The professor John mentions in this fic is based off of one of mine. I was taking a forensic course when I wrote this, I simply couldn't help myself.

It starts when John goes to meet Sherlock after that first time at Bart's. He had spent the previous night debating whether to go or not. He knew logic dictated that he shouldn't. That he was going to meet a mad man, a mentally disturbed person, a nut job. Especially after he looked up his website. How on Earth can you tell a pilot by his left thumb? It was ridiculous and sounded more than a little out there.

But he couldn't help himself. This 'consulting detective' fascinated him.

When he sees the man smile when he does show up, he knows he has done the right thing. Screw 'normal' expectations, no one should be that surprised or excited that someone has followed through with their promise. He feels ashamed that he had to think about coming at all. He vows to keep an open mind.

Of course then he sees the chaos that is the flat. And he does mean chaos. There are boxes everywhere, papers staked hazardously, lab equipment in the kitchen, a cow skull on the wall. In fact John notices a theme: the headphone wearing cow skull, the skull poster, the skull on the fireplace.

The human skull on the fireplace.

John is a doctor. He knows the human body, he knows what it looks like and he knows when he is looking at it. "That's a skull," he says. What he means is 'That's a real skull. How and why do you have a real skull displayed on your fireplace?'

Sherlock looks at him. "Friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." His tone is casual, but he watches him intently for his reaction.

John shrugs. "Just not most people's first choice in decoration."

Sherlock snorts. "Dull." He turns away.

That's when John feels it for the first time. The feeling of being watched intently. As if someone can burn a hole through you through sheer force of will. John's hairs stand on end. His battle instincts are screaming at him that he is being watched, but no one else is in the room. He looks around nonchalantly anyways. No on. It's just him, Sherlock and the skull. This information still doesn't make the feeling disperse.

But then Detective Inspector Lestrade arrives and he is swept away to a crime scene and chasing a killer and saving his new flatmates life. He dismisses it from his mind.

The second time he feels it, John is sitting in his chair with a freshly brewed cup of tea. Sherlock is stretched out on the couch, comatose to the world. He wasn't joking when he said he didn't talk for days. What he neglected to mention was that he neither moved nor responded during these times either. Of course considering the other details he failed to mention, John isn't really surprised. The man thought not talking and playing the violin was bad. Never mind the body parts, the experiments, the lack of privacy, the rudeness, the laziness or the pure inconsideration the man radiated. Clearly it was the lack of communication and the violin that was the problem. Although when the violin included middle of the night concerts and dying cat noises...

Maybe he should sum it up in 'arrogant, sodding git of a genius'. It would certainly make things easier.

Strangely though John can't bring himself to mind. Or rather, to mind as much as he should. Because cross contamination is a thing. He should be doing more to protest than just getting into the occasional row to ratify the situation. A row that lasts no longer than a handful of minutes and the necessary walk to calm down; something over in a few hours. He should fight long and hard about several of those traits his flatmate possesses. Or he should move out, leave. He's not sure anyone would blame him at this point.

But the thought of leaving, of not coming back, of never seeing Sherlock again leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He can't bare to even consider it. He's only known the bloke for three weeks at this point, but the thought of life without him seems impossible. Like he's always been here.

As he's pondering all of this, he senses it. He turns his head, expecting to see Sherlock staring at him. He isn't. He hasn't even twitched. The only evidence that he is still alive is the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

The stare has a distinct feel of judgment to it.

John looks around carefully. There is no one else in the room. A chill runs down his spine. He scowls at himself for being ridiculous. It's just his imagination.

None the less he scans the room again. His gaze eventually lands on the skull as the source. He gets up and examines it thoroughly without touching it. That seems wrong somehow. Another rule his mind insists is there. So he looks at it from every possible angle without disturbing it. Nothing. No hidden cameras or recorders. No signs in the dust that it has been moved. Nothing unusual about it. Just a normal skull.

It still gives him the creeps. John decides to forget about it. Battle instincts acting up, nothing more.

"Bored."

"Mmmhmm."

"Bored."

"That's nice."

"Bored!"

"Fascinating."

