That night, John woke up sweating and breathing hard. He'd seen it happen again - Sherlock's body whooshing through the air and smashing on the pavement, spread-eagled and broken.

Calm down. He's sleeping in the next room.

But what if he isn't? What if he's actually dead and I dreamt it all, him coming back, everything?

Don't be ridiculous.

But try as he might, he couldn't go back to sleep, and he couldn't decelerate his heartbeat, and goodbye John kept ringing in his ears like some sort of awful cacophony from hell. Finally, he gave up and went to the bedroom, calming down only when he saw the moonlight illuminate Sherlock's face. He was clearly agitated, mumbling and thrashing, but he was alive.

John had seen it before, whenever someone innocent died - the guilt, the nightmares, the restlessness, the sulking. They lasted anywhere from a few hours to a few days, and Sherlock was usually best left alone with a blanket and a cup of tea. But John couldn't bear to leave him alone now, and he slid into the blanket.

"You really are the most human human being I have ever known."

"John?"

"Sherlock. Did you have a bad dream?"

Silence, then a rustling of bedsheets as Sherlock buried his face in John's chest.

"Shh. It's okay. You're not alone anymore. I'll stay here till you fall asleep - and after, if you want."

"I want."

"Good. No more thinking. Go back to sleep now."

Next Tuesday found John struggling hard to stay awake, although it was barely noon. Between a restless detective and a screaming baby, it had been nearly impossible to sleep the night before. He tiredly stirred the coffee, rubbing his eyes; it wouldn't do to fall asleep at work again. The door opened and the receptionist (he was yet to learn her name; she was the fourth since Mary) peeked in.

"Er, there's a man at the desk who doesn't have an appointment, but he keeps insisting that he has to see you - says it's a matter of life and death. Shall I send him in?"

Before John could even nod, Sherlock sauntered in. John rose, alarmed. Sherlock never visited him at work. "What's wrong? Is Rosie fine? Did the flat blow up again? Is Mrs Hudson - "

Sherlock simply grabbed his arm and dragged him out, and he barely managed to mumble an apology to the receptionist. When they were bundled up into a taxi and well on their way to god-knows-where, John noticed that Sherlock was positively bouncing. Huh. So much for not getting any sleep.

"Another break-in, John!" he said cheerfully.

"Ah, another dead relative paying a surprise visit in the middle of the night? That's nice, I suppose. Certainly something to be happy about. If the three on the door is green, you're doing the dishes tonight."

"Fine. Any other colour means you do them. And you didn't sleep last night."

"With Rosie's tantrums and you prowling around the flat like some sort of half-deranged otter, no, Sherlock, I bloody well didn't."

"Hm. Did you think about what Mrs Hudson said? About selling your house?"

A pause.

"Yes. I'm selling it. I can't afford the mortgage on my own, and even if I could...I can't go back there. I don't want to. "

"Then stay at Baker Street." Sherlock turned to face him, eyes intense and piercing. "You and Rosie - you can both stay for as long as you want. There's plenty of space, but if Rosie needs more, I can shift my experiments -"

"Sherlock! Calm down, I'm not going anywhere. Mrs Hudson's right; our flat is the best home I've ever had. I'm staying with you until you pick me up and throw me out."

Sherlock smiled. "I could never throw you out. You do take up a lot of unnecessary space, but you have your uses."

"...thank you?"

As they got out of the cab, John took in their surroundings for the first time. It was certainly a much posher neighbourhood than the ones they'd visited for the previous crimes. The road was lined with police cars, and John could see one or two policemen inspecting the walls of the house. The nameplate read Rachel Evans. Underneath it, painted in red, was the number 3.

Sherlock gave John a guess-who's-doing-the-dishes-tonight smirk, then turned back to the door. "There used to be two nameplates."

The door was opened by a sullen, tired-looking man. "What do you want?" he asked.

Sherlock eyed him carefully, then shoved past him and into the house. "With the police."

