Author's Note:
First, I just want to thank everyone who left a review. That was so kind of you! I love getting feedback so that I know if people are interested, what they like, what they don't like, ect. I don't want to write if no one's reading, ya know? So thank you for that.
Second, I forgot to mention that the chapters for this story will all be song titles by the band Tiger Army. The story title is as well. I suggest you give them a read after the chapter, or listen to the song while you read it again. They really do go with the chapter, and add an element of emotion to it, I believe. Unfortunately, I can't seem to make a link here, but if you have time please look them up yourself!
Chapter 1: In the Orchard
Read/listen to from Sherlock's POV.
Chapter 2: Incorporeal
Read/listen to that from John's POV.
Alright, I'll shut up now, Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but you can be damn sure I'm tryin'.
"Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly in succession, hoping to dissipate the image before him that was obviously the result of sleep deprivation. He even went so far as to dig his nails into his palms, thinking that physical pain may jolt him out of this haze.
However, John didn't disappear. He stayed right where he was. And he looked exactly as Sherlock remembered. Better, actually. He didn't have any of the cuts or bruises he'd had when Sherlock had last seen him. John even had on a cream-colored jumper that Sherlock knew was his favorite. His hair was cut in the familiar style that John had never been able to shake from his army days. The rest of him was just as clean cut.
Sherlock took another breath, willing the image to go away while at the same time wanting nothing more than to indulge in this fantasy. But it didn't matter, because the man standing before him would not leave.
"What are you?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and slightly breathless.
Sherlock's question reverberated across the walls. 'What' not 'Who' he asked. Neither of them missed the implications of that question.
"Are you going to let me in, Sherlock?" John's lips turned up in that familiar smile of his. His tone was warm and casual, like he'd just popped out to get the milk and was now returning home. His tone in no way indicated that he'd been dead for two years, and was now once again standing at the door of 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock's quick eyes skimmed over John, assessing him and deducing all that he could in a matter of seconds. Which turned out to be absolutely nothing. Never in his life had he not been able to read John. Well, he supposed this was John's afterlife now, so that didn't quite apply anymore.
Sherlock took a step back and turned to the side. "Come in."
John's smile turned amused. "Same as always then. No need to show off, Sherlock, we all know you're clever. Will you let me in now, please?"
Sherlock would have smirked at John's retort, if John wasn't supposed to be dead. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to assess John once more, before he took several steps forward so that he was nearly flush up against John. John stared up at him, and then cocked an eyebrow when Sherlock continued to stand there.
Without dropping his gaze, Sherlock swept his foot across the door entrance, displacing the line of salt there. He took several steps back.
John hesitated a moment, and then walked into the flat, careful to avoid the salt. Sherlock watched, remaining still as John went and sat in his armchair. No. Just THE armchair. It wasn't John's anymore. John wasn't supposed to be here.
But he was here. Very much so. And as Sherlock's muscles unlocked and he took a seat in his own armchair, he knew the matching piece of furniture across from his could never be called anything else but John's. Especially now that its owner had seemingly returned.
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, and peered at John. John stared back calmly, blinking expectantly.
"So, if you're a spirit now, John, explain to me how you got in and out of the flat these past few days. I must applaud you, by the way, for fooling Mrs. Hudson. You never were very good at lying to her. Although I suppose having a door between the two of you helped. I see you've been through my sock drawer. Again. And while I'm flattered that you're still concerned about my wellbeing after being away for two years, although in that time you never seemed concerned enough to inform me of your continued existence, I would have thought you'd come up with some better ideas on where I'd keep my illegal substances, if I possessed any." Sherlock had not raised his voice. In fact, it was quite low. And harsh. Accusatory.
John's tongue curled out over his bottom lip. He let out a heavy breath through his nose, and clasped his hands together on his knees. "You're angry."
"Your skills of deduction are still on par, I see."
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John yelled suddenly, and slammed his hand down on the TV tray next to him. "I didn't know I'd been away that long!"
