Sherlock feels like he isn't alone in his flat. He always feels eyes on him, watching from an unknown cranny in the ceiling or in the looming darkness when nighttime falls and the only lights are sparse lamps in the flat and the streetlights from outside. He feels rushes of wind when there isn't a single window open; shivers up his spine that feel like cold fingers tracing his skin. He even hears whispers in the night calling his name, knocks on the doors, and footsteps pacing in the kitchen.
For once in his life, the detective has no explanation of what's happening.
The thought of ghosts has crossed his mind, but he quickly struck that thought down. Ghosts are real, right? They never will be. There's no hard evidence or facts to show that they're actually real. Right? There has to be a reason that he feels like he's being watched. Paranoia? Or that he's hearing this whispers, knocks, and footsteps. Hallucinations?
Has he gone completely mad?
It's weeks and weeks of this going on that he finally sees something with his own eyes.
Sherlock is in the middle of working on a case, clock reading 3 am. His mind continues to turn the evidence around and around, searching important clues, even if his body is telling him to relax. He paces back and forth, periodically glancing at the cork board of pictures and notes that he put together.
When he's studying the cork board particularly closely, mind working to its full power, a shadow appears in the corner of his eye.
It seems to appear out of the darkness of the kitchen, flowing like a fine mist. It's in the shape of a man, but Sherlock doesn't see any features until he turns his head, facing the apparition head on.
The man is wearing an expensive looking grey suit, dark hair slicked back and a wicked grin on his face. His eyes are dark, and looking too long at them, Sherlock could see the madness that lurked behind those translucent irises.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't turn away; frozen in place.
The man walked closer and closer, coming in arms length of the detective. The closer he got, the colder the air became. Sherlock swore that he could see his breath.
"Sherlock." His voice seemed to echo as if they were both in a long tunnel.
"What." Sherlock wanted to turn away and deny this was actually happening, but he couldn't help but stare into those dark, dark eyes like a black hole drawing him in. He struggled to speak, to even say that one word.
A cold hand caressed his face, but it felt like a gust of icy wind across his skin.
"I've been wanting to see you up close, but never found the right time." The man mused, head head tilting to the side just slightly. His thumb traced the detective's sharp cheekbone. "But, I couldn't wait any longer."
Sherlock wondered if he was dreaming right now. He had to be dreaming, because this was too surreal to be real life.
"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost!" He couldn't help but chuckle at his own joke, the joke making Sherlock's head spin even further. The case he was working on was gone from his mind, feeling as if time had stopped and this was just a waking nightmare.
"Hm, not going to talk, huh?" The man looked disappointed. "Oh well." He shrugged it off.
"Goodbye, Sherlock. Until next time."
And with that, the man disappeared into thin air right before Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock didn't know how much time had passed since the experience began and he started to move again from his frozen stance, but he found himself stumbling back into his armchair.
Ghosts aren't real. He repeated to himself over and over, trying to convince himself it was a hallucination.
He sat there until the sun rose, trying to process the situation.
And he had a sinking feeling that the man was going to show himself again soon.