"You know what would really be fascinating? If you went out and murdered someone interestingly. Be creative about it."

"Bit not good Sherlock. Besides, it's only been four days since your last case."

"Yea and I can feel my brain melting. I need stimulation!"

John sighs and decides to see if he can occupy the man. "Does he have a name?"

"What?" Sherlock's eyebrows crinkle in confusion.

Amazing. He has finally found a way to stump the detective: pure randomness. He motions to the skull. "Does he have a name?" he repeats.

Sherlock is silent for a long moment. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Male, heavy Irish heritage, healthy as far as serious disease, the third molars is erupt with minimal wear and the sutures aren't fused so age is 18-20. That's it. Of course there's a ten percent chance I'm wrong, it helps to have both the skull and pelvis for this kind of work."

Sherlock snorts. "Most doctors can't put a skeleton together form a pile of bones."

John nods. "That's what my one Professor said too. Or rather it was more of a complaint. He complained a lot and about everything: officers, coroners, courts, doctors, pharmaceutical companies, academics in general. The two of you would probably get along like a house on fire actually. I learned more from him than most of my other Professors combined. Left me a bit jaded about people, but it was worth it."

Sherlock has a look of concentration as he stares at John.

"What?"

"One," he holds up a finger, "he wasn't in criminology."

"No, he was a physical anthropologist," John answers Sherlock's unasked question. John has learned that Sherlock is especially good that those. Because heaven forbid he admit he doesn't know everything.

"Two," another finger goes up, "if you know the police are incompetent why do you get mad at me when I say so?"

"Because you don't say it to their faces, Sherlock, right or not."

"Should I say it behind their backs instead?"

"No. You should keep it to yourself."

"But you agree."

"Still doesn't mean you need to say it."

"It's true."

John sighs. "Did you delete the lessons in manners I assume you received as a child?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. The silence stretches.

"Fine!" John throws his arms up. "I agree. But you need to keep those comments between you and me okay? I will listen, but not in front of them."

Sherlock stares intently at John before nodding and offering a smirk.

"Nutter," John says much too affectionately. "Now what do you want for supper?"

"Boring."

"You haven't eaten all day. Pick something."

It's only that night, before John falls asleep, does he realize that Sherlock never answered his question.

John comes back from Tesco's to find Sherlock sitting on the couch, a fresh cup of tea in front of him, muttering to himself like the madman he is. "...skeletonization rate will have increased... rained past week... kind of shelter... hand me my phone." The last part is much clearer, mainly because it is a command. He holds out his hand impatiently.

"Yes, hello to you too."

Sherlock looks over at John and for a split second he seems surprised before it is gone. John wonders what that means. The first time it happened he assumed he read the man wrong. But sometimes it appears, just for a second, before it is gone. As if he forgot John was there, but expected something to happen anyways.

"Phone," the detective demands, recovering from whatever he was thinking.

"Where is it?"

"Coat."

John throws it to him and he catches it smoothly. "You know," he says as he puts groceries away, "talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity."

"Please John, don't try to be funny. If that were the case, the statistically at least half the world is on it's way to true insanity. That includes you as well, as you seem fond of muttering as you wander about the flat doing-" Here he waves his hand imperially, as if he can't imagine what John could possibly be doing nor care to find out.

Never mind that his 'wandering about' keeps the flat semi clean and stocked with actual food. Of course that isn't important. What could he possibly be thinking? John rolls his eyes.

"Transport John," Sherlock mummers, turning his attention to his phone.

John shakes his head, not bothering to reply. Honestly, how the man ever managed to survive this long without someone to remind him of essentials. "Nutter," he states, hoping Sherlock hears him and gets the message.

The skull on the fireplace catches his eye and he has a strange moment where it seems to wink at him. Or rather, the teen he use to be- a tall red haired young man with a dusting of freckles on his cheeks and mischief in his eyes- winks at him. But when he turns to look fully at it, the image is gone.

He ponders this as he finishes putting the food away and turns on the kettle. This is the third time he has seen that image. The first time startled him so badly he almost knocked Sherlock's experiment off the table. It never lasts more than a moment and always out of the corner of his eye, never full on.

