Rating: Teen
Summary: Sherlock didn't survive the fall. There was no elaborate scheme, and now he's dead, but Death has other plans for him. He's given a second chance to return to the living if he can reclaim his humanity and avoid the strange figures dogging his heels. Post-Reichenbach AU.
Warnings: Minor character death and questions of spirituality/religion(though not that much).
Author's Note: Basically, someone had a bad week and its Valentine's Day. So, here you go. Wrote it in a day, un-beta'd, forgive the poorness.

The Line Between

Life always frown because it knows it will end.
Death always smiles because it knows it can't last.

Sherlock couldn't leave his body at first, he found, having to follow the paramedics as they take his corpse to the morgue and stay while they went through the standard procedures. Molly came in at one point and cried, as to be expected, though he couldn't hear her. Everyone was silent, though they're mouths moved and things banged and clanked and Sherlock couldn't hear a peep.

No one else seemed to really care he was dead in the morgue. He was another body, so why should they? He watched them, critiqued them, and stood unnoticed in the background. It was rather boring, all in all.

Sherlock attended his own funeral, stood by his closed casket, observed the people coming and going. People other than Mycroft cried, and Sherlock was surprised he even made it. John didn't, was nowhere to be seen, though Sherlock didn't think much of it. He was dead, after all. People's opinions of him no longer mattered, if they had ever.

It wasn't until they were burying him that Sherlock began to wonder if he would be here for the rest of time, leaning on a tombstone, watching as they lowered his body into the ground. When the casket was covered and the gravediggers departed, Sherlock tried to move away, the tether having weakened, though not enough to let him break free. He paced in circles, around and around his grave, unable to drudge up even the slightest annoyance at his situation. Emotions, like everything else, had left when he had separated from his physical self.

John came, finally, with Mrs. Hudson, flowers in hand. They talked for a bit, over his grave, Mrs. Hudson eventually becoming too upset and walking away. John stayed for longer, speaking to a tombstone, and Sherlock wished he could hear it. He was sad and angry, and Sherlock could only watch from some distance away, his own silent guardian over his corpse. John left as well, putting up a good front, and Sherlock tried to follow, but was stuck, tied to a rotting mass of flesh.

He wouldn't be for long as the world turned black and Sherlock left that world behind.

There was nothing, no trees or grass or buildings. A plain black surrounded him, and, though there was no ground to be seen, Sherlock was clearly standing on something. Around him were others, naked as he, blinking in confusion or sitting with knees drawn to their chest. When he tried to approach them, he found he could move and walk, but gain no distant.

Something touched him, in a sense, and Sherlock turned around, finding a figure standing before him, silent. This person was tall, intimidating, clothed in a white fog the ebbed around them. Its face was covered by a blank grey mask, displaying no emotion or preference.

"Who are you?" He was amazed to hear his own voice. Was it his own? When he had tried to speak before, nothing came out and the fading memory of how he sounded seemed farther and farther out of his reach with each passing moment. "Where am I?"

The figure held no answer. It just stood there and waited, but waited for what?

"Is this the afterlife?" It needed to be asked, though there seemed to be too few people milling around for that.

It shook its head, pointing to one of the other people in the space. Sherlock watched as the woman was approached by a figure, much like Sherlock's, and it took her hand. They disappeared in a burst of blue, leaving an empty space in the already spacious plane.

"Limbo then." Sherlock decided, and his figure nodded. "Where have you come to take me?" The figure held out its hand, what Sherlock assumed was a hand, and he tried to step away. "No, I want to know first." The figure shook its head again, motioning for Sherlock's arm. Reluctantly, Sherlock raised it, trusting the figure.

His palm was turned over, and the figure touched the back of his wrist, jagged writing appearing on what would be his skin. It glowed the same hue as the burst of light before, crawling up his arm without pain or heat.

Under the contract signed upon entering this life, this person has the right to one second chance to regain humanity through their own means. Once entering this agreement with one Agent of Death, the agent has full rights to immediately take and place the signer in any place they choose if the signer gives up their pursuit or is perceived to have failed.