A feeling of satisfaction slid through Sherlock, and he leaned back in his seat, smirking behind his steepled hands. He'd wanted to break that stupid air of composure and contentment John was carrying with him. It was a front. His John wouldn't act like that in a situation like this. He was only doing it because he thought it would calm Sherlock. As always, John didn't come to the right conclusion when it came to Sherlock. Although his attempts were amusing, and more often than not, endearing.
The smirk slipped off his face suddenly as he realized he'd mentally referred to John as "His". Something turned in Sherlock's stomach that reminded him of the strange sensations he used to get whenever he thought about telling John about his discovery.
He'd thought of a thousand ways to tell John how he truly felt about him. Countless times he'd lain in bed at night, running through his head all the different outcomes of the conversation. 'If only John were still alive' he'd think to himself. If only John were still alive, he would tell him.
However, all those musing had taken place after John's death, and he'd never had to face them in full. Yet here John was now, back again, through some miracle, and the idea of admitting these feelings out loud horrified him into silence.
No. There was no such thing as miracles. Sherlock knew that. He knew there was a logical explanation for John's return, one he intended to find out.
"How did you get into the flat?" Sherlock repeated himself, shoving away all other thoughts and feelings for the time being.
John's breathing was heavy, and his jaw was clenched as he stared at Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to address his outburst, to come back at him with some emotion. But as John used to say, he was barking up the wrong tree. Sherlock always avoided displays of emotion, opting out for a more logical confrontation.
John eventually closed his eyes, and shook his head. He let out a small huff that rang strangely close to disappointment. Like Sherlock had let him down, but John didn't seem surprised. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. Curious.
"I've been waiting for some time now to get into the flat. You would never mess up, I knew that. You were gone when I arrived anyway. I'd been watching Mrs. Hudson, knowing you'd have sent her up to look after one of your experiments despite the fact you always complain when you return that she's done an insufficient job. I watched and waited for her to mess up.
"Finally, a few days ago, she did. She accidentally broke the line of salt by the front door with her skirt. It was new, and longer than usual because she hadn't hemmed it yet. It dragged across the salt. She didn't notice though, and so when she left, I slipped in. I've been in and out since then, waiting for you to return. And yesterday, I left to go do some research, and when I returned, I found she'd replaced the line of salt. I later overheard her on the phone, and realized she'd heard you were on your way home. She must have found out she'd displaced the salt, and fixed it."
Sherlock nodded. He'd already deduced that as soon as John'd said, "Mrs. Hudson". He'd seen the line of salt had been tampered with when he first walked into the flat, but he hadn't paid much attention to it at the time; he'd wanted to find his "cousin" first. But he'd let John say it all anyway, finding that he was slightly enchanted by John's voice. It was strange to hear John speak after two years of absence.
"You said you didn't know how long you'd been away. What did you mean by that?" Sherlock asked calmly, as if he was talking to another one of his clients.
John's expression had gone hard. He didn't miss the tone of Sherlock's voice either. "I meant that I've only been back for a few months, but when I checked the date, it said I'd been gone for two years. I would have…" John paused here, his face softening. "I would have come back sooner if I could have. You know I would have, Sherlock."
Sherlock just stared. The look on John's face was threatening to undo him. "Why are you back here, John? I saw you die. It was violent, but quick. Spirits only come back if they want revenge. Is that what you want then? Revenge on who killed you? But how are you moving around? Spirits can only haunt the places where they were murdered, or places that were familiar to them, but you said you've gone out to do research. So how…?" Sherlock was half-talking to John and half-talking to himself as his brain raced to fit the pieces together.
It's true that spirits are the ghosts of what they used to be. But still, they're solid. They can pick up things, drive cars, make dinner, kill people. You can grab them, hold them…kiss them. They carry on the same habits that they had as humans, and their minds are the same. They have full control over everything. They're just dead. And the only way for them to move on, is for them to get revenge on whoever killed them.
They'd been doing a case when it happened. It was the hardest case of Sherlock's life, and of course, the most thrilling. He'd finally tracked down the demon that they'd been chasing for months. This demon had kept popping up in Sherlock's other cases. He'd been on the lips of every supernatural creature Sherlock vanquished. This demon had been playing a game with Sherlock, because even the damned get bored from time to time.
