Disclaimer: Based in BBC Sherlock's world. Recognizable characters/lines/plots are theirs.

A/N: For fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's October contest on tumblr. EDIT: Won second place! And got a PHENOMENAL cover for it, created by devinleighbee. Thank you so much!

For a link to Walking Horizon's Chinese translation, go to my profile.

Quoted lines were referenced from arianedevere's transcripts on lj.

Written in British English, not brit pick'd

Don't forget to leave me your ideas, comments, questions, concerns, criticisms, witticisms, and/or limericks in a review!

Edits 9/16/14: Minor grammar fixes.

While the rest of the world goes into a panic over the appearance of ghosts, Dr. John Watson simply sighs, motioning his ghost to—sit on? float over?—the bed while he limps to the kitchen to make himself some tea. When he returns, he falls back into a chair, watching the ghost experiment with his intangibility. The steam rising from the surface of his tea is less translucent than the dead man standing knee-deep in his bed. He takes a sip.

"Who are you, then?" John asks, not entirely sure how to introduce himself to a ghost that could possibly be haunting him for the rest of his life.

The ghost pulls his eyes from his hand in the wall and latches them onto John. After a moment of feeling peeled from the outside in, the ghost tilts his head. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John frowns because as impressive as the question is, what the hell? "Sorry?" he asks, taken aback.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he says, more demanding than curious this time, fingers tapping impatiently against his arm.

The man is tall in his posture as well as in his demeanour. His translucent hair looks dark, hinting at brown or black curls when he was alive. A long jacket hangs over a well-fitted suit—the shirt's colour is washed out—and a short scarf is tucked beneath his chin. His skin glows bright in the dim lighting.

John blinks and takes another sip of tea. "Afghanistan. How did you know?"

The ghost rolls his eyes. "I didn't know, I saw," he huffs impatiently. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you seem to forget about it when you stand, so it's at least partially psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq," he says matter-of-factly before going back to examine his intangibility.

It takes John a second to recover from the shock of having his army career thrown nonchalantly back in his face. He looks down at his empty hands, surprised to find that he had set his cup down sometime during the explanation. He's not sure if he's offended or not, but it honestly doesn't matter. "That…was amazing," John says.

The ghost straightens up at that, coat splaying wide in his sharp turn back to John. His mouth gapes—elegantly, but gaping is still gaping. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary," John laughs. It is beyond him how anyone could not find that, whatever it was, brilliant. "Where did you learn to do that?"

John barely notices that the ghost has somehow managed to stand on the bed, and is trying to jump without sinking back in. "I was a consulting detective," he says between experimental jumps. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"When the police were out of their depth, which was always, they consulted me." Seemingly satisfied, the ghost sits on the edge of the bed. He twines his fingers together and leans against his knees, fingers just brushing his chin.

"The police don't consult amateurs," John remarks. The ghost raises an eyebrow. John smothers a chuckle. "Okay, you're not an amateur, if that thing you do—

"—deductions, I deduce facts—"

"—right, if your deductions aren't just for show. But still, it's…brilliant," John exclaims.

The man tilts his head as if to reassess John. "Thank you," he finally says, almost confused.

For a moment, there is nothing more to say. They stare at each other, lips turning upward, because the sheer potential between them is growing. John wants to reach out and curl his fingers around its electricity.

"I'm John Watson," he introduces himself.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," the ghost smiles.

Not every human has a ghost. Some die before mentioning one, while others rise one day, only to find someone staring them awake. Almost all the elderly have one, but none of the children do. The world turns to the scientists for explanations, but for the most part, they shrug away the reporters and focus on their experiments, trying to understand the strange new world in which they live.

John already knows Sherlock will discover more in a month than the governmental groups will learn in a decade, especially considering Sherlock's boredom is alleviated by little else. These experiments are his life—or rather, his death.

Clara visits the next day. John notes the bloodshot eyes and the grey pallor that was so at odds with the fiery woman who once matched tempers with Harry.

