John Watson sat silently in his dimly lit, single bedroom apartment outside of Baker Street. He sipped his tea and began to read a small, yellowing paperback novel to calm the wild distress of the day as it was the day he witnessed his best friend and greatest companion be lowered six feet under. He flipped open the first page as a loud thump came from his window, causing him to jerk forward instinctively. Nothing was out of place, and he chalked it up to the neighborhood kids playing some sort of juvenile trick until he felt a cold rush of air as the front door swung open.
"Sh… Sherlock?" he asked tentatively to the dead-eyed, familiar figure. He still smelled of embalming fluid and corpse make-up, the faint scent of meat just past it's prime stuck to the tuxedo that he was buried in not eight hours earlier, "Sherlock, you're dead. I watched them bury you, what is going on? Did you fake your death? Do you kn—"
"I am dead," he interjected with the same flat, matter of fact air that he had held in life, "I can't explain what happened, but I'm back," he shambled forwards, the cat-like grace evidently being lost in death as the scent of soil and death followed him to his old companion, "I have a theory on how it happened, but it is the most singular thing; I could almost feel you calling for me. I could see this bright light, and I followed it," he smiled, the gentle closed-mouth curve become more unnerving than comforting in the afterlife, "And it's you, John. I assumed, from what I've read, that it would take me away from this plane of existence; but, I found you!"
John smiled hesitantly as the sheer amount of excitement in the dull-eyed detective, but brought himself back to reality quickly enough, "Sher, you're dead," he said, taking the cold and pale hands in his warm, alive ones, "What are you doing here?"
Sherlock shrugged, "Am I not allowed to visit my boyfriend?" he asked, genuine concern on his otherwise dead face, "I thought you liked being with me, I thought that's what boyfriends did?"
John chuckled, returning his hands to himself as the still-cold flesh was beginning to become unnerving and uncomfortable, "I do like being with you," he said softly, "But, most people tend to stay in their graves after they're buried."
Sherlock shrugged, another whiff of embalming fluid and rot coming off of him as he moved, "I'm not so sure that's entirely true, John, you see—" he was cut off by a couple of coarse fingers on his lips, John clearly not in the mood for a thorough explanation. He hummed slightly as he swatted them away, "thank you for the gift," he said, lifting up a chain with a small Swiss army-style pocket knife on it, "Very thoughtful."
John nodded, "Yeah, you're welcome."
Sherlock smiled, pressing his soil-flavoured lips to John's warm ones, sighing as the doctor instinctively pulled away from his preservative flavoured tongue, "We won't be able to work something out, will we?" he said, already reading the answer off John.
John shook his head, sadness filling his eyes and appearing on his lips, "No, Sherlock, you're dead."
The detective nodded, "I know," he said, "I don't see why that should be restricting our relationship, as you clearly didn't mind the fact that I was a man or the fact that you were oftentimes convinced I was inhuman," he laughed.
John shook his head again, placing his fingers back onto Sherlock's hand, "I, I think you should go, Sher," he said with a faintly broken voice, looking back towards his dog-eared book.
Sherlock nodded, "I'm sorry, John," he said, pressing cold lips onto the back of the doctor's hand before kissing him again, "but, don't think I won't be seeing you again."