Disclaimer: The stories of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the brilliance of its modernization into the television series "Sherlock" was an idea co-created by Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat, both of whom I adore and admire. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are played by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, whose (hopefully accurate) representations I try to embody in this story. Sadly, I own none of the material, and this story is made solely for my own pleasure- and because I'm so anxious to watch Series 3 that I could not wait for the release of the actual episodes, and thus I had to make up a story instead.

Enjoy. :)

John Watson of 221B Baker Street is having a terrible day. The clinic is chaotic beyond belief, full of children crying, people coughing and flu and fluids everywhere. The plan is to finish work by five and take Madison, his most recent girlfriend, out for dinner. However, he ends up collapsing from fatigue on his sofa for three hours instead. This is hardly the first time John has forsaken punctuality, and so when John finally arrives at her flat, Madison opens the door, shoves a box of his personal effects at him, and then slams the door in his face. No words are spoken- none are needed. In the cab home, John texts an apology to his newest ex-girlfriend, but she hasn't replied.

The day's events are occupying John's mind, and the guilt he feels for this behaviour towards Madison, both today and other days, is weighing down his eyes so all he can look at is the box in his hands and the ground beneath his feet. As he reaches the flat, John manages to disentangle his keys from his wallet and loose change and opens the door to 221B Baker Street, where he promptly drops his box on the floor and falls down next to it, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes in exhaustion, frustration, and resignation.

Really, what is worth living for anymore? It is only one month since Sherlock Holmes' death, and already John Watson is losing the will to exist.

After a quarter of an hour of sitting in the dark at the bottom of the stairwell, John harnesses the energy to stand, dragging his possessions into his arms as he straightens. Slowly, he climbs the stairs, aware of every creak the hardwood makes as it protests supporting the sudden weight of John and his box. Even the stairs dislike him.

Oddly, there is a light on at the top of the stairs, and the door left slightly ajar. John does not recall leaving either the door open or the light on, but takes no precautions upon entering his flat. If someone wishes to kill him, they can feel at ease to do so.

The television is also on, turned to BBC News. At first, John is just concerned by the strangeness that the telly is switched on, but that concern is quickly replaced by no small amount of relief as he reads the headline at the bottom of the screen. Sherlock Holmes Not Guilty.

"The police revealed today that they have delved into the past of James Moriarty, recently deceased criminal mastermind. Records indicate that Moriarty had created a false identity as an actor in order to sabotage consulting detective Sherlock Holmes' credibility, also recently deceased. The investigation into Moriarty's criminal activities is ongoing..."

Without realizing it, John has approached the television, box still in his arms. There, on the screen, is that infamous photograph of Sherlock with his upturned collar and his deerstalker hat. The lighting in the photo does not do his friend's eyes justice. It the photo, Sherlock's eyes come off as an opaque gray. The photo captures none of his friend's naturally observant expression, which is enhanced by the clarity of his blue-green eyes.

John sits on the sofa, possessions still in hand, and watches the broadcast, feeling less relieved and more angry as it continues. He listens to the BBC proclaim Sherlock as hero of London, a soldier against the forces of evil. Police officers from Lestrade's division are interviewed, praising Sherlock's intelligence and bravery, mourning over how hastily they believed Moriarty's damning lies.

John feels a distinct urge to kick the television.

A month ago, and for several weeks after, Sherlock had been the butt of every bit of black humour in the country. He had died a disgrace. His funeral was attended by only four people. And now Sherlock is a martyr, and the people shout their love and adoration for him.

Too late.

John places his box on the sofa beside him and looks around for the remote. Only then does he notice the ghost sitting at the desk in the corner of the living room, the lamp shining on papers which long fingers are leafing through with interest.

John manages a garbled yell and drops the remote. The ghost's head turns from its work towards John, with eyes John knows so well glimmering in the dim light.

"Sherlock," John whispers, almost a question.

The hands delicately place the paper on the desk while that straight nose, those cupid's bow lips and sharp cheek bones, that strong forehead and weak jawline give John their full attention.

"Hello, John."