John Watson had lived with ghosts. They sat in his chairs and passed behind his curtains. They deadened the silence when he sat alone in his flat, and they stood beside his bed as he wondered how other people fell asleep. They were dressed in uniform and held an air of command. Some had missing limbs and some were burned beyond facial recognition. He still knew who they were.
Ghosts do not leave, but they do fade. For three years they had been fading, their presence growing weaker, the air seeping into the voids they once commanded. Three years ago…that was the day everything had changed. Now he saw again the angular silhouette bent over the microscope, now it straightened up to greet him; he remembered so vividly and with such clarity he had the sudden urge to sketch that form, that moment he first met Sherlock, if only to look at it again. But John had never been able to draw well, so he closed his eyes and held the picture as long as he could.
Back then, his therapist had been trying to make him express the trauma he had experienced in Afghanistan, to give a voice to his ghosts. But the more he told her, the less he himself understood what was always spinning through his mind. Mike Stamford—Mike was a good bloke, but he didn't understand. He tried to pull down the protective wall John had built, to make him, I don't know, thought John. Admit something. Cry openly. Mike was right that John had locked up his memories of the war, his emotions, his pain. He had pushed it all into a dark room in the back of his mind and locked the door. What Mike didn't understand was that he hadn't just locked his friends out of the room, but himself as well. Even John didn't know what John was feeling.
But Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't tried to get anything out of John, hadn't even asked about his army experience beyond "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Maybe he knew the questioning wouldn't have been good for John. More likely he was so detached from human experience it didn't occur to him to inquire into John's life story. Whatever the case was, in two days Sherlock had managed to make him to forget about his limp. How long had his therapist been questioning him about his leg? How long had she been trying to convince that limp out of him? And yet when Sherlock had rushed after that taxi cab, John was on his feet in an instant, thinking only of the chase, of following Sherlock. Later, he had shot a man to save Sherlock's life. How long had he agonized over the gruesome deaths he saw in the Middle East? But the moment he saw the tall figure lifting that pill, opening his mouth, there was no question in his mind. He had held his hand steady, not second-guessing himself for a moment. A clean shot through the shoulder.
The limp. The gun. Sherlock was the only one who could take away the pain the war caused him.
Sherlock had not tried to chase away John's ghosts. Instead, he had stepped in and taken their place.
If she were here, his therapist would be pleased he was crying. Let it all out, she would say. But as he lay on the couch in his flat, each tear only worsened the pain. Three years ago, he was all alone. Now, as he sobbed like a child, those days felt painfully close, like yesterday, as though the adventures he had shared with the tall man in a dark coat had been part of another life. But no, it had happened, for beyond this pain—pain—pain! he was still healed from the scars of the war. Three years ago, guns and screams and explosions had rattled in his mind. Now the guns were silent, and the ghosts had faded almost past memory. The nightmares were still gone. Sherlock had still changed his life. But he hadn't quite left it.
No soldiers haunted him tonight. His dreams did not take him to Afghanistan; they let him stay in London. But looming over each dream, standing at a distance and somehow controlling every strange turn they took, was a tall, trim figure, its coat trailing behind it in the wind, its face guarded by shadows. When he woke up, still lying on his couch in his scrubs, he found the presence had not stayed behind in his dreams. It was sitting beside him.
He heard it breathing when all else was quiet. It trailed him when he worked at the hospital, glanced over his shoulder to check his paperwork, disappeared down some corridors and appeared around others. When he rode in a cab…that was the worst. Riding in a cab with an empty seat beside him. No hurried case summaries, no mile-a-minute speculations, no sarcastic deductions. But he could see the figure out of the corner of his eye—actually see it sitting there, collar up, knowing half-smile in place, curly hair completing the silhouette. Saying nothing. After two more determined tries and two subsequent breakdowns at his flat, John stopped riding in empty cabs.
John didn't try reading what notes she was taking. He didn't even bother guessing. He had never cried in front of his therapist before, but she said what he had expected.
"Let it out, John." No. No, you don't understand. She couldn't know that the tears only sharpened the pain in his chest. She couldn't understand what emptiness was. He was hollow, a shell with nothing left but pain.
"John." He stared at her, not wiping the tears off his face as they continued to run down. They felt strange. "John, you haven't even told me why you wanted to meet." His eyes fell to the black curtain behind her. It swelled in the slight breeze coming through the window and wrapped itself around the shadowy figure that never let him go anywhere alone. But there was more comfort in loneliness than in this constant presence, this omnipresent reminder. And suddenly he was angry; angry at Sherlock for dying, angry at this inescapable ghost that could never take Sherlock's place. His therapist watched him carefully, waiting for a reply. He didn't care what she thought. He glared right past her, shouting at the…shadow. Ghost. The not-Sherlock.
"Make up your mind!" She jumped, looking up from her clipboard. John ignored her. "Make up your mind, for heaven's sake, Sherlock! Either…" his voice broke. He took in a sharp breath. He wasn't crying any more, but the pain in his chest was so sharp. He swallowed, trying to find his voice.
"Either" he tried again. His words fell dead on the air. A beeping sound came from the kitchen. His therapist opened her mouth, paused a moment, and spoke.
"Casserole," she apologized, and left the room. It's just you and I now, John thought. Sherlock waited.
"Either stop…" He wheezed with each breath, and he felt his body sag into the chair. So alone…how could anyone be so alone. "Ummmm." Trying to get a hold of himself. Trying to breath. In, out. In, out. "Ummm. Ahem." He glanced at the ceiling. Plain white. It didn't care.
But John could speak now. "Ummm. Sherlock…either stop—stop being dead…" He swallowed. Don't cry in front of him. "Or finish. Finish dying. Just be dead. Just make up your mind." Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his, burning, silent. "Stop haunting me!" he screamed. "Stop following me! Sherlock!"
Except for the gentle whir of the ceiling fan, the room was silent. John stared off into space, wondering if it had worked, if he was gone. The thought terrified him. To be truly alone.
"John." Her voice, coming from the door behind him, was gentler than usual. "John, let go." He finally looked at her. His eyes were numb, dull with pain. Almost blank. "John, this is not good for you," she said, walking around his chair and taking the seat opposite him. "You've got to let them go." He watched her still, saying nothing. Moments passed. "John, can you hear me? You need to let them go. Leave them in your past, where they belong."
His voice was barely audible, crushed beneath his grief.
"Let…what go?" He shifted in his chair.
"Your past. Your memories." She looked at him meaningfully as she spoke her next words. "Your ghosts."
He was still there, standing silently behind her. His form was tall, sharp, commanding. His eyes were fixed on John, glinting with the intelligence John had learned to trust without question. He looked back to his therapist. His voice held steady.
"I don't have ghosts."
Sherlock's mouth lifted in the familiar half smile. He knew.
John didn't smile back. He blinked, and two more tears fell down his face.
"I've just got one."