Imaginary Audience

This was written after watching a marathon of Ghost Hunters and way too many episodes of CSI that seemed to have some sort of supernatural twist to them before it turned out to be the perfectly nice couple at the end of the lane. I've read several AU's where supernatural stuff was involved, and I feel like we need more of it. And since I'm apparently all over AU's and that department, I wrote this on the side.

For those of you reading "Glimpse of Gold" don't worry. The next chapter is almost done and will be up ASAP. Probably tomorrow if you're all really lucky. I have a nice break in the afternoon. Thanks!

He really only ever saw John by Chance, standing there quietly in the mist of the quiet morning graveyard. It was far too early out for normal human beings, the just barely appearing dawn light filtering through the foggy, clouded grounds, just barely illuminating the headstones and grounds. He was just standing there at the headstone of whatever grave he was there visiting -third one in on the right, ten rows from the back wall of the cemetery- with his head down, face impassive. Sherlock had barely seen him in his rush about the place, and once he had he'd never approached him in his moment of silence. Even he, as heartless as he claimed himself to be, could understand the necessity of a good silent moment to grieve away from prying eyes. And though the man's eyes were clear and bright, head down against his chest, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to bother him.

When he'd first noticed John standing there in the graveyard, silent as the dead, it had been some fluke of the early morning light. He'd been there searching for damning evidence that would aid him in nabbing his latests pair of criminals, the case he'd been working for little over a week soon to come to an end if he could pull this off. (A man and his "loving" wife had been luring in and killing unsuspecting people in need of help or support, hunting in support groups and pubs. They'd been rather good about covering their tracks until someone at the Yard had realized that all the missing persons were similar in physical type and height.) And Sherlock was certain that the last bit of the most recent body -the fingers, oh god- had been stashed here under the false pretense of visiting a dead relative that he knew wasn't buried here.

He was almost 99 percent sure that the fingers were tucked into a floral arrangement somewhere in the cemetery, a place were no one was sure to look, and it was with an impatient sigh that he began looking at such an early hour. It was a good plan, really. She knew that the police were on to her and her husband, that she was being semi-watched in her movements, but that no one would intrude on a private moment over a dead loved one. It was the perfect place and opportunity to be rid of such evidence, and no one would question the faintest smell of decay and rotting flowers in a place of the dead. But she hadn't been planning on Sherlock meeting John. In fact, Sherlock hadn't planned on him meeting John, or that the man would be able to help him figure out his case.

The nondescript man had been standing where he was when Sherlock had walked an original lap about the property, ascertaining the size and depth of the area he'd be searching, looking for visible evidence. The man's ratty oatmeal jumper and well-worn jeans had hardly been riveting, which is probably why Sherlock had originally ignored him, and was hardly worth a second glance the first time he'd walked by. Sherlock had been hunting for the right vase or floral arrangement that would hold the murdering couple's undoing, hardly paying any attention to his surroundings as he walked on stooped down. In fact, he probably would have run the other man down had he not caught the slight shine of the tombstone as the other man shifted in the morning light, and he baulked at at how oblivious to his surroundings he'd been. Normally he was so attune to the environment around him...

At the last minute, Sherlock pulled up to his full height and side-stepped the shorter man. He glanced sharply at the other man, who'd only half-turned to give him a hooded glance, before giving him a curt nod and side stepping about him, continuing on down the row, ignoring the grave the other was standing beside quietly.

The other man's eyes had followed him since then as he continued on down the row as he combed through the other assortments he came across, some of them nothing but cut and dried greenery now, but still a potential hiding place. But the other man remained still and silent, never saying a word. He just stood there and watched Sherlock as he searched for what seemed like hours, over-turning every arrangement and vase he came across. The only grave in the area he knew he hadn't check (and he knew she probably would have had to come back here due to the lack of arrangements up front and the small heel prints in the mud that were potentially hers) was the one the silent man was still standing at stiffly, watching him, waiting for him to make a move.

Sighing in desperation, Sherlock reluctantly stepped forwards.