The water boils and he automatically makes two cups before remembering that Sherlock already has one. And that's another thing- tea. How did he get it? Because if he was too lazy to get his mobile, he certainly wasn't going to get up and make himself a cup of tea. And Mrs Hudson is at Mrs Turner's right now.

John is use to things being strange in the flat, but usually the strange things make sense. Well... not Sherlock's experiments. He's more than half convinced that some of the 'experiments' are just the detective's way of messing with him. He has an odd sense of humor. But still, those could be at least partly explained.

Not so with these. Sherlock has conversations with himself when John isn't around. Not just talking to himself, actual conversations. No matter how he tries to pull them off as him just talking to John, even when he's not present, it's not. John knows because he has recorded a couple of them. There's also the looks of surprise when he responds or hands him something. It's like he is expecting someone else. And that damn tea. Where is it coming from? It's not from their not-housekeeper, she usually leaves biscuits behind as well. The final straw are the stares he still feels from time to time, even after three months of living here. At least they don't feel so judgmental now.

Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be true.

Well either John is going crazy or there's an invisible person living in the skull.

He's not sure which one to hope for more.

It takes another month for John to finally get his answer to what is really going on. And, surprisingly enough, it is one of his two conclusions... sort of. The difference is mere technicality and a fear of sounding far too ridiculous, even in his own head, to use the actual term. So he was totally right. Ish.

Not that it makes it even less weird. But he has steadily immune himself to weird as soon as he moved into 221B. Living with Sherlock Holmes will do that to a person. Although he hadn't quite reached this level yet.

He had just finished lunch and was planning on updating his blog while Sherlock was at Bart's. Those plans are changed when he turns and sees someone leaning against the fireplace. Coincidentally a tall red hair young man with freckles on his cheeks. Coincidentally except for the fact that now John can get a good look at him, he can see that he's transparent. He blinks, but the young man is still there.

"Hello," he greets cheerfully.

"Hello," John answers back carefully, "can I help you?"

The young man chuckles. "Sorry to startle you like this, but I wanted a chance to talk to you without Sherlock around. Which was a bit difficult, as you can tell. One would think he doesn't trust me," he scoffs, "It's not like I'm planning on scaring you off. And you haven't freaked out yet. He really should give us both more credit."

"So... I'm not going crazy?"

"Oh no, I'm quite real. Well, ignoring all scientific data anyways. They can get so technical. I'm glad Sherlock never became one. What a bore."

"And you are...?"

"Right, sorry. I'm Victor Trevor and yes, this is my skull."

"...A ghost?"

"Yup. Not how I expected my life to turn out, but shit happens. And when I woke up and figured I could stay," he pauses, looking much more somber, "I couldn't leave him. I didn't want to. Yeah, within those first few weeks I met him it wouldn't have mattered, but after that? After a month? A year?" he shakes his head, "I never wanted to abandon him," he shrugs, "So I found a way not to."

"What happened?"

"Overdose."

"Accidental?"

"Yes. If it would have been before I met him, then no. But then my damn dog bit his ankle and he needed seven stitches. I expected yelling or cutting remarks. He had a reputation around campus for being able to tell your life story just by looking at you and then announcing it. Loudly. That didn't happen though. We actually became best friends. Of course it all went to hell when my father died and it came out that he use to be involved in the Mafia. I just wanted to forget for a little. Next thing I know Sherlock is talking to my skull, high as a kite. Stuck around ever since."

"Well that explains a few things."

"I'd imagine so. I can tell you one thing, I got very good at making tea very quickly."

"So he was a lazy git even then?"

Victors laughs. "Yes, that hasn't changed."

"What was he like back then?"

"Much more erratic, less focused. He hadn't found something to do with his life yet. My father was actually his first case. He use to be so overwhelmed with information overload. His mind is always working and if he can't find a way to channel all of that intelligence, he'll drown in everything. You think his black moods are bad now? They were a nightmare then."

"Christ."

"Mmmhmm, that about sums it up."