"I can live again?" The 'Agent' as it would seem, nodded again. "Assuming it doesn't come free, how do I earn that right?" The Agent just stared, no answer offered up. "It just says my own means. That's not extremely helpful if I'm to do this." The Agent began to turn away, leaving him alone in the black. "Are you even listening to me? I need information, a hint, just-" He blinked, and he was no longer in the empty void of Limbo.

Sherlock was in the graveyard, and it was as if someone had turned up the volume in the world. He could hear the breeze and the birds and a weeping group of people standing at an anonymous grave. The trees had lost their leaves and the gloom of winter was approaching. He'd been deceased for six months and this brought no surprise to him. He still couldn't feel anything, emotional or physical, but the return of sound was a marked improvement.

The first thing he did when Sherlock found he was no longer tethered to his body was go back to St. Barts and stand where he had jumped off the roof. He remembered the event well enough and even tried to reenact it, just to see was would happen. Stepping off of the ledge, he found that he stayed suspended, midair, as if still on the floor. Sherlock actually had to put an effort into falling before he landed back on the ground below, gracefully, and still dead. No rush of adrenaline came from it, no anxiety. Nothing.

This new information lost its glamour after the third experiment in which he found that no, he couldn't levitate, but gravity didn't affect spirits the same as everything else. After, he stepped onto the street, let a car, a bus, and a bicyclist fly right through him, and that killed some time. Being a ghost wasn't all that fun. Of course, his sense of entertainment and boredom were not the same as when he had been breathing either and now he found himself in a constant zone of apathy.

Next, he spent some time in the morgue, for it was familiar and rather interesting. Each corpse that came in had a spirit attached to it, waiting and appearing solemn. Few took notice of him, tried to communicate, but most just stared at their bodies and the morticians, empty and tired. He didn't know how many days passed, as time didn't seem to matter to him anymore. It ebbed and flowed in a very peculiar many, fast forwarding when he zoned out, and only returning to normal when something caught his attention.

When Molly came in, Sherlock tried to speak to her, summon up the energy and get her to notice him as she examined a cadaver, but it was all for not. Even when he experimented with moving a scalpel, he found his hand passing right through it. Molly took no notice of him and so, he did what he usually had around her: complained.

"This is very tedious, being dead. And that man is making a rather rude gesture to you." Sherlock noted one time, the attached spirit glaring at him and Molly as she was bent over his body. He returned the man's gesture, and the spirit was taken aback that Sherlock had even noticed him. "Even the other dead do not have much to say. I usually preferred things quiet but now, I'm not so sure."

Sometimes, Molly would stop and stare at the doors, quietly mournful. She would do this at least once a shift, always sighing and muttering to herself about 'getting over it' and going back to her work. Sherlock didn't like that she didn't this, always chastising her for it. It was a stupid thing to do, knowing he was dead.

"Stop it. I'm right here. I've been here." Sherlock tried once in exasperation, touching her arm, expecting it to go right through her as it always did. Though this time, it stayed, just for a second. Molly flinched and turned around quickly, seeing straight through Sherlock at the wall behind him. She searched for a moment before shuddering, and immediately going back to work.

"Weird." She mumbled, shaking her head, thoroughly spooked. No matter what Sherlock tried, he couldn't touch her again.

He walked the streets and avenues, mostly watching people, because what could he do? It was so peculiar to head straight through a crowd for they couldn't feel him and he couldn't feel them. Just a sentient nothing wandering this plane of existence, which he hadn't known was possible till just recently. It brought everything he had been so sure of into question. What afterlife was there? Would he be taken to Heaven or Hell or some other form of holding block for the deceased if he couldn't find a way back to the living? Was there a God, a deity of some sort laughing at his predicament?

Sherlock didn't know, and didn't care. He just wanted to be alive again.

He sat on a bench to contemplate this for a while, in a park. People passed, and only infants and animals gave him any pause. The babies would stare and blink stupidly, some smiled, and some cried. Animals were more likely to see him, he found, cats just watching and dogs barking at him. It was nice to be noticed, even if by animals and children.

At one point, a stray mutt of mixed origins came to him, wagging her tail happily and yapping in interest. Sherlock said hello, and the dog took the invitation to sit in front of him, sniffing at his leg.

