Once Marie had forgiven Sherlock for stealing her skull out of her grave, the two resumed their friendship without a hitch. Sherlock was more than glad to have her around- his flat was really quite lonely without her. He spent a few days running experiments (Marie was extremely useful in the sense that she could light his Bunsen burners with her pyrotechnic powers, even though she shot him a look every time he asked) and then a few more setting up a website for himself, calling it The Science of Deduction. Marie laughed herself silly at the title, which made Sherlock sulk, but he refused to change it.

A few days of moping later, he checked his website on a lark and found a case. Not just trolling spam, not boring cases, but an actual case. It was about a woman in Florida whose husband, according to the woman, had killed a man over a kilo of cocaine. Her husband was facing trial for the murder, but unless the prosecution could prove that her husband had also been involved in the drug trade (which they hadn't been able to do), he wouldn't face the death penalty. Along with being a murderer and a drug runner, her husband had also threatened his wife's life more than once, both physically and verbally. Seeking to soothe her nerves as well as to gain justice for the murdered man, the woman, by name of Mrs. Elizabeth Hudson, had found Sherlock's website and had asked for help.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, pacing the flat briskly. "She might be criminally liable somehow, seeking to cover her tracks, but it is highly unlikely, which makes this even better. Besides, it's in the States, and I've never been," Sherlock was throwing out his thoughts at random as he whirled around. Marie frowned at the laptop screen she was looking at, the screen that showed the letter this Mrs. Hudson had sent him.

"How do you even know if it's real? This is the Internet, Sherlock. 'Mrs. Hudson' could be a creepy old man from just about anywhere." Marie voiced her concern, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He leaned over and pressed a few buttons on the laptop. The screen switched to an article from a newspaper called The Miami Herald. The article was about a murder trial about to be conducted for a Mr. Keith Hudson. The article detailed exactly what Mrs. Hudson had emailed Sherlock about.

"Besides, I called her and told her I'd take the case," Sherlock added dryly, flopping onto the couch and reaching for his box of nicotine patches.

"Oh, so it is real? You're going to Florida?" Marie questioned, and Sherlock confirmed it with a nod as he leapt to his feet.

"I am, and I am hoping that you accompany me as well." Sherlock told her as he started to strip the room for important items he'd need.

"He's already going down for murder, right? But we're missing a kilo of cocaine?" Marie mulled it over as Sherlock hummed in assent. "If the man murdered is a ghost and if he's still around, I'll ask him if he knows anything about its whereabouts, but I'm afraid I won't be of much use otherwise." Marie settled for, and Sherlock made a snorting noise.

"You are always useful," he muttered to himself. Internally blushing at Sherlock's admittance, Marie helped him pack and went off to scout the residence of Mrs. Hudson first, as she had many times before for Sherlock. It took him an extra two days to get across the Atlantic, and when his rental car finally made it to the small house in the middle of a Florida swamp, Sherlock looked fairly disgruntled. "America," he sneered to Marie as soon as he got to her. "Ridiculous airport security, idiots, all of them, and then there's the issue with the driving." Sherlock nearly spat the word, glaring at the car that seemed very odd to him with the steering wheel on the left-side instead of the right.

"I take it you had fun getting here?" Marie questioned cheerfully, letting sarcasm flow to show her good mood. She'd taken the two days to spy on the lovely Mrs. Hudson, who had clearly moved over to the States from England to be with her husband. She was a darling woman, nearing old age, who was more concerned with brewing a pot of tea and watching her shows than the horrible things her husband had dragged her into. Once her spying work was completed, Marie had spent the day sunning on Mrs. Hudson's rooftop. While Sherlock's mood was as dark as a thundercloud, she was glowing with energy, at the top of her game. Sherlock sent her a scathing look to answer her question as he headed for the house.

"Anything useful I need to know?" Sherlock stressed the word 'useful' and Marie had to hide back a snort. Sherlock was incredibly funny and pouty to her when he was in a bad mood, and laughing only made him worse, which was funny, of course, but not when he was on a case.