"The vase, at your feet there...could possibly contain evidence needed in a police investigation. I need to check it." His voice was low, controlled, calm as could be. The other man was just starring at him blankly still, head cocked to one side. "Do you know who put it there, or how long the arrangement has been there? It could be relevant."

The man blinked before cocking his head to the other side quickly.

"Who, me?" The man stuttered out as if unsure Sherlock could be addressing him, as if he was unsure how he could even see him.

"Yes, you. Who else would I be talking to? The dead?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he strode forwards and moved around the other man, his graceful pose allowing him speed on top of efficiency. "Myself, perhaps?"

The man smiled guiltily before shrugging helplessly a bit, as if he didn't really know what to say or how to respond. But there was a small vase with long dead flowers mixed in with brand new ones sitting just to the right of the low-grade headstone, and Sherlock didn't even hesitate before pulling the bundle out quickly, tipping the vase to the side. Because there, resting bottom of the bone dry vase, were three fingers missing the female body they belonged too. The familiar flash of violet nail polish only confirmed his conclusion, and as he drew an evidence bag out of his coat pocket along with his gloves, he let a small smirk play across his face. This was what he'd been looking for all morning...in front of a man who looked as if he'd been there for hours.

Perhaps then he'd seen the woman come into the graveyard in the first place?

"Do you know who put these flowers here? In this vase?" Sherlock stood up as he peered into the evidence bag, carelessly swinging the disembodied fingers in the man's face. "How long have you been standing here?"

"For a while now...uh, I've been here for a while." The other man said stuttering again, a small flush taking over the tops of his cheeks. Sherlock rolled his eyes before waiting again, impatiently, but waiting none the less. "There was a dark-headed woman in a god awful coat here earlier last night, had this weird patchwork rainbow print on it. Horrendous to look at."

Sherlock felt the tug of a smirk at the corners of his mouth, much to his surprise. It was rare that he smiled much anymore, but to smirk twice in less than a ten minute span? Unheard of.

"Does that help?" The man asked before Sherlock could confirm that yes, that was the woman he'd been looking for. "Because I don't remember anyone else here, and I've been here for a while now, and..."

"Yes, it does help." Sherlock's response only briefly surprised him before he rolled with it, the faintest edges of a thought forming and taking shape in his mouth before he could catch it. "Why were you here last night, though, if you don't mind me asking? This grave is old."

"Well, yeah. But its the anniversary, you see, and well..." The man shrugged again before turning his eyes away again, this time to stare out into the graveyard. "I think I'll be here for a while yet."

It was said with such sadness that it almost physically hurt Sherlock to hear.

"Hmm, I see." The great coat Sherlock wore was pulled tightly against himself now, the cold finally registering in his mind. How was the other man not freezing out here by now? "I've been out here looking for hours now. I didn't see you until I nearly ran into you."

"Most people don't." The man smirked again. "John."

"John?" Now Sherlock was confused.

"My name is John. John Watson." The man -John- smiled warmly. "Nice to meet you, Mr.?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." Sherlock responded a bit surprised before schooling his features again. "I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job. I work with Scotland Yard to help solve cases."

"Hence the fingers? I can see why they'd need your help though." John's smile was pleasant and relaxing, unguarded. Sherlock decided he liked it, if only in an ascetically pleasing way. "You were bloody brilliant."

Sherlock raised on eyebrow skywards.

John blushed heavily and turned his eyes downwards, stuttering out something.

"I mean, uh, you know...watching you work and all that. It was really intense, but not so intense that you didn't notice me and-" He continued on, trying to explain, while Sherlock just smirked and enjoyed the show. "I just don't even know how you did that. I've never have found them in a place this big."

"Most people wouldn't." Sherlock shrugged as he turned around, getting ready to make his way back to wave his found evidence in Lestrade and Anderson's faces. Oh those looks would drive him for days! "They see but they do not observe. It is the curse of the human condition."

John snorted loudly.

"Goodbye, John Watson." Sherlock called back over his shoulder, blue eyes sparkling as he caught the soft smile shot at his back from John. "Do try to get away from here for even a while. It'll do you good."

"It was nice to meet you too, Sherlock Holmes." John replied with a small wave, hardly moving from where he'd been standing all this time. "And good luck with your case."