"I'm sorry, I have nothing for you." The dog didn't seem to care. Lying down at his feet, she stayed there the rest of the evening and Sherlock could almost pretend he could feel the dog's warmth. In the morning, the dog whined of hunger, and Sherlock went and helped her find some food. A discarded sandwich later, and the dog tried to thank him with a lick and for a moment he felt her dingy fur as he tried to pet her.

Sherlock spent some time wandering, wondering. How to live again. Did he have to emulate life? Try to eat, sleep, feel pain? What did humanity entail? He continued his survey of the living people around him, how they passed by without seeing anything around them. Was this life? He spent most of his solving cases and finding easy ways to cure his boredom. Would he have to do that again? It was increasingly hard to think, possibly because his mind wasn't truly there any more, and Sherlock began to notice he couldn't piece things together as he could before. Maybe that was what he needed to regain.

All he did know was that he had a drive, even if he couldn't place his finger on it.

Sherlock found himself at Baker Street sooner or later. He'd lost track of time again without meaning too. It was extremely easy to do. Months passed in moments before his eyes if he wasn't too careful.

Sherlock visited 221B, noting it was largely the same, for someone had kept it that way. Maybe Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft. John was no where to be seen, his room empty and all personal belongings long gone. Sherlock supposed that was good, for he didn't know if he could see the doctor just yet. Something held him back, and he hadn't quite figured out what.

Instead of lounging around his lonely flat, he spent some time with Mrs. Hudson. She was mostly the same since he had died, a year and a half ago. Still moving about and cleaning things, being her usual self. Spent a lot of time out, though Sherlock didn't mind. Having her around again was good enough.

Sometimes, she wept, quietly, to herself. Sherlock didn't like this, didn't understand it, especially when he heard his own on her lips as she dabbed at her wet eyes. It was frustrating, unnecessary. Why was she still mourning?

"Stop it! It's been more than a year, you should be over it!" Sherlock yelled, hand accidentally hitting the television. It jumped to life, a commercial blaring into the somewhat silent room. Mrs. Hudson jumped, staring at the device with wide red eyes before carefully standing and turning it off. She left the flat soon after, visibly shaken, leaving Sherlock to wonder at what he had done.

For the rest of the evening, he desperately tried to turn it on again, but his hands only passed through it.

It was one afternoon that Sherlock felt his first real shock since dying. Mrs. Hudson was bustling about, getting things ready for a visitor. She seemed so excited, and Sherlock had automatically assumed it was another suitor. When the doorbell rang, and John walked in, smiling and bright, Sherlock froze.

He'd been avoiding this, seeing John again. He could have at any time, haunted the doctor and spent his time observing his friend, but something in him was reserved about it. Was it the bitterness and woe in the doctor which Sherlock had seen before he had been drawn into Limbo? Had it been that he jumped off the building almost just for John, and caused him such grief to keep him alive?

"John…" He said, something blooming in him that he hadn't known for a long time. John stopped in the midst of hugging Mrs. Hudson, pulling away and looking in the direction of Sherlock, though not seeing him, same as the others. Nobody ever saw him.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked, peering the same way.

"Nothing. I just thought I heard…" He trailed off and looked back at Mrs. Hudson, shaking his head. "I must be going out of my mind."

"Oh, no. Just the other day, the telly turned on by itself! It's been weird lately. I even called in someone to look at it, but they said nothing was wrong." That had very funny, the repair man insisting that no, nothing was wrong with it, despite Mrs. Hudson's protests.

They went into the kitchen and spent most of the afternoon talking, just chatting about their lives and Sherlock stood off to the side, listening. It was almost like old times. It was comfortable, nice.

John had a girlfriend, something possibly serious, though Sherlock could see the strain and that it would mostly likely end within a month or two. John still worked, was going strong, and outside of that, his life was normal again. It occurred to Sherlock that this was what he had simultaneously wanted to avoid and had hoped to happen, to see a John strong enough to live without him, to continue on and be able to function without Sherlock anywhere near him.

It was good, great even. And in some selfish part of him, it hurt.

