As you remember me.

John dreams of Sherlock coming home one Halloween night. Maybe he does?


1. Nothing to Fear but fear itself.

"Boys and girls of every age, wouldn't you like to see something strange..." The kids sang as John Watson made his way home from work. John remembered the song; his sister had adored the nightmare before Christmas when she was younger.


These days weren't so bad.

Not so strange.

Not that John would pass up on that. Something unusual, something different, just to jolt him out of the hibernation he had permanently sustained since... That day.

Since Sherlock had left him.

Since Sherlock had died.

His limp was bad today, there was something about the mock gothic and pseudo paganism that reminded him of Sherlock. He remembered the detectives total distain for the festival. His biting remarks and horror of trick or treat.

He also remembers getting very drunk one Halloween night and Sherlock telling him ghost stories... And it wasn't just the stories that sent shivers down Johns spine. 

"This is Halloween, this is Halloween."


He decides to pick up flowers on the way home. The black ribbon and the skulls and the dark red roses are oddly apt he thinks darkly.


"Pumpkins scream in the dead of night."


He makes his way to the graveyard, he doesn't like it. It's too big, too modern, too... Inelegant.

Sherlock Holmes should be resting in ground with surroundings that befitted him.

Somewhere with a big old gothic church and John could be like old Bobby from Grey-friers, who stayed at his masters grave until he too passed on.

John wishes in many ways he could just do that. Still these days the RSPCA would come along and put old Bobby out of his misery long before his time.


"Trick or treat..."


John trails through the damp leaves, past anonymous graves. There is only one that John sees. 
There is ice in the atmosphere and a frost is just starting to crisp the landscape up. Johns feet crunch slightly.

He reaches the grave. He reaches out and touches the cold hard granite. The only connection to the man he once knew. The man he'd follow into hell. 
And on this night of all nights John swears he'd sell his soul to the devil to see him again.

The stone is cold and pale in the blue tinted moonlight. It is deathly quiet. John wonders about how Sherlock would look now beneath the ground. His face gone, those blue, green storm clouded eyes rotted, his lips eaten away, his cheeks hollow and his skin, if any were even left, like paper that he could poke his finger through.

He shudders and feels sick. He chokes out a sob of despair and want.

Because he spent all that time wanting Sherlock and now he can never have him. Never know what his skin would feel like beneath his fingers, his tongue, his body. 
Never hear what sounds might have been wrung from it in the throws of passion. 
Never know the heated core, and the twitching of lively muscle as they moved and joined and fucked.


"I am the one hiding under your bed
Teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing red"


John's knees go and he sobs out into the night. He claws the earth and grass and thinks he can almost smell the man he lost.


Eventually he finds his composure and kneels up. He's disturbed the ground and he takes a handful of the earth just to ground him.

"Bought you some flowers." He says "you'd..." A giggle "probably laugh at me if is ever done this..." He pauses "at home."

He lays the flowers on the grave and traces Sherlocks name and date of death with his finger like its a maze. A puzzle.

It always calms him. Mrs. Hudson can't see him like this again.

Finally he stands and salutes and touches one last time the cold stone.

Then he turns and matches into the night.


"This is Halloween, this is Halloween"


At home John makes tea. He stayed at Baker Street for his own piece of mind. The thought of anyone else being here was insupportable. This was where Sherlock lived. Still did in many ways.

"Good job I've got you." He mutters to the skull on the mantelpiece. The skull doesn't reply. He doesn't have to, John always knows what he's saying. 
"I know... I know... I should have gone to Mary's Halloween party. Get out. That's only because you want the place to yourself so you can do some kind of experi..." John stops himself. It happens too often.

He sighs and makes his tea. Two cups, as always. It's just a habit he tells himself. No harm in it. He'll drink the second cup later anyway even if it has got sugar in it.

He makes a fire and puts on radio four. It's a story about a vampire. Mark Gatiss introduces as the man in black... His voice floats through the flat.

The story is about a man who on All Hallows' eve who calls upon Satan to bring him back his love.

John snoozes through the play, but he remembers something about a vampire and a coat... His dreams are erotic and all twisted up as he sees Sherlocks eyeless face appear, bony fingers grating against skin and teeth held in a rictus grin.


"I am the one hiding under your stairs."


John wakes with a jump to the shipping forecast. It is ending and then there are more stories of ghosts and apparitions, of magic and witches and wizards and hobbits. John frowns, he's hard. His face contorts into a frown as he try's to remember his dream. Luckily for him he cannot.

"This is the night of the thin veil." The broadcaster declares as the forecast ends "when the spirt world crosses with our own. Remember anything could happen... Sleep tight." 
"Sleep tight yourself." John mutters as he places his empty mug by the other in the kitchen and heads for bed. 
He doesn't notice that it wasn't he that drank the other tea.


