A/N: This story… just jumped on me out of nowhere. I have no explanation. This idea grabbed me and before I knew what was happening I was typing. (chuckles sheepishly)

WARNINGS: SLASH. Adult themes. Language. Quite possibly a touch of violence. Hey, what else would you expect of a my fic…?

DISCLAIMER: Trust me, if I DID own ANYTHING series 3 would be here already. (pouts) What? I'm a impatient person.

Awkay… (gulps) Because I'm feeling quite nervous right now, let's go. I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

Forget Me Not

Seeing Ghosts

London was atypically hot while Sherlock Holmes sat in one of Mycroft Holmes' cars, a steel hard, thoughtful look in his stormy eyes. In eyes that'd seen far too much over the past three years. His fingers drummed restlessly, too much exposure to adrenaline leaving his body on the edge. It was only natural that he didn't quite remember how to relax anymore after being in a war for such a long time. Every shadow was a threat. Every stranger was a potential enemy. Peace was treacherous. Dulled him. Being without adrenaline felt worse than any other craving he'd ever faced.

A small, distant part of him wondered if this was what John felt like when coming back home from Afganistan.

"Three years, Sherlock", Mycroft sighed, running a weary hand through his hair. More of it was missing than when they last met, the younger brother noticed. That was the first sentence either one of them had spoken since the terse greetings after the private jet carrying Sherlock had landed. There was a bizarre, strained look in the older Holmes' eyes. "I never expected that it'd take you this long."

Sherlock's eyes flashed against the other like a pair of whips. His fried nerves immediately sensing the chance for an attack. "Apologies if I failed to meet your standards, brother dear", he hissed out, offering a challenge.

One Mycroft obviously sensed. The older brother didn't seem to be in the mood, though. "None of that now, Sherlock. If you please. This… operation and your impending resurrection have caused a bureaucratic chaos you can't even imagine. I don't need you to add my headache."

Deciding that he had no desire to feel even an ounce of remorse Sherlock fixed his eyes to the landscape spreading outside the window. A frown took over his features, his instincts instantly warning him that something was wrong. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded sharply. Because he knew every single variation of the route to Baker Street and this was definitely not one of them.

Mycroft remained silent for a uncomfortably long moment. The man's jaw appeared painfully tight. "Somehow I have a feeling that I know what you're looking for. And that isn't at Baker Street anymore."

Sherlock didn't ask although the unvoiced burned his tongue like acid. He gritted his teeth so hard that it hurt and folded his arms tightly, staring pointedly out the window. Furiously trying to figure out where, exactly, they were going.

The car was already slowing down when Mycroft spoke once more. There was a unnerving look in the man's eyes. "Look, Sherlock… I don't know what you're expecting or hoping to find. But… You need to understand that a lot can happen in three years." Did his older brother just hesitate? "Some things may not be the way you left them."

That was when Sherlock realized that they were just about to pull over beside a huge, beautiful park where a lot of families were enjoying the day. Children playing. Their parents watching over and talking. His frown from before deepened. "If there's something you have to say just spit it out, why don't you? I don't have all day."

Mycroft swallowed. So loudly that he heard it clearly. "Sherlock…"

Whatever more came out was muted, wiped away. Became irritating, meaningless background noise. Because just then someone he'd, for a while, thought he'd never see again came into view.

There, in the park, Dr. John Watson was walking towards something with a small, warm smile on his face. A most definitely happy look in those eyes. It seemed that the doctor had lost weight but gained muscle. Exercising regularly, then? There was, however, a slight limp only a careful eye could possibly detect. A barely noticeable flash of pain.

Sherlock… most certainly hadn't expected the flood that traveled through him right then. Relief. Confusion. Longing, although he would've never admitted that even to himself. He had no idea what to make of the overload of impulses. And he hated it.

And then he was moving, hauling himself out of the car and into motion.

"Sherlock, wait…!"

Mycroft's warning fell on deaf ears. With long and sharp, impatient steps Sherlock made his way towards the man he once called his only friend. Wondering just what one was supposed to say when returning from the dead.

There, with John less than ten steps away, the mighty Sherlock Holmes faltered.

