BBC Sherlock - Students

Dr. John Watson shook his head in bemusement as he entered the flat.

He could smell food, Carbonara if he wasn't mistaken. This could only mean one thing.

One of Sherlock's lesser known but more endearing habits was his tendency, when a case had been solved, to make up for his lack of eating and sleeping during his investigation. Running on the glee and adrenaline high of being proved right, he would go whipping around the kitchen like a whirlwind as he ate half his body-weight in food before crashing on the sofa and sleeping for about twenty hours solid. As the detective found the depression and boredom of inactivity began to sink in soon after, John had learned to savour the time while it lasted as soon after he knew Sherlock would be shooting holes in the walls again.

As John entered their front room, his eyes were automatically drawn to the sofa.

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa in an angular tangle of elbows, knees and lanky legs. He was snoring quietly, one hand resting on Gladstone who was cuddled into his shoulder like a living hot water bottle. Sherlock's small, contented smile was just visible under the post-it attached to his forehead informing John that there was indeed Carbonara and Sherlock had set aside a portion in the fridge for him next to the jar of ears. There was also a post-script informing him that the milk was booby trapped so John would have to use the powdered stuff if he wanted a cup of tea.

John briefly leant down and tickled Gladstone's ears. The puppy looked up sleepily and licked his fingers. To judge by how dozy the dog was, Sherlock had also taken him for a walk and fed him. Uncharacteristically thoughtful of him . . .

In a surge of affection for his flatmate, John retrieved Sherlock's coat and tucked it over him like a blanket, being careful not to smother the puppy.

Sherlock gave a small happy mumble and snuggled into the coat.

Turning his back, John ambled into the kitchen to investigate the Carbonara.

At that moment he heard footsteps hammering up the stairs. Sticking his head back around the door he was just in time to witness Ophelia bursting into the flat.

"Uncle Sherlock!" The girl bundled the figure on the sofa, causing Sherlock to jerk awake with a surprised yell. His reflexive thrash caused the entire sofa to buck, promptly throwing the two of them to the floor with a triumphant cry of 'BARREL ROLL!' from Ophelia. Gladstone, who had had the good sense to jump out of the way when Ophelia entered, just looked at the pair on the floor. If he had been human, John would have sworn the dog was rolling his eyes.

"Wha'?" Sherlock yelped, his movements jerky with surprise and the disorientation which comes from rude awakenings, until he caught sight of a familiar head of purple hair. "Ophelia! What the bloody hell?!"

"I've finally got my birthday sorted!" The girl crowed, punching the air and nearly braining her uncle in the process.

"Oh they've agreed to let you use the hall then?" John asked. Ophelia had been around earlier in the week complaining that her lecturers wouldn't let her use the university's drama hall as the venue for her 19th birthday party.

"Nope, I've figured out how to pick the lock." The girl said, cheerfully.

"And you feel the need to wake me up to tell me this because?" Sherlock growled, extricating himself from the pile of limbs on the floor and throwing himself into his armchair.

Ophelia looked up at him, startled. "B-But . . . Aren't you coming?"

"What?! To a student party? You must be out of your mind!"

"Oh come on, John's invited too, it should be a blast. Don't worry; I'm only inviting the saner ones." Ophelia whined, crawling up to her uncle and resting her arms on his knees.

"Yes and unless you've forgotten your classmates think we're lovers!" John felt compelled to point out.

Ophelia shuddered, horrified. "You honestly think I'd invite any of them to my party? They're drama students!"

"So are you." John felt he had to point this out also.

"Yes but . . ." Ophelia waved her hands vaguely as she attempted to put words around her situation. "But not mentally I'm not. I don't think drama student. Either way, don't worry; you won't have to pretend to be lovers for the evening if that's all that's stopping you both."

"That's not even close to being the only reason why we don't want to come." Sherlock groaned, rubbing his eyes as a headache began to settle in; he never did cope well with getting woken up.

"Well why not?" Ophelia pouted.

Sherlock began to tick off the reasons on his long thin fingers. "One, your birthday is on Halloween which you know is my peak time of year, all the psychos come out on Halloween so I need to be available in case Lestrade needs me-"

"Keep your phone with you, if you are needed for a case you of course have my blessing to leave at any time."

"Two." Sherlock glared at her for ruining his flow. "Two, Mrs Hudson's going away for the next fortnight; there'll be no one to look after Gladstone."

"Bring him with you. There'll be loads of people to fuss over him. He'll love it." Ophelia leaned over and proved her point by scratching Gladstone behind the ear. The puppy attempted to wag his tail but since bulldog genetics had only gifted him with a stump, the resulting movement caused his entire hind-quarters to sway eagerly.

"Three-" Here Sherlock slumped back in his chair in despair. "We're grown men! It would look weird us going to a student party."

"Since when have you cared about appearances?" Ophelia pointed out.

