Anyone's Ghost

Chapter One

The first time it happened Sherlock Holmes was six years old.

He's school reports for previous years had stated he was a boy of beyond average intelligence, a vivid imagination and seeming to have an unhealthy obsession with pirates.

After the event they would describe how suddenly closed off he'd become. How the other children stayed away. How he' only speak with his imaginary friends.

"Sherlock," his mother would say each day before school. His small blazer was perfectly buttoned, his tie straight and hair immaculate. "In life you need to be able to talk to people. To have friends. You can't just be by yourself forever."

"I can try…" The small boy would declare determinedly. "Besides, people are boring. My friends are far more interesting… They've got stories!"

"Real people would have stories if you spoke to them…"

"My friends are real!" His mother usually gave up at that point. Elizabeth Holmes knew there was no point arguing with her youngest son. He'd inherited her own stubbornness; it was like arguing with a smaller, male version of herself most days. She'd place his cap on his head and watch him grab a hold of his older brother, Mycroft's, hand. The two would walk down the large drive way leading towards their home and vanish from sight.

The first time it happened he was six.

It was a cold day, rainy with dark clouds hanging from the sky like flickering lanterns. The sun was hidden and the light dim reflected off of the puddles. Sherlock was playing in the garden, a bright red bandana tied around his head and an eye patch over one eye. He was just about to make Mr Trunks (a rather battered cuddly elephant) walk the plank when he heard the crying.

The low distant sound of all hope been lost and utter desperation. He'd placed his wooden sword down and flipped the eye patch onto his forehead. He peered around the large garden for a second, wondering if Mycroft had caused one of the maids to have yet another breakdown with his comments on their dusting. He stumbled to his feet, his knees scraped and red.

"Someone… Please help me…" It was defiantly a woman. A young woman, to be more precise. He followed the sound towards the large, old oak tree that stood at the end of the grassed area. He silently peeped around it and found the source of the tears.

A young woman, no older then nineteen, sat there. Her back pressed against the thick bark and her knees pulled up to her chest. Her face was turned towards the sky, droplets of liquid pouring down her cheeks at a remarkable speed. Her floral dress was blindingly bright, her long red hair lightly tangled.

"You don't work here," the young boy declared. "I'd recognise you if you did." The girls gaze snapped to him as she suddenly sat up. She eyed the small pirate for a second before allowing her jaw to lightly fall.

"You… You can see me?" Sherlock frowned and pulled the bandana from his head revealing his messy, thick curls.

"Of course I can. Why wouldn't I be able to? You're here aren't you?"

"I… I guess I am."

"This is my garden. If my father knew you were here he'd call the police. He doesn't like people been on the property who don't belong. Do you belong?"

"I… I'm not sure." Sherlock sighed and rolled his large ice blue eyes.

"You must be sure. I know I belong here. This is where my parents are so that's why I am here. Why are you here?" The girl stuttered for a moment before clearing her throat and pulling herself up so she was kneeling on the soft ground.

"I'm lost."

"Where are you trying to get to?"

"I'm not hundred percent sure on that one." Sherlock huffed and sat down next to her.

"You don't seem to know a lot."

"I'm afraid I don't. I haven't for a very long time." The two sat in silence for a while, the sound of the birds over head filling their ears and the smells of damp grass their nostrils. "What's your name little pirate?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Captain Sherlock Holmes." The girl laughed and smiled down at the small boy.

"Pleasure to meet you Captain. I'm Claire. Claire Lock." Sherlock nodded, taking in the information.

"Where are your mother and father?"

"Oh, very far away I'm afraid."

"Oh…" Sherlock paused a moment before getting to his small feet and pulling his eye patch back down. "My father won't be home for a few hours and my mothers in her study. If you want you can play with me. Although if either of my parents decide to make an appearance I'm afraid you will have to run."

"I don't see that been a problem." Sherlock nodded and turned to leave. "Sherlock!"

"Captain Sherlock!"

"Sorry, Captain Sherlock?"

"Yes Lock?" Claire smiled lightly before speaking.

"Have there been others like me. You know, people who've just appeared. Not just in the garden, perhaps the house? Or at school?" Sherlock seemed to think a moment before speaking.

"Not that I can think of. I usually remember everything so I'd recall something like that."

"How old are you Sherlock?"

"I just turned six." Claire nodded and seemed to think for a moment.

"If you do see other people like me Sherlock. People who others say aren't there or are in your imagination just remember you're not crazy. It's all very much real."

