The last thing you see before you fall is his face. The face of your best friend. The only person who has ever fully accepted you- quirks and all. You watch as he tries to talk you out of it. As he reaches for you. You curse Moriarty to the deepest pits of Hell you didn't previously believe in. Even if you do jump- and save them, save him- he wins. Because he watches as your (his) heart breaks as you step off the roof.

"Good bye John."

John Watson lays curled up on his bed. His best friend's bed. His best friend who just committed suicide right in front of him mere hours ago.

It feels like a lifetime.

He wishes he could go back. Go back and find the right words. Take back others. Words that soothed a hidden, battered heart. Words that showed only support and friendship. Words that sheltered from other heavy, burning words.

For all that he has a blog, he's no writer. He was never able to find the right ones in any situation. Actions were always easier. And actions spoke louder than words. Right? But sometimes words, and not actions, are needed.

John knows Moriarty is involved in this in some way. He just doesn't know how. Can't think of how. Can't think of anything really, besides oh god, oh god he's dead, he's really dead, my best friend just killed himself, god I miss him already, oh god, oh god, oh god, bastard, I want him back, give me him back, he's dead oh god...

It almost seems like a dream. Another one of his nightmares.

Mary walks in. Beautiful, wonderful Mary. The first woman who has put up with him running out on their dates, or not showing up at all. The first who was not sacred off by his crazy flatmate/best friend. The first to understand that John needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed John.

Somehow none of that matters now.

Mary doesn't say anything, just sits on the bed and strokes his hair comfortingly. In that moment, he would trade his relationship with her in a heart beat if only it was someone else stroking his hair.

If only that someone else was alive to do so.

The last six months have been hard. Not hard in the sense of difficulty, but hard in emotions, sentiment- all the things you have previously avoided. But he changed all that. Him, with his 'amazing' and 'brilliant' and 'fantastic'. He showed you that someone cared.

You were telling the truth when you said you only have one friend. You were also correct when you said alone is what protected you. You lied when you say you are a sociopath.

You have a heart. Truly you do. But is hidden. Kept behind barricade after barricade. Somehow he got past each one. Showed you someone gave a damn about you. That someone would accept you- no matter what. Would stand with you, beside you, behind you. Wherever you needed him, he would be there for you.

The first and a half year of your friendship is amazing. Cases, races across London, showdowns in empty warehouses, take out afterward, crappy telly, inappropriate jokes, giggling at crime scenes.

Of course things weren't always perfect. Nothing is always perfect- you would have suspected something if it had been. There had been rows and explosions and ruined experiments and body parts in the refrigerator and 'Where are you going?' 'Out.'

And there had been the dates. It took you four months to realize you were jealous- burning envy of those unworthy creatures. It took another month to realize why. It was not just a friend's jealousy. Oh no, it was deeper. Much deeper.

But they never stayed long, so it never mattered.

Until Mary Morstan.

Mary Morstan who put up with you stealing John away from her. Who tolerated your odd quirks for his sake. Who was a school teacher, only fairly attractive, no sense of adventure yet watched Doctor Who almost religiously, has common sense but not much else- in other word ordinary and boring. Who would not be chased away.

You despise her. She will take him away from you. Then you will be alone again.

Once this would not have bothered you. Once you could have moved on without a blink of an eye. Once you wouldn't have thought twice about it.

But that was before him.

Now you mourn the inevitable loss. You dread the separation. It sends a painful burn to your heart every time you think about it. You desperately search for a way to stop- or even delay- it.

He is your whole world.

(Once it was the Work. He replaced it. How did he does that? It was still crucial, still essential, still necessary. But given the choice? If you had to give one up forever. The Work wouldn't win. And that terrifies you.)

You are not his.

He has brought you so low that you would even be willing to beg for it. But you will not. It will do no good. You have seen the light in his eyes what he looks at her. The excitement in his voice when he talks about her. The smile he smiles when he thinks of her.

