What if Sherlock had really died? And what if death…wasn't always final?

Disclaimer: this idea was totally stolen from RavenWriter89 and her fic Heartbeats and Footfalls, which is fantastic and brilliant and rather wonderful. Mine is less fantastic, less brilliant, and rather less wonderful, but I had fun writing it. It was actually some of the easiest writing I've done in ages. It just seemed to flow.

I apparently like flipping things, so while RavenWriter's story was Sherlock going after John, mine is post-Reichenbach John going after Sherlock, who really did die when he leaped from St. Bart's roof. I would like to mention that this fic in no way reflects my actual beliefs about death or the afterlife, but it makes for a really good story. I have always had a bit of a weakness for Greek mythology.

I highly recommend that you go and read Heartbeats and Footfalls, partly because it's the inspiration for this fic, and mostly because it's an amazing fic and deserves a bunch of fans. :D (Also, my apologies for the dreadful wait on Time of Echoes...This semester has been a bit tougher than I anticipated. I'll try to be working on it, but it may be something that I just have to catch up on come Summer.)

As always, the show and all associated content belong to the geniuses at BBC. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belong to all those who love them.

Enjoy!

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About Face: Part I

Three years.

Three years, and still, John Watson visited this same plot of earth faithfully every other Saturday morning, never bringing flowers, never staying long. He'd march across the uneven ground of the ancient cemetery, stand over one particular grave for a few minutes—sometimes his lips moved, but no one was there to hear what he said—and then make a sharp, military about-face and stride away, a look of mingled relief and regret on his face.

Actually, he rather hated coming here. It was like having a scab you couldn't quite manage to leave alone, but that bled awfully ever time you pulled it off again. Gradually, scar tissue would build up, and the wound would close. Until then, John Watson would continue to visit, faithful as ever, every other weekend.

He thought no one noticed. The few that did—Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft—didn't bring it up. Molly refused to talk about Sherlock's death, as though talking about it would make it real, and would change the subject as quick as she could. Lestrade met John for drinks every so often, and they both found themselves tiptoeing around the issue until it sat like a surly bear in between them. And Mrs. Hudson was apt to start in on some story or another and stop with a little choke of a sob halfway through.

John hadn't realized there were other…watchers.

"'Scuse me, sir."

John, on his way out of the graveyard, stopped, and turned. Three women, all wearing floral housedresses that fairly stunned the eye with their clash of bright colors, sat on a bench beside the path. Odd. He hadn't seen them there when he'd come in. "Yes? Can I help you?"

The middle one, who wore a bedraggled sunhat that obscured half of her withered face, giggled. "I doubt it, luv," she rasped, the crumpled silk flowers on her hat waggling forlornly.

The one who had originally gotten his attention—built like a lamppost and wearing a garish mix of green and orange—spoke again. "But I think we might be able to help you."

Taken aback and unsure, John stammered a half-hearted, "Excuse me?"

They all three cackled as one. They even moved as one, their bony shoulders jumping up and down like giggling marionettes.

"Help you, dearie. You've lost someone haven't you?" It was the one on the other end who spoke this time. She seemed the youngest of the three—perhaps only seventy or eighty rather than a few hundred years old. Her eyes were keen and bright, like a raven's, as she stared up at John through a drooping cobweb of whitish hair that seemed to float about her face with no regard for gravity.

"Yes," he said curtly. "A friend. A while ago."

"Three years," the cobweb-haired woman nodded. The lamppost woman and the one in the half-dead hat nodded in unison, all three heads bobbing up and down in time together.

John blinked. "Y-yeah," he said, furrowing his brow. "How did you—"

"Because we pay attention," the woman with the hat crowed. She pushed the flowered confection back on her head as if to see better. It immediately drooped back in place.

The lamppost pulled a ball of string out of the pocket of her green-and-orange housedress and held it up, as if for John to inspect. "We don't like it when someone messes with our line of work," she said. "Pun not intended."

"No, no, I suppose you wouldn't…" He really had no idea what she was going on about.

"Look at this!" She held up the end of the string in a twig-like hand and waved it as if it were something offensive. "Look at where they cut it! Far too soon—look at this whole bit that's left!"

"That's…eh, that's terrible…" John said, trying to leave with as much decorum as possible.

"But if Hermes can play favorites, so can we," the lamppost continued, as if he hadn't spoken.

"Sister, you're confusing the poor man." The cobweb-haired woman elbowed her companion and gave John a piercing look with her raven eyes. "You're John Watson, your friend is Sherlock Holmes, and you want him back."

Now entirely ill-at-ease, John held up a hand. "Look," he said, "I don't know who you've been talking to, but I don't really want to talk about it and—"

"We ain't reporters, luv!" protested the woman in a hat. She pushed the brim up again and gave John a toothless grin. "We're—"

"Now, you can't tell him that," the lamppost cut her off. "Mortals aren't supposed to know."

John started to back away. Clearly, these three old women were as mad as March hares. "You ladies have a lovely day," he started to say, but all three women stood and took a step toward him. He froze mid-step.

"John Watson, you listen to me." All three woman spoke as one, their voices mingling together into a rough braid of sound. "I want to help you, but I can only tell you what to do. If you want to succeed, you're going to actually have to do something yourself."

He opened his mouth to say something—anything, this was getting far too weird—but couldn't make a sound.

"Go to the Underground station at the corner of Belmore and Wandsworth," the three women continued, still speaking in perfect unison. "Near LarkhallPark."

But there is no station—

"Don't argue with me." Finally, though they still spoke as one, the three women broke from their eerie sameness. The lamppost glared, the cobweb-headed woman shook her head—and the one in the hat gave him a broad wink.

"Go to the station," they continued, still speaking in chorus, "And get on the train that meets you."

"You'll have to pay your own fare," added the hatted woman, almost as an afterthought. "And they won't take a card."

"You can find Sherlock Holmes," said the lamppost, "And you can bring him back. But only if you do exactly as you're told."

Bring Sherlock back? In spite of himself, John's heart leaped. Logically, he knew that Sherlock was long dead—he had seen Sherlock leap from a building, had held the detective's lifeless hand, followed the medics into the morgue, and sat watch over his best friend's cold body, staring at the dead eyes and the blood-crusted hair until Molly led him away. He had gone to the funeral.

Sherlock was dead.

He knew that.

And yet, there was something to the idea…Something in him that refused to give up on hope forever. Something that said that there were still miracles in the universe and that this just might be one of them.

That was ridiculous. There were no such things as miracles—he was a doctor. He knew how the human body worked. And no human body could be dead three years and then, poof, stop being dead.

"Go, John Watson," the three women said in unison, raising their hands in either command or blessing. "Tell Pluto that Fate led you."

Against his own will, John turned and began to walk away, feeling as if someone else was controlling his legs, propelling him toward the gate. When he reached it, the feeling faded, and he spun around.

The three old women were gone. Nothing was left in the old churchyard but grey stones, green grass, and the sound of the wind in the ancient trees.