"Why would they say such things? You're very clearly here!" Claire nodded and smiled sadly.

"Indeed I am… Shall we play pirates then Captain?"

"Yes Matey! Let's bored the ship and head out to sea!"

They played for what seemed like hours before both found themselves lying on their backs, staring up at the sky.

"Claire?"

"Yes Captain."

"Where do you come from?"

"I…" she thought for a moment. "I'm unsure; it's all a little foggy. I just remember opening my eyes and I was here. Like I'd blinked and was suddenly in the garden. That was a long, long time ago though. I think I'm meant to be there…" She pointed at the sky and sighed. "It's like an everlasting torment." Sherlock peered at her through the corner of his eye and frowned.

"You can't go to the sky. That's madness."

"Life is mad Sherlock. Everything about it is absolutely and completely bonkers." The small boy thought for a moment before nodding in agreement.

As the sun began to set he said farewell, gathered his toys and ran back towards the house.

After that Sherlock saw Claire in the garden almost every day, each of those days presenting a new adventure for the unlikely friends. Sherlock began to report that, indeed, he was starting to see many people around that he hadn't before.

No one else paid them any attention but they seemed to like him. They acted the same way Claire had when they first met. Shocked… yet happy.

Claire had smiled and said not to worry, it wasn't a bad thing. Sherlock was a very special little boy with a very special talent. Sherlock had told her he knew he was talented, he was top in all his subjects.

His parents explained it away as one of those childish things, imaginary friends who he thought up.

His teachers suggested a psychologist; his mother suggested they mind their own business.

The day before his eighth birthday his father smiled happily and announced that the bottom of the garden, where the old oak tree stood, would be dug up so that the Holmes family could enjoy an outdoor swimming pool during the upcoming summer.

As the diggers arrived and began to rip the ground up Sherlock watched from his bedroom window. He was excited, wondering if perhaps he could somehow get Claire to go swimming with him, they could play Marco Polo and see who could hold their breath the longest.

Two hours into the digging everything came to a sudden and abrupt halt. Sherlock's mother frantically screamed at one of the staff to call the police as she stared astounded into the recently dug hole. White tents where put up as men in suits and white overalls patrolled around with concerned expressions on their faces.

Several hours later a large black bag containing something that Sherlock wasn't allowed to know about was removed and placed into a police van. The pool was built and the family never spoke of the incident again.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Despite the frequent visits to the garden and his hour long searches Sherlock never saw Claire again. That is until he found an old copy of the paper tucked away in his mothers study.

The front page showed the smiling face he'd come so used to seeing, those eyes that had shimmered with something Sherlock didn't understand.

The head line read….

'Body of Claire Lock found after twenty years in grounds of old family home…"

It was then Sherlock realised the red headed teenager had been right.

He was very special indeed.


People went along with their lives, hand in hand with their dreams and thoughts of the future. Pointless ideas that meant nothing and passed as silently as dust flying through the air.

From the window of his flat (221B Baker Street) Sherlock Holmes watched silently, a hand resting against the cool glass. His eyes watched then with a slight pity. None of them had a single clue, not on particle of an idea, as to how simple their lives where. How any second of any day they could be blown out like a candle in the wind. He allowed his hand to fall back down to his side as he turned towards the empty living room.

For once, he was actually alone. The silence was gratefully received as he wondered over to his armchair and slumped down into it, knocking the pile of books that had been balanced on the arm onto the floor. He cast them a wistful glance before returning to staring at nothing in particular.

On the coffee table a cup of cold tea, which had been there for the best part of a day, had created a thick skin over the top. He eyed it tiredly, the science behind the small event racing through his mind.

He eyed his violin, wondering if perhaps he should use this rare section of 'free time' to write some sort of piece or perhaps brush up on some old favourites.

Deciding he'd rather not move he sunk further into the chair.

The last case, for some reason, had really taken it out of him.

A child, seven years old, had been found drowned in the Thames. Children where always so hard to communicate with. They were always less accepting as to what it was that was happening. Always having questions to ask instead of answering his.

The little boy in particular, George Scot, had been extremely inquisitive. He seemed to find is situation 'cool' and the fact Sherlock could see him 'awesomely awesome'. Needless to say the case had taken longer than planned, but when cracked well worth the wait. It seemed the drowning had been nothing more than an accident, a childish prank gone wrong. With another success story by his name the worlds only consulting detective had returned home and began to formulate the reasoning as to how he knew what had happened. That was always the most fun, looking deeper into the case then he'd originally done and pulling facts together in order to back up his theory. The last thing Scotland Yard needed to know was how Sherlock truly gained some of his information.

