Chapter 10

There wasn't much that Lestrade could do. It looked like the case was already cold. There were no leads and zero evidence to go on. There wasn't even evidence that a crime was committed, let alone proof. The DI sighed, he knew Sherlock would have had a field day with this one and would have thought of some terribly clever way to solve it. But Sherlock was gone now and wasn't coming back.

Every case that Greg had gotten in the past few days he wanted to run by the consulting detective, only to remember that those days were far gone. He knew that Sherlock had his problems. But suicide? It hardly seemed like him at all. He had lived a risky lifestyle, not just chasing down criminals but the drug abuse as well. But even then, Greg couldn't fathom that he wanted to end things. Especially since life had finally begun looking up for him. He had friends, himself included. Even a best friend. Lestrade refused to believe the things the press had been printing about him. That he was a fraud that made up being a genius. Those people didn't know him, couldn't know the real Sherlock Holmes. But Lestrade knew. Sherlock was an absolute genius that could solve nearly any case. If only someone was smart enough to solve the late detective's death.

But Greg knew that Sherlock wasn't someone who put a lot of importance in frivolous things and was certainly not the sort to want flowers at his grave. He wanted to honor his friend, but there seemed to be few ways how. Perhaps continuing his work, but as a DI, he was already obligated to solve crimes. Sherlock didn't much care for the media or if his name had been smeared either, so that seemed like a wasted effort. But there was something, or rather, someone, he cared very deeply for indeed. And John cared just as much for him as well.

After the initial investigation of the flat, Lestrade's hands were tied. There was nothing more he could do other then fill out a report and wait for something more to happen. But there was also the matter of John Watson to consider. It was the last case that he had agreed to go on with Sherlock, and he knew that John was intending to go through with it. He let Sally get a head start to their squad car and waited for John.

Greg placed a hand on John's shoulder as he exited the room, "I know you're not intending to let this go unsolved. But, er, do you have any plan?"

"Well, Sherlock's plan was to steak the place out. Stay in the flat and wait to see if anything happened. Besides, since it's a case, I'm sure the rent is free for a while as long as I'm investigating." He wasn't sure what his plan might be if nothing ever turned up.

"Right," Lestrade kept his hand firmly on him. He believed that John might not want to return to his own flat where there were countless items to remind him of their late friend. "If-" he nervously licked his lower lip, "if there's anything you need, even from your flat, I'll be happy to grab it for you."

John looked rather surprised by that, "Oh, its not that big a deal, really." Although it would have been a better idea to grab at least one night's worth of supplies before he and Greg had headed over earlier.

"I mean it John. Even if you want me to stay over, here or at the flat, anywhere really, it's all fine."

'Oh,' John thought, this was about Sherlock. That first day, after Sherlock had… he had spent the day at Greg's place sobbing so hard that he could hardly remember anything that had happened. Greg had of course offered to let him spend the night, but for some reason he had insisted upon going home. He had felt drawn there even. Of course Greg had been worried, had been mourning on his own even. "That's…" He wanted to say more then necessary, he really did. Besides, what if the DI thought he was utterly bonkers for thinking perhaps Sherlock might still be around? "That could be nice, actually." John let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He had felt so impossibly lonely. He hadn't been holding up at all.

Greg smiled, though there was some sad element just behind his eyes and the way he forced the corners of his mouth up. But he was trying, after all. "I'll stop by my place too and grab a few things. You can come with if you like, or-"

"That's alright, I'll stay here, check the place out a bit more and talk to Rogers. Might make a trip to Tescos, even."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Lestrade promised, patting him on the back.

Sherlock smiled from where he had been leaning against the wall. John needed looking after, and admittedly, he had missed the DI as well. Perhaps it was time he started branching out and trying to contact others.

Daniel Rogers was rather shaken up that the police had come by. He had been out at the time of the initial report and came back to the place surrounded by police cars. It didn't exactly help him settle his nerves which had already been on edge.

John awkwardly sat across from him, drinking a cup of tea as he watched Daniel stress eat what seemed to be the entire contents of his cupboard as he rambled on and on about his life. John wasn't quite sure how any of this was related to the case, but listened politely.

Roger's sighed, "Then I cant even rent these damn rooms out. It's like I'm cursed or something." He seemed utterly exasperated.

Were curses real? John wasn't honestly sure. Last week he would have assured Daniel that he was being ridiculous and that was impossible. But now, well, he wasn't sure what was and wasn't real anymore. "I'm sure that's not the case," he attempted a chuckle that probably came out as more of a nervous reaction. "Besides, there's sure to be an answer to this and I'm here to solve it."

"Thank you Dr Watson, you have no idea how much this means to me." Daniel looked as though he were on the verge of tears. "I don't want to be a failure of a land lord as well."

