A ghost on record

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the characters are the making of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

*A/N* My muse is back and keeps me awake at ungodly hours.
Anyway, I hope you like this one, it was prompted by beccabrrr. I'm kinda proud of this one, although I've got the feeling there's a grammar mistake somewhere. Please tell me if you find it.

Oh, and an imaginary bisquit to the one who spots the Doctor Who reference ;)

Lestrade stared at the file on his desk and read the same sentence for the sixth time, still not understanding a word of it. He was incredibly tired. Not exactly a miracle, he hadn't slept for 25 hours and the solution of the case wasn't coming any closer unless he managed to read this goddamned file… but he was so bloody exhausted…

"Sir?"

He gave a start and looked up. "Anderson? What the hell are you doing up here? There's a reason it says forensics on your ruddy job description, I need this whole thing wrapped up by tomorrow or the boss is gonna kill me and I swear if that happens I'll kill you first."

Anderson looked slightly taken aback at this kind of addressing. "It's just that...I've found something weird on that CCTV tape I was looking at, from the crime scene. I thought you ought to know."

"I'm busy," Lestrade snapped and returned to his file.

"It's about the freak."

"Are you gonna make fun of me again?" He had half risen from his chair before he knew it. Taking a deep breath and slowly counting to five in his head, he sat down again and tried to keep his voice calm, resulting in a strained drawl. "It's been half a year, will you shut up about it? It's one thing to make low jokes and have the emotional understanding of a four-year-old, but it is absolutely unfair and disgusting to keep pouring salt into my wounds when I'm in bloody mourning! I've lost a friend six months ago, will you get your dumb heads around that once and for all? He was my friend. He mattered to me."

Anderson raised his hands and took a step back. "I'm not making fun of you, sir. He's on the tape, the frea- Holmes, he's on CCTV."

The Detective Inspector gave him an incredulous glance. "On the tape from Joe Norris's shop?"

"Yes."

"The recordings of last Wednesday?" he inquired disbelievingly.

"Yes." Anderson placed a laptop on Lestrade's desk and opened a file. The classic CCTV grizzle flickered over the video.

"There, twelve twenty-three. The man who enters the shop. Look at him."

A tall, dark haired man strode through the door and grabbed a bottle of water and a box of chocolates, then proceeded straight to the cash desk. He was wearing a perfectly fitted, expensive-looking suit of a dark grey, posh black shoes and a navy blue tie, which made him look like a banker of some sort. The camera didn't catch his face, almost as though he was keeping it away from the camera on purpose.

"Well, he does look pretty much like him, but-" Lestrade admitted slowly, then fell silent as a loud bang outside the shop's door, presumably the murder they were investigating. The man at the desk jerked up his head and for the fraction of a second, his eyes met the camera.

And even though Lestrade knew it was completely and utterly impossible, he could have sworn this was no other than Sherlock Holmes. He knew the feeling when these sharp eyes pierced him.

Anderson rewound the clip and froze it.

"Well?"

He was still staring at the screen, his rationality battling the evidence of his eyes. "It can't be him," he concluded determinedly. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"That's what I thought," Anderson replied doubtfully. "But is it actually possible that two people look so much alike?"

"Has to be," Lestrade said with a shrug. "Unless you've spotted his ghost."

"Or unless he's not dead."

"Don't be ridiculous. He jumped off a five floor building!"

"It's not like he hadn't fooled us before. Maybe he just wanted out of the whole affair and faked it. So he wouldn't have to stand up for what he did."

"Number one. Sherlock Holmes took the truth about him to his grave, and in the end you're just as clueless as everybody else. Number two. The man I knew would have stood up for it, and if only to show off even more. And number three, I've seen the fucking body and it was him and he had a smashed-in head and most of his blood was smeared over the pavement outside! He's dead and that's the end of it."

