Being dead was nothing like he'd anticipated. If anything, it was even more boring than life itself.
Part of him was a little disappointed that Sherlock had failed to keep his end of the deal.
You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.
However, the consulting detective was nowhere to be seen, and that could only mean he'd managed to cheat death somehow. The question was, how? He'd been too busy blowing his own brains out at the moment to actually pay attention.
Still he enjoyed the funeral. So many people crying their hearts out – Sherlock was more popular than the man gave himself credit for. Poor Johnny boy looked utterly devastated, and that was a happy memory he was going to cherish for the rest of his afterlife.
xxx
That Anderson guy was completely nuts, but he was probably right about Sherlock's impending return. He missed the consulting detective more with every passing day, couldn't wait for him to be back in London again.
(Apparently he wasn't allowed to leave London. It was kind of stupid that wraiths were eternally doomed to haunt the same place, but there was nothing he could do about that.)
Then Mycroft Holmes boarded a plane to Serbia, and he knew that the time had come.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, and that was saying something given the fact that he was nothing more than a ghost himself.
xxx
It was so endearing to see Sherlock coming to John's rescue, no matter that his precious little pet had recently punched him in the face three times in a row.
However, he was even more intrigued when he caught a glimpse of John's fiancée. He knew her from somewhere, and she most definitely wasn't what she pretended to be.
Oh, that was interesting. Sherlock's damsel in distress was at the mercy of the woman that called herself Mary Morstan, and yet the brilliant detective still had to figure it out.
Maybe he wasn't so brilliant after all.
(Or he just happened to recognize his own kind. John Watson did have a type after all, he should have worked out that bit ages ago.)
xxx
Boring, boring, boring. Weddings were so boring, so many people pretending to be happy for the happy couple.
The only thing he truly appreciated was the brilliant attempt on Major Sholto's life. The murder technique was so peculiar he almost wished he'd thought about it himself.
Of course Sherlock had to spoil all the fun, but then he wouldn't have had it any other way.
xxx
Charles Augustus Magnussen might be the Napoleon of blackmail, but he could surely use a lesson in style. Still he admired his uncanny ability to catalogue and store all sorts of information inside his mind palace, something that Sherlock didn't seem to get for some reason.
He wasn't pleased at all when Mary Watson shot her husband's friend in the chest. How was he supposed to tolerate that someone else succeeded where he'd failed?
On second thought, he was able to see that the woman had never intended to kill him. Clever move on her part, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try and finish the job.
He'd recently discovered that he could sneak into Sherlock's mind palace when he really wanted to. There was nothing like mocking your best enemy as he was standing on the threshold of death.
'It's raining, it's pouring. Sherlock is boring. I'm laughing, I'm crying. Sherlock is dying.'
Funny how the man pictured him as chained inside a padded cell. How very telling.
'You're gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you.'
In the end, he just couldn't resist the impulse to strike one last blow, and that was his only mistake.
'You're letting him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger.'
That was the moment when the dying man started fighting again. And maybe, deep down, this was exactly what he'd been hoping all along.
xxx
I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.
Sherlock wasn't lying – he was no angel after all. He watched as Magnussen crumbled to the ground, and if ghosts could cry then he would be weeping of joy now.
'You're me! Thank you!'
A pity that Sherlock couldn't hear him this time around. It was delightfully ironic that John Watson had proved to be his best friend's undoing at the very end.
xxx
They were going to send Sherlock away from him, again. On a suicide mission in Eastern Europe, no less. Unless he did something; he had to send them a message somehow.
Cable television it was, then. All those dull Englishmen had better prepare themselves for the shock of their lives.
Did you miss me?