John stares at Victor. A part of his mind is screaming at him that he is mad. This whole thing is mad. There are no such thing as ghosts. But there is no way he is making this up. His imagination isn't this good. And it make sense. In an strange, insane way.

Basically his life in a nutshell then.

"You love him, don't you?" he finally asks.

Victor smiles ruefully. "It's hard not to. He may seem cold, but once he lets you in, it's amazing. He's amazing anyways, but when he trusts you, there isn't anything he wouldn't do for you. He'd move Hell if you asked, to keep you by his side."

John can only nod. He has noticed this as well. There are moments, becoming more frequent as time goes on, that Sherlock allows himself to be more vulnerable around John, more human. He isn't always the cold, analytical detective the world sees. He is someone caring and funny and oh so lonely. He just has different ways of showing it.

"Did he have anyone else?"

"No. I was his only friend."

"How old were you?"

"We were eighteen when we met. I was twenty when I died."

"Anyone else since?"

"You."

Bloody hell. He knew Sherlock could sometimes be insufferable and hard to live with, but he wasn't impossible. It takes work, but the benefits outweigh the negative. A friend who will never abandon you is worth the quirks he has. That kind of loyalty is hard to come by and has to be earned.

"My thoughts exactly."

John raises an eyebrow at Victor.

"Your thoughts are pretty obvious. Plus when you live with Sherlock for some ten plus years, you pick up a few things."

"Did you two ever..."

"Date? No. The closet we would have ever got was very close platonic friendship. Not to say he is opposed to romantic relationships. His marriage to his work isn't strictly true." He gives John a look.

"Oh not you too! I am not gay!"

"I'm not saying you are. But are you telling me, given the chance, you would deny any opportunity to be closer to Sherlock? To become a greater component in his life? Love doesn't mean just shagging on the sofa. It means being there for someone, no matter what. It's not something you have to decide right now, but don't dismiss it. You have the potential. And it would be worth it."

John doesn't know what to say to this. How in the world is he suppose to respond? He is saved from answering by footsteps on the stairs.

"Just think about it," Victor says quietly.

John nods.

Sherlock walks in and freezes. "Victor," he greets, face blank.

Victor roll his eyes. "Oh don't give me that Lock. I know what I'm doing. Does he look like he is ready to run away screaming?"

Sherlock turns his eyes on John, clearly deducing him.

John mirrors Victor's stance. "Oh yes, let me go grab my bag. Because clearly this is the line, since the fingers and the head wasn't. At least he can't contaminate the food. And he has manners." His tone is desert dry.

Victor laughs. "And you wonder why I like him."

"You really don't mind?" Sherlock asks, sounding smaller and almost disbelieving.

"Of course not. Honestly I'm just glad you have someone else who accepts you, even if he is dead."

"Awwww!"

Both men look at Victor, clearly not appreciating the sound effects.

Victor laughs again. "I'll leave you two alone now. Don't do anything I wouldn't." He vanishes.

Sherlock turns back to John questioningly, as if to confirm John really isn't freaking out.

"Okay, so that part is a little creepy," John admits, "Like Big Brother, only with less... Mycroft."

"Hey!" Victor's voice floats out from the skull, clearly offended.

Sherlock grins.

"Yohoo, boys," Mrs Hudson calls as she comes up the stairs. "Hello John dear, Sherlock isn't in?"

John smiles at their 'landlady, not-housekeeper'. "No, he's at Bart's. He was muttering something about fingers and chemicals or something like that."

Mrs Hudson sighs. "Oh that man. It's just not decent, what with all the body parts and the mess and that dreadfully skull. I try to put it away, but it just keeps coming back."

"I don't know, I'm rather fond of him."

"Who dear?"

"Victor."

"Oh my, you've named the skull! Well dear better you than me. I just thought you might like these biscuits, I've made too many. But just this once dear, I'm your landlady not your housekeeper."

He smiles gratefully. "Thank you," he thanks as she leaves him once again.

Victor closes the door, laughing. "She will say that until the day she dies."

"I imagine so," he takes a bite and hums in appreciation. "Why haven't you ever introduced yourself? She might leave you alone then."