"Mrs. Hudson is a doll, a gentle soul, and in all honesty, would probably rest better if she knew that her husband was being put to death. He's done a number on her; I can tell by the soul residue in the house. She has nothing but bad memories here. Once the divorce finalizes and her husband is convicted, she's moving straight back to London. She's fragile, so be nice." Marie stressed the words, sending a cosmic shove Sherlock's way. He scowled at her, catching his balance from the push. He straightened his suit coat before knocking on the door.

The front door opened, and Mrs. Hudson peered at Sherlock Holmes through her screen door, sizing him up carefully. She was very good at placing people when she first met them (she'd ignored the signs in her current husband out of love for him, but that was a different story), and so first impressions were everything. She took in Sherlock's posh look, his youth, and his confidence that was present even in the sweltering Florida swamps. "Sherlock Holmes?" She questioned, and to Marie's shock and delight, Sherlock flashed her a polite smile.

"Ma'am," he greeted her, and Mrs. Hudson opened the screen door, giving Sherlock an affectionate look.

"Don't ma'am me, young man, I'm not that old. Come in, come in! It's cooler inside than out," She invited, ushering Sherlock into the kitchen. It was small but immaculately clean and very homey. "I'd offer you a cup of tea, but it's much too hot here for that, and I refuse to make 'iced tea'." Mrs. Hudson's nose wrinkled as she mentioned the cold version of the British staple, and Sherlock's amused smile was entirely real. He found himself liking Mrs. Hudson already, even if she was a busybody. He could see wisdom and a motherly figure in her, one that would love without being cold and stiff and unreachable. He liked it.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he told her, and Mrs. Hudson tisked.

"Of course, dear, you did come half-way across the ocean for me; it's the least I can do, honestly. Can I get you anything else? Biscuits? Cake? Breakfast?" Mrs. Hudson fired off a few options, frowning at Sherlock's size. "You're as thin as a rail, young man, doesn't anyone feed you? Goodness gracious," she continued with her assessment, and instead of being annoyed with her prying, Sherlock found it to be nice. She cared; she was treating him like her own son. Considering he had never been treated as anyone's son, not even by his own mother, Sherlock loved it. Of course, he also craved the attention, but this type of attention was much more real than the superficial attention he received for solving cases.

"A glass of water, perhaps," he suggested, and she tisked again, apparently dissatisfied by his meager request. Nonetheless, she brought him an ice cold glass of water.

"Now, I suppose you'll want to get down to business." She sighed, some of her spunk leaving her as she mentioned the situation at hand. She winced as she sat down, favoring her one side over the other- a sore hip, then. Seeing an older woman deflate like that, especially one he already liked so much bothered Sherlock. He suddenly had a burning urge to solve the case- and quickly.

"Yes. Your husband will face the death penalty if proof can be found that he was also using narcotics, correct? And one kilo of cocaine is missing somewhere, somewhere where it had previously been in his possession?" Sherlock questioned right away, leaving no time for pleasantries, and Mrs. Hudson nodded, running a slightly gnarled hand over her smooth tabletop.

"My husband was very careful. He never brought any paraphernalia home with him, but I know the signs of an addict when I see one," Mrs. Hudson's eyes suddenly became very steely, and Sherlock resisted the urge to shift in his seat. "Also, the man he killed, Michael Trejando, was a drug mule. He wasn't the dealer, but the distributor. The prosecuting attorney has collected the evidence from witnesses that say that my husband was a regular purchaser of his cocaine, but unless we collect more than circumstantial evidence, the judge will throw out the charges." Mrs. Hudson switched into the talk with such a nonchalant air that it surprised Marie. Here she was, a sweet old woman, talking so calmly about trying to get her own husband killed by the law. She had completely accepted her husband's criminal actions and was now focused on moving forward. It was impressive, her strength of will.

"And is Mr. Hudson being charged with battery and assault?" Sherlock asked very swiftly but turned his intense gaze on Mrs. Hudson before looking pointedly at her left hip. She looked at him, looked at her hip, and then shifted a bit, uncomfortable.

