The first time John saw the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, he was walking to the grocer's. It was brisk and he had his jacket zipped up to his chin, one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other tightly clutching a half-dozen reusable shopping bags (not because he was particularly environmentally-conscious, but because the grocer in his partly-gentrified new neighborhood gave a one percent discount when he used them).

He wasn't really looking at anything in particular, just scanning the crowd as he always did- a soldier's old habits run deep- when he saw him. Sherlock.

John stopped still, the bags falling from his hand. His voice seemed caught in his throat, which was suddenly raw and tight. The clothes were different (new coat- of course, because John had Sherlock's old coat in a box in his closet, still stiff with blood- and a new violet muffler that reminded John of Sherlock's old favorite shirt) and his hair was shorter…but those cheekbones, those lanky limbs…

Sherlock.

Trembling, John took a step forward, but it was too late. The man, apparition, whatever he was, was climbing into a cab, his eyes narrowed. The door slammed just as John got enough sense to call out Sherlock's name.

xXx

John sat on the edge of his bed (he never did get those groceries, but somehow an hour had passed since he'd left) and stared at his phone. He had a blank text open, and he absolutely dreaded writing the words that were running through his mind.

Hey, Mycroft. Been awhile. Seen your brother lately?

Ridiculous. Sherlock was dead, and someone else happened to have the audacity to almost look like him in the street. No big deal. Certainly not worth reopening communications with the eldest (only) Holmes.

So why did it feel like John couldn't catch his breath?

He closed the text and opened a new one. Busy?

It was less than a minute before he got a response: Just finished with your mum, so no. John smiled a little at that and tapped out: Bastard. Meet me at the pub?

His phone trilled almost instantly. One hour. See you there.

xXx

John had started drinking without him (he didn't like relying on alcohol to sooth his nerves, but for this, for Sherlock's doppelganger turning up in his neighborhood, he allowed himself an exception) but Seb didn't seem to mind. He slipped into the seat next to John, one eyebrow raised, and grinned.

"Look like you've seen a ghost, mate," he smiled, nodding at the bartender. Sometimes he looked so much like Sherlock, Seb did, with those same bright eyes and haughty features. In every other regard they were polar opposites: Seb was always tan, his sandy blond hair cropped short, his hands rough from the desert and from hard labour. But whenever Seb gave him this look- inquisitive, intense, as though he were worth examination- John couldn't help but see the echo of his lost friend in his face.

Aware that his rejoining laugh was a touch hysterical, John wiped a hand down his face and sighed: "I think I have."

"Sherlock?" To John's questioning glance, Seb explained, "You wouldn't look like that if it was anyone else."

John gave a tight smile to the bartender and slammed back his third whiskey of the night. "Yeah," he said softly, his eyes on his hands. "Yeah. God, he looked like Sherlock."

Seb patted John's back. His voice was soothing as he murmured, "Tell me. It's okay. Tell me what you saw."

xXx

John was reasonably sure he'd never been so pissed in his life. He and Seb leaned on each other, partly because neither of them could stop laughing (there had been a joke told, ages ago, but John had already forgotten everything about it except that it was damn funny) and partly because they were both too drunk to stand unsupported.

"Mr. Moran," John slurred between giggles, "would you do me the honor of hailing me a cab? I'm not sure," he stumbled, nearly fell, straightened up, "I'm not sure I can manage."

Seb groaned and half-dragged John out to the quiet street. It was a long time before even one cab drove past, and Seb pulled John in it after him, mumbling, "Not waiting all night by m'self. We can share."

"We live in opposite directions, you idiot," John laughed, and Seb doubled over, his head between his knees, laughing so hard that he was only silently shaking.

"God, we do!" he gasped, sitting up and falling into John's shoulder with an "oomph".

This was nice. It was always nice, though, having Seb around. He'd met Sebastian at some stupid veteran's get-together a few months after Sherlock died, which John had only attended at the insistence of Ella, his therapist. John knew it was going to be a waste of time and he absolutely dreaded sitting there, alone, at some crowded little veteran's pub, listening to old timers ramble about the war, the war, never specifying which war because what did it matter? War was war.

Instead he found Seb, and they made fast friends. Sebastian was a private bodyguard for someone both important and extremely secretive (Seb wasn't allowed to mention his name, not even to John, who considered himself decidedly unimportant) so he was out of town quite a bit, but whenever he was in London, he made sure to get together with John, and it helped. It took a long time after Sherlock's death to normalize, but Seb was a big part of that. He made him feel less alone.

