AN: I realize that it's kind of ooc, but I've had this idea for a while and couldn't figure out how to go about it. The title is derived from the song Ghosts That We Knew by Mumford and Sons (there's some serious Johnlock feels going on in that song, so check it out if you'd like). Anyways, enjoy!

It wasn't the first time that John stumbled back to his dilapidated flat completely blasted. In fact, it had become such a frequent occurrence that his neighbors had taken to complaining to the building's unruly landlord, a pot-bellied man that smelled of moldy bread. Minus a slight warning, the man had done nothing to cease John's drunken fits.

Clamoring up the stairs, John giggled as he ran into the dying plant at the top of the flight. "Pardon me, mizz," he apologized, his voice slurred. He hobbled around it before continuing down the hall.

Somehow he managed to make it to his room, opening the unlocked door. After the first few nights of going out to drink, John learned to keep the bolt open so that he didn't have to fumble with a key upon his return. He had been slightly ashamed the next morning after remembering Ms. Cane, a widowed old woman from down the hall, had come out to help him after he spent five minutes attempting to get into his flat.

It wasn't like he went out to the pub every night. Only when the memories, emotions, loneliness became unbearable did he resort to drinking. He just needed his senses dulled, lessened. Most of all, he needed a reprieve from reality.

Once inside, he closed and locked the door quietly, careful not to disturb anybody more than he already had. Digging around in his pockets, he produced his key (he always kept it on him in case) and placed it in its allocated spot next to the overly-ripe bananas.

The last thing he was aware of was tumbling onto the futon before passing out.

Some time in the middle of the night, John was startled from his uneasy slumber. It was still dark out, clearly only a couple hours later at the most. Groaning, John rolled into a sitting position, planting his feet onto the ground and rubbing his head. He was in the in between stage where the buzz had left but everything was fuzzy, preparing for the hangover that was sure to come.

Electing to get a glass of water to rinse the dreadful taste out of his mouth, John pushed himself up and wobbled onto his feet before gaining enough balance to walk towards the kitchen.

As he filled the foggy glass with the tap, the usual shame settled in. John Watson, former captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was now a broken-down shell of a man getting himself wasted at least three nights a week. His only source of income was his meager army pension and the occasionally delivered envelope of cash which he knew to have been sent by Mycroft.

At first he refused to accept anything from the man, but after a while he came to realize that any guilt he felt for the death of the world's only consulting detective had to have been magnified for Mycroft a hundred-fold. It wasn't hard to see just how much the man truly cared about his brother, despite his inability to show it. That was the Holmes boys though, always incapable of displaying emotion.

Lost in his bitter thoughts, John downed the glass and put it under the faucet for a refill. Before the water line could get anywhere near the top, though, an unexpected voice came from behind him causing him to jump and drop the glass in the sink, shattering it.

"You'd think after your days in the army you'd be more aware of another presence near you," the man said, voice low.

Freezing, John hardly dared to breathe, the voice so dreadfully familiar. When he finally plucked up the courage, he turned slowly towards the source of the noise, every muscle in his body tensed up.

Sitting in the far corner on a rugged recliner was the world's only consulting detective, the dead Sherlock Holmes.

The man raised his eyebrows at him, waiting almost expectantly for John to say something.

But he couldn't. There were too many things he couldn't form into coherent thoughts that were banging together in his head. Mostly his mind was just screaming at the impossibility.

"You're not real," John finally choked out, his eyes drinking in every detail of the man despite his declaration. "I mean...you can't be."

"That's really up for you to decide John," the man said, uninterested as ever. His hands were bridged at his mouth and his gaze was focused outside of the window he sat next to.

"Wh-How?" John stammered, taking an uncoordinated step forward.

"Doesn't really matter, now does it," Sherlock replied, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

That's what finally snapped John out of his reverie and propelled him into a full-blown rage.

"Doesn't matter, Sherlock? Doesn't matter? Over a year now I've been living in this bloody flat believing that my best friend was dead! You know why? Because he bloody jumped off a damn building- in front of me! I saw the blood! I saw your lifeless face! Hell, I felt no pulse in your bloody wrist! Could you drop the damn sociopath act for one second, you bloody buggering git? Because you should be groveling at my feet right now, asking for forgiveness for the hell you put me through!"

John finished, panting, barely able to get the words out from the anger that caused his words to trip over themselves in their haste to be spoken.

Sherlock was watching John with an unreadable expression. For a second, John thought Sherlock was going to be his usual self and make a sarcastic remark, but to his astonishment Sherlock became amable instead.

"You're right of course," he said in a bit of a subdued tone. "I am sorry for any mental or emotional distress I have inflicted upon you during my absence. I apologize for being unable to contact you and inform you of my continued survival."

"Yeah, speaking of," John interrupted impatiently, "what's that all about? Just leaving me here clueless? Was there a reason, or were you just too busy to be bothered? Just didn't care enough to let me know?"