John texts Mary by habit. It's not that he doesn't want Mary in his life, he just doesn't know if he's ready to let go. He knows she will only wait so long. She wants marriage and he'd be fool not to marry her. But what would happen to Sherlock then? He'd have no home left if John left.


"Fingers like snakes and spiders in my hair"


John brushes his teeth and hair and changes for the night. He sleeps in Sherlocks room now. Nothing has altered since he left except for a photo of John and the lads in Afghanistan and one of Sherlock himself. Even that is cut from a newspaper. It saddens John to his core that he didn't have a single photo of Sherlock that he could remember him by. Except the one in his head that is; but John thinks that's evolving, making him something else...

It doesn't matter though, it's the only thing that makes him come these days. Even when he's with Mary it's that perfect image he holds in his head that he's really with.

He's already with Sherlock in spirt if not in fact.

He groans as he caresses himself, pinching and plumping his nipples just so and then taking himself in hand. Imagining pale cool fingers encircling his cock. Hears that baritone egging him on as he ruts, calling his name as John pounds into him. With a whispered 'Sherlock' John spills and cries hot tears and rolls over to sleep.


"Something's waiting now to pounce..."


It's maybe three in the morning when John wakes again. The night is still and he can hear Big Ben chime. But his instincts are on alert.

Someone is in the room with him.

He stills his breathing but cannot hear anything. Not a breath or a sound. He feels for his gun, he still sleeps with it tucked under Sherlocks pillow. Feels with his fingers.

Shit. It's not there. John panics slightly and goes to shift his weight as silently as he can. It's then he realises something really really is very wrong. He is weighted down. Something is sitting on top of him.

John freezes stock still eyes wide and heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He can see a shadow now in the dark above him. The moon casting some relief onto the darkened scene.

John gulps hard and try's to get his brain to figure out what to do. He's fucked as things stand. A million horrors flash through his head. A Halloween sacrifice, torture, rape...

A side roll. He tries it with the intention of surprising his captor and sending him flying. But it seems that the thing is immovable.

Shit. Shit.


"And how you'll scream!"


Then hands are gripping, forcing Johns wrists down into the soft mattress, John thrashes, try's to buck off his unknown attacker, breathing coming out heavy and hard. Until suddenly he stills.

Thumbs against pulse points, cold as ice, counting each strong beat of Johns broken heart.

John wants to speak but can't... Because it can't be.

Finally John knows he's gone mad. Either that or he's dreaming. Having a nightmare again.

But it all seems so real.

Thumbs brush once over those points, grip relaxing but not enough for John to risk flight. Hope has bloomed in his chest now too, he knows it's silly, a fantasy and he's probably going to die but he has to ask.



"Aren't you scared? Well that's just fine."


It's a rumble of laughter that answers and it's not what John was expecting to hear, not what he wanted to hear, but it doesn't matter.

Because it is.

And it's real.

He's real.

"How?" John breathes. 
"Does it matter?" Sherlock asks.


Lips meet Johns, cold as snow. Wrists are freed as the apparition divests John of his clothing.

Warmth is sinking into cold flesh and now John can see because the moon is shining in at the window.

Sherlock is white like ivory, his black hair tousled, and he's naked, every muscle perfect.

John sighs out his relief. Unworldly eyes meet his, devoted and adoring and needy.

"Yes John." He sighs. Hands drift over Johns body caressing and tending the body he knows has craved him since the beginning, since the end. In dreams and nightmares and phantasms great and small. From John's lips down over his jaw and neck. Fingers drift there a moment, feeling for pulse, for warmth and life.

Because as much as John craves Sherlocks cold touch Sherlocks craves Johns warmth.

Fingers drift over nipples and roll them and John is shaking, from shock, from desire, from fear. His heart doesn't know what it's doing. Lips on his, growing warmer, stealing Johns heat. Trailing down as fingertips tickle through the fine hairs on Johns belly and lower. John reaches up for the beautiful creature above him. He's exactly as John remembers, maybe more beautiful even than that. He touches the cold face that seems to flush the more he touches. He feels Sherlocks mouth with his fingers, tracing the extraordinary shape, his high high cheekbones, his straight nose.

John grows bolder still, down over throat and neck. Feeling for a flutter of pulse that doesn't come. John feels tears on his cheeks but Sherlocks kisses them away and wraps cold fingers around John erect cock.

John jolts at the sensation, forgets his sadness as Sherlocks hand slides and moves on his glans.

Sherlocks nipples are hard little peaks and John darts up just enough to lick them and Sherlock rumbles out an unearthly noise.

The sound is sex and Johns cock jumps and twitches as the air seems to become electric.

