AN: This fic has literally been haunting me for the better part of almost a year, and has been sitting finished in my documents for several weeks waiting to be published. ^_^' The idea stemmed from a conversation I overheard between two of my siblings, and I give much of the credit for rolling with it to ZombiesloveMangoes for adding fuel to the fire. Never stop encouraging my insanity, my friend. X)

Unbeta'ed and thus likely riddled with small mistakes, so apologies in advance. ^_^'

~The Many Near-Residents of 221B~

Sherlock missed John.

It wasn't something he let himself think about often, because, well, sentiment, but at the moment, staring at the idiot perched on the couch in front him who most empathetically was not John, he couldn't help but remember his former flatemate and best friend.

...Who was not here right now. He tried to remember when that had happened, exactly, but the details had become a bit fuzzy. That had been happening a lot lately - memories going fuzzy - but he couldn't bring himself to dwell on it.

Particularly when he was trying to focus on the best way to get rid of the new 'flatmate' the landlady had allowed to move in.

Sherlock couldn't even remember the man's name or occupation, though by his right hand and jeans Sherlock could tell he was an architect fresh out of University, recently employed at a family member's construction company. He was also a bit careless, if the crack at the corner of the tablet he was currently working on was anything to go by (and of course it was, he was Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake, everything was something to go by), as well as sloppy, which even Anderson would have been able to see from the way he was spilling crisp crumbs all over said tablet.

Even worse than all that, though, was how the man (what was his name?) kept ignoring Sherlock. Even now, with Sherlock zeroing in on him completely, he just kept obliviously munching on crisps and tapping away at his tablet, not so much as sparing the detective a second glance.

Sherlock decided it was time to put a stop to it.

Smirking, Sherlock moved around to the back of the couch (which he just realized had been moved away from the wall where he'd originally had it, another reason to dislike this new interloper), leaned over, and began blowing against the back of the idiot's exposed neck. This, much to Sherlock's satisfaction, actually garnered a reaction out of him, and got him to drop his bag of crisps long enough to bat at the back of his neck, then turn around and squint at Sherlock, almost as though he was seeing right through him. After a second or two of that, the couch-moving imbecile just shrugged and went back to whatever he had been doing on his tablet, once again choosing to ignore Sherlock.

Furious, Sherlock grabbed a pillow (not one of his, he noted angrily, but one the interloper had added) from one of the chairs and threw it at the man. It hit him with enough force to knock the crisp bag and the tablet out of his hands, the former sending a shower of crisps all over the room and the latter shattering against the floor upon impact.

The man gave a startled yelp, glancing first at Sherlock and then the ruined tablet with fear in his eyes before standing up and bidding a hasty retreat from the room, crisps crunching under his feet as he went. He came back a few minutes later wearing his jacket and nearly shouting into his mobile, saying something about needing to find a new flat because no matter how cheap this one was, it simply wasn't worth it.

Sherlock felt smug as he heard the door slam.

Mission accomplished.

xXx

To Sherlock's dismay, not but a week after Anthony moved out (Sherlock never did remember his name, but deduced as much when he came back the next day to pack up his things, as the boxes he was using had that name on them) a new hopeful moved in - this one a quiet dental student with a slight gambling problem, whom Sherlock found even more unbearable than the first.

He lasted two weeks, though Sherlock knew it would have been less had Steven (or was it Stan?) been at the flat more often instead of wherever it was he disappeared to most of the time. He finally had enough, though, when he came home to find his bedroom trashed for the third time and all of the milk in the refrigerator spoiled again (both via Sherlock).

He also seemed to find Sherlock's cheerful whistling as he packed disconcerting, and didn't even try to stay the night once he decided he couldn't keep living there, choosing to stay with friends while he tried to find a new flat instead.