Before John can say anything, an affronted Sherlock says, "I didn't know you had a sister."

John's eyes widen. Sherlock shouldn't yet know about her, dead from alcohol poisoning three years ago. He turns sharply back towards Clara, swallowing hard. "Harry…?"

Clara starts shaking, stumbling through the door and clutching at John's arms. "She's back again and I don't know what to do, John, I can't I can't I can't—" she chants, voice muffled by John's jumper. John casts a quick look around Clara to see Sherlock conversing with air.

John manoeuvres Clara to a chair and rubs small circles into her back while her sobs turn to hiccups and eventually stop.

"Better?" John asks gently, a light hand on her shoulder. Clara nods, though her focus has shifted to that same patch of space next to Sherlock.

"Harry?" he asks. John watches Sherlock's eyes trail a path towards John. Harry, probably. She seems to stop in front of him.

Something brushes his face and he leaps back, tumbling to the floor as his leg fails under pressure. He finds himself clutching his left shoulder and breathing heavily, uncomfortably reminded of the shockwave that tore through his body because of a cold, little bullet.

He imagines he can see Harry's face, guilty lines creased into her skin as she pulls her hand back from a touch. Alive, she would be pulling on her right ear, a sure sign of self-recrimination and her impending break from sobriety. The self-recrimination will not have changed in death, and John can only hope that ghosts can't drink.

Harry must be running from the room because Clara is running, too.

Suddenly, Sherlock's crouched over him, but his hands are hovering everywhere, unsure of what he can do. John can tell Sherlock doesn't want to hurt him like Harry's touch did. He settles for, "Are you alright?"

John nods and pulls himself up, carefully avoiding Sherlock as he limps to the bathroom.

It soon becomes clear that each human can only see their one ghost, though passing through another's feels like sharp lines of ice cutting down your spine.

They also learn that while it is possible to stay a significant distance apart from each other, it's too uncomfortable to be worth it. The best description John can offer is that the space between them stretches like a rubber band, and the longer and further they stay apart, the more the band wears until it tips towards breaking. Neither John nor Sherlock want to test its snap.

John and Sherlock pass a crime scene on their way back from Tesco's. Before John can object, Sherlock rushes through the yellow tape and crouches by what looks like a pool of blood. He can see some officers turn towards Sherlock, not that they'll be able to actually see him.

"Sherlock!" John yells in frustration. His face scrunches into a frown because it's cold outside and he's carrying a bag filled with cold things, and together, it makes for one very cold doctor. John is also vehemently not a fan of bothering the police, especially considering the illegal gun hidden back in his flat.

When Sherlock ignores him, he sighs and jogs over, shivering by the crime scene tape until he grabs the attention of some officer.

"Um, excuse me, but my ghost is currently inspecting your victim." He points towards the body, where he can see some silver-haired officer trying to figure out why a random ghost was there. "Could I maybe pop in, grab him, and go?"

The woman doesn't bother to hide her astonishment, "Does he know the victim?" she asks, trying to understand.

"I don't think so. Sherlock just—"

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" she says incredulously. John nods. He had forgotten Sherlock knew the police. "The freak came back as your ghost? You poor bastard." She turns to yell at the man trying to talk to Sherlock. "Lestrade, the freak's back from the dead!" John winces at the insults.

The man looks at John, and back down to where he guesses Sherlock is. Officer Lestrade's ghost must be helping him with locations. He shakes his head and waves John over. John ducks under the tape, groceries swinging in hand. Up close, the body looks tidier than the ones in Afghanistan, even with the thick blood splayed around it.

"DI Lestrade," the man says, offering his hand.

"John Watson. Sorry to interrupt. I'll just grab Sherlock and go."

"No, wait. We could use Sherlock's help on this," Lestrade says, raising a hand against the woman officer's protests. Sherlock grins madly at Lestrade.

