Thank you for such encouraging reviews, I didn't expect that. He's there next chapter and I really hope you enjoy it.

Much love.

...

Fated Ghosts.

John Hamish Watson, Former Doctor, Captain and Consulting Detective.

I thought my small, silly world was over on the day that Sherlock decided to give up and jump. The day he had thrown himself over the edge and caved his intelligent head in. He hadn't waited for me to save him, hadn't let me.

For the first few weeks, I had hated him.

I was furious that he had dared to leave me so publicly and cruelly. Livid that he had shattered my belief in him and called himself a failure. The man I knew would never do that but then again I had never thought he would fall.

Not my friend.

But he had and I started to feel guilt. Because I hadn't been enough to make him fight.

I think I forgot how to function right for a little while. The nightmares never stopped and they mixed with war and death. There were so many nights when my screams awoke Mrs Hudson.

I missed Sherlock.

Then just when I was finding my feet and learning how to live without him again, Harry's body gave up on her. Years of alcohol abuse had ravaged her insides and I hadn't noticed. I was a Doctor, a good one but I hadn't seen my own sister dying until there wasn't enough time. Guilt was an all consuming monster and it stripped me bare and left me broken, hidden behind the closed curtains.

I didn't want to live with the bleeding ghost of Sherlock or the bloated corpse of Harry. So I left. While the world was sleeping and healing, I stole away from 221b Baker Street. My home had become a frightening shrine to a man who was willing to kill himself as I watched and not let me look away. I had taken only what I could fit in my pockets and ran. I knew Mrs Hudson would worry but she'd understand eventually. LeStrade had been distant for months, we had no real friendship, Sherlock had forged everything between us. Perhaps Mycroft looked for me in the beginning in some sort of misguided loyalty to his dead brother but he wouldn't find me.

John Hamish Watson died a lonely death in Baker Street when the world wasn't looking.

I needed to be something more. That was nine months ago and I haven't been back yet.

The man in the mirror is a little older; there are more lines around his eyes and the odd silver hair. He's not a stranger anymore, not now because I had grown to accept the grief in his eyes that would never heal. I was better now, nearly able to feel myself again. I missed Sherlock with every beat of my heart and mourned my sister but life wasn't able to stop. I still wanted to live. Perhaps I could kid myself for a few more years when I decided that Sherlock had thought me his friend. I smiled sorrowfully and rubbed my knuckles over my jumper. Sherlock had been my friend, he was wild and unpredictable and exhilarating. He gave an old army Doctor new legs and the rush of danger I'd been missing.

Life was boring now in the quiet town I had fled too. There were no crimes here, no murders that needed knowledge or even me. Here, people didn't know me so they didn't greet me in the streets. I had done that to myself, hidden away from people in my early weeks and earned the reputation of being strange and aloof.

Aren't you proud Sherlock?

You brilliant bastard.

I stood silently beside the window that looked out over the hills around me with a sad smile on my lips. I often found myself by a window, watching the world go by and wondered how many people had run away from their pasts. Maybe I had been a coward and I hadn't been as strong as I thought. I just hadn't been able to cope alone in the flat without Sherlock and Harry.

But I do miss you.

"Doctor Watson, you're needed in A and E immediately." Kelly informed me from the front desk.

I was still a Doctor, it was in my blood and I wouldn't have been able to leave that part of me behind. All the lives I saved started to make up for the ones I had lost. I smiled at Kelly and darted my eyes away when he smirked flirtatiously at me. There wasn't enough room left in this sorry heart for more ache and I could never return her feelings. She was only intrigued by the mysterious, broken Doctor Watson who was trying to escape his demons.

How would she look at me if she knew my guilt?

Numbly I turned and marched down the hallway toward A and E. This Hospital was different to the one in London, it was quieter and cleaner. The injuries weren't severe and I knew had to deal with gunshot wounds or stabbings. I was...bored here but had nowhere else to go. Doctor Morgan pointed me toward a cubicle with the curtains drawn and I nodded, praying he wouldn't notice the slump in my shoulders. I reached into the dispenser and tugged out a pair of latex gloves, wriggling my fingers through them as I pushed apart the paper blinds with my shoulder.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Watson. What's the problem?" I inquired as I fought with the stupid glove.