An apple rolled off the counter to the floor, a sudden movement on his part setting the fruit off, much to Sherlock's astonishment. John and Mrs. Hudson jumped at the loud smack the apple gave, staring at it for a long tense moment and then back at each other.

"I'm having the place exorcised if this keeps happening." Mrs. Hudson snapped, standing up and putting the apple back in its place. John laughed, a good sound to hear, and they continued their discussion long into the early evening.

At some point, Sherlock saw a figure, ominous and quiet, standing outside the window, though it disappeared before he could get a good look at it.

The first time Sherlock had seen one was in the park, on a sunny day, just out of the corner of his eye. There were people around, enjoying the nice morning for a change, though they took no notice of it just standing there. Sherlock had turned quickly to try and grasp it fully, but the wavering thing had vanished from sight.

The next time was outside of a theatre, in an alley way, late at night, the encounter just as swift as the first. He could see its bright white human-shaped essence and hear the hushed determined whispers as he passed, again from his peripheral vision. Sherlock had gone back and gazed down the alley, finding nothing, not a trace of the thing. He had stood there for a long time, contemplating it, but left it best ignored. Ever since dying, there were many things he didn't understand anymore. What was one more item added to the list?

He nearly forgot about them during his time with Mrs. Hudson, too caught up in observing her and trying to affect her objects to get her to notice him. Even the small occurrence in her kitchen had not worried him much. It had been so put out of his mind, Sherlock nearly screamed when he almost ran headlong into one.

He was at the morgue again, badgering Molly as much as he could, which wasn't at all it would seem, and Sherlock had walked nearly straight into the thing. It was solid, blinding, and if Sherlock could breath, the air would've caught in his throat. There was no features to its intimidating height, just bright light and overwhelming voices which seemed thunderous to Sherlock as he stared helplessly.

It reached for him, and there was an instinct, a voice yelling at Sherlock to not allow it to touch him. Never to let it be close again, and to run as far and as fast as he could. Sherlock did just that, not checking to see if it was behind him, not even thinking about it, just pure movement and escape.

He didn't stop for a long time, with no physical limitations slowing him down. The burn in his lungs and the pounding of his heart were imagined but the fear was real and that's all he needed to keep going.

Eventually, he came to a halt in some flat, not one he knew personally, leaning against the front door and placing his head in his hands. There were no physical signs or symptoms, and the terror was raw and undeterred by physiology, as he had none. It encompassed his whole being and there was nothing he could do to stop it. No breaths to take, not touch to feel. If he had a body, he'd be trembling and panting, possibly crying. Even the fright he'd felt in Baskerville had been nothing compared to this.

"If you're coming in, you're going to need to take a seat, dear." Sherlock looked up from the floor, confused. "That's the rules. Spirits in sit in the chair." He followed the voice of the elderly woman and the distinct noise of knitting needles clacking, finding her sitting in a comfortable armchair facing an old rocker. Without looking up, she pointed to the seat opposite her.

"How did you…" Sherlock began, sitting as requested. Immediately, to his surprise, the chair began to rock and creak. The woman sighed happily, looking up and Sherlock noted the cataracts in her unseeing eyes.

"God, I've missed that noise. Used to be my husband's before he went and died of a heart attack. I told him to leave the smoking be, but he wouldn't listen. Stayed right with me, bless him, until the Agent came to take him to his next life. Told that Agent off too, if he put my Stevie somewhere he don't like, there'll be hell to pay." She continued with her knitting, a pair of socks, by the look of it, and grinning all the while.

"Can you hear me?" Sherlock questioned, excited though cautious.

"Of course I can! Been talking to the dead since I started talking in the first place. My ma's house had a freeloader, some lovely young woman who died in the lake out back. Never stopped since then. Course, everyone can talk to spirits, it's just a matter of listening to what they say."

"Have a lot of spirits come through here?"

"Oh yes. One way or another, they find me. I don't mind the company. Most are just lost and confused, the poor things. I usually set them right and off they go. My poor daughter thinks it's all gibberish, but there you go. Now what's your name, love?"

"Sherlock Holmes." There was no use using an alias. What could the woman do to him?

"Sherlock? Did you live at 221?"

