn't tell if he was a child or just a very short man, but he looked dead, which was only emphasised by the coffin-like shape of the double bass.
Sherlock squeezed John's hand in a manner that was possibly meant to be reassuring. “Good morning,” he said.
“Yo, Sherlock,” said the saxophone player, stopping for a moment. “You going to jam with us today?”
“Not today,” said Sherlock. “I'm busy.”
The saxophone player nodded, looking at John with a great deal of interest. John tried hard not to stare too obviously back at him. “Always nice to have a friend staying,” said the saxophone player after a moment. “Of course, it's Christmas, isn't it?” He glanced at his two bandmates. “Time for a special tune? A-one, two, three, four...”
The band burst into the most depressing version of Jingle Bells that John had ever heard.
“Oh,” he said again, then felt he should perhaps try a bit harder than that. “That's- You're very good.”
The accordion player beamed at him, and the apparently-not-so-dead man in the double bass gave him a wink. John felt his eyes widen.
Sherlock snorted with amusement. “Come on, I'll show you the main square,” he said, pulling him away.
“Right,” said John, faintly.
The funereal sound of the carol followed them down the road and once they were far enough away not to be heard, Sherlock said, “They've never really got the hang of any other tempo. I play with them sometimes.”
“Right,” said John. “They seem-” His mind went blank as he tried to think of an adjective for them.
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.
They emerged from the street into what must be the main square, and John looked around with interest. It was a large cobbled area lined with buildings that were larger than most of the others they had seen so far, and with a fountain in the centre. The liquid in the fountain was green and was falling from the mouth of a strange snake-like statue.
There were more people out-and-about here, and John did his best not to stare. There were a trio of what had to be vampires, huddled under umbrellas and apparently having an argument with a strange, bat-like creature. Swimming inside the fountain was an odd fishlike creature, leaning on the edge and gesticulating as it talked to a thing with snakes coming out of its hands where fingers should be.
“That's the Town Hall,” said Sherlock, gesturing at the largest building on the square. There was a large clock mounted above it that read 310 Days Until Halloween. “It's all pretty dull.”
“Not sure that's the word I'd use,” said John, as a pair of indistinct white shapes – ghosts? - swooped through the air past them.
“It would be if you tried to have a conversation with any of them,” said Sherlock. “Come on, let's-”
“Sherlock!” called a voice behind them, followed almost immediately by two more, overlapping each other.
“Sherlock!”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock let out a sigh, and turned around.
Behind them were three short, dumpy women, dressed in black and wearing tall, wide-brimmed hats. One of them was clutching a broom. John immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion that they were witches, then wondered if he was stereotyping.
“Sherlock!” said one of the women. “So good to see you out!”
“You shouldn't stay in so much, you know,” said another.
“We never get to see you,” added the last.
They all spoke in fast, twittering voices, one after another without allowing a pause for Sherlock to reply.
“Oh!” said the first, catching sight of John. “Is this your young man?”
“He's very handsome,” continued the next, giving John a look that made him feel very uncomfortable.
“Much too alive, though,” finished the last. “Haven't you had a chance to break him in yet?”
“Silly!” said the first one to her. “He's meant to be alive.”
“He's not meant to be here though,” said the middle one. “Does Jack know?”
“Oh, don't make Jack angry!” said the last one.
Sherlock held up a hand. “Stop!” he commanded. Blissfully, they did. “John, these are my aunts, Agrippina, Toffana and Catherine.” John blinked with surprise. Somehow he hadn't stopped to consider that Sherlock might have extended family here. If he had, these three women were the last thing he would have pictured. “This is John,” continued Sherlock. “And yes, Jack does know he's here. It's only for the day.”
“Oh,” said the first one – possibly Agrippina, although Sherlock hadn't really been clear on which one was which. “Only a day!”
“You'll have to come to dinner,” said probably-Toffana.
“Yes!” exclaimed Catherine. “A family dinner so we can all properly meet you! I'll make newt's eye stew!”
“Um,” said John. “That sounds lovely, but-” He glanced at Sherlock for help.
“What John means to say is that we only have a limited amount of time, and we're not going to waste any of it with any of you,” said Sherlock bluntly. “Even this conversation has gone on too long.”
