When Sherlock returned home following three years away, he expected a big scene with name calling, perhaps a punch or two, but preferably some snogging. But this? Never had he anticipated this.
"What do you mean 'He's dead'?" he gasped at Mycroft, who sat poised in Sherlock's arm chair.. "How? He didn't..." His voice trailed off. "Did he kill himself?" he finished quietly.
"Unless he managed to drop a 350 kg piano on his own head, I think not. It is just one of those things that happen, Sherlock."
"To cartoon characters, perhaps. Not to former army doctor's who were supposed to be here when their best friend CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD." Sherlock's frustration was getting the better of him, and it took him several deep breaths to regain his calm. After throwing his grating sibling out of the flat, he returned to the living room, unsure what to do next. All his plans included a living John Watson. His death made things immensely complicated. Reclining back onto the couch, assuming what John had referred to as his "thinking pose", Sherlock processed aloud.
"Seriously, John? A piano. Of all the ridiculous ways to die. You invaded Afghanistan and were shot, only to die due to a lack of tensile strength and common sense."
"Prick."
John's voice, he would have known it anywhere, sounded in his head. At least it must have been in his head, because the chance that John was speaking to him from beyond the grave was improbable. It was most likely just a hallucination brought on by the stress and trauma of discovering his best friend had passed away.
As the months passed, Sherlock's life returned to normal, minus one John-sized hole and the addition of several small, strange phenomenon around the flat.
Every morning, the skull was looking a different direction than the night before. Sometimes it was on the floor. Sometimes reclining on the mantle with a cigarette in its mouth. Often, it was just staring blankly at whatever mess Sherlock left in the room the night before. Until the incident with the cigarette, Sherlock just assumed it was Mrs. Hudson, but she would never stoop to such ridiculousness. Only one person in Sherlock's life would have done such a thing, but he was gone, crushed out of existence by a baby grand.
Body parts left on the counter would fall to the bin when his back was turned. The password on his computer changed on a twice daily basis, one letter at a time, until after a few days it no longer read "tobaccoash" but instead "SherlocksArse". The sock index… He couldn't even bring himself to think about the sock index anymore. Browns with navies. Wool with cotton. He shuddered just thinking about it.
"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he was fond of saying. He could see three scenarios playing out:
1) Someone was playing a trick on him. Impossible. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were the only ones with consistent access to the flat, and neither of them had the sense of humour or disposition to play such an elaborate hoax.
2) He was going insane. Impossible. He still managed to out-think most of Scotland Yard, and solved 99% of the cases handed to him. If this was all in his mind, he would know it.
3) John Watson was indeed haunting him. Improbable. Also, most likely true.
He considered this to be fact, mainly due to the exclamations heard throughout the flat. During a particularly hard case, the words "Brilliant!" "Fantastic!" and "Amazing!" floated through the air like an angelic choir. When he made a mess in the flat, it was more often "Bastard!" or "Dick!" with that tone John used when Sherlock was being a bit not good.
Several years passed before anyone else heard the voice. Sherlock and his ghostly best friend had settled into a routine, with Sherlock talking to his flatmate when no one else was around. When Lestrade stopped by one afternoon to ask Sherlock a question about a case, which Sherlock solved in a matter of seconds, there was a whispered "Fantastic!" from the dead doctor.
"Yes, yes, John, I know. Not that impressive, really. Thought you would be bored of this by now." The look on Lestrade's face reminded him that no one else knew John still resided at 221B Baker Street. "You didn't hear him, did you?" he asked, knowing the answer.
"Sherlock, John's been dead over 10 years. I haven't even heard his name in months. Why are you talking to him like he's still here?" The concern laced in the DI's voice made Sherlock cringe. He never wanted pity.
Sighing, he explained, "He never left. He's been here all along. He doesn't talk back, but occasionally he praises me or insults me as the occasion fits. He moves the skull, throws away body parts, and plays jokes that JUST. AREN'T. FUNNY."
"Twat-waffle!" comes the insult, clear as a bell, causing Greg's eyes to get as big as the petri dishes Sherlock found in the waste bin that morning, before he stumbled backward, prompting a Sherlockian smirk.
"Impressive vocabulary you have there, John. I see your time in the after-life is being well spent." Sherlock quipped, watching the normally unflappable DI make a break for the door.
More years go by. Mrs. Hudson passes on, but thankfully does not haunt the flat as well. One ghost was more than enough. Lestrade retires, and Sherlock decides it's time for more of a quiet life. Moving to Sussex had always been his plan, so with great reluctance he left 221B behind in favor of open space and beehives.
John follows, much to Sherlock's pleasure, and one afternoon he finds himself lying in the garden, face to face with his best friend for the first time in decades, the doctor standing over him, looking positively peeved.
"You insufferable bastard. Didn't occur to you to wear your silly little bee suit, did it? And now look what you've done." John reached out a hand to Sherlock, pulling him to his feet. His mind raced with deductions. John looked just as he last saw him, but in the oatmeal jumper he loved so much. Looking at his own hand, the pale digits interlaced with John's warm toned ones, it showed no signs of age, appearing similar to before he had fallen from the building all those years ago.
"I'm dead," Sherlock stated simply, smiling at his hand entwined with John's.
"Yep, 'fraid so. And only about 40 years late. Imagine my surprise when I die and discover that you WEREN'T DEAD YET. You fucking arse." Sherlock was sure he would hear more, and for the rest of eternity, but at that moment, the words were cut off by the meeting of their lips, a kiss 45 years in the making.
"The socks!" Sherlock interupted what he hoped would be the first of many more kisses when a memory of past trauma returned to him. "John, why did you move my socks? Of all the things you could have done! It was HORRIBLE."
"That's nothing. Did you ever notice that I moved all your tobacco ash tags around?"
"You did what?!"
"Yeah, didn't think so. Told you that no one could tell the difference between that stuff. Not even you." He giggled, wrapping his arms around his best friend. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go home."
A/N- I can't write scary to save my life, so have a cracky ghost story. This was written for the Oct 2012 FYJFF FanFic Contest.
The title is from an episode of Supernatural where Dean is dying and threatens Sam "I'll haunt your ass" if he doesn't take good care of baby. Thought it was appropriate.