Author's note: You remember when I said I was fighting off a few ideas? That was one of them. Needless to say, I lost. More about that later.
I don't own anything, please review.
John was worried about Sherlock. That was nothing new; ever since he met him, he'd always worried about the consulting detective. Because he ate and slept too little; because he ran into dangerous situations without thinking twice about it; because he worked with chemicals in their kitchen without a care in the world. The only time John hadn't worried about Sherlock, for three long years, was because he had thought him dead, and he definitely preferred being worried.
But this – this was a different kind of worry, simply because he'd never seen his best friend like this.
Of course he'd realized Sherlock had changed as soon as the detective returned, and John had been able to look him in the eyes again without wanting to punch him. Admittedly, it hadn't taken long – maybe he'd forgiven him too quickly. But he hadn't been able to hold a grudge, not even because Sherlock played dead for three years. Even before his friend had explained everything – that he'd jumped to save him, Greg and Mrs. Hudson, that he'd spent the three years hunting down Moriarty's web so no harm could befall them – he'd realized he wouldn't be angry for long.
He had lived a half-life for three years, limping occasionally, the adventures with Sherlock all but a half-forgotten dream. He had reached some sort of equilibrium, come to terms with what had happened, but that didn't mean that he didn't wonder what his life would have been like if Sherlock hadn't killed himself. And then his one wish was granted, and his best friend returned, and once again, he found he couldn't help but be drawn into the whirlwind that was a life as Sherlock's flatmate and best friend.
But Sherlock had changed.
John had changed too, he had no illusions about that; three years of grieving and leading an utterly normal, dull, ultimately unfulfilling life would change a man. Yet –
Maybe he was a little more patient with Sherlock's antics now, and maybe he would be content to live the rest of his life without a wife and children, but with a crazy best friend.
But Sherlock had changed in a way that worried John, and continued to worry him more and more as time went on.
He hadn't told the doctor much of what he'd done in these three years, which he referred to as his "posthumous existence", except that he'd brought down Moriarty's web, hunted down each and every one of his associates. Other than that... he could tell that Sherlock had suffered (when he'd decided to tell John that he was alive, he'd been even paler and thinner than the day he – disappeared), and that his friend was happy to be back home... but...
Something was missing.
And it took John no more than a crime scene to realize it.
Sherlock's usual bravado was missing.
There was no spark in his eye when he told Greg – who looked just as concerned as John – what had happened, there was no vigour when he insulted Donavan and Anderson – and the doctor had to admit that Donavan, at least, seemed to be worried as well.
He wasn't Sherlock, plain and simple.
Of course, John had been aware that he wasn't the "high-functioning sociopath" he declared himself to be; but he'd always enjoyed his work, enjoyed the puzzle, and now that he'd returned to the land of the living, that enjoyment was gone.
John had assumed that Sherlock would stop acting like this, once he'd got used to being home. That he'd be his normal arrogant self again.
He'd been wrong. And he spent weeks trying to find out what was wrong, until he realized what the "something" that held Sherlock back was.
Something...
The consulting detective was haunted by his memories, John could tell as much, because he knew what it meant. But Sherlock wasn't missing the fight against Moriarty' web – he was trying to forget it, and no one could help him with that.
Still, John had to try.
"Greg, I'm worried". He said it matter-of-factly, having been sent to the DI's office once again to retrieve a file on an old case.
Greg simply sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I would ask "about what" but considering I am worried too..." He looked at John. "Do you – did he – " He hesitated, but it wasn't difficult to guess what he was about to ask.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "You know he doesn't talk about things like that."
"He used to. Now and then. He'd complain."
"You call that "now and then"?" They smiled at each other briefly.
Then Greg sighed again and seemed to think of something. "Do you remember the crime scene last week? Where the husband thought he'd killed the man his wife actually wanted to marry years ago, but he'd only horribly disfigured him, and when the truth came out, he died from a stroke?"
"Yes" John answered, shuddering. Sherlock had walked slowly into the house, seen everything within minutes, told Greg what had happened – just told him, without one swoop of his coat, without one happy grin over the body – and left, John following him.
"Donavan came to me afterwards. She asked "Sir, what's going on with the freak?" Apparently she was concerned because he hadn't insulted Anderson..." Greg raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem surprised."
John shook his head. "I would have been if Mycroft hadn't come around for tea yesterday, when Sherlock was on one of his strolls".
Sherlock had been disappearing more and more often after he'd returned, claiming that he wanted to "reacquaint himself with the city", even though John suspected that the consulting detective simply tried to run away. From company, from memories, from he didn't know what, but it must be something that scared the man that had looked a psychopath in the eyes and faked his death so his friends would be safe. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
Greg looked at John in astonishment. "What do you mean with he came over for tea? He didn't try to give Sherlock advice or a case or something?"
