A/N: I'm in college guys. I'll do my best to update, but you know. College. Yeah. On the bright side, SEASON THREE! And The Hobbit. DON'T FORGET ABOUT THE HOBBIT GAIS. I'm excited. Can you tell?

Anyways, thanks for all the favorites and follows! It means so much to me to see a notification in my email letting me know that my story still reaches people even after all this time. I hope this next one doesn't disappoint.

Chapter 3: Ironically

Ironically, for the first time in a long time I felt happy. Content even. I wondered if it was because of being with Sherlock or just a side-effect of being dead.

Now that I was getting over the shock and confusion, I was noticing a lot of things I didn't notice before. The world was vivid, clearer, and sharper; even in the early morning haze. I could hear the scuttle of rats in the dark corners and the whoosh of pigeon wings high up on the rooftops. A lightness I've never felt before rested on my shoulders and I felt like I could journey with the wind if I ever should feel like I wanted to. My knee and shoulder felt fit as my days back in uni.

Sherlock was looking oddly at-peace too, though he was far from okay. The last three years tore the weight I worked so hard for off his bones and a deep shadow graced beneath his cheekbones. His curls were cut shorter to the point where his sideburns were more prominent than the usual tumble down his temples. An old scar from his years away trailed down from the top of the left side of his forehead and into his eyebrows, leaving a pale mark where hair will never grow from again. I would say I looked much better than he did at the moment, and I was dead.

But his eyes were bright and burned with the ghost of his usual icy fire that seared through the deep haunting still lurking behind them. His proud shoulders were hunched forwards whether from something grievous on his mind or an injury, I could not tell.

Despite all that though, I decided that a scarred Sherlock is always better than none at all.

Seeing Mycroft and Greg again was almost like coming back to family after another long tour in Afghanistan. There were holes in my memory through the three years since Sherlock left, but where it was filled, their faces and Mrs. Hudson's were the ones I saw the most.

They were looking at Sherlock with worried looks and I wondered for the first time how long they kept him from me. I expected it from Mycroft, but this obviously wasn't the first time Greg saw Sherlock. I noted the familiar comfort and lack of surprise in Sherlock's presence in Lestrade's face. He would have told me. Why didn't he? I glanced at Mycroft.

There I go again; thinking like Sherlock.

"He was going to tell you." Sherlock was looking at me again, his expression thoughtful and blatantly ignoring the weird looks the others were giving him. Just like old times. "Lestrade was never comfortable with the plan to keep you in the dark for so long; and the feeling was for once, mutual."

"Then why didn't you?" I quirked an eyebrow. I wasn't angry, but I was still curious.

His next words were mumbled, but I caught every one and wasn't sure if it made me happy or not. "I didn't know how."

"You didn't... know how?"

"Yes, John. Thank you for the clarification." He snapped, growing red.

I ignored him, "So I spent all that time... waiting for you... not knowing... because of your insecurity?"

A shock of pain spasms across his features so blatantly and vivid, I think my heart stopped all over again, "Oh God no, Sherlock I'm sorry-"

"No." He grit his teeth, "Don't apologize John. It wasn't your fault."

I reached out to him but changed my mind midway through. I don't think I could handle the idea of knowing I could never touch him again. Another time maybe.

He noticed but said nothing. I don't think he wanted to know yet either.

His gaze fell on his coat draped across the lump beside us. I looked too and was stunned to realize that I almost forgot I was dead.

I chuckled, earning a shocked look from the detective, "All this time I was praying for once to be dead and finally, here I am. Then you come here and now I really wish I didn't get what I wanted." His expression deadpanned but I ignored it, "Do you know what I was thinking while I was dying this time around?"

He said nothing, just looked at me with those eyes that were all too easy from the start to love and return.

"'Finally.'"

He smirked but without the usual bite, "That's not very creative, John."

"Sorry. Didn't have the time."

That was when the team finally deemed it passably safe to collect Sherlock away from my body which was then bundled into the ambulance to be taken to St. Barts. I wondered minutely if Molly was going to have the honors or if some other stranger was going to search my body for whatever they usually looked for. Will I even get an autopsy? I doubt it. Not a crime worth investigating really.

Sherlock was herded over to another ambulance. An orange blanket was thrown around his shoulders which I doubted he even noticed as he was checking to see if I was still there with him every other second. Mycroft and Lestrade were off on the side discussing something important. I heard the words "help" and "therapy" mixed with my name every now and then and I wondered who exactly they were talking about.

I joined Sherlock on the ambulance step and eyed the cooling tea between his palms, "You should drink that. You look a mess."

He rolled his eyes sourly but took a sip, "Thanks doctor."

"No problem." The woman at his side smiled warmly while doing the customary check on his vitals.

He swung around and glared at her as I stifled a laugh and attempted to save the poor girl before Sherlock could do any damage, "So, now what?"

