Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A.N. OOCness galore, sorry. I couldn't really help myself.
A study in blue
'Nothing happens to me.' When he wrote that, John Watson had no idea how wrong he'd soon be. The catalyst, of course, was Mike Stamford. "You need cheap accommodations? I was pinning the list of books for my course on the bulletin board earlier, when I noticed an advert for a flat to rent. In Baker Street. Really, really cheap. There's something wrong with it, probably, but checking it out can't hurt. I'll show you."
Since Mike had noticed it, someone wrote on the leaflet, "Seriously people...just don't", but the price was so low that John went to look at it anyway. He vaguely expected mould, cockroaches or worse, but the place looked absolutely lovely. He moved in within the day, expecting to find out its problems with time.
It didn't take him much. The heating chose the oddest times to malfunction – and only in very limited places, switching between them with no reasonable explanation. Around a certain chair in the living room most often, but sometimes in the kitchen or the bedroom (and about the bedroom – which of the previous tenants had left the periodic table pinned on the wall? John rather liked it).
The electronics were as moody as the heating – the TV was liable to change channel on its own, or the light bulbs would flicker on and off. Then again, the house was old, some things were sure to malfunction, and all in all John was cosy in his new home.
What irked him a bit was his new found habit to kick away his blankets. He'd never done so, nightmares or not, but now he woke up almost every night with the bedsheets on the floor, stone cold. It was damn annoying.
Then the annoying things just started piling up. There was one of his neighbours who performed mournful violin concertos at 3AM, and when he tried to complain, they denied everything and looked at him with a mix of pity and this-man-is-an-idiot expression that enraged him to no end. And the nocturnal playing didn't stop. It was very high quality music, I'll grant you that, but so wistful that it made John cry (just the once).
Things (especially teacups) got misplaced with a worrying frequency. John could have sworn that he didn't put them anywhere near where he found them. And even if he found them in a couple of minutes, the tea was always ice cold. What the hell was happening in that house? (What was happening to him? Maybe he should inform Ella about the bouts of forgetfulness.)
He really should have noticed the signs but he didn't. Then, even John's ample obliviousness was made to crumble. The lights flickered for hours on end in a specific pattern...which just happened to be the Morse code for 'bored'? Really?
But then the shock of his life came a night, when he was still not asleep, just dozing, and he felt the covers being taken from him – quite violently. He opened his eyes...and all he could see was a faint blue shadow. John swore fervently and spent the night surfing the web for 'blue ghosts'. He found drugs and video games. Then, changing his query to 'ghostly colours' he finally found a website that explained how blue ghosts were those most in need of healing. "Good thing I'm a doctor, then, uh?" he told to the empty air.
The following day, he brought the question up to the landlady, "Mrs. Hudson, I know it'll look odd but I have a reason to ask...Did anyone die in this house?" He didn't expect the reply.
"Sherlock helped me get rid of my abusive husband, dear. I'm not asking him to move out," she told firmly.
"That makes sense...wait, you knew about the ghost?" John queried, a bit shocked by her nonchalance about the matter.
"Why did you think the price was so low?" she countered with a gently teasing smile.
"Of course." John shrugged. "Can I ask how he died?" How was he supposed to heal if he didn't know a thing?
"Overdose. He was such a troubled soul, Sherlock. He was very special too, you know. I miss him, despite his being still here."
"I'm sure the feeling is mutual, Mrs. Hudson," the doctor said.
Coming back from work that day, John brought home an ouija board. After dinner, he took it, dimmed the lights cleared his throat awkwardly and announced, " I'm...calling to the spirit living in this house. Are you here? Can you hear me?"
The planchette went with remarkable swiftness to Yes without John even touching it.
"Sher...lock? Could you spell your name for me?"
S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k H-o-l-m-e-s, y-o-u i-d-i-o-t
"Hey!" John protested loudly.
He heard like the echo of a whisper, "Everyone is." The voice made his hairs stand, though not in fear. Fear was different. Unease, maybe.
"Wait...you can talk?" the doctor queried, shocked.
A single violin note reminded him that Sherlock could indeed be heard, if he so chose.
"Then why the Morse code?"
"Pastime, John," the ghost rumbled.
Oh right. He did day he was bored, John thought. "Is taking my bedsheets a pastime, too? Because I'd rather you think of an alternative."
"You've taken my room," Sherlock replied petulantly.
