He Was Dead

A.N.: Inspired by something I stumbled upon on twitter. You can find it on my twitter always_katarina among my pictures. It's a screenshot of a post that held the idea on which this is based on. I do not take credit for the idea. Also, you'll recognise one bit from the footage we got some time ago. I just had to put it in. I had to.

He knocks on the door of 221B on a Friday.

John didn't really feel like getting up to open the door, preferring sitting in the corner of the room in the sofa, a cup of tea in one hand and a book he wasn't really paying any attention to in the other. But, after the knocks went on for another few minutes, John sighed and put the now cold tea and book that was still opened at the prologue on the table and took his time opening the door. As the door opens to the side, he doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't react at all to the man standing in front of him. The man he hasn't seen in three years - although, to John, it seems so much more - the man that jumped to his death without probably even thinking about how it'd affect him. The man he wishes he could hate but just can't.

In front of John Watson stood Sherlock Holmes.

John does a bitter laugh, acknowledging that he has finally gone insane, and moves to the side, letting Sherlock in.

(He probably didn't have to move. Didn't have to give him any space. Ghosts don't need space. They walk right through you, right?)

Sherlock Holmes - his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, who is dead - takes a seat at his desk. Shaking his head, John closes the door and goes back to his cold tea and the book he isn't really reading.

He decides to ignore Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes is dead - he saw him die - and this is just his mind playing tricks with him.

Ignore them, and the hallucinations go away.

(Right?)

John doesn't talk to him much.

Sherlock can see John's trying to ignore him but sometimes he slips and Sherlock feels like things are slowly getting back to normal (not really) and that John just needs time.

It's been three years and common sense and logic he so often relied on told him that the army doctor being angry was something completely normal. He did fake his death, and John's coldness towards his is to be expected, of course.

Sherlock continues talking to him, though. He talks to him about how he did it, about the three years that have passed. He talks to him about bringing down Moriarty's web and he comments on the pitiful and plain boring murder cases that appear on TV. He even suggests playing Cluedo.

Everytime, John just closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. He then sighs, gets off his sofa, grabs his keys and locks the door on his way out.

(Although John did play Cluedo once, but just for a while. Then he shook his head, whispered "What the hell am I doing?" and left.)

Sherlock doesn't read much into it. It's just the way John copes. That's all. Soon enough, everything will get back to normal, back to the old routine.

The thrill of the chase. The blood pumping through their veins.

Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

"Get out.", it's one of the rare things he said to the mind trick in front of him - the Sherlock Holmes - and his head hurts because he hasn't slept in days. He couldn't sleep because Sherlock - this image of Sherlock - is always there. Always. Never leaving even for a second and John is pretty certain he's really losing his mind because Sherlock can't be there. Sherlock is dead.

"Get out!", he yells out, his voice breaking. John grabs a glass from the nearby table and throws it against the door. The glass shatters and the broken pieces scatter around the room, "Leave me alone.", he says, his voice a whisper and his back turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a step forward, "John-"

"No!", he yells, turning around, "You're dead, Sherlock. You died. I saw-", his voice whimpers, "I saw you jump, Sherlock. You can't be here. You can't. Because you're dead and I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not."

Sherlock's eyes widen the slightest. John's not crazy. Why would he think he's crazy? What-

Oh.

Sherlock takes a step back, "I'm here, John. You're not crazy. I'm not dea-"

Another glass shatters as it hits the smiley face still painted on the wall, the bullet holes as present around it as always.

John walks up to him, "You're not real, Sherlock. You're a trick my mind is playing.", he says, his eyes watery, "Get. out."

Sherlock leaves.

(When he comes back, it's almost dawn and John's awake - not like he slept - sitting on the sofa. Sherlock walks slowly and silence consumes him that even he, for a second, considers thinking that he is a ghost. But ghosts aren't real, he remembers, as the clicking sound of the door closing breaks the numbing silence.)

(John ignores him again.)

John's reading the newspaper and Sherlock takes a seat opposite of him. He notices that John's plate is empty as soon as he notices the other one in front of him.

The table is set for two.

"You should eat."

John turns a page, "I'm not hungry."

Sherlock nods.

They sit in silence for a while longer, until John folds the newspaper and sets them down. He gets up, barely glancing at Sherlock and Sherlock notices a small limp. John spent most of his time sitting down that Sherlock didn't even have a chance to notice the slight limp. Before John leaves, Sherlock notices him grabbing a cane before walking out the front door.

What did he do to him?

"Why are you talking to me?"

Sherlock looks up, "You're my friend."

John chuckles, "Why am I talking to you?"

Sherlock wants to reply with 'I'm your friend.', but he isn't sure about that statement anymore.

"Stop it."

"What?", it's one of the rare moments where Sherlock Holmes asks a question.

John's sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands, "Haunting me."

Sherlock blinks, "I'm not a ghost."

"I'm not saying you're a ghost.", he replies, lifting his head up, "Just stop haunting me."

He limps out of the room.

It goes on for months. Yes, John talks to him, but it's a string of random short conversations in which John mostly doubts his sanity and Sherlock tries to find a logical way of showing him that he is alive. That he's here - in flesh and blood - and that he lives and breathes and that his heart is beating and pumping blood through his brain and that he has a pulse and that he is not a hallucination. That he's not a mind trick.

Sherlock Holmes swears to a God he doesn't believe in that he will never stop trying. Because he can't lose John. He can't lose him.

He can't.

There's a knock on the door. He thinks it's a Monday, but he's not so sure.

John limps to the door, opens them and sighs as Lestrade and Sally come into his view.

"Lestrade-"

"We need Sherlock, John."

John shakes his head, "Sherlock's not-"

"What can I do for you, Lestrade?", Sherlock asks, nodding in their direction, "Sally.", he greets. He's being polite because he thinks that's the right thing to do after faking his dead and not interacting with any of them for three years.

John's face turns a pale shade of white and his broken whisper breaks the silence.

"You can see him, too?"