This fanfic was a recent dream of mine and I had to write it down. So here we go. If there is enough interest, I will post a second chapter.
Sherlock Holmes briskly walked down the street pulling his trench coat collar tighter and higher around his neck to stay warm. It was a cool spring day and the clouds looked angry and grey as if rain was on its way. He cautiously pulled his scarf up and the hat his was wearing down, keeping his eyes on the ground as he turned the sidewalk corner. He couldn't be too safe. He had faked his death. Everyone believed he was dead and he knew someday he'd reveal himself again to them, but now was not that time. Not too far away, there was a black gravestone with his own name etched into it and buried beneath the soil was an empty casket. It had been three years. Originally he had stayed hidden wanting to ensure everyone's safety, make sure no one could still harm the only few people he cared about in his life. As time passed, he hadn't been sure how to "come back from the dead." What would he say? How would people react? So he remained hidden.
Within the past years he had travelled for a bit. After a while, he began solving small crimes on the side, making sure he stayed away from any media attention that could lead to his downfall again.
Sherlock descended the staircase that led to the Tube and slipped his pass through the gate and proceeded to board the train. He pushed his way through the crowd to the back of the car as workers filed in having recently ended their work shifts. As he was pushed further and further into the back of the car, he recognized a person boarding the train. He had changed in the three years since he'd seen him. His hair had greyed some more and he had grown a mustache. His eyes seemed to have aged the most. They were saddened. As Sherlock observed his once close friend and flat mate, he saw the stains under his eyes from tears that had now been wiped away. He longed to call out to him, but he wasn't sure what he'd say, so he hid. He sat down in the final open seat in the back and ducked his head, pulling his hat even lower and his collar higher. He made sure to move every now and then to remain out of sight as people shifted. He couldn't risk being seen through the cracks in the crowd. The ride seemed to drag on forever. Sherlock started to grow impatient after missing his stop. He couldn't just get up and casually walk by Watson. He stayed trapped in his corner; secretly wishing that John would see him, everything would go back to normal, and his secret life he now led would be over.
Suddenly everything seemed to blur and the train car became fuzzy. Sherlock rubbed his eyes trying to fix his vision. He opened his eyes to a pale man in a grey suit with dark sunken eyes towards the front of the car staring at him. He cocked his head slightly to the side as if questioning Sherlock. Had he recognized him? Sherlock started to panic but then the man opened his mouth to speak. "Why are you hiding? He can't see you. You're dead, remember?" he said in a quiet whisper.
Sherlock became hyperaware of the silence that now filled the train car. Everyone seemed to move in a sluggish manner. This wasn't logical. He had faked his death; he of all people should know that. Had he been drugged? It'd explain his current state.
"I'm not dead, what are you talking about?" Sherlock snapped, questioning the man, but instantly the man turned away, breaking his eye connection with Sherlock and everything instantly went back to its quick normal state. Sherlock's vision returned and everything was as if that moment had never occurred. He realized within that time John must have left the train because he no longer stood by the door towards the front of the car. Sherlock took this time to escape and pushed through the crowd and exited the train. As he made his way up the stairs, people continued to bump into him making him more and more irritable until finally he snapped at a man who'd just run into him yelling, "Would you watch where you're going?" Oddly, the man didn't react at all. It was as if he hadn't heard him or even seen him.
Sherlock ran into the London streets. This didn't make sense. He had faked his death. No one knew he was alive, but he definitely was. He tried again approaching someone only again to go unacknowledged. Frantically, he began running around the streets, grabbing some people by their shoulders and shaking them wildly hoping that somehow he'd get through to them. Maybe this was another one of Moriarty's plans, but no, he had watched him put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, something that had caught even Sherlock Holmes off guard. Finally Sherlock stopped, out of breath, and spun around watching the average people of London walk about. This was not possible. "I'm not dead!" he shouted. Nothing. He took off sprinting, not really sure where he was headed until he was walking in the front door of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He ran down the stairs to the bottom floor, the morgue.
The door at the other end of the hallway opened up and Molly Hooper strolled through. She was wearing her usual lab coat. Her brown hair was shorter and now just grazed her chin. As she shifted the clipboard in her hands, Sherlock noticed she was wearing a thin golden ring on her left finger. She had married since he last saw her?
"Molly!" Sherlock exclaimed, running up to her. "This is going to sound very strange, but no one seems to be able to see me. A man," he paused, "A man on the train told me I was dead, but I'm not, Molly, I'm still here. You were always someone I could trust, you can see me."
