Summary: When John gets kidnapped, Sherlock is unable to get to him in time to stop him from being murdered by his spell-casting captor. Even though all seems lost, Sherlock's view of the world is flipped upside down when John's ghost shows up in the flat.
The supernatural is real.
It doesn't stop there; it turns out the spell cast allows only her to bring John back. But she'll only do it if Sherlock investigates several odd serial murders that have occurred in the supernatural community. Sherlock's the only one who can touch John, but will that be enough to pull him out of the grave?

UPDATE: In light of a recent comment, I also want to add that no terminology used in description of the mystic woman in this fiction has any relation to the promotion of real life stereotypes. She is no reflection on any real life ethic/people group. Everything in this work is fiction, and should remain so. Also, I apologize to anyone offended by the term 'gypsy' used previously in fic, I did not know the negative meaning it had to very real group of people.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, finger steepled under his chin, staring intently at the door. John should have been home exactly one hour and forty-five minutes ago. At first Sherlock had hardly noticed he wasn't home and had just commenced on rambling from his room, assuming John was there to listen. When John's presumed unresponsiveness became boring, he had finally looked around to realize John was not home. That was approximately twenty-two minutes ago.

The only logical solution was that John had been kidnapped.

To the common village idiots walking around on the streets, it might seem like a ridiculous notion. But Sherlock knew exactly when John left work every day, like clockwork. It was one of the leftover military habits of his. If he didn't leave on time he got antsy. The stoplights on the route he took were highly predictable, as was the traffic at this time of day. Unless there was a wreck, which Sherlock would have known about, because the neighbor across the street always turned his TV off when those came on the news. He also knew that John wasn't at the market or off doing another errand, because Sherlock had seen the signs earlier this week that they were unneeded. He kept up with these things so he would know John's schedule without ever asking.

Sherlock ran his finger along his lips in thought. So, obvious conclusion being that John was kidnapped. That was the most common and logical theory he could contemplate. Still, there was no reason why anyone would do it.

The doorbell rang once, a long, hard push. Sherlock would normally deduce that this meant a client, but it was about a second shorter than normal. He knew it was about John. Just like he knew there would be no one at the door when he got down there.

He leapt up from the couch in one smooth motion, satiny blue dressing gown billowing behind him like a cape. His feet pounded down the staircase quickly. Ms. Hudson yelled something about the ruckus from back in her room, but Sherlock ignored her as he knew it was irrelevant. He paused for only a moment at the door before yanking it open and having his suspicions confirmed. Kneeling down he paused to inspect the envelope sitting in front of the door with his name inscribed in perfect cursive. It was placed perfectly straight, in an unhurried manner, so the deliverer was not concerned about being caught. He picked it up and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

Ms. Hudson had finally caught up to him in the stair well. "Sherlock, what's all this noise about? Not another murder I hope?" she said, fiddling with her cardigan.

"No, a kidnapping." Sherlock said, focused on the letter in his hands. He flipped it over examining it thoroughly.

"Oh, well, I suppose that's not quite as bad. I'm sure you'll find him. Who is it then that's been kidnapped?" Ms. Hudson asked.

Sherlock didn't have time for her questions. Kidnappings had a limited window of opportunity and he had to act swiftly.

"Corner dented and a bit bent, so it must be a woman that carried it in her purse rather than a man who'd deliver it by hand." Sherlock took a long sniff the paper. "No scent of anything but manufactured paper, so she didn't take it home. Did it on a cab ride over. Dark ink, so a nice pen, something they use frequently as the ink is a bit light in S. Small shop owner then, who can't always afford new pens." Sherlock mutter to himself, ripping the envelope open.

"Sherlock, who's been kidnapped?" Ms. Hudson asked again.

Sherlock paused for a moment, taking in the waxy floral scent that had been concealed inside the envelope. The actual letter had been written somewhere that often burnt candles. Well that narrowed the field considerably. The paper was heavy, and lavender in color. Sherlock ran his finger down the edge. Rough texture; organic or perhaps handmade. Same loopy cursive writing inside. He read the contents swiftly.

"Hello Sherlock.
I'm sure by the time you get this you'll have already figured out something has happened to your lovely flatmate John. I'm also just as certain you've already figured out where to find me. I hope I didn't make it too easy for you. Don't worry, I won't harm him. I would advise coming to get him rather quickly though. See you soon.

