A/N: Post Reichenbach, alternatively called "5 times John sees Sherlock's ghost, and 1 time he doesn't", except it's a really unconventional "5 times" story and it's not properly structured to that genre.

Oh well.

This was supposed to be longer, also, but I hit a wall, and just decided that I shouldn't touch it anymore.

Thank you for reading! Enjoy!

The first time John sees him, he's standing on a rooftop.

It's not like the last time though, not like the time that never should have happened, but how John used to see him gazing over the city. His city. Good and lost in his abyss of a mind.

It's a beautiful sight.

It nearly makes him collapse in panic, but he wouldn't trade the familiar scene for anything.

John doesn't quite understand why he's at Mycroft's funeral. For one, they never kept in touch after—and it's only been three years. Men aren't supposed to die young, but then again, men aren't supposed to outlive their little brothers, either. He's being buried next to him, though, under that giant tree with enough room that hopefully the two can stand to share the space. It's something.

It's cold, and Sherlock's lingering on the outskirts of the faceless mass. His scarf is wrapped tight around his neck, hiding in the folds of his up-turned collar which protects him from the wind as he glares down at the rectangle hole. He looks so perfect and real that John can't resist the urge to call out.

A heavy silence fills the air around him, and awkward glances hesitantly meet his own desperate gaze.

Mary tugs at his elbow purposely—he's only just met her and he can't believe he thought to bring her here—and pulls him away from the steady mercury eyes flashing at him through the crowd.

Sherlock makes himself known at the morgue.

John's not exactly sure how he knows that Sherlock's been here, but Molly's much more jumpy than normal and is keen on keeping him away from the freezer. Never mind that he wants to check a wound discovered during the autopsy, she tells him as she not-so-subtly pushes him back in the direction of the doors. He'll have to come back another time.

Maybe it's the riding crop leaning innocently against the lab station that tips him off.

Mary's staring at him strangely, which he supposes isn't the best reaction to receive when he's down on one knee. He heaves himself back on both feet with great difficulty, his leg protesting painfully until he makes a grab for his cane to help him all the way up. He sighs purposefully and looks around—anywhere but at her.

She's still staring at him. He ignores her.

That is, until she murmurs something about a fake injury. Then she has his full attention, whether she wants it or not.

She blushes under his intense scrutiny and shakes her head. She tells him about the odd man who muttered "psychosimosis limp" or some other rubbish in her ear as she passed him on the sidewalk. Says how, when she asked Mrs. Hudson about it, the old landlady explained what it meant, and how it all boils down to a false injury; a miscalculation of the brain.

The clinical words are hard to hear. Even harder to listen to because he doesn't hear Mary's nervous voice explaining this to him, but the cool, deep, detached baritone he's afraid he'd forgotten.

She says yes, and they share a toast with Mrs. Hudson. He ignores the unused champagne glass in the cupboard.

It's at his bachelor's party after that. He's piss drunk and his mates are ragging on him with nonsense about imprisonment and slavery. One of them got a picture of Mary holding a whip and blew it up. It proudly hangs on the wall behind them, taking the occasional puncture wound from the darts they throw in a moment of drunken bitterness.

None of this is important though. What's important is that John is too drunk to know if he's speaking English, and Sherlock has just sat down next to him.

He slurs something even he can't understand. Probably a thank-you for taking the time to stop tormenting his brother in the afterlife to resurrect himself for John's bachelor party, and claps him on the back. He's surprised when it collides harshly with unyielding flesh, but Sherlock only winces. He gives John one of his calculating looks and nods to him.

A little while later, one of his friends comes up to ask John what he's staring at, but John hardly knows.

It's his wedding night and London is quiet. Mary's asleep up in the flat and he's out for a walk in the snow, because why not? It's much better to wallow outdoors.

He struggles with his cane on the slick sidewalk, determined to avoid the gaze of the fellow approaching him silently. He doesn't need to see pity tonight.

The man calls his name out in the silence, and his head snaps up so fast he's sure he's broken it. His voice is so wretchedly familiar John's half-tempted to turn around and walk away, to hell with his manners.

He murmurs a greeting of his own, though, knowing full-well that silence was never an option, but he refuses to look up, to utter the name that is quite literally drowning his tongue with its weight. He just focuses on the shadow, on the very real shadow stretched out endlessly in front of him.

The dry comment about his cane would shatter him if there was anything left in John for him to break, but since there isn't—and there really hasn't been for quite a while now—all he feels is anger. Anger at reality, at the shitty timing, at his diminishing sanity that causes this to happen more and more often.

He doesn't know what makes him furiously blurt out that he's married, but he does it, and it gives him a perverse satisfaction to see Sherlock reel back from the sheer force of it. His face is full of shock, but John can probably see this only because Sherlock wants him to, and that just makes him inexplicably angrier.

He pushes at him, and the warm body underneath his shaking fingers gives way until they're both cold and wet and lying in the snow.

He's not sure when he started crying, but Sherlock is, too, so that makes it okay. He isn't aware of the blather coming out of his mouth until he registers Sherlock shaking his head furiously, and only then does he realize he's apologizing.

He's not really sure for what, but Sherlock seems to know, and he's not listening to a word of it.

He kisses him, once, briefly—his own apology in the only way he really knows how. He tells him quietly that it's okay, that it's all going to be okay now; he'll stop coming round and popping up here and there, though he hasn't made it to Mrs. Hudson yet and would really like to see her just once—

John punches him, he doesn't know if he can manage not punching him by this point, but that's okay, because Sherlock just laughs.

They cry as they hold each other, every once and awhile speaking to point out things like that one time they stole an ashtray or when they chased a criminal down a street thirty blocks away from here, because it matters right now. It all matters.

When John wakes up, frozen to the bone with Mary screaming painfully in his ear, he's alone, but it's okay. He's okay.

He's done seeing ghosts.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of the characters mentioned in this story, canon or otherwise.