Title: A Study in Scarlet

Author: Alan Hitchen

Email: darkmere2000@yahoo.co.uk

Disclaimer: BtVS belong to Joss Whedon and others.

Pairing: Xander/Anya

Rating: R (Icky Death)

Information: Intended for Halloween, this is a 'hope this never happens' sequel to It Takes Two.

"Xander, I'm scared. Don't cut the lawn today."

"Anya, honey, we're not living in Sunnydale now. This is all just tabloid hype. There is no lawnmower serial killer. Just because a couple of people have had nasty accidents with their lawnmower and some desperate hack has put about this scare story doesn't make it true."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure, honey," he said is his most reassuring tone. "Now, what are you doing today?"

"I'm taking David and Christine out to get some new shoes."

"Already? It only seems five minutes since the last pair."

"You know what children are like."

"Yeah," he sighed, then smiled. "I guess I do."

He kissed his wife goodbye and waved his family off as they drove away to the mall.

"Okay, let's get this lawn mowed," he said to himself.

He retrieved the Flymo from the garage and placed it on the back lawn. He then carefully uncoiled the cable, checking it for damage as he did so. He then went back into the garage to plug the mower into the RCD socket.

"You can't be too careful," he muttered as he switched on. He was surprised to hear the mower burst into life.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked the young man standing by the mower.

The man just smiled and continued to pump the power switch, turning it on and off, watching the mower rise and fall on its cushion of air.

"Stop that!" Xander commanded as he approached the man.

The man gripped the mowere hard, lifted it bodily into the air and thrust the whole machine at Xander. Taken by surprise, Xander didn't even have time to scream, and in a few seconds he didn't have anything to scream with as the whirring blades reduced his head to a bloody pulp.

Xander's body fell backwards, landing softly on the luxurious sward he had done so much to cultivate. The man let the mower fall from his grasp. His smile had become a manic grin of malevolent delight. He produced a digital camera and to began to snap the corpse from every angle, taking particular attention to the shattered remains of the skull and the shiny rivulets of blood that spread in all directions, forming an iridescent halo around the body.

He marvelled at the beauty of the crimson carnage he had created. Set against the brilliant green of the grass it was a real work of art he thought. Who cared about Damien Hirst's pickled animals. This was the real thing, fresh and warm and very dead, the ultimate in still life. He pocketed his camera and walked away, already planning his next masterpiece.