Sherlock felt victorious, though the feeling was short-lived.

xXx

Natalie the bank teller moved in a month after Steven/Stan/Stewart left, and proceeded to redecorate 221B within an inch of its life in her spare time. Had this been confined to just her room, Sherlock may have been able to tolerate her; after all, she was at least more considerate and intelligent than her predecessors, and the constant chatter she kept up - whether someone was listening to her or not - actually smoothed some of Sherlock's ruffled feathers over being mostly ignored by the other two idiots.

Once the lacy doilies started showing up on the tables and she began talking about replacing the wallpaper, though, Sherlock knew he had to nip this one in the bud.

He rather liked the wallpaper, and frankly some of those doilies were a shade of pink that shouldn't have existed outside of cotton candy and bubblegum packages.

xXx

Sherlock would have tried the same techniques that put Steven/Sven/Stiles off, but a) Natalie was lactose intolerant and didn't keep milk in the house, and b) trashing her room would involve actually going into it - something the pink doilies and new zebra-striped lampshades in the living room suggested he would regret deeply.

Instead, Sherlock decided that perhaps cyber and technological warfare was a better option in this case, since Natalie (for once Sherlock was having no trouble remembering her name, as just about every other item she owned was monogrammed, often with rhinestones) loved her gadgets so much.

He started by changing the passwords to all of her devices. Though this confused her initially, overall it didn't bother her nearly as much as Sherlock would have liked. For starters, she seemed to assume she had done it herself by accident, and after spending most of an afternoon trying to figure out what the passwords were simply gave up and called a friend to help her. Then, much to his chagrin, Sherlock discovered that said friend seemed to work in tech support, and could bypass and reset the passwords in less time then it took for Sherlock to change them to begin with. He tried again three more times, just to be spiteful, but she continued to think the problem was with her and took the items to her tech-savvy friend every time, which ended up being more work for Sherlock than an inconvenience to Natalie.

He was forced to admit defeat on that front, but refused to lose the war.

The next thing he tried was blowing up her inbox with as much annoying spam as he could muster. For one week straight she received texts and emails every hour on the hour with the words 'BORED' and 'ANNOYED' repeated in endless streams; when that failed to elicit the reaction he wanted, Sherlock proceeded to leave voice messages filled with nothing but loud breathing and the most horrible scores of screeching violin music he knew.

Sadly, leaps and bounds had been made in the blocking of unwanted calls and texts in recent years, and it only took a few texts and calls for Natalie to do so and stop answering them.

Annoyed that that medium hadn't worked, Sherlock eventually resorted to leaving increasingly nasty messages with the alphabet refrigerator magnets that either Andy or Sven had left behind. At first, when the words 'BORED' and 'IDIOT' appeared, Natalie had laughed and thought some of her friends and then the landlady were playing tricks on her, not even suspecting that it was Sherlock and she might not be as welcome there as she originally thought. Once the messages started to proceed to the words 'GO AWAY', 'CORPSE', and 'MURDER', Natalie finally (and understandably) became uneasy.

When Sherlock decided that spelling those same words out on the floor with the paint she had chosen to replace the wallpaper with was an even better idea, Natalie finally got the hint. She was gone with forty-eight hours; the doilies, lampshades, and terrible sense of décor going with her.

She left the frankly atrocious colored paint behind, though Sherlock thought maybe he could find some use for it later. It only took a little tweaking to change the color to a brilliant blood red, after all, and had worked fairly well in getting rid of her.

xXx

Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember anything about the next two tenants, neither of which had lasted for more than two days. The first Sherlock had managed to scare off with the paint trick that frightened Natalie so much, and the second had run screaming from the flat when he had stepped out of the shower to find Sherlock sitting on the toilet with his chin propped up on his hand, smiling creepily at him.

The next tenant was a chemist Sherlock thought he might actually be able to get along with, but he was arrested five days into his stay for the very chemistry experiments Sherlock had been interested in.

Sherlock had high hopes for the next man, who'd obviously come from law enforcement and seemed to have experience with firearms, but he left after a week by his own account after receiving a strange phone call and by then Sherlock had decided he no longer cared enough to deduce why.