~o~o~o~

Only it wasn't. Hours after Anderson had left, Lestrade was still pondering about the man who could have been Sherlock's clone. He couldn't make anything of it, and that feeling the stranger's gaze had given him…

It had been Sherlock Holmes. Different clothes, obviously, and a different haircut. Short, too short, in fact, to see if it was curly or not. And, hard to tell on the CCTV tape, though, it was a tad lighter than Sherlock's had been the last time he saw him. But then again, his friend's curls had been soaked with blood… He clenched his hand over his mouth as he discovered the memory was still making him sick.

But the biggest difference between the man on the tape and the man that had lain on the slab in the morgue - he choked - was the fact that one was alive and the other was dead, no pulse, no breathing, slowly getting cold and stiff. Lestrade started to sweat heavily and the next moment he darted off to the toilet where what little food he had eaten for lunch left him again.

Sherlock Holmes is dead, he told himself firmly as he tried to get rid of the disgusting taste the vomit had left in his throat. Dead, gone, lost. And definitely not coming back to buy himself mineral water and cheap chocolate.

~o~o~o~

27 hours and 42 minutes without sleep. Lestrade forced his eyes open and stared at the dark outlines of his co-workers on the other side of the frosted glass pane. They probably hadn't even noticed he hadn't left the office all night.

And he still hadn't read his file.

He still felt sick, alternated between feeling unbearably hot and shivering with cold, although he was starting to believe the latter was due to his exhaustion.

But returning to his lonely, lifeless flat wouldn't be of any use. Like he could sleep now.

No, he needed to talk to someone. Immediately. He glanced at his watch and decided he could call someone without making them hate him for all eternity. But then, halfway through dialling John Watson's number, he froze.

Poor, heart-broken John, who had finally started to look people in the eyes again when they were talking to him. Who was able to smile again in a genuine way from time to time. Who had, despite his limp and the tremor in his hand, decided to shape up a bit. Told him, not without pride, how he was progressing. Who had actually had a date last week.

He couldn't give him hope and then take it away. God knew what it would do to him.

Groaning, he collapsed on his desk and buried his aching head in his arms.

~o~o~o~

He woke up two hours later with a stiff neck.

And realised with a smile that he knew the exact person to turn to.

You busy? G.L.

No, not at all…

Coming over. Bringing coffee. Cappuccino for you, right?

"I know it can't be, but...I could swear it was him, honestly," he concluded quietly, leaning against the table in St Bart's lab. Molly Hooper sipped at her cappuccino.

She hadn't asked a single question as he arrived in the morgue, carrying two cups of coffee to-go and looking like the walking dead. She hadn't laughed at him and she hadn't commented on the fact he came to visit her at eight thirty in the morning like he had nothing better to do.

God, he loved her.

"Maybe the shopkeeper gave you an old tape," she suggested. "By accident. Or to cover up for someone."

He considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I've never seen Sherlock with a haircut like that."

"It could have been a very old tape."

"He didn't look younger…"

Molly sighed and stared at her feet. "Maybe some sleep would help. You look tired."

Laughing, he binned his empty coffee cup. "That's a nice way to put it."

She smiled her usual shy, awkward smile and a light blush crept over her cheek. Oh, right, he was staring at her. He should stop.

"Sorry," he muttered and ran his hands through his thinning hair. "I really, really need to sleep. Thanks for listening to my wild stories, Molly." He gave her a crooked smile and for a split second, he wondered what would happen if he kissed her.

For Heaven's sake, go to bed and get these ideas out of your head. You're old and divorced and overworked and your only perspective is more work. Not to mention you're probably mental since you've started to see ghosts.

"See ya," he mumbled and left unceremoniously.

He didn't see how Molly Hooper sat down heavily and buried her head in her hands, wondering how she got herself into such a stupid situation. Caught between two detectives, the exact two men she had ever fallen for since her graduation. She could continue to lie for the one, or she could break her promise for the other.

After a long, long while, she dialled the number he had given her, the one to call if all else failed.

Please take a moment to review.

(The biscuit goes to anyone who recognized "You gave me hope and then you took it away. [That's enough to make anyone dangerous.] God knows what it'll do to me." from The Doctor's Wife.)