"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, and there was an Angel standing before him. Well really, she was floating. Or…hovering. An Angel, obviously, dressed in white robes and creamy skin, blue-green eyes and light hair.

It occurred to Sherlock that perhaps angels were different for each individual person. If in stories and myths Angels were Heaven's guardians, then they certainly were held in highest regard of whoever was entering Heaven, no? Sherlock eyed his Angel, wondering why she looked the way she did. Perhaps she has light skin because angels would in London, certainly. Maybe it was where you were from.

He glanced around to compare other angels to each other, but he saw no one else.

Perhaps he was prejudiced. Otherwise she could have looked…different.

Or maybe she was alive, once.

But whoever she was, or is, Sherlock felt a familiar pull as he looked the girl (woman) over. She looked familiar. She…felt familiar.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, considering the situation. How poetic, he thought. You give your life for someone else's and you get into heaven? Or maybe it was an illusion. Maybe nothing actually happened…But either way, he was standing across from an Angel.

She was blindingly pale though, and compared to him she almost seemed normal. Sherlock licked his lips and tasted blood. There was a searing pain in his chest.

The Angel smiled. "Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He blinked again and glanced around- all white. Not poetic, but still resembling a fantasy.

If only he could tell John.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

Maybe it was Molly. Sherlock always had connections- his homeless net, the attendants at Bart's Morgue. Maybe it wasn't really Sherlock. Maybe a decoy. Maybe he planned ahead. He does that, doesn't he? He was always five steps ahead of everyone-

"John."

Maybe Sherlock had a twin.

"John!" Harry's voice made John inhale sharply, and he looked up from the floor. He blinked but didn't say anything, letting his thoughts wander again after a few minutes.

And they were just at Baskerville.

Maybe cloning isn't too far of an advanced technology.

"Where am I?" is an incredibly stupid question to ask when all you can see is blinding white light all around you. It's also a dumb question to ask when you know you've just died.

And when an Angel is standing in front of you.

The Angel in question swept her arm in the general direction of the white…atmosphere. "This is everything you wanted. That's what happens here. Anything you want. Just think it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and took a glance around, thinking. It was all very empty. He couldn't complain about the quiet, but it was missing a necessary element. A very obvious element.

"Can I file a complaint?"

The Angel only smiled serenely at him. As if she knew what he wanted. Like she knew what he needed.

"Thought not."

"John, I brought some munchies for us and a good drink too. I went expensive." Harry barged through the front door.

"Mmm." John made a small noise from where he was.

When she saw where John was, a sad sigh escaped her. He was curled up in Sherlock's chair, eyes open, but blank. Not looking at anything in particular.

"Bed, maybe…?" She spoke quietly as she approached him, careful not to give him a fright.

He'd had enough of one, hadn't he?

But to no one's surprise, John didn't even notice her movement. He only breathed shallows breaths. She could almost hear his pulse in her own head.

Harry swallowed and went back to the kitchen.

"You can't see him." Was all The Angel told Sherlock, after his third time suggesting the idea. Of course he'd been so polite about it, too- Only bringing it up in the middle of her tour and every one of her sentences.

"Why." It was more of a statement rather than a question, because he really didn't care for the answer anyway. He only wanted to make sure she had one.

"It's part of the rules. You're not allowed to see him." But the look on her face added something to the statement, and Sherlock's lips crinkled a bit. He was never one for hope before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

"Yet."

The Angel only let out a small sigh. Not a frustrated one. And Sherlock followed her along the white bridge.

The Personal Blog of John Watson

Private Entry: April 17th, 2012

My best friend is dead.

Delete the whole damn day, John thought.

"What are the other rules, then?" Sherlock let himself be guided into white rooms and white halls. He felt very weak all of a sudden. No explanation showed itself for that, but that didn't matter at the moment. If this tight-lipped thing was going to answer any of his questions they might as well be his good ones. His best ones.

The Angel stopped in front of a white doorway and pushed a white door open- Sherlock really wished his brain would stop noticing that everything was white, thank you- and turned to him. "Say hello," she said.

