AN: Sorry this took long. Next installment! I thought the end was sweet. Anyway, let me know if you'd like any thing in particular played out and I'll see that I include that in future chapters. I have a lot of ideas but in case I reach a blockage (you know what muse is like these days!) Anyhow, enjoy and I realize the style change in this one. Just thought I'd experiment. Anyhow. The poem used by Sherlock is Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" just in case you don't pick up on the references. Thanks.

Halloween At the Holmes

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing," The young Sherlock Holmes took a long, steady breath as he continued - Poe's poetry clearly a rhythmic enigma for the lungs, "Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before -"

"Mother?" A voice suddenly chimed out, stopping the boy's story instantaneously, "Mother? Oh, there you are - " The door quickly swung open and a tall, young boy stepped in - sombre and concerned in expression.

Mycroft Holmes was dressed explicitly for the principle occasion that was to occur tonight. The annual revels of Halloween. As a child, he had always been fanatical about the intrepid tales of the supernatural - from the gory ruins of the vampirism eras to the far off legends of bloodthirsty elves. Halloween to Mycroft Holmes was like Christmas in the sense that he approached it with an identical attitude and motto - it only knocks on one's door once a year so why be a sourpuss and not embrace the spectacle?

His father - also an enthusiast for the holiday - had always provided his sons with the means to celebrate the day with whatever they wished. And so, when it came to costumes, he was the perfect figure to consult for ideas. Their father was a walking human library and he knew all sorts of stories - scriptures that enclosed all sorts of monsters that one could dress up as. Mycroft, in consideration that he was not young enough to be as besotted as he once was, had decided that his costume for this year shall go along the lines of the undead.

It was simple and uncomplicated; the exact look he aimed for. But there was a problem for as he finished revamping his normally casual appearance - it dawned on him that he did not look dead enough. Bursting into the living room with this issue clawing at his head - Mycroft shared this loudly and brusquely with his mother. Evidently, he should have at least done this in confidence for including his younger brother in anything proved always to be infuriating.

"Why not just die?" His younger brother suggested calmly, "Perhaps then you shall understand that there is no such term as dead enough." A large, wicked smile was on Sherlock's face - mocking and tense. Mycroft ignored it - perfecting the art of maturity to its peak. However, the insecurity on his powdered face remained. His mother seemed to percieve (thank goodness) what it was he complained about and nodded affectionately,

"Don't worry; I shall see what we can do. Perhaps more dusting around the eyes? Or false blood?" The excitement and utter thrill in his mother's tone was making Mycroft feel a little nauseated. For once one had Violet Holmes signed to a project - she never stopped. The dead, lucid curse of a perfectionist. The woman pressed her lips before patting the book that her youngest son had on his lap softly,

"Sherlock, I shall return to listen to you read in a moment yes? I must help your brother, first," She smiled at Sherlock's blank expression. Mycroft flickered a glance at the book his brother held and managed to detain a scoff. He must have read that collection a million times! The oddness of his brother was one he still could not fully configure. He was like an always changing system; never anchored and eternally running.

"I am sure that girl you always talk about shall adore your costume, brother." Sherlock murmured, prying the book open with flexing fingers and glancing up at him with twinkling eyes. Mycroft found his face growing hot almost instantly as he heard his mother chuckle.

"There is no girl." He denied, tongue clacking.

Sherlock - always a keen detector of lies was quick on the money, "Of course there is," He said firmly, "Why else would you wear such a ridiculous amount of cologne?" Mycroft, already red in the face merely expressed a sneer as his eight year old brother began to peruse over his book. This was all false of course. Mycroft knew that his brother was far more curious about Halloween than he made out to be.

"Oh, Mycroft dear," His mother called him as she returned with the substances for his costume, "Why is it that Sherlock cannot come trick-or-treating with you this year?"

The very question made both boys snap up in response. They locked eyes and Sherlock's expression was simple to read for once. It was one of pure hatred. "I do not want to go, Mummy," The boy stated oppressively, "I told you." The conversation about Halloween had happened over dinner last week with their father. Always the excitable one, Siger Holmes had portrayed great pleasure in hearing about the costumes his sons were to wear over the event. Sherlock had simply rolled around the carpet, dully announcing that he was to miss the pleasantries this year.

"I know you told me, love," Her tone was almost sighing; Mycroft knew she was using her disappointment act. An act that he very rarely could resist. "But I just feel like you should do it. All the other boys are doing it -"

"Good for them." Sherlock drawled. Even this prompted a smile out of his oldest brother.

Deciding to press the matter even further, Mycroft smoothed out the front of his borrowed hospital gown (he had planned to appear like a deceased, rotting body from the morgue), "Plus, mother. Sherlock embarasses me. He always dresses up as something inappropriate at Halloween." A gasp seemed to resonate from the small boy as he sharpened up to defend his own choices of costume. Yes, they were unconventional but they certainly were not inappropriate.