Tenants numbers eight through ten were all boring and fairly easy to get rid of with angry paint and refrigerator messages. Eleven was a woman of a nervous disposition that left after Sherlock kept jumping through doorways and behind furniture to scare her. Number twelve lasted three weeks by virtue of being gone on a business trip for most of it, though Sherlock rectified that via the water heater and the guy's laptop not long after he returned; he was muttering about possessed technology and old pipes when he moved out, and left the laptop behind. 'Lucky' number thirteen lasted as many hours, having taken issue with Sherlock's violin playing (i.e., screeching) and all but sprinting out the door after what Sherlock thought was a very moving, three-hour rendition of The Band Perry's 'If I Die Young'.

After that the flat appeared to have gained something of a reputation, which deterred some prospective flatmates - but not all of them.

Clive, for instance, was a fairly care-free individual who seemed to find everything funny and whom Sherlock suspected had a fondness for Mrs. Hudson's 'herbal soothers'. More importantly, though - at least to Sherlock, anyway - was how he was mostly immune from Sherlock's antics; though whether this was due to his flippant personality or his near-constant state of being stoned was anyone's guess. Four weeks - four weeks! - and every trick in the book, and the man just laughed everything off and carried on merry as you please. Sherlock was starting to think he could set the idiot on fire and he wouldn't care. He even found the screaming violin tuning sessions charming.

It was enough to drive a consulting detective to madness.

xXx

It was when Sherlock was becoming desperate and starting to seriously consider actually setting fire to him when he finally found a chink in Clive's armor.

They were halfway through week five of his tenancy (32 days, 5 hours, and 37 minutes, by Sherlock's precise count) when Clive first invited his girlfriend over. Though Sherlock had deduced he'd had a girlfriend in his first week of occupying 221B, Clive hadn't actually brought her around before now, and suffice to say, Sherlock was not pleased. He could barely tolerate Clive fitting about the place; having to put up with any woman who thought that was excellent mating material as well was going to be mortifying.

He changed his mind, however, within a few minutes of her visit. Not about the experience being mortifying, of course - his earlier assessment of her personality was quite right, and he already wanted to jam knitting needles into his ears from hearing her shrill voice - but he could easily overlook all that once he realized she might be the key to getting rid of Clive.

The moment of delight came while Sherlock had been sulking in his favorite arm chair while Clive and She-of-bad-judgment blathered on across from him on the sofa. Annoyed and frustrated, Sherlock had reached out and knocked several books off the coffee table in a fit of pique, fully expecting to be ignored as usual. Instead, the woman jumped and glanced wearily at him, then tugged nervously on Clive's sleeve and suggested they get dinner out. Clive had shrugged and agreed, not questioning it and clearly unaware of his girlfriend's discomfort.

Sherlock couldn't have been happier; it was as if the sky had opened up in dawning sunlight with a choir of angels singing. Clive may have been immune to Sherlock's particular brand of annoyance, but his girlfriend?

She was most certainly going to have the experience of her life.

xXx

Sure enough, over the course of the next month Wanda (Sherlock was grateful enough that he actually bothered to remember her name) was given what she would later tell others was the most undignified treatment of her life.

Sherlock slammed doors in her face, and hurled anything from pillows and books to food and knick-knacks in her vicinity. He erased messages she left to Clive, and often left annoying or mildly creepy messages in return. He rigged the water in the taps to turn hot or cold depending on which temperature she didn't want, and took the food and treats she made and left for Clive. He played the violin almost feverishly every time she tried to initiate any kind of conversation with Clive, be it in person or over the phone or video-chat. He went back to leaving messages with the refrigerator magnets whenever he knew she was coming over, and messed with her mobile phone every time it was within sight. When she tried to pointedly ignore him, he kicked up an ever bigger fuss and let his displeasure be known - usually be throwing things again.