Say hello to who? Sherlock furrowed his brows, looking into the room to see- Oh.

Siger Holmes, but he was still young.

Well of course. Siger died when Sherlock was only seventeen, just before he started Uni. It was almost scary, how close Siger looked to Sherlock now. Or vice-versa. They were almost the same age now, weren't they?

Seventeen, he was forty-one, I'm thirty-nine now- But Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted when Siger turned and gave him a small smile.

"You use to insist that you would die young," He chuckled. "I do think I lost that bet."

"Even younger than you," Sherlock spoke seriously, not moving any closer to the man he'd hated since his death, abandonment because Siger couldn't care more for his family than his research; and Sherlock was the one who had watched him die. It's something Sherlock is aware repeats itself in their family history- Enemies being threatened and taking matters into their own hands for revenge. And Sherlock's death will have been the third to ring true of that fate. He didn't think of that until just now-

"Oh, get out of that head of yours." Siger interrupted Sherlock again. "Come here, we'll get you all cleaned up. Then I've got a great experiment for you to look at."

Sherlock raised his brow and stepped forward, realizing how weak his muscles…how weak his bones felt. He didn't need cleaning up. It was Heaven after all, wasn't it?

But when he looked down and finally turned to look behind him, Sherlock realized a trail of blood being left in his path.

Red on white again.

Sherlock forced himself to turn back to Siger.

"'S alright, Sher, you'll be right as rain in no time." Siger smiled quickly, holding out his hand the way he used to, when Sherlock would fall on the stairs or come home with a busted lip. "Right as rain."

Sherlock always hated that phrase. He also hated the rain. But he took Siger's hand anyway.

It's what you do. You follow your father.

A piano sat in the corner of the room.

Three months and two days later (not that John was ever counting, no, and definitely not the hours- Sherlock would probably be appalled) John left the flat and took a trip to Bart's. He didn't see anyone in particular, didn't even say a word. But he sat where Sherlock did on the day they met, looking into the microscope Sherlock had to replace after breaking one three times. Molly actually threw a fit at him, and so began a ten-minute row that ended in Sherlock (accurately, as always) depicting the previous nights' date for all to hear. And Molly leaving in tears.

John had to pick the bloody thing out. And Sherlock still scoffed that it was an older model. But John hated to see Molly in trouble because of some bloody case, and it was all he could (barely) afford without nicking Sherlock's card. Not like he didn't deserve it.

Sherlock was always getting people into trouble. Too bad, John thought as he played with a small dropper on the table, because he couldn't get out of his own damn trouble.

And wasn't Sherlock some sort of a genius?

The fact that on Earth three months had already passed John Watson by- and any other living person Sherlock knew- surprised him. It only felt like some odd weeks to Sherlock, and he'd been enjoying them. No longer (entirely) angry about his Father's death, the burden of his own slowly dissolving into the bright light around him, he actually looked forward to sleeping here. Living here. Mostly because it was quiet when he needed it, but sometimes because his Father was nearby somewhere- whistling as he did before. The songs vaguely sounded the same, but there was a ring to it Sherlock couldn't place. Something different. Something sad.

Sherlock felt younger here, somehow. And there were no mirrors here to disprove any theories, so he never questioned it.

He was even able to finish a few experiments he left in the Baker Street kitchen with Siger. Siger never said much, and neither did Sherlock, but there was more to their wordless murmurs breathed against the table's tile. There was less to care about. Less to feel guilty for. Not that Sherlock felt guilty often, but there was something.

"Did you not want a funeral?" Siger asked on the ninety-third day, or forty-sixth in Sherlock's mind. Sherlock blinked and stood up straight, looking at him across the table. He spoke the way he always did when you asked a stupid question, but Siger never faulted him for it.

"I changed that, in the papers. Said I didn't need one, but John was free to arrange one if he wanted."

Siger nodded once in understanding, bending back over to jot down a few notes. Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, chest tightening. The thought of John standing in front of a grave fluttered behind his eyes- and suddenly, the scene played out onto the walls of the room, the tiles…everywhere. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to separate nightmare from truth. "Did he…hold one?"