John really hoped this awkward bit would be over soon. "I was going to stake the place out tonight, see if there is anything to be, uh, seen."

"That would be perfect! I really cant thank you enough. I'm sort of too afraid to stay there myself…" Daniel ate another biscuit. "I couldn't possibly handle the stress. In those creepy rooms, all alone, waiting for any strange noise to occur knowing that everyone else has left in what seemed like terror. Maybe it's even some crazed psycho by sounds of that witness today. Maybe's he's even waiting to-"

John cleared his throat loudly. Thank goodness Lestrade had offered to spend the night with him, not that he wanted to admit that he was already getting spooked. But now that ghosts were more then something in a cheesy horror film to him, he didn't really want to find out if there were vile spirits floating around the world. Especially in bedrooms he planned on sleeping in. "Well, I'm sure it will all be sorted out soon enough."

Daniel beamed and suddenly took John's hand to shake it with both of his own. "This is really great of you. Take all the time you need and I'll check in on you in the mornings. Will Mr Holmes be here soon?"

"Er," John was dreading this. He really didn't want to lie to Mr Rogers, but things just kept happening to imply that Sherlock was incidentally not dead. "The thing is-" Miraculously, John's phone dinged with a text at that time.

"Ah, that's probably him now. Well, I should let you get to work. Don't hesitate to call if there's anything you need." Daniel gave John an overly hard pat on the shoulder.

"Uh Thanks, I'll keep that in mind. I should really be going off to investigate now." He showed himself to the door and sighed in relief once he was outside. He really didn't want to go through all the awkwardness of explaining about Sherlock right now.

John pulled his phone out and swiped it open. It was just Greg texting about anything he might need from the flat.

Greg's flat was an absolute mess after Sherlock had died. There were old case files laying all about from cases he had the late detective help him with. Each one of them were only solved because Sherlock was there for input. There was no way one person could possibly faked that much work. He had to right this, however he possibly could.

He made quick work of packing for the night, grabbing just the essentials and a few open cases he thought he might a review for the hundredth time while there.

On his way to 221b he messaged John about what he would need from there and where he might find it. He was grateful that the reply was quick to come.

'A change of clothes would be nice, those will be in the upstairs dresser. A phone charger and my laptop would be nice too, if that's not too much trouble.' –JW

'Sure thing. If there's anything else, don't hesitate to ask.' –GL

It didn't take him long to get there and Mrs Hudson was more then happy to unlock the door for him. He didn't have much time to look around before and he knew Mycroft would likely be pestering him about anything concerning in the flat. But John had actually seemed… surprisingly well. He certainly wasn't holed up and unwilling to come out at least. He would be ok, he was sure of it.

That was when he saw it.

A freshly unboxed Ouija board to the side of the coffee table.

"Damn." Greg had really though that John was doing ok. But he didn't want to report in to Mycroft about this. It just felt dirty. When it has just been Sherlock he would report about, it was for a good reason. He couldn't let him get back into drugs or any other risky behavior. But thus was John. Mycroft had no right to know. Lestrade let out a sigh. He didn't want to ask John about it either.

He decided to just quickly grab the items requested and go.

John had begun his search of the flat, looking for anything potentially suspicious or that might aid him in his investigation. There wasn't much, but it seemed a few odd items had been left in the flat from previous tenants. Three quarters of a container of salt drew his interests in case it was in fact paranormal activity they were dealing with. But he feared lining any doors with it, in case Sherlock would be trapped. Besides, he wasn't sure if the Internet was just listing off any old wives tale, or if it actually worked.

John was rifling through a closet when he found some old board games. He had wanted a way to more directly contact Sherlock still, but he was out of luck. There was no Hasbro Company Ouija board in there. After all, seemed like an odd thing to be sold as a toy. There was however, a scrabble set. Which gave John a promising idea.

He had turned on every light in the flat, making sure it was as well lit as possible. There were no signs of a break in at all, and given that whatever was going on seemed to be repeating its self for all the tenants, it was possible the perpetrator had another way of getting in.

John sat on the edge of the bed. It wouldn't be long before the sun would start to dip down and there wasn't much he could do but wait for Greg to come back.

"This is boring." Sherlock shouted, not that anyone could hear him. But there was nothing at all to do. He couldn't even shoot a gun at the wall talk to John. What was the point of being there if he wasn't really there? Even dramatically flopping down on the bed had no effect. The sheets were exactly the same as before and John was unmoving.

It was odd, in fact. It seemed that even back at 221b he had more effect on the world around him. After all, he had turned that tv on and broken a mug just that morning. It had taken a great deal of effort to build up to that. But now he couldn't even open a closet door or properly wrinkle up a bed sheet. Something had changed.

