Chapter 11

John sat on the couch, the clock ticking over head as he stared at the wall. The wind blew outside, making the house vibrate a bit as a faint breeze of cold rolled in. He dragged his tongue over his lips, listening to the silence and the water before digging his palms into the arms of his chair and pushing himself to his feet.

He made his way over to the window, his eyes staring out over the inch or so of snow that covered the ground. He was still rather amazed at the pure white of it all. He'd never been one to see Bristol get much snow, but here, it seemed to accumulate, and coupled with the nature of things, it was all very beautiful. The house seemed colder than it had before, and he was sure that it wasn't completely due to the weather outside, although there was snow. It was a different kind of cold. A lonely cold that he had experienced for a year after Mary had died. A cold that he had been plagued with until he met Sherlock in the first place, and now it was back.

He sighed, watching his breath collect on the glass in a fog that lingered for more than a few minutes. It wasn't until the rushing of water reached his ears as the ocean came up on the shore, covering the grate that Sherlock had pointed out to him only two months prior. He could hear a faint splashing, his interest perking a bit. That was right, anything that fell down inside of that hole ended up in his basement.

Turning he made his way into the kitchen, listening for any noises that could indicate he was getting closer. Come to think of it, he didn't even know where the basement door was. He hadn't seen anything at all during his trip around the house that he didn't dismiss as being a supply closet. But just to be sure, he went through, opening all of the doors big enough to possibly pass off as a door to a basement. When that proved fruitless, he made his way to the office and sat down. He began thinking in the warmth the surrounding books had to offer.

Sherlock was a detective in his life, one who was working for Scotland Yard, one with an eye for details. His work was important and no doubt, for his eyes alone. So naturally that would mean that the door to the basement was hidden.

Leaning back in the chair he began to ponder where it could possibly have been, when suddenly his seat tipped back, spilling him out onto the floor, hitting his shoulder off of a shelf. The entire shelf rattled, even though it was built right into the wall, but only one of the book shelves did so. He stopped and looked back, his hand rubbing at his injured shoulder gingerly.

Turning around he pushed himself to his knees and examined the shelf closer, moving a few books out of the way. That was when he saw it. A small metal handle. Grabbing it he attempted to slide it over to the side, but with the movement of his pulling, it swung open just a little. "Oh, you have got to be shitting me." John muttered, staring at it as it slid out just an inch. Pushing himself to his feet he grabbed the shelf with a stronger grip and pulled it out.

The heavy wood swung open with a creek, behind it was a set of steep, spiraled stairs and cement walls as they hit the foundation. John stared at it in awe, not being able to shake how absolutely ominous that dark shaft with spiraled metal stairs seemed. Swallowing he took a deep breath and made his way down.

It was dark, no light-switches on the wall. Although it didn't surprise him, it was a hidden room, whether it was completely void of electricity or not was an answer better left to the detective.

It took a good two minutes to reach the bottom where the room opened up into a huge, cement like box. The mustiness of it's long term non-usage was almost nauseating, but the smell of the sea water freshened things up a bit. He looked around, for it being a hole in the ground, it was pretty well lit for some place without windows. The main room was about the length of a living room with cement walls, floors and roof. There were a few irrigation looking grates along the walls, but other than that it was fairly empty, save for the single flood of light coming down through the grate that led to the beach, and beneath it, a bathtub.

John's throat swelled up a bit as he stared at it. It was overflowing, pipes all over the place, weaving in and out of the other rooms. But that wasn't what caused his heart to freeze up like a water balloon in a freezer. Sitting in the tub, pale almost blue skin, hair wet and sticking to his forehead was the very person he had been missing for the past two months. He hesitated, attempting to swallow the lump that formed in his throat before speaking, but the ghost beat him to it.

"Pardon the bookcase, I've always been privy to that particular cliché." His voice was gruff and deep. John couldn't help but wonder just how long Sherlock had been down here, sitting naked in an old...rotting tub. Had he been down here the entire two months? Or was this just a place he'd been spit out of whatever existence he was sucked away to?

"What are you doing down here?" John questioned, feeling the cold come in, some of the water freezing to the pipes, creating icicles.

"Contemplating." The detective replied, another gush of water coming in, pouring a bucket or so of water in on his lap, sending a shiver up his spine.

"Contemplating?" John's forehead crinkled. Something was off with the detective. There was something dark about him, something...simple and ominious.

