MY BODY IS YOUR VESSEL

am1thirteen

Chapter 1/5 - Hour of the Rooster

Last time Greg took John out for a pint, John acted like he had something he'd like to say, but eventually refrained himself from doing so. Now, standing in the middle of 221b sitting room, smelling the smoke that is billowing from John's lit cigarette, he suddenly wishes he had pushed a little harder for it.

"John, you are a doctor. Don't do this."

Leave it to John Watson to make the addiction he spends most of his adult life fighting look like a chore. It is painful to see him wince after every slapdash inhalation.

"I know, I know," John tries to laugh, and fails miserably, "I just... This is Sherlock's first death anniversary." He closes his eyes, lips pressed together tightly. "Sorry. I just can't believe it has been that long."

"Yeah, I bet you are," Greg tells him blithely, "You could have just lit the cigarette without taking it yourself, you know. If you want to... remember him or something. Just, make sure to keep an eye on it not to cause a fire hazard."

"Yes, obviously." John exhales the last of the smoke before putting it away. "Sorry for making you come here, it's closer from the clinic."

That was a lie. Greg has been keeping in touch with Mrs. Hudson and apparently even though John is no longer living there and has gone through great lengths to avoid the place in the past, these last few weeks he has been coming to visit the empty flat almost everyday (except for one weekend when he either left very late at night and came back very early in the morning or has actually stayed the night). Perhaps it's the anniversary, perhaps he is uncomfortable in his current place, nobody knows for sure and no one has the heart to bring it up.

"Let's go now. Do you need a hand with the flowers? Nevermind, obviously you can handle it. I'll go get the taxi."

Next time Greg takes John out for a pint, his breath smells like cigarettes.

XXX

The day John moves back in to 221b, Greg stares with wide eyes as he hugs and showers Mrs. Hudson with kisses at the doorstep.

XXX

"Oh, hello, John. Did you lose some weight?"

Greg overhears Dimmock's casual remark as he passes by the hallway, eyes glued on the report for the first budget meeting since he was reinstated. In the distance he can hear John's disappointed murmur as Dimmock informs him that Greg is currently unavailable. He makes a mental note to send John a text later, then a closed-room double murder occurs and it completely slips his mind.

XXX

"What the bloody fuck!"

Greg almost drops his coffee when John peers inside his office with bloodshot eyes and much-too-pronounced cheekbones. The doctor must have lost at least one and a half stone, in... how long since he last saw him? It doesn't feel that long, but admittedly, he has been busy.

"Hello Greg, nice greeting. Um, anyway, you haven't been home in... two? Three days?" John tentatively enters the room and closes the door, narrowing his eyes at the Inspector's haggard appearance, "Which case are you working on? The robbery-gone-wrong murder or the drunk-teenage-driving hit and run on Victoria St?"

Greg stops collecting the haphazardly scattered paperwork on his desk to throw him a significant look. "John, it's supposed to be just 'murder' and 'hit and run'. How do you know so much about it? Did you run your own investigation without me?"

John shrugs.

"I see," The Inspector leans back on his chair and crosses his arms, "Do I need to arrange another drug bust to retrieve some evidence from your flat?"

"Jesus, no." John says quickly, tensing, "I am not using. Not once in my life. Where did you get the idea anyway?"

"I don't know, John, you seem to be emulating Sherlock a lot lately. First you took up smoking, then you moved back to 221b and now this? How much weight did you lose? You look like a bloody stick!" Greg snaps, "I would have thought that you, of all people, would know how destructive his lifestyle was."

"I'm not-" John closes his eyes for a moment, gripping the edge of the chair tightly, willing his voice to quiet down, "-not trying to emulate him." He manages, albeit painstakingly.

"Then what is it all about, mate?" Greg's expression softens. He couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the man; couldn't help feeling he is at least partly responsible for the things that have happened to the man's best friend. His friend. "You can tell me anything."

John gives the inspector a considering look before laughing bitterly to himself. "I don't know how to convince you, Greg. I don't even know how to convince me."

"Try me."

John gives him one last earnest look before moving away, "I need some time."

XXX

Time is the last thing Greg wants to give John. Especially not after seeing the glimpse of brittle, bony wrist instead of the usual strong, capable hand. Few people are meant to be Sherlock-skinny, John is simply not built that way.

