Chapter 8: Apparitions and Absolution

Sherlock locks eyes with the apparition for a long, cold moment. The chilly calculating expression on James' young features stirs a cauldron of fear deep in the pit of Sherlock's stomach he thought long buried. His psyche is bombarded with images he'd hoped no one else had ever seen. He swallows, throat gone dry then angrily breaks the staring contest. In the back of his mind, he can hear a high, nasty laugh; he can see a flash of white teeth as he turns his head to look up at John.

John is still poised over Sherlock, palms planted on either side of Sherlock's head. Though he cannot truly see the ghost, he can clearly pick up on the distress signals Sherlock is sending out, not unlike an animal caught in a trap.

"Sherlock?" he asks, puzzled at the sudden change in the air between them. To him, the phantom on the bed is nothing more than a ripple in the air the way asphalt looks in the blazing midday heat of the desert.

"John, I…" Sherlock tries, eyes darting to where James has now crouched on the mattress above his head. The boy is on his knees, black eyes flashing with mischievous intent. The thickness of the tension in the old room is a pendulum over Sherlock's head: he has a choice to make and it is now or never. He knows he must choose between telling John the truth and risk him walking away for good or lie and hope the truth never gets out. Even though John can't see James right now, it doesn't mean the ghost cannot communicate with the man nor does it mean John won't always be unable to see him. The answer is clearly cut, then.

In the very instant he makes up his mind, however, there's a loud bang in the direction of the kitchen and a high pitched peal of laughter. When Sherlock catches sight of him one more time before he disappears, James' expression has hardened, his thin lips pursed in a tight line.

Sherlock closes his eyes, illogically hoping that maybe his overstimulated brain is just making stuff up. When he opens them again, however, the stricken look on John's face tells him everything. Carefully resting his hands on John's hips to stop him from moving, Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"John, I've something to show you and I cannot do it here."

"Alright," John answers with a sharp nod, stifling the almost burning need to ask Sherlock what the hell just happened. "What about Mrs. Hudson, then?"

Sherlock takes in John's gesture towards the kitchen. "Indeed, there are certainly spirits here, but while they may be strangers to her, they are not strangers to me. As well they are not victims of her late husband."

John frowns and scoots backwards off of Sherlock in order to stand up. "Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock levels his gaze at John for a moment before saying anything else. "My only promise to you is that all of this will make sense once I've shown you what I need you to see."

For his turn, John also takes a moment to compose himself. There is a distinct feeling of being on a crossroads here, but he's also got the impression that it is necessary in order for anything between them to move forward. Whatever it is that Sherlock needs to show him, it must be pretty serious and it is obvious taking an emotional toll on the psychic to do it. John is not going to back out on him now.

"Lead on, then," he states firmly.

0000

John relaxes against the backrest of the seat in Sherlock's car. If he were to call the thing 'well loved' and a 'mechanics special' he would probably still fall short of actually being able to describe it. In its former life it was a Ford of some type, a four door saloon that probably saw its last really good days in about nineteen eighty five. The interior could use a bit of seeing to, actually, John thinks, it could use a bit of yanking out and putting new back into it. The way the engine purrs, however, as Sherlock deftly shifts gears, at least attests to some care paid to it.

Sherlock seems uninclined to speak so John goes back and forth from watching him drive to looking out the windows. The sun is slowly sinking in the sky, John unconsciously taking note when they leave the busy streets of London and head out towards the country. There are less cars on the road now and even less things to see, so with the hum of the engine, he allows himself to fall into a doze.

"John, we're here." Sherlock says a little while later.

John stretches his arms and legs before stepping out into a surprisingly large drive way and turning to face a surprisingly large house. Like the car, John thinks that the house could use some care. He grins when Sherlock grabs a light fixture hanging by the front door in an attempt to put it back into place. It comes off in his hand and he tosses it back to John without missing a beat as he unlocks the door.

"What do I do with this?" John asks as he follows Sherlock into a small foyer. They walk into the sitting area and John manages to keep all his questions silent as Sherlock stares around the room.

"She's not present at the moment, come on."

John shrugs. Sherlock leads them past the kitchen, a staircase that he says leads up to the bedrooms, and down a rather longer hallway than seems possible. At the end of the hallway he stops and presses a switch on the wall. A bare bulb above their heads flashes feebly before finally coming on and lighting up what seems to be an entire wall made of canvas. John looks up at Sherlock, almost taking a step backward when he takes in the stricken expression on his face.

"Sherlock that is starting to worry me. Give me something to go on. Your dead parents aren't stored back here or anything are they?" John tries for a bit of levity, but Sherlock's expression changes from one of pain to horror, though his answer is anything if not cryptic.

"No. Mummy only lives up here." He points to his head. Without giving John time to think anymore, he pulls back the canvas. It kicks up a cloud of dust, then there's a shredding sound and then they are both looking into a cavernous area with black walls.

"That's not black paint," John says aloud then takes a deep breath, smelling and almost tasting the lingering aroma of burnt wood.

Sherlock only shakes his head. He takes another deep breath as if steeling himself against something, draws up to his full height and slowly explains.

"No, it is ash, you are correct. There was a terrible fire here seven years ago. As horrible as it was, it could have been worse."

By the light of two more bare bulbs on opposite ends from where they stand, John stares around the room, clearly taking in how the back wall is missing, though there is most of another canvas tarp covering it. It crinkles and groans as a slight breeze from outside presses against it.

"I'm really not going to like this story, am I?" John queries, walking around the room. He doesn't touch anything, choosing only to peer down at what was once a sofa, a throw rug and possibly something vaguely familiar. He reaches down and picks up what at first seems to be a pile of rags, but after brushing it off with his hand, turns out to be a doll about the size of a real baby. Its plastic face is half melted away, single blue eye staring at him accusingly. He looks up to see where Sherlock is, only to find that he hasn't moved, seemingly rooted to the spot.

"We don't have to talk here." John says, his voice pitched low.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I think you need to hear this from me."

John meets his gaze, the pleading look in his eyes and he can no more tell Sherlock not to say any more than he can control the tides. Brushing off a spot on a reasonably safe looking armchair, he sets the doll in his lap, crosses his legs and says, "Go on."

Sherlock's eyes are already far away when he begins to speak.