So you hold your tongue- and your pain- inside. It burns. But not as much as his rejection or pity would.

Then the end game begins.

And you know exactly what to do.

John is once again laying on Sherlock's bed. It's where he spends most of his time anymore. He just doesn't have the ambition- or the energy- to do anything else. A cup of tea sits beside him on the nightstand. Mary.

He is amazed at her understanding and patience with him. She never pushes him when he doesn't want to talk. Doesn't nag him when he doesn't want to get out of bed. Merely looks at him when he doesn't eat or drink.

It's peaceful not to have to explain himself. Not to have to argue or complain or yell just to get what he wants. No pressure, he is grieving, whenever he is ready to talk she will listen. But she won't force him.

He hates it.

He doesn't want gentleness. He wants someone to tell him he's an idiot. (But less so than most people. But not right now. Now he's he's acting like Anderson, lowering others IQ by existing.) He wants someone to scoff at the sentiment at his seemingly move into Sherlock's room. He wants someone to come and drag him out to do something crazy. He wants...

Well, it's rather obvious what he wants.

The funeral was a week ago. That was the first time the left the flat. He hasn't since.

It has been suggested by some people that perhaps he should find a healthier way to express his grief. Perhaps he should move out. He needs to move on. John politely suggested they take their advice and shove it up their arses. It was then suggested, to Mary, that she should do something instead of letting him waste away. She suggested they take a long walk of a short pier.

John knows what he's doing isn't healthy. That he should get up and do something. But it seems pointless. He can't leave the flat. Not with everything being so much worse. Reporters swarm him, shouting questions- questions about how John feels to be used, how his best friend was a fake, a criminal, how everything was a lie. And when that doesn't happen, he get looks. Looks full of pity and sympathy.

John doesn't know which are worse.

So he lays around, not eating, not sleeping, spending most of his time thinking (Remembering really. Trying to pretend this is all a bad dream and soon he will be woken up to go chase someone across London with no backup.)

Essentially, he's turning into Sherlock. The irony of it amuses him.

Naturally he is in the same position when Mycroft Holmes walks into the room.

John wants to punch him. Actually he wants to do more than that, but he figures a broken nose is a good place to start. Bloody British government not having it's bloody priorities straight.

But then John notices the grief in his eyes. It's hidden of course. Heaven forbid he show any sadness, his brother only just killed himself two weeks ago, why would he be sad? But John has gotten good at reading Holmes in the last two years. Never mind that it was one and not the other. Both use a different variation of the same mask. Although God save you if you decided to point that out to either of them.

So John doesn't punch him. He figures that's mercy enough.

"Yes?" He asks coldly.

"Greetings Doctor. I trust you are doing well, given the circumstances?"

He doesn't say anything, just stares. It's abundantly clear just how well he is doing. He's stalling, John realizes. The great Mycroft Holmes is stalling. What the hell kind of news is there that makes Mycroft bloody Holmes hesitate to deliver it? Certainly can't be anything good.

Mycroft nods like John had stated his thoughts out loud. A pause. Tiny, but there. "I realize you are still a bit... opposed to talking about my brother, but there is certain information that needs to be passed on. Sherlock updated his will not long after this... situation began. I did not know this until the last few days. With a few exceptions he has left everything to you."

John looks at Mycroft, processing what he just said. Sherlock... left him everything. The mentioned exceptions are probably Mrs Hudson and possibly Mycroft himself.

Mycroft confirms this by continuing. "The exceptions are his lap equipment- those go to a Miss Molly Hooper, a sum of money for Mrs Martha Hudson, and a few trinkets for myself. Everything has already been transferred to your name. The most significant items would be his inheritance and his house."

"House?" John finally asks. He would think about what inheritance meant later.

"His country home in Sussex. As he grew older he did not spend a significant amount of time there, but he spent much of his childhood there."

This was most definitely news to John. Sherlock was never one to talk about anything personal, let alone his childhood. John had often wondered what the man's childhood had been like. He imagined it a lonely one.