"You are meant to dress up as something frightening - thus, I dressed up as a Raven for I had found the poem discomfiting." Sherlock defended with a hiss as he referred to last year's get-up. Mycroft rolled his eyes knowing he did not even wear wings. The boy had stomped off, seething from the fact that everyone had asked him what he was dressed up as - apparently to his eyes, it had been painfully evident.

"Is it so difficult to pick something simple, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, knowing it was slowly riling the boy up. The joy he recieved from Sherlock's outbursts was unhealthy; it was much too satisfying seeing the normally blank faced boy shed off his facade like dead skin.

"By simple, do you mean stupid? All the costumes are stupid." The boy said with a harsh clash of the teeth. Their mother intervened their exchange with a massive, obdurate sigh.

"Then dress up as something stupid then!" Mycroft argued back with an eyeroll.

"Darling," She told Sherlock as she adjusted Mycroft's shirt, "May you at least try? I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"No, mother. He shall embarass me." Mycroft whined. He knew he was not doing this because he wished to be occupied into the crowd - he did this for social position. Thinking like the politician he aspired to be, he knew how to progress up the rankings. It was something he must practice in his school years if he was to perfect it in Parliament. Today was a chance for him to continue to gratify the top position of the group he ordered - if Sherlock was there, the respect could be lost knowing how his brother would behave.

"Don't be silly, Mycroft." His mother said dismissively, turning towards her youngest with a patronizing tug of the lips, "Sherlock, please? For Mummy?"

Ugh. That line. Mycroft knew how nauseating it sounded whenever she uttered it. The saddest thing was that it always worked and Sherlock, like himself, was unable to form a barricade against its irrepressible charm.

"Mother," The young boy grumbled, scratching his curly hair aggressively, "I do believe that Halloween is a holiday I best avoid."

"Among others." Mycroft added with a smile and a wink knowing how Christmas was something Sherlock rarely enjoyed. Including all holidays really - even his own birthday.

That very jest seemed to ignite a nerve in the eight year old as Sherlock stood up, suddenly gallant and willing.

"Fine, I shall participate. And I shall dress up as the most stupid thing I can think of." His eyes then flickered desolately over his older brother - the glance acting more like a visual slap of the face, "Brother, is that meant to be scary?"

A little self-consciously, Mycroft attempted his best to regain composure by a tip of the chin.

"It might not be to you, but a dead body in the morgue is considered frightful." He said simply. Sherlock inspected the attire with a musing expression and shrugged,

"How can it be?" The eight year old posed as he stepped out of the door, "It is all going to happen to us in the end."

There was an incurable silence as Sherlock left. It was only filled by his mother's humming as she finished perfecting the drying blood finish on his face. "Darling, take care of your little brother," She murmured as she caressed his nose with her brush, "His philosophy may be disjointed but he will always require your watching eye..."

"I know," Mycroft replied, "I just wished he made life easier by not being insufferable."

The exclamations of 'good god that is realistic!' from the crowd had assured Mycroft that his costume had attained its full potential. Trick-or-Treating as a fully pledged adolescent suddenly seemed to be brightening its prospect again. People had fawned over him - poked and prodded - they were even more impressed by his use of the real hospital gown he had borrowed from Aunt Agatha. In the end, he was certain he had trumped all that he required to retain his place as Mycroft Holmes - the one who was seemingly perfect at all the things he did.

Suddenly, his candidacy for Head Boy in the coming months just seemed to be an ensured victory. Although he never doubted it - somehow, now he was even more certain. And as for his Head Girl, well she was looking magnificent as a Corpse's Bride. Never being one for romantic affairs, Mycroft knew how easily he would forget about her if she had not looked good for his path to becoming a Head Boy. But she did look good - and the overindulgence on cologne seemed to have worked in his favour as she had hardly eyes for any other -

"Mycroft."

Instinctively, he had jumped. Behind in the crowd, the voice in the darkness was of course his younger brother's. It seemed that being consumed in the merriment of the occasion, he had forgotten to take Sherlock with him. Forgotten, of course in the loosest term. It showed that even his subconscious wanted to leave the boy behind. Mycroft turned and had to bite his lip from screeching -

"Sherlock!" His screech turned into a hateful, vicious hiss, "What in heavens are you doing in my best clothes?"

His brother was dressed up in his three piece suit. It had been pressed, dried and ironed for his next big occasion (hopefully for his meeting with the Headmaster when he is given the badge for Head Boy). It was much too large for Sherlock anyway and all this - humidity! It was going to ruin the fabric. Mycroft wanted nothing more but to rip it off him but even the anger could not match the affection he had for his clothing.