"Morning, ma'am. I'm sorry to have bothered you so early. John is out at work at the moment, yeah?" Greg flashes his most brilliant smile. Mrs. Hudson ushers him in and serves him tea.

"Oh dear, I think I know what you're trying to tell me," Mrs. Hudson sighs as she sits down and covers her mouth with her palm, "Before you ask, yes, I have noticed his erratic behaviour as of late."

"Like Sherlock," Greg says, affirmed by a curt nod by the landlady.

"He doesn't bring human body parts home and store it in the freezer, not yet anyway," Mrs. Hudson wheezes out a distressed chuckle, "But lately he has been spending most of his time with Sherlock's old chemistry set. I intended to donate it to a school, you see. Sherlock's brother told me to keep it. I've been waiting for him to pick it up but he never does."

"What about his eating habit? Seems like he has lost an awful lot of weight," Greg inquires, willing himself not to cringe, "I suppose you don't know if he has been sleeping too?"

"I'd like to help, dear, I really do, but I rarely see him eat at home. I usually assume that he has been taking his meals outside, but..." Another sigh. "I don't know what to think. It has been two years and he hasn't been able to move on. I thought he was getting better."

John did get better, if only for a few months. There was this girl Mary, whom he seemed to adore. They almost moved in together before all hell broke loose. Nobody knows for sure what happened. One day John was fine, next day he clammed up on everyone he knew, living mostly in recluse. Greg is one of a few friends John still willingly hangs out with.

"Maybe this is just a phase. Everyone has their own way to grieve, I suppose."

Greg links his hands together, nodding absently. "Would it be too much to ask you to keep a closer eye on him?"

"Of course not. Not at all," Mrs. Hudson waves her hand dismissively, "Maybe I'll start bringing him breakfast. Some pastries and his favourite tea. That ought to do him some good."

XXX

"Do you believe in ghost?" John asks conversationally while leaning over a stabbing victim at the morgue.

Young girl in mid-twenties, found in her flat with several deep wounds on her stomach. He really isn't supposed to be involving a civilian in an ongoing crime investigation, but one of the girl's relatives turns to be one of those #believeinsherlock retweeters and has insisted on personally hiring Doctor Watson to help with the case. John never says a thing about these people, but there seems to be quite a number of them who send him encouraging emails and cases to work on. Some of them even came to 221b to offer John cases, according to Mrs. Hudson.

"I try not to," the Inspector replies after hesitating for a moment, wondering where the conversation is heading. "Because of my line of work. I see dead people almost everyday. Wouldn't be good to fear them."

This would be the perfect moment to include Molly in the conversation, except that she has long scurried away only a few minutes after they arrived ("I-I'm going to bring some tea."). Maybe later he will ask John why the girl seems oddly uncomfortable around them.

"What if it is the ghost of someone you know? Would you fear them too?"

Greg frowns, mentally noting that Mrs. Hudson's pastries selection hasn't done its intended effect just yet. If anything, John looks even smaller than before. And weaker too. And now that he starts spouting things... of this nature, maybe it's time to set everything else aside and ask help from the higher power.

"I suppose no, John." Greg fishes his phone out carefully.

NEED TO TALK. SHERLOCK PROBLEM. ISH. -L

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but it has always been the only way to ensure a reply.

Car parked up front. Come at your convenience. -MH

Greg releases the breath he doesn't know he was holding, only to find that his relief is short-lived.

"Then why am I so scared, Greg?"

John is now standing back up, shoulders hunched. Greg holds his gaze at the doctor's back, eyebrow raised.

"What if I tell you... that Sherlock comes to my room at night. It's been more than a year." John's expression is a parody of calm and acceptance, with his eyes sombre and voice gravelly. "Sometimes he gives me clues about the cases, sometimes he just stands in the corner and stares at me with sad eyes, bleeding heavily from his head."

Greg froze in his place, paralyzed by flashes of images, of what John could have been seeing.

"I've been having blackouts." As John turns to face him, Greg could have sworn for a second there he can see the ghostly face of the consulting detective hovering behind the doctor, shooting him cold glare with dead eyes.

"I think he is possessing me."

XXX

When Greg tells Mycroft Holmes that his younger brother's ghost has been coming to John's room every night in addition of possessing his flatmate's body during the day, he expects something more. He would be able to understand if Mycroft has doubts, or if he gets upset at the implication that his brother hasn't quite rested in peace, but not this... flat-out refusal.

