A/N: Third part, as promised. It turned into an over 300-word entry filled with awful clichés and an exuberant amount of fluff. Sorry… Let me know how much you don't like it, or if you really do!
Either way, I hope you enjoyed all three!
A Ghost Just Needs a Home
It took John nearly two years to return home.
He hadn't returned to 221B Baker Street immediately; it had taken three days total of walking and trying to eradicate or exorcise his feelings. He found he couldn't do it;, he couldn't erase the images or the thoughts beating at his temples. He wasn't some genius who could just delete the utter depression which had festered, hot and heavy, inside of him. It felt like his whole body was numb to the world.
There was only one genius who could ever help him forget his psychosomatic ailments; only one man was worth running for when all he wanted to do was limp or stop moving entirely.
Now, as he woke, John breathed in and then when out slowly, savoring the feeling. Now he felt the life move through him like a ballad. Getting out of my bed he walked to the bathroom, and looked sideways into the mirror.
Only a month ago, he had been a walking ghost; merely acting out living like a bad mime. There had been nothing in the broken mirrors looking back at him then. Now he saw himself, which was as simply comforting as the feeling of connected palms and tangled fingers. He had found his home again, and really that's all a ghost needs. A place, a person, to haunt.
There was only one man, one genius, who could ever fix John. Only one man was worth the trouble of haunting.
"John, come back to bed," the deep rumbling voice, the one he was still getting used to hearing again, sounded groggy and full of sentiment.
It was poetry in vibrating baritone; John decided that sound was the only form of therapy he had ever required to recover. The short man got into bet, his arms falling around the lithe, pale body. He had waited two years to be put back together again by this curly-haired, infuriating man.
He decided as long as he had a body in his arms, a body with a beautiful pulse, he would get better. As long as he had this home to haunt, he would be better.