"No. He's worried. He wanted to know if I was aware what's going on".
It had been strange, to say the least, to see Mycroft Holmes looking concerned, all but begging John to tell him something, anything about his brother. John had answered that Mycroft, of all people, should know what Sherlock had gone through, after all he'd known for two of the three years that his brother was alive, but the elder Holmes had shook his head. Apparently Sherlock had only told him which information was needed, and he'd sent it to him.
Mycroft was as clueless as the rest of them. And after John had told him that, their DI looked as scared as he felt.
He wanted to say something, but his phone rang. He shot John a look.
"Tonight at our usual pub around seven? We need to talk, and frankly, I think we'll need drinks for it".
John nodded, smiled and left, not feeling less worried, but a little bit less anxious.
When he arrived at the flat, once again decorated because Mrs. Hudson had decided it should be, now that she had her boys back, Sherlock was sitting in his chair in his dressing-gown, holding his hands in his thinking pose and obviously lost in his mind palace.
John walked in the kitchen to make tea, and bit his lip. What was the word he'd thought of when describing Sherlock?
Haunted.
Sherlock Holmes was a haunted man and everyone could see it. The way he walked, the way he talked, the defeated look in his eyes...
They would have to do something, but John didn't know what.
He drank a cup of tea – Sherlock had politely declined, which made him worry all the more – and then left for the pub. He wasn't sure if Sherlock even heard when he explained the reason.
But Sherlock heard him leave, and shuddered. He was alone, and it was two weeks before Christmas, which meant that it was already dark outside.
He knew it would come. It always came when he was alone in the flat or his room after dark. Which was one of the reasons he preferred to roam the city at night. Even though he knew it was hopeless. He would never get rid of it. It would always be there, waiting for him when he came back.
He raised his eyes and there it sat, on John's chair. Looking exactly like Sherlock, only – colourless. And transparent. It had even adopted his thinking pose. Sherlock knew it wouldn't go away; there was no point in leaving the room. It would only accompany him to his bedroom.
So he decided to speak. "I wonder why you even bother disappearing whenever John enters the flat or the room I happen to be in. I see you in the fire, I feel you in the wind, I hear you in the tones of my violin."
"I come when called" the phantom answered in Sherlock's voice.
Sherlock spat "I certainly didn't call you" and looked away, but the image was already talking again.
"Look at me. Am I not he, grown up in an empty house, ignored by his parents, with only an older brother for company? A brother I'm not even on proper speaking terms with anymore? Am I not he, who took drugs and almost died in his twenties? Am I not he, who spent three years dead, torturing and killing, alone, always so alone?"
"You don't have to remind me" Sherlock answered, jumping up and starting to walk up and down. "I am perfectly aware of my life's story, thank you very much. And I know all about those three years... Isn't it enough that I think about them every day? Isn't it enough that I have to keep what I did from my friends, because I know they would be devastated if they were to know what I have done?"
The ghost said nothing, just looked at him with the same piercing stare Sherlock used on suspects.
"You don't have to remind me" Sherlock repeated and swallowed. "I wish you had, though. If I could forget all of this, the sorrow, the wrong, the trouble I have known, I would do so, gladly."
"Forget the sorrow, the wrong, the trouble..." the ghost mumbled. Then he stood up. "What if you could?"
Sherlock stared at him.
"This is my offer. Forget it, and not just the three years that haunt you. No, forget every sorrow you have ever known."
"What else would I forget – if I believed you could do this?" Sherlock inquired.
The ghost smiled. "Nothing. Your knowledge and skills would be untouched."
Sherlock paced up and down. To forget it all, and yet forget nothing of importance – he could be happy again. He could have fun solving crimes again. He could be the friend John needed again.
He took a deep breath. "I'll do it".
"Then it's done" answered the spectre. "And, because now you are free, receive this gift from me: You shall carry it with you and give it to everyone you encounter. Destroy the remembrance in all you approach!"
Even while he was saying this, he disappeared, and Sherlock sat down shakily on the sofa, running his hands through his hair, the change already upon him.
Author's note: This is an adaptation of "The Haunted Man and The Ghost's Bargain" by Charles Dickens – it's one of the Christmas Books, and the reason I decided to write it is that I have seen (I'm sure we all have) many, many adaptations of "A Christmas Carol", but the other Christmas Books deserve attention too. I changed the date a little bit – originally the story takes place on Christmas Eve, but I let it take place in advent so it won't be too similar to my other Christmas story. Anyway, I am rambling.
Oh, and check out the book if you're interested. It is fascinating.
I hope you liked it, please review.