Where would the fun be in that?

On the other side of the room, on his desk, his phone began to buzz. The shrill sound of his ringtone piercing the silence like a knife through flesh. He pulled himself up quickly and grabbed it; pressing answer he held it to his ear.

"Sherlock?"

"Who else would it be Lestrade?" Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

"How are you feeling?"

"Since we last spoke two hours ago? About the same."

"Right, well. Look, we've just had a case come in. Seems like something you could help us out on…"

"Text me the address."

"You don't know anything about it yet!"

"Whatever it is I highly doubt you'll be able to cope." He didn't wait for a reply, he hung up and within seconds a text appeared in his inbox. He smirked as he opened it, memorizing the address before sticking the device into his pocket. He grabbed his coat, pulling it on as he jogged through the door and down the stairs. Within in minutes he was in a taxi, watching the world pass him by as a thousand thoughts ran through his mind.

He saw a few of them on the streets. They were usually just stood still, looking shocked and astounded. They always looked lost, so very lost in a sea of people that couldn't see them. Sherlock was silently grateful that he was moving at such a speed they couldn't notice his acknowledgement of them.

The taxi pulled up outside a small cottage like house, a picture perfect setting of comfort and normality. Exactly the sort of surrounding Sherlock detested.

He paid the driver and clambered out onto the street. Several police cars lined the road, thick brightly coloured tape blocking the path to the house off from passersby.

"What are you doing here freak?" Sally Donovan eyed the taller man with narrowed eyes. "We haven't even had a chance here yet!"

"Well, we wouldn't want to waste time now would we?" Sally frowned and stepped aside.

"Whatever you say freak. Just keep out of my way today. I'm really not in the mood."

"Yes, I suppose one would feel like that after been stood up for a lunch date."

"What! How did you kno… Actually, I don't care. Just go on your way and leave me alone." Sherlock watched as she stamped towards one of the many police cares. He quickly turned away and ducked under the blockade. Around him people searched through the garden, seeking the minute pieces of evidence that could have been concealed there.

"Sherlock," Lestrade appeared in the door way. "Ready for another one?"

"When am I not ready?" Lestrade rolled his eyes and stepped aside, allowing Sherlock into the house.

"Look, I can give you ten minute tops in the actual crime scene. I'm getting a little concerned someone's going to end up reporting me for letting you do this. Namely Donovan." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"She wouldn't. She enjoys having something to complain about far too much."

"Either way, keep it quick." Sherlock paid him no attention as he moved towards the living room. "Male, aged thirty four. Ex-military doctor. Got sent home a few months back after getting shot. Ironic really, considering." Sherlock finally arrived at the scene. His eyes landing on the body almost instantly. The man was shorter then himself and lying on the floral carpet with his face pointing towards the ceiling. One hand was out stretched, as if trying to reach for something, whilst the other lay over his heart. His sandy coloured hair poked out in all directions and his eyes lay shut. If it hadn't been for the seeping bullet wound in his chest it would have seemed the gentlemen were merely sleeping. "His name was John Watson."

"Is John Watson."

"What?"

"Just because someone is dead doesn't mean they don't still have owner ship of their name Lestrade. His name is John Watson." Lestrade seemed startled for a moment before nodding.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. Remember what I said Sherlock. Ten minutes tops." Sherlock waved him off before turning his attention back to the body. He peered down at it slowly. He's clearly been reaching for something. Something that he kept in the nearby draw. The very same on that had been ransacked. More then likely a gun, ex-military and all. It was astounding the number of them that managed to secretly get weapons home. So he had tried to defend himself… But only after the shot was fired.

Odd…

Before that he appeared to have accepted his fate. There was no signs of a fight or any sort of struggle. Everything, beside the emptied draw, still sat tidily around the room. Minus the dead body it appeared to be an average home full of dull, average things.

"What happened to you John Watson?" Sherlock murmured. A gust of ice cold air rushed past his left ear and he shuddered, his voice quietening to whisper. "Keep your eyes on me and follow. Do you understand?" Another gust on the right ear this time. "Always, eyes on me." He turned, his coat cascading behind him as he left the house.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called as the man jumped into the awaiting cab. "Sherlock! What did you find?"

The younger man wound his window down and peered at the detective inspector coolly.

"Nothing."