"Yes, I did."

"Lovely. Mrs. Hudson was always talking about you, bless her heart. Have you gone to see her?"

"Yes. For a while."

"She was so broken when you went off and died. Been doing wonderful lately though. Why did you jump off the building, anyhow? Seems like a right silly thing to do."

"I wasn't keen on it, but I did it to keep her alive. Rather long story, actually."

"Oh, I've got time, dear. Tell old Mrs. Turner what you want." Sherlock did. What else was there to do? He hadn't talked to anyone in so long, it was wonderful to do so with an actual participant in the conversation, and Mrs. Turner made an excellent audience. Attentive, and eager to listen, Sherlock could only wonder how many other wayward souls had spilled their stories to her.

He talked and talked, told her about meeting John, and their cases together, and Moriarty, and his brother. He spoke about Irene, and Lestrade, anything that might be relevant to the conclusion. Time was lost again, though this time not due to its ineffectual nature on him, but because he was engaging with life again, almost living.

When he ended his story, told her of why he jumped off the hospital and ended it all, Mrs. Turner beamed at him, appearing so proud.

"It's no wonder they gave a second chance, dear." She finally said, her knitting having long since been set aside. "You've had very interesting life, Sherlock. I can see why you'd want to continue living it, but it seems you've done what you needed. Why go back?" Sherlock took a moment to think about it. Then another. And all his mind could produce was a gaping blank.

"I...don't know." He answered truthfully. Mrs. Turner hummed, taking her knitting back into her lap.

"Well, maybe you should stop then. Take a rest. It's not like you'll be dead for long, dear." Sherlock didn't like that idea, not at all.

"No. I need to come back. I just can't figure out why." He insisted, and Mrs. Turner nodded, going back to her previous task.

"Well, then you find why you want to come back, and hold onto it. Hold onto it until you're alive and kicking again."

What did he want to come back for? It plagued him often as he took to haunting John, sitting in his flat and pondering the question while John came and went in his daily schedule. Sherlock wasn't noticed, of course, but it was nice to mock his previous life.

He had stopped Moriarty. That much was clear. He could take down the rest of his operation, but Sherlock was certain that without Moriarty heading it, the whole thing would collapse in a few years' time. He could clear his name, but Sherlock had never worried about his reputation before, and by now, most of the world had forgotten him. None of these things invoked any emotional response, nor gave him any drive to return to living.

The world didn't need him anymore. It had moved on. Even John had settled in well, his relationship with the woman Mary was moving along better than Sherlock had first suspected, and his career was solid. He had plenty of other friends and a good life and Sherlock one of the last things on his mind. Everything was going right for John.

That is, until Mary died.

She had been sick for a while, which was how John had met her. Terminal cancer that no one could cure, hospitalized through most of it, and John had stayed with her through all of it. She passed away one early morning when her body couldn't handle itself anymore. Sherlock was with her then, some part of him loyal to John when he had expressed that he didn't like the idea of Mary being alone when she left.

"You don't talk much." She had said, eyes closed and voice weak. Sherlock just stared, no longer shocked by some people's ability to notice him. The room was dimly lit by a single nightlight, and the streetlamps outside, highlighting her gaunt form. He had seen picture of her from a year and a half ago, before the hospitalization, when her and John had first started dating. She had been short, well-rounded, blonde. Now, in the hospital bed, she seemed miniscule, a shadow of her former self.

"I started seeing you a week ago, always standing next to John, following him around. I didn't think you were even real at first. Then I thought you were some kind of guardian angel." Sherlock listened, not sure if she could hear him. Instead, he placed a hand on hers, glad that he could feel her clammy skin.

"It took me a minute, but I recognized you. You're Sherlock, his friend. It's nice of you, sticking around. I think he'll need someone there for him when I go." He checked her heart rate monitor, noting it was slowing down. No alarms would go off. She had specifically requested that if she died, that she didn't want stick around for a medical coma.

There was silence for a time, and if not for the monitors, she could've been presumed for dead. Mary gave a shuddering breath, and opened her eyes, looking to Sherlock for the first time. Unlike her body, her eyes were bright, still filled with life that was being denied her.