"If I move to the upstairs room, will you let me sleep then?" John queried reasonably.
A beat of silence, then, "Would you?" Sherlock inquired. There was an incredulous tinge to his voice.
"I like my sleep uninterrupted. If you're so keen on your room - it makes sense, I guess, if we need to share the flat – then yes, I would." John shrugged.
"Share the flat?" the ghost echoed. "You're not...going to exorcize me or something?"
"Mrs. Hudson would except to it. I think she likes you better than me. With reason, mind. What you did for her was very good. And anyway, living with a ghost is bound to be interesting. You're not the only one who gets bored." The doctor grinned.
"I won't be a hobby, John," Sherlock said sharply.
"Do you object to us both feeling less...disconnected?" John was tired to stare at his gun for hours on end. Sherlock might end up helping him as much as he hoped to help the ghost. Maybe he needed a flatmate.
"No," the entity whispered.
"Then good night, Sherlock." John moved to make the bed in the upstairs room.
Things settled in a weird but comfortable sort of domesticity after that. John made regularly two cups of tea, since it seemed to comfort Sherlock even when he couldn't drink it anymore. Sometimes, they talked for hours in Morse code – John took to carrying a penlight to spare the light bulbs on his end at least. They agreed about what to watch on TV, so Sherlock was less inclined to abruptly changing channel (he started to yell at the programs, instead). His rumbles about how idiotic the characters were didn't annoy John; he found them funny.
Knowing there was someone waiting for him at home – even if it was only a ghost – was oddly comforting to John. Sherlock even stretched his powers to be able to text him, and it didn't matter if he texted 'Bored' forty times in an hour, John smiled receiving each one. It was good to be missed. The 3AM concertos too, which continued (ghostly thing? Or simply Sherlock having to while the night away somehow and nothing interesting on TV?), while still mournful, seemed a little less heartbroken, but maybe that was wishful thinking on John's part.
"You don't hate me." It hit Sherlock suddenly after Doctor Who one day. He couldn't wrap his mind about that.
"Well, of course. Why would I?" the doctor countered amiably.
"Oh right. With you...I forgot. Well, there's nothing for it." The ghost then proceeded to lay out details of John's day – and his life – that they had never talked about.
"So you have omniscience now that you're dead. I kinda figured that out," was John's only comment.
"It's not like that at all!" Sherlock protestesd, explaining then how the most minute details clued him in.
"That's amazing!" the doctor exclaimed.
"Is it?" the ghost inquired incredulously.
"Of course. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary. And you knew how to do it even while you were alive?"
"Yes, of course," Sherlock huffed, vaguely offended.
"Don't take it the wrong way. But how did someone of your sheer brilliance ever do something as dumb as drugs, and overdosing on top of it?" John queried instinctively.
A beat of silence, and John feared that he had offended his friend somehow, then Sherlock confessed in a whisper, "I meant to. Overdose, that is. Not remain trapped like this, of course."
"But why?" The protest surged as a wail from John's very core.
"It seemed easier, not fighting it anymore. Giving people what they wanted. I really was universally hated, John. Well, maybe not by Mrs. Hudson. I suppose that's why I stay here," the ghost revealed in a sad rumble.
"But I like you," John countered as if that could invalidate every hateful word Sherlock had been subjected to.
"And I wish that I had known you when I was still alive," the blue ghost admitted.
"Me too," the doctor echoed sincerely.
"We would have been friends, wouldn't we?" Sherlock murmured, wistfully and a bit dreamily.
"We are, Sherlock," John replied firmly.
"We can't be friends. I'm a ghost. It's not healthy for you," the entity reasoned.
"I don't care. We are. As for healthy...I'm not particularly healthy, am I? Leg and all..." the doctor uttered, with a self-deprecating smile.
"That leg makes me so angry," Sherlock blurted out.
"Tell me about it," John sighed.
"I know how to get rid of it. I would have done it, for you, if only I was alive," the ghost declared.
"Do you?" his friend asked, suddenly very interested. His bloody therapist hadn't been able to. Then again, Ella wasn't a bloody genius.
"Of course. I was an addict, I recognize addiction. And you, my friend, are in dire need of an adrenaline fix. I would have gotten it for you. The perfectly natural, completely free way."
"How?" John challenged. Maybe Sherlock would heal him, instead of the reverse. Or give him the key to it.
