Title: To See You Again

Author: Arisprite aka Ari

Rating/Warnings: T for blood, gore, and creepiness. No sex, slash or bad language

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes (which isn't under copyright anymore to my knowledge) or the BBC version (which belongs to Stephen Moffat and the BBC) I'm jealous of them, not them. Got it.

A/N: This story has mutated into something super long, angsty, whumpy, and all around creepy, but what can you do? I was trying so hard to finish it before nano started, and get it out to you all as a peace offering since I'll be pretty absent for the rest of the month. I was about an hour and a half too late, but I managed it! Woo :) It was written for the 015 Challenge over at the watsons_woes lj group. I'm posting the whole story tonight.


January 15, 2011. 8:12 am

John is heading down the stairs from the upper bedroom, already dressed in his favorite cream jumper. Sherlock is being abnormally quiet, and John doesn't mind not having to yell for gunshots or something equally absurd to shut the hell up before he can eat his breakfast. He enters the living room, and looks for Sherlock.

Sherlock is sitting, typing furiously at his laptop. From the looks of it he's been up for hours. John can see that he's peering at an eagle eyed view of the city. He doesn't know why he bothers; he's sure that Sherlock had a full GPS inside his brain.

"Morning," John says mildly. Sherlock ignores him.

John does likewise and goes into the kitchen. There's nothing in the kettle or the fridge, save the scum of the last of the coffee and a container of frog legs. John consoles himself in that at least it is something that is potentially edible, though John really won't ever want to eat it. He feels like he should congratulate Sherlock or something. The nothing potentially lethal in the fridge prize. John settles for running a hand through his hair, and turning back around towards where Sherlock is still glued to his computer. John's computer, he notices. He thought he'd changed the password. I suppose it doesn't make any difference to him. Privacy is a foreign word to Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, there's nothing edible in the house. Want to go down to the pub for breakfast?"

Again Sherlock says nothing, doesn't even look up. John frowns. He really can't deal with Sherlock's games this early in the morning, and with no food in his stomach.

"Sherlock, would you listen?" Still Sherlock makes no move. John goes to stand behind him. "What are you even looking at?" The web page is up on a map of London, like he'd seen, and an email from Lestrade.

'Still no word. Have you given his girlfriend a call? L.'

Sherlock is typing a reply.

'She hasn't seen him. Don't you think I would try that first? SH.'

Sherlock pulls out his phone, and presses send without looking. John can see the screen though and…Sherlock's calling him. John's phone is in his pocket, isn't it? He feels his jeans, and no, it's not there. Where…?

Sherlock has cursed loudly. John's never heard that kind of language from his friend, especially with such emotion behind it. Sherlock must really care about this case.

Sherlock gets up from his chair then, whipping past him, and starting to pace. His hands clench and unclench by his side.

John is starting to get concerned. This isn't normal, even for Sherlock's level of weirdness.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John feels a surge of frustration at Sherlock's silence. "What is the matter? Sherlock!" John walks towards him, moving to stand in his way. "Is this some sort of a joke? Wh—" John breaks off as Sherlock moves past him, he hadn't even stopped, nor swerved to avoid John. How did he get over there?

John is feeling that there is a very big 'not good' something going on.

"Sherlock, can you even hear me?" John waves his hands in front of Sherlock's face, with no reaction. "Sherlock!"

He reaches out to grab his arm, fed up with this non-response. He grabs Sherlock's suit clad arm, feels the tense muscles under his hand, and then…

Then Sherlock was across the room, continuing his pacing.

What the hell?

January 14, 2011. 4: 35 PM

"There's been a rash of disappearances across the city, all roughly around the same time. Lestrade texted."

"And you felt you had to come get me from my job because…?" John is shrugging on his coat. He's annoyed, but not enough that he won't come. He only has a half hour left anyway.

Sherlock opens the door to his office for them both, taking off down the hospital hallway like he owns the place.

"Your assistance is always valuable." Sherlock says mildly. John snorts.

"Is it? That's not what you said last week, when you called me an idiot." Sherlock looks smug, like he's won their argument, sorry discussion.

"Ah, but you are less of an idiot than all the rest of the London population."

"Thanks, Sherlock. That makes me feel so much better."

Sherlock's mouth quirks, but then he pauses.

"Sarcasm?" He almost asks.

"A bit, yeah."

They go on down to the street, Sherlock calling a cab.

"So what's the case?" John asks as they get in. Sherlock slides across the back seat to make room for him.

"Three men go missing within hours of each other. They are all ex-military, and were in the medical field."

Sherlock is looking steadily ahead, but John's brain is beginning to make a connection.

"Hold on, ex-military doctors are disappearing, and you came straight to my office? You think I'm a target?" Sherlock's shuttered face suggests something more. It sounds like Sherlock wanted to make sure John was safe first, before even going to Lestrade. John feels oddly touched. This was the equivalent of a worried freak-out for Sherlock.

"It's possible, yes." Sherlock answers shortly.

John sits back, quirking the side of his mouth a little.

"Shut up." Sherlock was looking out the window. John smiled a little more, and complied.

January 15, 2011. 8:47 AM

John is frustrated.



…Scared too.

John watches Sherlock continue to pace. He is torn between wanting to knock him about the head for ignoring him, and committing himself to a mental hospital. Hallucinations of being invisible to everyone else, or something…

No, this has to be some stupid joke, or experiment that Sherlock is playing on him. It would be something just like him too.

John's teeth and fists clench. He knew just why Sherlock would do something like this too, he was bored, it was interesting or some other stupid reason.

John jerks to his feet.

"That's enough, Sherlock!" He says loudly, moving again in front of Sherlock's almost frantic pacing. "I mean it, stop it! Stop it right now!"

Sherlock still won't react, and John feels a new wave of rage wash over him.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" He fairly roars.

Sherlock makes no answer, not even a twitch, and walks past him again. John's ears ring, and he grabs his flat mates arm, jerking him around, and swinging his fist into Sherlock's jaw, feeling a cracking impact, and then…

Sherlock is making a new turn in his round, with not a mark on his face.

A rush of fear, shame, and horror fills his chest, and he stares wide eyed at Sherlock. What?

John turns and runs down the stairs. The door yanks open at his pull, but as John passes through it; he turns and sees the door shut as firmly as before. He runs down the stairs, banging on the steps, taking them two at a time. He's looking behind him, and doesn't see Mrs. Hudson at the bottom until he runs headlong into her, knocking her bags of groceries to the floor, and she herself to her hands and knees. He gasps, and kneels to help her, but he blinks and suddenly the world has righted itself, and his landlady is carrying the bags sedately back into her kitchen, none the worse for the wear.

John is panting.


The words keep time with the beating of his heart. He runs again.

The front door acts the same as the door to his flat, and without even thinking he is through it and in the street outside. He runs between cars, almost willing one to hit him, because that would mean that he was real, and that this would be just a dream. You can't die of a car crash in a dream, you just wake up.

A city bus comes down Baker Street, and John leaps out in front, eyes shut, expecting to wake up in his bed, breathing heavily, but fine. It's coming closer, John can hear…

And then it passes.

No honking, no collision. Nothing. John opens his eyes, and sees the back end of the bus turn off their road. Cars continue to drive past him and through he's standing in the middle of the street, no one honks, no one swerves.

No one can see him.

John turns, and treads slowly back into the flat.

In their sitting room, Sherlock is just the same as when he left. There isn't an amazingly accurate description of where he's been, and what he's being doing. There are no complaints of boredom or demands for tea. He just paces, and John stands still, invisible, and watching.

John is sitting now (and yes, the cushions sink with him) but there's no indent when he gets up.

Sherlock's apparent emotional state has deteriorated faster than his own had, and he can't ask him what's wrong. John leans forward and grabs a handful of his own hair, tugging, as if that will let him reach out, and talk to his friend.

"Sherlock, why can't you hear me?" John murmurs. He's at a loss. This is outside any frame of reference that he's ever had, and he doesn't know what to do.

Sherlock is lost too, apparently. He's still pacing, in an erratic loop, gripping his phone, and chewing on a thumbnail. John's never seen him do that, and it makes him inconceivably worried.

Suddenly, Sherlock heaves a great sigh, and throws himself down on the sofa, pulling his laptop towards him. He taps the phone on the side of his head, and whispers.

"John, where are you? Where did they take you?"

John feels like he's been doused with cold water. He's been taken? But he's here, but yet, not really…nothing makes sense anymore. But he is here, even if no one can see him. He leans forwards.

"I'm right here, Sherlock."

It's cold and dark. He's shivering, and that's a good thing, isn't it? Shivering is good because…because….why? It bloody well hurts, and some small part of his mind says the hurting is also good, cause it means…something important. He can't remember. Water drips on his face…dribbles down the side of his cheek, and it's like he is crying. Why is he crying?

Where's Sherlock?