It Feels like Home when I'm With You (2/2), John/Sherlock, PG-13
Title: It Feels like Home when I'm With You (2/2)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 14050 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John still gets nightmares about Afghanistan. That's the worst part of it all, he thinks -- he still has dreams about sand and drowning to death in his own blood. But they're more memory than nightmare.
Notes: Spoilers for Study in Pink. Written for the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme for this prompt. Ghost!John.
Part 1
“Really now, Sherlock. You've called John on every case you've been on since you met him.” Lestrade holds out his hand. “Hand over the phone, let me talk to him.”
“No.” Sherlock doesn't even look up from his examinations of the suspect's financial records.
He and John are at Scotland Yard this time, under the watchful eyes of half the police staff. Well, Sherlock is. John's inconspicuously reading people's paperwork and computer screens over their shoulders, while hoping no one thinks to search Sherlock and find the illegal gun concealed under his coat.
“We don't know the first thing about him,” Lestrade says. “It's bad enough I'm bringing you into crime scenes. My bosses aren't happy that you've been bringing in an assistant we've never met before. We don't even know John's his real name.”
“Of course it is.” Sherlock's voice is full of scorn. “What does it matter? He's with me. That's all you need to know.”
“What makes you so sure he can be trusted? What are you keeping from us?” Lestrade's suspicious, but John can see the undertone of worry in his voice, in the slight frown he has when he looks at Sherlock. He's not angry.
Sherlock looks at Lestrade curiously. “You're concerned about my well-being. Why?”
“You're protecting him, and you talk to him constantly, but no one's ever met him. Either you're taking him on cases with you, which means we need a background check on him, or you don't, which means you're running off chasing dangerous criminals on your own. It's not safe.”
“Sometimes he comes with me,” Sherlock concedes. “But the details are immaterial. You're not my keeper, Lestrade. You need my expertise, and I need the work. That's all.”
“Well, lucky me, I've got the number of someone who does fancy himself your keeper,” Lestrade threatens, and takes out his phone. Sherlock's eyes widen.
“You haven't! Don't tell me he's got his claws into you. I thought you considered yourself above corruption. Accepting bribes from shadowy government officials, are we?”
“He's your next of kin. Not really something I'd consider shadowy, calling your next of kin,” Lestrade points out. (He ignores Sherlock's muttered “Only because he changes the records every time I remove him.”) “I'm just worried about you. As a friend. You're practically joined at the hip to him, and all we've got is a phone number he uses that's registered under your name, and some vague insinuations that he might be your flatmate, except that you're renting a one-bedroom on your own and no one's seen a glimpse of him.”
“Yes, well, Mycroft has met John, so consider your worries assuaged. At least it's not cocaine. But, if it makes you feel better, I'll have him send you a text.”
John does end up sending Lestrade a text, but it doesn't help much, as John can't just say, My name is John Watson, and I'm the ghost who lives in Sherlock's flat.
But he also sends a text to Mycroft without telling Sherlock, explaining the matter, and he thinks that helps more.
--
John passes harmlessly through most people, barely disturbing the air around them, except in the form of a brief chill. Mostly, people avoid him unconsciously, walking around him on the street without even realizing it, but people in a hurry don't even notice when they run through him on their way to their destination.
But Sherlock feels almost solid to the touch. John can bump his shoulder against Sherlock's while they're walking, or put out a hand to stop him when something seems off. He can clean Sherlock's cuts and bandage him up after a case, and John is just almost solid enough to support his weight when he can't stand on his own.
John hadn't been able to do that when they'd first met.
He wonders what it means.
--
When John materializes around his pistol, worried when Sherlock doesn't answer his phone, his gun is being held by someone who clearly is not Sherlock. Sherlock is kneeling on the ground at his feet. The pistol is pointed at his head.
This does not look like the “observing a suspect” that Sherlock had said he was going to do.
Sherlock's phone is gone, but his expression shifts minutely anyways, sensing the chill in the air that always happens when John arrives in a room. “The Russian Mafia,” he says for John's benefit. “An execution gone wrong, the evidence not properly cleaned up, and now the Met on the case.”
John's not sure what to do. He kills the lights first, because that's easy, pushing with his mind until they flicker out. But it's really hard to do much else, even though he tries anyways. The man shines brightly with life, too healthy for John to affect directly. John struggles to jerk the gun out of his hands.
It doesn't work, but something else does.
One moment, John's frustratingly incorporeal and trying to get the gun without having to actually kill someone, because he doesn't actually like killing people. The next moment, there is a pressure all around him, like he's being stuffed into a box, and everything around him goes into overload as the lights flash back on.
There is something in his hand, and John can feel the texture of his gun, the smooth trigger and the roughness of the grip against his palm. There's a rushing in his ears and something thumping against his chest, and everything feels warm, overly so, like he's been thrown into a sauna, hot and unpleasantly wet.
He inhales, and it makes the inside of his mouth dry, and the air is just slightly cool and he can't see anything, there are afterimages in his vision, and he can feel the weight of clothes on his skin and he can't sense anything around him and he feels like he's gone blind, but not his eyes, the part of his mind that's opened up ever since he's been dead and fuck.
Fuck.
And then, it's gone. His surroundings twist around him, subtly, and he's himself again, and he can feel twin spots of life in the room, beacons of something he can see as easily as light. He's not warm anymore -- he's not anything, and suddenly he craves what he just lost, wants to do it again, wants to feel a heartbeat in his chest and the chill in the air.
The man is backing away, arm shaking but still pointed at Sherlock. “What the fuck? What the fuck was what?” He shouts, voice wavering. “What did you do to me?”
But now John knows what he's doing. He reaches out, steps close, intersects their bodies and
Click.
Is this what it feels like to be alive? Cold, heavy, solid. His hand around the gun, gripping tight -- it hurts, because he's squeezing it too tightly, and he relishes it. But all too quickly his limbs (but they're not really his) are trying to move of their own accord, jerking and twitching, and he can feel someone else's panic, their fear at being controlled.
For a moment, John feels guilty. But then he remembers Sherlock on the floor with John's pistol pointed at his head, and the guilt fades.
I hope this works, John thinks, and forces the barrel of the gun to his borrowed mouth, in fits and starts. His mouth won't open, and his head is shaking of its own accord, and he feels wetness that must be tears on his cheeks, but it's close enough.
He pulls the trigger.
There is a flash of pain, but it's nothing compared to the long, drawn-out nightmares he still has on occasion, and he's barely registered it before the body drops to the ground, and with it, everything else. It is like having a layer of thick cotton pulled over all his senses.
The gun is still in the man's hand, and after a moment's thought, John pries it free. He doesn't want it to get taken in as evidence. It's his, and he feels a possessiveness towards it that would be frankly alarming, if not for the fact that he's a ghost and that is apparently what ghosts do. That, and murder people to save the lives of their flatmates.
At least they weren't very good people.
Sherlock is staring at the body, and the shattered remains of the man's mouth. “John,” he says aloud, in a voice that John's never heard him use before. “Did you do this?”
And for a moment, John's sure that Sherlock's going to say, “For me?” like John's just delivered him a Christmas present, but he doesn't, and the moment fades. It's just Sherlock looking at the corpse, predicting what the police will say and do, their every thought and action laid bare before him.
Only because he was going to shoot you, John writes on a post-it note from his jacket pocket, and sticks it gently to Sherlock's chest. His fingertips leave a bright smear of blood on the yellow paper. John doesn't know whose blood it is, or if it'll still be there three hours from now.