Mycroft nods and leaves without another word.

John thinks over what he has just been told. Thinks over what the last few weeks have been like. Reviews his thoughts. A plan forms in his head. Probably an insane one, but he's use to those.

You open your eyes.

This was never part of the plan. If you are able to open your eyes, then John would not. But you can. After you jumped off of a seven story building. You had felt the blood seep out of your head, those last few seconds. Felt your life actually fade away.

Obviously something is very wrong here.

You take in your surroundings in an instant. It is your home. Not Mycroft's. Not Mummy's or Father's. Yours.

Both you and Mycroft were given a country home when you were born. The Holmes name is a wealthy one. It goes back into Victorian nobility, although few remember that now. You prefers to keep it that way.

Truthfully you never needed a flatmate. That comment you made to Stamford was just that, a passing remark.

But when he brought John in, something caught your eye. Some instinct, although you very rarely decide anything by your 'gut feeling' without significant data. This time, one of the few times it has occurred, instinct wins over your need for solid facts. If anything, you rationalize, you can cure his limp before runs, screaming, from you.

It amazed you when he stayed. He stayed after the eyeballs in the microwave, after killing a man for you, after the first kidnapping experience, after several near death experiences, after Moriarty.

It is sentiment, but you never wanted to tell him you don't actually need a flatmate. You may not need one, but, by then, you need him.

The house hasn't changed. There is no dust, nothing has been moved. So the maid has been in recently, no more than two weeks ago. You goes up to your bed room to look at yourself in the full mirror you have in the wardrobe.

Walking, you notice you make no sound, even though certain part of the floor always squeak when anyone walks on it. You move into your bedroom and reach for the handle of the door. It goes right through. Intangibility. Concentrating, you manage to grab it and pull it open. It takes you five seconds at looking at yourself to realize you are slightly transparent.

Examining yourself more closely, you realize you don't have any of your old scars- from an active childhood, experiments, going after criminals. Your clothes are pristine, without a single wrinkle. Something nearly impossible, especially since these are the same clothes you jumped in.

There is only one explanation for this. It shouldn't be possible. But after you have eliminated all other possibilities whatever you have left, however improbable, must be true.

Which means...

You are a ghost.

John looks around for a final time, making sure he hasn't missed anything. He hasn't. Once again he questions if what he is doing is the right thing, but even if it wasn't he knows he would still go through with it.

Mrs Hudson had been supportive of the whole thing, even though he knew this was hard on her. She was losing both her boys in one month, although one was just moving to the country side, instead of leaving... more permanently.

He tells her she can come visit after he has everything settled while she fusses over him. Of course she agrees right away and encourage him to visit whenever he feels like it. He knows this won't be for a while. Once he gets there, it is going to take a lot to get him to leave, especially so soon.

Shrugging on his coat- it use to be Sherlock's, but after they had managed to get the blood stains out, John wouldn't be parted with it- he goes outside and into the anonymous black car. He was letting Mycroft help him, not because he had forgiven him, but because the git can afford it- in more ways than one.

He had guessed Sherlock came from a family with money, but my god. He can't imagine what he is going to do with all of his new found wealth. He'll never have to work again, that's for sure.

And if Mycroft has as much as his brother, he can definitely pay for everything.

He rubs the sleeve of the coat absently. It doesn't fit correctly, not at all. For the most part it swallows him, too long in arms and length. The shoulders should be a little too tight, but John has lost enough weight that they aren't. The scarf, also fully recovered, is wrapped around his neck. He knows he has to look ridiculous, but he doesn't care.

One thing he is looking forward to is getting away from the press. They are still hounding him, even now, three weeks after the event. John wonders when they are finally going to give it up.

Bloody vultures.

He leans back and closes his eyes. He leaves no regrets behind him. There should be at least one, but there isn't. He wonders what that says about him.

Mary.