"Hello, John."

I froze; I recognised that voice with fury. I had left so I wouldn't be reminded of him. I clenched my fists tightly and felt my bones protest at the force.

"John?"

Mycroft sounded concerned, he looked concerned but he was a stuck up git who had no idea how worried he should be.

NO!

"Why are you here?" I snarled.

"You have worried a lot of people, John. I'm here to bring you home." He sounded like I was supposed to be thankful I had been found.

"I don't want to go back to London. I am home." I protested sharply.

"Don't be foolish John. Of course you aren't happy here, not now that Sherlock i-."

"I DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT SHERLOCK! I screamed and didn't care that I cut the arrogant bastard off. "I...I can't deal with it."

"Doctor Watson? Is everything all right in there?" Doctor Morgan inquired in alarm.

"I'm fine. Sorry."

"...okay."

I glanced back to Mycroft and saw the confusion on his face and how it reflected in his eyes. How could he be surprised that I was angry and hurt by his little brother? I methodically tugged off my gloves and tossed them in the disposal bin.

"I'm sorry Mycroft. I'm sure you meant well but Sherlock is dead. He's not coming back." I didn't mean to sound so emotionless and detached. "Good bye."

I bid goodbye to the last remaining Holmes brother and slipped past Doctor Morgan and Kelly. I would probably lose my job but I had to run before Mycroft made me break down like a child.

I ran home and ignored the burning in my lungs and the cramps in my legs. People tutted and jumped away from mad Doctor Watson and his ghosts that natter endlessly in his ear. Mycroft had found me when I was venerable and wasn't expecting to see him ever again.

Stupid, stupid Mycroft!

I burst through my front door and slammed it behind me, throwing the lock wildly into place. My heart didn't calm down until I was standing in front of my television with my back to the window. Still gasping slightly, I clutched the back of my chair and tried to push away the memories of my dead best friend.

Sherlock. You unfeeling robot. How could you leave me like this?

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TOO ME? CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE? AND FUCK, I HOPE YOU'RE SORRY! WANKER!"

I screamed at the dusty face of Sherlock and to his place in the clouds high above me. He told me he didn't believe in the afterlife but he was wrong. If there was any justice anywhere, he was still sitting above me and he was watching the breakdown of my pathetic life.

I miss you.

There were no photographs in my house of Sherlock or my sister. Nothing to tell people they existed, everything that they had been was abandoned in London. My small home was empty of personality in away it had been before I had met Sherlock. I did realise that the manic whirlwind of Sherlock Holmes had brought splashes of colour to a dark world.

Why couldn't I find those colours myself?

I miss you more.

Tired and irritated, I shuffled toward my kitchen and poured myself a cup of tea with a surprisingly unsteady hand.

"Come now, Doctor Watson. Just listen to me." Mycroft ordered.

The sleek black car he was in crawled along beside me and he kept hanging out the back window shouting at me. People stared with gaping mouths at the sight and I had to see the humour. I was enjoying myself, sticking my nose high in the air and marching down the street, completely ignoring him. Sherlock would be so proud.

Mycroft had followed me home last night and was outside my door early morning as I left to do the grocery shopping. And he hadn't gone away! He was starting to annoy me as well as my neighbours.

"John, please! We need to talk."

I pressed my hands over my ears and shook my head wildly. Someone laughed nearby at my actions but Mycroft frowned.

"That's immature, John. You'll want to hear what I have to say."

"No I won't. I'm busy going shopping."

"You hate shopping, you have frequent rows with the chip and pin machine."

"Bah! It's better that talking to you."

By now we had reached the Supermarket and I slipped between the automatic doors. I did have an argument with the Chip and Pin machine and I did get pitying looks from staff members. I simply swept everything back into my basket and walked toward a manned till, with a wallet full of notes. Even John Watson could learn from mistakes. The girl on checkouts smiled warmly at me and reached for the plastic bags under her station.

