A/N: It's been AGES since I last typed pure-blooded 'Sherlock' fic. But now… This idea's been haunting me for a while and now it refused to be stalled any longer. (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: Potential supernatural stuff, blood, gore, horror elements, RATING MAY RISE TO M, language… Ya know, the usual lot.

DISCLAIMER: Now excuse me while I try to keep myself from dying of laughter…! NOPE! If I owned ANYTHING we wouldn't have to wait for series 4 for this horribly long.

THIS STORY TAKES PLACE during series three, before 'His Last Vow'.

Okay, because stalling isn't kind and I don't want to chicken out… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

The Ghost of Camberwell

Intro – Do You Believe in Ghosts?

Stephanie Jenkins owned two clothing shops. At the age of thirty-eight she'd already been an independent entrepreneur for almost thirteen years. She was a determined, smart woman of reason. No children, one lousy ex-husband, a beautiful house and a cat. She wasn't particularly accomplished when it came to anything but her job. With her long grown, chocolate brown hair, pale blue eyes and short, average built form she was pretty but not strikingly beautiful. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about her. And she was very happy that way.

Sometimes the least remarkable of us may have the most spectacular tales to tell.

It began almost right after her divorce. She moved to the house on a miserably rainy of October. At first she was able to blame the misplaced items on the fact that she was still settling in. She began to suspect that something was wrong when she found her sharpest kitchen knife struck hard on her kitchen table. Something that looked all too much like dried blood stained the metal.

She called the police, of course. They investigated everything but there were no signs of anyone having broken in. And the knife had disappeared mysteriously before they arrived. Along with the damage it should've caused on the table. Upon leaving the police officers told her, as kindly as possible, to not waste their time again.

Stephanie wondered if she was going mad. More items were misplaced. And her kitchen stool was tampered with. The fall she took when the stool cracked into three pieces underneath her nearly broke her leg.

Stephanie also began to feel a presence. Whenever she was alone she could've sworn that someone was watching her. Sometimes she was almost certain that she heard steps pacing around the house restlessly. One night she was just about to fall asleep when she felt the bed dip under someone's weight. The arrival was far too heavy to be her cat. When she felt a warm breath against her face she broke into a scream. That was when she packed up a few of her things, her cat and headed to spend the night with her friend Annika. In the light of the following day they were able to laugh it off as a trick of her imagination, or perhaps a nightmare.

But whatever mysterious companion Stephanie possibly had wasn't done yet.

The sense of a presence grew stronger and stronger. More items were found from bizarre places. One evening Stephanie came home to discover the entire contents of her book shelve from the floor. It was a small miracle, perhaps, that it took until the following October before she was finally convinced that it wasn't all in her head. That she needed help.

The house was oddly cold when she entered. She tried to flick on the lights, only to discover that apparently the power was out. Well, there was a storm the night before.

She stepped in and tried to look around. Something was making the hair in the back of her neck stand up. "Maya?" she called out. "Darling, where are you?"

Her cat didn't come to her. And after a few moments she heard her pet growling. Alarmed and starting to tremble she followed the sound, unsure if she really wanted to find out what was going on. "Maya?"

One heavy step at a time she approached the house's main living room, with each move feeling a breath on her neck. Her heart hammered furiously, no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that she was being stupid. Which was becoming increasingly difficult when she could almost certainly smell blood. Finally she had to clasp a hand to her lips to keep herself from gasping or whimpering. Her feet were barely steady enough to carry her weight when she stood right beside where her cat was still growling at something she couldn't see yet.

And then, without any warning, the lights were on.

Stephanie yelped and shielded her eyes, blinded for a very long moment. Then, slowly yet inevitably, her vision began to return. Quite soon she wished it hadn't.

There was what looked like ashes all over the floor. And to the wall before her, with huge red letters that'd certainly been made with blood, had been written a number and a few words. A very simple message.

'5

get out of my house

the living don't belong here'

Stephanie's scream ran through the whole building and to the street outside.

Dr. John Watson opened the door to 221B with a healthy amount of caution. The first thing greeting him was a possibly long ago filled mug of tea, abandoned to a small table nearby. There was what looked suspiciously lot like a toe in it, bobbing happily in the already cold liquid.

John bit back a groan. Yes, I definitely miss this. How worrying was it that a part of him actually meant it?

"Sherlock?" No reply. Not exactly a surprise. "I was actually working. Meeting actual patients." On his way towards the living room he passed by a blood caked harpoon. Not another sodding pig…! "So I'm expecting this to be…" He trailed off.

There were several shocking elements right before his eyes. Sherlock was dressed and there was the look of an excited blood hound in the detective's eyes. A promising case, without a doubt, maybe even a nine. And then there was the fact that Sherlock wasn't alone. It wasn't stunning that the woman sitting there, trembling visibly and incredibly pale, was obviously shaken. What surprised John was that she'd made it past the evidence of Sherlock's experiments without deciding to run away immediately. How desperate was she?

"Did you bring the tea?"

It took several seconds before John realized that the words had been aimed at him. He frowned at Sherlock. "What tea?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "The one I asked for half an hour ago! Do keep up, John."

John wasn't sure if he wanted to chuckle or groan. He ended up giving his friend a dry look. "I just got here, Sherlock." He then focused on the woman. "Sherlock sent me a message, said that there's a case. I'm Dr…"

The woman nodded. If she wasn't so scared she might've smiled. "Yes, I know. I've been reading your blog for a while, now. That's how I found you two. I'm Stephanie Jenkins." She gulped loudly and looked away, as though embarrassed. It wasn't until she rubbed at her arm John noticed the bruises. Almost like marks left by fingers. "Dr. Watson… Do you believe in ghosts?"

John stared at her. Then snorted before he could stop himself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But… No, I don't."

Stephanie finally looked at him, met his eyes. There was no mirth in her gaze. "I didn't believe in them either until two days ago."

TBC

A/N: Oh dear…! That sounds spooky enough. Supernatural or not? Who knows.

Soooooo…. The word's yours! Would you like to read more? Was that any good, at all? PLEASE, do let me know! I'd LOVE to hear from you.

Whatever the case, thank you so much for reading! Maybe I'll meet you again. Now, I've really gotta go and get some sleep…!

Take care!