"I did what you told me to!" His brother scowled, hand flailing. Mycroft noted that he had rolled the sleeves up about five times to be able to see his hand at the end. The idea of how much crease had evolved on the shirt had almost prompted him to faint.

"I did not tell you to do this!" Mycroft scowled back, knowing some of his layered powder was probably eroding off from the sweat he was perspiring from resentment.

"Yes you did." Sherlock told him, a familiar twinkle gleaming in his eyes as the wicked smirk returned. He crossed his arms (prompting a squeal from Mycroft as he once more heard the squeeze of a crease) and drawled, "You told me to dress up as the most stupid thing I knew..."

Relishing every moment, the eight year old huffed out,

"So, I dressed up as you."

The next few moments was silence. After the silence, one breath cracked out in the blackness. One could not express the next few minutes in any other words but one familiar one. One word that could signify every breath exhaled, every word conveyed - every glare shot - Just one word:

Vulgar.

"Home, early love?"

His mother was curled up with a glass of wine on the couch. Sherlock came over to her, dressed in his pyjamas as he yawned calmly. He had opted to sit on the rug but he was instantly pulled by the woman into an embrace. A little squeamish, the eight year old eventually relaxed and sworn he could have fallen into a deep slumber in his mother's arms if she had not spoken.

"How was it? Is your brother home too?"

"It was fine." Sherlock answered in his usual, vacant manner, "Mycroft did not like my costume much."

"Oh, well what was it?" His mother asked quickly, arching a brow. Sherlock shrugged and merely proclaimed his innocence by pressing his curls on his mother's hand for her to caress. He knew the art of how to distract his mother and she fell for it like she did every time. Humming as she held him, Sherlock observed that she must have seen him out of the door when he snuck out with Mycroft's costume on. She was merely acting up for him. Because of love, I suppose, his mind concluded, how dull.

"I expect he won't be home for a while." The young boy nodded. His mother responded with a breath. She probably thought Mycroft shall restrain from returning home because he was having too much fun with his peers. Sherlock begged to differ; Mycroft was not going to return home for he was afraid that he might suffocate his own brother in his sleep. The anger in his older brother's eyes had been somewhat infested with something complex; as if the whole trick-or-treat business was serious.

He would deduce it tomorrow. "Darling," His mother crooned, "I am sorry I forced you into Halloween. I just thought you would like it." The tenderness in his mother's tone was one he found hard to neglect. The boy in him still longed for that warmth and with a sentimental gesture, he glanced up at his mother and genuinely smiled,

"I forgive you mother. Plus, I did like it this year."

"You did?" His mother uttered, surprised. She lies - one can tell from the embroidered expression. But I appreciate the gesture.

Nodding and thawed by the comforting flicker of the living room fireplace, Sherlock claimed the small poetry book from the bottom of the sofa. He had left it there for he knew how simple it was to lose things with a mind like his. Opening the book, he returned to his page.

"Sorry, darling. We never got around to reading the rest of it," His mother quickly brushed up, stroking the top of his head, "Start again, will you dear? I would love to hear it, again."

Never one to disappoint, Sherlock took a breath and began, "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..."

The curly haired boy sleepily read to the very end of the poem. On the last syllable, the book slipped from his fingertips and after a small scrunch of the nose fell into a long, warm sleep in his mother's arms.

Mycroft had returned home and neither had noticed him slip into the living room as they dozed. He had glanced at his brother with the deepest glare of disdain but that faded eventually as he gazed at the peace on their features. Rubbing his face off ever-so-slightly, he found a mature smile lifting onto his lips as he remembered all the bad words he had called Sherlock after discovering what he had done.

But in the end, it was his brother that had secured his victory for the rest of his peers had been surprised at his temperament. How sharp and frightening he sounded! It seemed that fear was a far better weapon to use than charm and now, he was more than certain that he shall be the Head of the school. Everyone was now entirely bewitched by him - certain that a man of his mood and firmness was born to lead!

Now, he almost wished he could have taken Sherlock with him. For he knew the boy secretly would have loved to observe and make deductions about the figures that lived at their neighbourhood. Plus, Sherlock had always loved candy. He would say that it was all for experimentation when his father would return home with boxes of exotic sweets - but Mycroft did deductions of his own. And Sherlock certainly did not use all of them for science. For a boy who could detect lying like second nature - Mycroft had expected him to be better at the art himself.

Crouching down, Mycroft slipped a small piece of chocolate fudge into Sherlock's open palm (his favourite) and with the most certainty of cares, pressed a soft, loving kiss on his younger brother's forehead. The small boy moved a little - as if dreaming - but stilled.

"Happy Halloween, Sherlock." He whispered with a smile as he retired to his own bedroom upstairs.