They entered a big sitting room, where Lestrade was engaged in conversation with a pretty blonde woman.

"Ah, finally! This is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, they'll be helping with the case."

"Helping?" Sherlock asked.

"Yea, all right, they'll probably solve it on their own. This is Rachel Evans." The lady smiled and shook hands with them. For someone whose house had just been broken into by a corpse, she looked decidedly calm. However, John could see that she was only pretending to hold it together. He knew the signs. He'd done it himself so many times.

"You work at a bee farm." Sherlock commented, looking around the living room. "Think you could organize a tour for me someday?"

John nudged him. "Bad timing, maybe?"

Rachel didn't seem to mind. "Of course I can. Sit down. Okay, first things first: my husband Fred died a month ago."

"Very sor-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off. "You had separate nameplates, and you took his down after his death. I take it the marriage wasn't a happy one?"

"No." Rachel bit her lip and twisted her wedding ring. "We were very young when we got married. Barely out of college. It was all sunshine and rainbows for a few years. But then he made a couple of bad investments, lost all his money, and that's when we first started having problems. He...changed. I won't go into details, but he started going around with quite a rough crowd, getting dead drunk on a regular basis, that sort of thing."

"He used to hit you." Sherlock said softly. "What compelled you to stay with him?"

She started a little at his deduction, but took a deep breath and steadied herself again. "I kept thinking it was just a phase and he would grow out of it. Clearly, I was wrong, but it took me quite a while to realize it. After that, I held on for a few years for Noel's sake. That's my son. Eventually, I decided that enough was enough, and I got in touch with my lawyer to start discussing the proceedings. But as it turns out, there was no need for a divorce, because that night he...you know."

"How did he die?"

"Well, he came home from wherever he had been and told me that he had to go Stargrounds immediately. That's a campsite on the outskirts of London, by the way. He used to take Noel and I there back when - back when we were still a family. Anyway, that evening, he seemed agitated and kind of twitchy, but he wasn't drunk. So he took his car and left, and a few hours later, I got a call from the police. His car was parked near Stargrounds and he was lying a few feet away, his throat slit."

She had to take a moment to compose herself then, but quickly continued in a more steady voice. "Last night, Noel and I were upstairs in our rooms, and we heard some noises downstairs. Both of us were too scared to go check, so we just stood at the top of the staircase and shone a torch down, and we saw...him. Again. Just staring at us from the bottom, and then he turned around and left. I pulled Noel inside my room, locked us both inside, and called the police. We stayed inside the room the entire time, and when the police finally came, they searched the house with a fine tooth comb. But they couldn't find anyone."

She put her head in her hands, trembling a little. John and Sherlock shared a look, but before either of them could do anything, a tall, teenage boy had entered the room and was sitting beside her, hugging her gently.

"Mom, are the police bothering you again?" he asked. He looked up and seemed to notice Sherlock and John for the first time. His eyes went as round as dinner plates. "You're Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. I read your blog. Are you working on this case?"

"Yes, actually." John said, "You must be Noel."

Noel half-smiled at them, gaze flitting between the two, slightly awed. "I'll leave you to it, then. Try not to question mom too much. She's had a rough couple of weeks, but she keeps insisting that she can handle it."

"Go back to your room, young man. I don't want you hanging around this investigation. You don't need the trauma." Rachel said, sternly. "Oh, but eat something, you haven't eaten since yesterday -" But he had already gone back up the stairs.

"Your son's depressed." Sherlock commented. "Has been for quite a while, actually. Is he seeing a psychologist?"

She looked rather startled. "No, he...he's been sad, recently, but no, not depressed."

"Yes, depressed. He self-harms, and quite frequently at that. He kept pulling his sleeve down, and he winced painfully a few times - he doesn't cut his wrists, but a little further up, so that people won't notice. I've seen it before…anyhow, could it have been triggered by his father's death?"