Moriarty was the demon's name. A consulting criminal, he dubbed himself, for the demon appeared to have control over both the human and the supernatural criminal world.
Things had come to a head near a waterfall in Switzerland. Sherlock had Moriarty in a devil's trap, and while he read out of The Lesser Keys of Solomon to exorcise the demon, John stood off to the side, watching Moriarty. However, they had severely underestimated Moriarty's power. The devil's trap couldn't hold him, he was too powerful, and he was able to make a crack in the rock that broke it.
The next thing they knew, Moriarty was out of the trap, and without hesitation, he wrapped himself around John and broke his neck. John's body was in the waterfall before Sherlock could open his mouth. Moriarty didn't say another word to Sherlock. He didn't have to. He'd said what he'd needed to say. And then he disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving Sherlock with nothing, not even a body to cry over.
"I don't know," John whispered in answer.
"YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!" Sherlock shouted, raising his voice for the first time all morning. His emotions had finally gotten the best of him. For the last two years he'd successfully repressed the memories of John's death. And now they all came flooding back in without a moment's notice.
Something that looked awfully close to hurt, flashed across John's face. Sherlock blinked rapidly in an attempt to compose himself, and before he could investigate further, the look was gone from John's face.
"Don't you think I know that?" John's voice had gone quiet, and he was looking down now, twiddling his fingers together. "How many vengeful spirits did we send into the afterlife together? How many countless souls did we put to rest? Of course I shouldn't be here." John looked up then. "But I don't want revenge, Sherlock, I just want to move on. I've been stuck in this world for six months! For most of them I didn't even know where I was. Do you know how long it took me to find you? I just want some peace, and I need you to help me find it."
Sherlock felt as if the breath had left his body again. "What?" Sherlock didn't often ask for something to be repeated. Actually, it irritated him to no end when people asked him to repeat things that they'd clearly heard but were too lazily to process through their brains so they asked again. But this time, just this once, he had to hear John say it again.
John's tongue darted out, and he scooted forward on his seat. He looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. "I need your help, Sherlock. Please, will you help put me to rest?"
Sherlock's mouth popped open, and then closed, and then open again. He looked like a gaping fish out of water. He knew that he should say something, but he found that he couldn't. He was feeling too many things right now. Too many things that he couldn't understand or describe. He was not used to having these feelings, and so didn't know what they were, or what to do with them.
All he knew was that he didn't want John to go. He'd just gotten his John back. When he'd shouted at John that he shouldn't be here, it wasn't because he wanted John to leave, it was because he couldn't understand his luck. No, he could not help John move on, because he couldn't lose him for a second time. If John left, who would help Sherlock move on? He'd barely managed to patch up the hole John had left in his the chest the first time, and even that was held on with shady patchwork at best. He did not think he could manage a second time. He would never admit that to anyone, not even John. Hell, he couldn't even admit it to himself. But it was true nonetheless.
"Okay," Sherlock agreed. "Start from the beginning."
And so John told him everything, and Sherlock listened. And while he listened, his brain worked to put the facts together and form theories. He did all of this, because that's what you do for someone you love. Even if it meant losing John again, Sherlock would do it, because he loved him.
But, to Sherlock's delight, the road ahead did not look dark just yet. John didn't give him much to go on. John had no idea where he'd woken up, and could only tell him how he got here, which was on several trains and buses. He had no clue why he'd only woken up six months ago instead of right after he died. And Sherlock had no clue where Moriarty was.
"Have you seen him, or heard from him since then?" John asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "No. I tracked him for awhile, but eventually the trail went cold. I never got close to him, not like we did when…" he trailed off, finding it difficult to say the words. John nodded. He knew what Sherlock meant.
Sherlock did not go in depth as to how long, and how hard he tracked Moriarty. It had become his obsession, even more than the first time. He'd go weeks upon weeks with little to no sleep or food. He'd even been hospitalized once. But Moriarty was not to be found. The crime rate had dropped considerably as well, and eventually the supernatural creatures of the world stopped whispering Moriarty's name before they were vanquished. Some didn't even know who he was.