"You shouldn't be down here." Sherlock replied, sinking deeper into the tub, pulling his arm off of the porcelain siding, his skin stretching before ripping. John winced, looking at it as the blood began to well up on the wound and drip, joining the water that surrounded him. Suddenly a movement caught his attention. John whirled around, looking farther down a long concrete hall. There was a flicker of light, possibly a lamp or something that had been turned on.

"What was that?" John questioned, turning to go see what it was until Sherlock spoke.

"Don't let your curiosity get the best of you John," He sank his arms into the water by his sides before lifting them up, watching his blue fingers shiver and freeze. "Or you'll find yourself joining me really soon." John stopped, looking back. A small voice in the back of his head began telling him not to be an idiot. Telling him to turn his ass around and go right back upstairs, lock the door and think of ways to burn that basement to ashes. Another movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye, running past him as if there was something playing ring-around the rosie and staying forever on the cusp of his peripheral vision.

"Sherlock what the hell is down here with us?" John questioned, his voice shaking, when suddenly the sound of metal hitting the floor echoed through the rooms. He jumped, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest.

"I was thinking..." The ghost began, staring into the water and the sand that surrounded his legs, his body flickering a bit as if threatening to blink out of existence. "about what you said about me passing over." A body came out of nowhere, unseen as it smashed into John's side and skittered away. The doctor gasped, tripping over a wooden box of equipment, almost hitting the floor.

"Sherlock what the hell did you do down here?" John panicked, noting rust like substances on some of the sharper tools.

"What will it take for me to pass over? I mean, I've been wondering, what it was that is keeping me here. What is it I need to achieve for me to pass over as it is apparent that I am nothing but a burden to you." The ghost muttered to himself, his face warping for a moment.

"Sherlock," John squeaked, trying to keep his wits about him as another figure ran past him.

"Not now John, I'm thinking." He pressed his fingertips to his temples, sinking down into the bathtub farther. A hand grabbed the back of the doctor's leg, causing John to whirl around. At his feet was a twisted, mangled corpse, wrapped in black hair, a protruding, broken neck and no legs. Most of it's face was burned, save for that large toothless hole where it's mouth would be. John quickly ripped his leg back, stumbling back towards the tub.

He felt safe in the light as the figures seemed to morph out of the darkness. Some mangled, some more obvious than others who they were and what they were. Some curled up in corners and shivered. One stood facing the wall, pounding his head off the concrete, each withdrawal from it causing a long, gooey strand of blood that splattered as it rammed it's forehead forward again.

"Sherlock, what the hell are they?" John whimpered, staring at them all. It was like he was trapped in a horror movie. Silent Hill had nothing on the shit that was unraveling in front of him. The ghost sighed, looking up at him, his eyes on the back of John's jumper.

"You know the saying 'everyone has their demons'?" He questioned. John turned, looking at him shocked before turning and looking at them all.

"These are all you?"

"Splinters of me." Sherlock corrected him. "6 or more. Some more dangerous than others. Like my own personal collection of 'skeletons in my closet'." He smiled almost proud of them, his eyes dark. "I have ended up in a few dark places. Sometimes I can't take it and I try to kill myself." He stopped, his lips parted before pulling up in a bitter sneer. "Well, I used to before I found that it was a pointless waste of time. Now I just...do it to pass the time." He pushed himself up, stepping out of the tub, his flesh black where it was under the water. John stared at in, his stomach starting to coil in on itself.

"You...kill yourself to pass the time?" John questioned.

"In many ways." He beamed, crossing his frozen arms in front of him. "For instance, look at that lovely bit, desperately smashing his own head in." He pointed. John looked, feeling sick with every crunch, blood gushing from his nose and eyes, running down his chin, neck and chest. "22 years after I died, I became so overwhelmed with boredom, grief and anger, I sat down here and smashed my head off of the wall. It took 3 days for my body to be completely drained of my energy. I crashed, woke up down here." He explained. "I've been to many dark places, had my moments of anger and desperation since I died. It becomes overwhelming, you expel it, it ends up here as a malevolent shard of yourself." He smiled. "Any spirits you hear of that are malevolent. Pushing you, possessing people, killing them in their sleep? Chances are you're now standing in an area where someone was murdered and their grief consumed them and all of those lovely spirits that are trying to kill you are all of their little broken pieces that resulted from that lovely shattering of any hope they once held." John stared at them as he spoke, his heart hurting even more now that he knew the story behind it.