Cheers,
The Mystic Lady

P.S.- I should clarify; I won't harm him permanently. "

Sherlock's mind raced, putting all the pieces together.

"Sherlock!" Ms. Hudson huffed from by the stairway, losing her patience. Sherlock had forgotten about her standing there.

"It's John, Ms. Hudson. Not to worry though, I know exactly where he is."

With that he ran out of the door and onto the street of London.

Sherlock stood in front of the psychic's shop. Or rather, he should say, he stood in front of a front. He snorted at the thought. Even the idea that anyone could be clairvoyant was beyond the realm of the laws of physics. The one things Sherlock's racing mind could not perceive is what this woman could possibly want with John.

Ignoring that fact for the moment, he dug into his pocket, pulled his cell phone, and dialed the appropriate number.

"Detective-Inspector Lestrade."

"John's been taken. He's at 312 South Harland street." Sherlock said, jumping straight to the point. He didn't have time for any of that 'chatting' thing people did.

"Sherlock, slow down. How do you know he's been taken?" Lestrade said, sounding frazzled. Sherlock could picture him leaned forward in his chair, hand tightening around his phone the way he did when he was stressed.

"Detective, really, did you forget who you were talking to?" Sherlock said, pacing quickly in front of the door.

"Okay, how do you know where they took him? Where are you at?" Lestrade said. Sherlock could hear him rising from his chair in the background.

"I got a letter on my doorstep from the owner of the shop. Don't try to keep up; just meet me here. I'll need someone to arrest her." Sherlock said, pacing stopping as he studied the store front.

"Arrest her- Sherlock don't tell me you're already there!" He could practically hear Lestrade's blood pressure rising over the phone.

"Obviously. Where else would I be. Now please hurry. Don't bring Anderson either, he'll only slow you down." Sherlock said.

"Wait, Sherlock, hold on-" Lestrade scrambled over the phone.

Sherlock promptly clicked the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

"Come on, time to wake up. That's it, rise and shine."

John blinked rapidly, his vision still blurry. What in the world had happened? He remembered walking out of the hospital building, and an older woman approaching him. She had been dressed in a flowery lengthy skirt, and a simple white button-up top. John vaguely recalled the oddity of her long brown hair pleated in a braid. She had asked John for something, his brain grasped to remember what, and then she had muttered a few words. He thought there might have been a white powder tossed at him sometime as well.

John groaned and tried to reach his hand up to rub his weary eyes. However, a restricting force was stopping him. Experimentally he wiggled his hands. Rope. Unfortunately he had treated enough rope burns in the army to know the more he fought it, the harsher it would cut into his wrist.

"I can see you wiggling your fingers, you know. Might as well open your eyes." Came the feminine voice from across the room.

Caught, John decided to go ahead and open his eyes. He soaked in the vision of the room in front of him, military training in him automatically looking for an escape route. Judging from the stretch of light, there was one window behind him. Probably just barely peeking over the top of the pavement; if the angle was an indication. So, a basement, which made sense considering the overflow of strange objects around him. Dusty boxes with piles of darkly colored objects like starry tablecloths and fat half-melted candles littered the room. Little white prices tags hung off a few trinkets on a book case shoved in a corner. A shop, John gathered. One of those odd psychic stores, most likely. John's eyes bulged as it landed on the figure of the woman in front of him. Yes, most certainly a psychic shop. The woman was dress in a loose purple skirt with fine lines of gold crawling up it, and a flowing back blouse. A forest green bandanna was secured around her head.

"Where am I?" John rasped, throat dry from the unwilling nap he had just taken.

The woman turned away from whatever she was drawing on the ground to face John. He could see the white streak in her dark brown hair now, as well as the slight wrinkles and laugh lines on her tanned face. Despite the signs of aging, her green eyes were still sharp. Yet her expression was warm in a way that reminded John of his grandmother, which did nothing to make the situation less creepy.

"Oh, hon, don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're almost as smart as your friend Sherlock. Almost, but not quite." She patted John on the cheek, and John hastily tried to back away before realizing he was resting against a book shelf.

"Alright then; how about telling me why you took me?" John said, leaving out the bit about beside how she was clearly off her rocker. Best not to antagonize the kidnapper.