Sherlock did incline his head as though to concede the point but other than that he said nothing.

Ophelia stared up at him for a long moment, then she scrambled up into his lap.

"Wha-" Sherlock began but he found she had already curled into him and was looking up at him beseechingly.

"Please Uncle Sherlock?" She said, quietly, using the same doe-eyed expression her uncle used on Molly when he needed to borrow a corpse for a while.

He looked down at her. "You're a manipulative little bitch, you know that?"

John had expected her to take offense at that but, on the contrary, a wicked grin flared on her face. "Yeah."

Sherlock huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Any objections John?"

" . . . No." John admitted. To be fair, he had a strange fondness for the violet-scalped teen. She had grown on him, rather like mould. He knew that Sherlock saw her more as a little sister than a niece, as far as John could tell his feelings towards her were a mix of paternal affection and bemused curiosity, nevertheless he always encouraged her visits to the flat. Ophelia seemed to feel the same way, other than Christmas John doubted she had visited her parents once since he'd met her, whereas she saw her uncle close to three times a week. As a result of their regular contact, John too was beginning to see her as a faintly batty sibling. Going to her birthday wouldn't feel all that strange to him, if he was totally honest he was already vaguely musing on what to get her as a present.

"Then alright you profoundly irritating specimen of humanity, we'll come." Sherlock decided.

Ophelia squealed in delight and threw her arms around her uncle's neck before planting a huge kiss on his forehead and throwing herself out of the chair and consequently the room. Leaving just as suddenly as she had arrived. Rather like her uncle often did . . .

The silence hummed in the room after she left.

Sherlock shook his head dazedly. "What have I just agreed to John?"

"An evening with the most mental sub-species of mankind ever known?" John suggested, taking a mouthful of Carbonara. "Have you ever, ooh this pasta's nice, have you ever been to a student party?"

"Only once, for a case. There was a lot of drinking and what I'm told is colloquially referred to as 'snogging', although it looked more like CPR gone wrong, and drinking and bitch fights and drinking and not much else." Sherlock admitted.

"Yeah, that's essentially next Friday evening for us."

"I hate get woken up when I'm sleeping." Sherlock said, balefully. "Never ends well."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite Sherlock's best attempts at returning to his previous comfortable state on the sofa, slumber remained frustratingly just out of his reach and an hour later he was still wide awake. His phone beeped, rolling over with a sigh he reached for it.

It's fancy dress btw, what with it being Halloween. Couldn't remember if I told you or not. OH

Sherlock growled an expletive under his breath.

I actually, officially hate you right now. SH

A few seconds later his phone beeped again.

;-P    OH

"Apparently it's fancy dress with a Halloween theme." He said, disgustedly, to the room at large.

"What's the problem? I thought you were a master of disguise?"

"Of NORMAL disguise yes, adding a macabre theme makes it all seem so . . ." Sherlock struggled to find the word. " . . . Clichéd."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, you're a serious contender for the world's most intelligent man, surely you can set your mind to considering non-clichéd costume ideas for us?"

Sherlock's mouth opened but no words came out.

Looking over John saw that his companion's face had a familiar look of detached contemplation on it. This was a relief as it was something which would occupy Sherlock's mind for a while, even if it was only a couple of hours. John wondered if Ophelia had planned this, but then he remembered that she was a Holmes herself.

Of COURSE she had . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Surprisingly enough it was John who next fell asleep, curled contentedly in his arm chair with a stomach full of warm, heavy pasta, but then he too was rudely roused a few hours later.

Screwing up his face but not opening his eyes he said "Sherlock? Why are you measuring me?"

"I have an idea for our costumes but I need to know your measurements in order to figure out whether it will work." Sherlock said, as he measured the span of John's shoulders.

To save Sherlock prodding him still further, John rattled off a vague idea of his measurements. Sherlock seemed pleased with his answers as he muttered something positive under his breath. "So what's this great idea then?" He asked but he got no reply. Opening his eyes he saw that Sherlock was darting around the room, snatching up his scarf and coat. "Sherlock?" He said, curiously.

"I'll be back in a few hours." He said, distractedly, seemingly not have heard John's question.

"Where are you going?" John called as he headed for the stairs.

"Holmes House." Sherlock replied, descending the stairs with a clattering flurry of steps.

John was surprised at this. Holmes House was a large gothic mansion which had been the home of Sherlock's ancestors since the late 1800s. A large and grand, if rather dilapidated place; it was infested with Sherlock's relatives who were, in John's expert medical opinion, bat-shit crazy one and all.

This was why John was surprised that Sherlock was willingly going home. The year before, when they had received the invitation for Christmas dinner, (John fought to repress a shudder at the memory) upon reading it Sherlock's pale face had gone even more bloodless and he had promptly spent the afternoon at a terminal for the Underground attempting to catch colds off the commuters so he would have an excuse not to go. Apparently he refrained from licking the turnstiles but, he had later admitted; in his desperation he had seriously considered it.

