"Mye?"
"Yes Sherlock?"
"Why do people have souls?"
"I don't know."
As the days turn into weeks John stops crying so much and starts to pull himself together. Mostly. The nightmares don't help matters, but he gets through them. At first he does it by drinking, until he realises he's doing exactly the same things Harry did when she started, and quickly gets rid of every drop of alcohol in the flat, switching to coffee and novels that are intended to be funny, but he knows are just trash. They're a crude form of distraction, but they work, and he doesn't want to go off the rails. He supposes he still has people to live for.
Mrs Hudson is the biggest help, because she calls on him every day under the pretence of bringing up homemade buns or tidying the flat – 'not your housekeeper, just doing you a favour' – and it's like having his mother keeping an eye on him. He decides he has to be there for her, just as she has decided she must stay for him.
John isn't happy. He isn't even normal. He's grieving, and sometimes he can barely stand under the weight of it, but he carries on.
He and Greg start talking to each other again, quite by chance. They meet in the supermarket, standing in the long queue for the tills, and can't avoid striking up a conversation. They don't talk about Sherlock. The subject is censored and covered over with chat about the football and the price of shaving cream and a whole host of stupid, boring things. John relishes in the activity; it helps him forget for a few moments.
It's hard to forget. Constantly there's the unsettling sense that he's never alone. Ever since the first night, when he'd hurled books and ornaments around in his anger, he's had the feeling someone's watching him. Not watching. It feels more like breathing; every time John moves his chest, he feels as if there are two people inhaling. It puzzles him, but he puts it down to loneliness. His brain is overcompensating, trying to convince him someone else is there.
Often, he dreams about Sherlock. Sometimes it's past memories, nightmares about blood and pavements, things he expects. Sometimes it's things he doesn't understand. He sees Sherlock with his hair cropped short, eating in a strange restaurant, or wearing a hooded jacket he knows Sherlock would never have chosen to put on, speaking to someone in a foreign language. He can't make any sense of it.
He wakes up one night after a dream in which he'd seen Sherlock slipping a knife into his pocket, feeling off-kilter and unhappy. As he sits up he's aware of it more strongly, the inhale and exhale, a rhythm that isn't his own, and wonders if Sherlock's ghost is standing behind him.
Ghosts don't breathe, he knows that much. When he calls out he gets no reply.
"Mye?"
"Mm?"
"Can anyone else do the thing with their souls?"
"I don't know, Sherlock."
Over time, instead of becoming more able to manage John's emotions, Sherlock feels them more frequently, mostly when his brain isn't distracted. He doesn't sleep all that much, but when he does his dreams are influenced by whatever John is doing. Mundane activities usually, conversations with Greg, Mrs Hudson, buying milk and jam, wandering the streets in London. He finds the dreams both infuriating, because they make him miss John all the more, and comforting, because John doesn't seem to be crying as much as he had been at first.
"Mye?"
"What is it, Sherlock?"
"Would you ever give your soul to someone?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"To keep it safe."
"How would you know they'd keep it safe?"
"If they promised to keep it safe, who would you give it to?"
"I don't know."
Sherlock makes his mistake about four months after dying, in Russia, which still writhes in the clutches of an icy winter. It's inevitable he'll slip up; he's horribly run down, jet-lagged and lost in a new place, following leads which he knows can easily be false. He's killed two men and one woman, and left more for Mycroft to deal with, but he doesn't feel like a murderer, even though he knows he should.
Somehow, the man he's tracking gets wind of what's been happening to his associates, and decides to get one step ahead. He comes at night, when Sherlock's still checking his equipment and lacing up his shoes, ready for another long slog, chases through narrow streets that he knows will leave him exhausted. He's momentarily distracted by the sudden sensation that someone's pressed a hand against his chest, something he gets when John touches his neck, obliviously passing his hand all the way through Sherlock's soul. The feeling is intense, and causes him to shudder, making breathing difficult. He's forced to lean over, hands onto knees, and it's because he's trying to keep his breathing even that doesn't realise anything is wrong until he feels a breeze on the back of his neck and turns to see the window of the cheap hotel is open.
He reaches for his knife a second too late – something pricks his arm and he whips around with a snarl, only to find out the feeling in his legs has decided to go on holiday without his permission.
He's unconscious before he hits the floor.
"Mye?"
"For god's sake Sherlock, what is it?"
"Nothing."
"I'm distracted now. Ask."
"Why do you never want to talk about the souls?"
"I'm just busy a lot."
"You're lying."
"Why do you care?"
"…"
"I…I don't like to talk about it because it makes me feel like a freak."
"Am I a freak too, then?"
"No, Sherlock."
John is out at the pub with Greg when it happens. It's become a weekly routine, to go out on a Thursday, have a beer or two – nothing excessive, and John sometimes doesn't drink at all – and talk about how their weeks have been.
The weather is beginning to warm, and John is sweating in his shirt, surrounded by the crush of people. The only part of him that feels cool is his neck, which is soothed, as if he has a cool cloth pressed against it.
It's his neck Greg's staring at when he suddenly trails off and frowns, squinting in the dim light until John feels compelled to put a hand up to his Adam's apple.
"What?"
Greg blinks and looks away. "Nothing." He rubs his eyes. "Must have been a trick of the light."
John's forehead wrinkles in worry – he's been concerned about his neck recently. Not because it feels bad, or because it hurts, but just because it feels…different. And as a doctor, he's wary of anything that might feel out of the ordinary. It's his emotions too, which seem to be all over the place lately, unrelated to whatever situation he's in; hysterical laughter when a second ago he'd been worrying about the gas bill, a thrill of fear when he's merely sitting in the flat, staring at the wall. He can't find any explanation for it, and he's been considering getting it checked out for a couple of weeks.
"What did you see?" he asks. "Tell me."
Greg swallows his mouthful of beer before replying. "I don't know. I just thought I saw a shadow on your neck…" He shrugs. "I'm sure it's nothing; my eyes aren't as good as they used to be. You know, I'm considering getting glasses…"
Just like that, they're off the topic, and John forgets for a few minutes. As they stand up to go he feels something sting against his arm and slaps it absentmindedly, assuming it's some kind of fly. The pain fades as quickly as it had begun.
He manages three steps before his mind begins to fog. The first thing he does it glance at his bare arm, prompted by his gut instinct reminiscent of the army, but there's nothing there. He hasn't had more than one beer, and no-one's been near his drink all evening, he's sure.
"Greg…" he murmurs, swaying. His legs are numb. "I don't feel well…"
Greg turns towards him, concerned, and quickly helps him sit back down again. John can't feel the seat beneath his legs, even though he knows it's there, even though he pushes his fingertips to it, gripping tightly and breathing slowly. He can't concentrate.
"What is it? Do you need a doctor?" Greg's voice sounds as if it's covered in static; John can barely make out the words. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but it doesn't work, and he slumps against the back of the seat, eyes dropping closed before he can stop them. He's gone too quickly to hear Greg shouting for help.
Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!
To be continued