"I used to cooperate with the police. When they didn't know what to do, which was always, they called me in to deduce things for them. I'd bring you along on cases, John. I bet that having to chase a murderer down your leg would perform splendidly," Sherlock explained. Why had he given in so soon? If only he'd persevered until he found John he could have had this. John would be healthy. He would be happy. Cases would be twice as fun. It wasn't fair that they were denied all this. "God, but I miss the Work!" he sighed longingly. This much he could admit.
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure about my leg, but I would have loved working with you, Sherlock. I really would have. I would have kept you safe," John promised wistfully. Safe from yourself, even.
"I believe you. And even if you might not believe me – not with my history – I'd have stayed clean for you. As long as you were by my side and liked me still," the former detective whispered.
"Forever, then," the doctor replied with a weak grin.
"We might be world-building our own utopia, but let's not go too far with the fantasy, John. It could never be forever. It would have been precious nonetheless," the ghost prompted. If he let himself believe that, never getting to experience it would hurt so much that he'd be torn asunder.
"For both of us. I hope you know," John murmured.
"Of course I know," Sherlock huffed. That broke their melancholy. John let out a little giggle and, for the first time, the sleuth's soul followed suit.
Two days later, they were watching the news when the third serial suicide came up.
"This!" Sherlock literally exploded in his indignation, and their microwave joined in with a loud bang. "They have a serial killer and don't even recognize his work. Oh, I'd have brought you along on this, John. Serial killers are the most fun."
"Are you sure of that?" John asked, serious. He didn't have in him to be angry about the microwave. Sherlock surely hadn't meant to, and some collateral damage was inevitable.
"Please, John. Of course I'm sure."
"Could you solve this?" the doctor wondered. Exactly how many lives that could have been saved had been lost together with Sherlock's? His friend's death had been such a waste. If only...but there was nothing to do for that. Or was there?
"I could have. I would have. No, we would have. But let's not hurt ourselves with the would haves, John. We can't solve this. I can't exactly go to the crime scene, can I?" Sherlock moaned frustratedly.
John didn't reply, but he became pensive. The following morning, he brought a proposition up with the tea. "Sherlock, I thought...There are people dying because the police can't have your help. And your abilities...they're intact. It's just that your mobility range has shortened. Well, I might have a solution to that. A way for you to work again!" he announced proudly.
"What?" It sounded so eager that Sherlock mentally scoffed against himself.
"Why don't you try possessing me? If it works, you could go wherever using my body," John said cheerily.
"Would you?" the detective queried incredulously. How could anyone agree to that? Losing control over themselves?
"The idea was mine in the first place, wasn't it?" John replied with a smile. "On one condition, mind."
Aaah...a catch. Of course there was one. "Which?" The bait was too strong for Sherlock to dismiss him outright.
"You don't touch drugs while in my body," the doctor stated sternly.
"Getting you hooked would be a poor thank you, wouldn't it? I'm not about to do cocaine, but could I have nicotine patches? They used to help tremendously," the sleuth bartered.
"I don't smoke, so no. I'm sure that you'll find out that when the body doesn't itch for it your deductions will go even smoother."
"Mayhap," the ghost conceded, unconvinced. But John's body, John's rules. Or he wouldn't agree more than once. "But why would you trust me?"
"Because we're friends. And because we have a serial killer to stop. We still have to see if it's possible to do that, mind," the doctor countered, surprised. Why wouldn't he trust Sherlock?
"Can we try right now?" the detective queried eagerly. God, he sounded like a child.
"I don't have work today, so I don't see why not." John grinned. "How do we go go about it?" he inquired then, uncertain.
"Relax, I guess," Sherlock prompted, just as unsure. He'd never possessed anyone before.
"Fine. Sure. I can do that." for a moment, nothing happened. Then he was ice cold, a moment later all tingly...and then John was emptying his gun against the wall. "Sherlock!" he yells inside his mind.
"We'll be chasing a serial killer. I need to be able to protect myself. It was exercise," the ghost sends through a link in John's mind that the doctor wasn't even aware could be born. He thought that he'd be simply shoved far back into his body, helpless, but he'd still offered. The very link let him have some insight.
"Not only that," he bit back mentally.
"Fine. I've always wanted one. Let me play just the once. The wall had it coming anyway," Sherlock grumbled.
John laughed soundlessly. It felt a bit odd. Then Sherlock was giggling too, and John's body joined them.
"It's odd. Not having my voice," the sleuth remarked when he caught his breath.