"Oh don't give me that! You can't just run off!"

"I have nothing to say to you at this precise moment in time. Please drive on."

"Sherlo…!" He allowed the window to slide shut as he sat back in his seat.

They drive back towards Baker Street the same route they had come and soon enough Sherlock found himself in the safety of his home. He threw his coat down and turned towards the empty room.

"Are you here Doctor Watson?" The curtains where caught by a light breeze from the open window and Sherlock smirked. "Welcome to my humble abode."

He closed his eyes for a few moments and took a deep breath. When he opened them his house guest had arrived.

Doctor John Hamish Watson peered around the living room with wide, surprised eyes and a light shake taking over his form.

"What in the name of Christ…?" Sherlock cleared his throat and instantly caught the other mans attention.

"Hello, I suppose you have a few questions."

"You're damn right I do! What the in the bloody hell is going on?" Sherlock moved over to the window, breezing past the apparition that had just appeared with little acknowledgment and slamming it shut. Over London the sun was setting, a hazy orange glow covering the buildings with a soft, peaceful blanket.

"What the hell is going on? Hm, that's a rather large question." Sherlock turned and leant on the windowsill. "Unfortunately doctor, at around twelve o'clock this afternoon you appear to have been murdered."

"Wh-what?"

"Hm, I'm afraid it's true. Bullet to the chest. Very unlucky. Especially in your case. You'd already survive one gun wound correct?"

"Yes… But…"

"So, my aim is to try and find out who it was that deemed it necessary to end your life so suddenly and violently."

"Wait… slow down." The shorter man ran a hand over his lightly glowing face and stared into nothingness for a second. "So… I'm dead?"

"I believe I've already stated…"

"You may have already bloody stated but I don't know you from Adam! For all I know you could have drugged me or something!"

"Not the first time that I've been accused of doing such a thing."

"What do you mean not the first time?" Sherlock stood up straight and took a step towards the terrified looking gent.

"This is what I do. I find people such as yourself. People stuck here, and help them. I find out why whatever has happened to them has happened and then they move on."

"Move on where?"

"Oh details! What does it matter? It's what you're meant to do so be grateful of the help. If I left it to the police you'd be wondering for years. Now, tell me. What do you remember?"

"Remember?"

"Yes. About how you died? Often they remember very little, perhaps nothing. But over time it returns to them. Once they're used to how they exist now." John hugged his arms tightly around himself and shuddered.

"Could you perhaps… I don't know, not be so cold about the whole thing. I'm a little shaken as it happens."

"It's not all puppies and rainbows Doctor Watson. What did you imagine death would be like?" John glanced at his new 'friend' quickly before looking away.

"I'm still not sure I believe you." Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed at the shorter man chest.

"Look." In silence the ex solider raised his cream, thick jumped up above his neck and peered down at himself. In the centre of his chest, where Sherlock had seen a large bloody hole on the corpse of the man not an hour earlier, was a large dark scare. Thick and twisted.

"What the…"

"It's a death mark, shows where the cause for your demise occurred." John moved a hand over the mark silently before letting his jumper fall down.

"This has got to be a dream…" Sherlock watched as he began to wonder around the room in a sort of daze.

"I would say get some sleep… but you won't need any from now on." John didn't seem to be listening but nodded any way.

"I suppose a cup of tea is out of the question?" he asked with a shaking voice.

"I'm afraid so."


In a dark corner, far away from Baker Street, tucked behind a bin full of rotting food and discarded rubbish a little girl was curled into a tight ball, her arms aching from the pressure she was putting on them.

Her tatty clothes where stained with her own tears and the grit of months spent sleeping on the streets. Her six year old hands slowly pressed themselves over her eyes as the man in front of her watched carefully.

"Please don't be scared… I'm not going to hurt you… But… You can see my right…?" She nodded tearfully.

"Yes… Please leave me alone!"

"Hey, calm down! I'm really not going to hurt you…. What's your name princess?"

"Hope…"

"Hello Hope… I'm Damien. You know… No one's been able to see me for a very long time. You must be very special indeed…"

Hope slowly uncurled herself, deciding to allow the man to talk. No one had ever called her special before. As she listened to his stories she was completely unaware.

Unaware that on the other side of the city was a man just as special as she was.


Hello, would be truly lovely to know what you thought about this. It will be Sherlock/John. How I hear you ask? Well, all will be revealed in time. Chapter two is on its way. Hope you're having a fabulous day whomever you maybe.

GOTM

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