"So...ghosts can die." Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at his spawns that he had been so proud of until now. The realization hurt. That's what he was doing, with every shard, every splinter of his life that he was leaving down here, every twisted representation of himself he disconnected from, he was dying. They stood in silence for a long moment, not saying anything as their eyes ran over, looking at the bodies who wanted to approach John but for some reason couldn't. Finally, it was John who broke the silence, looking at the detective. "Listen, what I said before, the night after the party...I didn't mean any of it." he spoke quietly, jumping when a loud agonized shriek echoed from down the hall.

"No?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled, his lips puckered as he listened to his own screams. "A human being says what they really feel in the midst of anger, so I know you meant it." He turned, looking at the doctor, although he kept his head turned at just an angle to remain averted. "I have been trying...to find a way to cross over. Because you're right." He rubbed his wrinkled, black frozen skin, watching it tear and flake off as he winced in pain.

"No, I'm not right and I didn't mean it." John insisted, looking up into his pale, marble blue eyes. "When I get into arguments like that I don't say what's on my mind, I...dig down for the things that will hurt you the most and I fling them in your face." He admitted, feeling disgusted as he did so. "I was so...riled up about you bringing Mary into it that I just...I didn't want to beat you down with my fists so I did so with words and I felt like an asshole even before you disappeared." he crossed his arms, sitting on the edge of the tub, ignoring the freezing cold water as it soaked in through his pants. Sherlock didn't say anything, recognizing the fact that what he said made sense.

John was clever. He was clever, and he was cunning and he was sassy all wrapped up into a single ball of retired Military physique and decorated with the wrapping paper composed of innocent jumpers. John could be silver tongued at his best of times, painfully sarcastic as his worst and all together, very defensive. It all made perfect sense.

"How much of Halloween do you remember?" Sherlock questioned after a few minutes more of silence. John went a bit rigid, his tongue idly gliding across his bottom lip as he attempted to find a way to respond.

"Before or after you vanished?" He questioned, not expecting Sherlock to actually answer. "Well, I didn't remember much before our argument. After you left I did a little bit of recollection and uh...well..." He cleared his throat, now feeling awkward as he looked at Sherlock's frostbitten skin and remembered how warm it felt beneath him.

"You were intoxicated." Sherlock admitted, as if attempting to defend John to himself. "And I was exhausted, intoxicated and of course, dead. I think it's safe to say our better judgment was impaired." He peeled a big chunk of the flesh off, making John shutter in disgust.

"Would you please not do that?" He grimaced, looking at the taller man next to him. Sherlock looked at him curiously, not really understanding what he was talking about until he looked down at the pussing wound he'd peeled open.

"Sorry." He put his hands down. "How long have I been out?" He questioned, rubbing his hands up and down his arms as the hole began to slowly heal itself. "According to the cold, my guesses are it's winter." John looked at him, ignoring the cold as the wind blew in through the hole, causing his skin to prickle up. "How long?"

"A couple of months." John replied, pushing himself off the edge of the tub, his butt starting to get cold.

"Obviously John. How long?" he tried again.

"A month and a half-" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Give me specifics! What is the date!"

"December 15th!" John spoke quickly, hoping to dodge the sudden hostility of the spirit beside him.

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed, looking at him, shaking his head a bit. "now was that so hard?" John didn't answer right away, not sure if the ghost actually wanted an answer or not. After a few moments of silence John looked at him. He was curious, having never really wanting to pry into ghosts affairs -nor have it ever really striking his interest- he wondered where it was a ghost actually went when they crashed.

"What is it like?" John asked, figuring it wouldn't kill him to ask. If anything it would make him feel guiltier for having pushed Sherlock over the edge into a state he didn't even understand -even though it was unavoidable and would have happened sooner or later. "To crash? I mean...you really have no idea what happens in the time that passes? What day it is or what went on?" The detective frowned a bit at that questioned, wondering why it was the doctor wanted to know something like that.

Shifting he took a deep breath, his tongue dragging across his chapping lips. He thought back to his moments while away. He didn't remember much, not that that didn't mean that nothing had happened. "It's much like dreaming." Sherlock admitted, rubbing at his skin, the normal color starting to come back to it. "Or rather, sleeping. You just...close your eyes, you're out for however long you're out and you wake up what feels like...a few minutes later."

"So it's really just like sleeping," Another crash echoed down the hall, a scream following it. John's head snapped up, staring off down the hall startled. "They get rather noisy don't they?" He laughed nervously.