"But not bad?" John queried, a bit uneasy. There was nothing wrong with his body, he didn't think. But what if it disgusted Sherlock? For some reason,he hated the prospect.
"You'd be letting me use your body as transport to work again, John. Do you really think that I'll refuse because of your voice range?"
John can feel Sherlock rolling his eyes. It's odd for him, too, feeling things he hasn't been doing. "So you have control over this body. It comes quite naturally, too. I thought that you'd need to get reused to it. Now for the big thing...can you leave the flat?"
"Dressed like this?" Sherlock replied in mock horror to cover a deep fear. What if he couldn't?
"What's wrong with it?" John replied, joining in the game.
"I don't suppose that you have a decent suit. I've certainly never seen you wear it." The detective slipped and told it aloud. God, was it weird hearing the snide remark in John's voice.
"They don't suit me," John countered.
Sherlock rolled his eyes again at the pun. "I guess we'll have to try going," he whispered in their mind. He half expected to feel the old, well-known pull once he got to 221B's door. Instead, nothing happened. He counted the stais going down, and still he was safely ensconced in John's body. When he opened the house's door and had his feet firmly planted on Baker Street pavement, if he was a lesser man he would have wept with joy. But it would have looked weird, a grown man crying there. They didn't want to attract attention.
"So where to? Tesco?" John queried. It seemed a safe trial run.
"Tesco? Everywhere, John. I have London's map to update," Sherlock exclaimed with childish enthusiasm – luckily in their mind. Talking to himself wouldn't do.
It turned out to be literal. By the end of the day, John had visited every nook and cranny of London – a good deal of it on foot – and wanted to do nothing more than pass out. He collapsed on a chair in the kitchen when Sherlock finally left him. "You didn't even stop to get food!" he yelled at the bloody ghost.
"Food slows me down," Sherlock rumbled.
"Maybe, but if I'm to be your transport I'll need fuel. You don't want to deal with hunger pangs when after a serial killer."
"I used to all the time, John," the detective bit back sharply.
"Well, you shouldn't have. And I don't want to. My body, my rules," the doctor proclaimed hotly, while preparing himself a sandwich.
"Oh, fine," Sherlock conceded petulantly. "If we miss the killer because you're eating I'm holding you responsible, though." And the ghost plopped down on the sofa, looking – as much as a blue shadow could – like a whiny child.
But later, when Lestrade's conference is on TV live, Sherlock asked, "Are we solving this case?"
"Yes, of course," the doctor agreed with a smile.
"Then I have a few texts to send."
John could swear that he'd seen the shadow smirk. It wasn't as unsettling as he probably should have found it. From the TV screen, a baffled journalist remarked, "It says 'wrong'." Sherlock chuckled. He loved this ability discovered thanks to John. Nobody he wanted to talk to before. Nobody who cared to hear from him. Then he sent, "If you want this case solved, come 221B Baker Street. SH-JW"
Lestrade came. Of course he came. Someone had disrupted his bloody press conference. The moment he entered the room, Sherlock – hurriedly seated in John's body – remarked, "Your shirt tells me that your wife is cheating on you."
"That doesn't matter!" the inspector roared.
"I was just proving to you that my deductive powers are very much intact, Lestrade," the sleuth complained with a grimace.
"What I want to know is who are you? How did you get my number? And was that text before a confession?" the policeman queried sternly.
"Of course not, don't be an idiot now. You gave me your number five years ago and naturally I haven't deleted it. As for who I am, I signed, didn't I? How many people sign their texts SH?" Sherlock replied sternly.
"Joke's not funny," Lestrade growled out. "I don't know how you knew Sherlock, but stop it now."
"I am Sherlock Holmes. And I can solve this case for you, as always. If you're interested in my transport, his name is doctor John Watson," the detective replied.
"Your what? Do I need to have you sectioned, Watson?" the inspector asked in a no-nonsense tone.
"Fine, you want proof? I thought it'd be easier for you to do things like this, but since you insist on being an idiot..." Sherlock left John's body, walked the two steps to the policeman's seat and shouted, "Booo!" A strangled sound came from the startled inspector.
John said placating, "You have to forgive Sherlock if he's cranky, detective inspector. He was so eager to work again."
"That's...that's a..." the policeman stammered.
"Ghost, Lestrade," Sherlock cut in, annoyed.
"And he was..."