Wondered if he'd be forgiven at all. Wondering if the ache he caused – the ache he saw before his very eyes, raw and clear, when John begged for a one more miracle – was too much. Wondered if there, indeed, even was a life left for him to return to.

Sherlock's hesitation stole less than five seconds. But it was enough. More than enough time to send his whole world crumbling apart.

Because he came to discover that John wasn't alone at all. All of a sudden there was a woman with shoulder length golden hair and impossibly joyful blue eyes. Her hand was gentle when it caressed the ring on John's left ring finger while the former soldier sealed her into a long, loving kiss.

Married? Sherlock should've known to expect this. Should've considered this as a very likely scenario. So… Why did he feel like…?

"Daddy!" Sherlock shivered slightly at the child's voice. Turning his head he saw a small boy who couldn't be older than a year and a half with John's hair and eyes sprinting towards the couple. The boy's whole face radiated sheer joy. "Daddy! Helicopter!"

John chuckled in a way Sherlock couldn't remember hearing ever before. Slowly, as though the movement caused pain, the doctor knelt and picked up the little boy. Those arms were extremely careful and tender while the man spun around, the child squealing with delight in his arms. "You're getting big, Hame. You've grown since this morning!"

The boy, Hamish if Sherlock's skills hadn't failed him entirely, beamed.

The woman smiled softly, leaning closer to the boy with her arms wrapped loosely around John's waist. "Now, how about some ice cream? We may even have some sprinkles…"

Whatever followed Sherlock couldn't hear. Because just then John, ever the observant soldier, sensed his stare. Slowly, slowly those midnight blue eyes turned towards him, finding his.

Sherlock had been preparing himself for anything. For anything but the tight, polite smile flashed his way. "Uh, hi. May I help you?"

In some other situation Sherlock might've noticed just how different those eyes were from what he remembered. But not now. Because all he could focus on was the lack of recognition in those familiar eyes of a total stranger. All his mind was willing to hang on to was the fact that this man – this John – clearly didn't have the faintest idea of who he was.

Very much against his will Sherlock could feel his body, his transport, failing him. Betraying him. The impulses were so strong that there was no way he could've fought them back.

He felt his eyes widen, just a fraction, while his heartbeat and blood pressure sped up. At the same time this cold he couldn't explain spread through his veins. A horrific, cold weight sat into his stomach. Onto his shoulders. Onto all of him.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to walk away or take a step closer. To grab John's shoulders and shake until the doctor would recognize him. He remained rooted to the spot, his posture becoming even straighter than before as electric jolts sped all the way through. "Don't be dull. Surely even you must be able to figure it out." The 'please' was so close that he could almost taste it.

John shivered, the ghost of a frown visible. Close, so very close, yet impossibly far away. The smile was even more tense than before. "I'm sorry, mate. You've got the wrong bloke." And with that Sherlock was forced to watch John walking away with his family. The shorter man's steps and posture were stiff, hesitant. But there wasn't even a single glance over his shoulder.

For several long, endless moments Sherlock stood absolutely still. Feeling the gaping hole somewhere deep inside tearing wider and wider until it seemed to swallow up his all. Then, with what was highly likely the last of his strength, he spun around and marched away, towards the opposite direction from John.

He slammed the door as hard as he possibly could upon entering the car. His eyes were pure lava. "Explain", he snarled with the rage of a wounded wild beast. "Now. Why did John just act like I was a stranger?" Sure, he was pretty much a dead man walking, but still looked just the way he always did. He'd even gotten rid of the horrendous hair dye.

Mycroft sighed. There was genuine sadness in his brother's eyes. "Because to Dr. Watson the time with you doesn't exist anymore."

TBC, OR NOT?

A/N: Soooo… That was quite heartbreaking. (winces) Poor Sherlock!

What are your thoughts, folks? Any good, at all – or something that should be buried it even begins? PLEASE, do let me hear from you! Starting a new story is always nerve-wrecking so your opinion would mean a lot. (gives puppy's eyes)

In any case, thank you so much for reading this far!

Until next time, I hope, whichever project that may be with! Take care.