A Halloween Tale

Halloween meant absolutely nothing to Sherlock Holmes. Originally meant as a three-day festival to remember the departed Saints, it had devolved into a ridiculous custom of going about in costumes that were outlandishly fantastical; babies as pumpkins, little girls and boys as princesses and dragons, adults going about in skimpy outfits hoping for a hook-up. 

And so, like nearly every Halloween for the past 3 decades, Sherlock was alone, hunched over his microscope in 221B in the darkening evening, the only light coming from the slide lamp. Thus far, no child had ventured to his doorbell. 

Happily content in the quiet, Sherlock lost himself in the experiment for hours. 

The black of night had fallen and he was just about to make a mark in his notebook when the sound of a floorboard creaking caught his attention. He paused. 


Turning his head, he looked into the lounge. The moonlight shone across the floor, casting long shadows of his music stand, the chairs, and a multitude of book piles.


He sat up and held his breath, listening intently.


Silently, he got up and crept toward the lounge, adeptly avoiding all the floorboards that might give him away. He reached out and slid his hand up the wall, feeling for the light switch and, finding it, flicked it on. 


He scowled. The light from his microscope was still on, so it wasn’t a power failure. The lights weren’t burned out… someone had been in his flat and planned this.

His heart was beginning to pound harder, the adrenaline and excitement heightening his senses as he stepped fully into the lounge. 



He spun around. The intruder had gone around him through the landing; they knew his flat and how to maneuver one step ahead of him.

He grinned with growing excitement. This adversary held promise for an interesting challenge.

As he crept back into the kitchen, his eyes were immediately drawn to the open door at the end of the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open, a sliver of moonlight shining through. And he knew he had shut it this morning, as he always did.

He made his way cautiously down the hall. 


He paused. A bell?

A faint scent filled the air. He inhaled deeply and ran through the past few minutes in his mind. 

And there was only one conclusion he could come to.

Oh, yes.

With a swagger in his step and a smirk on his face, he strode into the bedroom. There, laying on her side in his bed, was a smug Molly Hooper. Clearly having lied (rather convincingly) about working tonight, she was dressed in a tight black leotard with ample cleavage and opaque stockings. A black headband with cat ears, a fake tail, and a painted-on nose and whiskers completed her look.

Sherlock casually placed his hands in his trouser pockets and looked her over with an appreciative eye.

‘There appears to be a stray cat in my bed,’ he commented, his voice deep.

Molly sat up on her knees and twirled her silky tail in her hand, the other hand reaching out to slide along the lapel of his dressing gown.

‘Do you intend to put me out?’ She pouted demurely.

Sherlock grinned wickedly and reached over to shut the door ‘Oh, I’m afraid not. You’re one stray I intend to keep permanently.’

Her giggles turned into squeals of delight as he pounced on her.