"Excellent," Sherlock preens at John. "See? I told you they were incompetent." John is about to reply when Sherlock speaks again. "Oh, shut up. Just because Lestrade is getting help from a ghost that isn't you doesn't mean I want him. Besides, I have John."

Lestrade's head turns to where his ghost has probably stalked off. "Sherlock, you can't speak to her like that. Being dead doesn't excuse you any more than your 'sociopathic tendencies' did alive."

John's doubts in the police are steadily increasing with every muttered "freak" and their clear dislike of Sherlock. John can understand why others find his ghost abrasive and rude; that didn't mean they couldn't be civil to him.

Sherlock is obviously used to it. "Where's the other body?"

Lestrade looks confused as John translates. "There isn't one."

"I knew Scotland Yard was incompetent, but I didn't think even they could lose a body!" Sherlock snaps.

John levels a frown at him, and instead says, "He's insisting there should be one."

"What makes him say that?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain, but John doesn't need to listen. "Too much colour in the body. A pool of blood that large couldn't have come from him if he's that red, even in this weather."

Lestrade nods his head and moves away to instruct officers around the perimeter.

John looks back at Sherlock, only to find him standing an inch away. "Jesus, Sherlock, don't do that!"

Sherlock steps back, saying carefully, "Good job." Before John can feel more than a faint blush warm his cheeks, Sherlock continues. "Though you missed several other important details. Go bring back Lestrade. The other body isn't as important as the belt."

One car chase, two bar fights, and hours of waiting at New Scotland Yard later, John collapses onto his bed, groaning from his sore muscles, but somehow missing a limp.

Sherlock lies down next to him, a carefully maintained gap between their bodies. "That was one of the best nights of your life," the smug bastard says.

John grins into his pillow and starts thinking about how to write up Sherlock's deductions in his blog tomorrow.

The ghosts have their own world, and according to Sherlock, its burgeoning bureaucracy is inefficient and hateful. Unfortunately for the living police, it's nothing that can revolutionize the way they solve cases.

The police have, however, started asking for Sherlock's help. John loves it—as long as it doesn't interfere with work. During clinic hours, Sherlock has taken the habit of perusing stolen, cold case files while John tends to his patients. Then when they're called to the next crime scene, John can't help but laugh as Sherlock dances around Lestrade with hints of answers.

"You need a new apartment," Sherlock whines. He's in the oddest sprawl John's seen—on his back, legs leaning straight along the wall and head tipped back just enough over the edge of the bed to watch John type.

John scoots his chair around enough to frown at Sherlock. His left hand rests on the keyboard mid-blog entry. "I don't see why I do," he responds.

"This one is boring." Sherlock's palms are pressed together, tapping against his lips to some melody in his head.

John rolls his eyes. "Sherlock, that's hardly a reason why I should get a new apartment. This one works fine."

Sherlock rolls onto his stomach so that he's looking right into John when he says, "You hate it, too. It's killing you." John doesn't hide his wince. In the short time they've known each other, Sherlock already knows John better than his family and friends ever had. Sherlock swings his feet to the ground, and John can imagine the muted taps that would sound through the room if he had real shoes. "Get ready, and I'll take you to one I know you'll like."

An hour later, John meets Mrs. Hudson, one of the elderly minority who hadn't yet attracted a ghost. She welcomes John with tea and biscuits, and asks about his relationship with Sherlock.

"It's a shame you never met when you were alive," she clucks, setting another plate of biscuits on her kitchen table. John chews mechanically, and doesn't respond.

John and Sherlock move into 221B Baker Street a week later.

Sherlock has finally mastered the art of moving physical objects. He doesn't sink into floors anymore and has even taken to stealing John's phone. The touchscreen works for him after some practice, and Sherlock provides a triumphant explanation about electric imprints of ghosts and ghost neurology. John simply wonders how Lestrade feels about being texted frustrating non-answers to cases by a ghost.

John has only accidentally touched two other ghosts in the month since Sherlock appeared. Both incidences were extremely unpleasant. Luckily or not, Sherlock has managed to keep to himself.