"Well, you are a good detective, aren't you? Yes, Tim fractured my hip, but no, he isn't being charged with assault as well. It's useless and will take away from the charges that really matter- and that is possession and usage of cocaine, as well as his murder charge. I have no interest in anything that could put those charges in jeopardy." Mrs. Hudson said firmly, rolling with Sherlock's point easily, even though her one hand gripped the edge of the table tightly, as if to ground herself. Sherlock's eyebrows pulled into a furrowed line. He was caring all of a sudden; sentiment was clogging his mind palace. Logically, Mrs. Hudson was correct, and that strictly black-and-white side of him (which was the majority of him) completely agreed with her assessment. On the other hand, a nagging piece of him knew that part of what she was saying was wrong.

"Please do not downplay your husband's actions, Mrs. Hudson. As a consulting detective, I focus on getting my clients justice, no matter the situation." Sherlock responded a voice that was just as firm, and Mrs. Hudson blinked rapidly before pulling out a lace handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Marie sent Sherlock a look; she'd told him to be gentle. Sherlock ignored her, somehow knowing that he was doing the right thing. Mrs. Hudson made one last dab and then started laughing weakly.

"You are extraordinary, young man, but I really must insist that those charges not be filed. If he's already heading for the chair then he'll be thinking about every wrong he's ever committed as he goes. The guilt will weigh on him, I am sure of it. What matters now is finding the evidence to get him there." Mrs. Hudson reiterated, and Sherlock offered her a tight smile in return. His ruthless need for justice was more than willing to march into that courtroom and offer seventeen different points of evidence off of just Mrs. Hudson alone that could stand to convict Mr. Hudson on charges of assault and battery, but if this kind, strong woman didn't want him to then, of course, he would relent.

"I assume this residence has already been searched thoroughly," Sherlock threw out as a segway to his next questions. He already knew just by looking at the outside of the house that the dwelling was so small that there was no possibility of Tim Hudson hiding anything without Mrs. Hudson knowing or without the police finding it. That meant that he had other places he went to in times of need, in times of desperation for the drug. As an addict himself, Sherlock knew how Mr. Hudson would have thought when he was going about hiding stashes, especially ones he murdered a man for. Sherlock knew exactly what to look for- he only had to ask the right questions.

"Yes, the police picked my poor house clean, and I can't think of anywhere Tim could have gone. He'd be in his boat most of the time, but the police already searched it, and it came up clean," Mrs. Hudson told him, rubbing the table top again, and her one comment sparked instant recognition in Sherlock. He stood up and straightened his suit.

"That is all I need to hear- I should have new information for you by the end of the day," Sherlock said plainly, and Mrs. Hudson quickly stood, recognizing a want for dismissal when she saw it. Sherlock had already concluded that an addict like Mr. Hudson would have a private place to hide his stash- and since he could get farther by boat way out in the middle of nowhere than he could by car, it only made sense that Mr. Hudson used his boat to hide his drugs.

"Of course- if you're sure, dear. You don't need to look at anything else?" Mrs. Hudson questioned.

"Just the boat," Sherlock said blithely, and the older woman blinked.

"Yes, of course. The dock is in the back of the house. I'd go with you, but the terrain is rougher and my hip is in no state to go gallivanting about on boat rides through the swamp. If you go anywhere, make sure you have that map in the boat with you, alright?" She warned Sherlock, leading him to the door.

"I will take every precaution," he reassured her, and she sent him a heart-warming smile.

"Good. Be careful, young man!" she called after him as he walked around the edge of the house. As soon as Sherlock had made the hike for about five minutes down a steep slope to the muddy, swampy river where the boat dock was, Marie appeared to him, grinning.