"Believe me, John," Sherlock murmured, "I would not have done what I did if I did not have sufficient reason to."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John asked, trying to control his anger so that he was no longer shouting.

"Exactly what I said, John," the man replied with his usual impatient huff. "Would I really commit to killing myself simply because I believed my reputation to be ruined? You know as well as I that I am not actually a fake."

"Then why did you tell me that you were?" John asked, growing weary.

"I promise, John, it will all be explained eventually. But right now, you look dead on your feet." Getting out of his chair on the other side of the room, Sherlock made his way towards John, his feet padding sofly on the cheap carpeting.

John watched the man's progress dazedly. He wanted to demand that Sherlock explain himself, but he realized he was tire, and his oncoming drowsiness began to weight his tongue down.

"Sherlock," he murmured, a sudden relief washing over him as he finally realized what was going on. His best friend was alive. Alive. Not buried six feet under in a cemetery.

He stumbled forward to meet the man halfway, but suddenly his legs gave out underneath him. Before he could completely crumple to the ground, Sherlock was there, supporting his weight as he led him to the couch.

"I never took you for this much of a drinker, John," Sherlock grunted, lowering the pliant man to the couch. "I have to admit I'm disappointed in you."

The shame twisted in John's gut, but he ignored it, grabbing Sherlock's wrist before the man could walk away.

"You're real," John whispered, feeling the pulse throbbing constantly in Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock considered the man for a second. "I'm as real as you want me to be," he said finally.

"Sit with me," John commanded, starting to sit up and make room for the other man's slim frame. In the process he became lightheaded and nauseous, though, and Sherlock's thin hand pressed against his shoulder firmly.

"Sleep, John. You'll make yourself ill if you keep moving."

"I still need answers though," John muttered, fighting to keep his eyelids open.

"Yes, and you'll get them, just not right now," Sherlock promised. He then lowered himself to the floor so that his back leaned up against the front of the couch. The position comforted John, and he draped his arm over the side so that his fingertips came in contact with Sherlock's shoulder.

John didn't want to fall back asleep so soon after his friend's return. He wanted to stay conscious and just soak in the man's presence, but the battle was futile as his eyelids slowly drooped closed.

"Please don't leave me again," was the last thing John whispered before falling into unconsciousness.

The taste in his mouth was more ungodly than usual. The need for a good brushing was what motivated him to finally get off of the sofa and head towards the bathroom. Stiffly, he grabbed his toothbrush off of the counter sink and applied the toothpaste.

The brush never made it to his mouth, though, as the previous night's events came flooding back to him.

John bolted from the closet-sized bathroom, the clatter of the toothbrush in the sink an echo behind him.

"Sherlock?" he called out to his seemingly empty flat. When there was no reply he called out again, this time more frantically.

He ran around the room, looking behind every piece of furniture as if it was a sick game of hide-and-seek and Sherlock would appear behind the recliner.

But he was nowhere.

Maybe he went out to get breakfast, John tried to rationalize. He'll be back any minute, right?

John dropped the the couch to wait in tense apprehension. But one minute turned into five, and five turned into fifteen. Soon half an hour of staring at the wall had passed.

Fighting the urge to scream, John got up to busy himself, unable to stand the torture of inactivity any longer. The longer he was left to his thoughts, the more doubtful he became of the events from last night. And he didn't need that. Sherlock was there. He had seen him, heard him speak, felt him underneath his fingertips.

Looking around for a chore to occupy his mind, John remembered the shattered glass in the sink and headed towards it.

Where would Sherlock have gone? And why was it taking this long? John wondered. Surely he wouldn't have just left, right? John troubled over a way to try contacting the man, but he had left no number or address of any sort.

Cursing silently, John leaned over the sink- only to find it empty.

At first he was confused by the glass' absence, and then a cold dread poured over him. No, he thought, refusing to acknowledge what his mind was screaming.

Surely Sherlock had cleaned the glass himself. To make up for surprising John enough to drop it. Yeah, that made sense.

But John couldn't stop the impulse that had him throwing the cabinet above him open, his eyes instantly skimming over the other glasses.

All five were there, no cracks or broken shards around them.

John was suddenly numb.

No, he thought again, beginning to become desperate.

Sherlock is just trying to cover his tracks, he's trying to pretend he was never here, John tried to rationalize. He got an extra glass from somewhere and cleaned up the broken one.

But the truth washed over John as a sob of grief passed through his lips.

Sherlock Holmes was dead and last night had never happened.

John had dreamed or hallucinated the entire thing.

Details came flooding back to him, how Sherlock wore the same exact outfit John had last seen him in as he was lowered into his grave. How his personality switched so easily from his usual self to compliant. How everytime John asked him a question, Sherlock refused to reply with a straight-forward answer.

The truth came crushing over him like a tidal wave, too heavy to handle. Underneath him, John's knees buckled, and this time there was no one to catch him.