It was a long month for poor Wanda, but Sherlock would be lying if he said it wasn't a satisfying one. She finally gave Clive an ultimatum: move out of 221B or breakup with her, and Sherlock took back everything he ever said about sentimentality when Clive chose her over the cheap rent and excellent location.

xXx

It was approaching midnight just a fortnight after the last of Clive's things had finally been removed when a group of four people snuck into the flat. There were three men and one woman, all in their early twenties to late teens, and Sherlock recognized two of them as friends of Clive. Sherlock was torn between annoyance and curiosity as he sat in the dark watching them shuffle awkwardly around the living room.

"So...this is the place Wanda was talking about?" one of them finally asked, shifting his weight nervously.

"Yep, this is it." said one of the two Sherlock recognized. "Strange, innit?"

"I see what she means about it being creepy." agreed the woman. "Even without the...other problem she mentioned. The wallpaper looks ancient."

"You're the one who wanted to come here, Maria." the third man grumbled, glancing around before plopping down on the sofa. "If you've changed your mind just say so, before we wake up the old bat that lives downstairs and have to explain still having Clint's key."

Clint? Ah, they must have been talking about Clive. Close enough.

"Of course I haven't changed my mind! I was just saying I can see where Wanda was coming from. Only Clint would think a dump like this was so wonderful." Maria sniffed, setting down her bag. "And we won't wake anyone up if you can just keep your big mouth shut, Nicky. I haven't even started yet and you're already kicking up a fuss."

Nicky scowled at her. "Get on with it, then." he grumbled, holding his hands out and then dropping them into the sofa cushions roughly, making a cloud of dust to rise into the air. "We haven't got all night."

Maria gave a little huff in his direction and began rummaging through her bag while the others looked on. She produced a few candles and a lighter from one of the bag's pockets, then ordered one of her companions to start lighting them so she could continue her search.

Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Sherlock slinked around the room until he could better see what else she was pulling out. When he recognized it as a Ouija board, it took every ounce of his self-control to keep from laughing.

The others were all silent as Maria set the board out on the coffee table, and gathered around it without any prompting. After about thirty seconds of staring, one of them finally spoke up.

"So...are we just supposed to sit here until it moves?" he asked uncertainly. "Or do we ask 'em questions, like in the movies?"

Maria pegged the speaker with a glare, then placed her hands on the planchette. "Of course we have to ask them questions! Otherwise they won't know we want to talk to them."

That was all it took for Sherlock to decide he'd had enough.

Skulking back around the shadows behind his armchair, he picked up one of the stray, threadbare throw pillows - leftover from his days living with John - and pelted it at the back of the nearest intruder's head. The man - boy, really - yelped and nearly pitched forward into the Ouija board, then scrambled to his feet to try and find the source of the attack.

"Wha-what was that?" he demanded, flipping around to stammer at his companions and then turning back, likely fearing more projectiles. "Someone threw somethin' at me!" he crowed.

"Quiet down, Jasper! You're going to get us caught!" Nicky hissed, grabbing Jasper's arm and yanking him back down. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me? What's the matter is someone hit me with somethin' and their ain't nobody else in here!" Jasper nearly wailed, ignored the others' furious shushing. "It was the ghost! We pissed 'em off, it doesn't want us here!"

"For the love of God, Jasper, calm the hell down! You're being stupid," Nicky snapped angrily. "Look, there's nobody even there!" He pointed the flashlight directly where Sherlock had been standing, revealing empty space. "Now stop acting like a bloody idiot and be quiet."

"But-"

"Oh my God," Wanda whispered, cutting through their argument and pointing at the Ouija board. "Oh my God, look!"

They all froze and gaped at the planchette, which Sherlock had moved over to the word 'Goodbye' on the board when everyone's attention had been on Jasper. He found the way the color drained from their faces as they took it in quite hilarious.

