A house can be haunted by those who were never there

If there was where they were missed.

Returning to such,

Is it worse to miss the same or another or none?

The haunting anyway is too much.

You have to leave the house to clear the air.

Tap tap tap tap tap. A pause, a tap tap tap.

"Dear John -"

Tap tap tap taps on the same key, the tap tap tap tap tap.

"Dear John. I -"

His head wrenches forward as the cab jerks to a halt amongst the mass of blinding white and yellow cars and flashing blue lights of a bustling crime scene. The scene is a dizzying stir pot of police officers scurrying left and right to secure the scene and begin the collection of evidence. He quickly closes the phone and shoves his money at the cabbie before flouncing out of the vehicle and making his way intently to the edge of the scene. There, a scowling puffball of curly, dark brown hair awaits the inevitable onslaught of verbal abuse that always accompanies the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

"It's about time you got here."

"Sorry to disappoint, I was otherwise indisposed."

"Oh, really? You seem alright to me."

"I was not ill, Sally. I simply had other engagements to attend to. Now, are you done with your incessant questioning? I don't have the time to stand around bickering with you; there are far more important matters to attend to. So, if you'll excuse me..."

With that, he swoops under the tape and strides quickly to the doors of the nondescript, abandoned factory that houses the third in a rather gruesome string of serial butcherings that has thoroughly stumped Scotland Yard's finest. He meets Lestrade at the top of the stairs and the DI leads him through a series of increasingly rank hallways to a large, open room, whose measurements he registers with little effort: a four-by-four metre room with relatively high ceilings, perhaps two or three metres.

It looks to have been the head office for the floor manager, with a large maple desk and a large window overlooking the factory floor below. It would be a completely ordinary room, with the exception that nearly every available surface, from floor to ceiling, is covered in stinking, rusty blood. In the center of the room lie the corpse, or rather, what's left. The man, as is obvious from the carelessly discarded genitals in the corner, has been dismembered far beyond recognition and scattered throughout the room. It's not unlike an extremely excited child had been playing there.

Immediately, Sherlock pounces on the the bald, bloodied head of the victim, which sits tauntingly in the center of the otherwise empty, rotting desk. It stares at the door like some horrible sentry, waiting to attack any who disturb its final resting place. Flitting about with his magnifier, he silently absorbs and categorizes the vast amount of information that could be found amongst the scattered pieces. The quiet's unnerving, so Lestrade quickly spoke up, avoiding the gruesome stare of the victim's head with his eyes.

"All the pieces are here, of his body I mean, although there's no clothing that we've found in our search."

"No, there wouldn't be. Unfortunately, your butcher is exceedingly smart. The only evidence he leaves behind is of the victim, never of his presence. If they weren't dead, you'd likely find no evidence that the killer and victim had ever been near one another. We must rely on the scene itself and what it tells us, and that's why you need me."

With that Sherlock falls silent again, back into the depths of his brain as he examines the scene. Lestrade watches passively until Sally calls for him over the walkie.

"Sir, there's someone here looking for the freak."

Lestrade attempts to get Sherlock's attention but to no avail.

"Did they give a name, Sally?"

"No, but they're dressed in military uniforms. Called him Watson-Holmes?"

Lestrade sees Sherlock freeze, if only for a moment, before watching him straighten and walk briskly out of the room. Attempting to get Sherlock's attention, but receiving no response, Lestrade follows Sherlock back through the halls. Sherlock continues to ignore Lestrade's calls to him, and doesn't stop until they reach the door to the outside and Greg plows into his back, not expecting the sudden stop. After a moment of tense anticipation, Sherlock moves again, a blank look on his face, measured steps towards the curb where Sally waits with the two uniformed men. Greg is increasingly concerned but stands back as Sherlock resolutely approaches the officers. He watches a large black sedan pull up at the curb but ignores it in favor of the action in front of him as the first officer begins to speak.

"Sir, you are Mr. Sherlock Watson Holmes. Correct?

A quick nod from Sherlock.

"My name is Captain Bainbridge. I am extremely sorry to inform you that Captain John H. Watson-Holmes, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of the RAMC, was killed in action on November 6th of this year. Unfortunately, his body has been determined not recoverable from the battlefield. His personal effects will be returned to you within a few weeks. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news Mr. Watson-Holmes, we are very sorry for your loss."

The officer stands expectantly, awaiting a reaction that does not come. Sherlock doesn't move so much as a centimeter, not even as the officers tip their hats and return to their car. The only evidence that he has even heard the news is he has grown even more disturbingly pale as the man has spoken.

Lestrade is just reaching out to give him a shake on the shoulder when he proceeds to swiftly drop to the ground in a heap at the base of the nearby lamppost. There are no tears, no sounds except the low shuffle of displaced air as he crumples to the concrete. Kneeling beside Sherlock quickly, Greg is just placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders when he is nudged away and none other than Mycroft Holmes kneels beside Sherlock's catatonic form and whispers in his ear before wrapping his arms around Sherlock's narrow waist and heaving him to his feet. Sherlock is still decidedly limp and alarmingly grey as Mycroft limps the dead weight towards the same black sedan that had pulled up not minutes before. Lestrade watches, dumbstruck, as the woman he knows only as Anthea (from previous meetings with the far more intimidating of the Holmes brothers) hops quickly out of the car and takes Sherlock's other side and helps Mycroft heave Sherlock into the car before hopping in beside the, for lack of a better term in Lestrade's mind, broken detective.

By this time, any and all movement on the usually bustling crime scene has ceased to a glaring halt as all watched the disturbing events unfold. Lestrade is numb, watching Mycroft shut the door after the woman and striding back over to him. He clears his throat and waits as Lestrade gets a handle on himself and is able to actually hear any words the elder Holmes has for him. Assured of Lestrade's attention, "I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you this evening Detective Inspector."

His grimace deepens.

"Unfortunately, Sherlock will be unavailable for an indeterminate amount of time. Under no circumstances are you to contact him with a case or any other work-related information until I have contacted you to inform you otherwise. I'm sorry to say I have no idea how long until that happens. You are welcome to visit and contact him for any other purpose besides. He might even need a friend in the coming weeks, as abnormal as that would normally be for him. Good day Detective Inspector."

With that he turns on his heels and quickly shuts himself into the dark car, peeling away just as quickly and silently as he had arrived and leaving behind a dumbstruck Lestrade and a frozen crime scene. Slowly the spell cast by the event lessens and work begins anew, but still Greg remains, frozen in shock from the entire ordeal. Fortunately, Sally seems to see that Lestrade needs some space to process the overload of information from seeing his friend apparently break before his very eyes, so she takes control of the scene and leaves him to his darkening thoughts.