"My personal belief in regard of supernatural entities aside, I find such scenario highly improbable," the older Holmes says promptly, leaning his head to the side against his arm, perched on the armrest.

"How can you be so sure?" Greg glowers at him, partly because Mycroft has the galls to look so pristine in his three-piece suit at one bloody a.m.

Mycroft offers him a sardonic smile as he twirls his fingers around the handle of his ever-present umbrella.

"Let's just say that I have ways of acquiring and asserting facts."

Greg almost laughs, "What, is there some sort of secret government research facility to investigate those?"

Mycroft's lips quirk up, but doesn't answer.

"I shall see to it that your concerns are addressed, Inspector. You have my word." Mycroft suddenly says as Greg prepares to leave. 'Julie' has graciously informed him earlier that Mycroft can't grant him audience for long ("It is always business hour somewhere, Inspector.")

"Even in the light of our rather trying relationship at the moment, I care for John Watson. He has made Sherlock a better man and I will always respect him for that."

Greg makes a small noise of acknowledgement before closing the door behind him.

XXX

During his last semi-drunken attempt to console John, Greg fortuitously landed himself a night at 221b on the weekend. As he stands in front of the building, clutching his overnight duffel bag, he ashamedly acknowledges the dread that seeps inside his chest. He has no idea what the night's experience might entail, and the only bullet point in his to-do list is 'improvise'.

"You don't have to do this."

John. Kind, morally sound, reliable, far-too-thin Doctor John Watson tells him at the doorway with a wry smile that can't possibly convey the extent of his distress.

"I brought beer." Greg presses a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder as he slips inside and climbs up the stairs, trying to ignore the odd thickness in the air and the nagging feeling of someone's stare on the back of his neck.

XXX

Greg doesn't know what to think as he steps inside the flat for the first time since John's moving. Everything is put back in place like someone up there just decided to set the clock back two years. The armchairs, the sofa, the skull, the bookshelf, the chemistry set on the kitchen table, everything looks exactly the same as it was before Sherlock's death. With this arrangement, he can somewhat understand if John should expect Sherlock coming out of his room anytime while declaring out loud how mind-numbingly peaceful London is. He is tempted to check inside the microwave to see if the eyeballs are there, but so far he can't smell anything putrid from the kitchen area so perhaps John hasn't progressed that far. Yet.

"Would you mind taking the room upstairs?" John asks, ignoring his protests as he picks up the inspector's bag.

"I'll take the sofa. I don't mind," Greg says, but John has already climbed up to stow his bag in the bedroom.

"I have been sleeping in Sherlock's room since I moved back in."

Greg narrows his eyes, "Is there where you said he..."

John nods warily, avoiding the other man's eyes as he slips past Greg to sit on Sherlock's armchair.

"I told myself everyday, that tonight I would finally sleep, tonight I didn't want to see him, tonight I needed the rest because I just had the longest shift at the surgery..." John leans forward, resting his elbows on both thighs, hands clasped together just below his chin (Sherlock's thinking pose, Greg observes with a shiver).

"I couldn't believe my own eyes. It didn't make any sense. It didn't matter what I decided during the day, when the night came and I passed by his door, I was just... I wanted to see if he would be there. If he was really a figment of my imagination or... Christ, this is so messed up."

"John, about the blackouts," Greg moves to take John's usual armchair, "Can you tell me more about it?"

God knows Greg has little to no theoretical knowledge when it comes to psychological studies, but he knows that the sightings, at the very least, can be attributed to some kind of backlash of a mental trauma and are mostly harmless. The blackouts, on the other hand, spawn an entirely different kind of risk. He just can't imagine not being in total control of his body, losing consciousness and waking up elsewhere without being able to fill in the blanks. It means John can no longer be held accountable to the things he does nor says. If things get worse, the doctor might even lose his job.

John leans back and nods, swallowing hard as he begins to talk.

"It started a few weeks after I moved back in. In the morning, a client came to the flat. He suspected one of his employees had been taking bribes from the vendors, but he couldn't figure out which. He didn't want to involve the police until he was sure, so he asked me to conduct the initial examination."

