A/N: God, I feel like I'm letting you guys down. I feel like I made everything progress too slowly in the beginning/middle, and now as I'm nearing the end, I'm making it go by too quickly. But the truth is, try as I might, I can't seem to write it any other way. D:

I'll try to make the final chapter really worth something, I promise. Hopefully it will make up for these past two (meaning 13 and 14) shit chapters. #sighhh#

Fourteen: Life Doesn't Carry On, It Hurries On

"I want more," Sherlock demands two days following his birthday. "I can't have it be a one-time thing, John. And I can't find it in myself to apologize, either."

"It's that addictive personality of yours," the doctor notes. He fidgets. He knows exactly what Sherlock is referring to, and it puts him on edge, but he tries to mask it with logic, like Sherlock tends to do. "Once you have a taste of something – like cigarettes or criminal cases – you don't want to stop having it as long as it stimulates your mind in some way."

Sherlock smiles that way he does when John is, for once, being clever. "Precisely. It's not my fault that I become addicted to things, which is why I won't apologize. And having you within close proximity, preferably touching me in some way, is stimulating for my mind – chemicals are triggered and it's exhilarating – which means I will continue to ask for more until you give it to me, lest I take it by force. And I'd rather not do the latter."

"Fine, fine," the specter concedes. He grunts as he stands and removes his cap, running a hand through his cropped hair. He can't believe he's doing this, giving in like this. But he also can't see why he wouldn't, considering… well. Considering. "Come here, then."

Sherlock eagerly does so, sliding off his stool and leaving a recent experiment of his stewing in its petri dish.

John takes Sherlock's face in both hands and oddly feels not the slightest hint of shame as he brings the taller man down to his height and presses their mouths together. Sherlock's hands scramble for a moment, seeking purchase, and find it on the army captain's shoulders.

Something strong floods John's senses, and it isn't Sherlock's scent or body heat or anything physical; it feels more emotional than that, and it makes him feel strong and almost alive again, minus having a respiratory system in working order.

He lifts himself up onto his toes to keep Sherlock's neck from craning, and he floats scant millimeters off the ground to angle his head correctly. Sherlock opens his mouth, and John wonders if it only feels like misty fog to Sherlock when he opens his own mouth to lace tongues. Whatever the case, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind; one of his hands slides up to grasp what he can of John's hair, and that's enough.

When they part, Sherlock is breathing slightly heavier than usual, and John touches the heels of his shoes back down to the floor of the small flat, his feet nearly giving out and making him sink into the wood.

The detective doesn't say anything. He simply stares, intrigued, and touches John's face with both hands, thumbs running over the shell of John's form. He leans in, presses a chaste kiss to the corner of John's mouth, and then walks away. He's itching for a cigarette.

And idly John wonders just what he's allowed to transpire.

.:0:.

Some women are interested in Sherlock. But of course they would be; he's attractive and devilishly intelligent and his charms are uniquely powerful. But when they try to openly flirt with him or ask him out on a date, Sherlock declines. And if they ask why, he tells them, simply, that he is involved with someone else.

And John is usually there, witnessing all of this, unseen by any of the women's eyes. And, technically, Sherlock isn't lying.

They don't have a strictly sexual relationship, nor a strictly friendly one. John is a ghost, and certainly not an incubus, therefore incapable of having sex, but that doesn't seem to interest Sherlock anyway. Instead, they are mildly together; hand-holding and cuddling and kissing is within John's abilities, and as weird as it may be, Sherlock isn't fazed in the slightest, and he likes it the way it is. So that's what they do, what they have. And any time spent together takes on a new feel to it, like a date without a specific event in mind.

Sometimes, Watson isn't sure how he got into this mess. Sometimes he wonders if it really began simply with Sherlock turning thirty, or if it was a slow build from long before then. And sometimes he feels consumed with guilt, because Sherlock should have relationships – he deserves them, and might like them if the person is a good compliment to Sherlock – but not with the doctor, because he is part of the deceased and not-fully-here and can't give Sherlock much. And worse still, he is like a secret because he isn't always visible and certainly shouldn't exist, and that isn't healthy for Sherlock; John's sure it isn't.

