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“You're really sure about this costume?” John asked hesitantly, tilting his head as he sized up his friend's new outfit, pure scepticism painted all over his features.
“Of course! It's perfect!” Sherlock gave him a toothy grin that was missing a canine. A bit of additional ventilation in the mouth area was one of the perks of being seven – the same age as his friend, though John was shorter and actually looked younger. Sherlock twirled around like a model on a catwalk, nearly bursting with pride. This Halloween he had really done his best to prepare the greatest costume ever made. Well, his mum helped a lot by buying the appropriate clothes and providing make-up. Credit where it was due. Still, he was the brains of the operation.
“But you look just like me!” John protested, still eying him intently. They both wore the same torn jeans, the same bloodied navy blue hoodie, the same grey sneakers (though Sherlock's were cleaner and one size bigger). The absolutely coolest elements of their outfits were the deathly pallors on their faces and the trickles of blood painted from the corners of their lips all the way down to their chins.
“That's the whole point!” persuaded Sherlock, a mischievous smile on his face. “People always think that twins are scary and with our matching clothes we look like ghostly twins. We're gonna get so much candy, you'll see! We won't be able to finish them before Easter!”
John still wasn't convinced, so Sherlock had no other choice but to play his trump card.
“Come on, we'll go to your house and scare your sister! Just imagine how terrified she'll be! She's going to wet her bed for at least a month!”
A bright smile appeared on John's face. Sherlock's plan of dressing as twins was pretty stupid, but, truthfully, he'd be on board with anything that could help him get back at his mean older sister. Barely twelve, but already thinking she was the smartest person alive. They had to bring her down a peg.
“Okay. Count me in.”
* * *
“Trick or treat!” John and Sherlock exclaimed in unison, grinning menacingly in their identical costumes. “We’re the murdered twins, boo!”
The lady that opened the door gave them an odd look, but without another word she quickly threw some caramels inside the bag Sherlock was holding.
“Told you,” Sherlock gloated when they left the porch and strutted energetically to another house. “The bag's almost full! You should never doubt my leadership.”
John chuckled and shoved him playfully with his elbow. “Yeah, yeah, Your Highness. Let's go.”
They manoeuvred between other children dressed up in whimsical outfits of a princess Spiderman in a tutu or Rapunzel with her hair made out of old newspapers. In Sherlock's humble opinion no one else had such great and freakish costumes like he and John, so they didn't mingle with others, not needing the additional company. Convinced that they would get the most sweets of all the residents of the neighbourhood, they haughtily ignored everyone else.
At least the crowds of people had replaced the cars on the streets tonight. John always said that he hated cars and wished that people still used horses. Sherlock thought that this idea was rather silly because cars were obviously much faster and could take more passengers. A group of four people going somewhere on the back of the same horse? Unlikely, unless some poor soul got glued to the even poorer horse’s belly.
Carefully, they approached John’s house. His parents were probably out, as they both worked for a big company and always stayed late at the office, all day, every day. At this hour Harry would be there, though. Halloween was John’s favourite holiday, but his sister seemed to hate it. She had turned all the lights off, pretending that no one was there, so she wouldn’t have to deal with pesky kids that came knocking to get sweets. The boys weren’t fooled by her ploy. The small window leading to the cellar was always slightly ajar and they were small enough to slide through it without much effort.
Dust and cobwebs seemed to cover everything, making breathing hard, as if they were in some ancient tomb. Spiders’ efforts had turned an innocent can of paint into a monster’s nest and an old hose into a lurking python. All this dirt was icky, but Sherlock decided that filth would only make their costumes look scarier.
They left their candy bag near the window to retrieve later, as they came to the conclusion that it was better to have their hands free while haunting others. Trying not to giggle, the boys started climbing slowly to the living room.
“I bet Harry's in her room, texting with a friend,” whispered John. His sister took that stupid phone even to the bathroom. If there were an app to flush your toilet, she'd surely buy it on the spot.
Sherlock and John snuck across the silent, darkened room and moved to another set of stairs, swift and efficient as two ninjas. Sherlock was a little scared, but he obviously couldn't show it in front of his friend. Instead he quietly urged John to hurry up. When they finally reached the second floor they heard something they didn't expect.
Crying.
Sherlock and John exchanged brief glances, not sure what to do. The noise was coming from Harry's room. After a moment of listening with bated breaths, they decided to check it out. With utmost caution the boys padded nervously down the hall and opened the door just enough to take a peek inside.