“Oh, Sherlock,” said Agrippina, disapprovingly.
“There's no need to be rude,” added Toffana.
“I like being rude,” said Sherlock. Well, John could testify to that.
“Is that why you haven't introduced your man to your mother yet?” asked another voice.
“Lucrezia!” exclaimed all three of Sherlock's aunts at once.
Sherlock made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a swear word. “No,” he said, turning to look at the newcomer. “You know very well why I don't want you near him, Mummy.”
This was Sherlock's mother? She was as tall as he was, and had the same pale skin, but that was where the similarity ended. Her hair was a flamingly bright shade of red, and her figure was all curves, squeezed into one of the tightest black dresses John had ever seen, and a hat that was even wider than those of her sisters. Her lips and nails had been painted blood red. She looked far too young to have a child Sherlock's age, let alone ones as old as Mycroft or Sherrinford.
“Oh, don't be like that, darling,” she said. She tilted her face to one side in an obvious prompt. Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh, then dutifully kissed her cheek. She smiled at him brightly, then turned to focus on John, holding out her hand to him. “I am Sherlock's mother. You may call me Lucrezia.”
John reached automatically to take her hand but Sherlock grabbed tightly at his wrist to stop him. “Don't touch her,” he hissed.
“Honestly, Sherlock,” said Lucrezia.
Sherlock let go of John's wrist in order to grab his mother's. He turned her hand up and inspected her palm for a moment, then dropped it. “Arsenic,” he announced.
“Oh, really, Lucrezia,” said Agrippina, tutting.
“You've only just met him!” added Toffana.
“At least give him dinner first,” finished Catherine.
“Nobody will be giving John dinner,” said Sherlock. He grabbed John's hand. “In fact, if any of you come near him again, I'll wall you up in my cellar for a year or two. He's not for playing games with.”
“Rude!” exclaimed Agrippina, but Sherlock didn't seem prepared to hang around to hear what the rest of his aunts had to say. He pulled John off across the square at a speed that made heads turn to look at them.
John let him, perfectly happy to be getting away from the four women. Christ, and he'd thought meeting his first girlfriend's parents had been bad. At least her dad had only threatened to cut off John's penis, he hadn't actually tried to poison him.
“Did your mother just try to kill me?” he asked once they were out of the square and Sherlock had slowed his pace slightly.
“Don't take it personally,” said Sherlock. “She tries to kill almost everyone.”
“Right,” said John. “Okay.” He let a moment pass. “Suddenly, Mycroft's kidnappings seem almost normal.”
“Yes, he'd only kill you if he had a good reason,” said Sherlock. “Or if he thought you were with-holding cake.”
The road they were walking down was busier than the ones they had walked along earlier. It was lined with what looked like shops, although after glancing in the window of a butcher's, John was carefully avoiding examining their wares too closely.
A man walked past with an axe buried in his brain, but John was getting better at not staring too obviously. He merely examined the edges of the wound out of the corner of his eye and concluded that the axe must have been there for quite some time. Must make getting through low doorways a pain, he thought.
Sherlock led John to a high iron gate made up of several old iron bars, and stepped between two that were bent apart enough to form a large gap. “Come on,” he said. “You may as well meet my other parent.”
John followed him through. On the other side of a gate was the old graveyard that he had seen from Father Christmas's sleigh. At ground level, he could see that it was filled with more mausoleums and elaborate memorials than John had ever seen outside of a film.
“No one here is really afraid of living the stereotype, are they?” he asked as they passed a large statue of a screaming figure.
Sherlock snorted. “I told you it was dull. Endlessly predictable.”
“You also said that people didn't stay dead here,” pointed out John.
Sherlock shrugged. “There are ways,” he said vaguely. “Although even they can be circumvented, if you're clever enough. Ooogy-Boogy has come back several times now. Most of these graves are just for show, really. Or are inhabited by ghosts. Bloody annoying things they are.”
There was an affronted humph from behind them and John's head whipped around, but the place still seemed to be deserted. “Right,” he said carefully, and quickened his pace to be able to take Sherlock's hand again.
