Chapter 2
Sherlock Holmes, in comparison with John Watson, was not only aware of his death, but was very comfortable with it despite the fact that he hadn't been dead for long.
"So what is the rent for this flat then, Mrs. Hudson?" He said with a knowing smile. "The advertisement did say it was cheap. I'm assuming no more than a dream every few days?"
"Once a week, actually." She said, returning his smile for a minute before pulling him into her arms. "Oh drop the act, you silly man. I've missed you so, Sherlock Holmes." Then she pulled him away to look him in the eyes. "When was your deathday, Sherlock?"
"May 8th of this year." He replied slowly.
"Just over five months." She replied slowly. Then it came to her. "That rotten cabbie serial killer. I knew I should have taken you in earlier. Why, after helping me with my husband, I would have given you a discount, you could be sure of that."
He brushed it off. "What's done is done, Mrs. Hudson."
"Even so, dear, that's not much time to adjust. Normally, such a thing takes years, sometimes even decades."
He shrugged. "Normalcy is dull. I'm dead. There's not much else to come to grips with."
Mrs. Hudson gave him a look. "There's a life beyond this, Sherlock. You wouldn't be here if you didn't have a reason to stay."
He smiled in response, but ignored her comment. "I was a consulting detective in my old life, and a deathday consultant in this. There's nothing I can't handle, Mrs. Hudson."
"This world really is one big experiment to you, isn't it, Sherlock." She laughed when he only gave her a curt nod. "Well, the rooms are upstairs. I don't suppose you mind having a flatmate?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Work keeps me busy. I don't keep regular hours, I play the violin at all hours of the day and I hardly ever sleep."
"He won't mind, dear. I doubt you'll see each other much, if at all. Your schedules would rarely cross."
"Right. Well then, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure you have business in the human world to attend to. Being psychic does have its perks, but I'm assuming there's more to life than meets the eye." Unlike John, he simply picked up his suitcase. Before he left, he said, "But I'm sure if you'd invited me to stay I'd have eventually figured it out." When she only smiled and shook her head, he floated up through the ceiling to the second floor of the flat, leaving her to return to her work.
Looking around, the former consulting detective could see that the door to the second bedroom was open, clothes still stacked in boxes. Striding over to the first bedroom, he put his clothes away. Once that was done, he pulled out the experiments box. The more sensitive ones were put away, the others simply left about the kitchen.
His box of oddities and acquisitions were next. Finally, the skull was added to the mantelpiece. As he was putting it on the end, Sherlock saw a glimpse of something in the ornate mirror in front of him. Looking up, he was greeted by a surprisingly familiar face. Familiar, but not. For some reason, he recognized the man. He'd never met him. Didn't even know his name. And yet he somehow knew him, as if his body recognized him, but not his mind.
Still holding the skull of his former rival, he turned, intending to greet his new flatmate, but found himself greeting an empty room. Intrigued by this anomaly, he turned back around to put the skull on the ledge. Looking into the mirror once more, he saw his flatmate again, leaning on his cane.
When he glanced behind him again, he saw only an empty room. When he turned back to the mirror once more, the person was gone. It was almost as if he were never there in the first place.
That night, Sherlock dreamed. Of a man with a psychosomatic limp. Of adventures he should have had with him, had they met in another reality, if neither had died. Of running, hand in hand, through the city of London to solve a case. Of a beloved man he didn't even know the name of. He was quite puzzled when he awoke.