But at the same time, he can't end it. He loves Sherlock; he knows that with all his being. He has never said it aloud, never expressed it even in written words, but it's the truth. He loves the man through and through, and the last thing he wants is to hurt him. So if it's a romantic relationship Sherlock wants, John is willing to give it to him; even if he does lack a living, breathing body to supply it in full.

.:0:.

Watson vanishes for another three or so years. He's yanked away by that unseen force and pulled along his destined thread to America for a while, aiding another ghost. He wonders why it's always him who does this, or if other ghosts do it, too, and if it has anything to do with being a doctor or around for approximately ninety years?

But it hardly matters. What matters is that he's abandoned Sherlock again, and God, does that smart. It smarts like no physical wound ever could, and it throbs worse than one. John would rather be run through with a blade than experience this guilt and pain and undying worry over what Sherlock is up to, how Sherlock must feel, and so soon – with months – after their getting "together."

John forever feels the urge to sigh and thinks he afterlife is becoming a giant metaphor for the act of sighing for every reason there is to sigh, and it weight heavily down upon him like an anvil.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he murmurs to himself as he closes his eyes and greets the nightmares of his time as a living man like an old friend, despite the gory nature of the bits that are memories of war. "So, so sorry…"

.:0:.

And in his absence this time, Sherlock picks up a new addiction and tries it out for a while, and there might be a few danger nights that Mycroft has to bring him out of, and a drugs bust or two from the Yard.

John isn't there to witness a scrap of it, and it's just as well, Sherlock thinks, because he would hate to have John see him this way, drugged up and slipping in and out of criminal cases, his mind teased and vibrant and dizzy all at once. It's the seven-percent solution, and it really isn't too terrible, but it would worry his dear specter, and Sherlock knows John must worry enough.

But he isn't doing this because John is gone. He swears that he isn't. And he'll stop before John comes back; he'll quit smoking, too. He swears on his life, and Sherlock very much likes living, so his promise is a solid one.

Yet still he murmurs as he fades in and out of time, his solution to his racing mind clouding his veins, "I'm sorry, Watson. So, so sorry…"

.:0:.

When John returns, Sherlock has moved into a new flat, one on Baker Street, under a sweet old landlady by the name of Mrs. Hudson. She can't see John, but then, she seems to kindly to need to, anyhow. It might disturb her. She is a dear little thing, and John likes her. She's like a softer version of Mrs. Holmes, and she seems good for Sherlock.

"I've missed a lot," John remarks as Sherlock embraces him upon first sight. He chuckles warily and closes his eyes, pressing his hands against the heat of Sherlock's back, even covered in clothing as it is. "How have you been?"

"Unimportant. Don't fret over it. You're here again, and that's all that counts. Our lives are mere transport when we are separated. However, our lives are noteworthy when we are together. That is how I see it," Sherlock answers swiftly, thankful when John accepts this with a nod and allows Sherlock to skip over the ugly things John wasn't here to see, and doesn't need to know about.

But, Sherlock explains, he is running out of money and needs a flatmate. That is the current problem, because, really, who would put up with a person like him? He's tried it all before, and John has seen how poorly all of those situations have worked out.

This is when John meets Mike Stamford. He's an acquaintance of Sherlock's, and he says that he will try to help Sherlock find someone to split the cost. Someone in a similar situation, perhaps.

Mike can see John. He can see him because Mike is overweight and accepts that he might die of it one day, and he doesn't mind. He gets to know John. He sees how important John is to Sherlock.

"You know, I know a John Watson from in the day. He's off in Afghanistan, if my memory serves," Stamford remarks with a hearty chuckle one evening. "Probably off getting shot at, the poor man."

