Shadows
Hey, just a little Post-Reichenbach fic for Halloween (I know it's not till tomorrow but I'm working and going on holiday the next day so I probably won't be able to write or post anything.
Just a quick note, while I've stated that there's no way that Sherlock could have remained alive in this story, it's just for this part of the plot, that's all. We all know that he's alive and WILL come back!
Anything you recognise is not mine
SHSHSHSH
John had never believed in ghosts, he'd always thought that death was it, that even if there was some sort of afterlife, the dead wouldn't want to return. What he hadn't counted on was Sherlock's tenacity. The first time he saw his dead friend, he'd been to the Scotland Yard Halloween party at Greg Lestrade's insistence.
"You need to get out of this flat John, Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to mope over his death like this. You don't even have to stay the entire evening, just show your face for an hour or two." The detective inspector had reasoned and, because he couldn't think of a decent excuse, John had gone along in the end. Anderson was just as insufferable as ever, made worse by the fact that he knew that Sherlock wouldn't be able to do anything to reprimand him for his treatment of John.
"What are you supposed to be?" The forensic analyst had sneered derisively. John had just looked at him, not even caring that his costume wasn't 'popular'.
"C. Auguste Dupin, Edger Allan Poe's detective." The ex-army medic had replied in a tired voice.
"What did you dress as that for?!" Anderson laughed, trying to get a rise out of John. With Sherlock's death, all of the malice that the idiotic analyst had held for the Consulting Detective had been transferred to John but, unlike Sherlock, John never responded.
"Anderson! Leave him alone, just because his costume is more intellectual than yours, I mean, why the Hell are you dressed as mummy wrapped in toilet paper? What are you, five?!" Donovan (dressed, rather boringly, as a black cat) snarled. That had been one major change in the aftermath of Sherlock's death. When the genius' innocence had been proved, Sally had been horrified and ashamed that she had doubted him. She'd even gone so far as to apologise to Sherlock at his grave. She and Anderson had argued about it and she'd broken up with him. She'd even told his wife about the affair, something which hadn't endeared her to the woman but had endeared Anderson to her even less, resulting in his divorce.
Every one (with the exceptions of Anderson and the Chief Superintendent) was very kind and careful of John, Molly (dressed as a fairy with pink glittery wings) had tried to comfort John but he couldn't get it out of his head that she had been the one to perform the autopsy on Sherlock's corpse. Lestrade (dressed as James Bond) and Dimmock (dressed as the Phantom of the Opera) had even told John that they'd turn a blind eye to him punching Anderson if he wanted. None of it helped.
It was an hour and a half before John left to return to the empty flat at Baker Street. Nothing had changed in the six months since Sherlock had died, John had refused to let anyone clear out his flatmate's things and wouldn't do it himself. He knew that everyone was worried about him, about his sanity but he couldn't bring himself to care. Nothing much mattered any more now that Sherlock was gone, he wasn't ashamed to admit that he cried himself to sleep on Sherlock's bed most nights. It was only now, when there was no chance of anything happening, that he could admit that he'd been in love with his best friend. He's settled himself down, once again, to cry himself to sleep again but for some reason, even though he cried great heaving sobs, sleep never came.
It must have been about midnight when his tears finally quietened (although they still continued to course their way down his face) and his sobs stopped. It was, by far, the worst night of his life, even just after he'd been invalided home hadn't been this bad. The air was chill and quiet, even the street outside was silent. Needing something, John made his way to the kitchen and prepared himself a cup of tea, hoping against reason that it would help quiet his emotions for a time. When he returned to the bedroom, he gasped.
"Sherlock!" He said, amazed and hoping, praying even, that the miracle he'd begged for had finally occurred.
"Hello John." Sherlock smiled, that secret little smile that he'd reserved just for John.
"You're here, you're finally here! What took you so long?" John asked, tears running down his face once more. Sherlock sighed sadly.
"John, you know I'm not fully here. You know my body is in Highgate Ceremony, I'm only here in spirit and only for a short while. I'm here because you needed me and Samhain was always the time when the door to the Otherworld was opened for the dead to visit the living." He said, sadness crossing his features.
"But…" John started to say.
"I know it seems like I'm really here but I'm not, I'm a spirit, a ghost if you will. I know this is not likely to help you but I couldn't resist visiting you. I had to check in with my Blogger after all." Sherlock interrupted him. John broke down again.
"I-it's j-just…I-I'd h-hoped t-that y-you'd n-not r-really d-d-died. I k-keep h-hoping t-that y-you're still a-alive a-and that y-you're g-going t-to c-come b-back o-one day." He sobbed as he sank to the floor.
"John, there was no way I could have come out of that situation alive, Moriarty was determined to kill one or both of us. I had to die to save you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, I couldn't let Moriarty have you all shot." The ghost of his friend sighed, sinking down next to him. Sherlock stayed with him as he finally sobbed himself to sleep and, when John woke the next morning, he was still able to smell the slight scent left by the spirit.
The second time Sherlock's ghost visited him, John had locked himself in the Baker Street flat on the anniversary of Sherlock's death. Mycroft was being his usual insufferable self and had tried to persuade John to clear out Baker Street of all Sherlock's things.
"Sherlock left everything to me to do with as I wish and I have no intention of removing them from my home!" John snarled angrily.
"John, all this moping is doing you no good. What would Sherlock think if he knew how you acted behind closed doors. If he were alive and able to see the video footage, he would be horrified at how you're acting!" Mycroft said calmly. That was what did it for John, Mycroft attempting to persuade him to move Sherlock's belongings was one thing, but by inadvertently revealing that he was keeping surveillance tabs on John was the final straw. With a strength that he didn't even know he still possessed, John bodily threw Mycroft out of the flat and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it firmly so the elder Holmes was unable to get back in.
