A/N. Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended.

A Haunted 221B, with slight fairytale-ish elements. Balloon John and Ghost Mary also come out to play.

Perhaps we go to the forbidden door or window willingly because we understand that a time comes

when we must go whether we want to or not... and not just to look, but to be pushed through. Forever.

- Stephen King, Danse Macabre

There was air, so much air floating all over the place.

He was sniffing it. Putting it into invisible pockets, wildly tearing big chunks off it and chewing on them until they turned into melting liquid in his stomach.

It wasn't hollow or empty. It was scary. So flexible in his hands, so soft – it made those disgusting swallowing noises that pained his ears and kept sending shooting pain through his forehead.

Then he'd wake up, and the nightmare would start all over again.

John just sat there starring into the window. His mug has gone cold a long time ago but he couldn't bring himself to refill it. He didn't even think he wanted to.

Autumn was grey and cold this year, with no rains and slushy roads. John didn't really mind. He had enough water as it was.

He got up, poured the spoiled tea into the sink and picked up some book.

The title looked familiar, and so did the bookmark with some weird symbols on it. John thumbed through a couple of pages, reading or just peering at words – he wasn't really sure. His eyes went back to the window as he left the pages alone. The bookmark slipped through his fingers and fell on the floor.

He didn't care.

"No cases. No running around looking for trouble. Do you think he'll be fine?"

He heard a sigh and a doubtful noise to back it up.

"Doesn't sound like it."

Another sigh and some muffled, as if shushed shifting.

"No John."

No John? How can there be no John?

"Yeah. That's about as bad as it can get."

A quiet agreeing noise held something mocking in it. Or was it just a piercing whistle of a kettle that mixed in and made it all lopsided somehow?

He never liked the thing. And he definitely wasn't the one putting it on.

Who needed any water when there was so much air around? You could literally bathe in it, and there still would be plenty.

He took a look at his drink and shivered. It was cold now but nevertheless threatening.

The kettle started screaming, and he wished he could cover his ears.

"No tea for me!"

He wasn't sure if they heard him – or if there was anyone at all to hear. It didn't matter because he had so many things to do. So many important, tricky things to look into. Fun didn't even begin to describe it as far as he was concerned.

The walls started screaming at him but he found an "off" switch and tuned them out. There will be time for that later – for all the imperfections and all the little deductions they could come up with.

Sherlock was always at the top of his game, but would he be there this time, when he would the one making the rules?

John rubbed his eyes and thought that he ought to struggle a bit more.

The pages smelt, and he found it oddly calming. At least, it didn't remind him of gunfire and sweaty skin after a maddening chase or no less maddening argument. He had enough of those and Sherlock, apparently, did too.

Sherlock.

Over the years they spent together his name never sounded like this. John wanted to take a pen and write it down until there was no ink left, until letters lost their shape and his hand memorized every single motion, every fraction of impact, every thought that crossed his mind whereas.

His fingers brushed over the pages and he inhaled once again. It smelt like escaping, like mercy.

The evil is always out to get the good but it never intends to defeat it because one can't exist without the other. But there is something much more dangerous in this fight, something that has never been seen or recognized. Something that kills without ever being caught, something whose whisper is forever intertwined with the wind's tales…

John exhaled and squeezed the bookmark in his hand. It didn't look vicious enough to give him a paper cut and John found himself regretting this for a moment or two.

Look what happens when there is no Sherlock to entertain you.

John lifted his head and closed the book. There was no way in hell he was going back to it today.

She looked tense and unemotional, as if some recently finished picture, unfamiliar and sharp, in need of much more than one look to get used to.

"Nothing happens."

His voice matched her posture and it wasn't at all calming.

That's the point, John.

"Nothing ever happens to me."

John swallowed. That book he was holding looked much better on the shelf, exactly where he should put it. And then he'd probably make himself a cup of tea.

And then you'd pour it into the sink as you did with the previous two. That's one awful waste, don't you think?

John remained in his chair.

Open it, John. Open and read.

"Why?"

Mary blinked and her eyes softened for a bit.

Because it's right. There is good and evil – always will be, and it's not a threat, John, not to you.

"What is the threat then?"

Open and read.

The place was spinning too much, he thought. And he hadn't even had any drugs in his evening cup. He wasn't even sure he had any cup at all for that matter, which was completely unacceptable. Really, what was John even thinking?

He groaned and let his head rest for a while. Air didn't seem like a suitable ground for it, but recently he started noticing that space around him stopped being dull and predictable. It became mad instead and he couldn't help but like it.

Others weren't too keen on the idea, though. Mrs. Hudson gave him a strange look, and when he hugged her – he wasn't really sure why he did it – there was something wet on her face. Lestrade dropped him some stupid thing he referred to as a "case" and made some annoying inquiries. Why would he even need a "case" if he had John with him? Unless they were going on a trip, of course – then they'd both need a pair of cases. He tossed the thought around his mind and discovered that there were too many bumps to deal with before they could make a decision. He tried to report this to Lestrade, but it got him nothing but even more annoying inquiries and some hushed gossiping with Mrs. H afterwards.

He got bored and tried calling John but no one answered. It wasn't a big deal, though – he was used to John behaving this way. All that mattered was that he was here – misplacing furniture, making small shuffling noises at night, coming up with riddles for him to solve.

Sherlock looked around the flat. There was no light, but he could see everything so clearly. The corners were curved and covered in a cobweb with adhesive threads repeating the pattern all over the place and making it into a windowless prison in his mind. He closed his eyes trying to get it out, but the image sunk into him and started to drink. It sounded hungry, and it wasn't satisfied. Sherlock doubled over and nearly threw up. It made an ugly gurgling noise, and spinning in his head made him fall to the floor.

His head touched the cool surface and he closed his eyes.

"John?"

Too quiet. He tried once again but this time he wasn't sure anything came out at all.

Even if it did, what was the difference?

John in the chair smiled at him mutinously, and Sherlock quickly turned his head away before the falseness of that smile imprinted in his mind and shot pain through his body.

He couldn't deal with it. Not now.

He knew that he didn't deserve any of those great things John was, he never did.

Strong, as if steel-made threads covered his face blocking his breath. He didn't fight it.

Breathing is not boring, Sherlock. It keeps you from dying. I think even you can appreciate that.

John's voice was just like he remembered it – scolding and soothing at the same time. Was that even possible?

A faint ticking of the clock in his mind faltered for a moment and then went backwards. Sherlock made a fist trying to build up some distraction, but the pain was too weak to hold onto. Fake light blinked for the last time and went away leaving him a dark room with a layered smell of dust and suffocation.

You'd like to lick it, Sherlock, wouldn't you? Taste of your own death?

Moriarty. Moriarty who never said those exact words, and yet his mind recorded them somehow, put them on the tape and saved them.

It's what you do, Sherlock, damn it! You breathe, you live – do you hear me?

There had to be enough pain. Had to be. He felt it when John was slapping him, when he felt blood on his face and knew that it was the beginning of something much more terrifying, something he could never shut off – didn't want to shut off.

Something that would keep him alive whether he liked it or not.

John was surprised you could see me. Were you?

"It isn't real, is it?"

No. But it doesn't mean he didn't say that.

Sherlock chuckled. The pain was there all right. Mary was excellent in that sort of thing after all.

"Wouldn't say that, you mean?"

Mary smiled.

Maybe both.

He took a breath and screamed. The room stayed silent. And it wasn't until later when he realized that he just repeated its whispers – recorded them and wrote them down to create a new story, one where he talked and John never answered, one where John never came back.

Sherlock tried to even his breathing and lifted his head.

Mary was gone.