"Not usually." Sherlock admitted, standing up straight, his eyes also peering down the hallway. The darkness around his eyes were fading, his body only flickering a little bit, but it wasn't as noticeable as before. "They're trying to get to you." He said, looking back at the doctor. John's eyebrows furrowed, feeling his heart start to race.

"What do you mean they're trying to get to me?" The sound of bare feet on the cement reached his ears, his head shooting up as his eyes made their way down the hall. Even Sherlock looked up, his body turning a bit stiff. A cloud of black smoke billowed from the pathway.

"Make for the stairs, slowly," Sherlock whispered.

"What, why?" John looked at the ghost nervously, his fingers flexing by his sides.

"Remember when I said the murder of the living done in haunted houses is normally caused by malevolent spirits?" he spoke quietly, his eyes darting from one end of the room before heading back to the billow of smoke.

"Um...yes, what of it?" John questioned, not wanting to step out of the safety of the ray of light spilling in from the grate.

"Please use your head John." He spat, carefully sliding into place, standing in between John and the hallway. A flicker of red dancing along the walls. John stared down the hall in horror, trying desperately to figure out what it was the ghost was attempting to say midst the panic in his own mind. "Malevolent spirits are full of hate, animosity, pain and loss. Naturally they lash out to hurt anything they can, most often anything that resembles their murderer if they had been murdered." He explained when John made no attempt to answer.

"Wait," John stopped, grabbing his arm, spinning him around to look at him. "you're telling me I'm standing in a basement full of a hundred versions of you who want to kill me?" He questioned incredulously. Sherlock was quiet for a moment before nodding.

"Yes, basically." He said with a quick nod of his head. "Not, that it's personal, you're just down here with a pulse and a heartbeat that they despise is all, it would happen to anyone." He explained. John didn't say anything, his jaw tight as his lips pursed, his eyes glued to Sherlock's. His mouth opened for a second as if he were going to say something before closing again, a smile pulling at his lips.

"Nope," Turning he stepped out of the light. He made his way briskly across the room, stepping over a few hands that reached for him from the floor.

"John?" Sherlock looked after him confused.

"Nope, nope, nope, nope." He walked past the version smashing his head off the wall and made his way for the stairs. A loud scream stopped him in his tracks. Turning he looked down the hall where he saw the source of the smoke and flickering red light. A charred, flaming corpse, flaming chunks of flesh falling from various parts of his body walked clumsily but quickly down the hall, flickering. It stopped for a moment, it's burning eye sockets wide as it opened it's mouth, screaming, it's arms stretching out for him.

John felt his heart stop dead in his chest, a couple hands grabbing the back of his jumper. Hysterically, he chuckled and reached down, ripping his jumper off, throwing it at the ghosts grabbing him. "Fuck this, fuck this whole house!" John turned and made a dash upstairs. Sherlock blinked confused and concerned. Rushing forward he watched as he ran.

"John what about your jumper?" He questioned, pulling it from the ghost beside him.

"Keep it!" He screamed. "It was ugly anyway!" Reaching the top of the stairs John slammed the bookcase shut and turned, grabbing the desk, shoving it against the shelf as if that would stop them from coming up. Once finished he pulled away panting, his heart racing as if he'd just run a marathon in a bullet storm. Leaning down, he rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air -less for being winded, more for being terrified.

"John," Sherlock's voice sounded behind him. Panicking the doctor grabbed a book and whirled around, whipping it at the sound of the voice with deadly precision. It took nearly throwing himself to his knees to dodge it, his arms up. John stared at him, panting, his muscles tense. The ghost slowly stood up, his eyes wide, startled but relatively more calm than the doctor.

"Can they get up here?" John questioned, speaking quickly before the ghost could say anything.

"What?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled, wondering why he'd chosen that question over all.

"Can they get up here? Do I have to burn the house down?" He panted, running his fingers through his hair, his button up shirt slightly transparent as it pressed against his flesh.

"No." Sherlock replied truthfully. "Not unless I were to leave the house." He admitted.

"Leave? What kind of leave?" John's eyebrows furrowing, hating the thought of Sherlock being able to leave and those things getting out.

"I mean," He shrugged, rolling his head a bit as his eyes skimmed the ceiling. "If I were to cross over, or I were to leave via flesh vessel-"

"Flesh vessel?" John looked at him curiously now. He'd never heard that term, and he'd never expected a term so unsophisticated to leave the detective's lips.