"You like her," She commented as Sherlock walked across the dock. He ignored her as steadfastly as possible, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders. He didn't want to admit it, but he liked Mrs. Hudson quite a bit. "Sherlock, you don't have to be ashamed or scared of making friends with someone who has a pulse, you know." Marie told him as Sherlock stepped carefully into the flat speedboat that belonged to Mr. Hudson. He waved a hand dismissively at her, as if to say 'shoo'. He was trying to think, and being distracted by sentiment wouldn't help anyone, especially because Marie had hit a deep fear of his right on the head. Marie had been the one person to truly respect him in his life so far. While it was true that she had originally been alive, it wasn't until after she was dead that they had actually become friends. "So, Capitan Holmes, were be this vessel a'takin' us?" Marie adopted a 'pirate' sounding voice after a few minutes, and Sherlock sent her such a vivid glare, his face quickly blushing at the fact that Marie had brought up that sensitive bit of his childhood, that she burst into laughter, spinning lazy circles in the strong sunshine.

Sherlock searched the boat for evidence as the heat in his face died down, but could only conclude that Mr. Hudson only used his boat to go, at most, in a ¼ mile radius around his house. There were no traces of a secret stash of anything on the boat; it was simply transportation, not a hiding place. He had Marie check the vessel with her more…supernatural powers as he fired up the boat and started out in a quarter mile radius around Mrs. Hudson's property, looking for anything that looked like a promising place to hide drugs, but she didn't find anything besides soul residue. After an hour, Sherlock was getting frustrated. The sun was oppressively hot as it beat off the muddy waters they were slowly chugging through. There were lots of mosquitos, and Marie was obviously enjoying the sunshine. However, whenever Sherlock thought of turning back, he thought of poor Mrs. Hudson and her fractured hip. He knew how the wound had been inflicted, and he didn't like it. She had been reclining, probably sprawled on the ground trying to get up, and Mr. Hudson had kicked her in the hip, pressing downwards. It wouldn't have taken much force to crack Mrs. Hudson's aging bones.

"Sherlock- what's that?" Marie asked, stopping her lazy swirls above the water to point to something. Across a narrow channel to their right up ahead, inbetween large hibiscus plants, Sherlock could see the ruins of an old house, abandoned out in the swamps.

"A good place to start looking- look at the beach," Sherlock said, pointing to the shoreline as he steered the boat up. Faint tracks could be seen in the sand- someone had pulled up here a while ago and had stayed a long while before leaving. Sherlock gladly leapt out of the boat and was unapologetic when he asked Marie to use some of her own power to push the boat a safe distance onto the beach to keep it from leaving with the tide. She rolled her eyes at him (he'd been asking for more 'favors' once he knew that she had so much power, the lazy sod) but complied, and floated next to him as they approached the run-down old house. The boards had gone grey, bleached by the sun. The roof was close to collapsing on the front left side, and the wood of the porch was starting to crack in its old age. Sherlock strode up onto the porch like he owned the place, but Marie hesitated. Something felt…odd. Off. "Comeon, Marie!" Sherlock called impatiently, the ancient screen door slamming shut behind him.

Swallowing her complaints, Marie floated up onto the property and through the screen door, shaking her head to clear it. Of course the ghost, out of the both of them, would have reservations about the house being haunted. Even though Marie was dead, and had been for over a decade, she still had those silly human notions in her head. "Fascinating," Sherlock noted, watching a rather large spider spinning a web in the archway to the now long abandoned parlor. Marie shuddered as the beastly thing curled into the center, watching them with all 8 eyes.

"Yes, lovely. Can we move on?" She asked, repressing another shudder. She didn't like the feel of that house, for reasons she couldn't identify. Sherlock snorted but complied, checking the first floor. He found nothing but old boot prints in the dust- someone had come here and looked for a good hiding spot, just like Sherlock was. "Sherlock, maybe you should wait outside- those don't look safe," Marie suggested, seeing the state of the stairs when Sherlock declared that the drugs had to be on the second floor. She suggested it partly because of the old construction, but mostly because she couldn't shake that dread building in her stomach. She didn't want Sherlock to go to the second floor. It felt unsafe to the very core of her being.

"Please. This house was clearly built in the fifties," Sherlock retorted, scaling the stairs with ease.

"Sherlock, come on," Marie insisted, easily floating past him and blocking his way. "This doesn't seem safe. I really think we should go." She pressed, and Sherlock sent her such a piercing look that she found it hard to hold her ground. He pointedly side-stepped her and walked into the first room off the hall. It was very dark- the one window was so grimy that very little light came through it. The room was large, full of old junk and antique furniture.