“There will be traces of powder on his hands and his torso,” Sherlock says clinically, and calls the police. He crumples the post-it after reading it, and hands it back to John. “There's no way to prove I shot him, as I didn't. The angle of the bullet is not consistent with my height, either standing or kneeling. There's no evidence of anyone else present at the time of death.”
“Lestrade will not be happy,” he concludes, “But an investigation will lead nowhere. I'll be taken in for questioning, but released, and they will not have evidence for a conviction.”
John is deeply thankful that Sherlock solves crimes rather than commits them.
--
"John, are you there?" Sherlock asks. He is lying on the couch, gazing at the ceiling. When he'd arrived home today, he had put three nicotine patches on his arms, and has refused to say why. John throws a wadded up sheet of paper at him.
Sherlock grins and looks in his direction. "Brilliant. I need a cup of tea."
John rolls his eyes. "You can make your own cup of tea," he says, even though Sherlock can't hear him right now. Their mobiles spend almost more time charging than not, because their hours-long calls drain the battery alarmingly quickly. Regardless, Sherlock's brilliant enough to know what John's response is.
"If you make me a cup of tea, I'll let you be the one to drink it," Sherlock says.
It has been three days since John had possessed the Russian mafia member. He's not surprised that Sherlock either knows or suspects how badly John wants to do it again.
So John goes into the kitchen to make Sherlock a cup of tea. He comes back a few minutes later, and sets it on the coffee table. You don't have to, John has stuck to the side of the cup. Don't feel obligated.
When Sherlock reads the note, he says, "I don't mind. Think of it as an experiment. You never indicated you had the ability to take control of another being. If you can reliably possess a murderer and force them to disarm themselves, it would be quite useful."
Are you sure?
“Always.”
It is nothing like the first time. Sherlock reacts to his touch, goose pimples rising on his skin when John makes contact, and John slides his body against Sherlock's, lies down over him and sinks inside. If the first time had been the metaphysical equivalent of being blindfolded and thrown into a tank of ice water, this is like easing into a warm bath.
He settles, carefully, into Sherlock's body, and feels his senses shift as everything becomes more vivid.
His heart thumps in his chest. His hair tickles his neck. His feet are bare and the toes just a little bit cold. When he wiggles them, he can feel the armrest of the sofa. He stops breathing and feels the need in his chest build, strange and uncomfortable until he's forced to inhale, and when he does, it is the most wonderful feeling in the world.
He rolls the fabric of his shirt sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, and marvels at its texture.
“John,” his mouth -- no, Sherlock's mouth, says. The voice is subtly different than John remembers; it's how Sherlock hears his own voice.
“Yes,” he says, and Sherlock touches his chest. John can feel it just before it happens, the formation of intent preceding movement, and he pulls the arm away. Sherlock resists, just a little bit, and it feels like pulling his arm through molasses. Sherlock pulls harder on it, and John yields to him, offering only enough resistance to be felt, the way Sherlock had done for him.
He could spend hours doing this, sharing a body with Sherlock and feeling the press of their wills against each other, soaking in Sherlock's presence in his chest and his lungs and the back of his mind. He's been dead for so long that he's forgotten what it feels like to be alive, and everything is so exciting.
It's intoxicating.
“The tea,” Sherlock reminds him, and sits up.
John sips too quickly, and scalds his tongue, and is clumsy enough to splash some on his hand.
But it is the best fucking cup of tea he has ever had.
--
They do it again, John riding in Sherlock's body while he gathers plants for an experiment (brilliant, he'd forgotten about being able to smell things), and then again -- going to a pub for John, where he can taste and breathe and make eye contact with people. He didn't realize how much he missed making eye contact with people -- it's one of those things that he'd taken for granted, when he'd been alive.
He doesn't know, exactly, what Sherlock gets out of it, aside from some satisfaction of his intellectual curiosity. But Sherlock seems to enjoy it as much as John does, and even though Sherlock doesn't especially like to eat greasy chips and drink cheap beer, he's sitting back and letting John do as he pleases.
Sherlock's alcohol tolerance is less than John remembers his own to be, and halfway through their second beer, he's already feeling a pleasant buzz. But he's not drunk -- not even tipsy, so he doesn't really have an excuse for why he doesn't notice the attractive brunette until after she sits down across from him and steals one of his chips.
“Hello?” He asks politely, and can't stop his smile when she meets his eyes.
“Hi. Is this seat taken? You look like you wouldn't mind some company.”
“Oh, feel free to sit,” John replies. “It's nice to meet you. I'm --” He hesitates for only a moment. “I'm John.”
Her name is Amelia. She is not very entertaining as a conversationalist, but she flirts with John and he flirts back because he can. Within the hour, she is sitting in his lap with her arms around his neck, laughing at something he's said.
Her perfume smells faintly fruity, and he wants, with a sort of detached curiosity, to lick the hollow of her throat to see what it tastes like. She is warm and alive against his hand on the small of her back, skin soft and smooth where John's slipped his fingers under her shirt.
Sherlock hasn't tried to take back control of his body yet, not even a nudge to remind John he's there. John isn't sure why.
So he buys her another drink, and finishes his second and the start of a third. Her hair tickles the side of his face when she whispers something in his ear, and when she kisses him, John tastes alcohol. It's not terribly pleasant, too wet and too sloppy. But he doesn't stop her, simply winds his arms around her waist and enjoys the feel of another body pressed against his own.
He hasn't held someone in his arms for over a year.
Her breath is warm against the curve of his ear. “I like you. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“Mmmm...” John trails off. No, not really. Aside from the fact that this is Sherlock's body, and John's pretty sure he hasn't got permission to gallivant about having sex in it, pulling hadn't actually been part of his plan for the night. Sherlock had only offered to let him take care of eating for him, since he complained so much about Sherlock's eating habits, and things had gone on from there.
A friend online had sent him a link to download a new documentary about blood patterns, and John had been planning, after dinner, to see if Sherlock wanted to watch it with him. It seems like the sort of thing Sherlock would enjoy. He checks his watch. It should be ready by now.
“I'm sorry, love,” he says apologetically, and hefts her out of his lap. “I've actually got plans for tonight.”
--
“You didn't tell me you made plans,” Sherlock accuses, while John is shrugging into his coat outside.
“You didn't ask,” John replies. A passerby takes one look at him, talking to himself, and walks a little more quickly. “I was going to mention it after dinner.”
Sherlock hails the cab for him, seizing control of his arm fluidly -- John hadn't even noticed. “221 Baker Street,” he says to the cabbie, and then, “Where else were you planning on going?”
The cabbie looks at them suspiciously, but doesn't protest, and they pull away from the curb. John reaches for his post-it notes and pens, but his pockets are empty. Right, wrong pockets. John sighs, and resigns himself to increasing the number of people who think Sherlock Holmes is more than a little mental. “Nowhere. One of my friends sent me a documentary about blood, and I thought you'd like it.”
Sherlock takes control of his mouth and licks his lips, but doesn't respond for a long time, and John can feel the push and pull of Sherlock suppressing a smile. He says, finally, “I didn't know you were interested in documentaries about blood.”
John isn't.
--
“Your sense of touch is dulled as a ghost,” Sherlock comments, when John spends five minutes stroking the blankets they'd brought down from his bedroom, delighting in their softness. He'd rubbed his cheek against it too, but Sherlock had stopped him after the first thirty seconds. Undignified, he'd called it. “Is it the same for your other senses?”