The only assumption Sherlock could make was that Moriarty had returned to Hell. But that didn't make sense. Hell was said to be unimaginable. Why else would the demons try to escape it? It's not like Earth was a utopia by any stretch.
And then there was the idea that someone else had killed Moriarty. But Sherlock could not believe that to be true. How could someone else do what Sherlock Holmes couldn't? Neither logic nor his ego would allow Sherlock to believe it. So where was he then? And why had he gone into hiding? He wasn't afraid of Sherlock, he'd made that obvious…
"We'll have to think of something to tell everyone. I can't very well show up after being dead for two years and expect them to understand."
"Really?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't seem to have a problem using that tactic on me."
John laughed at that, and after a moment, Sherlock found himself joining in. It felt good to laugh. He didn't know the last time he had.
"I've already worked that out," Sherlock said when he'd composed himself.
"Right, course you have." John smiled knowingly. "Let's hear it then."
"Your neck didn't break, Moriarty only made it look that way. He did knock you out though, and threw you into the falls. You were in a coma for one and a half years. When you woke up, you found yourself in a village hospital in Switzerland. You were released as soon as you were healthy, and immediately returned to Chicago."
John's mouth hung open slightly. "That's good, Sherlock, really good, but do you really think they're going to believe it?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't matter, they'll have to. What else can they say? That you're a ghost?" Sherlock smirked.
John laughed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. Of course."
They'd both silently agreed that it'd be better to keep the police department in the dark about John being a spirit. Even though some of them know what Sherlock really does, he didn't know how they'd react to John being a spirit, and neither of them cared to find out.
"We should go see Mrs. Hudson now and tell her. I don't think her heart could take it if she walked in on her own and saw you."
"No," John said firmly.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why not?"
"Because, I know you. It's been days since you slept, and who knows how long it's been since you've eaten. I know how you are after a case. We're not going anywhere until you've had some of both."
Sherlock looked affronted. "Don't be absurd, John. I'm absolutely fine. You're just worried about how everyone will react to finding you still alive."
However, Sherlock's protests were no use, John wouldn't budge. He fixed up what he could for Sherlock, using everything he could in the fridge, which was next to nothing. And then he made Sherlock sleep. The nap had only lasted a few hours. John knew Sherlock had set himself an alarm. Usually Sherlock passed out for days at a time after the longer cases.
Mrs. Hudson was in hysterics when she saw John. There had been crying. Lots and lots of crying. And then came the hugging. First she hugged John. And then Sherlock. And then she pulled them both in for a group hug. Sherlock had voiced his protest, and even attempted to pull away a few times. His attempts were half-hearted at best. When really, he never wanted to move. Because this gave him a chance to touch John, to hug him. Even if it wasn't how he really wanted to hug John. He wanted to wrap the smaller man in his arms, to press him to his body as close as possible, because this place, here in his arms, is the only place he could be sure John was safe.
But he got to have one arm around Mrs. Hudson, and the other around John. His grip around John's waist was so tight that it took John's complaints to get Mrs. Hudson to finally let them go. Sherlock played it off as a hand cramp. Thankfully, John latched onto the excuse, attributing it to lack of sleep.
Next they went to the station, where the reception was nearly the same. John was well liked there, unlike Sherlock. John had an easy going nature that tended to make the people around him feel comfortable. Sherlock thought the fact that John had facial features that resembled a puppy, helped. Sherlock stood back and watched from the fringe, fighting twinges of jealously that flared up every time someone hugged John.
They found Lestrade a little harder to convince than the others, but in the end, he believed them.
"It's good to have you back," Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder. "We've missed you down here, Doctor Watson. And you can bet the others missed having you around. You always managed to keep Sherlock relatively in check at crime scenes." Lestrade laughed, and John joined in. Even Sherlock allowed a small smile.
"Yeah, the freak's been even worse ever since you left. Maybe he'll tone it down now that you're back," Sally Donovan said as she walked up to the group.
Sherlock glared at her. The way she said John "left" made it sound as if John had gone on a two year vacation and had finally returned. "While I'm flattered that you think your misery is a result of my actions, Sally, I can't take credit for what sleeping with Anderson does to one's psyche."