They headed for a corner of the graveyard that was even more overgrown than the rest and stopped in front of a line of plain-looking graves lined up against the wall. They were easily the least elaborate memorials in the whole graveyard.
“These are my mother's husbands,” said Sherlock. “That one's my father,” he said, gesturing at one that read Daniel and nothing else. “Or maybe that one,” he said, pointing to the next one, which said Mark. “When I asked her, she couldn't remember which order they came in.”
John stared at the row of graves. There had to be at least ten of them, all bearing nothing more than a first name. “These are all her husbands?” he said.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I told you they never lasted long.” He pointed at one a few graves up that said Nigel. “We're pretty certain that one's Mycroft's father.”
John looked at the names on the graves. “No surnames,” he noted.
Sherlock shook his head. “She insisted they all take hers. I think she found remembering even their first names quite a trial. The only one I remember particularly well was the last one,” he gestured at the end of the row, where a Jerry was buried, “and I can remember him losing his temper because she spent two weeks calling him James.” He shrugged. “He was dead less than a month later.”
“And he didn't come back?” asked John. “None of them did? As ghosts, or whatever else it is you have here?”
“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “They came from your world, not Halloween. She'd go out into the world, find an easy mark and seduce him. Enough sex and he'd agree to marry her and come back here with her, and then she'd play the kind of games that hurt your kind until he died.”
The way he spat out the word sex told John rather a lot about how Sherlock must have come to view it, if he grew up watching that. “Right,” he said. “So, the no-sex thing isn't a Halloween thing, then?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It mostly is. The majority of people here don't bother with it. Mummy found a way to use it as a weapon though – there are rather a lot of people who are as scared of her type of woman as they are ghosts or vampires.” He reached out and took John's hand. “The council put an end to her marriages, though. It's hard to pick up a husband when you've only got one day a year to do it in and besides, they also forbade us from actually killing people. Frightening is fine, but actually harming one of you is illegal. Apparently holidays shouldn't be deadly, they should be fun.” He spoke the last word in tones of deep disgust.
“You killed Moran,” John pointed out.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. They were a bit angry about that, but then, I was already in quite a bit of trouble. Really, how can they expect me to obey their laws when they're so unendingly stupid?”
“They don't really seem to be punishing you for it,” said John. Sherlock's cottage was hardly a prison cell, after all, and none of the people they had met had seemed to treat Sherlock like a criminal.
Sherlock shrugged. “They knew that just being here was punishment enough. Besides, Jack has a soft spot for me. We used to do experiments together when I was a child.”
A mental image flashed into John's head of a much younger version of Sherlock and a walking skeleton in a pin-striped suit bent over a corpse together. “Please never tell me what kind of experiments,” he said, forcing the image away.
Sherlock grinned at him. “I'm willing to bet they weren't as disturbing as whatever it is you're picturing.”
John shook his head. “I'm not taking that bet,” he said. “Your idea of disturbing doesn't really match up with mine. And yes, I am referring to the kidney experiment.”
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh that John could tell was entirely faked. “The kidney experiment was the logical follow-up to the case with the lobsters. You should have been able to predict that I would do it.”
“When have I ever been able to predict you?” asked John. “Almost nothing you do is what I would have expected.”
“Would you want it to be?” asked Sherlock. “Predictable is boring.”
John thought of the dull inevitability of his days back at Baker Street now that Sherlock was gone. “Yes,” he agreed softly. From the look that descended over Sherlock's face, he was thinking of the predictability of his own life now, and John squeezed his hand. Time to distract them both from the reality of their situation. “Come on, let's find some of that bread you thought might not kill me. I'm starving.”
They went back into the centre of the town where Sherlock found some pumpkin bread that, after a careful examination, he pronounced to be safe for John.
“There's a lot of pumpkin-related products here,” said John, examining the shelves of the bakery.
“I know,” said Sherlock grimly. “Pumpkins are the only thing that will really grow here.”
“Got to love a bit of pumpkin!” said the baker, who John had been trying very hard to pretend wasn't a werewolf. “Pumpkin and a bit of nice, fresh liver – the perfect diet!”
Sherlock made a face. “Dull,” he said, paying for the bread with what looked like a handful of sweets. “I never thought I'd miss your risotto this much,” he added to John. “Or a really good cup of tea.”