“Pretty much. I can move things and I can touch them, but I can't feel them. It's kind of like being in a dream, where everything's foggy.”
Speaking with Sherlock while they're in the same body is incredibly surreal, because he can feel his mouth open, and his tongue move, but he has no idea what's going to be said. And if they try to speak at the same time, it just gets more strange.
“That's why you were so receptive to the woman at the pub's advances,” Sherlock says. “You craved human contact.”
“I -- yes. You didn't stop me."
“I didn't mind.”
--
The next day, Sherlock sleeps in past noon and when he wakes, he still looks tired. John puts a hand on his shoulder, worried, and Sherlock leans into it unconsciously. John's hand remains solid. The flare of life in the flat that represents Sherlock looks weaker, like a fire running low on fuel.
And John feels just a little more solid, senses just a little bit stronger. When he goes outside, he manages to get nearly ten yards away from the front door before the buildings start to blur and walking becomes a challenge. It is nearly three times as far as he can normally go.
The day after that, he can't quite reach seven yards.
It is not very hard to connect the dots, and for a brief, guilty moment, John wonders what it would take to make himself completely solid, if there was a price in blood he could pay to come back permanently.
--
As it turns out, John's not actually impervious to harm while incorporeal, and he has no problems feeling pain, even when he lacks a real body to hurt.
“I already know what you did was hardly deliberate. Consider this just a show of force, Doctor Watson,” the elder Holmes brother says pleasantly, and flips off the switch on the small, metallic box in his hand. “To remind you that I care very much for Sherlock, and to remove any lingering temptations you may have had.”
They both know Sherlock would kill for him, might even die for him, and it'd be a lie to say he hadn't considered asking.
Thank you, he texts Mycroft later, when he has recovered enough to interact with the buttons on his phone.
--
Sherlock has a lot of enemies, criminals who would be happy to see him dead or worse. Most of these enemies are, quite frankly, rather a bit dull, but every once in a while, there will be an attempt on Sherlock's life. Sherlock is very good at keeping himself alive, and as the months pass, John becomes better and better at it as well. He doesn't worry much about those criminals.
Except that there is one criminal, one mastermind, whose crimes are a cut above the rest. His name pops up from time to time, always attached to the best, most creative, most challenging cases. Moriarty, who works in the shadows and doesn't do his own dirty work. Moriarty, who arranges for things to happen, baits traps that Sherlock walks into time and time again.
Moriarty, who makes Sherlock grin and clap his hands in excitement. Because he's brilliant, really, and Sherlock's drawn to brilliance like a moth to a flame.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock says in their flat, as if tasting the sound the vowels make in his mouth. “The connections he must have. The resources. I wonder what he'll do next. I wonder who he is.”
John hates Moriarty more than he has ever hated anyone else.
--
John doesn't think anything of it when a forum he follows organizes a London meet-up and someone asks after him. Sorry, he posts, I won't be able to make it. I'll probably be at work. Work, of course, meaning “haring off after Sherlock to make sure he doesn't get himself killed.”
He's a little more surprised when he gets an email from someone he's spoken to only a few times, inviting him to have a coffee with her, while she's in London for a conference. He turns her down, of course, and tells her that he'll be out of town that day. She offers to meet him another day, and he doesn't reply.
The surprise graduates to suspicion when shortly after that, he gets a phone call from a blocked number. “Hello?” he answers, on the off chance that it's Sherlock, or possibly Mycroft. But there is no response, not even the puzzled inquiry a wrong number would prompt.
I think Moriarty is looking for me, John writes, and sticks the note to the bathroom door.
Sherlock drops John's note on the table when they're eating breakfast together - toast for him, and orange juice for John. “Tell him you'll meet him somewhere crowded -- a museum, maybe, lots of witnesses. Somewhere I can get a good look at him or whoever he sends.”
--
At the museum, John looks for the woman they're supposed to meet, the one who was in London for a conference that didn't exist, while Sherlock cases likely lookout points. He needs somewhere he can sit unnoticed while observing their target.
And then the world explodes in a flash of blinding light.
John comes back to awareness on his grave, after the sun has set. He has to focus before he can have a body again, forming it out of his thoughts and expectations. There is a splash of red paint on his tombstone, ugly and mocking and out of place, as if someone had flung a bucket of it at the smooth marble. The paint is still wet.
--
John goes to his gun and ends up at the bottom of the Thames.
--
John sends a text to Lestrade -- Moriarty has Sherlock. He considers, then sends it to Mycroft as well.
Mycroft calls him back within twenty minutes. “Where is he?” He says, when John answers the phone.
“You can't even understand what I'm saying.” But John hears a burst of static, followed by his own words, recited in a mechanical voice.
“Never underestimate the marvels of modern technology,” Mycroft replies smugly. “Tell me everything you know, in fifty words or less. Make it quick, please.”
“We arranged a meeting between me and one of Moriarty's people at 2 PM. We arrived and split up -- Sherlock was going to watch to see who I was supposed to meet. Next thing I know, it's hours later, I'm at my grave, my gun is in the Thames, and Sherlock is missing.”
“I'm tracing your mobile. Bring it to Sherlock and I'll send a retrieval unit.” If Mycroft is worried, he's hiding it very well.
“I can't. My gun is at the bottom of the Thames. The only places I can go are there, the flat, and my grave.” John gives a bleak laugh. “Which I'm sure Moriarty knows, because he's just desecrated it.”
“How much do you care about my brother, John? Is he important to you?”
“What do you mean?” John asks, instantly wary. “Of course he is.”
“You can go anywhere that has personal significance, if you try hard enough. And, I dare say, Sherlock is probably the most significant person in your life right now. So find him, and let me know where he is.”
“I... I'm not sure it works like that,” John says.
“Do it anyways,” Mycroft orders, and hangs up.
--
But Sherlock is the most important thing in his life now, John reasons. Much more important than his grave, or his gun, or the flat that he'd kept for a few years while in Afghanistan but never gotten that attached to anyways.
If he can haunt a location, or an object, John tells himself, there's no reason he can't haunt a person.
The first few tries are spectacular failures, where he ends up back at the Thames, or at his grave, or goes nowhere at all. But he knows he's getting closer to Sherlock. He has to be, or Sherlock will be dead, or worse, by the time they find him.
He redoubles his efforts, focusing his thoughts on Sherlock, on the sound of his laugh, on the triumph in his grin when he's solved a case, and unstoppable, inevitable knowledge that he belongs with Sherlock, wherever he is.
--
When John finally reaches Sherlock, he is a crumpled heap in a small, empty room. His breathing is slow, and when John searches him, checking for injuries, he finds a lump on the back of his head -- concussion, likely, but there's more to it than that. Sherlock stirs when John texts Mycroft to let him know he's arrived and sticks his phone in Sherlock's coat pocket.
“Already searched me,” he slurs, struggling weakly. When he opens his eyes, they're unfocused. “Get off.”
“No, Sherlock. It's John. Help's on its way. Have you been drugged? Do you remember what he gave you?” He cups Sherlock's face in his hands and gives it a light shake.
“You can't be John,” Sherlock says, and meets his eyes blearily. “John's dead. Can't hear him, can't see him. All I have are fac -- facs -- fascimiles.”
“Well, that's near-death experiences for you,” John jokes weakly. “I'm bringing help. What did he give you? Its name, Sherlock. Tell me its name.”