John has his first nightmare since Sherlock appeared.

All that's left of the dream are remnants of sticky red sliding down his fingers, the screams in his mind, and the cold certainty he is going to die alone.

But awake, John is wrapped in a warmth that washes the blood from his hands and clears out the screaming. He can feel his heart in his chest. Soon enough, John realizes the blankets are pooled at his feet. It's entirely too cold outside for him to be this comfortable without them. He raises a hand in front of him, only for it to be assaulted by winter chill. When Sherlock raises his hand to cover his own, John understands the curious case of sourceless heat.

"But I thought—" John shudders, remembering the feel of the other ghosts.

"So did I," Sherlock replies quietly.

In the days after, they stop leaving space between themselves. John does it intentionally; the feel of Sherlock is addictive and John has never been good at resisting addictions. Whether Sherlock does it on purpose or not is far more difficult to tell.

As for the next time John has a nightmare, Sherlock talks him through his stupor, his low voice humming around him in the warmth. And while the nightmares do continue, they become easier to handle immersed in Sherlock. Eventually, Sherlock begins to lie next to John as he sleeps, and John revels in waking up with an arm sunk absently into his chest.

For all that Sherlock can manipulate physical objects in his spirit's body, he still has trouble with science equipment. So when he needs to use it, he drags John over to St. Bart's where Molly, another person without a ghost, will cheerfully help him with whatever John can't do.

The door to the lab opens. Sherlock stiffens and unconsciously steps in front of John when a man steps into the room. The man falters when he sees John. "Oh, sorry. I didn't—"

Molly cuts him off with a bright, "Jim, hi!" Her smile is a touch nervous as she runs her hand over her ponytail. "Come in, come in." John's attention is divided between Sherlock's increasingly nervous tics and the man in the white v-neck.

"Jim, this is John Watson," Molly introduces.

John gives a quick wave. "John Watson. Hi."

Jim scans the room, as if looking for something. Perhaps he's watching his ghost case the room. "Hi," he finally says, turning his attention back to John. "So you're John Watson." Jim steps closer towards John, inadvertently stepping through Sherlock. A visible shiver runs down his spine, but the corners of his mouth turn upward, not down. He pauses slightly before stepping entirely through. "Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?" he continues, leaning entirely too close for John's comfort.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance!" Molly giggles uneasily.

When Jim steps back into Sherlock—and John knows it's deliberate—it takes all of his willpower to not punch him. Sherlock darts towards John, standing close so that John's hand is encased in Sherlock's. John wishes he could actually hold it.

Jim's pleasant demeanour flickers for a moment, before he smiles wide and says, "I'd better be off. It was nice to meet you, John." He waves goodbye to Molly, who looks thoroughly confused and not at all happy. The same could be said of John.

Hours later, back at 221B, Sherlock admits, "I don't like Jim or his ghost." The skin on his forehead furrowed as he paces back and forth in front of John's armchair.

John is surprised by the plain language, but when he catches Sherlock's eyes, the wariness behind them makes it clearer. "Well, there was definitely something off about Jim. What about his ghost?"

Sherlock is speechless for the first time in John's memory. "His… ghost. It— he was—" John is alarmed by this point and reaches for Sherlock. His hand is as warm and intangible as ever. Sherlock stares at where their hands meet, finally finding the words. "He was rotting. He barely looked human anymore. He flickered out of sight every four seconds, was twice as translucent as most ghosts, and was shooting off… sparks of some sort."

John wants to take Sherlock's shoulders and shake out his preoccupation, but settles for, "That won't happen to you."

"John, we don't know how that happens," he points out.

"It won't happen to you," he says firmly. "It won't." Before Sherlock can argue anymore, John insists, "I know this because you won't let it happen, and I won't let it happen. Okay?"

Sherlock nods hesitantly. He moves to pick up his violin and John spends the evening listening to the melancholy music Sherlock pours through his practice.