Sally's face went red at that. She clamped her mouth shut, and stalked away. Sherlock smirked and looked over at John. John was giving him a chastising look. "That wasn't very nice, Sherlock." Sherlock just smiled wider. Just like old times.
They stuck around for awhile, and as John was talking with one of the officers, Sherlock pulled Lestrade aside.
"What's up, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "How're you handling all of this?"
Sherlock gave him a confused look. "I'm fine. Why? Don't I look fine?"
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Um, yeah, sure…" He gave Sherlock a strange look before continuing. "So, what's up?"
Sherlock bent his head down closer to Lestrade's ear. "I need a favor."
Lestrade's head jerked back, surprise written all over his face. Sherlock quickly clamped a hand on Lestrade's shoulder, squeezing tightly to silence him. "Let me say this for you so your exclamations of amazement won't alert the entire police station to our conversation. Yes, I know, it's astounding that I'm asking you for help. Now will you shut up and listen to me?"
Lestrade stared at him, his mouth hanging open. After a moment he closed his mouth and nodded his head. "Sure, yeah, what can I do for you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes darted across the room, checking to make sure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation. "I need you to help contact Acer for me," he whispered, his lips barely moving.
Lestrade's eyes went wide and his mouth popped open. But this time there was no threat of him speaking, for his voice seemed to have failed him entirely. Sherlock waited impatiently, his fingers dancing at his sides.
"Lestrade," he snapped after a whole minute of silence.
"Sherlock…Sherlock I can't," he sputtered. "Not after what happened- not after what you did to him. And it didn't work the last time we tried, so unless you've found something new, I don't think it's going to this time either."
"I think I have found something."
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. "You have? Sherlock, what is it?"
Sherlock paused briefly, careful not to give himself away. "Just get the same material we used last time. I know it will be harder to find this time, but do it, no matter the cost, no matter how long it takes. It's going to take me some time to get what I need anyway. But I should have it all ready in a few months."
Lestrade was looking at Sherlock strangely again, although there was a hint of awe on his face now as well. "Okay," he agreed after a moment. "Okay, but first, tell me what this is about? I understood your motive last time, but why now? Is it about John? There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"
Sherlock's body went rigid. "No, of course not," he snapped, glaring at Lestrade.
Sherlock turned to walk away, when he felt a hand grip his arm. Sherlock's eyes locked onto the hand at his elbow, and then flashed up to its owner. Lestrade blinked, as if he was just as surprised to find his hand there. He started to pull away, but then stopped, gripping tighter. "Listen to me, Sherlock. I'm not going into this thing blind, not this time. I've got a family at home to think about. I need to know what's going on before I risk my life doing this."
They held each other's gaze for awhile, both of them trying to suss out the other one. "Do you trust me, Lestrade?" Sherlock finally asked.
"Yes," Lestrade replied without a thought, though his tone was hesitant.
"Then trust me when I say that it's better for you to be in the dark. And trust me when I say I wouldn't ask for your help again if this wasn't a matter of life or death to me."
Lestrade looked surprised yet again. Sherlock felt himself growing both irritated and wearied by him. People could be so simple sometimes. The littlest things surprised and excited them. And how freely they expressed their emotions was quite embarrassing. But Sherlock refrained from making a snappy remark. He need Lestrade's help with this, and it wouldn't do to make him upset.
"Okay, Sherlock, I'll get the materials."
Sherlock let out a sigh of relief he didn't know he'd been holding. "Thank you, Lestrade," he said, letting true sincerity color his voice.
Lestrade looked as if he was in danger of becoming shocked again, so Sherlock turned away quickly, not thinking he could restrain himself to bear witness to it, and went to find John.
All that mattered now was that Lestrade believed him when he said this wasn't about John, and that he didn't pry for more information. If Lestrade found out what Sherlock was up to, he would never in a million years agree to this.
John may want to have his soul put to rest, to move on from this world, but Sherlock wasn't going to let him go quite that easily. John may think that they were going to try to find a way to help him leave, but Sherlock was going to find a way to bring him back. Permanently. No matter the cost.
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