"At first I was inclined to decline. But locum work was slow and money was tight since I had to pay for the flat alone... He convinced me he would pay for the investigation even if in the end none of them was proven guilty. The job seemed pretty straightforward to me, so I agreed to do it. The next day I came to his office and interviewed everyone. I did background checks for each strong suspect, I reviewed the paperwork for a few days. In the end, I found out that not only one of them was guilty, in fact it was common practice for most of them. That's how they had been getting away with it, because they covered for each other. Suffice to say that they were not pleased with my involvement, and apparently one of them knew this... junkie with a shank. He confronted me on my way home and tried to stab me."

John clears his throat and inhales deeply, frowning in discomfort, "H-He caught me by surprise. I fell, hit my head on the pavement. It was the last thing I remembered."

Greg nods quietly, silently hoping that the story won't end with him having to choose between his constable attestation and his friend.

"When I woke up, I was already standing up. My head hurt like someone just hit it with a sodding mallet... I felt... disoriented. I just collapsed. When the pain subsided, I opened my eyes... and the junkie was just lying there... on the ground. I thought he was dead, but then he started groaning. I checked his vitals to make sure that he wouldn't... perish before the ambulance arrived. He was barely conscious."

"I didn't know at the time, but I could feel it; that I was the one responsible for his injuries. My knuckles were bruised, and my... my body was aching too, like I was just involved in a brawl... but I needed to confirm it. I followed him to the hospital. So I could ask him what exactly happened."

"Did you get to ask him?"

John shakes his head, closing his eyes momentarily, "I didn't even get a word in. He was so bloody terrified of me, he couldn't stand my proximity. I had to leave before he made a commotion."

"It wasn't all. Afterwards, I went home and took a scalding shower. I closed my eyes just for a second..."

Greg instinctively darts his eyes at the direction of the bathroom.

"When I finished, I looked at the mirror and I saw this." John tucks his phone out of his pocket, punching a few buttons before handing it over to the inspector. His fingers feel dreadfully cold against Greg's warm ones.

Greg narrows his eyes. John has taken a photograph of the fogged mirror, on which someone whose handwriting is eerily similar to Sherlock's has written:

I DID IT TO PROTECT YOU.

Hell, Greg already read it with Sherlock's voice in his mind. Sherlock was ruthless and had always been protective of John. It was way too easy to visualize: the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, bending the rules of the dead with his intellect, deciding to follow his best friend around, solving cases and beating bad guys from the other world. Now that Sherlock is free from his bothersome 'transport', there is no limit for his ever-expanding mind. No risk of physical deterioration. Just him, his brilliance, and John. Frankly that is probably Sherlock's most accurate rendition of heaven.

"It was me, Greg." John's grim face greets him as he puts the phone away, "Nobody else was inside the flat at the moment, I checked. Ghosts can't touch things, at least not according to my knowledge. He took over my body for a while and wrote it. He did the same thing with the junkie. He beat him half to death, with my hands."

Greg inhales deeply, eyeing the open pack of cigarettes on the table. God would a smoke be fantastic right now.

"You can have it, you know," John suddenly says, "The cigarette. I don't mind."

The inspector hesitates only for a moment before guiltily lighting himself one. His first drag feels graciously long and liberating.

"Would you like one?" He offers, noting how John seems entranced by the soft glow at the end of the slender tube.

John shakes his head. "The urge to smoke... it comes and goes. I'm just not feeling it right now."

"Right," Greg exhales slowly. It is wonderful. He can feel his head getting just a little bit clearer. "The way you have been behaving like Sherlock, how did it start?"

"Yeah... about that... people have been telling me about it." John seems genuinely baffled at the indictment. "Exactly how have I been behaving like Sherlock?"

"You do realize you are sitting on his chair?"

John looks down, flushes a little and starts to laugh, "Well didn't I sound so bloody clever just now."

Greg allows himself a smile. In some rare moments when John laughs like this, he can almost pretend that nothing has gone wrong. Just two mates hanging out together for the weekend. No PTSD, no ghostly presence, the worst thing that awaits them tomorrow is severe hangover.

XXX

Greg stirs awake to the numbness of his arm, where his head was apparently rested on during his drunken doze on the armchair. A quick glance at the sofa confirms where John has ended up at, lying on his side, sleeping quite peacefully for someone who claims to have been haunted by his dead flatmate. Greg likes to think that his presence is to thank for that. John must have spent months alone thinking he was going mad before he opened up to Greg today. And while he hasn't been able to come up with a solution, it must have brought a little relief.