"John?" There was of course no answer. "JOHN?!" Sherlock tried yelling at the top of his lungs to no avail.

"SHHHH!" A shushing sound came from a room over.

Sherlock bolted upright. John hadn't noticed the sound. He seemed to be idly fiddling with his phone. Had someone come in when he wasn't paying attention? No, that made no sense. John should have responded. No one should have heard him anyway, not if John still shouldn't hear him.

He quietly stood, walking to the doorway of the bedroom and peering out into the hall. There was no one there. He stepped back inside and without warning the lights began to flicker softly.

John looked up, confused for a moment. Perhaps the building just needed new wiring. He looked back at his phone, checking his email and mass deleting media outlets asking for interviews on his late friend.

A slow creaking came from behind him. Sherlock's head immediately shot over to it. The closet door had come open again.

John looked around. There was nothing that would have caused it to just open like that. Could it have been? "S-Sherlock? Is that… is that you?" Did he want him to investigate it further?

"John no! I don't know what's going on, but I definitely am not causing this…" He didn't see any logical way of getting that message across to him though.

John stepped towards it, peering inside at the mostly empty closet and the old rope that was still there.

"Don't go in there!" Sherlock somehow thought that if he yelled his words, John would be better at picking up on his message. But obviously this wasn't working. He tried pull at John's arm to stop him, but his hands only went through him.

But now that he was closer to the closet, he could feel it. There was something coming off the rope. It had looked ordinary enough at first, but it was different. He reached out to touch it and immediately pulled back. It was as though he had just been scolded by something exceptionally hot. He looked down at his hand, but there was no marking. Sherlock reminded himself that his form was really some sort of illusion he simply controlled, of course there would be no physical mark.

He looked at the rope again, there was something there. Something coming off the thick chords. Sherlock squinted his eyes. It was like heat on pavement on a hot summer's day. It was a though his eyes were only beginning to adjust to the world around him.

John stepped further in. "Could be a hidden panel in here, is that what it is?" He tried carefully tapping on every surface he could.

Sherlock huffed. Why was John so dense? Something could have been luring him into the closet.

"Perfect." An unfamiliar voice rang out and again John paid no response.

Sherlock's head whipped around just in time to see someone, perhaps something mere meters away from them. It was humanoid, but entirely cast in inky shadow.

The door slammed shut on John. He immediately turned to attempt the handle, but it refused to turn. He slammed on the door and screamed out for help. There was no way Sherlock would have don't this to him.

Sherlock was furious. "Who are you?!"

John froze, his hand even letting go of the door handle. That was Sherlock's voice just outside of the door.

A low chuckle came, one that John couldn't recognize. "Lost your conduit?" The inky smear of a person faded into nothing at that.

Sherlock didn't have time for this. John was panic and- no? John had stopped actually? The detective tried the handle, but it barely moved. "Shit."

John couldn't even make out where the door handle was in the pitch dark of the tiny closet. He could only see a bit of light seeping through from the door crack on the floor. Two thin striped blocked part of the light. Legs? No. No no no.

"That was your voice…"

Sherlock blinked. Was John… talking to him? "John?"

There. Just then. John could make out a almost unperceivable whisper. But it was Sherlock. He was sure of that much. But, who had he been yelling at then?

"I'll get you out. Don't panic."

"Don't leave!" John shouted. Suddenly terrified that whatever had allowed him to hear Sherlock this once wouldn't be around again later. "I… I might never hear your voice again." He was glad no one could see him like this. Tears streaming down his cheeks as he was locked in a closet.

Sherlock spread his fingers out the door, wishing he could be face to face with John right now. But he couldn't even slip through solid surfaces now.

"I'll still come to you in dreams." Sherlock promised.

"That's really you in them?" John held a hand over his mouth. This couldn't be real. Maybe he had checked on the closet and tripped. Accidentally locked himself in and was now having a psychotic break.

Sherlock would do anything to get John out of harms way right now. "Please John. I know what you're thinking. Stop. I have to get you out."

John's hand found the door know again and grasped it. An electric jolt seemed to go through it and shock him. He let out a little yelp. Sherlock looked down and released the handle as he realized what happened.

"Conduit…" John repeated whatever that strange voice had said. "You need a conduit." That was one of those pseudo science terms he had heard online while researching.

It seemed Sherlock was somehow able to follow him to work and the morgue before. But if he was still trying to build up energy for communication, he needed an object to 'bond' to or whatever those ghost hunter people had been talking about.

John reached for his phone to text Lestrade, but found it wasn't with him. "Shit. My phone."

Sherlock looked over at where it was laying on the bed.

"Sherlock… If…. If you're some how really there, I need you to listen to me. You need something of yours. Some item that maybe you had a connection to before. It might help you, er… 'manifest'." This sounded bloody insane. "It could help you communicate maybe."

