Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 9- Ghosts

Millie's POV

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We made a silent pact to never again mention or repeat the events of last night.

I think back on it while we drive to Coventry. I mentally cringe at the memories of my almost-drunk, impassioned speech. Sherlock thinks it was just a very puzzling bout of experimental behaviour, and to be honest, so do I. I stare out the window, thinking. I certainly feel a connection in terms of our intellectual ability, and emotionally, I care for him, maybe in the same way John cares for him, but physically? We kissed, yes, but, in essence, we were both a little bit tipsy, and I think my inarticulate declaration of emotional attachment touched him, in some way, and kissing me was his way of showing this. Neither of us understand why he chose to portray his feelings in this way, and that's what ultimately unnerved him, but I can now see that he doesn't harbour any romantic feelings towards me, and I'm absolutely fine with that. 

Thinking this through calms me a bit, and I can now focus on the case.

We get out of the car, and make our way towards the apartment. It's been taped off, but is still easily accessible. We make our way towards the door in silence. I'm not entirely sure what Sherlock has remembered, almost two months after the incident, which is so fundamentally important that we have revisited the scene, but neither me, or John questions him.

We pick our way over the piles of debris, slowly climbing up, until we get to the apartment with the 'crime scene'. It's barely recognisable; black, charred and layered with rubble. 

"Er... Sherlock... Are you sure this is safe?" asks John as he trips over the remnants of the cedar coat-stand.

"Shut up,  please, I'm thinking." 

"That's all you ever bloody do isn't it? Think. Try thinking about our safety, maybe once in a while," John grumbles under his breath.

"At least he said please," I joke, trying to lighten the mood. John laughs.

Sherlock ignores us.

I push open the door that leads to the crime scene, expecting to see more black, more ash, more rubble, so when I see a man reclining against the wall, texting, his face obscured shadow, I start, and freeze in my tracks.

"What is it Millie?" asks John, and he comes up behind me, and stops, dead.

The man keeps on texting.

"Er... Sherlock, I think you should see this," calls John, not taking his eyes off of the reclining figure.

Clearly irritated, Sherlock pushes through us, about to snap at us for holding up his investigation, when he stops. The colour drains from his face and his eyes widen.

It takes a lot to shock Sherlock Holmes.

The man pushes himself off the floor, dusting down his suit and putting his phone into his pocket. I don't recognise his face, but both John an Sherlock are staring at him fixated.

"Did you miss me, darling? I missed you. Though you took your time, didn't you? I've been coming here every day now, for nearly two months, and nothing. Did you forget about me? I'm disappointed Sherlock, I thought you'd be...quicker."

It takes me a few seconds to pinpoint his accent. Irish, I think, although it's broken. Disjointed, is the best way to describe it; the stress on the syllables are in all the wrong places, and it fluctuates between high and low pitched continuously, in a way that makes me distinctly unsettled.

"But you're.." starts John, his eyes swivelling between the man and Sherlock. 

"Dead?"

"Sherlock. Explain. You told me he shot himself. Sherlock?"

"I am dead. We both are, technically speaking. Although I think Sherlock clinched it, jumping off that building. Mine wasn't nearly as dramatic," he says, shaking his head sadly. "You're very quiet Sherlock. Don't you want to know how I did it?"

Sherlock just stares at him, his face a mask.

"Of course you do. I find it quite funny, actually. That the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, didn't see through it there and then," he says lightly, walking over to him, "I mean, a novice magician could have pulled it off, and we all know I'm a little better than novice, don't we? It was just a case of timing, Sherlock. Yours was good too, you know. Though it was a bit cruel," he says, feigning concern, "Putting John through all that...trauma."

When no-one speaks, he walks over to Sherlock, until his head is just above his shoulder. The smile fades away. The voice lowers in tone. I do not know who this man is, but if danger could be measured on a scale, his levels would be setting off alarm bells.

"I told you I'd burn you Sherlock."

He then laughs again, and moves over to the window. I study him as he walks. He's shorter than me, but taller than John, and dressed immaculately, in what can only be a designer suit. When I first met Sherlock, I couldn't work out where he stood emotionally. This man is impossible. Where Sherlock is unreadable, this stranger is improbable; he exudes capricious instability. His mental state oscillates wildly, and he has an inexplicable impact on Sherlock, who currently looks like he could throw up.

"But you didn't kill us, " says John, his voice hoarse. "When you got that man to set fire to the building."

"Hm? Why on earth would I kill you? You can't kill ghosts, John," he says, coldly, the banter falling away like it never existed. I truly don't know what to make of this man. He  looks at his watch.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."

He walks past them, and I see the small smile playing on his lips, partly hidden by shadow. His eyes are the most discomposing; they're brown, but so dark they could easily be black, and there seems to be movement behind them, something not quite real.

"Call me sometime," he says, pressing a slip of paper into my hand, "Since Sherlock forgot to."

And then, he's gone, 

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