Sherlock was never very fond of Halloween, not even as a child, though it had tended to be his favourite. All that opportunity for costuming, for elaborate pranks, for scaring the hell out of peopleâŚthat was the holiday Sherlock loved. Not so much the absurdity of sweets that had often taken him the better part of six months to eat (after hiving some of it to his overindulgent big brother), but that seemed as much a part of it as anything else these days.
Tonight, for instance, he was walking along hand-in-hand with Emma. She was dressed as a fairy, little wire wings waddling back and forth and candy basket adorned with glitter glue and ribbons, but he simply wore his normal attire, telling everyone he met that he was costumed as the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. True enough, even if unspirited.
Another forced smile and a âthank the manâ later, Sherlock was considering calling it a night, even though Emmaâs energy wasnât even the tiniest bit depleted and her bag was half-full. He really didnât like all the forced mingling, and he had a very hard time mot showing it. It was all so painfully repetitive: walk up the steps, ring the bell, pretend to be impressed by the decorations, fake a smile, remind Emma to thank the homeowners for her sweets, head back to the street, repeat. Previously, he could have had some superstitious sap come to his door and report a haunting or something, but fatherhood sort of took the fun out of it.
But then there was something that didnât seem to belong, something that clearly had the atmosphere for Halloween but not made of plastic and ultraviolet light, something that had enough static electricity to make the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end.
"Stay here," he told Emma, and after a hesitant step forward, she did as asked. Reaching long fingers forward, every instinct screaming not to do so, the red and blackâŚwhatever it was (portal?) warped and grabbed him, sucking him in as sure as if heâd leapt forward into it, completely disorientating him.