It was a veritable mystery and, though the doctor was far from stupid, Sherlock was the half of the diabolical duo who dealt best with mysteries.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luckily John didn't have to wait too long for the conundrum to be dealt with. Having again fallen asleep in his armchair, accompanied by Gladstone and a dog-eared Neil Gaiman book, he was awoken just before midnight by a strange apparition appearing in the doorway.

"JESUS!" He shrieked, as a creature that seemed to consist of animated cardboard boxes suspended in mid-air struggled through the doorway.

A head of dark curly hair, which was inexplicably wearing a WWI helmet with a bit of artillery shrapnel sticking out the side, appeared around the side of the boxes. "Where?"

"Sherlock?!" John said, fighting to bring his blood pressure back under control and to bring his voice down from the soprano octaves.

"That's my name, has been for a while now. Don't know why you seem so shocked by it." Sherlock seemed oblivious to John's alarm and cheerfully dumped his heap of boxes on the floor.

"Sherlock, what the hell have you been doing?"

The detective was covered from head to toe with a thick layer of dust. As John watched Sherlock sneezed and the sharp movement caused a cloud of grey particles to fly up off his head and shoulders, it also caused the helmet to slip down over his eyes. "I've been raiding the attics. I think I'm the first person to have gone up there for close to forty or fifty years. Hence the dust." He sneezed again.

"Bless you." John said absent-mindedly. "So what've you got in the boxes?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled gleefully. "We've got so much junk up there. It was tragic to just leave it mouldering away so I thought I'd see if we could find any use for it. Oh yeah, I brought this back for you . . ." He dived to his knees, shoving both hands into a box and rummaged around before extracting an old leather-bound book which he handed to John.

John took the tome and his jaw dropped. Trembling fingers ran over the embossed letters on the front, spelling a phrase that was so-very familiar to him. Anatomy of the Human Body. He checked the publishers date. 1858. Good God . . .

Sherlock, sensing John's lack of movement, looked up. Seeing John's gob-smacked expression, he stilled nervously. "Erm . . . Not good?"

John looked up. "Not good? Sherlock, do you know what this is?"

"I flicked through it. It looked like an old medical textbook. I thought you'd like it." Sherlock still looked uncertain and John, remembering his flatmate's lack of cultural trivia, took pity on him.

"Sherlock, this isn't just A medical textbook, it's THE medical textbook. This is a first edition of Gray's Anatomy from 1858."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he shuffled over on his knees to verify John's claim. He let out a low appreciative whistle. "If I'd known it was that old, I'd have worn gloves while I handled it. Is it rare?"

"Phenomenally so I'd say. It must be worth thousands . . ."

Sherlock looked sideways at him, a small smile playing across his lips. "So . . . Good?"

"Oh very." John breathed, turning the surprisingly robust pages with care, admiring the precise, intricate diagrams. "Seriously Sherlock, this is . . . beyond special. This is history."

"There's more where that came from." Sherlock said, indicating the boxes.

Carefully setting the book aside, John slid from his armchair onto the floor in order to assist Sherlock in sorting through the boxes. Their search revealed, amongst other things, a cutlass, a delicate cameo brooch which they set aside for Mrs Hudson and a stuffed camel's head with a decidedly sinister expression that spoke of an all-consuming desire to spit hard in someone's eye. They were planning on putting it on the wall. Gladstone had retrieved a small moth-eaten teddy bear from one of the boxes and was now sat in his basket chewing on its ear.

"Ah yes." Sherlock eagerly reached for a box. "This was what I was looking for. These are our costumes."

He opened the box with a flourish.

John looked.

Then he raised his eyebrows. "Actually, you know what? This might just work . . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following Friday rolled around and Sherlock and John stood outside Ophelia's block waiting to be let in. Ophelia, as a first year drama student, lived in a big accommodation block on campus. Three water filled condoms and a pair of (mercifully clean) knickers had been thrown at them already, luckily the diabolical duo were both blessed with quick reflexes.

Ophelia ambled up to the glass door, her purple hair in curlers and wearing a Spongebob Squarepants dressing gown and her traditional biker boots. "Heya, you guys are early." She smiled at them. "Mind Barry on your way up. He's passed out on the stairs."

"Drunk?" John guessed.

Ophelia snorted. "Put a wick in his mouth and he'd burn for a fortnight."

"Would it be alright if we get changed here?" Sherlock asked as they trudged up the stairs, stepping over a prone, snoring figure embracing a half-empty bottle of Jägermeister who had elected to sleep there.

"No worries." Ophelia said, cheerfully. "I'll get changed in my bathroom."

"Who are you coming as?" John asked, curiously.

"Have you ever watched The Others?" She asked, opening a door and leading them down a corridor festooned with deflated balloons.