Siger didn't say anything, only shaking his head as he ripped out the fifty-ninth paper from his endless notebook and tossed it away. He didn't aim for the bin behind him but it made it in anyway. Sherlock exhaled and opened his eyes; The pictures on the walls faded into white again.

"I might be able to see him soon." Sherlock spoke under his breath and glanced around, wondering if he was being watched. Siger stayed silent, the Angel never appeared. "She won't tell me how, so I'm assuming I've got to figure it out myself. Not that it won't be difficult. I'm sure I'm not the first person…" his voice trailed off as the white of the walls sketched into a new picture: John's face, wide-eyed and teeth-baring grin. Disbelief at first, melting into happiness at Sherlock's return from the dead. Sherlock watched the same vision over three times before turning back to his father.

Siger nodded and studied Sherlock silently. It was all too evident what he was doing, observing him.

So that's what that felt like. Sherlock almost forgot.

Siger's voice was quiet, but heavy. The words weighed Sherlock's chest down, and the pain returned. "Be careful with him. Broke his heart once; He needs it."

Sherlock resumed his acts on the molding ring finger of some nameless human, shaking away the thought of his own funeral. And John with an unbeating heart.

Siger's whistling filled the room.

"John, it's been four months. I think it's time to look at our options now." Mycroft sat in John's chair, John in Sherlock's as the new usual. A habit formed unintentionally, but he wasn't complaining. And no one else commented, for fear of the result.

John didn't say anything.

"I refuse to use my abilities to change Sherlock's documents, John," Mycroft glanced in the direction of Sherlock's old violin, sighing. "Because obviously Sherlock changed them to your benefit. But while you are sitting in his chair, Sherlock's body is in a drawer. We both know it deserves a final resting place."

Funny, that. John almost smiled at the thought of Sherlock's body in a drawer forever. Maybe Sherlock would prefer it that way. Maybe he should have specified.

But damn him, John thought. If he didn't want to choose a funeral service he shouldn't have gone off and gotten shot at. It only made sense, didn't it?

John turned his face into the back of Sherlock's chair, closing his eyes. Three minutes later, he heard the front door shut and Mycroft's car pull away.

Maybe he should pick up the violin.

Sherlock rolled over on his bed, and exact replica of the one in the flat on Baker Street. He fiddled with the pocket watch, between thumb and fingers, clicking it open and shut repeatedly.

Siger stepped into the room (what sort of room was it, really, an empty space with no walls or colors) and sat on the edge of the bed. The bed suddenly changed to Sherlock's childhood one, and Sherlock felt a change too. He felt small as he looked up to his father.

"I think," Siger said quietly, "That you need to see him." After a few more minutes of silence, he spoke again. "And I haven't heard you play in a while."

Sherlock nodded silently, listening to the tick-tick-ticking of the watch in his hand. But as he watched it, the second hand never moved.

It wasn't that the flat felt any different than before, either. In fact, it felt exactly the same. Sherlock's breathing was light somewhere in the room, and John could almost hear it. And maybe a soft song too, notes plucked on the strings of Sherlock's Strativarius from the living room, suddenly.

But as John walked out to the room and glanced around him, he realized no one was there.

And neither was the violin.

John felt a flash of anger in his veins suddenly. He knew he saw it sitting there, just this morning. Right when Mycroft-

Ah. The bastard. John should have known.

He dialed Mycroft's number with more force than necessary. "I want the violin back. He left it to me in his will!"

"Mycroft sleepily sighed into the microphone, the whoosh making it to John's ear. "John, I don't have Sherlock's violin. I left it beside his chair when I left."

"Don't lie to me, you twat-" John was seething now, how dare he-

Mycroft spoke sternly then, snapping John's attention away from his anger. "John, that is enough, don't you think? It's four in the morning."

John took a deep breath and looked at the floor. Leave it to the elder Holmes to embarrass him over the phone, of all ways. John looked around again. Maybe he did move the violin.

"My brother is dead, Doctor Watson. I'd like to try and get some sleep." Mycroft's voice drawled a bit, moving back towards his pillow.