Sherlock shifts and John sees his cock, stood proud amongst smoky dark curls. He wants to touch but Sherlock won't let him. Not yet. It's not time.

Johns mouth falls open as Sherlock moves his cool arse over his cock. He ruts at the crease there as Sherlock kisses him deeper and deeper. And then Sherlock raises up and takes him in. Slowly inch by inch Johns feels damp tight heat. It seems there is some warmth to be had but to Sherlock it is like a dart of red hot steel has entered his body, warming his cold cold insides.

Sherlock moves slowly and allows John to touch him gently. John wraps his hand around Sherlocks cool skin, like wet silk wrapped around carved oak.

Sherlock moans out, his voice seeming to penetrate John's very core, his heart is shattered and pounding and desires more more more.

Sherlocks bends to John and they kiss and Johns hips snap up to fuck the man he's loved so long.

Hard, harder, skin on skin, warming, heating, fucking until John cries out in anguished ecstasy.

Sherlock pushes down onto
Johns pulsing cock, being filled to the brim with swimming warmth. He finds Johns neck and licks at the cartroid artery. It's pulses alive beneath it's confines of skin so close Sherlock can taste the tang of blood and heat and life.


"Everybody scream, everbody scream..."


John try's to milk Sherlock to completion as he shudders but that's not what Sherlock wants. He pushes Johns hands away and finds his mouth.

"Open." He commands, placing fingers inside "suck." John does so, he is boneless and placid and oh so ready for Sherlock now.

After a moment Sherlock pulls his fingers away. Good and wet. 
He rolls John slightly and moves him so that he is open to him. All of him.

He touches Johns arsehole and it flexes under the cool touch. 
"W... What are you doing?" John manages. 
"My turn." Sherlock replies, dark and dripping with intent. He rubs his pads over Johns hole. Quite untouched but looser than normal due to the force of Johns orgasm.

He rims the twitching muscle for some moments, John begins to whimper with desire. His cock showing renewed interest in proceedings. 
When John is canting just a little Sherlock breaches him. It takes both John's and his own breath away. 
"Sherlock..." John moans 
"Oh John... My John... You were always ready for me weren't you? Sherlock whispers in return.

The heat of John, of being inside John is like nothing Sherlock has ever had before. Hot hot blood pulsing around under that tight muscle that clenches and sucks and wants more.

Sherlock gives more. He thrusts his finger into that tight space until John is writhing, squirming, mindless and then he adds more. Stretching the man, opening up his heated core. He strokes the bundle of nerves inside and John jolts like he's had an electric shock. He strokes the outsides first, slowly, milking the man with just his fingers. Moving in pressing on the more sensitive areas until John is a mindless creature.

Three fingers deep and Sherlock can't take it anymore. John is begging him incoherent and desperate.

The sweetest torture Sherlock thinks as he withdraws and positions himself over his love ready for the last act.


"I am the shadow on the moon at night
Filling your dreams to the brim with fright."


John screamed into the night as Sherlock finally sank with one swift movement into him. Every muscle screamed, his hands scrabbling for grip, for ground but there was nothing but fire and ice.

His vision whited as Sherlock kissed him, John tasted blood, his own. Sharp teeth bit into his lip and tasted him.

"Are you mine John?" The question rang at the blue white edges of ecstatic pain and pleasure. "Mine?"

"Yes" John was out of his head, gone. Sherlock seemed to grow inside of him, stretching him, splitting him. Glorious friction on already grated nerves, fantasy and reality distorting.

"Say your mine."

Ice, Ice deep inside John's body, teeth at this throat, double penetration and the glorious kiss of an opiate.

"I'm yours...!" John screamed horsely and came and came, as his body was taken by ice and stillness and was filled in ways he never thought possible.

"Yes My John... Always my John." Swirled in his head as he blacked out from life.


"Tender lumplings everywhere
Life's no fun without a good scare..."


John heard vaguely in the distance a song he once thought he'd known. He woke and Sherlock smiled at him, dressed for going out although John still wore his nightwear. 
"Ready to go?" Sherlock asked a roguish sparkle in his eyes. 
"Where?" John asked still dazed. 
Sherlock grinned and kissed him ecstatically; 
"Anywhere! Everywhere!" He raised an eyebrow coquettishly "could be dangerous." He murmured. 
And then John was up and wrapped in Sherlocks coat because he was only in his PJ's for goodness sake... And what was the rush? After all as John said; they did have all the time in the world.


My dearest friend,
if you don't mind
I'd like to join you by your side
Where we could gaze into the stars
and sit together, now and forever
for it is plain, as anyone can see,
We're simply meant to be.


Mrs Hudson found the note a week later inside the skull.

"He said it could be dangerous; how could I resist an invitation such as that. JW."

Mrs. Hudson just smiled and hummed and cleaned. It was all fine.



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