Sherlock tells him, and John texts it to Mycroft. “Slow-acting poison with a sedative mixed in,” Sherlock explains. “Lots of side effects. Are you really John? I can't tell.”
“Yeah, it's me. Just hold on. They'll be here soon.” John squeezes one of Sherlock's hands, feels it for just a moment, before his hand is passing through Sherlock's, insubstantial.
Sherlock watches it with interest. “Does it always do that?”
“Focus. Is there anything else you can tell me? I brought a phone. Mycroft's tracing it. What else does he need to know?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “It was Moriarty. He knows about you. He took your gun. How did you find me?”
“I think I could find you anywhere now,” John admits shakily.
“If I die. I want you to know --” Sherlock starts, but John interrupts him.
“You won't die. You're fine. You're gonna be okay.” But he's lying. He knows he's lying, because if Sherlock can see him, that means he's going to die, and John can't think about it. Thinking about it makes him feel like his heart's being torn in two.
Sherlock lifts a hand and brushes his fingers over John's cheek, leaving just the briefest impression of warmth. “It'll have been worth it, to finally see you,” he finishes, and loses consciousness.
--
John stays with Sherlock when a team that can only be MI5 storms the building, when he's injected with something that John hopes is meant to neutralize the drugs in Sherlock's system, when he's loaded into an ambulance, and through the ride to the hospital, up until the point where Sherlock is assigned to a hospital bed and hooked up to a terrifying number of machines.
Because Mycroft is waiting for him there, and he says, in a voice that makes it clear he's not making a request, “John, I'm sure you're still here, so please go away. Your loyalty is admirable, but your distress will disrupt some very expensive, very delicate machinery.”
Mycroft's assistant looks up from her phone. “He's over there, sir. Standing next to the heart monitor.” She smiles right at John. “Mr. Holmes has everything under control. You can leave now, Doctor Watson.”
John is so disconcerted that he does.
--
You can come see him now. He's fine, just resting. The voice in his head is bright, feminine, and would be distinctly unwelcome if not for the fact that, well, it'd just told him he could see Sherlock.
“He's here, sir,” Mycroft's assistant says when he arrives at Sherlock's side. She has no problems tracking his location with her eyes as he approaches her. She's standing next to Mycroft, who is reading what looks to be Sherlock's confidential medical records.
“Er, tell Mycroft thanks for all the help,” he says awkwardly. “And for letting me know he'll be alright. What's your name?”
“Hmm. Persephone,” she replies to him. And to Mycroft, “He says thank you, sir. Shall we be going?”
“Of course. Now that this is settled, we've got a flight to Yemen to catch. We mustn't keep Mr. Saleh waiting any longer. Thank you for your assistance in finding my brother, John.”
And then they're gone, leaving John alone with Sherlock. Sherlock's breathing smoothly, and the heart monitor beats a steady, reassuring rhythm. He looks a lot better than when John had left him.
“Hey,” John says softly, and brushes a curl from Sherlock's forehead.
Sherlock opens his eyes and sits up. Faking at being asleep, then. His brow furrows, and he looks around him. He reaches for the ear he usually wears his bluetooth headset over, but the motion is arrested by a tube attached to the back of his hand. “John? Is that you?”
John frowns. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”
Sherlock grins. “As clear as a whistle. Say something again. Anything.”
“Mycroft's assistant can see me. I think she's psychic.”
“My brother's in charge of a couple departments involved in the paranormal. It's logical that his assistant would be exceptional in some way.” Sherlock's grin widens. “I can still hear you. Perhaps it has something to do with my heart stopping. ”
“Wait,” John interrupts, before Sherlock can say anything more. ”Your heart stopped? When was this? I didn't hear about this.”
Sherlock shrugs, unconcerned. “Before the antidote finished taking effect, I assume. They were able to revive me, obviously. Do you think I'll be able to hear all ghosts, or just you? I suppose I owe Moriarty a favor now. This is really quite advantageous.”
“He poisoned you and left you to die. I don't think you owe him anything. I'm just glad you're alright. You are alright, then?” John puts a hand on Sherlock's, and Sherlock looks down at it, then curls his fingers around John's, holding them lightly.
“I'm fine. Bored, mostly. I'm tired but can't fall asleep. Do something entertaining.”
“Like what?”
Sherlock lays back down, still holding John's hand. “I don't care.” He closes his eyes. “Tell me a story. From when you were alive.”
Sherlock, John realizes with amusement, is possibly the only person he knows that can make such a sweet request sound like an order.
“I was ten years old when I broke my leg falling from a tree,” he begins. “Harry was thirteen, and she'd just bet me that she could go up and down the tree in the backyard faster than me...”
--
Sherlock is released after another two days, during which John never leaves his side.
The police had found no sign of Moriarty, but the cold determination in Mycroft's eyes when he'd told John that had him feeling reassured nonetheless. Now that Moriarty's proven himself a threat to Sherlock's life, John knows Mycroft won't rest until Moriarty's been neutralized.
He knows who he's betting on to win that confrontation.
Sherlock's ability to hear John without use of a phone comes in handy, except for the times where they end up talking at crime scenes and Sherlock ends up looking like a nutter again. A package arrives in the post, addressed to John, and when he opens it, it's his handgun, the one he'd last seen at the bottom of the Thames, dry and polished and none the worse for the wear.
It's licensed to Sherlock, the note says in what John would bet anything was Mycroft's handwriting. Sherlock scowls at the note, and tells John to text Mycroft to keep his fat head out of his business.
John sends, Thanks, and Sherlock says thanks too.
--
“What are you doing here?” John asks, when Sherlock texts John to join him in the middle of the night and John finds himself looking at his grave, lit by a torch lying on the ground. The paint on his tombstone looks ghastly in the dim light, almost like blood (except that old blood was more brown than this).
“Waiting for you, obviously. Don't ask questions you know the answer to.” He pours a clear liquid from a thermos onto a cloth that he produces from a coat pocket, then offers it to John. “Would you like to begin?”
John takes the cloth and looks at it dubiously. He sniffs it, but only out of habit; he can't smell anything. “What is it?”
“Paint thinner. I thought your headstone could use a bit of cleaning up. It looks like a madman threw paint all over it,” Sherlock comments dryly.
John laughs, and takes the cloth. The paint moistens with a little bit of effort, smearing and revealing streaks of the grey marble underneath. A second hand, with its own cloth, joins him, removing the red bit by bit.
Now that Sherlock can hear John when he speaks, he's gotten uncannily accurate at knowing exactly where John is, and he leans against John briefly. “When I was drugged, you said you could find me anywhere.”
“I can. It took me a while to get the hang of it, but I can go wherever you can, now,” John says, nervousness twisting his stomach. He can tell where this conversation is going, and his chest tightens, because he's sure, but he's not that sure.
“How?”
“You're the most important person in the world to me. I'd follow you anywhere. I just... realized that, and it was easy.”
Sherlock's cheeks go pink. “Oh. Well. Thank you.”
They clear the paint in silence, until there are only pink smears and a few thin, stubborn lines of red left on the slab of marble, wedged in the letters engraved on its surface. Sherlock's fingers trace the words on John's tombstone.
John H. Watson
1971 - 2009
Soldier, brother, son.
Sherlock clears his throat.
“John,” he says haltingly. “About what you said, earlier. I just wanted to let you know. The feeling's mutual.”
