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There’s something special about the last day of October; even Sherlock had to admit that. It’s funny how tradition commemorating the dead managed to spark so much joy amongst young children. He did not particularly honour the dead people except when they died under mysterious circumstances.
Now, however, he had a different reason to truly “celebrate” Halloween, and that reason had come up to him about four days ago, jumping up and down while tugging on his dressing-gown, “Daddy, Daddy, everyone is so excited about Halloweennnnnn.” She dragged out the word to show her enthusiasm about what apparently her friends and her teachers at pre-school seemed to have told her about. “They’ve decorated everything with spiders ‘n’ pumpkins ‘n’ twats!”
“You mean bats, love,” John told her, speaking over his shoulder while he prepared dinner.
“Yes! Bats!”
“Well, there are enough twats walking this earth.” He pronounced it in an American way just as Rosie had. “It wouldn’t be surprising if people gave them a purpose and used them as decoration.”
“Sherlock…,” John reprimanded him, but he merely shrugged, and said, “They’re likely not even suitable for that purpose.”
John shot him a look at Sherlock’s utter delight.
“What is a twat, Daddy?”
“A very dumb and annoying person.”
Rosie started to giggle heartily at that. “Daddy, can we also buy pumpkins? Pleeeeaaasss!”
“We could also decorate the living room with human remains. How is th–” Sherlock suggested but was cut off by John immediately.
“Don’t you even finish that sentence.”
“We already have a skull, so why shouldn't we?” He was being petulant now.
“No human remains in our living room. No backtalk.”
“What are human remains, Papa?” Rosie wanted to know.
“A skeleton, human bones.”
“We also have that in pre-school!” Rosie answered. “Papercuts of it!”
“That’s great, love, but your Dad meant–”
“What is left of a dead body,” Sherlock explained.
“Ew, no, Daddy. They smell bad, don’t they? I don’t want a smelly living room. I want a pumpkin.”
“And you’ll get one. When Daddy picks you up from school tomorrow, you can stop by the supermarket and buy one, all right?”
“Or we could just stop by the morgue instea–”
John set down the plate of soup in front of him and shot him a look that meant he would sleep on the sofa for at least three days if he didn’t shut up instantly. He simply couldn’t risk that.
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When Sherlock picked up Rosie from pre-school the following day, she already sputtered out exactly what kind of pumpkin she wanted. It had to be big, she kept repeating. And orange!
“They only have orange pumpkins at Tesco’s.”
"Good, because it has to be orange,” she kept repeating.
Sherlock had imagined they would be greeted by an entire basket of pumpkins when they entered the supermarket, but he was proved wrong. There were none to be seen at all. Determined not to disappoint his daughter and even more determined not to waste any more time than necessary doing the shopping, he walked up to a shop assistant and simply asked. Rosie was quicker, though. “Do you have orange pumpkins?” she asked without even saying hello.
“Are there pumpkins that aren’t orange?” the assistant asked in return.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but forced himself not to fall into a lecturing monologue about the different varieties of pumpkins.
She pointed to the vegetable aisle, but there were no orange pumpkins left.
“But we need an orange pumpkin…” Rosie said desperately.
“I can have a look in the storing place for you,” the assistant suggested and proved to be less annoying in the end when they actually brought back a big orange pumpkin. Rosie held out her hands in excitement, ready to accept the damn thing as if it were a treasure.
She obviously had difficulties carrying it to the cashier, but she wouldn’t accept Sherlock’s help who offered it repeatedly. “No, Daddy. … No, I can carry it. … Yes, I’m sure.”
Once they left the shop, she had to set it down in front of her. “It really is big.”
Sherlock watched her with a little grin. “And heavy, hmm?”
She looked up at him sheepishly. “… A bit.”
He knelt down and reached for the pumpkin. “How’s that? I’ll carry it for you and you watch out that I do it correctly.”
“All right, but be careful!”
“Of course, Watson.”
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Buying the pumpkin was one thing. Carving it out was another. John would have figured Sherlock knew how to work with knives but watching him carve out that big orange monster gave him anxiety that he couldn’t keep looking away for more than five seconds. Sherlock’s grunts and muttered curses didn’t allow him to anyway.