"Is that the one set in Jersey? With the photo-sensitive children?" John asked. "Horror film." He added, seeing Sherlock's bewildered face.

"I'm coming as the woman from that. Grace whatever-her-name-is." Ophelia let them into her room. John and Sherlock were relieved to observe that the room smelled clean and fresh and was surprisingly neat compared to the chaos outside. The bed was made and a quick peek by John into the postage-stamp sized bathroom revealed it to be spotless. Ophelia, it would seem, didn't do the whole grungy student thing. Seeing as how she was a Holmes, John also cast an eye about the place in case there were any disembodied limbs lurking in the corner. To his immense surprise there was nothing. But then he remembered the room inspections from his own days at university. Ophelia wasn't stupid enough to have such things on display.

John made a mental note NEVER to look in Ophelia's wardrobe lest it turn out to be like the fridge at 221B.

There was a small heap of presents, unopened, next to Ophelia's bed. Sherlock held up their own offering, a large sagging parcel wrapped lovingly, if inexpertly, in silver paper. "Do you want this now or later?" He asked, faintly awkwardly, not 100% sure of the correct procedure for present-giving, it being a very rare occasion for him.

"Aaw bless." Ophelia genuinely seemed to have not been expecting a present as she looked at the parcel with obvious delight. She too, it would seem, was aware of how rare it was for her uncle to give presents. "It's alright, keep it with you, I'll open it later. Either way, you two stick your costumes on, I'll be with you in a minute." She said, disappearing into the bathroom with a bag clutched in her hand.

Sherlock and John quickly divested themselves of their own clothes, releasing Gladstone in the process. Due to the University's 'no dogs on campus' policy, Gladstone had had to be smuggled in under John's jacket. Leaving the puppy to sniff curiously at the new room, the two men struggled into their costumes, stopping briefly to aid each other with belts and lapels.

When Ophelia emerged from the bathroom five minutes later in a demure purple dress and with an obvious forties influence on her hair and make-up, she took one look at the two men and burst into appreciative laughter. "Oh, that's just brilliant!"

Sherlock's grandparents had served in World War II; John had been informed upon opening the box the week before. One of his granddads had been an army officer and the other had been an RAF officer and upon being discharged they had kept their uniforms (A strong streak of kleptomania ran in both sides of the family, hence the detritus in the attics of Holmes House). John was now clad in neatly pressed khaki whilst Sherlock's lean frame wore the gun-metal blue of the RAF uniform. Sherlock had even dug out a small fake moustache which he had affixed to John's top lip with spirit gum. As weird as it felt, John had to admit it did finish the image rather well.

"Well, don't you both just look frightfully dashing." Ophelia grinned, rubbing a fleck of lint from Sherlock's shoulder. And they did, the khaki complimented John's tawny hair perfectly and the cool blue-grey sat well against Sherlock's pale skin and dark curls. "Love the 'tache, Doc."

"We match you too." John realised, grinning. "If it wasn't for the hair, you'd look really authentic."

"Don't diss the hair, the hair is sacred." Ophelia joked, scooping up Gladstone and leading them out the door.

She led them down the stairs (stepping carefully back over the drunk) to where a cluster of teenagers in costume were waiting. Upon spotting Ophelia they burst into raucous applause to which Ophelia responded with an elegant curtsey.

"Nice to see you all, are we missing anyone?" She inquired.

A small girl stepped forward and cleared her throat.

"Well, you're obviously here Milly, I can see you." Ophelia pointed out.

"It's not that." The girl said, uneasily. "Jenny's locked in her room and won't speak to anyone."

Ophelia's expression hardened. "And I care because? She wasn't invited anyway."

"Please 'Phee? She won't speak to any of her friends and we can hear her crying."

"But why would she talk to me? She hates me; she thinks I'm a freak!"

"Exactly, you bring out the worst in her; we figured you might be able to goad her into opening the door."

Ophelia let out a disgusted sigh and handed Gladstone to the girl. "Fine, but forget the door, there's no way in hell she'd actually open the door if she knew I was on the other side. I think shock tactics are in order." She sat down on a grassy bit and began to remove her shoes.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"I'm going to shin up the drain pipe by her window, she rarely closes it, I'll be able to get in that way."

"Can't you get a warden to lend you a ladder?" Milly pointed out.

Ophelia shook her head. "They go home early on Fridays. Hold these please, Uncle Sherlock." She handed her stockings and shoes to her uncle and padded over to a drain pipe.

"Would it be better if I did it?" John volunteered.

"No offense Doc, but I don't think the pipe would hold you, 'sides would you want a complete stranger randomly climbing in your bedroom window?" Ophelia said, tucking her skirt into her knickers to aid the climbing process. John couldn't help but be grateful that she was actually wearing underwear at all as the Holmes family were notoriously slapdash in that regard. He wasn't sure why the pants had monkeys driving pink Volkswagen Beetles on them but there you are . . .

