The Empty Grave

Sherlock Holmes is born on a cold November night in 1895, in the spacious country home of Lord and Lady Holmes. His older brother Mycroft receives a telegram to inform him of his brother's birth.

Sherlock's parents love him as much as they can, though he privately thinks that the nursemaid who spends most of the day with him may harbor more affection than his distant mother and father. Nonetheless, he is given the best of everything- the latest toys and child-sized scientific apparatus (his father is delighted to see his son interested in the sciences) as well as violin lessons, to teach him culture.

(Even though he sounds like Cook's cat did the time the gardener stood on her tail.)

Unfortunately, all the money in the world cannot prevent him from playing outside a bit too long after a particularly violent English rainstorm, and at six years old, Sherlock Holmes contracts a mild cold, which turns into a horrible cold, which turns into pneumonia.

Sherlock Holmes goes into the ground on a cold February morning, and his mother weeps for months.

Sherlock does not know this, however. He is too busy exploring the church graveyard. The nest the blackbirds are building in the church eaves is especially interesting. It's nice- falling doesn't hurt at all now, and it's easier to jump up and climb.

But it's lonely, though. No-one can see him, and most of the others they bring here never stay long.

….

John Watson is born in London on a warm June afternoon in 1933. When he is six years old, the government decides to move the children out of London to protect them from the bombs and the Germans, who seem rather intent on leveling the whole city. John's scared to leave his Mummy, but he's glad that he and Harry are being sent to stay with his aunt, unlike the other children in his class. They don't know where they're going.

He's very brave when he says good-bye to Mummy and gets on the train, and only cries a little. He knows that Harry is scared too; she hugs him instead of telling him he's acting like a baby for crying.

It's actually nice staying with his aunt in the village- he helps with collecting eggs from the chickens, and goes to school with the other children, and (occasionally) steals apples from Mr. Henry's trees. (It's his own fault really; the branches reach over the garden wall and hang in the lane, practically begging to be slipped into a schoolboy's pockets).

However, one windy March morning, John wakes up and complains of a sore throat. The symptoms of scarlet fever set in soon after, and his fever doesn't break. John Watson is buried in the church graveyard on a Tuesday afternoon, and his sister decides to become a doctor, to make sure that people like her brother don't die when they're so little. It is tough, but she makes it, and becomes a nationally renowned pediatrician.

John doesn't know this, however. He's too busy making friends with the boy in the funny clothes, who wants to show him a bird's nest perched in the chapel eaves.

"You're gonna fall, Sherlock!"

"So what? S'not gonna hurt me."

"No, but I'm the one you're gonna land on!"

"Shut up, John- they're hatching!"

Sherlock isn't lonely anymore.

….

Sherlock and John do everything together. They play hide and seek in the mausoleum, they watch the churchgoers and laugh at the women's funny hats, and they try to talk to the shades that whisper about whenever a big group of people in black come down to bury a box.

The shades never stay very long, though- they always leave around the time that the Shadow shows up.

The Shadow is scary. It's cold and dark, even at noon, and Sherlock and John always hide from it whenever they feel it coming. Sometimes it tries to go after them, but they're very quick and quiet, so they're never found.

(They both feel that they might remember meeting something like it a long time ago, but it's really hard to remember.)

And so they spend their days (and weeks, and months, and years) like this, watching flowers and bird's nests and people, counting stars and raindrops and fireflies, playing pirates and thieves and knights. It's wonderful, just the two of them having fun while the cars get bigger and shinier and the village gets bigger and grittier, and the world turns, leaving them be.

….

Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donavon have driven out to some village in the middle of nowhere in the hopes of tracking down Andrew Patterson, a surprisingly wild serial arsonist with a frightening fondness for fireworks. Folks remember seeing someone who matches his appearance heading to the church (Lestrade privately blesses all gossipy old ladies for the vital clues they hand out like sweets) and they arrive at the graveyard to find their perp attempting to blow the place sky-high with an improvised incendiary device that promises to take him with it.

He also has a gun, which complicates things a bit.

….

Sherlock and John watch the two parties circle each other. They know that the may holding the petrol can and the gun isn't a very nice one, and the other man and the lady are police (they've certainly shouted it often enough), but they're not quite sure what else is happening.

But when the petrol-man starts trying to shoot the other two, they (being John, who is not as interested in watching a firefight as Sherlock is) decide that they might as well head over to the yew trees in the far corner, where there's less guns going off.

But then the man takes out a book of matches and something in John's center stirs and tells him, certainly as he knows they can't leave the graveyard and can't be seen by others, that if the place is blown up, if their headstones are knocked over and their graves are disturbed…

That is would be very bad.