“I'd hoped it might be,” John says, as the sun breaks over the horizon.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 14050 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John still gets nightmares about Afghanistan. That's the worst part of it all, he thinks -- he still has dreams about sand and drowning to death in his own blood. But they're more memory than nightmare.
Notes: Spoilers for Study in Pink. Written for the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme for this prompt. Ghost!John.
Part 1
“Really now, Sherlock. You've called John on every case you've been on since you met him.” Lestrade holds out his hand. “Hand over the phone, let me talk to him.”
“No.” Sherlock doesn't even look up from his examinations of the suspect's financial records.
He and John are at Scotland Yard this time, under the watchful eyes of half the police staff. Well, Sherlock is. John's inconspicuously reading people's paperwork and computer screens over their shoulders, while hoping no one thinks to search Sherlock and find the illegal gun concealed under his coat.
“We don't know the first thing about him,” Lestrade says. “It's bad enough I'm bringing you into crime scenes. My bosses aren't happy that you've been bringing in an assistant we've never met before. We don't even know John's his real name.”
“Of course it is.” Sherlock's voice is full of scorn. “What does it matter? He's with me. That's all you need to know.”
“What makes you so sure he can be trusted? What are you keeping from us?” Lestrade's suspicious, but John can see the undertone of worry in his voice, in the slight frown he has when he looks at Sherlock. He's not angry.
Sherlock looks at Lestrade curiously. “You're concerned about my well-being. Why?”
“You're protecting him, and you talk to him constantly, but no one's ever met him. Either you're taking him on cases with you, which means we need a background check on him, or you don't, which means you're running off chasing dangerous criminals on your own. It's not safe.”
“Sometimes he comes with me,” Sherlock concedes. “But the details are immaterial. You're not my keeper, Lestrade. You need my expertise, and I need the work. That's all.”
“Well, lucky me, I've got the number of someone who does fancy himself your keeper,” Lestrade threatens, and takes out his phone. Sherlock's eyes widen.
“You haven't! Don't tell me he's got his claws into you. I thought you considered yourself above corruption. Accepting bribes from shadowy government officials, are we?”
“He's your next of kin. Not really something I'd consider shadowy, calling your next of kin,” Lestrade points out. (He ignores Sherlock's muttered “Only because he changes the records every time I remove him.”) “I'm just worried about you. As a friend. You're practically joined at the hip to him, and all we've got is a phone number he uses that's registered under your name, and some vague insinuations that he might be your flatmate, except that you're renting a one-bedroom on your own and no one's seen a glimpse of him.”
“Yes, well, Mycroft has met John, so consider your worries assuaged. At least it's not cocaine. But, if it makes you feel better, I'll have him send you a text.”
John does end up sending Lestrade a text, but it doesn't help much, as John can't just say, My name is John Watson, and I'm the ghost who lives in Sherlock's flat.
But he also sends a text to Mycroft without telling Sherlock, explaining the matter, and he thinks that helps more.
--
John passes harmlessly through most people, barely disturbing the air around them, except in the form of a brief chill. Mostly, people avoid him unconsciously, walking around him on the street without even realizing it, but people in a hurry don't even notice when they run through him on their way to their destination.
But Sherlock feels almost solid to the touch. John can bump his shoulder against Sherlock's while they're walking, or put out a hand to stop him when something seems off. He can clean Sherlock's cuts and bandage him up after a case, and John is just almost solid enough to support his weight when he can't stand on his own.
John hadn't been able to do that when they'd first met.
He wonders what it means.
--
When John materializes around his pistol, worried when Sherlock doesn't answer his phone, his gun is being held by someone who clearly is not Sherlock. Sherlock is kneeling on the ground at his feet. The pistol is pointed at his head.
This does not look like the “observing a suspect” that Sherlock had said he was going to do.
Sherlock's phone is gone, but his expression shifts minutely anyways, sensing the chill in the air that always happens when John arrives in a room. “The Russian Mafia,” he says for John's benefit. “An execution gone wrong, the evidence not properly cleaned up, and now the Met on the case.”
John's not sure what to do. He kills the lights first, because that's easy, pushing with his mind until they flicker out. But it's really hard to do much else, even though he tries anyways. The man shines brightly with life, too healthy for John to affect directly. John struggles to jerk the gun out of his hands.
It doesn't work, but something else does.
One moment, John's frustratingly incorporeal and trying to get the gun without having to actually kill someone, because he doesn't actually like killing people. The next moment, there is a pressure all around him, like he's being stuffed into a box, and everything around him goes into overload as the lights flash back on.
There is something in his hand, and John can feel the texture of his gun, the smooth trigger and the roughness of the grip against his palm. There's a rushing in his ears and something thumping against his chest, and everything feels warm, overly so, like he's been thrown into a sauna, hot and unpleasantly wet.
He inhales, and it makes the inside of his mouth dry, and the air is just slightly cool and he can't see anything, there are afterimages in his vision, and he can feel the weight of clothes on his skin and he can't sense anything around him and he feels like he's gone blind, but not his eyes, the part of his mind that's opened up ever since he's been dead and fuck.
Fuck.
And then, it's gone. His surroundings twist around him, subtly, and he's himself again, and he can feel twin spots of life in the room, beacons of something he can see as easily as light. He's not warm anymore -- he's not anything, and suddenly he craves what he just lost, wants to do it again, wants to feel a heartbeat in his chest and the chill in the air.
The man is backing away, arm shaking but still pointed at Sherlock. “What the fuck? What the fuck was what?” He shouts, voice wavering. “What did you do to me?”
But now John knows what he's doing. He reaches out, steps close, intersects their bodies and
Click.
Is this what it feels like to be alive? Cold, heavy, solid. His hand around the gun, gripping tight -- it hurts, because he's squeezing it too tightly, and he relishes it. But all too quickly his limbs (but they're not really his) are trying to move of their own accord, jerking and twitching, and he can feel someone else's panic, their fear at being controlled.
For a moment, John feels guilty. But then he remembers Sherlock on the floor with John's pistol pointed at his head, and the guilt fades.
I hope this works, John thinks, and forces the barrel of the gun to his borrowed mouth, in fits and starts. His mouth won't open, and his head is shaking of its own accord, and he feels wetness that must be tears on his cheeks, but it's close enough.
He pulls the trigger.
There is a flash of pain, but it's nothing compared to the long, drawn-out nightmares he still has on occasion, and he's barely registered it before the body drops to the ground, and with it, everything else. It is like having a layer of thick cotton pulled over all his senses.
The gun is still in the man's hand, and after a moment's thought, John pries it free. He doesn't want it to get taken in as evidence. It's his, and he feels a possessiveness towards it that would be frankly alarming, if not for the fact that he's a ghost and that is apparently what ghosts do. That, and murder people to save the lives of their flatmates.
At least they weren't very good people.
Sherlock is staring at the body, and the shattered remains of the man's mouth. “John,” he says aloud, in a voice that John's never heard him use before. “Did you do this?”
And for a moment, John's sure that Sherlock's going to say, “For me?” like John's just delivered him a Christmas present, but he doesn't, and the moment fades. It's just Sherlock looking at the corpse, predicting what the police will say and do, their every thought and action laid bare before him.
Only because he was going to shoot you, John writes on a post-it note from his jacket pocket, and sticks it gently to Sherlock's chest. His fingertips leave a bright smear of blood on the yellow paper. John doesn't know whose blood it is, or if it'll still be there three hours from now.