"John Watson, is it? There are many Johns, but not many Watsons. I know because I've looked. And I think I missed the recent generations, ones that would be roughly my age. He could be your relative, John," Sherlock adds.

"Oh?" the ghost inquires, tone aloof as he busies himself with dusting Sherlock's flat; really, the man never cleans. "What does he do, Mike? Do you know?"

"Last I heard, he's made himself into a doctor, like you. And I think a captain, too."

"He must be a relation, indeed. A right incarnate," Sherlock muses with humor in his voice, but no smile on his face or in his eyes. "I'd like to meet him to compare the two."

"Surely you don't believe in reincarnations. And wouldn't I have had to move on in order for him to really be me?" John snorts scoffingly. He feels uncomfortable; something about this terrifies him.

"Oh, certainly not. Reincarnation isn't real, of course; souls aren't recycled. But that could mean he is a family history buff and was inspired to go into the service like much of his family before him, and perhaps his talents and interests have always allied with medical science. He could be a great- or great-great-grandson of yours, John, named after you, and perhaps aspiring to be like you because of his name. And for all we know, he might look like you; souls can't be recycled, but genes can be passed down, and that can lead to many of the same traits, both in personality and physicality," Sherlock answers, speed-talking again, but being crystal clear.

"Maybe," Watson murmurs thoughtfully. His processes feel slowed; something definitely throws him off about all of this. He drops his task and feels his form flicker, ectoplasm in his semi-veins bubbling like a kettle.

"If I run into him, I'll be sure to introduce the pair of you to him," the chunky man smiles. To Sherlock, he says, "Who knows? If he returns from abroad soon, he'll be living solely on army pension, and might be looking for a flatshare." But to the third party in the room, he adds, "And if he's anything like you, then he'd be perfect for being Sherlock's flatmate, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do," the ghost agrees quietly. And he genuinely thinks so. And that must be what's scaring him this drastically.

Sherlock looks John over, and he must see something perplexing, because he frowns; and then he must understand something, because the frown disappears and is replaced with one of Sherlock's deduction faces. He turns to Stamford and states, "Ah, well, I think you ought to be going now, Mike. It was lovely having you, but I have a few things to tend to."

This is unsettling. It's as if some vast question is being answered, some prayer is being granted, and it's happening too slowly and yet not fast enough, and John's head is reeling. All this time he's been stuck on Earth, and drifting in and out of Sherlock's life, he feels like it's been for some purpose, despite its lengthy, temporary circumstances. – Oh, that sounds awful. It hasn't come out right at all. But John doesn't known how else to explain it, save for in vague oxymorons.

Comprised of the feeling of being on the brink of something life-altering, John gets up and steps out of the room, Sherlock sparing him a passing glance before saying his goodbyes to Stamford. The man calls out his own goodbyes to John, which John hastily returns before retreating completely.

With their company gone, Sherlock follows John into the spare bedroom upstairs and touches his shoulder. "You're stressed over this knowledge of your descendant and the slim chance he might be a match for my problem. Why? Surely you know that he won't replace you."

The deceased man merely shakes his head. He can't find the words or definite emotions as to why. It's all a jumble inside him, and he isn't sure he can get an ounce of it out. All he feels is this strong pull and the vaguely nauseous feeling in his soul that's leading him elsewhere, but is different than the absences his sometimes takes.

"I might be gone for a couple weeks," John says to Sherlock, speaking at last. "But not years. I'll be back soon. There is… something I feel like I need to see or do."

Sherlock looks skeptical, but he gradually nods. "All right, John. I trust you." And his eyes soften as he stoops to press a kiss to the ghost's mouth, and John returns it whole-heartedly before stepping backward, his hand on the taller man's cheek, thumb stroking idly over that sharp cheekbone of his.

The doctor has decided to tail Mike invisibly for a week. Because that thread that strings John along is urging him to, and for once, it's not to pull him away from London, but to guide him through it, and he can't help but be curious as to why.

And he's positive that it has something to do with the individual mentioned today: his possible doppelganger of the Living.