“What are you even doing there, Sherlock?” he asked, utterly horrified. The state he was in and the way he was holding the knife made him look like a distraught serial killer who did not know exactly what he was supposed to do with the tool in his hand. There were pieces of pumpkin in his hair, creating a nice contrast between the dark curls and the orange fruit pulp.
“I would make a soup out of the interior stuff, but I don’t know if I have to arrange your funeral first.”
“Don’t be absurd. I can handle this.”
“You may be able to cut open a corpse, but this…,” he pointed at the pumpkin, “doesn’t look like it’s going to end well. Neither for the orange pal nor you.”
“Fine, you try it then. It’s harder than it looks.”
It was the weakest excuse John had ever heard him utter, but he must have been grateful for being able to hand over the task.
“Let’s see, then. Give me a different knife. This one’s not sharp enough.”
“And you talk about my funeral arrangements.” Sherlock shook his head as he walked to the kitchen to retrieve the sharpest knife they owned.
“I’ve done this a couple of times, unlike you it seems.”
“Pumpkins haven’t been on the agenda so far, no.”
John grinned when Sherlock returned and handed him the knife. “Good to know you have weaknesses.”
The face Sherlock made when he took a beath to throw a petulant reply at him was priceless.
“I do not–”
“You have pumpkin in your hair, love.”
Rosie, who was sitting on the sofa, watched the two of them from a safe distance between herself and the sharp knife with a smile playing on her lips. “You do, Daddy,” she laughed.
“Unbelievable,” he sighed as he retreated to the bathroom to make himself look presentable again.
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The pumpkin looked wonderful, scary but happy, and with a candle that Rosie had put inside, it tinted the living room into a soft and cosy atmosphere. John had used parts of the fruit pulp and made delicious pumpkin soup with the secret recipe of Sherlock’s mother. The leftovers had found their way into pumpkin cupcakes with chocolate sprinkles. Obviously, Sherlock was not a sweet one, and he definitely did not eat four of them as soon as they had cooled down. And of course, he did not have a stain of chocolate above his upper lip. Rosie laughed at the sight although she had chocolate stains on her face as well.
“Where?” Sherlock asked and kept licking his lips when John informed him about his apparent inability to eat, but it was still there.
“Come, I’ll show you,” John answered, taking his hand and leading him to the bathroom. Once they were out of sight, he let his hand disappear in Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down into a kiss, licking over his upper lip and tasting the sweetness of chocolate and cinnamon that was still lingering on Sherlock’s tongue.
A quiet sigh escaped from their chests at the same time, leaving them smiling against each other’s lips. “What a treat,” John whispered.
“You just wait for the tricks,” Sherlock replied, rubbing his nose against John’s a few times.
“Oh, I can’t wait for the tricks,” John grinned. “I bet you tricked everyone who didn’t give you treats as a child during your Halloween tour.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Well, that is the whole point of it, or am I wrong?”
“I suppose Rosie will learn from the master, then.”
“Oh, you can bet your pumpkin carving skills that she will.”
“I’ll bet my pumpkin carving skills that I can’t wait to see you in your Halloween costume.”
“And I bet that you can’t wait either to take it off of me again either once we get home afterwards.” His lewd, suggestive voice made it even harder for John to let go of him again. But now was not the time. Not when Rosie was waiting for them to help her with her costume.
“That holds true for any clothes you’re wearing,” he answered and kissed him once more, lingering for a few seconds more. These moments were to be cherished.
“Well, good,” Sherlock told him and kissed his cheek before pulling away, making it easier for him as always. “Now, let’s get ready for trick or treats.”
He nodded. “Yes, our treats can wait a little longer.”
“There’ll be treats, then?”
“Hmm, that depends.”
“On?”
“Daddy, Papa! We have to get ready. Megan will be here in 15 minutes!” Rosie called from the kitchen.
“How good you are at keeping our daughter from getting high on all the sugar she’s going to get,” John laughed.
"That should be manageable." Sherlock winked at him and opened the door for John, who stepped out of the bathroom, ready for an evening filled with cold night air in his lungs, the chatter of Rosie and her friend, with utter excitement when they receive another handful of sweets to be put into their bags, Sherlock’s repertoire of tricks to those who wouldn’t open the door or shut it in their faces, Sherlock’s hand in his own while they would wait for the kids to return with more candy, warming up by the fire afterwards once all the treats would have been distributed fairly, and even more treats just between the two of them.
Happy Halloween indeed.