“There will be traces of powder on his hands and his torso,” Sherlock says clinically, and calls the police. He crumples the post-it after reading it, and hands it back to John. “There's no way to prove I shot him, as I didn't. The angle of the bullet is not consistent with my height, either standing or kneeling. There's no evidence of anyone else present at the time of death.”
“Lestrade will not be happy,” he concludes, “But an investigation will lead nowhere. I'll be taken in for questioning, but released, and they will not have evidence for a conviction.”
John is deeply thankful that Sherlock solves crimes rather than commits them.
--
"John, are you there?" Sherlock asks. He is lying on the couch, gazing at the ceiling. When he'd arrived home today, he had put three nicotine patches on his arms, and has refused to say why. John throws a wadded up sheet of paper at him.
Sherlock grins and looks in his direction. "Brilliant. I need a cup of tea."
John rolls his eyes. "You can make your own cup of tea," he says, even though Sherlock can't hear him right now. Their mobiles spend almost more time charging than not, because their hours-long calls drain the battery alarmingly quickly. Regardless, Sherlock's brilliant enough to know what John's response is.
"If you make me a cup of tea, I'll let you be the one to drink it," Sherlock says.
It has been three days since John had possessed the Russian mafia member. He's not surprised that Sherlock either knows or suspects how badly John wants to do it again.
So John goes into the kitchen to make Sherlock a cup of tea. He comes back a few minutes later, and sets it on the coffee table. You don't have to, John has stuck to the side of the cup. Don't feel obligated.
When Sherlock reads the note, he says, "I don't mind. Think of it as an experiment. You never indicated you had the ability to take control of another being. If you can reliably possess a murderer and force them to disarm themselves, it would be quite useful."
Are you sure?
“Always.”
It is nothing like the first time. Sherlock reacts to his touch, goose pimples rising on his skin when John makes contact, and John slides his body against Sherlock's, lies down over him and sinks inside. If the first time had been the metaphysical equivalent of being blindfolded and thrown into a tank of ice water, this is like easing into a warm bath.
He settles, carefully, into Sherlock's body, and feels his senses shift as everything becomes more vivid.
His heart thumps in his chest. His hair tickles his neck. His feet are bare and the toes just a little bit cold. When he wiggles them, he can feel the armrest of the sofa. He stops breathing and feels the need in his chest build, strange and uncomfortable until he's forced to inhale, and when he does, it is the most wonderful feeling in the world.
He rolls the fabric of his shirt sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, and marvels at its texture.
“John,” his mouth -- no, Sherlock's mouth, says. The voice is subtly different than John remembers; it's how Sherlock hears his own voice.
“Yes,” he says, and Sherlock touches his chest. John can feel it just before it happens, the formation of intent preceding movement, and he pulls the arm away. Sherlock resists, just a little bit, and it feels like pulling his arm through molasses. Sherlock pulls harder on it, and John yields to him, offering only enough resistance to be felt, the way Sherlock had done for him.
He could spend hours doing this, sharing a body with Sherlock and feeling the press of their wills against each other, soaking in Sherlock's presence in his chest and his lungs and the back of his mind. He's been dead for so long that he's forgotten what it feels like to be alive, and everything is so exciting.
It's intoxicating.
“The tea,” Sherlock reminds him, and sits up.
John sips too quickly, and scalds his tongue, and is clumsy enough to splash some on his hand.
But it is the best fucking cup of tea he has ever had.
--
They do it again, John riding in Sherlock's body while he gathers plants for an experiment (brilliant, he'd forgotten about being able to smell things), and then again -- going to a pub for John, where he can taste and breathe and make eye contact with people. He didn't realize how much he missed making eye contact with people -- it's one of those things that he'd taken for granted, when he'd been alive.
He doesn't know, exactly, what Sherlock gets out of it, aside from some satisfaction of his intellectual curiosity. But Sherlock seems to enjoy it as much as John does, and even though Sherlock doesn't especially like to eat greasy chips and drink cheap beer, he's sitting back and letting John do as he pleases.
Sherlock's alcohol tolerance is less than John remembers his own to be, and halfway through their second beer, he's already feeling a pleasant buzz. But he's not drunk -- not even tipsy, so he doesn't really have an excuse for why he doesn't notice the attractive brunette until after she sits down across from him and steals one of his chips.
“Hello?” He asks politely, and can't stop his smile when she meets his eyes.
“Hi. Is this seat taken? You look like you wouldn't mind some company.”
“Oh, feel free to sit,” John replies. “It's nice to meet you. I'm --” He hesitates for only a moment. “I'm John.”
Her name is Amelia. She is not very entertaining as a conversationalist, but she flirts with John and he flirts back because he can. Within the hour, she is sitting in his lap with her arms around his neck, laughing at something he's said.
Her perfume smells faintly fruity, and he wants, with a sort of detached curiosity, to lick the hollow of her throat to see what it tastes like. She is warm and alive against his hand on the small of her back, skin soft and smooth where John's slipped his fingers under her shirt.
Sherlock hasn't tried to take back control of his body yet, not even a nudge to remind John he's there. John isn't sure why.
So he buys her another drink, and finishes his second and the start of a third. Her hair tickles the side of his face when she whispers something in his ear, and when she kisses him, John tastes alcohol. It's not terribly pleasant, too wet and too sloppy. But he doesn't stop her, simply winds his arms around her waist and enjoys the feel of another body pressed against his own.
He hasn't held someone in his arms for over a year.
Her breath is warm against the curve of his ear. “I like you. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“Mmmm...” John trails off. No, not really. Aside from the fact that this is Sherlock's body, and John's pretty sure he hasn't got permission to gallivant about having sex in it, pulling hadn't actually been part of his plan for the night. Sherlock had only offered to let him take care of eating for him, since he complained so much about Sherlock's eating habits, and things had gone on from there.
A friend online had sent him a link to download a new documentary about blood patterns, and John had been planning, after dinner, to see if Sherlock wanted to watch it with him. It seems like the sort of thing Sherlock would enjoy. He checks his watch. It should be ready by now.
“I'm sorry, love,” he says apologetically, and hefts her out of his lap. “I've actually got plans for tonight.”
--
“You didn't tell me you made plans,” Sherlock accuses, while John is shrugging into his coat outside.
“You didn't ask,” John replies. A passerby takes one look at him, talking to himself, and walks a little more quickly. “I was going to mention it after dinner.”
Sherlock hails the cab for him, seizing control of his arm fluidly -- John hadn't even noticed. “221 Baker Street,” he says to the cabbie, and then, “Where else were you planning on going?”
The cabbie looks at them suspiciously, but doesn't protest, and they pull away from the curb. John reaches for his post-it notes and pens, but his pockets are empty. Right, wrong pockets. John sighs, and resigns himself to increasing the number of people who think Sherlock Holmes is more than a little mental. “Nowhere. One of my friends sent me a documentary about blood, and I thought you'd like it.”
Sherlock takes control of his mouth and licks his lips, but doesn't respond for a long time, and John can feel the push and pull of Sherlock suppressing a smile. He says, finally, “I didn't know you were interested in documentaries about blood.”
John isn't.
--
“Your sense of touch is dulled as a ghost,” Sherlock comments, when John spends five minutes stroking the blankets they'd brought down from his bedroom, delighting in their softness. He'd rubbed his cheek against it too, but Sherlock had stopped him after the first thirty seconds. Undignified, he'd called it. “Is it the same for your other senses?”