"Sorry, Possessee." He corrected himself, hoping John would understand it that way.

"You can possess people?" John looked at him shocked. From the way the detective had explained his life as a ghost he'd made it sound like he was stuck in the house as a solid, yet not living entity for all of eternity.

"Of course," Sherlock grimaced as if disgusted at the fact that John had even asked that. "I'm a ghost." He added. "But it's not...easy." he admitted. "There are a few different rules. Like you have to choose a person with a compatible soul to yours. If not you could very well fry both of you. You also have to make sure that the person believes in ghosts. Ignorance is a strong barrier." He explained. "Possessing people also takes up a tremendous amount of energy so if you're going to possess someone, you'd better make sure it's for something important. Oh, and my favorite, you have to be willing to share your thoughts and memories with that person and you have to accept their thoughts and memories as yours." He smiled almost bitterly.

"Have you...you know," John shifted, standing up straight, looking back from the bookshelf to the ghost, making sure the spirits downstairs weren't trying to make their way upstairs. Sherlock caught the glances and rolled his eyes.

"Come on." He turned and made his way to the living room. John followed him gladly. Slipping out of the office he froze, seeing the ghost in his usually donned outfit. He supposed it was more comfortable than sitting around naked and frostbitten. John made his way over to the couch, looking at the ghost as he stood in the middle of the room, running his fingers through his drying hair.

"Have you ever possessed someone?" John questioned, his eyebrows furrowing as he watched the ghosts pale and slightly frostbitten fingers run through his damp, half frozen silky black locks. He couldn't help but stare as the curls wrapped around his fingers before sliding softly between their grip. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his hair pulled back and out of his face, exposing a dent in his forehead where he had been hit by the marble vase. It was a gruesome looking wound, but definitely not what he had died of.

"I have a few times." Sherlock admitted, sitting on the couch, his legs crossed.

"What for?" John's head tilted to the side a bit, his hands idly rubbing his arms as they rested crossed in front of his stomach. The detective didn't answer right away, his eyes glued to the almost exhausted features of the doctor. Licking his lips quickly he inhaled a sharp breath and held it before answering.

"Sometimes using tricks don't work when you're trying to scare someone out of a house. So instead you possess a person and relay the message through them. It's simple enough." John looked down, trying to imagine what a person would seem like being possessed by Sherlock. "They are left unharmed if you choose someone who is compatible enough with you. If not, they can end up a vegetable and you could end up malevolent."

"And they're aware that they're being possessed?" John looked at him concerned. He wasn't sure how he would be able to respond to being taken over by someone else; but if it had been Sherlock, perhaps it would be tolerable.

"Of course. They can feel me enter, they can feel me leave, the only thing they can't do is stop me." He looked down, his fingers rubbing a few of the folds in this pants as he spoke.

"Can you leave the property in the body of someone else?" John asked, licking his lips. Sherlock didn't reply right away, his eyes on the floor as he thought about his answer. Looking up, he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes sliding closed, his eyebrows raising.

"I don't know, I never tried." Suddenly, John's cellphone rang, the spirit looking over at it. John grunted before pushing himself to his feet. Walking over he grabbed it and turned it on, answering.

"Hello?" He was silent for a long moment before biting his lip. "Alright...yeah, I'll be there...thank you." Pulling his phone away from his head he hung up and stuffed it into his pocket. He made his way for the door, grabbing his coat.

"John?" Sherlock looked after him concerned, noting the sudden change of expression, bits of worry on the doctors face.

"Harry's in the hospital." John replied, not looking at him, slipping his coat up and over his shoulders, pulling it into place. Sherlock's expression twisted, his jaw tight as he looked at the doctor. "She's become sick, the doctors assume it's because of the cancer." He explained before looking back at the detective. "What is worse? Being stuck here for eternity, or passing on?" Sherlock didn't respond right away, knowing what John was thinking.

"Being stuck here." He replied. "Harry will be fine, right now, she needs your support and guidance." He didn't believe it himself, but he knew that it was what John needed to hear, even if he didn't believe it either. John looked at him, licking his lips. Nodding his head he turned and grabbed the door, pulling it open.

"I'll be back tonight." He called back, stepping out onto the porch.

"Drive carefully." Sherlock called after him. Pulling the door shut, Sherlock was left alone yet again, sitting in the cold house. All he could do was hope that Harry was going to be alright, and John.