Eventually, someone makes the connection. The one that the media runs with, the one that becomes the unofficial answer.

The idea of a soul mate is a bit tripe for John, but glancing over to where Sherlock was experimenting his effect on electromagnetic fields, coat and scarf off and sleeves rolled up, he reconsiders and gently places the thought aside to be examined later.

It all nearly ends at a swimming pool.

John and Sherlock stride into the building, tired after running around London on the whims of a madman, solving a case for a life. They expect anything but what is actually there: a body hanging limp above the water, rope tight around the neck as it twists from side to side. It's decomposing; flesh hangs in strips and oozes down into the discolouring water. Pieces of visible skin are patchy with blacks and purples. The chlorine only just covers the smell.

Sherlock stiffens; he sees comprehension dawn in John's eyes beside him. The body is his, after all. It's been a while since he remembered that ghost also means dead, because living with John is the closest Sherlock has never felt to being alive. And except in those moments where he wished their touches had substance, it hasn't even been a substantial problem. But a dead body, bloated face rotting in front of him, jolts them into an unwanted revelation.

"Evening," a disembodied voice says. "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." John and Sherlock scan the room for movement. "This is quite a turn-up, isn't it? Me, John, Sherlock, Sherlock's dead body. Quite a turn-up. Except, that's far too many people for my comfort." A dozen or so red dots appear on John's jacket. "Maybe I'll just fix that."

John lowers his gun slowly. "What do you want me to do?" he forces through clenched teeth.

"Could you maybe toss your gun into the pool? That would be great, thanks," he says, his Irish accent changing to a bland American.

As soon as the gun hits the water, a door creaks open at the other end of the pool. Sherlock is not surprised when Molly's boyfriend saunters into the open, hands in pockets. "Jim Moriarty. Hi," he singsongs. He is surprised at the Moriarty. It's not a name he's heard since just before his death, swallowing a pill from a serial-killing cabbie. Jim puts on a greasy smile, pleased to be recognized. "So you do remember me. I feel so loved," he smirks, strolling down the side of the pool. The echoes of his footsteps coalesce with his words, its coiled noise ringing through Sherlock.

Sherlock freezes. "He can see me," he murmurs in amazement.

Jim's smirk turns into a manic grin. "Hear you, too."

"How?" John asks calmly. Sherlock glances at him, once again grateful that of all the humans to be paired with, he got John.

"Johnny boy," Moriarty reprimands, "I've given you just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like Sherlock was." He stops so that they're forced to see Sherlock's body in their line of sight.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock answers. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it? After the ghosts, life got a little more interesting. But things have gotten boring again," he whines, stretching out vowels. "I've used up my ghost, so I thought I'd play a little game with yours, John."

John sputters, "Used up—"

"Why me?" Sherlock interrupts, not really wanting to hear the answer to John's.

"You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be like me. You just didn't have the decency to STAY ALIVE!" he suddenly screams, words echoing across the water.

"I am like you!" Sherlock insists, walking slowly towards Moriarty.

He scoffs. "Nah. The cabbie got you. You're ordinary—you're just a grounded angel," he says, lips turning in disgust.

Sherlock stops inches away from Moriarty, and says softly, "I may have died on the side of the angels, but do not think for one second that I am one of them."

Moriarty narrows his eyes at Sherlock, re-evaluating what he sees. He chuckles. "You're not ordinary. You're me." His smile turns feral. "You should have been mine from the start."

Sherlock wonders how hard his heart would be pounding if he had one. "I should have," he says, so low that John can't hear. "I'll come with you. But if you kill John, I'll disappear. Let him leave. He can't do anything anyway, the useless man." Sherlock raises a hand to Moriarty's hair, and tries not to bristle in disgust.

"Sherlock!" John protests.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock warns with his icy tone.

"Indeed." Moriarty nods his acquiescence and the red dots disappear from John. "Go on, get!" he yells lazily at John.