"That's it, I'm leaving." Jasper choked, scrambling up and backing as far away from the coffee table as he could. "You nutters can stay if you want, but I'm-"

"But things are finally getting interesting!" protested Wanda. "They're actually talking to us, we can't just-"

"Hey, did those magnets look like that when we came in?" the third man that Sherlock had yet to hear called by name said, gesturing to the refrigerator, which from where he was sitting was just in his line of sight. "Because I don't remember it saying that when we sat down."

His companions looked up, Nicky and Wanda even taking a step closer to the kitchen, and saw the words 'BORING' and 'ANNOYING' spelled out in Sherlock's now beloved alphabet magnets. While they were distracted, Sherlock reached over and moved the planchette over to 'No'. Jasper was the first to notice; he made a strangled choking noise, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head, and pointed at it until he caught the others attention.

"Alright, I didn't move that." Nameless said, sounding strained. "And I've been watching you three, and you haven't either. And if I didn't move it, and you lot didn't move it, then..."

They all started as their mobiles chimed all at once, notifying them of a text. They exchanged wide-eyed glances with each other, then, by unspoken agreement, shakily pulled out their mobiles and read the texts together.

Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that graced his lips as they all read aloud "I DID."

Jasper and Nicky both dropped their phones while Nameless swore and stumbled towards the door. Wanda just stood there, slack-jawed, going between staring at the Ouija board and the mobile in her hand in turn.

"That's it, Wanda. You were right, you proved me wrong. Now let's get the out of here," Nicky said urgently, eyes darting around the room as he bent to pick up his mobile. "Now."

He scooped up her bag and shoved it into her hands, but she didn't argue, just nodded and made to start packing up. She faltered a bit when the planchette slid off the Ouija board as she packed it up, skittering across the floor and into the shadows where Sherlock was still lurking, coming to a rest just at his feet. She hesitated, but Jasper - no longer hesitating if it meant leaving faster - took off after it, and Sherlock didn't bother moving as he approached.

Jasper bent over and picked up the planchette, and when he straightened up, he found himself face to face with a very smug Sherlock Holmes.

Jasper blinked.

Sherlock grinned.

Jasper frowned.

Sherlock grinned wider.

Jasper shrugged, looked at the planchette, and turned around.

Sherlock's grin faltered. What?

Sherlock stepped forward and reached out to grab at Jasper's sleeve but stopped at the last minute, just brushing along his back instead. Jasper shivered and jerked his head back to stare at - or rather, right through - Sherlock again, but like before didn't react to seeing the detective standing there in complete befuddlement.

"Jasper, what's the hold up? Come on," Nicky urged sharply, glaring at the two of them, and - no, he wasn't glaring at the two of them, Sherlock realized. He was glaring at Jasper, but completely ignoring Sherlock, despite the fact that he was standing right behind Jasper, still in Nicky's line of sight.

A sense of sudden, deep-seated panic overtook Sherlock.

"Nothin'," Jasper said, visibly shaking himself and facing Nicky. "Just, just thought I felt somethin', or saw somethin' a second ago. You didn't-?"

"No, Jasper, don't start." Nicky snapped. "There's nothing there."

The panic that had taken Sherlock broke free, morphing into simmering anger.

"What is wrong with you?" he blurted. "Are you blind as well as stupid? Get out of my flat!"

This outburst was met with no reaction from anyone - save Maria, who dropped her bag and stood stock still, her features completely draining of color as her eyes made contact with Sherlock's.

"Oh my God," she choked softly, shuffling backwards as fast as her feet would take her and backing into her unnamed companion. "Oh my God, oh my God, ohmyGod-"

"Maria, what's-"

"Man, there's, there's a man, right there-"

"What?"

"Of course I'm right here," Sherlock scoffed irritably, crossing his arms. "What did you expect when you break into someone's home?"

Maria's eyes widened further, but the others continued to ignore him.

"Maria, what are you talking about? There's no one there." Nicky said, walking right over to where Sherlock was, and-

And stepping right through him.