"Is there anything we can do to help anyway?" Ophelia's friend Squid volunteered.

"You can be ready to catch me if this goes tits up." With unexpected nimbleness Ophelia did manage to shin up the pipe but then she cursed.

"Of all the days to close your window, woman!" She called, hammering on the glass.

Those on the ground could just hear the surprised yell in response.

"Yes, of course it's me you daft bloody idiot, who else do you know who has purple hair?"

There was a reply.

"And your mother too. Now stop bitching and let me in before I fall to my death."

Another reply.

"You'll care if I fall to my death because if I do, my Uncle Sherlock'll attach lead weights to your feet and drop kick you off the Thames Barrier. Now hurry up, my bum's getting cold and I want to put my skirt down."

That seemed to do it as the window slid open and Ophelia vanished inside. There were a few minutes of awkward milling around by those on the ground but then Ophelia exited through the door again and began to replace her stockings and shoes.

"Is she alright?" Milly asked, hopefully.

Ophelia snorted, derisively. "She's the same arrogant slag she always was if that's what you mean."

"But-"

"She's fine, she's had a bit of guy trouble, and I said I'd sort it for her." Ophelia said, getting to her feet and retrieving Gladstone. "Now I don't want to hear any more about it this evening, is that clear?"

Milly still looked unconvinced.

Ophelia sighed. "Look, she really is fine. She was okay enough to call me a 'scatological, lime-light hogging oddball who was so insane even the mental asylums wouldn't want me.' Anyone who can be that inventive in terms of insults has got to be alright on some emotional level."

Milly did seem a bit happier at that.

"So, this Jenny? Not a friend of yours then?" John deduced as they walked to the drama halls.

"Whoever invented the term 'Frenemies' did so with us in mind. We hate each other's living breathing guts, but the only reason we haven't killed each other yet is that life would be more boring if we did." Ophelia explained.

They arrived at a large building and Ophelia immediately lunged for the door. "You want me to time you?" Banjo offered.

"Please."

There was a long moment when Ophelia carefully twisted something into the lock.

Sherlock leant forward to watch. "Angle it up a little more." He recommended.

The door opened with a click.

"17 seconds, a new record." Banjo grinned.

They all trooped inside and, to John and Sherlock's surprise, the teenagers all sat in a well ordered circle. They followed their example and looked up at Ophelia.

She stared back. "What?"

"What do we do?" Banjo asked.

"I dunno, what do we normally do at parties?"

"Drink."

"Sounds good to me. Squid?" Squid dumped three plastic bags full of bottles in the middle of the floor and everyone retrieved a bottle. Sherlock looked at the bag a bit nervously; he had admitted to John before the party that his alcohol tolerance wasn't very high due to his slight stature. John retrieved them a Smirnoff Ice each as it was relatively mild and Sherlock took it gratefully, trusting John not to get him too drunk.

"I'm noticing a flaw with this plan." Ophelia said, ruefully.

"What?" Squid asked.

"We forgot the bottle opener."

"Nevermind. Do you mind Mr. Holmes?" Squid reached across and took Sherlock's bottle from him. Sherlock's eyes widened as the young man promptly managed to remove the bottle top with his teeth.

This led to a spate of bottle-opening tricks including one interesting manoeuvre involving opening one beverage with someone's eye socket which made both men shudder to see.

Sherlock hesitantly took a sip from the bottle. To his relief it wasn't too bad, the carbon dioxide sparking on his tongue and the sweet-sour tang of the lemonade masked the taste of the alcohol.

"A toast!" Squid crowed, raising his bottle enthusiastically and sloshing some of its contents onto his head.

"To Ophelia!" They all chorused.

"Right, that's the pleasantries over and done with." Squid rolled a badly wrapped parcel at her. "Open that!"

Others took his example and soon Ophelia was sat behind a small mound of parcels. "You guys are all epic beyond belief." She smiled, scratching at Gladstone's ears as he sniffed at the presents.

She tore the paper off Squid's offering and let out a happy cry as a bottle of Russian Standard vodka was revealed. "My favourite, thanks Squid!" She crawled across and pecked him on the cheek.

"Right, who belongs to this?" She said, waving a parcel in the air.

"Me." Milly raised her hand.

It turned out to be a microwavable teddy bear. "N'AAAAAAAAAAAAAWWW!" Ophelia shrieked, delighted.

"Fluffiness is good for the soul." Banjo said, vaguely, sounding even more pot-headed than usual.

"Damn right, thanks very much love. Right, who do I have to thank for this one?" She waved a parcel in the air.

One of the girls, dressed in a highly unconvincing werewolf costume, went red and cleared her throat. "Er . . . Me."

Ophelia looked at her. "You look like a beetroot, what on earth's wrong?"