“Pretty much. I can move things and I can touch them, but I can't feel them. It's kind of like being in a dream, where everything's foggy.”
Speaking with Sherlock while they're in the same body is incredibly surreal, because he can feel his mouth open, and his tongue move, but he has no idea what's going to be said. And if they try to speak at the same time, it just gets more strange.
“That's why you were so receptive to the woman at the pub's advances,” Sherlock says. “You craved human contact.”
“I -- yes. You didn't stop me."
“I didn't mind.”
--
The next day, Sherlock sleeps in past noon and when he wakes, he still looks tired. John puts a hand on his shoulder, worried, and Sherlock leans into it unconsciously. John's hand remains solid. The flare of life in the flat that represents Sherlock looks weaker, like a fire running low on fuel.
And John feels just a little more solid, senses just a little bit stronger. When he goes outside, he manages to get nearly ten yards away from the front door before the buildings start to blur and walking becomes a challenge. It is nearly three times as far as he can normally go.
The day after that, he can't quite reach seven yards.
It is not very hard to connect the dots, and for a brief, guilty moment, John wonders what it would take to make himself completely solid, if there was a price in blood he could pay to come back permanently.
--
As it turns out, John's not actually impervious to harm while incorporeal, and he has no problems feeling pain, even when he lacks a real body to hurt.
“I already know what you did was hardly deliberate. Consider this just a show of force, Doctor Watson,” the elder Holmes brother says pleasantly, and flips off the switch on the small, metallic box in his hand. “To remind you that I care very much for Sherlock, and to remove any lingering temptations you may have had.”
They both know Sherlock would kill for him, might even die for him, and it'd be a lie to say he hadn't considered asking.
Thank you, he texts Mycroft later, when he has recovered enough to interact with the buttons on his phone.
--
Sherlock has a lot of enemies, criminals who would be happy to see him dead or worse. Most of these enemies are, quite frankly, rather a bit dull, but every once in a while, there will be an attempt on Sherlock's life. Sherlock is very good at keeping himself alive, and as the months pass, John becomes better and better at it as well. He doesn't worry much about those criminals.
Except that there is one criminal, one mastermind, whose crimes are a cut above the rest. His name pops up from time to time, always attached to the best, most creative, most challenging cases. Moriarty, who works in the shadows and doesn't do his own dirty work. Moriarty, who arranges for things to happen, baits traps that Sherlock walks into time and time again.
Moriarty, who makes Sherlock grin and clap his hands in excitement. Because he's brilliant, really, and Sherlock's drawn to brilliance like a moth to a flame.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock says in their flat, as if tasting the sound the vowels make in his mouth. “The connections he must have. The resources. I wonder what he'll do next. I wonder who he is.”
John hates Moriarty more than he has ever hated anyone else.
--
John doesn't think anything of it when a forum he follows organizes a London meet-up and someone asks after him. Sorry, he posts, I won't be able to make it. I'll probably be at work. Work, of course, meaning “haring off after Sherlock to make sure he doesn't get himself killed.”
He's a little more surprised when he gets an email from someone he's spoken to only a few times, inviting him to have a coffee with her, while she's in London for a conference. He turns her down, of course, and tells her that he'll be out of town that day. She offers to meet him another day, and he doesn't reply.
The surprise graduates to suspicion when shortly after that, he gets a phone call from a blocked number. “Hello?” he answers, on the off chance that it's Sherlock, or possibly Mycroft. But there is no response, not even the puzzled inquiry a wrong number would prompt.
I think Moriarty is looking for me, John writes, and sticks the note to the bathroom door.
Sherlock drops John's note on the table when they're eating breakfast together - toast for him, and orange juice for John. “Tell him you'll meet him somewhere crowded -- a museum, maybe, lots of witnesses. Somewhere I can get a good look at him or whoever he sends.”
--
At the museum, John looks for the woman they're supposed to meet, the one who was in London for a conference that didn't exist, while Sherlock cases likely lookout points. He needs somewhere he can sit unnoticed while observing their target.
And then the world explodes in a flash of blinding light.
John comes back to awareness on his grave, after the sun has set. He has to focus before he can have a body again, forming it out of his thoughts and expectations. There is a splash of red paint on his tombstone, ugly and mocking and out of place, as if someone had flung a bucket of it at the smooth marble. The paint is still wet.
--
John goes to his gun and ends up at the bottom of the Thames.
--
John sends a text to Lestrade -- Moriarty has Sherlock. He considers, then sends it to Mycroft as well.
Mycroft calls him back within twenty minutes. “Where is he?” He says, when John answers the phone.
“You can't even understand what I'm saying.” But John hears a burst of static, followed by his own words, recited in a mechanical voice.
“Never underestimate the marvels of modern technology,” Mycroft replies smugly. “Tell me everything you know, in fifty words or less. Make it quick, please.”
“We arranged a meeting between me and one of Moriarty's people at 2 PM. We arrived and split up -- Sherlock was going to watch to see who I was supposed to meet. Next thing I know, it's hours later, I'm at my grave, my gun is in the Thames, and Sherlock is missing.”
“I'm tracing your mobile. Bring it to Sherlock and I'll send a retrieval unit.” If Mycroft is worried, he's hiding it very well.
“I can't. My gun is at the bottom of the Thames. The only places I can go are there, the flat, and my grave.” John gives a bleak laugh. “Which I'm sure Moriarty knows, because he's just desecrated it.”
“How much do you care about my brother, John? Is he important to you?”
“What do you mean?” John asks, instantly wary. “Of course he is.”
“You can go anywhere that has personal significance, if you try hard enough. And, I dare say, Sherlock is probably the most significant person in your life right now. So find him, and let me know where he is.”
“I... I'm not sure it works like that,” John says.
“Do it anyways,” Mycroft orders, and hangs up.
--
But Sherlock is the most important thing in his life now, John reasons. Much more important than his grave, or his gun, or the flat that he'd kept for a few years while in Afghanistan but never gotten that attached to anyways.
If he can haunt a location, or an object, John tells himself, there's no reason he can't haunt a person.
The first few tries are spectacular failures, where he ends up back at the Thames, or at his grave, or goes nowhere at all. But he knows he's getting closer to Sherlock. He has to be, or Sherlock will be dead, or worse, by the time they find him.
He redoubles his efforts, focusing his thoughts on Sherlock, on the sound of his laugh, on the triumph in his grin when he's solved a case, and unstoppable, inevitable knowledge that he belongs with Sherlock, wherever he is.
--
When John finally reaches Sherlock, he is a crumpled heap in a small, empty room. His breathing is slow, and when John searches him, checking for injuries, he finds a lump on the back of his head -- concussion, likely, but there's more to it than that. Sherlock stirs when John texts Mycroft to let him know he's arrived and sticks his phone in Sherlock's coat pocket.
“Already searched me,” he slurs, struggling weakly. When he opens his eyes, they're unfocused. “Get off.”
“No, Sherlock. It's John. Help's on its way. Have you been drugged? Do you remember what he gave you?” He cups Sherlock's face in his hands and gives it a light shake.
“You can't be John,” Sherlock says, and meets his eyes blearily. “John's dead. Can't hear him, can't see him. All I have are fac -- facs -- fascimiles.”
“Well, that's near-death experiences for you,” John jokes weakly. “I'm bringing help. What did he give you? Its name, Sherlock. Tell me its name.”