John had broken up with her before he left. Sometimes he wonders if she saw it coming. But things weren't working out. Not for him, not anymore. He use to find her restful after being around Sherlock all the time. Now he can't help wishing she weren't so calm, so patient. He can't help compare what she was doing to what he would do.

John realizes how unfair that is.

He knows others would say that it was a mistake. That it was just a phase of grief and it would pass. But he didn't think so. Sherlock had always controlled his life and it seemed he will do so in death as well.

Which isn't healthy, but those people who say so can go shove it where the sun doesn't shine. It's his life and he can bloody well do as he pleases.

The car ride is quiet. John's thoughts turn toward his destination. He wonders what it will look like. It imagines it will be large, elegant, old. Like most manor homes. But other than that, he can't picture it.

He doesn't think it will be a cold or impersonal place. But what will fill it? Will there be photographs? Paintings? A library surely. Perhaps even a music room. What about a room set up for experiments? The image of a little Sherlock playing with a chemistry set brings a small smile to John's face.

He's tried to imagine Sherlock as a child before. The picture always included a small, skinny lad with unruly curls running around, exploring everything, with curiosity burning in his eyes. He can see him curled up in a corner reading a book very much advanced for him. He can see him being forced to learn to play the violin before eventually learning to love it. He can see him annoying his older brother and stealing his things because they are more interesting.

But he can also see, only too easily, him curled in a corner reading because no one else wants him around. A boy that knows too much, but not when to be quiet. A boy bullied because he is too smart. A boy ignored at home, because he can't picture any Holmes being affectionate. A boy raised by maids and butlers, going to his house because he feels safest there.

Maybe it's the last idea that has John moving to the house to begin with. A way for him to be closer to Sherlock without having memories overwhelm him. Perhaps he's being ridiculous sap. He knows he's being sentimental, but he was always the one in their partnership who dealt with that. But he can't help it.

He just misses him so much.

You spend your time experimenting. What you can do. What you cannot do. Where you can go. How well you can still multi-task. What you still need to do.

You find out there is very little of the latter. You don't need to eat or sleep- obvious. But you also do not need to keep your mind occupied constantly.

Before, if you did not have constant stimulation, your mind would drive you insane. There would be a steady flow of information, but no purpose for it. There was a reason you took cocaine for so long, and had dark moods after you were off. You couldn't handle it all of the time. Only The Work helped.

That is, until an army doctor limped into your life. You still don't know what it is about John that quieted your mind. At times, when you were so close to the edge, you didn't care. It took all of your will power to not curl up in his lap. Because 'I'm not gay' and 'people would talk'. You didn't care about that, you just wanted your brain to shut up. But he did care, so you restraint yourself.

Time had no meaning to you. You know that it passes, but you don't keep track of it. Why would you? There would be no point.

But there was one thing that bothers you. One thing that is never far from your mind, no matter what you do. Why are you still here? To what purpose?

Because purpose is what you believe in. Not heaven or hell. Not reincarnation. Not any supernatural powers. This shouldn't be possible. But here you are. So why are you here?

Another thing, or rather one, that is never far from your thoughts is John. You wonder how he is doing. If he is coping well enough. If he moved in with Mary yet or if he is still in Baker Street. Being dead also seems to have brought out your sentimental side. Something you would have despised before, but now doesn't seem like an issue.

You would like to see him, but you can't. You can only go as far as the boundary of your property before some invisible force stops you.

One day people arrive. You recognize them as Mycroft's. They carry boxes in and place them upstairs in your bedroom. Some unpack your clothes, others go back down and come back with other boxes. It is easy to deduce which are his books and which had his other belongings. Your science equipment is not there and, oddly enough, that makes you smile. You know Molly can make use of most of it and can donate the rest.

They leave quickly, never seeing you.

You have a theory that when you make yourself solid, to move things around or pick something up, you can be seen. But there is no way to test this theory. You do not want to start rumors to you are alive. You must keep him- them- safe.