"Does it hurt?" She wasn't crying, or anxious. She was someone who had long since accepted her fate. Sherlock tried to remember his own death, recalling only the pain of landing on the pavement and the nothingness that followed. He shook his head, and she seemed relieved. "Thank you, for being here. It's very kind of you. I don't know how long you'll be around, but look after him, okay?"

"I will." Sherlock promised, nodding, but he would never know if she heard him. Her heart and breathing slowed to a stop, and Mary Morstan died with only lone soul to watch her go. She didn't stick around after like the others, her own spirit leaving the body and vanishing after gazing at her remains, and laughing for almost a minute. The room seemed so much darker without her there.

Sherlock stayed with her remains, however, unknowing of what else to do. The nurses pulled her to the morgue, and he followed, keeping her body company for a while longer until the funeral. It was a small affair, Sherlock only recognizing John there, who held up a good front, not shedding more than a few tears during the whole event.

It wasn't until the cab ride home that John broke down, finally grieving for Mary in the back seat. Sherlock sat next to him, unsure what to do. He wanted, more than anything, to comfort him, but his own limitations without a body kept him from doing so. He tried though, awkwardly put an arm around John's shoulders and wrapping the other around his neck. He wanted to pull him close, wanted to tell him it would be okay and that Mary was fine,was happy, but John couldn't hear his words.

For the time being, he deluded himself that he was physical, and he could feel John's shaking form next to him. Maybe, maybe, John leaned into his embrace, and maybe, Sherlock felt his hair tickling his nose and the smell of his aftershave and the tea he drank.

John flinched away, wide eyed and staring his way, though not actually seeing Sherlock. He shook his head, eyes red and puffy, pressing fingers to his temples.

"I am going crazy." He said to no one, and Sherlock was stunned. He tried to touch him again, hand passing through John, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw another of the white figures, standing outside by the idling cab. It stared at him through the glass, moving slowly closer. They began to move again before it could reach Sherlock.

"I might be too." Sherlock added, to no one in particular, unable to keep from looking out the window. He didn't see the figure again that night, for which he was grateful and anxious. If he couldn't see it, where had it gone?

John tried to be fine for a few days, doing what he needed with work, keeping up with his buddies, decidedly not going back to his therapist, but Sherlock knew. He could see him wearing down as he stood silently off to the side. Sherlock wanted to do something, anything, to distract John. What could he do though? Try as he might, he was unable to affect any objects around them, had no capability to even touch the slightest things.

A week after Mary's funeral, John broke down again, this time with enough alcohol to drown a whale. Sherlock watched, playing with the idea of leaving John be. He didn't like this, didn't like that all he could do was stand by and be silent as John drank himself into a hole. Increasingly irritated, and frustrated at himself of all people, Sherlock paced, grumbling to himself, and attempting to toss papers and lamps to the floor, though they stayed stubbornly in place.

"I think you've had enough, doctor." He snapped, finally, his words ringing out in the otherwise quiet flat. Maybe it had been his anger, or his desperation, but now John was looking at him in a stunned, disbelieving silence. There was fear written in his expression, but also hope, and happiness that warmed Sherlock in a way he was sure he didn't remember.

"Sherlock?" John reached out with a shaking hand after he scrambled to his feet, and Sherlock felt relief.

"I'm here." He answered, grasping for John as well. He was here, he'd been here for months, waiting, wondering for anything to happen. All he wanted, in that moment, was to touch John, to hold him, talk to him, everything.

Sherlock's hand fell through John's, grabbing at nothing and John recoiled, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"No." He said, shaking his head and stepping back.

"John..." Sherlock pleaded. He tried to touch him again, his shoulders, his hands, his face, anything, yet John moved away, determinedly not looking at him.

"You're not real." John bit out, voice thick and raw.

"No, I am. I'm here. Can't you see me?" He was near begging, desperate for John to see him again. Instead, John closed his eyes, turning away.

"No, you're not real. You're not here. You're dead." Sherlock could hear the broken waver, the almost sob. He was shaking, with what emotion Sherlock couldn't tell and Sherlock attempted to touch him once more. "Get out!" John yelled, and Sherlock withdrew his hand, John's words cutting him like a knife.