Grabbing a glass of whisky, John downed it before thoroughly searching the flat for any surveillance equipment. The amount of cameras and microphones that Mycroft had had installed surprised him, there was even a camera in one of the eye holes of the skull and a microphone where the ear should be but finally, John found them all. With a smirk he held a camera so Mycroft could see his face and spoke deliberately into a microphone.
"Don't ever do this again Mycroft, I won't tolerate it." John growled before throwing every device onto the fire. After that he sat staring at the flames until they flickered and died to embers. He still sat there as darkness fell until the only light in the room was the street lights and the moon shining through the windows.
"You shouldn't sit in the dark like this." Sherlock's voice said from the sofa. John looked over and smiled weakly.
"I wondered whether I'd see you again." He sighed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up from his prone position.
"It's that, everyone seems to have moved on from your death and they expect me to as well." John replied, staring off into space.
"Maybe because they're worried about you and they're hoping that you'll get back to normal soon." Sherlock said, concern covering his face.
"How is it that you're here? I thought you could only come through on Halloween." John asked suddenly, changing the subject.
"Because I died a year ago today. Haven't you ever heard that ghosts are often seen on the anniversary of their deaths?" Sherlock replied with a light grin. Sherlock was with John for a lot longer this time, something the doctor was glad for. He'd missed his friend more on this day than he ever had before so his presence, even if he was just a ghost, was comforting.
For the next several years, Sherlock would visit John twice a year, on Halloween and on the anniversary of his death. After each visit was over, John sank deeper and deeper into depression. Eventually he left his job, he just couldn't cope with working anymore and simply sat around the flat which he'd bought from Mrs Hudson when he'd taken voluntary redundancy. Mycroft and the others he'd met through Sherlock all tried to talk to him but he ignored all of them, he wanted to be alone and not even his sister could get him to talk. The only person he had much contact with (other than Mrs Hudson) was Seren Hussey, his cousin. She understood his depression and never tried to change his mind about Sherlock's possessions.
Finally, on the Halloween six years after Sherlock died, John couldn't take it anymore.
When Sherlock appeared, John heaved a sigh of relief.
"Finally." He smiled, taking a deep drink from his glass.
"Is everything alright John?" Sherlock asked cautiously. Something was different for some reason.
"I'm just tired Sherlock, tired of people expecting me to get over the death of my best friend, tired of everyone expecting me to move on fall for someone else, tired of living the same dull life." John replied, lying back on the bed in Sherlock's old room.
"John, what have you done?" The ghost asked alarmed.
"Something I would have done a long time ago, if it hadn't been for your visits keeping me going. It's alright Sherlock, really, it wasn't ever going to end any other way anyway so why carry on and try to change anything?" John replied calmly. Sherlock looked at the glass in horror.
"What did you take John?" He asked quietly, settling himself beside his friend.
"A mixture of hemlock and sleeping pills. Fairly soon, I'll go to sleep, it seemed like a fairly gentle way really." John smiled, looking a little sleepy already.
"What about your friends, your family?" The spirit asked, trying to think of a way to help.
"I don't really have friends anymore, they got the hint after a while that I just didn't want to talk to them so they left me alone. As for my family, you know how bad my relationship with Harry is, only my cousin Seren would be truly upset. I named her my next of kin quite a few years ago, I knew that as soon as I did, I'd be placed on suicide watch and I was right. Do you know how many cameras your brother installed here?" John yawned, his eyes growing heavier.
"I can only imagine. What did you do with them all?" Sherlock asked, still trying to find a solution.
"I destroyed them, eventually they realised that I wasn't about to off myself and all the surveillance died down. That was two weeks ago. I was finally able to get everything I'd need for tonight and here we are." John smiled sleepily as he started to close his eyes. Suddenly he opened them and gazed at the spirit of his friend.
"Stay?" He asked, wanting company when he died.
"Of course John, of course." Sherlock replied, a slight catch in his voice. John sighed happily and closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.
A tall young woman with dark hair, pale skin and bright blue eyes stood looking at the two headstones as the other mourners left the graveside. There were tear-tracks down her pretty face but she was no longer crying. She didn't know how long she stood there but finally she sighed and looked around her, she was all alone, no one else was in Highgate Cemetery at that time. With another sigh she turned back to the graves.
"Goodbye, may you both rest in peace." She said softly, a distinct Welsh lilt to her accent. She turned to leave but, not far away she paused and looked back. Stood by the graves were two men, one tall with curly dark hair and the other, the figure of her cousin; they were embracing and she smiled, happy tears filling her eyes as she witnessed the reunion of the two friends. Her cousin had accepted her companionship because she accepted that he was visited by the ghost of his friend, ever since she was a small child, she'd been able to see and talk to ghosts. That was why she could see the two of them now, she had little doubt that she was the only one who could. A smile still lingering on her lips she turned and left the graveyard, before calling a taxi.
"Where to love?" The driver asked, peering at the sad woman.
She smiled and gave the address of her late cousin's flat which he'd left to her.
The two men broke off their embrace and watched the black clad figure walking away.
"Goodbye Seren, and thank you." The shorter of the two smiled, holding the taller man's hand. With a final kiss, they turned and walked away, their figures fading until they'd vanished into the ether.
All that remained where they had been stood were the flower memorials and two headstones:
Sherlock Holmes
Born: January 6th 1976
Died: January 15th 2012
He will not be forgotten…
Dr. John Watson
Born: March 31st 1971
Died: October 31st 2018
May he sleep in peace…