John had been cleaning. It had been years since Sherlock had passed, but John felt it a little more every year. Mrs. Hudson wasn't there anymore, she'd passed the second year Sherlock had been gone. It was peaceful. Just a matter of falling asleep and not waking in the morning. He was glad for her. Emma had left him 221, and an inheritance. She really hadn't needed the rent after all. By the middle of the same year he'd cut most people out completely, by the third it was pretty much intolerable. So he cleaned.
Top to bottom, leaving Sherlock's room for last.
His mobile chimed. It wasn't clever. Had been happening more frequently the closer that day came every year. Pranks. Juvenile, hurtful messages. Yet he couldn't seem to bother to change his number, just in case. Picking it up off the bedside, he read the message.
Hello John. It's been a while. -SH
He'd had enough. Fuck them. Fuck this.
Yes. And this isn't very funny. -JW
What do you mean? -SH
Oh, this was going to be rich. Fine he'd have one on them. A last hurrah.
Tell me, while I'm making my dead flat mates bed so I may sleep in it because it reminds me of him... why somebody would do this? -JW
It's me John. I'm doing this because I need you. -SH
Yes, a dead man needs me. Well, he did need a deadman, so perhaps it was possible... but that was entirely beside the point.
I'm so lonely, I sleep with his robe you know. -JW
There, let them chew on that.
How can I prove it's me? -SH
No, he never needed me. -JW
John, I always needed you. I just never told you. -SH
This one was on one. Well it didn't matter anyway at this point. Who cared about John Hamish Watson? His heart? No one. So he'd have a lark. Just as this idiot was.
Tell me exactly how fast you can get here before I have a wank and shoot myself. How about that? -JW
He knew morbid curiosity would win. It did most times, especially this far removed. He felt the rush and began undressing; this time leaving his watch, the only gift Sherlock had ever given him on the bedside.
You are just... I can't believe it. -JW
John, please. talk to me. I promise, I am Sherlock. -SH
At least the others tried to be observant... but obviously weren't him. -JW
I am aren't I? -JW
Maybe this can be fun.-JW
The linens were welcoming even in though the touch was chilling.
What do you mean, John? -SH
I'm undressed now. -JW
Thinking of you. -JW
Stop it right now, John! I'm trying to help you! -SH
Help, how could a dead man help him? How could whomever the hell that was on the on the other end of the texts going to help? Why would they even care.
Tell me, tell me how I feel in your hand... Please. -JW
"Two minutes." No reply, maybe the wanker had given up the ghost finally. John laughed at his gallows humor. Alright, let's poke the the ant hill.
I know you're not really him, but could you pretend. -JW
I am him John. If you would stop and listen to me, maybe I could prove it. -SH
Oh, now he was properly angry.
How? How could you? -JW
I saw him. -JW
What? -SH
In the casket. -JW
Yes, that was me. -SH
But, I know he's not here any more. -JW
But I was not dead. -SH
I am alive. -SH
I'll be dead soon if you don't listen to me though. -SH
John really had stopped reading the texts, he was just thankful for the sound, the tone he hadn't heard in a while. Not like this. He really could almost pretend it was Sherlock on the other end.
Oh, God... sometimes I can feel you. Or think I do. -JW
Stop this. -SH
I swear I hear your violin some nights. -JW
John.-SH
I love you so much... God... It is tearing me apart. -JW
He was crying, he could feel the kick running through him, tried to imagine it was Sherlock who touched him. Sherlock who cared. Who was trying to talk him down from his own brand of Danger Night.
John. Put your clothes on and open the door to the flat. -SH
Oh God that's good yes... -JW
Admitting it. -JW
You need to calm down John. -SH
Please. -SH
I've used things... you know. I always wanted it to be you. Had to approximate. -JW
Not tonight though. -JW
John just open the door or I'm leaving. -SH
John giggled at this. Sherlock would never leave; not he would have broken the damned door down. Idiot in Sherlock's clothing.
The door is always unlocked. -JW
You know that. -JW
Just please have clothes on. -SH
"Too late for that." John murmured.
But I have boxers on. -JW
Not completely indecent. -JW
Sherlock walked hesitantly into the flat. He silently approached his room and creaked open the door. "John, put a shirt on." He allowed the worry and sadness to colour his voice.