"Perfect," Sherlock breathed, treading carefully then. He looked for marks in the dust on the floor, determined to try and find out where Mr. Hudson had stashed his cocaine without destroying the credibility of the evidence. Marie shuddered as she stepped into the room, her eyes straining to see into the very back corners of the dark room. She felt stifled, suffocated there, and she didn't like it. The sun suddenly felt very far away. "Aha!" Sherlock crowed, advancing on an old armoire towards a back corner of the room.

"Sherlock," Marie called sharply, stopping him in his tracks. She finally realized what she didn't like about the room. Horror threatened to close her throat as she eyed that dark corner, that corner that was unnaturally dark. Something was lurking in that corner, something very not human. Something deadly. The sound of footsteps made her snap out of her thoughts- Sherlock had ignored her, as he had this whole time, and was continuing his march over to the old piece of furniture. The darkness stirred in the spectrums. A quick glance around her showed that the other corners of the room were coming alive as well. "Sherlock, no!" Marie yelled at him, nearly vaporizing as she flew forward and cut him off, just as a being emerged from the dark, enshrouded in darkness. She threw her arms out in a protective gesture as the being leered at her, starting to laugh.

The room was full of dark ghosts, the very same ghosts Thomas had warned her about. She had let Sherlock walk right into a den full of evil. The very atmosphere of the room was shifting, becoming more terrifying, more oppressive. Marie found herself shining brighter to compensate, whirling to defend Sherlock's back as the dark beings behind them meandered too close for her liking, hissing things at her and sizing Sherlock up. For Sherlock, who could only see the shadows moving and nothing else, the experience was all the more terrifying. He couldn't see the threat he was facing, and that was one of the few things that scared him. Give him an angry criminal and a knife fight, and he was confident to the point of arrogant. When he was blind to his enemy, Sherlock was defenseless- and he hated it.

Chin up, her body nearly trembling with the tension and fear and protectiveness she was feeling all at once, Marie whirled back to Sherlock's front as the first ghost to have wandered forward raised a hand. With a sharp crackle, Marie sent a ball of light power at his hand, making him snap it back to his side with a sinister hiss. "Leave. Him. Alone." She snarled, making her 'ownership' of Sherlock clear.

"Hmmm, you own him, does you?" The dark being hissed at her. The darkness around them literally swirled as the ghosts closing in on her and Sherlock spun in a circle, laughing in shrill shrieks that made her literally shiver and shake at the sound. Thankfully, Sherlock had stayed silent, his eyes intent on Marie. He knew that something was horribly wrong, but he also knew that he was far out of his depth. His logical mind screamed at him for disregarding Marie's discontent and her worries about the old house. He felt his skin start to crawl as what had just been shadows to him before morphed into a heavy, compressing darkness that swirled around them like a dark fog, blocking the meager light from the window. The only light in the room now came from Marie. He had seen her glow before, but she was practically shining then, like a star. He could see the fear in her face, and that made him afraid. He had never seen Marie afraid, not of anything. She'd been afraid for him, but not of anything tangible.

"He's mine," Marie confirmed, glowing brighter yet to make some of the darkness curling by Sherlock's feet back off. The house shuddered at her light, and the dark retreated a bit, swirling faster now.

"Light little ghosties can't own humansss." The lead being disagreed, switching to a spectrum Sherlock could see, his body becoming visible from the indiscernible mass of black he'd been a part of moments before. He was clearly an older ghost- perhaps the original owner of the house. He was from the fifties, dressed like he was from the fifties. The only thing that gave away why he was a dark being was the knife wound to his kidney. To show agreement with the lead ghost, the darkness started to press closer and closer, forcing Marie and Sherlock closer together.

"Back off!" Marie snarled, suddenly sending out a powerful flash of light that shot through the surrounding black in a ring. It writhed and screamed in response, making Sherlock cringe at the sound, covering his ears. "He is mine- now clear out!" She ordered, setting her jaw as the lead ghost leaned closer to her, eyes starting to flash a deadly color.