She smiled at John, resting back on her knees to face him. "That's an easy one. I need your flat mate Sherlock to solve problem for me. Problem is, he would never believe me. Too much faith in science." She look a bit put out at the mention of science, twisting her nose.

"Yes, that's because unlike you he's not insane." John muttered under his breathe.

"What did you say?"

"Oh what? Nothing." John said, as if he had no clue what she was talking about.

She gave him a chastening look for a moment before continuing. "Anyways, you're going to help me with that."

She turned away from John and began lighting the candle around the little circle she had drawn.

"And how exact is kidnapping me going to help with that?" John said, voice getting a bit high pitched. He didn't like where all this odd witchy stuff was going. He didn't know much about magic, but he had seen things on the telly before about human sacrifices. That was enough to make him nervous.

"Oh don't you worry. You'll be just fine after this is all done." She said distractedly, drawing a small rectangular piece of plastic from a baggy skirt pocket.

"Hey!" John exclaimed, struggling a bit. "That's Sherlock credit card! How did you get that?!" Of course this woman was after money. Frauds like her were always scheming for a way to pull off their next big trick and make an easy cent while they were at it.

"Now, now, just calm down. I took it out of your pockets while you were napping. I need something of Sherlock's, of course. Otherwise this would all be a waste of time." She said, as if it was obviously. She waved the card in the air a bit, and then tossed it on a bowl in the center of the triangle.

"Yes, of course, that's obviously a key component of a kidnapping." John said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Silly John, you'll understand when this is over." She said is a light hearted voice. She then tossed what looked a few more herbs and assorted bones into the bowl. Reaching over, she grabbed a match box, lit one, and tossed it in the bowl. A small flame flared up from it.

"Well there goes the money from next month's rent." John said wearily.

"Consider yourself lucky. This spells costs a pretty penny, and a highly skilled lady of magic to cast it." She said, smoothing over her skirts as she spoke, a slightly proud look on her face.

"It's just fantastic." John deadpanned.

"Yes, well, as much as I've liked chatting with you- and I truly have, and bring a new light to this place- it's time to move on with the spell." She said, pulling a knife out from beside her and sprinkling it with ash from the bowl.

"Bloody hell!" John yelled, yanking on his restraints now. Forget his wrists; he would much rather live. Yet he was tied to the bookcase and bound by his hands and feet; how was he supposed to get out of this?!

The lady was walking slowly closer, carefully, as if he was a rapid dog. The knife looked old, with black script engraved all over it, and a wicked sharp point.

John could feel the blood running down his wrists, he was struggling so hard. They taught you everything in the military; how to disassemble a machine gun, how to kill a man with just your thumb. Even how to survive in the desert for weeks on end with minimal supplies. And that was just what they taught the doctors. But there was never any course of how to escape from a delusion witch woman.

It was the moment she stepping in front of John and lowered herself to her knees that John accepted it. There were too many things left to say; so many more things he wanted to savor in life. Yet as the woman help the tip over his heart, John blocked fear of death out the same way he had a battlefield.

Instead he focused on a little spot of light cast from the window in the corner, dust motes dancing lazily in it. It reminded him of the sunny day he first met Sherlock. Of course, it wasn't sunny down in that little room at Bart's. Even Sherlock's smile wasn't warm. But John could feel a small fire starting in his heart of the good memories he and Sherlock did have. Those rare moments when that cold logic he wore as a masked slipped, and John saw the heart of the human being he always suspected was there. He had never had a friend like Sherlock, because there were no friends like Sherlock. There was no man on earth like Sherlock. In fact, if John had to list the accomplishment of he was most proud of, it would have to be having him as a friend. It was worth running around London with him at two in the morning risking their lives, worth all the times he was told he was stupid or unobservant; because he was the only person that got to share the happy memories with Sherlock as well. Out of the entire world, Sherlock had chosen him to keep around.

And as he lay there facing certain death, that little fire left his heart. It flowed into his blood, warming him from head to toe. It felt better than any sunny day, any cozy blanket. It enveloped him with its memories, taking him to a place no knife or pain could reach.

"Don't worry John. Sherlock will find me when he needs to." The woman's voice said, trickling through John's warm cocoon of darkness.

"That's not a question. Of course he will. Because he's Sherlock. He's my best friend, Sherlock Holmes."

And Sherlock's name was the last words that left John's lips.