Title: Five reasons being dead is more than a slight inconvenience. (1/5)
Characters: John Sherlock
Rating: T
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Sherlock finds himself dead and this is how he handles being a ghost. Very very angsty.
Spoilers: None
Warnings: A lot of mentions of death/dying. Also this is my first fic in about two and a half years. And i do sciences at A level so i haven't written anything more than a few paragraph in a long time. Cue mistakes. Also unbeta'd because i'm cool that way.1 – Dying is rather painful.
Sherlock cannot remember exactly how he died or the circumstances around it. However he can remember the pain that ripped through his body, a kind of pain that the living cannot not even comprehend, yet it is a fate that awaits them all. Sherlock has deduced that the pain isn't actually from the act of dying itself, but from the soul being forcefully ripped out of the body and thrown naked into the real world.
Once Sherlock dealt with the physical pain, emotional pain awaited him. No-one could see him and he couldn't touch anything, he couldn't feel the bitter wind on his face or the snowflakes falling gently onto his skin. He could only endlessly observe from a distance as if he was watching the world through a telescope from a far off distant planet. Even his sense of smell was gone and the fact that he could not touch food prevented him from being able to experiment with his sense of taste. He could see objects clearly but people and some mammals appeared as ghosts. What he missed most however was his hearing; it was muffled like listening to music underwater something that deeply upset him. John liked to sing while in the shower, or while cooking, and Sherlock could no longer hear Johns surprisingly gentle singing voice with the same clarity that used to send him to sleep after a long case.
Sherlock's funeral was a surprisingly large affair. Sherlock had only expected John and Mycroft along with possibly Lestrade to turn up. But nearly everyone he had ever spoken to at the Yard was there, even Anderson and Sally. It wasn't just the police force however, many people were those that Sherlock had done cases for or people he had saved from prison. Sherlock however barely noticed these people, they were mere ghosts to him. John however was not a ghost, Sherlock almost believed he could touch him he looked that real. When John came up to the altar to read his speech, Sherlock stood directly in front of him concentrating with all his might to hear what he was saying.
"Sherlock was one of the most brilliant men I ever met. He was clever and worked nearly all his life to help people, he saved lives, locking up bad people and making the streets of London safer place to be. Despite all of this fantastic work, no-one ever thanked him, nor did he ever ask for it. Sherlock once said to me: 'heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one' but Sherlock was a good man and he saved my life in more ways than I can count," Sherlock could hear John's voice break and moved forward so that he was almost touching him, wanting so badly to grab him into a hug. John seemed to collect himself together and continued, "So while he may not be a traditional hero in tights, he was to me. And to those lucky enough to see him for what he really was, he is a great man."
One solitarily tear fell down John's face and Sherlock tried desperately to pull him into his arms but he fell through him and John shivered slightly. Sherlock was now lying awkwardly on the ground. John was no longer crystal clear and was back to being a ghost. Sherlock looked around the church at all the pale faces, he had to get out he had never liked funerals anyway. Sherlock pulled himself up and ran out of the church and out into the street. He kept running, he never tired or slowed down. London seemed to be running past him as well, moving on while he was trapped, frozen forever. Sherlock stopped running in Trafalgar Square, he just wanted someone, anyone to see him.
"CAN ANYONE SEE ME!" he shouted at the ghosts filling up the square, only they weren't the ghosts he was. "PLEASE SOMEONE! ANYONE" Sherlock kept shouting for at least an hour.
Sherlock had reached the top of the steps leading to the National Gallery. He stopped shouting and collapsed onto the ground curling up into the foetal position. He couldn't cry but he sat there staring at the world around him, if it had been possible for him to cry he would have filled the square with his tears. Sherlock in all his years alive had never felt such raw emotion, John had ripped his heart out on than altar. "You're the hero John" he mumbled his head dropping onto his knees. Sherlock didn't know how long he sat there, he didn't feel the pull of hunger or of tiredness, merely a kind of numb void in his chest.
The snow had melted by the time he moved again he lay down flat against the stone ground "I can touch the ground, I can't feel it but it will hold be up. If I truly couldn't interact with the world around me I wouldn't be able to go up these stairs. So if I can interact with the ground then surely I can with other things too." Sherlock laughed and smiled a big, wide, toothy grin. He ran down the steps towards the lions in the centre of the square jumping up on top of the massive structures. He was on top of the world and now he had a case. He had to figure out how to tell John he was still here.
The pain of death was gone and now he could focus on living.