Candy? Pranks? Flesh in the fridge? Just another day at 221B Baker Street.

Ignore the fact that it's nowhere near October, just like I try to ignore the fact that I will never own anything as glorious as Sherlock Holmes. Meh.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted dryly. "To what do I owe the pleas—oh, to hell with politeness, it's a holiday. Why are you here?"

"Nice to see you too, Sherlock." Lestrade promptly stepped inside. "Came to see if I you'd lend me a bit of phosphorus, since I know you run a regular chemical lab in the kitchen."

A slim eyebrow rose at the request. "And you need this substance why, exactly...?"

"Leslie asked, actually. Apparently you taught her the proper application amount, and she says it will be perfect to top off her homemade sonic screwdriver. She's going as the Doctor this year."

Amusement flickered across the detective's features. "Entertaining choice," he acknowledged. "What about Henry?"

Lestrade couldn't restrain a smile, either. "The TARDIS."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged up into a smirk. "Even better. Fine, if it's for Leslie's benefit, I shall fetch you some from my personal store. But don't expect me to always be so generous. The surrounding morgues and hospitals have been increasing security as of late, and Molly will only be susceptible to my charm for so long."

The inspector went to settle in the kitchen as Sherlock rummaged about for the chemical, taking note of the flat as he made the short trek.

Cobwebs in the corner, spiders creepily crawling up the webs, dust on the certainly had all the trappings of a forbidden abode. Even a pile of grotesque, severed thumbs sitting in a plastic baggy on the table!

"Wow," Lestrade commented. "You blokes really spruced up the place."

"What the devil are you talking about? I don't waste my time decorating for needless holiday events, that's John's department," snapped Sherlock.

Lestrade paled. "Then, what's...?"

The detective's eyes lit up when he spotted the bag-o-thumbs.

"Oh! There's where my specimens were hiding! John, you can stop nagging now, I found the human remains! And clean the place up tomorrow, would you, it looks a fright! The fueding spiders, Godric, Helga, Rowena and Salazar have returned I see."

"...human remains?" repeated Lestrade meekly.

"Best to just let it go, Inspector," John advised knowingly, entering with a tray full of festive goodies. "Have one. Compliments of Mrs. Hudson."

Aghast promptly forgotten, the Inspector did as suggested and had a pumpkin-flavored pastry. Indeed, the tasty treat helped chase away the churn of disgust in his stomach.

Sweets really were the remedy for all earthly problems.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Who the devil is that?" Lestrade figured that after the incident last year, trick-or-treaters knew better than to ever approach 221B Baker Street's door anymore.

"Oh, probably some of the kids. Sherlock agreed to take them out tonight."

"More child-rearing? I hope you're at least being compensated for overtime."

"Anything to get him to celebrate a holiday is worth the effort," John deadpanned.

Having been here before enough to know that they might as well invite themselves in, a squeak of the door could be heard opening, followed by a resounded slam and a pair of zealous footsteps.

"Hey, Dr. Watson! Guess who I am!" cried Annabeth.

Obligingly, the doctor glanced over to observe the little girl's costume, and nearly dropped the tray of snacks in the process.

"Oh God, no," John choked. No, it was evidently too tough to resist. He felt something rupture in his stomach at how hard he proceeded to laugh.

Because there, standing in all her unabashed glory, was a replica of Sherlock Holmes. Same scarf, same coat—bloody hell, she even had the funny hat to boot!

"Sherlock—come here for minute, would you?" Speaking proved to be a challenge, as John still had trouble controlling his insatiable need to giggle like a mad school girl.

"Now what is it?" grumbled the detective, poking his head into the room. Almost immediately he spotted Annabeth hovering nearby, who waved cheerfully at her crush, oblivious to the look of surprise on his face.

"Mr. Holmes," John said formally, the temptation too great. "Meet Mr. Holmes."