Lestrade didn't seem to find his words, so John helpfully supplied, "Possessing me."
"What the hell, Sherlock?" the inspector yelled, turning to face the blue shadow.
"But I consented. Actually, it was my idea," the doctor explained calmly.
"What? Why?" Lestrade blurted out.
"He'd be home-bound otherwise. And I get to come on cases like this," John reasoned with a smile.
"Do you want the case solved, Lestrade?" Sherlock interjected sharply.
"By a ghost?" the policeman replied incredulously.
"I didn't take credit anyway. It won't be so different," the sleuth pointed out calmly.
"I should be sectioned, probably. But why not. We really can't make heads nor tails of this. But if I am to maintain my job, this is our secret, got it? Doctor John Watson is our new genius consultant, and that's it," Lestrade agreed.
"But..." John started. It was sensible, of course, but it wasn't right. He'd be taking credit for Sherlock's work in front of Lestrade's colleagues. How could he?
"I don't mind, John," Sherlock cut in. "As long as I get to work."
"Then sure. I suppose Lestrade does have a point," John acknowledged.
"Fine. I'll call you in as soon as we have something for you to work on, Sherlock. John. Thanks," the inspector agreed, saying goodbye.
When Lestrade's text came – something about a new victim, and a message – Sherlock leapt into John and out of the room like a bullet. They ran – almost literally – into Mrs. Hudson at the door, and his joy couldn't be contained. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson! A serial killer! It's Christmas!" he shouted, twirling her around.
"Sherlock?" she queried, surprised.
He nodded. "I always knew that you were bright."
"Well, try not to get John hurt. I quite like him as a tenant, dear," she pointed out gently.
"Will do!" he promised, and a moment later he was already halfway down Baker Street, in search of a cab. Strangely, thought John, his joy deflated – though not his eagerness – the closer they got to the crime scene.
Once arrived, a pretty black woman officer blocked his path. Fuck, Donovan, John heard him groan internally. "You can't get beyond the line," she pointed out sharply.
"Lestrade's expecting me," he countered.
"And you are?" she queried.
"Doctor John Watson, your new consultant," he said smoothly.
"Oh, not another freak!" she pleaded to God, exasperated.
Sherlock ignored her and moved past her. He ignored her mostly because John was seething through the link. The sleuth tried to placate him, "Freak's not for you. It's for me. I'm the actual consulting detective, remember?"
John's reply shocked him into stillness for a second. "And on whose account do you think I was so angry?" Why would John be livid for him? It made no sense. It never happened before.
Then Anderson arrived, and he was a dick, too, as expected. "Get used to it. I told you I was hated," Sherlock warned his friend. (He had a friend. He really had one.)
"They do this all the time? When you help them?" John queried, flabbergasted.
"This and worse," Sherlock admitted mentally.
Luckily then – finally – there was the crime scene and everything else fell from Sherlock's mind. Still, seeing that Lestrade offered no praise John made a point to send through the link how brilliant and amazing he thought Sherlock was being. Again, taken aback, the sleuth stuttered to a stop in his deductions for a moment.
The surprise and shy pleasure echoing through the same link hurt John. Surprise? Had really Sherlock come to expect only to be bullied for his brilliance? Had these people – and other idiots, undoubtedly – really managed to push the better of them to suicide? John knew that already, but he hadn't realized how. Or how much the mindless despise could hurt. He'd like to hug Sherlock, but he couldn't.
Thank God that they were now chasing a missing suitcase, which might just bring them to the murderer, and Sherlock didn't have the time to feel sad. In truth, he felt surprisingly – intensely – alive just about now. It was almost perfect.
They found the case where Sherlock expected it to be – of course they did – and brought their loot back home. A quick exam of it, and Sherlock had already devised a trap for their serial killer. It didn't work, but it was exhilarant all the same. Why had John never chased a cab that way? It was fun!
"God, I missed this," Sherlock breathed. Then he caught John's giddy happiness and almost hysterical giggling through the link and joined in. John must have looked like a loony, giggling to himself all the way home, but Sherlock couldn't care less. He was happy.
What he really didn't expect was the cabbie serial killer tracking him and coming home to offer him a ride. As soon as they realized, Sherlock hopped on his transport, the gun was in John's pocket, and the doctor was set to go, thrumming with adrenaline.