"Oh! Now I know I'm high!" John giggled again, louder this time; a bit manic. He pulled Sherlock's robe on to appease the 'man'.
"Are... are you on drugs, John?" Sherlock stepped away now, wary. He looked away. "I'll come back when you are sober..."
"Just a little," John bargained with his hallucination. "Three percent? Can't do seven, yet." He watched as Sherlock moved away from him, hurt now by the action. Not even his imagination wanted him any more. Sherlock would have held him, reasoned with him. Helped him with the aftermath from the high.
"Really, I am amazed." John allowed the sharpness to just peek out. "A judgemental ghost?" He laughed until he was crying, not out of mirth either. "Only did it to make the transition easier."
"John..." Sherlock stepped forward at the sound of the crying, nervously wrapping his arms around the doctor.
"The speed-up and then the numb-out... Then the final kick. I can't be without you any more, love."
"You need to stop," Sherlock looked down at John. "Do you believe I'm real?"
"Have I died?" Something in the wording made John scrunch his face and his body sagged. John returned his gaze, looked at him honestly. The tears still tracking down his face. "Is that why I can feel you?" A small ray of happiness crossed his features.
"No, John." He smiled a bit in return. "You're alive."
"Then how?" John was amazed.
He leaned, pressing up, and plundered Sherlock's mouth taking it for his own. Before he knew it though, Sherlock had pulled away and was once again withdrawing from him. John chuckled darkly.
"Please don't-" Sherlock began.
"Not even now?" He'd had enough. He stood up, grabbed the gun as if it were a part of himself, and walked out of the room clearly headed towards his own.
"John! What are you doing?" Sherlock raced after the armed doctor.
"Well, clearly, you did not want me there." Was his bitter reply as he continued up the stairs. "I'll just go to my room, then."
"Give me the gun, John." Sherlock slowly stepped towards John. "You don't know what you are doing."
"Fine." He smiled a bit wrongly and handed it over, then once again continued up the stairs.
"Dammit, John!" Sherlock sped after him, blocking the entrance to his room. "I know you have resources."
"Yes, I did." He couldn't help it, the tears pricked fresh, his misery complete. Sherlock's hands were on his shoulders in an instant.
"You are going to wait with me until you are capable of functioning." Sherlock held him a bit harder. "Understand?"
"Yes, but then you'll be gone." He caved, slumped on Sherlock's chest.
"I'm real John. I'll stay unless you touch me in an inappropriate way."
Sherlock rubbed John's back soothingly as he held him together.
"Ghost with proprieties." He chuckled. "How uptight am I? I don't have to touch you. It's just a sensory feedback loop based on memories." He could just stop for those glaz eyes. "Just make-believe."
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Okay, John. Let's wait this out-"
"Sure, Sherlock." He slipped a bit more against his love. "I am honestly tired. I feel... odd."
"What do you mean odd?" The spike of too-quiet concern fell on deaf ears.
"I'm just going to have a kip on the bed then?" He felt hazy, unclear. "Dunno. Detached. Shakey a bit."
That must have decided something for Sherlock, the next thing John knew he was being helped up.
"You should get in bed, John."
"Must be the morphine kicking in." John snuggled into Sherlock. "Sounds like a good idea."
"John, stop," He dragged John downstairs to his bed, then set him down. "I'll be right here."
"You always are." John teared up again. "May I please, just one kiss?"
Sherlock shook his head sadly. "When you wake up..."
Sherlock's phone vibrated as John laid and watched him, a soft sad smile on his face.
Yes. And it isn't very funny. -JW
Sherlock glanced at John. "When you wake up."
Tell me, while I'm making my dead flat mates bed so I may sleep in it because it reminds me of him... why would someone do this? -JW
"John... stop." Sherlock softly warned.
I'm so lonely, I sleep with his robe you know. -JW
"Please, John... go to sleep." Sherlock was begging now. Sherlock's phone continued to receive messages even as John's eyes began to close. John's phone clearly on Sherlock's bedside table.
Tell me exactly how fast you can get here before I have a wank and shoot myself how about that. -JW
You just are... I can't believe it. -JW
Sherlock turned off his phone and set it aside as well. "When you wake up."
"Alright." John sighed, everything bleeding away. "See you when I wake."
Sherlock spoke, barely a whisper. "See you when I wake."