Hey guys! Next chapter up, not sure how quickly these are going to be getting up. I hope you like it so far, let me know if it's too long and dragged out or if it's well paced. I really like feedback so please let me know what you think! :D

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, gazing at the ceiling of his hospital room. He frowned in confusion. He died. He felt himself die. So how was it that he was here, staring at the dull yellow ceiling of the hospital? He moved his head to the side, not feeling the pain he'd felt there earlier. He felt completely normal.

He took a sharp intake of breath at what he saw. John was sitting in a chair next to his bed, his head in his hands. He looked as though he had wilted completely. When he raised his eyes to look at Sherlock, the expression in his eyes was incredibly fragile, and tears were running down his face. This was John at his most vulnerable, and he had never seen John look this vulnerable in any capacity. Yes, horrified, frightened, disappointed, et cetera, but Sherlock couldn't remember a time when John had actually looked crushed. Utterly defeated. Weighed down by grief. And his heart panged with both shame and a desire to comfort him when he realized this. John was upset because of him?

"John," he said softly. John was still looking at him, but not with any expression of familiarity or any acknowledgement that he had heard him. Sherlock sat up impatiently and said firmly, "John." Nothing. He was still staring at the spot where Sherlock had been lying down. Sherlock glanced behind him as if to ask 'What are you still looking at?' and his mouth dropped slightly to see that he was still lying there, but very much dead.

He was surprised to see himself looking so weak. He was sickly pale, with dark circles under his eyes that indicated a struggle. He'd been exhausted when he finally died. He had fought a hard battle with death and lost. But how then…? Sherlock glanced down at his hands….and looked right through them to the floor. But that was impossible! He didn't believe in life after death - it was impractical to believe there was! And yet, there he was, staring at his best friend, but from behind the veil of death.

He stood up slowly to test his theory. He was moving fine, as if he were alive, but he couldn't see a thing below him. Dead and invisible. Perfect. He moved closer to John and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. John didn't appear to feel a thing, just putting his head back into his hands. Sherlock frowned again, but this time more with frustration. If John couldn't see him or hear him, what was the point of being here? Did the powers that be just decide to torture him with watching his friend get over his death? That certainly wasn't fair, or very nice.

"You promised," he heard John curse petulantly.

Oh.

So that was it. These powers that be seemed to have decided Sherlock needed to keep his last vow. But what good was keeping him here if he couldn't tell John about the danger? Sherlock stomped his foot as if throwing a tantrum and gritted his teeth. How could he break through the wall between them? Answer: he couldn't. He would just have to observe, as he always did, and not interfere. Not that he could interfere if he wanted to, anyway. Perfect.

Sherlock ruffled his nonexistent hair and leaned back against the hospital bed. What to do indeed…

I left the room after a while. It could have been an hour or five minutes for all I knew. Mary was there, looking like she was about ready to cry.

"Don't," I warned her, "Don't or I'll start too." Mary nodded, biting her lip to hold it in, but then she threw her arms around me and sobbed into my shoulder. She loved him too. Then I started up with the crying again and it was just an intensely fun afternoon.

I'm going to find who did it and then I'm going to kill them. With my bare hands.

"Come on, John," Mary said gently, wiping her eyes with a tissue and giving a small sniffle, "We can't stay here. It won't do any good to hang around." I nodded and walked out to the car mechanically.

I went for my keys in my pockets and Mary snatched them from my hand quickly.

"But-"

"No, you're not driving," she said firmly, "You just lost your best friend and I'm not letting you drive us into a building."

"I won't - "

"You almost walked into a pole on our way out."

"But you're preg-"

"Just do it." I knew she was being short because she was upset. More upset than she was visibly. Something was off and I was determined to find out what, but for now I'd leave it. We had something bigger to worry about.

I know it was wrong, but all I could think of was At least he didn't leave me alone this time.

Sherlock watched John leave and started to protest before realizing it wouldn't do any good. Guess I'll just have to follow. He tested this "ghost" theory with the door and found with delight that he could indeed just go straight through it. He quickly caught up with John and walked side by side with him until Mary showed up. Sherlock stared at her as if he could burn a hole through her head if he stared at her long and hard enough. Unfortunately it didn't work.

Why was she crying? She did this to him - she knew it was a serious if not fatal wound. She had no right to be upset, and here she was, crying into John's shoulder over his dead body. He let out a discontent noise and waited for them to keep moving. But she's part of your vow too. Sherlock scowled at the thought. She shouldn't be.

But John cares about her taunted a voice in his head And you care about John. He shook his head with annoyance to clear it. Now he was stuck here to watch over a woman who was the reason he was dead. And a man you love. He sighed resignedly and continued to follow them through the hospital. He opened their car door after they argued about who was driving and noticed he couldn't grip it. His hand went right through it.