"Everything okay?" John suddenly murmurs, half-asleep.

"Sleep, John," Greg pulls the quilt to cover John's shoulder, patting him gently on the back. "Everything's fine."

Satisfied by the level conviction in his tone, Greg moves away to relieve himself at the loo, all the beer is settling heavy, low on his stomach. When he returns, he approaches the sitting room to retrieve his phone before retreating upstairs, only to find himself frozen in place, staring at the door to Sherlock's room.

"It didn't matter what I decided during the day, when the night came and I passed by his door, I was just..."

He darts his eyes to John, who is fast asleep, then back at the door.

"I have been sleeping in Sherlock's room since I moved back in."

"Sherlock comes to my room at night."

"Sometimes he just stands in the corner and stares at me with sad eyes, bleeding heavily from his head."

Greg almost falls back when he realizes he has been holding his breath. The flat feels uncharacteristically silent. He glances at his watch. It's a little past three in the morning. If ghost does exist, this would be about the right time to show up, at least according to popular culture.

"I wanted to see if he would be there. If he was really a figment of my imagination."

He takes a deep breath, feeling his heart race. This would help John, he tells himself. John confides in him. If he could tell John that he doesn't see anything, that might just be the kind of placebo the doctor needs.

Greg can feel himself moving slowly towards the door. A part of him is kicking and screaming, begging his feet to just stop moving. Another part is just bloody desperate for answer.

"Sherlock," he croaks out as he touches the cold surface of the doorknob. "I'm coming in."

XXX

As Greg flicks the light on, he is greeted by the image of a fairly normal-looking bedroom. Fairly being the operative word, as in compared to the haphazard mess of a sitting room. He has stepped inside this room several times but it never fails to baffle him how the room seems to resemble a gallery rather than a place to rest. But then again, knowing Sherlock, he probably only used the room for proper sleep one night out of seven.

Preparing himself for the worst, Greg straightens his back and looks over his surroundings. The bed is made, the desk looks sparse and every surface seems spotless. Although John claims to have moved in, he couldn't see the doctor's possessions around the place. Every book on the desk, every clothing article in the cupboard belongs to Sherlock. If John doesn't even dare to move his belongings in to the room, why would he force himself to stay there? Or is that what John considers himself to be; one of Sherlock Holmes' personal effects?

Greg ends his inspection feeling a bit depressed, and just a little relieved. Throwing one last cursory glance across the room, he waits for a few seconds before closing the door, willing something to show up. Nothing does.

Not inside the room.

When Greg turns around and catches Sherlock's ghostly pale profile hunched above John's sleeping form on the sofa, for a moment it feels like his heart is going to leap out of his chest. His brain is overloaded with outbursts of memories, from the first time he met Sherlock Holmes to the time he collapsed outside the morgue after having to identify his body. It is the closest thing Greg has ever experienced to what people refer as the way one's entire life will flash before their eyes before death.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens it again, Sherlock's semi-transparent figure is still there. He is wearing the exact same clothes he wore when he died, staring down at John's sleeping face. His head doesn't seem to be bleeding, but his eyes are every bit as sad as John has described.

Greg has never felt so terrified in his life. This is the end. He is going to die from the shock of seeing Sherlock's ghost. God, he is going to die.

"S-Sherlock-" he wheezes out, belatedly realizing that during his panic attack he has fallen down with his back pressed against the door. His legs are scrambling to make more distance between him and the numinous presence, pushing himself back as far as he can.

He freezes as Sherlock finally turns to him, gazing down his soul with impossibly pale eyes.

The detective's lips moves. His voice comes as a whisper in Greg's ear.

Lestrade.

XXX

At two in the afternoon the next day, Greg arrives at Speedy's cafe, jaw set and eyes grim.

"Afternoon," John looks up from his tea and greets him, seeming well-rested for once. Greg offers him a small nod as he takes his seat.

"I'm sorry for leaving without waking you this morning."

"It's okay, really," John takes a sip of his tea, frowning at the taste before reaching for the sugar container. Greg promptly catches his hand.

"You don't take sugar, John. Sherlock did." He says at John's inquiring eyes. "Don't let him win."

"What..." John starts to laugh, pulling his arm back, "Why are you saying this? Who wins what?"

"I saw him, John." Greg throws him a meaningful look. "Sherlock isn't just a part of your imagination. He is real. I saw him yesterday. He really is haunting you."

John opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, eyes downcast. "I thought... I thought he would only show himself to me. You must be terrified. God, I am so sorry."

"Look," Greg pushes, "I am not upset about that. I am worried about you. You can't let Sherlock take over your body, not even for a moment, you hear me?"

Much to his frustration, John looks away, withdrawn. "Why yes, of course. Because clearly I am the one in control here. I can decide when he can knock me out and take the wheel."

"The junkie you told me about yesterday. I found him. He had four broken ribs and very nearly punctured his lungs. He could have died." He tries to explain, lowering his voice, "He confirmed that you were the one who bludgeoned him. He said that you kept kicking him even after he fell down and begged you to stop. Is that the life that you want, John? You could seriously hurt someone without knowing about it!"

"It is Sherlock, Greg. It's not just... not just some stranger. He was just trying to protect me." John's eyes flutter fretfully, "If it wasn't for him, it would have been me. I could have died."

"The John Watson I know would have preferred that to the alternative."

For a moment, they just lock eyes, willing the other to back down. John's lips form a tight line, his brows creased. He probably thinks that Greg can't possibly understand, how the intertwined feelings of happiness and fear almost robbed him of coherence when he first realized that his dearest friend and flatmate was back in his life. How hard it was for him to come to terms with it and how he will risk losing his mind reliving the loss again. What John doesn't understand is the extent of Greg's trust for him, how highly Greg has always regarded him for being Sherlock's moral compass. Even at the moment, he trusts John to see through his grief and choose the right thing to do. If a firm push on the back is what he needs, Greg will give it to him, because that's what friends do.

"I..." John starts, a little breathlessly. "I will try to talk to him... tonight."

"If you need me to be present, all you have to do is ask."

"No, no. I definitely have to do this alone." John's eyes are cast down, but otherwise determined. Greg can feel relief washes over him, knowing John will do the right thing, as he always does.

XXX

If there were something different about the glint in John's eyes when he arrived at the crime scene that morning, Greg was too preoccupied by the case to notice.

"Amber Fletcher, twenty-five years old, multiple stab wounds on her stomach, found in her bedroom this morning by her flatmate. She was last seen alive last night when she went to bed after attending a party," he explains as John examines the body closely.

"We found some blood under her nails, tests are being run right now. I think there's a good chance we will be able to nail this serial bastard soon," Anderson adds, gleaming with pride at his contribution.

"So you think we're looking at a serial killer," John murmurs low under his breath as he moves around the room, darting his eyes around rapidly.

"Obviously," Anderson snorts, "Similar M.O., same age group, same eye and hair colour as the last victim. The only difference is he screwed up big this time, leaving some of his DNA on the victim's body. That will be his undoing."

"Truly extraordinary, Anderson," John stops moving and turns to the forensic officer with a big smile, "Just when I thought you couldn't get anymore obtuse, you just go for the extra mile and prove me wrong."

Anderson instantly flushes, indignant. "Wh-what-did you just call m-"

"First of all, it's not a he. It's a she. In the first murder, there were physical evidences of a struggle, while right here you can see the sheets are undisturbed and the pillows are barely upturned. The victim was drugged before subsequently brought to her bed and stabbed. See the dragging marks on the carpet, they indicate that the victim was too heavy for the perpetrator. Victim is a slim girl, a man should have been able to carry her with little trouble."

"But the blood under her nails-"

"Would turn up to be her own DNA. It came from the graze on her elbow. The skin was irritated, it was itchy so she kept scratching it until it bled."

"How did you know about the female part? Not being strong enough to carry her can only indicate a physically-stunted person. Or just a drunk." Greg cocks his head curiously.

"There's no sign of forced entry, that automatically puts the one with the key, her flatmate, to the top of the suspect list. She claims to have seen the victim turn in for the night while clearly she was unconscious when she was brought here. She just went home from a party, she wore big flashy earrings. If she entered the room on her own while intending to go to sleep, she would have taken off the uncomfortable accessories and washed her make up off. As you can see, she is still wearing the earrings and her party make up. Her flatmate lied about the last time she saw her alive. She has the chance, the means, and possibly some dull, short-sighted motives to kill her. Frankly, Lestrade, why you are not having her in custody yet is beyond me."

Greg nods and quickly instructs a sergeant to detain the flatmate.