For a pregnant pause, the detective simply resumed staring at his smaller double, unsure of how to take this new development. Then he saw the accessory adorning her head and his features quickly filled with annoyance.

"Who gave you that wretched hat?" Sherlock snarled. Nervously, Annabeth pointed in the direction of a certain inspector, who was unsuccessfully attempting to conceal his chuckle with a cough.

"I ought not to share my chemicals for that," he spat resentfully, yet handed Lestrade the vile anyway.

"Oh, it's just a bit of fun at your expense, Sherlock. I'd find it flattering, really," John consoled unconvincingly.

"Indeed?" Sherlock scoffed in disbelief. Suddenly the scowled melted off his face, leaving behind an unreadable expression of blankness. "Jolly good, then. Clancy, would you come with me for a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed a hold of Annabeth's companion and started pulling him in the direction of the bedroom.

"Hey, wait, I need to change into my costume!" the boy protested.

"Yes, and I've got just the thing," Sherlock supplied firmly.

The two men and younger girl exchanged curious glances, eager to see what the detective was up to. Less than ten minutes later did their answer emerge, smug as ever, with a costumed Clancy in tow.

He was wearing a jumper a few sizes too large, a bowler hat, and wielding the squirt gun Sherlock usually used to spray at Anderson from the window whenever the officer was within shooting distance.

"Who's that supposed to be?" demanded John, arms crossed.

"How the tables have turned," Sherlock murmured gleefully. "Dr Watson, allow me to introduce: Dr. Watson."

"Pardon me?" the doctor exclaimed.

"Flattered now, are we?" Sherlock's smirk looked supremely self-satisfied, the sweetness of revenge having claimed his tongue. "Young Clancy originally intended to go as Captain America, but I convinced him otherwise."

"Bam, bam, bam!" yelled Clancy, firing off his fake gun, "Take that, you evil pawn! You're a horrible cabbie!"

"What's that about a cabbie?" Lestrade piqued inquisitively.

"Nothing, nothing at all!" John quickly changed the subject, "Listen! I think we've got another one."

True to his word, the door opened for a third time that evening, revealing the oldest of Sherlock's charges. Only like his companions, Barry wasn't donning his normal attire.

He gracefully entered the room, clothes styled in a three-piece suit set, hair slicked back into immaculate perfection, and leaning on an elegant umbrella.

"Hello, Barry. Who're are you dressed as?" Lestrade inquired.

"Is it not obvious?" Sherlock sniffed. "Evil incarnate."

"A mini-Mycroft," John translated. "Inconceivable and quite a bit frightening. Nice choice, Barry."

Barry beamed and twirled his umbrella for good show. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Probably the only costume Sherlock actually fears. Should pop out from behind a few corners, give him a right good pranking this Halloween," the doctor continued, causing Lestrade to snicker.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock retaliated, "Mini-Watson, go shoot Regular-Watson in the foot."

"Mini-Sherlock, go make somebody cry. That's how we know it's a real holiday," John retorted.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called, sufficiently ending the altercation. "The twins have arrived!"

Both twins strode inside, though it was difficult to decide which was which—as it were, they were dressed identically, sporting short, red-colored wigs, and each held a similar stick of wood in their hands.

Sherlock burst out first with, "Who on earth are you two supposed to be?"

"Fred," Roberta said as she pointed to her sister, just as Rosanna pointed at her and proclaimed, "George."

"Weasley, that is," they added simultaneously.

A stunned silence ensued. Before, after a minute or so of recovery, Barry, Annabeth, and Clancy began to applaud in awe.

"Now that's a swell costume," Lestrade stated matter-of-factly.

"Ditto," agreed John.

"Established," Sherlock concurred.

Well, that's the ending you get when I write it while watching the Harry Potter weekend. There's another HP reference in this chapter, and to whoever else spots it, cookies for you!

Next time: Mummy Holmes is taken ill! While accompanying their mentor to the hospital, the twins learn more about the private man's past than they expected.