John breathes heavily, fists clenched at his side, before turning crisply on his heel and marching out. Sherlock hopes John gets enough of a start that he evades whomever Moriarty sends after him, in case his plan doesn't work.

The pool is now silent but for the quiet gurgle of water. "Bless you," Moriarty whispers, eyes wide and insane.

Then the police crash through the doors, filling in the pool from all directions. Their guns are blazing; Sherlock assumes they've apprehended Moriarty's shooters, but they don't seem to have realized Moriarty will have a back-up plan. Likely the building is wired with something like semtex. Sherlock hopes John hasn't barrelled in here with the rest of the idiots.

Moriarty steps back, and raises the phone in his hand. The police move back as they recognize the bomb threat he's making. "I don't believe we agreed to this, Sherlock," Moriarty says shrugging in fake sympathy. "Looks like it's their day to die," he sings. "And possibly yours again, Sherlock."

But before Moriarty can press anything, Sherlock lunges at him, sticking his hand into his face. He focuses the electricity that gives him form to flow up through his fingers and into Moriarty. Moriarty chokes, sending the phone clattering to the floor, and collapses to the cement. He writhes in his death, the electricity still coursing through his body.

Sherlock falls to his knees after him, sinking into the floor. He feels faint; his body is—

flickering out—

existence. He can't think—

cohe—

rent—

"SHERLOCK!" he hears before falling away.

When Sherlock wakes up, John is sitting in his legs. Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow. "Idiot," John answers fondly. "Of course I told the police before we came. There's no way I was going to let us confront a bloody madman by ourselves." Sherlock is fully conscious by now, and the weight of their near deaths—more importantly, John's—sits heavy in his mind.

John just licks his lips, shrugging his bulletproof vest into a more comfortable position. He must have charged in with the police; Sherlock shouldn't have expected otherwise from a soldier like John.

Suddenly, Sherlock just wants to knock their foreheads together and feel each other's skin to know that they're alive, but they can't because isn't that the whole point? That Sherlock is dead and they can't do any of that reassuring because Sherlock hasn't been alive for months.

John reads the thoughts on his face. He says softly, "Even without your heartbeat, your body, your skin and bones, you are alive." He takes a deep breath and admits, "And you make me alive." Sherlock sits up and hooks his arms around his knees. John pulls his knees up, too, and turns so their legs overlap. They're practically sitting on each other's shoes.

"The EMTs somehow 'revived' you," John says conversationally. "Modified defibrillator."

Sherlock frowns. "They figured it out?"

"No, I gave them somewhere to start." John laughs at the Sherlock's disbelief. "I wasn't completely deaf when you were telling me about your experiments and electric neurology. I also happen to be a doctor."

"Obviously a doctor would have better sense than to run back into a room with an insane criminal mastermind," Sherlock says wryly.

"Shows how much you know."

They chatter like this while the police run around them, dealing with the aftermath. Eventually, John meets a portly man named Mycroft Holmes, who promises to take care of Moriarty's empire for them. Sherlock tries to verbally abuse the man away, but Mycroft can't hear, and neither John nor Mycroft's ghost bothers to translate.

Days later, Sherlock acquires his skull from the mortuary and places it on the mantelpiece. John hates it, but he lets Sherlock keep the reminder.

When a year has rolls around, John and Sherlock quietly sit inside on opposite ends of the sofa, a bottle of beer in John's hand and a violin in Sherlock's. The muted news lights the dark room with scenes of merriment, terror, and prayer, as the world decides how to celebrate the anniversary of the first ghosts. Sherlock fills the silence with music from the dead notes of dead composers that somehow manages to feel too alive. But then again, Sherlock has always managed that. Feeling too alive.

John's already had this argument too many times. Sherlock is Sherlock, dead or alive, and he'll take what he can get.

With that, John slips further down the couch, legs up and through Sherlock. He lets Sherlock's warmth seep through his skin, and drifts off with the music.