Sherlock didn't need luck...

He had found his evidence.

xXx

Sighing for what seemed like the millionth time, Sherlock once again explained to a questioning Lestrade and a demanding Anderson just where it was he'd found the missing woman's fingers, and just who had put them there. He even went so far as to say he'd found a witness, a man there grieving over a headstone of someone long since dead. Lestrade of course had frowned at this, but agreed to go along with whatever Sherlock said as long as the Consulting Detective showed him exactly where he'd found the fingers and just who had seen their murderer. It was why they were trudging back to the Cemetery later that very same morning, forensics teams in their little mint booties being led by the lone cadaver dog that would confirm the presence of the fingers in the small vase Sherlock had found them in. It was a trying bit of time, and he'd let his opinion on the matter be heard...and loudly.

But apparently it was a necessary evil.

The dog had confirmed the presence of the fingers at the gave stone John Watson had been standing at, Lestrade and Sherlock talking -arguing- a few feet away about the mystery witness who was no longer at the grave side when they'd returned. Sherlock had gone over his side of events for what seemed like the hundredth time, face tight with impatience and only barely controlled anger. Of course there had been someone here with him this morning. Yes, he'd gotten the man's name, but no not where he was from.

"Alright then Sherlock, who was your mystery witness?" Lestrade asked with a heavy sigh, more than likely ready to leave the cemetery. "You got a name, didn't you?"

"Of course I did, what do you take me for?" Sherlock all but snarled out, eyes narrowed and flashing in anger. "John Watson."

"Who?" Lestrade said after a moment filled with a pregnant pause, something unsaid hanging in the air. "I'm sorry, I thought you said John Watson."

"That's because I did." Sherlock's eyes narrowed even more, if possible. "His name was John Watson. Around five foot five, five foot six, sandy brown hair with greying patches around the temples and hair line. Face creased with lines, probably in his mid to late thirties, early forties at the eldest. Oatmeal sweater and well-worn jeans and
trainers."

Lestrade looked as if he'd just sucked on a lemon.

"If this is your idea of a joke, Sherlock, it isn't a funny one." The DI finally responded after he ran a hand through his hair without hesitation, the frustration clearly working over his face. "Not that anything you say is funny, but especially not this."

"Not this what? I talked to a John Watson not three hours ago about a woman he'd seen in this graveyard last night." The growl in his voice probably belayed his non-joking state well, not that he cared. This was just getting ridiculous. "You should be looking for him, to question him. Do your bloody job, Lestrade."

"I would if it wasn't chasing after a dead man!" Lestrade shouted back, chest heaving. "John Watson is dead, Sherlock. His grave is the one you found the fingers on. Wounded in action in Afghanistan, dead for well over two years now. Whoever it was that you saw, it was not John Watson."

"What?" Sherlock sputtered, rarely so unable to find words he wanted and needed. "John Watson is dead?"

"Yes, Sherlock." Lestrade pointed to the tombstone, his other hand running through his grey hair once more. "Just...look for yourself."

Sherlock was off long before he got the permission.

Because the headstone was indeed made out with a placard that claimed it was the final resting place of one Captain John Watson, died heroically in battle while serving Queen and Country. The dates put him at 38 years old at the time of death, the familiar medical cross finishing off the small but sturdy marker of the man's life. Sherlock blinked before taking in something he'd missed earlier when he'd been so focused on the vase full of missing evidence, something that had been tucked back behind the dead and long since dried flowers and greenery. His excitement had made him blind to the other details around him...and he'd almost sighed out loud at how stupid he had been.

There, just behind where the vase would have sat, was a small build in picture frame with John Watson -the John Watson- smiling out at him happily, his profile cast in the familiar grey of the stone around him. It was a smile Sherlock had seen only hours earlier, one that had been directed towards him after the man ascertained Sherlock had been indeed talking to him. To him and not anyone else. Talking to John.

It was the same man he'd seen earlier in the graveyard, his image immortalized there.

His gently smiling face framed by a familiar oatmeal jumper over squared shoulders.
Familiar lines marring a happy face.

Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe.

Because there was John...

And today was the anniversary of his tragic death.