"Mrs Hudson is tough as steel, but I don't want to see how she handles meeting me. Besides..." he sighs, "you do realize you are the only person who knows about me, excluding Sherlock, right? Not even Mycroft knows."

"Really?"

"Yes. Not that I've ever had the desire to do so, but as far as he knows I don't exist."

"Not even a suspicion?"

"Oh he suspects something, I've saved Sherlock's life a couple of times, so not everything matches up. But he's never suspected a ghost, that's for sure."

"Don't you ever get bored?"

"Do you?"

John chuckles. "Fair point." He takes another bite.

Over the next few months Victor slowly becomes a bigger part of life in the flat. Now that he no longer has to hide from John he has a habit of popping in and out of view randomly. John still finds this vaguely creepy until Victor admits that he's not aware all the time and doesn't particularly care to spy on them all the time. Apparently even ghosts sleep (when they want to anyways). He feels better after that.

John finds he enjoys Victor's company. He has a dry sense of humor and the ability to keep up with Sherlock, no matter the mood. He also now actively takes part in John's crusade to get Sherlock to eat and sleep on a semi normal basis (he knows anything more than that is useless).

They also get into the habit of talking to each other even if Sherlock is not present. He now counts Victor as another friend.

It still takes time and some serious nagging before he finally convinces John to confront Sherlock about his feelings, promising that he won't ruin their friendship. John finally agrees – if only to shut him up.

Not that it works out like John plans. It's not really a surprise. Ever since Sherlock has come into his life, John has pretty much given up on things going as planned.

He thought that if it ever came out, it would be after an adrenaline high chase across London or maybe Sherlock would just blurt it out one day when he was bored. Realistically he should have added this possibility to the list as well. After all, it's not like things coming out during a row is unreasonable. Usually John just storms out instead of taking a more active role in expressing his frustration.

The row started out simple – John had had a trying day at the clinic and there was another head in the refrigerator and John took exception to it (he really hates when it's a head; other body parts he can handle, but he hates when the body parts stares back at him). It doesn't help that Sherlock had been bored, without an interesting case all week.

Needless to say that it started out bad and went from there.

They both end up in the kitchen, yelling at each other, waving their hands in the air for emphasis. It's clear that this isn't going to do anything, but both are far too stubborn to stop.

But then it hits John, right in the middle of – "Just because you are feeling inferior because today you had two children bite you and three elderly women screech at you, doesn't give you the right to demand how I live my life!" – how ridiculous this whole thing is. They are arguing about a head in the refrigerator for Christ sakes.

"I'm not telling you how to live your life, but I have a right open the refrigerator and not have something staring back at me Sherlock! Not to mention that cross contamination is a thing! How many times do I have to tell you this? It. Is. A. Thing!" He shouts back automatically at this point, this has come up so many times. It's reflect at this point.

But even as he says this, he can't keep the affection from invading his mind. This man is absolutely insane. He was right that first time to think that. But it's such a wonderful and awe inspiring insanity that he never wants to escape it.

So no, when he promised Victor that he would talk to Sherlock about his feelings, he didn't expect for himself to simply kiss him during a row because he felt such fondness towards the nutter that he couldn't stop himself if he tried.

It works out rather well though.

Sherlock pulls back from John and looks at him, seemingly at a lose for a few seconds before he analyzes him. Or tries to anyways. Sherlock still isn't very proficient with emotions, even after six months of living with John.

"You kissed me," he states. "You kisses me not to stop me from speaking, but because... you wanted to?" The last part comes out more as a question than a statement.

John chuckles. "Of course I wanted to. Who else could I have this argument with and then sit down to watch some bad telly afterward?" He rests his head on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Life would be too boring with anyone else."

John watches as Sherlock stares at him before – "Oh!" – comprehension lights his face and he grins happily at John.

John presses another soft kiss to his lips. "This doesn't get you out of removing the head," he comments.

"Naturally," Sherlock replies, "Dinner?"

"Starving."

They put on their coats and walk out the door, ignoring the "Finally!" Victor shouts from his place on the fireplace.