"Good morning, sir. How are you?"

"Fantastic, just had a row with the self serve till." I confessed.

She laughed. "Yes, a lot of people do. They're tricky things to work."

"Glad I'm not the only one."

"You're not, honest."

I packed my fruit and vegetables into a plastic bag and reached for my wallet but a hand on mine stopped me. The expensive suit could only mean one person and I frowned as I glared at him.

"I'll pay for this." He informed the girl.

"The hell you will, Mycroft. I'll pay, love."

She shrugged and accepted the cash from my hand. She sent us both odd smiles and dismissed us with a wave of her hand. Mycroft followed me out of the shop and down the street. His car followed us and I began to feel like I was leading a parade. It was beyond ridiculous and there was no logical reason for this man to be hounding me at all. We had nothing in common anymore, only the dead.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" I asked.

"Because you won't listen to me and you really need to."

"I'm not going back to London. There's nothing for me there." I informed him sadly.

"Yes, I am sorry about your sister but things have happened that you don't know about."

Concern flashed through me. "Mrs Hudson? LeStrade? Are they hurt?"

"No. They're all fine. That's not why I'm here."

We turned into the garden of my house and I dropped my bags at my feet and stared at the older man.

"Then what?"

"Perhaps we should talk about this inside John. I'd hate to cause a scene."

"We'll talk about it right here! You've been following me for days. Tell me!"

Mycroft took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. Then he fixed the most intense gaze I'd ever had on me and grabbed my shoulders tightly. I panicked a little bit and tried to pull away but some excitement in his face stilled me.

"Sherlock's alive, John."

There was silence for a moment, I couldn't think and I couldn't act. Then my fist unfroze and I punched the British Government.

Mycroft stared up at me form where he had landed sprawled on his back. My chest was heaving, I was crying and my heart was breaking.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me? He's dead! I watched him jump!" I shouted breathlessly.

Slowly Mycroft stood back up and waved of his goons. His jaw would swell and his lip was bleeding but I couldn't feel regret for hurting a liar who was ripping me apart.

"It was faked, John. All planned just to keep you safe."

"Sherlock wasn't a fake. Nothing about him was faked. He was a genius." I hissed through my suddenly endless tears.

Mycroft put a steady hand on my shoulder and tried to smile at me around his blood.

"That's right. He wasn't a fake and he did it all to protect you."

"NO!"

I wanted to believe him. Somehow my miracle had been answered but how could it be? Even Sherlock couldn't come back from the dead, it didn't work that way. Life didn't work that way.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

My best friend.

Then suddenly Mycroft was pushing something soft and warm into my hands. I glanced down at it and sobbed louder. Sherlock's scarf. The only one he had ever seemed to own. I held it tightly to my chest and didn't understand.

"H-How can you have this?"

"Sherlock gave it to me, John. When I told him I was going to look for you. He wanted you to have it."

A hysterical laugh left my throat and Mycroft's face tightened in worry.

I want to believe. I want to believe.

Oh God, let this be real.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

"I...need to be alone, please."

Mycroft nodded and slipped a piece of paper between my clenched fingers. "Call him, John."

I nodded softly and opened my front door, barely remembering to pick up my abandoned food. I shut the door in his face and barely waited until I had crossed the threshold to collapse to the floor.

I brought the scarf up to my face, amused that it still smelt like him even after all these years. I didn't understand. I thought I had everything worked out. Sherlock was gone but that was okay because I was here and he was watching over me.

But what if he had been alive all this time?

Had he been too busy to call? Wasn't I important enough just for a text message?

Sherlock can't have forgotten about me that quickly, right?

I thought I knew him and his manic ways. Apparently I hadn't. I wasn't enough. But when had I ever been?

I miss you.

...But I also think...I hate you...

Mycroft lied to me. Sherlock didn't have a chance to be alive.

Stupid, stupid Holmes brothers. Shredding my heart again.