Thanks to jnicweb for beta reading!
Some time had passed since Sherlock's suicide, and it was exactly enough for John to understand that it had happened. He didn't ask why, or who were guilty, or if Sherlock was dead or not, he just tried to fit the events into reality. Had Sherlock really jumped off that damned roof? It seemed true, so John still was in his mind and could go on.
Mycroft was extremely quick and rude to make it clear that John should not question him. Now, John was going with the current. He had his own problems, lots of them. And if Sherlock was still alive, he would let him know, certainly. Those were John's thoughts that he repeated until the world around him stopped comfortably.
And then, Sherlock reappeared.
...
John was woken up by the sound of violin. Firstly, not realizing where he was, his memory was off for some years before to the time when John had just installed on Baker St. and had not been used to his queer neighbour. But the room didn't resemble his old one. John thought for a moment, and then went to look at his night quest.
Sherlock occupied the sofa, and there was something strange about him. He had been pale indeed, and now, in the light of streetlamps, he looked like a ghost. But he wasn't transparent, nor did he moan a ghostly voice; actually, he didn't do anything that a proper ghost was supposed to do. Wait, was he dead at all?
There was a violin on his lap, and he was running a bow over the strings carelessly. Instead of saying hello, he looked at John mockingly and said:
'Yes, I was playing to wake you up.'
John only waved his hand.
'What did you want?'
'To say goodbye.'
John didn't have time to count the oaths that came into his mind, for Sherlock continued calmly:
'The fall was pretence. I was in England. Now I have to leave for the continent. I will solve the rest of my problems there and then return. Finally.'
John nodded. 'I'll be waiting.'
He sat by and half-closed his eyes, listening. Sherlock seemed to have been gone and for long and the violin twanging softly itself.
'I may not be back.'
No, you may not, John thought, but all he said was, 'Be back.'
'I will.'
The high pitiful melody rang on.
...
Then, John was visited by Mycroft. Holmes the senior had guessed that his brother had seen his best and only friend before the departure. John, in his turn, guessed that Mycroft had no idea of his brother's whereabouts and plans. But the two of them behaved as if having no hidden thoughts and John listened to the story once more.
Sherlock was gone. Nobody knew why had he left, or what for, or when would he come back, or if he would come back at all. John's mind produced a lazy thought that it might have been made on purpose. He put it away, promising himself to think it over later, and decided not to tell Mycroft anything. A thought about the believability of his ignorance was not as much interesting.
...
Sherlock had left his violin at John's. In storage or, if anything would happen, in memory. But he had promised to be back.
Days passed by, quick and empty. Actually, Sherlock's sudden visit changed nothing. John got used to think that Sherlock was dead, though he was still sure that his friend would come back. When the thoughts met, he just smiled bitterly.
To his luck, John hadn't the common habit of trying to solve the unsolvable or reconcile the irreconcilable. Live was so much easier that way.
...
Then, there was Mary, Mary Morstan, the nice little woman. They met, liked each other and married in rapid succession. When she smiled, her eyes were circled with tiny rays of wrinkles. She smiled often and wanted him to smile, too. She tried to smooth the scars on his face and heart, and she did. She kept him warm and his life enlightened, and everything was going well.
But no candle burns for free. When she smiled, he tried to smile as well but then dropped that when Mary, once shining, was ill. Her mouth took pills and gave no smiles. They spent the visiting hours in hospital instead of quiet warm evenings at home. And then, there was nothing left except for the black gravestone, the only photo on a bookshelf and the ringing silence in the house.
He went on alone.
...
John had a photo of Sherlock.
No, of course even the detective, the most stubborn man in the world, did not mind being pictured for journals and newspapers, though neither he liked it. But it was said that people's soul should be in the photos of them, and John felt we wouldn't find it in any cuttings.
He had a proper photo. Sherlock had just sneered when John had asked to make a 'shot' but he had been in good mood on that day, so now he almost smiled from the photo, smoking and not looking into the camera. The wind curled the smoke of his cigarette and ruffling Sherlock's curls, and the slightly misty air gleamed in the sunlight, joining sky and earth.
Sherlock wouldn't like this photo. He looked good on it but the entourage wasn't in his taste. John almost could hear his irritated voice: 'Monochrome? Are you serious? We live in the twenty-first century!' John wouldn't agree. Sherlock was in it himself, with his bad habits, his wandering half-smile, his cheekbones, his curls, and his permanent black coat. The unbearable, matchless genius he was and looked.
There wasn't any black ribbon on the corner of the photo, and it was unlikely to appear one time. The thin black frame looked quite simple. If one didn't know that all the house contained only two photos and both people pictured on them were dead, it would not seem strange at all. And why only two? The dearest ones, perhaps.
...