He took another sip and made a face. I watched him discard the very full plastic cup with heavy disapproval. "We catch your killer."

I blinked, "Wait, we are?"

"Yes, John. It isn't as if you have plans do you? Still got a date?"

I tried not to be hurt by that statement, "No, I meant, you're actually going to go after my killer?"

He heaved a long-suffering sigh, "Who else? No, don't answer that. You thought this case was beneath me. Not worth my time?"

I shrugged, "Well, yeah. It was just an alleyway mugging. Nothing too special or exciting."

"Yes, except you died."

"All you would have to do is look at my body and-"

"No, John." Sherlock's forceful tone stopped me. His look was intense again, and this time I heard more than his words said. "You. Died."

Oh.

Someone cleared their throat, "Sherlock, we need to talk."

"Yes, now that you've finished flirting with my brother I very much would like for you to do your job. I need the ID number on that knife tracked. I need to know exactly where and when it was bought. I need to question the witnesses in that bar, it's most likely the murderer is a regular in these parts…"

Lestrade blinked, taken aback by the detective's sudden brisk demands, "What? No, Sherlock! Are you serious? You can't be doing a case just after... after..."

"After what, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged off the blanket from his shoulders so he could have this conversation on his feet with some form of dignity. I always thought his height played a big part in his confidence.

Lestrade hesitated, "Sherlock... Maybe you should go home? Take a break and you can come in tomorrow."

I agreed with Greg whole-heartedly. Try and hide all he likes, Sherlock wasn't fooling us.

"Yes and maybe by then you've found your desk!" The tall detective quipped with his usual disdain. Nice to know he hadn't changed too much.

"Now, now Sherlock." I chided fondly, "He's worried about you."

He scoffed, "Unnecessary. I don't need his molly-coddling as I've already get enough of that from you."

"From who?"

"I'm not talking to you Detective Inspector. John feels that I should be nice to you because apparently you care." I stifled a sigh as I took in the absurdity of the moment and Lestrade's look of befuddlement. Poor Greg. Now Sherlock is even crazier.

"Now if you would excuse us, I have a killer to find. Come, John."

Sherlock left in the usual dramatic manner, but without the usual coat which was taken away with my body. I noticed then that he was wearing a black turtleneck jumper and rather than the button-up I was used to.

"You look nice." I caught up to his long strides easily.

He glanced at me sharply but softened, "Oh, yes. My exile in the Middle East ruined me for the London chill. It will take me awhile for my body to acclimatize."

"Is it really that cold?" I rubbed my arms absentmindedly. Now that he mentioned it, I really actually didn't feel anything.

"Interesting…," his calculating gaze raked down my body, lingering longer than usual in the space over my shoulder, "Do you feel anything else different?"

I shrugged, "A lot of things I guess."

"A lot? Data, John! "A lot" isn't enough! I need exact numbers and calculations! Can you fly? Are there things you are able to do in this form then your previous-?"

"How about we discuss this later?" I cut in, mindful of the people around us giving the barmy detective weird looks.

He stopped and searched me again. I stood calmly, far too used to the way he is able to read everything in his impossible way. I waited for his inevitable diagnostics maybe found in the angle of my foot or in the crease of my jeans.

He shook his head, "Ignore them. I don't care about what they think about me."

"Yes you do," I smiled softly, "You just don't care if they think you're crazy."

His brows furrowed and his frown deepened, "I won't stop talking to you just because they think it's wrong."

"I don't want you to stop talking to me," I crossed my arms; a habit I developed while talking to Sherlock in an attempt to make myself look more serious, "I just don't like having people looking at you like that when we're trying to have a conversation."

He looked around us again, his brain whirring, "People always look at me like this, John. Just a few more people won't make any difference."

"But it makes a difference to me." I shot back, trying my hardest to make him understand, "Sherlock, I can hear them talk about you. I feel their… dislike. I don't like it."

Sherlock grew still and hesitated, not meeting my eyes, "I like talking to you, John."

"I know."

"I think better that way."

"Yes, I know."

Then he looked at me, the darkness looming near the surface of his eyes, snuffing out the fire little by little, like sand over hot coals, "I can't handle not being able to speak to you again, John. Please, don't ask me to."

It was then that I simply forgot I was dead and my hand was reaching out to him without me knowing. Because that's what I did. That is why I existed; to forget things that mattered in the moments this man needed me. Even in death I will always be first, and foremost, Sherlock Holmes' friend.

If he was the only one who could see me, maybe he is the only one who could touch me. I saw the same thought cross his mind as he watched my hand inch closer and closer to his skin. That same hope and in his eyes that reflected in my heart.

So when my hand simply passed through his cheek, there was nothing for us to say. Our gazes locked, an unsaid thing between us, and we headed in our usual manner towards the bar. There were witnesses to question.

There was a killer to catch.

Duh dum, da duh da dum, dah duh daaaa!