"Oh for the love of -" he cursed, pushing himself through the side of the car.

"It doesn't make sense," he said loudly, "How come I can go through the door and I don't fall through the seat or the ground? It's illogical."

"Not supposed to be logical, Sherlock. Being dead is not a logical state," a voice said close to him. His first thought was that someone had actually heard him, but John and Mary were caught in their own conversation. He glanced around, but there wasn't anywhere to look. He chose to ignore it for now. Just a voice from beyond perhaps. Or his overactive imagination.

For the remainder of the day he followed his two friends around - or maybe just one friend - and found it more boring than he could bear. They were mostly silent, and John went to the bedroom alone. He pulled out his phone to check it, as if expecting a text, and found nothing there. Sherlock raised an eyebrow skeptically before leaving the room to see what Mary was doing.

He found her in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter, looking as though she was about to be sick. And then she was. And he couldn't help but smirk a little. What would happen if I walked through a person? he started to wonder. He stood up straighter and when Mary had recovered, he pushed his way through her in the same way he'd push through a door - making his whole body go through hers as if it weren't there. She gave a small squeak and shivered, rubbing her arms for warmth. But it was more than that. She looked terrified.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, "What have I done?" He smirked at that again. What indeed, Mary Watson? What indeed…

I walked downstairs after I heard a yelp from Mary and found her shivering and looking frightened. I rushed to her side and asked, "Mary? Mary, what's wrong?"

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and shook her head.

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine," her voice cracked halfway through her sentence and I gathered her into my arms, holding her tightly. I stroked her hair slowly in an attempt to comfort her, and she let me for a minute, before pushing me away and turning around.

"I'm okay, John. Really, it's just the hormones. Messing with my head. I'll be fine." I glanced down to see her hands were shaking. I reached out and gently took them in mine, rubbing the back of her hands with my thumbs. I stared at her seriously before leaning back and pulling her gently towards the stairs.

"Time for bed." She shook her head weakly, looking on the verge of tears, so I led her gently there anyway.

"I'll be right back," I told her. She grasped my hand tightly.

"Don't go." I frowned.

"What's the matter? There's something you're not telling me." She shook her head again, looking worried, but she let go of my hand.

"Be quick," she said shortly, pulling herself into bed and turning over so she wasn't facing me. I let out a soft sigh as I left the room, closing the door quietly behind me. I barely made it down the stairs when I groaned and just sat down where I was, my head in my hands.

"I can't," I said softly, "I can't, not anymore. Sherlock, and now Mary, I'm losing them both and I don't know what to do." I prayed to a God I wasn't sure I believed in anymore. "Help me."

The words 'Help me' rang loud and clear to Sherlock, even though he was still in John's room, staring thoughtfully at Mary. I gave you my blessing he was thinking indignantly And you shot me. He stood up when he heard John's pleading and rushed down to where he was to see what was the matter. He would have rolled his eyes if he had not felt a pang of guilt at seeing John down on the floor, holding his head between his knees.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, feeling a hitch in his throat. Frustrated John couldn't hear his apology and saddened by the affect his absence was having on John. He knelt down in front of him and reached out a hand, desperate to comfort him in some way. But, as it was, his hand went right through him, and John felt nothing.

"For Chrissakes," Sherlock started to curse, "If I can't help him, why am I here?" He slammed his hand against the floor, slightly unnerved by the lack of pain. He sat in front of John with his legs crossed and traced the floor idly. There was dust where he was sitting, in the corner of the staircase where no one would think to clean. John and Mary cared, but apparently not enough to clean the corner of their...staircase. Dust. If he could...but would they notice? Only if he could find a place they would see it. He seemed to be only able to affect the subtle, and dust was nothing if not subtle. Perfect! Sherlock sprang to his feet, leaving John where he was for the time being.

Kitchen. The lighting would allow them to see messages in the dust on the surfaces there. But generally kitchens were cleaner… Sherlock thought quickly… But not if they've been eating out a lot recently because I keep dragging John around! Therefore, not using kitchen table, therefore dust! No, that's silly. Think, Sherlock!

Car! One car, dusty last time he saw it. Seeing a message in the windshield was unavoidable. Mirrors in the house also… Sherlock went to work, leaving a single word on every object he saw that had enough dust for him to leave his message. He would have left Mary's name, but she would have erased it out of fear. Something she wouldn't understand and John would most likely have the cleverness to ask about. Something that would confuse them both, but something John had heard only once before, and would likely ask about it. If it didn't work he'd try something else, but for now it would have to do.

Redbeard.