Days pass until you hear the door opens again. You expect the maid, or possibly Mycroft's people again. But as you listen, you hear a familiar pair of footsteps.

John.

It's stupid that you did not consider this possibility before. But you had assumed he would stay with Mary. Isn't that what normal people did? Mourned, but stayed with their loved ones? Perhaps he is here for a visit.

You walk into the main entrance and freeze. John is standing there, wrapped in your coat, looking small and sad. You can tell he hasn't been eating or sleeping- a blind man could see that. He would also be able to see the grief that seems to surround John like a blanket. Like it is a permanent part of him now.

H stands to the side as he watches Mycroft's people set boxes down. There aren't many of them and soon they are done. Then they leave as John continues to stand there without saying a word.

John is moving in.

John is moving in alone.

John always had the ability to surprise you, but never would you have expected this.

Once he is alone, he seems to come life a bit more. He looks around curiously, touching things as he moves. You follow him through the house, watching his different reactions. He passes through the parlor and dinning room without giving much pause. He takes a few more moments for the kitchen, but not much. Only to see how modern it is.

He circles the library and smiles at the solar. It had been re-purposed as a music room, which has grand piano in it. Mummy had wanted him to take it up, but he never liked it.

John continues, going through the various bedrooms- one is your old experiment room and you can tell when he realizes it from his snort- and the den upstairs. He pauses when he reaches your room. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he steps in.

You watch his face. It is obviously bittersweet for him. He looks at the clippings of interesting crimes you have hanging on your wall, colored with age. He smiles at you collection of things you found fascinating when you were younger- rocks, crystals, oddly shaped bottles, persevered bugs. He scowls at the article of Carl Power's death.

Then he lays down on your bed as everything seems to overwhelm him at once. He starts to sob and you can't do anything to stop them. It seems impossible for you to become solid right now. Whether it's through lack of concentration- something you never lacked before- or something else.

You watch as he cries himself to sleep. It twists something in your heart to do so, but you can't leave him alone. You are the cause of this after all. When he falls asleep, you manage to pull a blanket over him.

John wakes up, eyes sore from crying. He knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, looking around. He's almost proud of himself, in some odd way, that he made it to Sherlock's room until be broke down.

He pulls the blanket covering him up farther, then pauses.

He doesn't remember covering himself up. He supposes he has to of, but that would have taken more concentration than what he was feeling right then. But he's been missing sections of time lately so he shouldn't be surprised.

But then he hears the violin playing.

John knows he has to be hallucinating now. Because it sounds exactly like one of Sherlock's late night compositions. He didn't play it often, but John heard it more and more frequently after he started dating Mary. He never took the time to think about what that might mean.

Maybe he should have.

He gets up and heads to the solar. He knows he needs to see the empty room, even if the thought feels him with dread. He needs to prove it's all in his head.

But as he walks in, he gets a jarring shock.

Sherlock is standing in front of the window, playing. His eyes are closed, a look of concentration on his face. Just like always. But there is something else too. A shadow of frustration and sadness John has never seen on him.

At first he can't do anything, he is so shocked. He jumped. He saw him jump. It's not possible he survived. "Sherlock." He whispers.

Sherlock jerks his head up and stares at John.

Then he's gone.

All of the air goes out of John. God. As if the crying wasn't enough, now he has started hallucinating. He going to end up insane. He is. He feels like a bloody waterfall, he doesn't do anything and now he's hallucinating.

John starts to laugh. It's a broken sound, but that's alright because there is no one around to hear it. He laughs long and hard and yeah... This is definitely a sign that he is losing it.

He goes downstairs to make tea. Because that has been his go to cure for everything recently. Drink a cup of tea. He is British after all. John snorts at himself. At least his jokes were never that good to begin with.

After he makes himself a sandwich- because he needs to eat, he really does- he begins to unpack. He starts with the few kitchen appliances he brought. Then he brings the boxes that contains the living room things into the den. John had decided earlier that while the parlor is nice, it's a bit too formal for him to feel comfortable in. He can use that room if anyone comes to visit.

