John had known as soon as he stepped into 221B that there was something off about the whole place. Not bad, per se, just off. He found out what that was once he walked into his room for the first time after the Pink case.

First off, there was an old journal in the Victorian era desk that no one had seemed to see. This wouldn't have bothered him except when he turned to the first page there was his name in flourished cursive handwriting that looked nothing like his own. He went on further, eyes widening as he read. A crime syndicate, Richenbach falls, and something about their home address. That was all he could take in before he passed out on the floor.

When he woke up there was a rather posh voice above him (not Sherlock's) asking if he was all right.

Hazel eyes opened slowly to meet a rather startling icy blue. That was hovering above him. And mildly translucent.

"What the bloody hell?" He all but shouted, scrambling away. Sherlock didn't hear, or pretended not to hear, because there was no sound from downstairs.

The man in front of him blinked. He was older, probably mid fifties or sixties, in classic Victorian attire. His blond hair has strips of grey and there was a distinct world weary look to his tanned face. Oh, and John could see right through the bloke. Well, not right through, but he could definitely see the wall through the man's head.

"So you can see me?" He asked, voice tinged with a mild Scottish brogue. He seemed genuinely surprised by the fact.

"Of course I can bloody see you!" John exclaimed. "Now who the hell are you?" The man cocked his head to one side, hands limp over his crossed legs.

"Doctor John Watson. And you?"

Silence.

"Doctor John Watson…" John replied slowly, staring at the doctor before him. "Are you dead?"

"Yes. Afterlife was a dreadful place. I decided to come back home instead." He chuckled lightly. "I'm surprised Holmes isn't here."

John swallowed convulsively, eyes faring the risk of popping out of his skull with how wide they were. "Holmes as in Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. "Please, please tell me the answer is no."

"Terribly sorry Doctor Watson," the ghost said, his face apologetic. "But the answer is yes."

John fainted again.

{][][}

"Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson?"

"Hmmm…"

"Ah. Your awake then, Doctor."

"Yes, I'm bloody awake. Just call me John.

"All right, John."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Holmes left about an hour ago. Something about Inspector Lestrade."

"DI."

"What?"

"The title is Detective Inspector now, commonly known as a DI."

"I see."

"…"

"I suppose your curious."

"Very."

"What do you want to know?"

"You said you knew a Sherlock Holmes. Describe him for me."

"Mad. A genius. Worlds only consulting detective."

"That's it?"

"I assumed you wanted the short version."

"Well, yes…"

"Then what is the problem?

"…Never mind. What year did you die?"

"Hm. 1924, I think. I was fifty-six."

"And Holmes?"

"Two years later, in Sussex. He retired early."

"Any siblings?"

"Mycroft Holmes, as far as I'm aware. He isn't here too, is he?"

"Here too?"

"Apparently, there are certain things we needed to do. In this time period. History has a way or re-writing itself."

"Oh…kay. Yes, Mycroft is here."

"Has he kidnapped you yet? He did as soon as we finished the Scarlet case."

"Yes. Scarlet case?"

"A Study in Scarlet. I can't count how many times Holmes berated me on my romanticism."

"We actually just finished a case. Serial killer cabbie."

"History does re-write itself then. What did the dead man carve in the floor?"

"Dead man? No, woman. "Reporter, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink," to quote. She was writing Rachel."

A laugh.

"Rachel? That's what Scotland Yard thought. It was actually meant to be rache, the German word for-"

"-Revenge."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Anderson told us. Sherlock slammed the door in his face."

"That does sound like Sherlock."

"So, uh. What now?"

"I think I'll be going. Sherlock finally crossed over, so the afterlife might not be so boring."

"Oh…"

"Oh, and write up the case. A Study in Pink sounds fitting."

"Will you drop by?"

"Of course!" Cried he. "Who else would give you writing advice?"

"Okay. Why'd you stay in the first place though?"

"Well, someone needed to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"Read the Richenbach case in my journal, John."

"W-why?"

"So you aren't shocked by death."

With that, John H. Watson of the nineteenth century was gone.

{][End?][}

A/N: Wow! I'm just on a writing streak, aren't I? This is starting to feel weird. Aw well, it's fun.

There may or may not be a part two to this, I'm not sure. We shall see.

~Piki :B