Sherlock spun around in confusion, facing Nicky as he paused and shivered lightly, but otherwise showed no indication that anything strange had happened.

"What did-? What did you do?!" Sherlock shouted at him, feeling as though his insides had turned to ice. This, this wasn't logical, didn't make sense-

"You don't know," Maria said softly, wide eyes still on Sherlock, at the same time Nicky cleared his throat and said "See, there's nothing here, okay? So enough with..."

The rest of Nicky's words were drowned out by the rushing in Sherlock's ears. The ice in his stomach grew, as well as a deep sense of dread. "Know what?" he spat out, desperately trying to keep his fear in control by channeling his anger instead.

"T-that..." Maria choked, shaking her head and backing further into her friend. "T-that-"

All of Sherlock's patience snapped. "That what?!" he snarled, completely ignoring her companions when they converged on her, clearly unsettled. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that he was suddenly in front of Maria despite not making any conscious movement to do so, and that the lights had flickered once with his outburst.

"Y-you're, you're dead." Maria whispered, then fainted dead away.

Nicky cried out in alarm, darting forward and right through Sherlock to catch her, but the detective paid him no mind, paralyzed as he was with the realization. Memories flooded back, weeks, days, years; the discrepancies he'd been noticing, the way he'd been losing time, the lack of attention-

There was a terrible, unending howl in the air as every single light and fixture in the flat lit up and then blew, sending shards of glass everywhere and causing Maria's still-conscious friends to clasp their hands over their ears in pain and fear.

Furious, terrified, and overwhelmed, Sherlock turned his attention back to the three still-conscious intruders, looking for someone or something to turn his emotions on.

"Get OUT!" he bellowed, making every door in the flat burst open violently.

He didn't know if they heard him, but clearly the sentiment was received; the group stumbled and vaulted over furniture frantically, dragging Maria along and leaving most of their things behind in their haste to get out. There was panicked and confused shouting in the hallway that meant they must have encountered the landlady, but Sherlock didn't care.

The doors and windows rattled on and on for what seemed like an eternity as he worked out his frustration, and didn't stop until several books Sherlock recognized as ones John had given him fell off their shelf. Breathing hard, Sherlock paused to glare at them, then at the room at large.

"Well, this is tedious."

xXx

After his little outburst with the late night intruders, the locks were changed, and Sherlock didn't have any more trouble with burglaries, or séances, or bored young people coming in to make a nuisance of themselves.

At first it bothered him a little, because now the landlady didn't even trouble herself to come in and clean anymore, but within a few weeks it became a distant thing in Sherlock's memory, fuzzy and not important, and he didn't think about it anymore.

xXx

Sherlock stood quietly in his sitting room, staring contemplatively into the distance and wondering what the next flatshare applicants were going to be like. He knew there were going to be more, soon, since the landlady was so insistent that he get someone, saying the place was far too empty. He wasn't sure why. True, it did get a bit...lonely (much as he loathe to admit it), but really, there was only one person he could ever stand to have staying in 221B with him, and for some reason that person was no longer doing so.

Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing, though. It would make for a nice distraction, at least. Things got a bit hazy when he was left to stagnation, and pretending John was still here with him was easier if there was an actual body to talk to, even if said body was an oblivious idiot.

He sighed, steepling his fingers in melancholy.

Sherlock really missed John.

AN: This lovely plot-bunny came to me via a conversation overheard between my brother and sister, who for reasons I can no longer recall were talking about how much of a pain in the ass any of the modern-day Sherlocks would be as a ghost. Cue a hilarious conversation with the ever-wonderful ZombiesloveMangoes - who is the best sounding board ever - and this story was born. It turned out a bit heavier than I had originally planned, but eh. I go where the muses take me. ;)

A sequel as been planned but not written, though at the rate it took me to get this one finished series 4 might be out before I get to it. ^_^'

Thanks for reading! :D