"N-nothing. I just didn't realise you'd have family present at your party when I bought it for you." The girl admitted, sheepishly, looking sideways at Sherlock.

Ophelia started to say something but then she stopped and looked down. The package had started to vibrate in her hands.

John fought the urge to laugh. He didn't know who looked more embarrassed. The girl, Sherlock or Ophelia.

Ophelia coughed, awkwardly. "Yes, ahem well . . . thanks." She put it on the floor behind her and carefully tried to ignore the mechanical whirring. "Right, whose was this?"

"Ours." Sherlock said, startling John slightly with the use of that particular word.

Ophelia tore it open eagerly and her jaw dropped.

Whilst Sherlock's Grandparents had been in the armed forces during the war, Sherlock's mother had been in the WRNs. During his search of the attic, Sherlock had come across her uniform jacket, moth-eaten in places but still intact.

"Whoa." Joey muttered, awe-struck, as Ophelia held it up. The jacket had a red heart shape in an anatomically correct position and a union-flag and star on the right arm. But best of all was the back. Across the back was sewn layers of a soft silver-white material which had been built up to look like feathery angel wings.

"That's brilliant." Squid said, admiring it but Ophelia wasn't listening. She was running her fingers over the material, a distracted expression on her face.

"I know that look." John couldn't help grinning at her seeming-confusion. "Go on, what are you thinking?"

Ophelia looked up, a strange half-smile on her face. "These patches have been sewn on with embroidery thread, so they weren't done by a professional. The stitches are neat and even, so done by a perfectionist. Jacket is vintage, damaged with the patches to hide the holes, Nanna's name sewn in the back of the neck. Yet it's fitted so the person who got it for me must know that I'm much the same size as her, so someone who knows me well. This took a lot of effort, a lot of care, from someone who is not a skilled tailor." She stopped talking here and crawled over to her uncle. She took his hands in hers and turned them so the palms were facing upwards. "Pads of the thumb, index and middle fingers bear needle marks as expected from someone who doesn't sew very much and doesn't know not to stab themselves."  She looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide with realisation. "You repaired this, you sewed on the patches."

John couldn't help smiling as he mentally flash-backed to the previous week when he had seen Sherlock sat for hours on end in his armchair, concentrating fiercely as his too-long fingers tangled with the thread.

Sherlock flushed faintly as all eyes in the room turned on him and there came a faint chorus of 'aaw' from the teenagers but he nodded. Ophelia threw her arms around him, squeezing tightly. "Thank you so much, Uncle Sherlock."

There came a sudden yelp from the back of the room. As they all turned to look, a young man in a zombie costume burst into the room.

"The head warden's still here! I just saw him looking over here and he did not look happy!"

"Shit!" Ophelia leapt to her feet. "Squid, get the lights. Banjo, help me grab the bottles. Everyone to the sides of the room, stand behind the curtains, in the cupboards, wherever, just keep quiet and out of sight!"

Startled by this unwarranted reaction to the turn of events, John watched dumbly as the teenagers all scrambled to the outskirts of the room.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet, following Ophelia into the lighting booth where they ducked down with the bag of bottles. As soon as the door had swung shut behind them, the lights immediately snapped off, coating them in darkness.

John squatted there in the shadows, Gladstone in his arms, only aware of Sherlock's presence on his left because his thin, chilled fingers were still wrapped around his wrist. The fingers tugged slightly as Sherlock overbalanced; there came a faint thump and a curse.

"You okay?" John hissed.

"Yeah, there was a bottle of prop blood on this table; I've just spilt it on myself."

He heard a faint rustle and Ophelia whispered: "Sorry about this. The warden hates us. Some of the sports students trashed our block and blamed it on us, so now he hates our guts."

"Didn't you explain it wasn't you?" John asked, keeping his voice low. Gladstone let out a small whine and John stroked his ears, shushing him gently.

"We did more than that, we proved it. Problem is he'd made it official that he was blaming us and us proving otherwise forced him to retract that. It embarrassed him and he came close to getting a disciplinary so now in revenge he treats us like scum." Ophelia's voice was bitter.

Sherlock's baritone cut through the silence. "Can you work the lights from here?"

"Yes, why?" Ophelia asked, curiously.

"Fancy some revenge?"

At that moment the far door opened and the silhouette of a stout, middle-aged man became visible.

"Oh right. I suppose you think you're clever hiding from me, do you?" The man's voice was harsh and had an unpleasant sourness in it that John could tell was habitual. John got the feeling he probably wouldn't feel bad about this man being on the receiving end of whatever Sherlock was planning. "I already know who's in here, doesn't take a genius to recognise your actions, Miss Holmes." The man said, walking into the room and angrily scanning the shadows.

Scratch that, John DEFINITELY wouldn't feel bad. He had said Ophelia's name in the same tone of voice people used when talking about drug dealers and other street thugs. Hatred and disgust.