She hesitated and pursed her lips. "It's possible. But not in the way that you think. I think his reappearance last night shook Noel more than his death."

John tried to smile reassuringly. "Look, we really don't want to pressure you into talking about this, but every single detail - everything helps."

She sighed resignedly. "Noel's gay. He told me a few months ago, and he made me promise I'd keep it a secret from his father, because Fred was quite the homophobe. I never would've married him if I knew, but, like I said...he changed. A few weeks before his death, he came home in a drunken rage, and he walked in on Noel and his boyfriend in the basement. Well, he...he starting beating Noel then. Not the slap kind. The belt kind. " Her hands clenched angrily. "I wasn't at home, or I would've stopped him. For days after that, I kept pestering Noel about why he winced like that every time he leaned back against anything, and he finally broke down and told me about it. That's when I called my lawyer to find out about a possible divorce."

John swallowed. It reminded him a little of his own childhood, although his father would never hit a child...he turned to find Sherlock watching him intently. Sherlock looked away quietly.

"Who was the man who opened the door for us?" he asked.

"That's our live-in help, Mark. He's been with us for a couple of months. You can interrogate him if you want, but you won't get very far. He's very reserved."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "I'd like to visit Stargrounds. It might shed some light on this. Could you and Noel accompany us? I have an inkling that you could help."

"Would tomorrow evening suit you?"

"Thank you. We'll examine the house now."

"No signs of forced entry anywhere, I'm absolutely certain you didn't leave any doors unlocked or windows open...that leaves only one option. Someone let Ghost Father into the house."

John winced. "Sherlock, Ghost Father? A bit not good."

"You and your son were upstairs. That leaves Mark, the help. He hasn't been with you for very long, so there's none of that loyalty thing in him. Did he know about the beating?"

Rachel nodded. "He's the one who eventually pulled Fred off."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Lestrade, go get him, then we'll all interrogate him together."

Lestrade brought Mark into the living room, and he stood there, scared and shaking like a leaf. Sherlock hadn't even asked him anything yet, and his eyes were already darting around like that of a criminal caught in the act.

"You let a man into this house yesterday." Sherlock said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. He chose a date and a time, and all you had to do was slip into the main hall from your room and unlock the main door."

Lestrade nonchalantly rattled his handcuffs, and Mark burst into tears.

"Yes, I did, I did!" he said through his sobs. Rachel gasped. "I had no choice, I was contacted and offered money and my wife back home needs it, what with a baby on the way and - "

"Didn't you notice that the man you let in looked exactly like the now dead inhabitant of this house?" John asked.

"No idea. I was told to unlock the door and go back to my room."

"Who contacted you?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"I - I don't know. I was walking home from somewhere late one night when a man grabbed me and put a knife to my throat and pushed me up against a wall. It was too dark, I couldn't even see his face. He just told me that I would receive a letter soon and I had better do exactly as it said - or he would find me and kill me."

"The letter directed you to open the door on a pre-determined date and contained a small enclosure of cash, just enough to get you begging for more. What else?"

"It also had - had - my wife's address, and a photo of her sleeping, and it said that if I didn't do exactly what was asked of me, I'd see her dead."

"Can I see the letter?"

"I burnt it. It said to burn it."

"Dear god, what is it with you people and burning evidence?" Sherlock banged his fist on the table in frustration. "All right, Lestrade, take him away."

Rachel nodded to them and followed Lestrade out, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the living room.

"If we're done here, I'm going back to the clinic."

"Why?"

"Because I have appointments to keep and problems to solve. Illness doesn't stop for a break."

Sherlock's heart swelled. He knew that if he had to deal with John's overreacting patients on a daily basis, he would be out of the clinic before you could say deduction. John was clearly exhausted, and he had the perfect excuse to blow off work for the day, but he still chose to go back to the clinic and help people with their mundane everyday problems.

"You go on. I'm going to talk to Noel, see if I can put a stop to his cutting."

John smiled softly.

"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes."