~Johnlock Oneshots~

The Bodom Lake Pt 2

[A/N: Finally I'm writing this thing. I'm going to make a Halloween special too but let's get this out of the way. And remember, I might make something up just for the story mk. Oh and, Hans Assman was a real person, look him up. Just a heads up, I might get sinister idk. I'm already cringing. ]

Sherlock gave John a sceptical look. He had never believed on ghosts, but maybe there was no other explanation to this.

Sherlock pulled out his laptop again and did more research on the case.

"Hans Assman was one of the suspects, he drowned himself in this lake after he potentially confessed to the murder, and his body was never recovered." Sherlock read. John looked at him in terror.

"Could it be him?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him, not knowing what to say. Sherlock felt afraid, but didn't want to show it.

"Let's just try to get some sleep." Sherlock mumbled. "Sleep? Do you think I can sleep right now?" John said. Sherlock sighed, he took John's hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"There are no ghosts." He said.

-time skip-

The next morning John went to get food while Sherlock was investigating the case. He was walking around the woods when he spotted something on the ground. A knife, a rusty knife. Probably tens of years old, he thought.

"Wait.." He said. He took the knife as evidence and strolled back to the camp. John had already returned.

"Sherlock, I'm really not sure about this." John said.

"We're going to be fine, John."Sherlock answered." I found something, a knife."John nodded.

Sherlock climbed into the tent to examine the knife. The knife was incredibly rusty, it was a cooking knife, but it definitely wasn't used for cooking. He went back outside, this time on a big rock next to the water.

It was the potential place where Hans Assman had drowned himself from. He examined the rock and the waters. He spotted a piece of cloth under a tree. He dug, and discovered it was a coat, an old coat. Probably belonged to Mr. Assman. His hypothesis was proved when he pulled out an ID card from the front pocket, stupid for this man to do this.

-time skip-

It was coming dark again, John was nervous. They were sitting in the tent together under the covers, Sherlock trying to calm John down, when they heard the distinct sound of a knife being dragged across fabric, of the tent.

They watched in horror, as the knife dragged across, and then dissappeared. They were frozen for a while. Sherlock was just about to say something when...

"The answer is found in my speech, and between it's linesssssssss..." Was whispered into the wind. Neither knew where it came from. John was now frozen in fear, fear greater than ever. Sherlock was sliding his right hand up and down his back, and kissed his head.

They heard ghostly laughter and footsteps running away. John was crying, quiet tears running down his face and onto his chest.

"We gotta get our of here." Sherlock stated. He started packing up their stuff. He paused, looking over John's shoulder, eyes wide. John's eyes widened. "Don't. Move." Sherlock whispered.

"There is a hand, pressing on, the fabric of the tent behind you." He continued. John closed his eyes and cried quietly. Black claws pressed through the fabric, and dragged down, slashing the tent.

More ghostly laughter was heard, as the hand disappeared. John was shaking now, he wanted to go home, oh how he wanted to go home.  Sherlock scooted closer to him, and embraced him. If they really were dealing with the ghost of a potential killer, they really had to get out of there.

Sherlock made sure everything was packed up before zipping open the tent. He peeked outside to make sure that the coast was clear. He crawled out of the tent and held out a hand for John to take. He pulled John out of the tent and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead.

''We're going to be ok.'' He said.

[A/N: So guys I've listened to ALOT of horror stories, very sinister ones, I know how to be scary, I warn you.]

Splashing in the water. An arm reached out to grab the wet sand. A rotten, grey arm, with teared fabric hanging off it. John turned, as Sherlock stared in horror at the creature dragging it's way up onto the shore. The head, grey like the arm, rotten. Eyes, there were none, just hollow pits in where they used to be. It's cheecks were rotten through, teeth visible. Blood, pouring out of the holes on it's face.

Skin, a grey but disgustingly greenish. It was making it's way out of the water slowly, not a sound to be heard. Sherlock and John were slowly backing up. This was him, this, was Hans, or what's left of him. Eaten, almost completely by fish and other animals. The ghost had taken over the body that once was it's.

Then it stopped. IT stilled. Suddenly it's teeth grew twice the size they recently were, sharp and long. They punched through the rotten skin of it's lips and face. Then it smiled. A sinister smile. Mouth stretching wide.

The smile continued, but something was off. It's jaws were moving, apart from each other. They watched in horror, as it's jaws stretched up and down, more than humanly possible, mouth gaping wide. Sherlock almost puked when he heard it's jaws pop, broken, but /it/ didn't even flinch.

A dark shadow emerged from it's mouth, the body falling limp on the wet sand. The shadow, which was probably the ghost, floated over to Sherlock and John, staring deep into their souls. And it said in a deep and sinister voice:

''Do you already believe in ghosts, mister Holmesssss?''

[A/N: ._. ]