He heard Sherlock mutter an enraged profanity next to him. "Right, that does it. Ophelia, hit the sound effects."

Barely on the cusp of hearing, a low moan echoed around the room. John raised his eyebrows, impressed. It sounded just human enough to set someone's teeth on edge but it sounded enough like the wind to make someone doubt their ideas about the source of the noise.

The man stilled, looking nervous but then he recovered slightly. "Oh yeah, very smart, trying to freak a guy out on Halloween, aren't you funny?" But beneath his bluster John could tell he was nervous.

The moan happened again, faintly louder this time and the guy whipped around. "Hello?" He said, sounding like he was doubting himself for the first time. With no sign of the people he was expecting to see and the ghostly sounds haunting his ears, it's no wonder the man was starting to fall prey to their prank.

One of the spotlights briefly flared on and then off. The man wheeled around to look at it. A few seconds later another light switched on and off.

The moan happened again, louder, and this time John recognised Sherlock's voice in the sound effect.

"W-Who's there?" The man sounded really scared now. The light flicked off briefly and then another flicked on.

The man gasped and stumbled back. A horrible apparition had appeared before him. A pale, gaunt, blood stained figure in an old uniform, staring at him with wide, mad eyes.

The light flicked off, leaving him alone in the darkness with the ghost. John heard a whimper of fear.

Another light flicked on, during the momentary darkness the figure had moved closer. The lights began to flicker rapidly now, the figure just visible staggering slowly towards him in the brief flashes of light.

The man began to awkwardly move back, too horrified by the figure in front of him to contemplate running properly.

Then the lights flicked off completely.

The man spun around in a circle, shivering madly at the idea of being alone in the shadows with this fiend.

Then he felt the hot whisper of breath across his ear and became aware of a presence behind him.

"I see you . . ."

With a highly un-masculine shriek the man fled towards the door and hurtled out into the night. After a few seconds there came a massive burst of cheering and applause from the sidelines and the lights came on to reveal Sherlock Holmes, grinning smugly, standing in the centre of the room. He bowed gracefully.

John was beaming from ear to ear and supporting Ophelia, who was laughing too hard to stand fully upright and was bent at the waist. "So those horror films you've been watching all week . . . ?" John enquired, as a swarm of teenagers came out to congratulate the detective.

"A surprisingly good source of inspiration." Sherlock admitted, turning and bowing again to Ophelia. "Happy birthday, oh diminutive relative."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John woke with a vague sense of disorientation. The ceiling he was staring at was DEFINITELY not his own, and since when had his bed got so hard?

He rolled his head and smiled slightly as he was greeted by the sight of a gaggle of students passed out on the floor amongst the traditional party detritus. (Bottles, food wrappers and random oddities which have appeared during the night. People generally have no recollection as to how these things are acquired and they can run the spectrum from road signs and traffic cones, to cuddly toys and, in one memorable case, a llama.) He wasn't that hungover surprisingly, and oddly enough he was rather warm considering the fact that he's just slept on a wooden floor in October with no blankets. Then he looked down at himself and realised why he was so warm.

It would appear that some part of the genetic coding of the Holmes family which also gave them their amazing deductive abilities made them predisposed towards cuddling things. John had Sherlock's head resting on his chest, his still-bloodstained arm thrown across John's stomach and Ophelia was curled into his other side, her back pressed against John's ribs.

"Oh good, you're awake." A confusingly familiar voice came to his ears. John rolled his head back and was confronted by the sight of Lestrade and a pear-shaped man with a face reddened with suppressed rage.

"Hey Inspector." John greeted him.

"Like the moustache." Lestrade grinned, finding the sight of his costumed colleagues curled up in a heap on the floor quite amusing. John also noticed with relief that he was holding Gladstone who was nosing the detective's coat.

"And I suppose you were 'unaware' of the fact that Ophelia didn't have permission to use this hall?" The red-faced man said witheringly.

"Oh I knew, I just didn't care." John pointed out, unwilling to let this man ruin what had been an excellent night for him. "How did you know where to find us, Lestrade?" He asked, ignoring the man's angry gasp.

"Sherlock left a note on the door of 221B saying you guys were spending the evening with Ophelia. Didn't take long to find out which uni she went to." Lestrade's eyes were sparkling with mirth. "When I got here I just followed the trail of devastation really."

"Be nice! All we need to do is pick things up, nothing's damaged." Ophelia said, lazily, surprising them as they'd all thought she was asleep.

The red-faced man goggled at her. "I don't suppose I need to point out that you are most certainly getting kicked off the course for this." He growled.

John's stomach lurched as he realised the potential effects of their actions on Ophelia's education but the girl herself remained unbothered, in fact she still hadn't opened her eyes. "I think not Professor."