"Look, Doctor Watson," Anderson stops John before the doctor can exit the room, sputtering with rage, "I don't know what your problem is, but-"

"Leave it, Anderson. I need to speak to John."

Greg's face remain neutral as both men turn to him with identical quizzical looks.

"Alone," he adds before Anderson can come up with a retort. The forensic officer throws John one last glare as he strides away, spouting curses under his breath.

"John, remember our conversation yesterday?" The inspector asks, crossing his arms.

John purses his lips, frowning. "Yes, I do. And I'd rather you just get to the point. A suspect to interrogate, remember?"

"I promise this won't take long. You said you'd talk to Sherlock. How'd that go?"

"It's... fine. I guess," John looks down, shifting his legs, "We have reached quite an impasse, I am afraid, since he can't really make himself disappear, you see..."

Greg gives him a considering look, rubbing his chin. "Right. It's good. Good. Okay. What's my first name?"

Has the situation been any less grave, Greg would have laughed at the vacant look in John's face.

"Deleted it again? I am hurt, Sherlock."

XXX

"You are a shite friend." Greg says accusingly.

Now that his cover has been blown, John readily wears Sherlock's usual facial expressions. At the moment, it is the 'I don't quite get what you are implying and I am not impressed'.

"You deleted my name, and you are using John's body like some sort of outdoor coat."

"Fine," Sherlock snorts, stirring ungodly amount of sugar in to his tea. "If you want John back, you can have him after the case."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, how could you just-" Greg sputters, "You died. Why'd you come back? How?"

"Dull," Sherlock sips on his tea, "That's why you're always stumped with the cases. You keep asking the wrong questions."

"Sherlock," he says in his most menacing no-nonsense tone, "This isn't a bloody game. John is my friend. I won't let you, not even you, to take over his body. Now tell me, is John still in there or have you kicked him out for good?"

"Kicked him out you say," the consulting detective mock-laughs, "I suppose it can be an appropriate analogy to simplify things for you. John is Mrs. Hudson, his body is 221b, and I am myself."

"Well, simplify this, you sod," Greg watches the brief look of surprise in the detective's borrowed face with satisfaction as he shoves him against the wall, "Leave. John. Alone."

"Lestrade, I know you are just trying to protect John so I am going to let this slide." Sherlock wheezes out, "Let me off. Now."

Greg does, only because he doesn't want to hurt the vessel.

"I won't hurt John. In fact, it was how I discovered this ability at the first place. Because I wanted to protect him."

"You almost got him convicted for murder."

"I was furious and I miscalculated, it was my first time wearing someone else's body!"

An officer passes by and is giving them a strange look. Greg curses.

"Shouldn't have done this here," mutters the inspector.

"Should have let me in the interrogation room. I would have cracked her in minutes." Sherlock hisses impatiently. "The sooner you let me conclude this case, the sooner John will have his body back."

"No, Sherlock," Greg says, lowering his voice just in case another person comes in, "We need to have this conversation. I won't let you get away."

"Oh, make up your mind!" Sherlock snaps, "First you don't want me here, and now you won't let me go! What exactly do you want me to say? I didn't choose to have this-pathetic excuse of an existence I have been reduced to!"

"When I was alive, I was a machine, spinning out of control. But then at least I saw the means to an end. Now I am just a machine, spinning out of control, without being able to-to affect anything around me. I can see but I can't be seen. I can hear but I can't be heard. All the things, all the people, they are within my reach but I can't touch them."

"You asked me why, and how I came back to the world like this, well I don't know. The last thing I remember was falling to my demise, and then waking up in Baker Street as-this."

Greg falls silent, fists clenched. How dare he, how dare Sherlock Holmes sound so human when he isn't. How dare he remind Greg of the thin, misguided young man he first met many years ago. How could he so easily convince Greg to forget about John for a moment and just cry for him; for his death, all over again?

As his vision starts to blur, Greg promptly turns his back on Sherlock. He doesn't know why he bothers. It shouldn't take a genius consulting detective to know that his lungs are hurting from the pent-up emotions.

"You can see the suspect, if you're amenable," he croaks out arduously.

Sherlock considers it for a moment before humming his agreement and stepping away.

"Just..."

Sherlock halts his steps momentarily.

"Promise me. That you won't let John disappear."

There is barely a pause.

"I promise."

XXX

TBC