He did leave then, out into the streets where he could hold nothing, and touch nothing. A place he no longer belonged to.

Sherlock found himself back in the graveyard, standing over his corpse and he felt. The shame in him, the desperation in which he wanted John to see him, the gripping pain of John's rejection. He stared at his grave, it's once reflective surface now dulled by the three years it had been in place. There was nothing he could do. He was nothing, just a lonely soul with nowhere else to go.

The figures appeared, not just one, but three, blindingly white and ever vigilant. They surrounded him, keeping a good distance yet their whispers seemed so close to him. They waited, the only companions who had taken any active interest in him since this whole disaster had began.

"I can't. I can't run anymore. Please." Sherlock held out his hand to the figure in front of him. This was his surrender. The figures took it, approaching slowly, and there was nothing but heat when one grabbed his hand. If there were tears in his eyes and tightness in his throat, he assumed they were fake, imagined like his heart and his breath and his touch because Sherlock was dead.

And dead men don't weep.

There was a slight wind, chilly, wet, and the air smelled of fresh rain. Somewhere, a bird tweeted, and crying could be heard from a short distance. A leaf lands on his face and Sherlock opens his eyes to the cemetery on a gloomy late morning, lying with his back to his tombstone. He's shivering, cold, and wearing the same suit he was buried in. His hair has grown ever so, along with his nails, but other than that, he's alright. He's breathing.

He's alive.

Sherlock stands to wobbly legs and numbs toes, a funeral in process behind him, and a child staring at him in black clothing. He stares right back, and the child goes back to poking her little brother. Their grandma just died, and they're too young to know what that means, but are educated enough to keep quiet and respectful.

Sherlock waits until the funeral is over, and convinces the father that he's a distant cousin in need of some money for a cab ride home. In lieu of the recent death of his mother, the man eagerly gives it to him, and his daughter calls Sherlock a zombie. Her father chastises her, and when his back is turned, Sherlock makes a zombie-like face that has her giggling. She's not completely wrong and Sherlock's in a good enough mood to play along.

His first stop is to Mycroft's, where his brother nearly has him shot in the head before he convinces the man he's really Sherlock, and yes, he's alive. Mycroft takes it, as he can't dispute it seeing how Sherlock is literally standing in front of him. Their greetings after that aren't emotional or over the top.

"Where have you been?"

"Dead."

"Should I ask now, or will John tell me later?"

"John will, if he doesn't try and shoot me as well." That was it. Mycroft let him get cleaned up, and into an outfit that wasn't distinctly post-mortem.

"Mummy had me keep them. You know how she was after Father's death." Mycroft insisted when presenting Sherlock with one of his old outfits. Sherlock didn't question that, though he'd find some way to morph it into an insult later when it stopped being rather endearing.

Getting to John's seemed to take forever and no time at all. He was anxious, and pessimistic, certain that John would slam the door in his face or punch him, or shoot him, or some combination of the three. He knew the likely hood of any of those happening, knew the slim chance that John might listen, and decided to try anyways. John had a tendency to be unpredictable at the best of times, so it was worth a shot.

"Jesus!" The door slammed with John's shocked disbelieving expression behind it. One reaction down with minimal damage, and Sherlock knocked again. It took a moment, he could hear scuffling on the other side. When the door opened again, Sherlock found himself nose-to-nose with John's gun. "Who are you?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

"John, it's me."

"I saw you dead on the ground."

"I know."

"I took your pulse, for God's sake! You're dead!" John shouted, gun amazingly steady in hands.

"I know." John lowered his hands, suspicious, and Sherlock didn't bother to dodge the punch to the face. He stumbled back, dazed with his cheek split, catching himself just before his fell to the ground. Pain happened to be one of the things he hadn't missed while dead.

With all three calculated scenarios completed, and Sherlock still alive and John's door open wide for him, Sherlock took his opportunity. John was inside, sitting on his sofa where Sherlock had sat many other times, a spirit contemplating his situation. Sherlock sat next to him, this time actually feeling the brush of cheap upholstery on his skin and the warm temperature of the room.