Only he hadn't been tracked – seeing him, for a moment the cabbie looked surprised. But he drove John to an empty school all the same. "It's odd," the cabbie remarked. "I came because someone told me we should have at least a victim in loving memory – that there had lived the only man who could have possibly caught me if he wasn't already dead. And here I find you. I remember you. You were trying to solve my case, weren't you? Baiting me. If everyone didn't dismiss cabbies, you already would have."
"Yes, well, 221B is good for the brain," Sherlock drawled. "Someone told you?"
"My sponsor. I'm not exactly your run of the mill serial killer, you see. And you aren't an ordinary bloke too, it seems. You might like the game," the cabbie replied, taking two identical pills from his pockets and offering him one. "You take your pick out of the two pills, we both take our medicine, and one of us is dead in the end. Exactly how clever are you?"
Sherlock stretched a hand at that, but John yelled inside him, "I'll be a very angry ghost if you get us killed now." It stilled him.
"So?" the cabbie encouraged him.
"I know which is which, John," Sherlock whined through the link.
"You don't need to prove to him that you're clever. You're already the cleverest man I know. But serial killers don't play fair," John pointed out.
"I guess," the sleuth mentally admitted. The stretched hand went back to his own lap. "Tempting, but not playing," Sherlock declared out loud.
"I thought you wouldn't need the incentive," the cabbie sighed, clearly disappointed. He then threatened him...with a gun-shaped lighter.
"I pick the gun," Sherlock said calmly. Inside, John was sniggering.
"Are you sure?" the murderer queried conversationally.
"I pick the gun," the sleuth repeated.
"You were the only one," the cabbie said, conceding defeat.
"The others weren't army doctors. I know a gun when I see one. For your reference, it looks like this," the detective said, showing his. The cabbie swallowed in fear. "And now we're going to wait for the police and you're going to tell me who is your sponsor," Sherlock stated, texting Lestrade.
"Are you sure that you're not a colleague?" the serial killer quipped.
"Of course not. Killing would be boring. The name, please," the sleuth countered nonchalantly.
"People that pronounce his name don't live long," the cabbie revealed, clearly afraid.
"But you'll tell him that John Watson is the new consultant detective, just as good as Sherlock Holmes once was, and you'll tell me his name. Just the name. We should be properly introduced. Someone who sponsors serial killers is bound to be interesting, after all. Or I won't kill you. I'll hurt you. I know dozens of ways to do that without leaving signs. I'm a doctor." Sherlock smiled genially, and it was terrifying.
"We don't torture people, Sherlock," John grumbled.
"But he doesn't know," the sleuth replied through the link.
"You're deranged," the cabbie proclaimed, shaking his head, "and Moriarty's deranged, and I don't want anything to do with either of you anymore. Have a long happy life together. I'm just hoping the police will arrive quickly."
"Moriarty?" Sherlock inquired gently.
"I don't know anything else about him. Really. Or her, for all I know," the serial killer said defensively.
"I believe you. And oh look, Lestrade has finally arrived," the detective pointed out.
Later that night, John was still giddy. "We really caught a serial killer. Well, you did," he said, enthusiastic.
"There was definitely an us, John. I would be helpless without your cooperation," Sherlock rumbled.
"And are we going to do it again?" the doctor queried, eager like a kid.
"Lestrade knows that I'm back in the market, he'll bring us other cases. Or we might reopen my blog and try to get private clients. Not everyone will be as interesting, though, I warn you."
"The blog? You had a blog? Need to check it. Oh right. About blogs. The therapist made me write one. Now I definitely have something to tell," John remarked. Though if Sherlock wanted private clients he probably wouldn't be able to tell all the truth, or the only people coming would be nutcases or people looking to have him sectioned. Such a pity. Sherlock should have the fame he deserved, damn it!
After a short pause, he added, "You know, Sherlock? When I read that you needed healing, I thought that I would be able to mend you. I was so arrogant. And then you'd move on or something and I'd get a normal life back. Now, selfish as it is, I'm terrified of you moving on. I need you by my side."
"Well, I'm in no danger of leaving just now. I'm too happy with our current arrangement, as well." The sleuth chuckled. Happy for the first time in my life...well, existence, he added in his mind.
"And maybe in forty or fifty years there could be two ghosts in 221B. I loathe the idea of leaving you alone," John confessed.
Sherlock countered dreamily, "Or we could try to get into the light, find our door or however it works. I'm not sure. But I thought, you knew, it could be just another adventure we could have. Together."