Sherlock tells him, and John texts it to Mycroft. “Slow-acting poison with a sedative mixed in,” Sherlock explains. “Lots of side effects. Are you really John? I can't tell.”
“Yeah, it's me. Just hold on. They'll be here soon.” John squeezes one of Sherlock's hands, feels it for just a moment, before his hand is passing through Sherlock's, insubstantial.
Sherlock watches it with interest. “Does it always do that?”
“Focus. Is there anything else you can tell me? I brought a phone. Mycroft's tracing it. What else does he need to know?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “It was Moriarty. He knows about you. He took your gun. How did you find me?”
“I think I could find you anywhere now,” John admits shakily.
“If I die. I want you to know --” Sherlock starts, but John interrupts him.
“You won't die. You're fine. You're gonna be okay.” But he's lying. He knows he's lying, because if Sherlock can see him, that means he's going to die, and John can't think about it. Thinking about it makes him feel like his heart's being torn in two.
Sherlock lifts a hand and brushes his fingers over John's cheek, leaving just the briefest impression of warmth. “It'll have been worth it, to finally see you,” he finishes, and loses consciousness.
--
John stays with Sherlock when a team that can only be MI5 storms the building, when he's injected with something that John hopes is meant to neutralize the drugs in Sherlock's system, when he's loaded into an ambulance, and through the ride to the hospital, up until the point where Sherlock is assigned to a hospital bed and hooked up to a terrifying number of machines.
Because Mycroft is waiting for him there, and he says, in a voice that makes it clear he's not making a request, “John, I'm sure you're still here, so please go away. Your loyalty is admirable, but your distress will disrupt some very expensive, very delicate machinery.”
Mycroft's assistant looks up from her phone. “He's over there, sir. Standing next to the heart monitor.” She smiles right at John. “Mr. Holmes has everything under control. You can leave now, Doctor Watson.”
John is so disconcerted that he does.
--
You can come see him now. He's fine, just resting. The voice in his head is bright, feminine, and would be distinctly unwelcome if not for the fact that, well, it'd just told him he could see Sherlock.
“He's here, sir,” Mycroft's assistant says when he arrives at Sherlock's side. She has no problems tracking his location with her eyes as he approaches her. She's standing next to Mycroft, who is reading what looks to be Sherlock's confidential medical records.
“Er, tell Mycroft thanks for all the help,” he says awkwardly. “And for letting me know he'll be alright. What's your name?”
“Hmm. Persephone,” she replies to him. And to Mycroft, “He says thank you, sir. Shall we be going?”
“Of course. Now that this is settled, we've got a flight to Yemen to catch. We mustn't keep Mr. Saleh waiting any longer. Thank you for your assistance in finding my brother, John.”
And then they're gone, leaving John alone with Sherlock. Sherlock's breathing smoothly, and the heart monitor beats a steady, reassuring rhythm. He looks a lot better than when John had left him.
“Hey,” John says softly, and brushes a curl from Sherlock's forehead.
Sherlock opens his eyes and sits up. Faking at being asleep, then. His brow furrows, and he looks around him. He reaches for the ear he usually wears his bluetooth headset over, but the motion is arrested by a tube attached to the back of his hand. “John? Is that you?”
John frowns. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”
Sherlock grins. “As clear as a whistle. Say something again. Anything.”
“Mycroft's assistant can see me. I think she's psychic.”
“My brother's in charge of a couple departments involved in the paranormal. It's logical that his assistant would be exceptional in some way.” Sherlock's grin widens. “I can still hear you. Perhaps it has something to do with my heart stopping. ”
“Wait,” John interrupts, before Sherlock can say anything more. ”Your heart stopped? When was this? I didn't hear about this.”
Sherlock shrugs, unconcerned. “Before the antidote finished taking effect, I assume. They were able to revive me, obviously. Do you think I'll be able to hear all ghosts, or just you? I suppose I owe Moriarty a favor now. This is really quite advantageous.”
“He poisoned you and left you to die. I don't think you owe him anything. I'm just glad you're alright. You are alright, then?” John puts a hand on Sherlock's, and Sherlock looks down at it, then curls his fingers around John's, holding them lightly.
“I'm fine. Bored, mostly. I'm tired but can't fall asleep. Do something entertaining.”
“Like what?”
Sherlock lays back down, still holding John's hand. “I don't care.” He closes his eyes. “Tell me a story. From when you were alive.”
Sherlock, John realizes with amusement, is possibly the only person he knows that can make such a sweet request sound like an order.
“I was ten years old when I broke my leg falling from a tree,” he begins. “Harry was thirteen, and she'd just bet me that she could go up and down the tree in the backyard faster than me...”
--
Sherlock is released after another two days, during which John never leaves his side.
The police had found no sign of Moriarty, but the cold determination in Mycroft's eyes when he'd told John that had him feeling reassured nonetheless. Now that Moriarty's proven himself a threat to Sherlock's life, John knows Mycroft won't rest until Moriarty's been neutralized.
He knows who he's betting on to win that confrontation.
Sherlock's ability to hear John without use of a phone comes in handy, except for the times where they end up talking at crime scenes and Sherlock ends up looking like a nutter again. A package arrives in the post, addressed to John, and when he opens it, it's his handgun, the one he'd last seen at the bottom of the Thames, dry and polished and none the worse for the wear.
It's licensed to Sherlock, the note says in what John would bet anything was Mycroft's handwriting. Sherlock scowls at the note, and tells John to text Mycroft to keep his fat head out of his business.
John sends, Thanks, and Sherlock says thanks too.
--
“What are you doing here?” John asks, when Sherlock texts John to join him in the middle of the night and John finds himself looking at his grave, lit by a torch lying on the ground. The paint on his tombstone looks ghastly in the dim light, almost like blood (except that old blood was more brown than this).
“Waiting for you, obviously. Don't ask questions you know the answer to.” He pours a clear liquid from a thermos onto a cloth that he produces from a coat pocket, then offers it to John. “Would you like to begin?”
John takes the cloth and looks at it dubiously. He sniffs it, but only out of habit; he can't smell anything. “What is it?”
“Paint thinner. I thought your headstone could use a bit of cleaning up. It looks like a madman threw paint all over it,” Sherlock comments dryly.
John laughs, and takes the cloth. The paint moistens with a little bit of effort, smearing and revealing streaks of the grey marble underneath. A second hand, with its own cloth, joins him, removing the red bit by bit.
Now that Sherlock can hear John when he speaks, he's gotten uncannily accurate at knowing exactly where John is, and he leans against John briefly. “When I was drugged, you said you could find me anywhere.”
“I can. It took me a while to get the hang of it, but I can go wherever you can, now,” John says, nervousness twisting his stomach. He can tell where this conversation is going, and his chest tightens, because he's sure, but he's not that sure.
“How?”
“You're the most important person in the world to me. I'd follow you anywhere. I just... realized that, and it was easy.”
Sherlock's cheeks go pink. “Oh. Well. Thank you.”
They clear the paint in silence, until there are only pink smears and a few thin, stubborn lines of red left on the slab of marble, wedged in the letters engraved on its surface. Sherlock's fingers trace the words on John's tombstone.
John H. Watson
1971 - 2009
Soldier, brother, son.
Sherlock clears his throat.
“John,” he says haltingly. “About what you said, earlier. I just wanted to let you know. The feeling's mutual.”
“I'd hoped it might be,” John says, as the sun breaks over the horizon.