There is a telly already the room, with shelves next to it for movies, a couple of sofas, some chairs. Pillows and blankets are on everything. Overall this room has the most comfortingly feel in the whole house.

However, when he goes to unpack, he can't. It seems wrong to disturb anything despite the fact that this is now his house. And doesn't that send a pang through his gut. He would have liked to visited this place with Sherlock. Heard the stories he would have told.

He can almost see them retiring here, after Sherlock finally admits that he is getting too old for The Work. They would raise bees because Sherlock loved bees. There would still be experiments and explosions. But there would also be quiet nights by the fire place, just enjoying one anothers presence. Time to catch up on all the books he never had time to read before. John could finally show him the constellations.

It takes a few moments to remember that this might not have happened. That he had been dating Mary. That he only broke up with her after Sherlock's death. Their time together seems like a lifetime ago, not a few days.

It's unreal, how everything change so quickly.

Would he have stayed with Mary of Sherlock was still alive? He was happy with her. She was lively and funny and restful. But would it have made it to a long term relationship?

Before he would have said yes. That he fully intended to stay with her. Maybe even marry her. But now it seems like he was trying to fulfill the dream he had when he was younger- a nice woman who wanted a family and perhaps a dog. A dream made before he met Sherlock.

He knew, after he met the man, that he would always be in his life. But he could never have comprehended then how fully he would take over it. Until Mary, it was never choice between any of his girlfriends and Sherlock. And even with Mary he tended to think of her as second at times. It was just that she understood that.

God. When he put it like that...

Oh god...

How long had he been in love with the bastard? And how had he never noticed before? He choose him. Every. Single. Time.

John collapses in the closest chair. No wonder everyone always assumed they were together. They were. It didn't matter that he had girlfriends and that he wasn't gay, that Sherlock was married to his work and was a self proclaimed sociopath. They were a couple without either of them realizing it.

Or were both of them really clueless?

For all that Sherlock avoided emotions and sometimes confused them, he did understand people better than any other person John knows. What if he had already realized this and was just waiting for him to. And then when he started dating Mary... and kept on dating her...

Oh god.

That would certainly explain that song. That damn song that was so beautiful, but turned so sad and John could never figure out why.

He hopes he is wrong. He hopes he is wrong so very very much.

Because if he's not, then Sherlock was in love with him too. And was just waiting on John. While he was contemplating the future with someone else. Someone he didn't love nearly as much.

He hopes he is wrong.

Because if he isn't, they were both in love with each other.

And John missed his chance to do anything about it.

You look up as John says your name. You didn't hear him enter the room. You have no idea how long he has been standing there. But it is abundantly clear that, now, he can see you.

"John." You say.

And then promptly vanish.

You know you do because you can see it on his face. His look of utter devastation. You growl in frustration. You are still holding the violin. You are solid enough to do that. So why can't he see you?

You watch as he tells himself he is going crazy. As he laughs a laugh that is not his own. That is not your John's laugh. Your John's laugh is warm and comforting. This one is hard and brittle.

You flee the room.

It's not fair. If John is to live here, you want your John. Not this imposter. The one with hollow eyes and sharps edges. You want your John and you want to be able to talk to him. To comfort him. To tell him you did it for him, but you are still here and you don't know why and don't be sad anymore and to come back.

But life isn't fair and it rarely is.

You watch when he enters the kitchen to make himself tea. John always makes tea, you're glad that hasn't changed. You watch as he eats and does very little rearranging to the kitchen. You watch as he moves the boxes into the den. You watch as he makes some grave revelation that makes he cry until he pulls himself together, take a shower, make another sandwich and go to sleep in your room.

You hate it.

You are going to find a way for him to see you if it is the last thing you do. If you don't, he won't be the only crazy one living in the house.

The first thing you do is unpack. You know John Watson better than you have known anyone in your life. You know how he will want to set up the den. You can't resist hanging up the periodic table on the wall under the sofa. You don't have any spray paint, or you would paint a smiley. But you don't, so that will have to do in place.