"Yeah, right, sorry-" John hung the phone up and tossed it at his chair, before collapsing into Sherlock's with a sigh.

He needed some sleep. It had been three days, really.

The sounds of Mendelssohn's concerto in E minor grew in John's ears, lulling him to sleep.

Time goes on.

When he slept Sherlock dreamt of Baker Street. Saying things he never said before, but in a dream language no one ever understood, not even Sherlock. He'd wake up and try to go back, seeing John's face again- and occasionally Mrs. Hudson's too.

This never helped the time pass, but it made it worth more. Sherlock appreciated the notion that Heaven was allowing him, that he could see his John Watson at least every other night. And perhaps once a night, if he played his cards right.

There were rules here, but no one knew them without learning from experience first. It took Sherlock's father yelling at him that he learned the value of sleeping well-because it was the only thing that slowly healed you. Sherlock had fainted in the lab on the thirty-first day because he hadn't slept in three nights, and Siger spent the afternoon pressing a cloth to Sherlock's chest. The blood pouring from Sherlock's heart soaked the cloth seventeen times, only to clear up again.

And the entire time, Sherlock was forced to watch John's face over him; As Sherlock felt his previous life slip through Siger's fingers, John's face fell over and over again. John's cries drowned in Sherlock's ears- even the ones he'd never heard before, because he was already dead.

Sherlock took well to sleeping after that.

It took him almost six Earth months (eighty-two days) to realize the pattern of time. Things were opposite and doubled, but not always. Night was day. Days were twice as long and the nights too short. But nothing was set in stone. Everything could change, if you knew how to do it.

When Sherlock slept, John was already gone from Baker Street now. Early morning hours, Sherlock noticed- leaving for the clinic. He counted days and counted them over again, realizing. It was a good ratio for Sherlock, actually: One day here was two days on Earth. But he wasn't alive to enjoy it anyway. Oh, the work he could have achieved.

How could it be so simple, Sherlock thought to himself. And how could he have not figured it out sooner? All this time he could have had, getting to John. Making him see, making him understand. He needed to understand.

So Sherlock wrote notes during the day and spoke to his father, and waited for night.

He'd never wanted to sleep so much in his life, until he was dead.

John could have sworn Sherlock was there.

It was early sunset and he wasn't sleeping, naturally, and Sherlock had to have been there. It was the only way to explain Bach's Brandenburg Concerto no. 2 played quietly from Sherlock's room. But John dared not to go in there just yet.

He wondered if maybe Mycroft had lied. Maybe he hid the violin in Sherlock's room. So it wouldn't be reminding John every day. Since he had enough reminders of his own.

He hadn't opened Sherlock's bedroom door since that night- and John wasn't about to be disappointed again.

Perhaps it was time.

Sherlock was feeling particularly lazy, though the pain in his chest had dulled and less blood was left on the tiles beneath his feet now. He was breathing normally and his thoughts were more coherent- probably the experiments. He was able to right his train of thought the more he worked.

The Angel never did explain to Sherlock when he'd be able to see John, but now he understood. He felt nearly ready for the jump. Something unexplainable (and that scared him, it did) told him: Soon he'd be strong enough for two-world travel. He walked straighter in this new world and moved almost as quickly as he did before. That must have been it, then. If you could heal from your death, you could move between the worlds. Move between reality and fantasy, or whatever you called this.

For an amount of time, at least. Sherlock hadn't figured that part out yet.

He sighed softly as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet barely touched the floor and he let his mind wander.

What's the first thing you do when you return to Earth?

"Nothing." Siger answered him from his own bed across the space. Sherlock didn't notice he was sleeping there now too. "You wonder for a while, what you want to do. But you never go through with it because of the fear."

"I've never been afraid." Sherlock argued with no emotion, and swung his legs defiantly.

Siger let out a laugh. "You were afraid of heights when you were little. Remember that?"

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Never wanted to go to the attic, thought you were going to fall out of the window." Siger stood up and looked down at Sherlock, smiling. "Fear, in the end, is always what gets you. It's what got me."

