A quick one today, just a cute idea I had in class one day.
Thank you guys so much for all your kind reviews and brilliant requests! Enjoy!
John had seen the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.
It all started the day prior when he went to go visit Sherlock's grave. He avoided the place most of the time, seeing the headstone always drove the message home that his best friend really was dead. Sometimes he came though, when he wanted to be alone to talk to the detective.
He'd started bringing packs of cigarettes with him to rest against the headstone, and just standing there with them he could remember a time when Sherlock would walk out of the bedroom with a cigarette tucked between his lips and his violin pressed in dangerous proximity to the burning end. His eyes would fix John in a dark stare, a look that was almost sensual. The air would get dizzying with the smell of smoke and the scent of Sherlock.
John shook his head, whatever future that sort of feeling could have led to was gone now. He may as well stop thinking about it.
He let his thoughts drift back to the last time he visited the grave, when he'd noticed that the pack of cigarettes he'd brought the day before had been opened and two cigarettes had been taken.
That, and the fact that he had no social life (side-effect of depression), was why he was hiding in a graveyard in the middle of the night to see who was bumming cigarettes from a dead man.
His legs complained at his current position, crouching behind a headstone a foot or two away from where Sherlock was buried. In the back of his mind what scrap of rationality he had left protested at the ridiculousness of it all. Waiting in a graveyard for a cigarette thief.
That's when a tall shadow emerged from the darkness. It moved silently towards Sherlock's grave and stood there for a moment as if revering. Then it bent down and lifted the box of cigarettes with delicate fingers. John watched as graceful hands lifted the cancer stick to the stranger's mouth and lit it with amazing speed. John was just about to jump out and yell at the man to get away from his friend's resting place when the lighter illuminated the stranger's face for a split second. He couldn't see much, but there was no doubt who belonged to those features.
Sherlock.
John nearly choked, and all attempts at hiding were abandoned as he stood to gape at the dead man who stood before him, calmly smoking.
"Sherlock." He said the name like an accusation, and the shadowy man turned slightly to gaze upon him. For a moment there was silence, and then the quivering red end of the cigarette moved with Sherlock's mouth as he spoke.
"John." He answered calmly.
"I must be crazy..." John's heart was pounding and Sherlock took a step forward with his hands up in a concerned gesture, as though he was going to catch John.
"You're dead." John choked out, and a shadow of the old Holmes smirk appeared on Sherlock's face.
"Very observant."
"You prick. How can you joke about that?" John growled and Sherlock nodded somberly and took a few steps back, away from the doctor.
"...sorry."
John looked at the sad bedraggled shadow and then sighed.
"It's okay. No point in staying mad at a ghost."
Sherlock smirked as though he was enjoying some private joke. Then he took another drag and let the smoke billow out into the night air.
"Will you stay and talk with this worn out ghost?"
John thought for sure he'd gone crazy, but he didn't mind. Out of all of his nightmares and deluded dreams of war and of the fall, he preferred this delusion.
"What can I say...do you want to know how everyone is doing? No that's stupid...even as a ghost you could probably just tell from the way my shoes are tied or the way I've shaved how everyone is." John rolled his eyes, remembering how Sherlock's deductions had once driven him crazy.
"No. That's fine. Tell me." Sherlock insisted softly, sitting down and using his headstone as a back rest.
"Well...Mrs. Hudson misses you terribly. She's kept your skull. Mycroft has all but vanished into his work but I don't care. The sod can die for all I care. Molly seems a little heartbroken, Lestrade is taking a lot of heat at the Yard. He got demoted you know..."
"What about you, John?" Sherlock asked.
"You know how I am." John sighed. "You don't need to ask when you can see for yourself."
Sherlock stared at the doctor with piercing eyes. Then he stood up and stubbed out his cigarette on his gravestone, wiping away the ash when he was done (the vain bastard).
"I'll see you tomorrow." He stated and then he was gone.
The next few days didn't pass nearly quick enough. John started hating the day, the day was full of people that said they were worried about him and the day was full of waiting. It was only at night that Sherlock came to the cemetery to smoke and to talk. The two of them laughed like old times and John clung desperately to those quiet nighttime hours. He returned home every morning, sleep deprived and happy if not doubting his sanity.
"Just one more, John."
John turned to the detective with a questioning look. "Just one more what?"
"One more of Moriarty's men. Then I can come back." Sherlock watched the ash fly off in the wind with vague interest.
"Come back? Come back from the dead?" John chuckled. "I need to stop coming here. I need to stop letting myself go crazy."
Sherlock laughed and for a second John was worried something was wrong. The detective's whole body shook with mirth and then he looked at John with a smirk.
"You don't really still think I'm dead do you, John?"
"You...you aren't...?" John gaped, shaking his head and blushing a little the way he always did whenever Sherlock made him feel foolish.
Sherlock walked forward and slowly reached out to take John's hand in his. John didn't know what he was expecting, he wouldn't say he was so far into the illusion that he expected Sherlock's hand to pass through his and vanish like mist but he certainly didn't expect to feel a solid hand, warm with life, against his.
Sherlock lifted John's hand and pressed it over his heart, allowing the soldier to feel the steady heartbeat. John stood there for a second in awed silence, then he growled angrily and shoved the detective backwards with such force that Sherlock fell backwards and would have no doubt hit his head on his own headstone if he hadn't caught himself.
"Now, John...!" Sherlock began, most likely fearing for his life, but John cut him off by sinking to his knees in order to pull Sherlock by his shirt collar into a kiss. He pressed the man up against the gravestone and kissed him fiercely, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt so he could have more skin to kiss and nip at. Between snogs John glared angrily at Sherlock.
"Don't you ever die ever again."