"Oh really?" The man spat, getting even more infuriated by the girl's lack of concern. "What the hell do you-"

"I think that any man who has been shagging one of his students is hardly in a position to go talking about academic integrities, do you?" Ophelia's face stayed relaxed but her voice had taken on a note of pure steel.

Both John and Lestrade turned and stared at the man. John noted that the red had drained from his face with alarming speed, leaving it an unhealthy white-green colour. "I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He blustered.

"Oh really? Then let me refresh your memory. Jenny broke up with her boyfriend, you found her at an emotionally vulnerable state and coaxed her into a sexual relationship. Jenny went along with it because she needed some affection after the loss of her boyfriend and she could fool herself that she was getting it with you." Ophelia's voice was so razor sharp John was surprised that there weren't actual physical wounds visible on the man on the receiving end.

The man, very aware of John and Lestrade's suddenly disapproving gazes, quailed slightly. "Th-There's nothing legally wrong with it. Two consenting adults after all." He said, weakly.

"Oh no, the sex part of it is fine if a mildly disgusting concept when considered in relation with yourself. However, I'm sure the Board of Education would not take kindly to the fact that Jenny's marks have mysteriously plummeted since she broke it off with you and reconciled with her boyfriend. In fact, I think they might even forgive me for having a small gathering of friends in an unauthorised place if I was the one to tell them about you. What do you think, Professor?" She finished, sweetly.

He choked and turned to Lestrade. "How can you stand here and listen to this . . . this . . . It's blackmail!"

Lestrade looked back with hard, unimpressed eyes. "Is it? I'm terribly sorry, I'm afraid I wasn't listening."

"Do your wife and family know about your affair?" Ophelia asked.

The man turned to stare at her again.

"'Cos if they don't I think you'd better tell them." She finally sat up and looked at him and the man could see for certain in her face that he had no way of changing her mind. "Good day, Professor, I think you'd better go, don't you think?"

Lestrade shook his head in amazement as the man departed in a flurry of panic. "Two resignations in a night, that's impressive."

"What? Two!" Ophelia looked up, confused.

"Yeah, your Professor was telling me on the way over here. Apparently the Head Warden resigned last night in a panic, screaming something about ghosts."

There was a moment of slightly guilty, but mostly elated silence.

"Sorry, Inspector." John suddenly remembered. "You tracked us down, you wanted something."

"Yeah, I came across a cold case with a load of codes in, I thought Sherlock might find it interesting but . . ." He tailed off and they all turned to look at the man who was still cuddled into John.

John experimentally shook Sherlock's shoulder in an attempt to wake him.

In his sleep Sherlock pulled a face and tightened his grip on John, burying his face in John's jacket. His muffled, sleepy mumble was nearly lost in the cloth. "G'way Mycroft. 'S my teddy bear."

John rolled his eyes, Ophelia dissolved into silent hysterics and Lestrade beamed from ear to ear. "God, I wish I had a camcorder right now." He lamented.

"Sorry, looks like he's out for a while." John admitted.

"Don't worry about it. This case is ten years old. I just thought it'd save him from the depression for a few hours. When he's awake and you've both got yourselves together, just call round the yard and I'll give you the files."

"Brilliant, thanks Inspector."

"No problem. Happy birthday, Miss Holmes." Lestrade called over his shoulder as he left, depositing Gladstone on the floor as he did so.

"Thanks!" Ophelia yelled back.

There was a moment of silence as Ophelia gave a leisurely, cat-like stretch and rubbed her mascara-streaked eyes. Sat in a bar of sunlight, glowing motes of dust surrounding her, she looked positively beatific with happiness even if her overall appearance was of one who had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She grinned down at the doctor. "I think that's the best birthday I've ever had. Thanks Doc."

"Don't thank me, thank this lot." He gestured at the snoring mass of bodies around them who had managed to miraculously miss the last few minutes' dialogue. "Oh, and this one of course." He gestured at Sherlock.

Ophelia looked fondly at her uncle before clapping her hands together firmly. "Right! This isn't getting this place cleaned up, is it? But first things first, I'm just going to run back to my room and get some things. While I'm passing by my kitchen would you like a coffee Doc?"

"Oh God, that'd be lovely thanks." John said, gratefully.

"No worries. Back in a little while." She said, slinging on her new jacket and carefully stepping over the bodies on the floor,

John lay there thinking for a long moment.

He was smelly, lightly covered in fake blood which had leaked off Sherlock, dying to brush his teeth, surrounded by twenty people who were shortly going to wake up with killer hangovers, and of course his flatmate had utilised him as an impromptu teddy bear.

He considered all these factors and thought that logically he shouldn't be happy.  Then he smiled and decided he didn't give a monkeys about logic this morning, he wedged one hand behind his head as a pillow, allowing the other one to toy absent-mindedly with Sherlock's curly hair.

All in all, it had been a pretty interesting evening.