Sounded simple enough, but how the hell was Sherlock suppose to just grab some old stuff of his?

"I should have told Greg to grab something of yours. Your scarf or anything." He would be here soon at least and know something was wrong when John didn't answer the door. At least he knew help was coming.

That was right, Sherlock thought. Lestrade was at their flat now. There were numerous items he could grab that might have some effect. He couldn't exactly hail a cab down though. Could he even make it to the flat on foot from here as a ghost?

As he tried to think of ways to get back home, the world around Sherlock seemed to fade away into oblivion.

Around him now was the familiar sight of 221b.

Lestrade had finished grabbing the few items and sticking them in a duffel bag. Hopefully it would just be a nice calm night with John. He turned to look at the flat.

"You'll always mean the world to me, Sherlock. Where ever you are, I just want you to know that." He gave an awkward chuckle and dried wetness forming at the base of his right eye. "You stupid sap. Doubt he could possibly here ya now." He reached for a cigarette. He had quite a year ago, but ended up buying a pack two days ago to deal with the stress.

"Those things will kill you, you know." Sherlock smirked.

Greg dropped the duffle bag, his pack of cigarettes falling to the ground and spilling every where as well. "Blood hell… I swear to god Sherlock- if you- if you're still fucking here-"

That maniac would fake his own death.

Lestrade marched around, looking every where for the detective. But came up empty handed. "Sherlock… I could have sworn I…" Shit. Maybe he was starting to loose it.

Sherlock really didn't have time reassure Lestrade right now. He needed to get back to John as soon as he could. He stepped over to the mantle and gently pushed a picture frame on it. It fell to the ground with rather a great deal of noise. So he could in fact move things better here.

Greg was started and immediately searched for the cause of the noise. He carefully picked the picture frame up. It was a picture from one of their cases together.

Greg could feel his hands starting to shake. He didn't want to even be considering this right now. But he couldn't see how this frame had fallen. Where that voice had come from. Why had John been using a Ouija board? No, this was ridiculous. Just coincidences.

Sherlock had a far more limited time frame for convincing Lestrade. Or at least getting him to bring something of his back to the flat they were investigating. He also needed to pick something he would have had a connection to. Multiple things would even be better if he could get the DI to bring them.

He quickly went off to his bedroom, there was probably something there. Sherlock smiled softly. His favorite blue scarf had been carefully folded on the bedside table. John had done that, of course. But now he needed to get Greg in there.

Sherlock looked around a bit more and spotted his violin. But even if he could move it a bit, there was no way he would be able to play it. He slumped in the chair beside it. He was fairly certain he had heard of 'phantom music' before. And he very much doubted ghosts were just playing regular instruments to do it. He looked back at the scarf. It was an odd feeling to see the real one laying there when to him it felt as though he had been wearing it all day. He could even feel the fabric of it around his neck. Changing what he wore had of course been his first experiment in this new form. Again, he doubted very much that he looked remotely like this anymore. Sherlock straightened up a bit. If he could make it seem as though he was wearing clothing he clearly wouldn't be wearing, why not be able to hold something else that wasn't strictly real?

He stretched his left arm forward, palm up to adjust the pegs of his violin. His right hand pantomimed holding a bow. Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment as he imaged that first note and then another.

Greg returned the frame to its rightful place on the mantle when he heard the sound of soft music coming from the bedroom. He thought he must be mistaken at first, but there it was. Gentle violin music. He couldn't decide if this was some prank or what was going on, but seeking the source of the sound was probably best.

The music faded out as Greg reached Sherlock's bedroom. But as he stepped inside, the violin in the corner shifter and gently tapped against the dresser as though it had just been moved. He carefully picked it up.

What if somehow Sherlock himself was trying to tell him something? Greg felt a bit awkward just holding it like that. "Well I don't know how to play?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why was everyone so dense? He gently kicked at the case, which fell forward.

Lestrade jumped at the sound and saw it. "A case? Oh! You want the violin in the case?"

"It's a wonder how any crime will ever be solved from now on."

Greg blinked. This was weird and probably nuts. But on the exceptionally off chance that his dead friend wanted him to do something, he was sure as hell gonna do it. "You want me to take this with me?"

Sherlock flopped onto the bed. "It's a miracle. You figured something out."

"Not sure what I'll tell John when he sees me with this. Oh well." He carefully packed the violin and bow up. Then noticing Sherlock's iconic blue scarf. It was positioned next to the bed of course, where John had been sleeping.

He had told John that he would bring him anything he needed. But he knew that sometimes people couldn't ask for the things that actually got them through the night. Greg took the folded up scarf and tucked it into his coat pocket. Maybe what Sherlock wanted was to make sure that he was still a part of John's life.