Molly's gaze stared through him and to the door at the other end of the hall as if lost in deep thought. She had no expression on her blank face. She suddenly dropped the clipboard, and clumsily scrambled to pick up a few of the scattered papers that had been lying on top of it. Molly then pushed past Sherlock, bumping into his arm as she passed, and exited the door, which he had entered, without saying anything.
Sherlock's mouth hung slightly agape for a moment before composing himself. "What is happening to me?" he whispered before heading to his next location. After walking many blocks, he arrived at a large townhouse that he very rarely visited. He slyly slipped in through the back and made his way into the parlor where he saw a familiar face reading the newspaper sitting in one of his antique upholstered chairs. "Mycroft," he called out.
Mycroft continued to read the paper.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said louder, crossing the room to where his older brother sat.
Mycroft read on, as if undisturbed.
"You're my own brother, damn it!" Sherlock yelled before angrily walking out the front door. Why was this happening? His own brother wouldn't even acknowledge him. He took off, headed to see the only person he still had hope in. He was the one person who even as Sherlock lied and told him he was a fake, had still believed in Sherlock Holmes.
"No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie," Sherlock had watched John say upon visiting his grave only a week after he'd died. After all the media had done to destroy him, John would never believe the lies. Sherlock considered what John might say upon seeing him as he walked across town. Had it been three years already? Surely his reaction wouldn't be pleasant. He arrived at the familiar doorstep of 221 Baker Street, the doorstep that used to be his own. Sherlock took a deep breath and let himself in, not wanting to startle Mrs. Hudson if he chose to knock. She would be sure to make a commotion and he wanted to make sure he saw John first. He climbed the stairs to their apartment and opened the door to a scene he wasn't quite expecting.
The apartment was in ruins. There was trash scattered all over the floor. The dishes piled in the sink looked as if they hadn't been touched in a year. There were boxes haphazardly stacked in a corner, most of them were still open and hadn't been filled. It was as if John had meant to pack away Sherlock's items, but couldn't actually make himself do it. Now where was….? Sherlock spotted his former flat mate sitting in his usual chair. His body was shaking and his face, buried in his hands. He was…crying? Sherlock paused; realizing just last week had been the anniversary of his fall. He took a shaky breath before saying "John."
There was a pause. John momentarily stopped crying and wiped his eyes on his sleeve before again losing composure, letting out another choked sob.
"John," Sherlock said again, his voice more desperate and panicked. "It's me. I'm not dead."
Nothing.
"John!" Sherlock ran and knelt in front of him. "John it's me, I'm here. I didn't die. I'm sorry."
John continued to cry.
"Stop crying, damn it, and listen to me!" Sherlock stood up frustrated and put both of his hands on his head spinning around before again kneeling in front of his friend. "Please, you said you always believed in me. I'm here, just believe, just see me."
John continued to shake, oblivious to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock realized he was muttering something as he continued to cry. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry I couldn't save you." He blamed himself? "I'm here"- Sherlock's voice cracked as he felt his composure crumbling. "I'm here, John" he tried again, wrapping his long arms around his friend's shaking and broken body, but he couldn't feel him. Sherlock felt his own tears roll down his cheeks. Sherlock cried as he held his one friend his arms, his attempts of comfort unacknowledged.
"I'm-" Sherlock jolted awake in his seat on the train. Funny, he hadn't even remembered being tired or falling asleep. How long had he been sleeping? The train was at a stop and he leaned his head to read the sign on the tiled walls. Baker Street. He watched out the window as John Watson climbed the stairs to the street above. Sherlock Holmes stood and stared at the open train door trying to decide what to do. He only had moments, before the train would be on its way again. Sherlock began pushing through the crowded train car to the door, desperately trying to get to the exit. "Watch it!" a lady snapped as he shoved her out of his way. As he managed to exit the train, he could have sworn a man in a suit with sunken eyes winked at him.
John Watson fumbled for his keys listening to the busy sidewalks behind him. Footsteps scurried past his turned back as he stood on the tiny steps that led in the front door. Soon there was a pause between footsteps, as the crowd seemed to have cleared. He heard one person coming down as he picked up the keys he had just dropped. The footsteps stopped behind him and John sensed a pair of eyes staring into his back. Then a voice he never thought he'd hear again, called out, in an almost questioning voice, "John?"