Come With Me [A SHERLOCK ONESHOT]

John closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. This was to be his last night in 221B Baker Street, as absurd as that sounded. The next day, he would be leaving the flat forever. Once, this place had been home to him. Even if he hadn't been the one to dominate how everything was run and decorated and such, it was his home. It didn't matter to him. 

Perhaps he'd be better off after leaving the place behind. After all, there were ghosts everywhere. Not literal ones, of course - John didn't believe in those. No, he had worked on a case concerning phantoms about a year ago and after that point he had completely convinced himself that ghosts did not exist in the supernatural manner that was typically assumed.

Rather, these ghosts were made in the form of memories, of past utterances and movements and emotions or lack thereof. Within every crevice of 221B were the ghosts of Sherlock Holmes. The man had been dead for only a matter of weeks at this point, but for John it felt like forever. 

He found himself sitting alone within the flat, thinking about the past. It seemed silly and a waste of time the moment he thought over it, but he refused to do anything to stop it...mostly because he wasn't sure he could stop it in any way.

He drummed his fingers against the chair he was sitting in. This was the same chair he had sat in the first time he came into the flat, leaning against a cane with a bum leg. Of course, that had been the day when he had decided to move in with Sherlock. In that way, the chair was a ghost. So was the view across from the chair. So was the dust sitting in the air.

The disembodied parts and curdling milk in the fridge were ghosts as well, all markers of Sherlock's experiments. The open door leading to the detective's former bedroom was a ghost. There was only so much he could handle at one time. But everywhere he turned, he found another ghost, and another, and another, and another.

John shut his eyes as tight as he possibly could. Sometimes he would have flashbacks to when he was in the war. They had stopped once he had begun spending time with Sherlock. Now he had flashbacks to that fateful day where Sherlock stood up at the edge of St. Bart's Hospital with a phone in one hand, perched like a bird. 

But he didn't fly like a bird. No, he plummeted to the ground and landed with a sickening thud. John had seen the injuries of war, but nothing made his stomach churn more than seeing Sherlock fall from the rooftop and pounding against the ground.

John opened up his eyes, ready to get himself off to bed. All he had to do was hoist himself out of the chair and drag himself up to his regular bedroom so that he could actually get a lick of sleep. There wasn't anything he could do sitting around in the chair.

But he couldn't do any of it because there was a ghost standing right in front of him.

John gaped for several moments, trying to comprehend what was going on. Sherlock was standing there in front of him. His lips were pressed together in a straight line, but his eyes betrayed the emotions behind him. It was like seeing him alive all over again - he was wearing his signature black trench coat and blue scarf, bringing out the familiar glimmer in his eyes.

There were several details off here and there, but it wasn't as if John could deduce what they meant. The fact he wasn't wearing any gloves stuck out to John the most vividly, but he couldn't figure out why that might've been the case. 

"Sherlock," John finally murmured after sitting there blankly for several moments. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

The smallest hint of a smile graced Sherlock's mouth as he said, "John, come with me."

"What?"

"Come with me," Sherlock repeated, his words soft but solid. 

"Where?" John asked, feeling like he was being absolutely foolish and unable to say nothing more than one word questions. But Sherlock didn't mention anything about this. Instead, he just shook his head slightly and moved onwards.