The cab hit a bump and Seb toppled over, his head landing in John's lap and his arms waving wildly. He brought his hands to his face and wiped at the tears he'd cried laughing, and John put his head back and laughed out, too. When he settled, he looked down at Seb. There was that intense gaze again, muddied only slightly by the fact that his poor friend was well past gone.

"What're you thinking about, soldier?" Seb drawled, reaching up and tweaking John's nose.

An odd heat started to spread across John's chest. Seb's weight in his lap, his bright eyes searching John's face and his hand (rough fingers, but slender, long) now cupping John's cheek…

"I'm thinking," John said, his voice a touch hoarse, "that we should stop this bloody cab for a minute."

xXx

Seb pushed John up against an alley wall, taking John's crossed wrists in one hand and lifting them over his head. Groaning, John shifted his hips and allowed himself to be lifted a little, standing on the balls of his feet as he tipped his mouth up to Seb's. It was strange; he'd never kissed a man before, but the motions of it all seemed to come to him naturally. It wasn't weird at all to let Seb take the lead, to feel the scruff of Seb's shadowed face trail down his throat. Maybe it was because it had been so long since anyone had touched him that way, or maybe it was just the simple fact that he was cooked and horny. Seb slid his hand down John's stomach. When his hand met John's cock (already impossibly hard and undoubtedly leaving a little wet spot on his trousers) John squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, "Oh God, Sherlock."

The mistake hung between them for a moment. Seb took a step back, panting, his eyes wild, and John scrubbed at his flushed face with one trembling hand. "Shit. Seb, I didn't-. I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Closing the distance between them, Seb pressed his lips to John's ear and hissed: "Pretend I'm him."

John's legs wavered beneath him. "What?"

"Pretend. Pretend I'm Sherlock. Fuck me like I'm Sherlock." Seb's voice was raspy and deep. He scratched his nails up John's chest and growled, "You're angry; good. I want it. I want you to fuck me like you hate me."

"Seb-"

Sebastian shook his head. "Sherlock. I'm Sherlock, and I left you all alone. I left you, John, and I ruined you." He kissed John deeply and groaned against his mouth: "Ruin me. Ruin me like I ruined you."

That did it. John found that he was angry, furious even, as he turned grabbed Seb and pressed him face-first into the wall, tugging the taller man's shirt from his trousers. He undid his own belt with a grunt and roughly spat, "Bend. Now."

Seb obeyed with a shaking little whimper, undoing his own belt and letting his trousers fall down around his ankles. John took hold of Seb's hips, unsure for the first time that night of what to do next. He was distantly aware that he couldn't just thrust his way in there, that he had to do something-

"Spit on your hand," Seb commanded, and John followed orders admirably before taking his hand and sliding it between Seb's arse-cheeks. Seb gave another little whimper and turned his head around, looking at John over his shoulder. His eyes were hooded and his voice was shaking as he panted: "Good, yes, now hurt me."

In mere seconds, John was buried to the hilt, Seb's thighs hitting his with a series of resounding smacks. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he gasped, pressing his face into Seb's spine and digging his nails into his hips. Seb pushed back against him, groaning and mumbling, "Yes, yes, hurt me, yes," like a chant. Dimly John realized that they were right in the middle of an alley, and that anyone could walk past and see them, but then Seb was gasping, "Tell me you hate me," and John was growling, "I hate you, I hate you, oh God, I hate you," and it was all over almost as soon as it had begun. John slipped away from Seb and fell back against the wall, pressing his cheek to the cool brick and struggling to get his breath under control. Whether Seb had finished, he didn't know or care, but it seemed like the other man was struggling too, still bent and with his hands pressed to the wall. After a long moment he straightened and pulled up his trousers, falling beside John and doing up his zip. They leaned there, listening to one another's gasping breaths, until John whispered, "You never met him."

"What?" Seb sounded weak, exhausted.

"You never met him. Sherlock." He licked his lips and let his eyes fall closed, his heart still thumping wildly in his chest. "But you're angry, too. Hell, you might even hate him." That much seemed clear, and Seb didn't try to deny it. Looking at Seb sideways (his eyelids drooping and his skin cool with sweat) John asked: "Why?"

Sebastian swallowed, straightening his shirtfront with shaking fingers. His voice was soft but full of venom when he answered, "He broke something that was mine."