In the days that followed, Sherlock wished he truly had stopped existing. Nothing could be worse than this, being near the people he'd loved more than he'd have admitted and not being able to communicate. He briefly imagined Greg- yes he had really known his name- having a laugh at that. He'd never kept quiet in his whole life, and now he was unable to be heard saying anything. He couldn't work. He couldn't play his violin. There was nothing for him. Worse yet, it was torture seeing everyone still grieving. The worst came the day Molly took out his coat and scarf. She wrapped herself up in them while holding his favorite purple shirt.

"Your family has been so good to me, Sherlock. They said I could have a few of your things. Your mum invites me over all the time, but I can't talk about you. I know it's weird talking to you, but I swear I still feel you."

"That's because I'm still here, Molly. Somehow I'm going to find a way to let you know that."

He'd never believed in ghosts until he became one, but he'd heard the stories. Things mysteriously moved, writing on walls, strange sounds. Even appearances. Were they just stories or could ghosts really do those things? A few days after the funeral he'd tried, but without success. He was wondering what else he could try when Molly's cat, Toby, came over and rubbed against him, purring contentedly.

"At least you seem to know I'm here." He wasn't sure if Toby could feel him or not, but he started to pet him. The way the cat arched his back made Molly laugh.

"Silly cat. You'd think someone was petting you." Molly reached out, then froze. "Sherlock?"

He let out a shout of relief. "Yes, Molly. I'm here! Toby can sense me. There has to be a way I can reach you too! You can see he knows I'm here, just look at him!"

But Molly had already started shaking her head. "No, I have to stop this. I have to stop pretending you're beside me somehow. If you were here you'd tell be how ridiculous I'm being."

"Not this time, Molly." He groaned. He was never going to find a way to reach her.

Eventually, Molly had to return to work. Sometimes Sherlock followed her, but he didn't like to be in the morgue itself anymore. Some days he went for a walk. Others he looked in on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, or if he was up for a longer trip his parents. Some days he just stayed at Molly's flat. It still felt like it was theirs. His flat at Baker Street had a new tenant now, some soldier recently home from war. From what Sherlock had seen of him, he had no doubt he was a good man. He was glad Mrs. Hudson had someone like that nearby, but it made it feel less like home.

It turned out to be a very good thing he spent so much time at Molly's flat. He was stretched out on her sofa- if a ghost could be considered stretched out or setting or anything else- when he heard someone tinkering with the door knob. It wasn't the sound of a key. It was someone picking the lock. The door opened, and a masked man entered. His footsteps, height, and a hundred other details only Sherlock would notice identified him. He was Sherlock's killer.

Sherlock had never believed in coincidence. The universe was rarely so lazy. In a very strange way, it was a slight relief. The police had gotten nowhere solving his morder. Maybe now he'd have the chance.

"So I wasn't killed in a random robbery gone wrong. You're looking for something connected to Molly, or me if you think she has my things. You wanted our phones that night, but why come here for a phone when there are other more valuable ones you could steal?"

The logical part of his mind pushed aside his feelings, the way he'd done to solve so many other cases. "It was never about money, not about credit cards or phones to sell anyway. There's something more you're after, but what?"

The emotional part took over again when he heard more steps coming, and recognized them as Molly's. She was home early!

"No! Molly you have to stay away!" He didn't care that she couldn't hear him. He stayed right beside her as she went up the stairs. He couldn't block her from walking ahead or shield her from view. She had barely been functioning since his death, and wasn't really seeing. Toby saw more than her, crouched with his fur on end and glaring at the intruder who was now in Molly's bedroom. Wait. Toby! That was his chance.

Molly changed directions, walking into a side room. If Sherlock could get the intruder out now, when she wouldn't see him, she would be safe. It was a long shot, but he had to try. Lunging, he screamed at the already spooked cat just as the murderer passed him. Toby jumped, landing briefly on the murder's head, sharp clawd digging in. Then in another movement almost two quick to see the cat disapeared under a chair, out of harm's way. A hand was held against the wounded face, but blood leaked through, even through the mask. He ran down the stairs and out the door before Molly could come see what had Toby so upset.

She was safe now. Sherlock had no way to know for how long, or where the killer would go from there. Mrs. Hudson's would be the next most likely place since it had ben his home, if he hadn't been there already. Sherlock gave chase, but instead of going to Baker Street, the stranger went to a run down area of London. Sherlock took mental note of the name of the door, Ed Nash. Then he followed him inside his flat.

Sherlock watched curiously as he took off the mask, seeing the face of his murderer for the first time. There was nothing remarkable about him. Brown hair and eyes, a face that wasn't exceptionaly good or bad looking. If Sherlock would have passed him on the street before he'd have had no reason to remember him. The claw marks were the only thing noticable about him now. Sherlock mentally thanked Toby.

The other man pulled out a phone. Sherlock briefly wondered if it was stolen or not. Had someone else died because of it? Not a problem he could solve now. He listened in on the conversation.

"Yeah I couldn't get it. I ended up having to get out of there fast. Don't worry. No, I won't fail! It has to be there or with the old woman, but there's someone living there now. I think the girl has most of his things. I know the consequences. I won't let you down." He hung up.

"You're not going to get near her again," Sherlock warned. "And whatever it is you were after, I'll see to it that you don't get it."

He went over what he'd heard again. So it was something of his that they were after, and there were at least two people involved. He had to know who the othe peson was, but first he'd have to check in on Mrs. Hudson.