Sherlock swallowed and saw more pictures flowing over the walls again; Ones he deleted from his mind forever ago: The Birlstone Manor in Sussex, a bloodied footprint, a note John never saw.

"I say, John,' Sherlock rose an eyebrow and spoke quietly- "would you be afraid to sleep in the same room as a lunatic-"

"Not the best choice of words, mate." John chuckled, and Sherlock scoffed before continuing and adding more emphasis to his words-].

"John. A man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip? What about then?" He watched John intently, his hand gripping the doorknob as if he realized something in this case John hadn't yet. But that always happened.

John took a deep breath, before answering, never taking his eyes off Sherlock.

"No, not at all." Here they were now, at Baker Street, and suddenly Sherlock was on edge. Despite the fact that the man was dead, the case over. Unless…

"Ah, that's lucky." Sherlock interrupted John's thoughts and looked at peace for a moment, before stepping back and closing his bedroom door in John's face. Sherlock's room was quiet for the rest of the night.

Three weeks after that, Sherlock received the note that confirmed his suspicions. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me."

An admission from Moriarty himself. The beginning of a new game.

Sherlock growled and jumped down from the bed, filing the images away as his walls washed back to white. He knew he'd be damned out of…Heaven, or whereverthis was- before he let fear (!) of all things keep him from John.

It was the only thing Sherlock had to try for anymore.

John woke up with a start, hearing Sherlock's voice.

"I'm sorry." He spoke sincerely, and John inhaled sharply.

"You should be, you prat." John spoke without thinking. This was a dream, after all, he could talk to Sherlock if he liked. And call him names. He glanced around, but Sherlock wasn't there.

Maybe he was sleep-thinking, or something.

Sherlock's voice filled the room, and yet it felt empty around John at the same time. "You have to understand why, John." John groaned in reply.

"There's nothing to understand, Sherlock, you're dead." John snapped and pressed his face into the pillow, wondering which he'd prefer: Never hearing Sherlock's voice again, or hearing Sherlock every night and losing sleep. "Nothing to understand about that, really."

He'd have to go with the latter, fuck you very much.

Sherlock slipped away quietly. For once.

Until a violin started playing softly, and then louder.

"God damn it." John sighed and started to bury his head under the pillow, then stopped to figure out what song it was.

Clair de Lune.

John gave up all pretense of sleep, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and going to the window. Maybe it was a message.

But it was too cloudy to even see the moon.

"What will you say to him?"

"That depends on whether or not he believes I'm there." Sherlock let three drops of liquidized natrium chloride (yes, we all know its salt, thank you) into the Petri dish, holding his breath. Nothing happened. Damn. He turned the dish over to rinse it out, and it emptied immediately.

Siger watched him carefully. "For all the preparation you went though, nothing's actually going according to plan. You do realize that."

Sherlock growled as his thirteenth trial came up short, and the salt only fizzed in the dish. He stood up and leaned his hands on the counter.

"Then perhaps I should visit someone else first."

Notes: The flashback was a nod to Arthur Conan's Doyle's canon in "The Valley of Fear", part 1, Chapter 6. Watson's original answer was not the same as John's in this story, though it's along the same line. Obviously the "Dear me, Mr. Holmes" was a bit of a twist from BBC Canon as well.

Chapter Title from the song "Raein" (translation "Rain") By Olafur Arnalds. Lovely artist, lovely song.

Siger Holmes' name is borrowed from William Baring-Gould's "Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street", a biography written by him. In "The Adventure of the Empty House," Holmes briefly mentions that he spent some time under the Norwegian Name of Sigerson. Baring-Gould reads/translates this name to mean "Son of Siger." In my headcanon this is true; and Sherlock's father's name is Siger Holmes.

If you like this chapter and would like the background of Sherlock's death (or if you haven't read it) then please take a moment to look at the first part in this series: A Study in Words and Numbers. There is a lot more Sherlock and John there, seeing as Sherlock is alive in the story. It might help to understand a few things in future chapters, too.

Thanks so much for reading. Xoxo, C