Next you pick the bedroom that he will like best. You unpack his jumpers and make him his own sock index. You do the same with his pants, a smirk on your face. The idiots who claim you have no sense of humor don't know the first thing about you.

You put his books in the library and drag two chairs over so they face the fireplace. You think it will be nice to be able to sit and read with John in front of the fire.

You go over the house, making sure everything is just how John would like it. When it is, it makes you smile. You go to the solar to wait. While you are in there, a thought goes through your head.

This isn't like you.

The thought has been drifting through your thoughts these past weeks.

You are not one to be satisfied with only half answered questions. You are not content with nothing to do, no brain stimulation. You are not one to care about living arrangements.

You sometimes feel like a ghost of your former self- pun unintended.

Someone still as smart, but without the necessary drive.

Maybe that's the point.

You aren't alive anymore. You aren't suppose to be able to influence to lives of the living. You are on a different path, in another plane of reality, than they are. Your time to make a difference has passed. You have nothing to live for anymore.

Except you do. That reason is sleeping in your bed right now. That reason might be why you are still here.

This theorizing without sufficient data should be making your teeth set on edge. The topic you are theorizing about should be doing the same. Trying to rationalize sentiment and life after death? But you are strangely unbothered by both.

It's rather peaceful actually. Peace is not something you are use to. You are use to the need of being constantly in motion with constant stimulation. You are use to your brain needing work to stay sane. You no longer have that problem. You can go days, weeks, without anything to do and stay perfectly sane.

The only thing you need is to be able to spend time with John and it will be perfect.

When John wakes up you go downstairs and make him tea and toast with jam. You smirk. After you find a way to get John to see you, he will no longer have reason to nag you to eat or sleep. You look forward to pointing this out to him.

He comes down only half awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When he sees breakfast waiting for him, still hot, he looks around.

"Hello?" He calls.

"John." You answer back. He doesn't hear.

"Is someone there?"

"No John, someone just broke into the house, made you breakfast and left. Think!"

There is no response to your comment because he doesn't know you are here. You watch as he rationalizes that it must have been the maid for some reason. You conceded that it would be rational if it weren't you. You can hardly expect him to know it is you.

Yet.

Next he goes into the den and sees everything unpack. He surveys, nodding at where everything is, but clearly confused as to how someone knew where to put everything.

"I know you only too well John." You tell him.

No reply.

Suspicion enters his gaze when he sees the periodic table hanging up.

"I thought it was a nice touch." You grin, but he doesn't see it.

He goes looking for his things. When he does, he searches them, seeing how they are organized. He stares at his socks and freezes at his pants.

"Either I'm going crazy-"

No

"Mycroft knows way too much about me than I need to know-"

Isn't that a disturbing thought.

"Or... SHERLOCK!" John yells.

"John." You reply.

He spins around. You know he sees you because the first thing he does when he can move again is punch you.

John turns at the sound of the voice. No, it can't be.

But it is.

Standing there is Sherlock Holmes, a grin on his lips. He doesn't move at first, afraid he will disappear like last time. When he doesn't, John does the first thing that comes into his head.

He punches him. "You bastard! I saw you jump. What the hell are you playing at! How could you?!"

Sherlock touches him cheek with an expression of curiosity. "I felt that. That's interesting. I wasn't expecting to be able to. Although it is definitely less than I would otherwise. You have a good left hook."

"What...what the hell are you talking about? How are you- I saw you. Hell, the whole city saw you."

"Don't exaggerate John. I doubt every person in London saw."

"It was on the news."
"Was it really?" The curiosity is back in his voice. "How very dull."

"Will you stop that! This isn't some kind if game."

Sherlock looks at him, his expression turning dark. "No it's not. I am sorry that you had to go through that. I never meant for you to see me jump. You came back too soon. But it was necessary."