"Everyone payssss a fee for intruding here." He informed her, licking his lips in anticipation. "The human's life is so juicy sweet- still so newww. Give him up and you can join ussss."

"You can't touch him." Marie hissed back, a furious look crossing her face. The ghost winced as she glowed brighter in fury before turning back to his comrades to consult them. Marie didn't look at Sherlock- she couldn't bear to. Now that she'd refused this ghost, she had no idea what was going to happen. If she'd had a heartbeat, it would be thundering through her, but Sherlock's was beating fast enough and strong enough for both of them, which only made things worse. To the dark beings, it was like an invitation to kill him.

"For you, a special deal. He goesss free and you stay. You'll be just as delicioussss." The ghost offered, and Marie stared at him in shock, her fury quickly being replaced with even more terror.

"What?" She repeated, and the dark ghost chuckled, leaning closer to her. The darkness around them shrieked with more laughter, starting to spread over top of them in a dome shape. As the dark mass of ghosts writhed past Marie's light, Sherlock could discern individual silhouettes, just faint grey lines from among the rest of the dark. Once and awhile, he could see an eye, a face. It filled him with such horror that it rooted him to the spot, unable to move even if he'd wanted to. Marie had been very hesitant to talk about the darker ghosts (and not just because it was against ghost law), and now he could see why. He could see how even Marie didn't have much experience with them and how that insecurity frightened her even more.

"So naïve. So younngggg. The Ghost Councilll warned you, didn't they? Saiddd we were evil and twistedddd, didn't they? A soul is a soul, no matter where it comes frommm. Some ghost souls taste even better than human ones, don't they?" the lead ghost asked his fellows, and they shrieked in approval. Marie took a step back from him, nearly going through Sherlock, expression horrified. She never, not in a million years, could have thought that it was possible for ghosts to be cannibals. Now that she knew, she wasn't sure if she had ever wanted to know, especially when it was possibly her soul on the line. If they took hers, they would take Sherlock's. Her mind flicked through options as the dark mass around them screamed with mirth and spun a tighter web. She could risk touching Sherlock to get him out, but no human had ever gone through the spectrums. Even if she did take him, the dark ghosts could follow, she might alert the Ghost Council, and Sherlock could die. There was no chance of Sherlock running, getting to the boat and fleeing, absolutely none.

That left only one option.

Steeling herself, Marie stepped closer to Sherlock and reached for more life power, more light. She pushed it into a hard barrier around them, a shield. Then, much to Sherlock's alarm, Marie stepped out of the safety she'd created. He watched, half in awe and half in dread as he saw her power up for the first time. Every facet of her literally sparkled with light and she seemed to thrum with energy. Her fingers wiggled and shook as she worked cosmic power from hand to hand. "If you want him, you'll have to fight for him," Marie told them in a steely voice, and the laughter instantly died. A frighteningly savage expression formed on the leader's face, and then, without warning, the dark mass attacked.

"Marie!" Sherlock yelled in fright from his bubble of protection as she vanished from view, buried under a mass of black, whirling fog. While most of it headed for Marie, a few lingering beings pounded against the barrier, screaming and writhing against the light surface as it burned them. Half of Sherlock wanted to throw himself at the barrier in an attempt to break it so that he could get out and help Marie, but the other half screamed at him to stay still.

The black mass that was Marie and the rest of the dark beings whirled around the room, passing harmlessly through furniture. Every once and awhile, a shaft of pure light would escape from the dark mass, and the evil ghosts would scream and writhe, pressing down on Marie tighter. That behavior made it easy for Sherlock to figure out what was going on- the black ghosts were trying to put out Marie's light so that it couldn't hurt them. Whenever light escaped, it burned at them. Suddenly, Sherlock was very glad that Marie had had all the free time in the swamps before Sherlock had arrived. He suddenly felt horrible for getting grumpy over the fact that Marie had been basking in the sunlight as they traveled down the river.

That light could make the difference between life and death, for the both of them.