Mary died, and some time passing after that, John assured himself that Sherlock would come back soon. Or, to be precise, that Sherlock was already somewhere by. Here and there, black curls flickered over the crowd, tall figures walked round corners, familiar voices sounded.
John never was superstitious. After all, he was a doctor, even if he cured bodies and not souls. He wasn't much impressed by such moments.
But the more often he saw the signs, the more rarely he lay awake till past midnight, listening to silence. There was something to live forward to.
...
Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, pulling the strings of his violin.
John felt a strong déjà vu. It was the same place, the same pose, and the same mournful melody. But now, the streetlamps were shining in other way, as Sherlock looked no more like a ghost. He was transparent. Of course, John eyes were playing tricks on him, Sherlock just became paler, even his black hair was shimmering with silver, though it wasn't grey. What grey hair one can have when aged – a bit more than thirty? John hardly caught the thought that he didn't even know Sherlock's true age.
'Why can't you come at daytime, as people usually do?'
Sherlock gave him a strange long look.
'Because of this.'
He stood up, walked across the room and disappeared.
John stood silent, eyeing the wall Sherlock had just gone through, and felt his emotions cool down. Then, like a sleepwalker, he moved to the wall, too, and touched it. The wallpaper was usual, the bricks beneath could be supposed to be usual as well. Such houses were never equipped with secret doors, were they?
He swore and retired to the kitchen to have some water and a sedative pill.
...
'You again?'
Sherlock was exactly on the same place, as if he had never left it.
'So hospitable of you.'
'How on earth did you get in? Walking through walls again?'
'I know, John, it's the matter of habit-'
'What the hell is going on.'
'Nothing at all, I'm just dead.'
John firstly didn't understand and went on mechanically, 'And who I am talking to?'
Sherlock raised his eyebrow, 'A hallucination?'
'Are there pushy hallucinations?'
'I don't know, my friend. I never had any.'
There was a moment of silence. John broke it with a moan of grief and sank down on the place by Sherlock. The first real words he uttered were, 'And what to do now?'
Sherlock took a wise look.
'Ask stupid questions.'
Watson wanted to snap back but thought better of it and nearly smiled.
'Ok, I go on. Why did you come?'
'To follow the rubbishy legends and keep you safe and sound until death parts-' He broke up and rubbed his forehead, then looked at John guiltily. 'These words are not really suitable, are they?'
'They're not. At least because it's from the wedding ceremony.'
They laughed freely, as if back in their good old times.
Lie people do that ghosts' laughter frightens.
...
'Sherlock.'
The named turned his head a bit to show he was listening. John fell silent, hesitating to continue and choosing his words the most carefully. He didn't know what his friend thought of his fate.
'How did it happen?'
'You mean, how did I die?' Sherlock asked, his voice utterly emotionless.
'Yes.'
'I remember it pretty bad.'
John's face fell.
'I am sorry.'
Sherlock dropped torturing his violin and turned to John. 'Don't imagine you've insulted me. It is as difficult for you as before.'
His 'don't imagine' sounded like a reproof. John smiled carefully to show the truce, Sherlock smiled back a bit and laid his hands on the instrument again.
'I do remember my last months bad. It was the edge of Europe, Serbia or something. It was cold there. I searched for Moriarty's refuge and found it. You know he sort of shot himself on Barts' roof but it was no truer than my jump. Double bluff, isn't it interesting? Then he beckoned me with enigmas and I went after him.'
'And he himself-'
Sherlock's eyes flashed. 'Don't worry, he did not last for long after me!' Then he shook his head and added less passionately, 'Well, I am a genius, but I lost.'
'No. You got a draw.'
'Thank you.'
...
'And why did you not die- I mean, not exactly?'
'Judging by the mess I've managed to read, one remains as a ghost if there is something undone. No idea what it might be.'
'No idea, is it?'
'Is it not? James is dead. My body- It's hardly going to be buried, but if I could help it, I wouldn't bother any bit.'
'And what about keeping me safe and sound?'
'That's an idea.'
...
'You, a man of science, tell me this. How could you break your own belief that life is just a series of chemical reactions? Where do you have a soul from?'
The ghost shrugged. 'It's probably my mission to prove the existence of a soul or, at least, to remain here and wait for the scientists to trouble themselves with the problem.'
'That's our good old Sherlock with his theories. Last time it was- Err, no, then we concluded that you ought to waste all my nerves.'
'I may be expected to do both things.'
...
And then, John was gone. Nobody knew why or what for had he left, or when would he be back, or if he would be back at all. He was said to be seen at several railway stations simultaneously and in company of inseparable Sherlock. Nobody, though, could tell for sure. People who cared for them kept waiting and hoping, but then the life turned these pages and flew on. People were always egoists, with nobody to be blamed for it.
Sherlock's violin was never found.