"How?"
"Three snipers. Three people I care about. You can do the math."

"God." John breathes. "But how did you survive?"
Sherlock's features remain utterly serious. "I would like to assure you of your complete sanity."
John nods.

"I didn't."

John blinks, not sure he heard him right. But Sherlock still looks completely solemn. "Didn't? As in you're dead?"

"Yes." Sherlock reaches out to touch John. But his hand goes right through him.

John shivers as a chill goes runs down his spine. He looks at Sherlock and notices the slight transparency that he missed before. He holds his hand up and Sherlock shadows him. They press together, then Sherlock's goes through his again.

"How?" He asks. It shouldn't be possible. He shouldn't even be considering it. But he is. Because whenever you have eliminated all other possibilities whatever you have left, however improbable, must be true.

Sherlock shrugs. "I have no answers. At least none that do not veer into something too philosophical for either of our tastes."

"And that is?" John doesn't care right now if Sherlock tells him it is because the man in the moon told him so. He just wants some answer.

"Even death cannot separate our bond." He shrugs again.

"And this isn't driving you mad? This not knowing?" Because by all accounts it should be. That, combined with the need of something to do, should be have him climbing the walls.

"I find very little troubles me now. Death is surprisingly peaceful."

"Then what does, if not that?"

"You." Sherlock is frowning at him now. "Or rather how you have been acting. You are not acting like my John. I find it disturbing and I do not like it. I insist you stop now."

His John? Oh he is so screwed here. "And how have I been acting?"

"Sad."

"Well that's what happens when you watch your best friend kill himself."

"But I'm here now, so stop it."

John can't help it. He bursts into laughter. The statement is just so Sherlock. He doesn't care if this is real or if he's going mental. Just as long as he stays like this, standing here with Sherlock, the whole bloody world could end and John wouldn't mind. He pulls the man- ghost- into a hug.

Sherlock warps himself around him, holding him close.

They stay like that for a long time.

"So what now?" John asks.

"Bees."

"Bees?" John is struck by his daydream the day before and the thought of Sherlock owning bees.

"John, just because I don't need something to do, doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." He huffs.

John laughs quietly. "Of course not love. But are you going to be able to take care of them?"

"I unpacked everything for you, didn't I?"

"Yes you did." John smirks. "I especially like my pants drawer."

"I thought you might."

John doesn't move and Sherlock doesn't seem inclined to either. "Sherlock."

"Hmmm?"

"I'm glad your here. I'd be lost without my detective."

"Sentiment."

John looks up.

He's grinning. "That I fully return. I'd be lost without my blogger."

When John Watson is 35, he walks into Bart's looking for a flatmate. He finds his best friend instead.

When John is 37, he watches as his best friend jump off a roof. He later finds out it's to keep him safe.

Three weeks later, he moves into his best friend's house, finds his best friend still haunting it and is reunited with him.

One week later, Mrs Hudson makes her first weekly visit. One she will make until she dies peacefully at the age of 81. She will never know that Sherlock is still around, but she makes her peace that at least one of her boys found his happiness again.

When John is 40, three years after his partner jumped, his name is officially cleared.

When John is 42, Molly writes a paper that brings her the fame the shy lab assistant always deserved.

When John is 43, Anderson's wife finally divorces him. Donovan did not take him in. They may or may not find great satisfaction in this.

When John is 45, Donovan gets promoted to D.I. Neither make much comment on this.

When John is 62, Lestrade retires. John goes to the party to congratulate him. He answers the question of 'what the hell he is doing out in the country raising bees' with a sly, happy smile.

When John is 73, Mycroft passes away. He had still had a 'minor position in the government' until the end. Both are quiet for a couple of days. John doesn't go the the funeral, but he sends Anthea a card.

When John is 87, he fades into the next life quietly in bed. His love is beside him the entire time.

When John is dead, he takes Sherlock's hand and they disappear away from view together. On his tomb stone, set right beside his love's, is written:

No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth.

- Robert Southey