A small lava lamp on the desk made the room bright enough for them to notice a girl, who was sitting on the bed with her thighs pressed to her chest and forehead resting on her knees. Her shoulders twitched uncontrollably as wave after wave of sobs racked her body.
Sherlock looked at John helplessly. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The plan was to jump out of the corner and scare the living daylights out of John's sister. Crying wasn't something they had anticipated. Screams and yelling afterwards, yes. Tears before, that wasn’t the deal.
“Um... Harry?” Sherlock spoke haltingly, pushing the door fully open. “Are you okay?”
At least they managed to frighten her. She gave a start of surprise, focusing her widened eyes on the intruder.
“Sherlock? What...” She trailed off, gradually taking in the boy's appearance. Perhaps she then figured out the reason behind their visit because her lips twisted in an expression of fury. “Is this some kind of joke?!”
“Um, it's just...”
“Out! OUT!” she snarled, throwing her pillow at the boy to drive the point home.
Sherlock and John scuttled away as fast as they could and didn't stop running until they were two streets away. So terrified were they that they had almost forgotten their bag of candy.
“Well, that didn't go as planned,” wheezed Sherlock, as he leaned against the lamppost to catch his breath.
“Not really, no...”
“It's getting late. You can stay at my place tonight. Your parents won't be back until morning anyway. We're gonna eat sweets and tell ghost stories all night!”
John didn't have anything against that proposition. “Okay, sounds like fun!”
* * *
“Why do you think Harry was crying?” John asked suddenly when they were passing by a bakery. He sounded worried.
“I don't know. Maybe her girlfriend dumped her or something. She's nasty.”
John agreed with a nod, but he didn't seem cheered up. “I hope that nothing bad happened to my parents...”
“Of course not! Don't be silly. When you come back in the morning they'll be totally fine and arguing about something or other like always.”
Oddly enough, that image was reassuring. John smiled, feeling a bit better.
About fifteen minutes later the boys were knocking on the Holmeses' door. Sherlock's mom opened almost immediately.
“Oh, here you are! I was starting to get worried. Did you have fun?”
“Yeah!” Sherlock responded with enthusiasm, coming inside with his friend. The incident at John's house was long forgotten now. “Look how much candy we got!” he boasted, shaking his heavy bag to prove how successful they were.
“That's lovely, dear.”
“With whom were you collecting candy, William?” asked Sherlock's father sternly, entering the hallway.
Sherlock scowled at the much hated name, but then gave him a disbelieving look, as if that question was the stupidest thing he had heard in his entire life. “With John. Duh.”
No one said anything for a while. It was odd. Sherlock didn't like it. His parents had been behaving weird recently.
“This is getting ridiculous!” Sherlock's father groaned when the silence became unbearable.
“Robert!” Sherlock's mom warned sharply, but the man didn't let himself be silenced.
“No, Violet. I'm fed up with this. How long will this folly last?”
Sherlock's mother clammed up, her sad eyes fixed on her son. Sherlock was getting more and more frightened.
“Why did you help him with that outfit?”
“I thought it would help him remember and recover!” she defended herself weakly.
“Recover? That boy needs a psychiatrist! He's delusional!”
“Robert!”
“It's true! It's been nearly a month!”
“It's hard for him, he needs more time!”
“He needs a reality check!”
“Come on, John. Let's go!” murmured Sherlock, drained by all the shouting. He grabbed his friend's hand and started leading him to his room. But Sherlock's father didn't leave them in peace. His cruel words rang loudly through the house.
“John was killed in a car accident a month ago! A bunch of drunk teenagers ran him over at full speed, remember? He’s dead! Accept it!”
Sherlock felt his eyes water, but he ignored his father, as he always did when the man told lies. The boys dashed to his room and he slammed the door behind them with all his strength.
John paced to the mirror on the side of the closet and stood there, looking attentively at his reflection.
“You're not dead,” Sherlock whispered with conviction, the corners of his lips tilting downwards.
John couldn't take his eyes off his paleness, all the blood on his clothes, and the ugly dent in his chest and ribs, visible even through his hoodie.
“You're not dead, John,” Sherlock repeated, his voice cracking. “You're not dead because dead people leave and never come back. You can’t be dead. You’re my best friend. You have to stay with me.”
Hearing the pain and plea in his friend's words, John turned to him and smiled. “Don't worry. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be with you as long as you want.”
Sherlock sighed with relief. He didn't care if his parents thought he was crazy. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered as long as he had John. And he knew that John would stay with him to the very end. Maybe even longer.