"You were dead." John finally said after a five minutes of staring at the ground, hands clasped between his knees.

"Yes, I was." Sherlock sounded almost as surprised as John to his own ears, still not quite sure what had happened at the grave. He'd analyze it later, at a more opportune moment.

"You're not anymore." John finally looked at him, face set in a stormy expression.

"That seems to be the case."

"How- No. You know what?" John stood suddenly, fingers clenching and unclenching, the tension clear in his shoulders. "You, out." He pointed to Sherlock and then the door, as if for emphasis if Sherlock hadn't heard him the first time. When Sherlock didn't move, John grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him out his door.

"John-!"

"I'm not dealing with this today, thank you very much. Come back when I'm bloody well ready to see you breathing again!" The door slammed again, and Sherlock was left standing alone, and still catching up with what had just transpired. Deciding it was best to leave John be, as he wasn't absolutely certain what to do when one returns from the dead, Sherlock headed towards the exit, already planning their next encounter.

"Sherlock?" He stopped, waited for John to catch up. A hand grabbed his wrist, and he was spun around, fingers grabbing his neck and Sherlock was pulled into a kiss. It wasn't exactly a kiss, more of a rough press of lips and clacking of teeth that hurt more than anything, but it was perfect and Sherlock wouldn't have had it any other way.

"You are a complete bastard." John snipped, still reasonably pissed, but his eyes had softened, and the bruising grip on the back of Sherlock's neck had loosened to softer version of its former self.

"I know."

"Stop agreeing with me."

"Alright." Sherlock quipped with a grin. John laughed, a short chuckle, and kissed him again, though softer and with less intent. Sherlock held him closer, reveling in all the things he'd wanted and missed since dying.

Much, much later, two weeks in fact, John finally asked him what had happened and Sherlock obliged. They were in John's apartment, laying in his bed, miraculously still clothed since John had enacted a 'you're alive but I still need some adjustment time' rule, which Sherlock was willing and eager to oblige in. They were dating, technically, going out while Sherlock re-introduced himself to the world, John by his side while he fabricated a death faking scenario for everyone to believe. Only John and Mycroft knew the truth.

"What happened?" John had asked quietly, their limbs entangled and wrapped around each other, his hand softly going through Sherlock's curls. He honestly hadn't thought about it since he woke up alive, and the memories were foggy, but they came back in a stream that would not stop once started.

He told him about being tied to his body, about watching John at the graveyard and about the Agent in Limbo. He told him about the morgue and bothering Molly, about the dog who he helped, and about the white figures who dogged his heel. About Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner, about Mary, and her death.

"You were there?"

"You didn't want her to be alone, and I wasn't doing much else at the time." John was stunned. He hadn't told Sherlock at all about Mary, but kept listening as Sherlock recounted their conversation, and how she was more than ready to move on, which John was more than relieved to hear. He told him how he stayed with her body, and with John, right up until John demanded he to leave, and how he went to the graveyard again, and woke alive.

"You were there. I saw you so many times, just out of the corner of my eyes, a shadow but I knew it was you. I thought I was losing it." John gave short humorless laugh. "Maybe I still am."

"Possibly, but then so am I." This time, John's chuckle was real, and Sherlock beamed, over-heated by their proximity, but happy. He glanced over John's shoulder, gasping despite himself. By the window stood a woman, transparent yet bright, no cataracts in her eyes and no sowing needles in her hands.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John touched his face, worried. The woman smiled softly at them, slowly fading away.

"Good job, Sherlock." She was gone by the time John finally turned his head to look. His bemusement was apparent when he glanced back at Sherlock.

"Nothing." He assured him, John taking it with a grain of salt and letting it go. They went back to talking about the three years apart-yet-not, John finally telling him about Mary, and Sherlock describing was being dead was like. They fell asleep eventually, Sherlock gazing over John's shoulder one more time, just to be sure.

Sherlock would never see another spirit again, and frankly, he was glad.

A.N.: Another story in which a lot of the unfilled details are left for the reader to decide the true answer to. I have my own answers for them, but it's more fun if open ended. Have a good Valentine's Day! I'd love to hear your thoughts!