It seems that Sherlock has realized this too, because the idiot has taken off running towards the figures, leaving John no choice but to follow.

Never mind the fact that the grown-ups can't see or touch the two of them; they'll figure something out. Sherlock's clever, and John's brave. Someone told him so, a long time ago.

….

Lestrade is peering out from behind a headstone and frantically signalling to Donavon, who is doing her best to understand him in the fading light. It's too dangerous to approach Patterson, but there's now way that their backup will get there in time.

It is, as his most annoying uncle would say, a bit of a sticky wicket.

He leans out a bit more, trying to catch a glimpse of the arsonist, who can see the inspector only too well, and lifts his gun…

And Sherlock, who has been doing his best to raise some sort of breeze or otherwise distract the man in some way when he is unable to touch him, is seized by a fit of foolishness, and makes a grab for his arm. And for some reason unbeknownst to anyone, he is able to grasp it, and the shot goes wild, taking the ear of a crying angel crouched over the grave of Mrs. Elizabeth Huntley, beloved wife and mother, 1808-1892. And

John, who had been doing his best to keep and eye on both Sherlock and Lestrade, finds himself shoving the man behind the gravestone he crouches by as the second shot comes a great deal closer. And

Sally Donavon saw the target stumble out into the open (thanks to a helpful shove from Sherlock) and takes the opportunity presented to her, shooting Patterson clean through the chest.

….

Andrew stood up and looked down, feeling a bit lightheaded. This was mostly due to the fact that he had just been shot in a rather fatal fashion, and was therefore standing over his corpse. He had about three seconds to consider this fact before he was aware of the presence of a deep black shadow behind him.

ANDREW SIMON PATTERSON, DEAD AT SIX-THIRTY IN THE EVENING ON APRIL THE THIRTEENTH, AGE FORTY-SIX.

Oh. That was him.

The shadow almost pulled itself together, until it looked more like a cowled figure. YOU'LL BE HAPPY TO KNOW THAT YOUR TALENT WITH FLAMES WILL BE APPRECIATED AT YOUR DESTINATION.

Andrew put two and two together and came up with a very unpleasant answer. Then, he faded.

….

The shadow-cowled figure turned around to view the two small shades that had been attempting to sneak away. AND WHAT, It began, WILL I BE DOING WITH YOU?

They started at it defiantly (though in private, both wished nothing more than to run away) and said nothing. There was nothing that they really could say; this wasn't the sort of being you could argue with.

It sighed. The young ones were always the hardest, and these ones especially had been rather slippery. While It didn't usually bend the rules, in light of recent events…

Perhaps something could be done.

ALL RIGHT. ONE MORE CHANCE. To Sherlock and John, the voice seemed to be suddenly coming from the end of a large, dark tunnel. ONE MORE CHANCE, BUT AFTER THIS, YOU'RE COMING WITH ME.

….

Lestrade rolled over, coughing. Whatever had pulled him back had knocked the wind out of him and left a bruise on his arm. Donavon was standing away from Patterson's body, trying to reign in the shock that was threatening to incapacitate her. It wasn't a messy scene; just a pool of blood, but he knew she'd be having nightmares for weeks.

He forced himself to his knees and then upright, and then made his way over to her.

"You alright?"

She took a deep breath. "Give me a minute, and ask again."

It was around this time that the flash happened. It wasn't some large, three-million-in-quid-for-special-effects sort of flash, more like the one you get when someone takes your picture and the light hits you right in the eyes. However, once they had both cleared the spots from their vision, a rather surprising event had occurred.

A once-empty patch of grass in front of a gravestone was suddenly occupied by two children; boys that couldn't have been older than six. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothes (the dark-haired one even more so than the blonde) and were exceedingly pale, with dark shadows under their eyes and smudges of dirt on their faces.

Lestrade and Donavon started at them.

They stared right back.

Finally, Donavon found her tongue and broke the silence. "Who are you- how did you- what just happened?"

There was a longer stretch of silence, until the darker-haired one speaks. "My name is Sherlock," he begins, "and this is John. And up until a moment ago…

I think we were dead."

….

Look guys, I made a thing.

All right, I know I should be working on my other story, but a rabid plot bunny attacked me about two hours ago, and this is the result, typos and all. Feel free to leave a review about what you think and whether I should continue or not; there are a few different places I'm willing to take this story if there's enough interest.

And yes, I did just combine kidlock and ghostlock into one fic. Expect to see more Parental!Lestrade if I continue, as well as other canon characters.

Until next time,

InkySpectacles