Too Much Television

"Do you believe in ghosts Sherlock?"

"They're illogical and cannot be explained."

"That's an no then."

"No. Do you?" John shifts in his chair and looks out the dark window.

"I believe there's something out there."

"Like what?"

"Something other worldly. Something we can't see."

"So you believe in ghosts and spirits."

"Yes."

"Good."

"What?"

"Nothing." The two men are quiet for a moment. The flat is silent. The two men are lost in their thoughts of ghosts. John sits up and looks at Sherlock,

"Tell me a story?"

"What?"

"You heard me, tell me a story."

"Like what?" Sherlock furrows his brow, confused. Is John seriously asking him to tell him a story?

"A scary one."

"You want me to tell you a scary story?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I asked nicely."

"No you didn't."

"Please?" As soon as John said it he knew he would regret it. Sherlock smiles and sits back,

"Maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know a good one, but you need to listen to me and do as I say if you want me to tell it."

John groans, "If you're going to order me to do stupid things I don't think it's worth it."

"Oh relax. I just need you to get my violin."

"Why?"

"More dramatic." John gets up to get the violin, "And while you're up, dim the lights. More interesting with just the fire light." John hits the switch and the room goes dark. He takes a seat and hands Sherlock his violin and bow. Sherlock smiles and runs the bow over the stings quickly. He rosins the bow and starts to play an eerie tune. It sends chills down John's spine. It reminds him of spiders, spinning silk. It's beautiful, yet scary. Sherlock smirks as he places the violin in his lap, resting his bow against the arm chair. "Are you ready?"

"No."

"Let's begin." Why did he ask Sherlock to tell this story. It was a bad idea. He hadn't thought Sherlock knew any to be honest. Or that he'd be willing to share.

"When you're ready." Sherlock puts his fingertips together and them under his chin before lowering his voice.

"Sometimes when you are alone, when it's dark, when you're wary, the hairs on the back of your neck rise. And goosebumps crop up on your arms. You might shiver a moment and then shrug it off, thinking it's nothing. Most of these types of feelings can be explained, a small breeze, a passing car. But sometimes, in the dark, in the cold, when you're alone, things happen. They can't be explained, and it scares people. Every species in the universe, in the world, has an irrational fear of the dark. Only it's not irrational at all. Not everyone comes out of the dark, not everyone makes it home at night. No one knows what it is, no one knows how to stop it. No one knows why they feel the need to have a little light at night, a little light forever. Parents laugh at their children when they need a nightlight, or a crack left open in the door, when inside, they feel like they can't go into the dark, like they won't make it back. They're a little bit afraid of what hides itself in the dark."

"So what hides itself in the dark?"

"No one's for sure. It's dark though, it lurks in the shadows. When you least expect it, it comes up behind you and grabs you. From the street, from your house. Not everyone makes it out of the dark. Do you want to be next John?" John froze,

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to be next? Do you want to not come back?" John blinks. He seems just a little bit scared, a little bit.

"Will I?" Sherlock sits back and laughs,

"Of course not! That's completely ridiculous. It's only a story."

John raises an eyebrow, "You call that a story."

"Sort of."

"It was awful. I'm going to bed."

"Don't get taken." John smirks,

"Yeah right."

"Believe what you wish." He picks up his violin and starts to play the same tune, the one from before. Spiders and darkness. John looks at him and then goes upstairs to bed. Sherlock smiles knowingly as John comes back downstairs and flops on the couch. "Can't sleep?"

"Not a wink."

"I couldn't either."

"Is that why you never sleep?"

"Are you suggesting that I'm scared to sleep?"

"Maybe."

"Not even remotely."

"Whatever you say." Sherlock smirks again and starts to play another tune, soothing and smooth. Soon John's fast asleep. Sherlock stares at the fire most of the night, can't bring himself to sleep. He hasn't been able to do it for a while. When he does, it's usually an accident. His eyes close, he doesn't want to sleep. Can't afford it. Not now.