“There's no tea?!” exclaimed John.
Sherlock gave him a pained look. “There's pumpkin tea.”
John shuddered at just the idea.
“Lovely stuff!” said the baker, apparently oblivious to John's reaction. “Goes down a treat after a run through the woods. The only thing better is a cup of mulled blood, but that's hard to get these days.”
John blanched. Sherlock immediately put his arm around his shoulder. “Idiot!” he hissed at the baker as he steered John out of the shop.
“I told you most of what counts as food here isn't suitable for you,” he said once they were back in the street.
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John. He looked back at the bread they'd bought. “You're absolutely certain that's okay?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock confidently. “It's definitely got nothing that's poisonous to you in it, and there's only a four percent chance that it contains something that was originally human.”
“Four percent?” repeated John. He gauged his level of hunger, which was really very high given that he hadn't eaten for nearly twenty-four hours, then sighed in defeat. “I suppose I'll have to risk it, then.”
“You do enjoy a gamble,” Sherlock reminded him.
John gave him a black look. “Not the kind that could end with cannibalism,” he said.
Sherlock let out a long sigh. “So picky, John.”
Chapter Six
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no subject
Date: 2012-10-28 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-28 04:41 pm (UTC)I love John so, so much. ^_^
Father Christmas is all kinds of awesome and I love the idea of John visiting Halloweentown because he and Sherlock are both on the 'nice' list. The pair of them walking around Halloweentown was great, especially since I can mentally compare it to Nightmare Before Christmas in my head.
Looking forward to seeing how this all plays out in the end!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 02:53 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-28 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 02:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-28 05:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 02:54 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 02:00 am (UTC)But now I want them to be happy!!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 05:07 am (UTC)John stared. The man was so fat as to be round, dressed in a red suit trimmed with white fur, and had a long white beard. “Jesus Christ,” he croaked. // The man scowled. “Not at all. Father Christmas,” he said. “Or Saint Nicholas, if you want to be religious about it." and
“Oh, it's snowing.” // “Yes,” said Father Christmas, taking up the reins. “That's a side effect when I perform a Christmas miracle.”
Also love your description of the band: “They seem-” His mind went blank as he tried to think of an adjective for them. // “Yes,” agreed Sherlock. Because I could never really think of a word to describe them either, lol.
I could keep quoting all the things I liked, but I'll just say I can't wait for the last chapter. Thanks for writing this!
no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 12:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-29 06:45 am (UTC)Because i so love this world and made me so sad too... I love your desciotions of the world and the musicians asking Sherlock for a Jam session was amazing.
I would love if Sally would intervine for them maybe taking their case to the council as Sherlock is semi human and John can't live without him? Sally knows all about a love who is denied and live in secrecy and how hurts... I think she will be on their side.
I will tell you a sad and most happy story.
10 years ago or litlle less there was a young mother and elder sister who loved this movie with all her heart and of course her baby siter who was beautiful and just turn her hair black and red and was very pale was watching this movie with her and the little baby boy. The little baby didn't talk like other babies and he was 10 months old, but he walks like a pro and says only "no"... During the movie that little baby found the most awesome movie of all times he watch how the town's people of halloween aplauds his king, so he did the same and laugh... And his mama and his aunt were very happy because little baby boy never ever has clap his hands before or watched something with that intensity. So this beautiful memory was atached to this movie forever to the young mother mind.... Also the fact that her beautiful baby sister was making for herself a costume of Sally for Halloween...
Life was wonderful.
The young mother didn't knew then that she would atach a terrible sadness to this movie too, because her beautiful sister died one month after halloween and she forever felt that her sister and her were kept in time in sally sad song when Jack departure in Xmas eve. Because her baby sister never got married with the love of her life as she was planing and the elder sister lose her beautiful and only companion.
But life continue and the little baby boy who nothing knew about his mother grief was so in love with Jack and his friends that he demands to watch the movie 3 times a day for two years since then and that his mother sing to him the songs he loved so much.
So the mother loces this movie like any other in the universe even if she cries everytime.
no subject
Date: 2012-11-04 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-31 01:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-04 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-24 08:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-24 06:03 pm (UTC)