Running around London had become something of a habit for John and Sherlock. It was always on the worst of nights to; if it wasn't pouring down torrents of rain the sky would dump freezing hail or frigid wind on them. Tonight was not as bad however, the wind still bit at his exposed collar but the rain had mercifully stopped an hour before the chase began. The stones were still slick and wet but at least there was no more falling down on him. That didn't stop his pants being soaked through almost up to the knee however, for some reason Sherlock always lead him through the deepest puddles.

They were chasing a murderer this time, Sherlock out in front, John, ever loyal, a few steps behind him. They had lost Lestrade a few streets back. When he took the chance to glance over his shoulder he could see the inspector about a block behind them, talking furiously into his radio no doubt demanding back up. Something Sherlock never had the wisdom to do. John was so busy panting and doing his best to keep up he didn't register Sherlock's sudden halt as he zipped around the corner, resulting in the doctor crashing into Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock what-?" John began but was silenced by Sherlock's palm before he had a chance to continue. Nodding as Sherlock removed his hand and walked down the alley way, pointing to the metal door which was ever so slightly ajar. How Sherlock managed to notice that while running so fast the good doctor had no idea.

The inside of the building was musty, it stank of oil, most likely because of the huge drums filled with slick black sludge by the door. Must be a shipping storage room, there were only three drums left in the entire warehouse. Leaving the man nowhere to hide. He turned back angrily to the pair, who had just reached the centre of the room, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a gun. Army instincts worked instantaneously and soon John's handgun was also out aimed perfectly at the man's chest.

"There is no point" Sherlock said to the man somewhat tiredly, "I can tell by the way your hands are shaking you have never fired that gun before in your life. In fact I'd say you only have it with you to scare people, you are a bad shot no doubt and if you miss us the bullet will most likely hit one of those large and very flammable drums of oil"

"Shut up ya ponce!" The man yelled back giving the gun a wave, "Ya think you're so smart"

"I am that smart" Sherlock countered

"Sherlock…" John warned, he may be a genius but he wasn't bullet proof.

"It is best if you come with us peacefully" Sherlock continued ignore John's advice, "See those flashes of blue and red? I'd say Lestrade is about to walk through those doors any second"

"I ain't going, not quietly!" The man raged, couldn't they ever be calm?

Then many things happened at once. The man yelled and aimed his gun, badly, at Sherlock and fired. The detective dodged instinctually, bullet just catching on his long coat before whizzing off into the back of the warehouse and crashing into the drums of oil.

"Oh shi-" John started but never got to finish as the drum and all it's neighbouring drums, exploded in a huge torrent of fire and heat.

Then everything was black, for a few awful seconds he felt the heat on his skin then nothing. Blinking his eyes open he found himself lying on the ground not too far from where he had been standing. Dazed and very confused he sat up and looked at the blackened rubble that was the warehouse, two of the walls had collapsed into broken piles on the floor and most of the roof had come down as well. Yet, he didn't feel hurt. That wasn't right, looking at all the destruction around him, it was impossible for him to be completely unharmed, and a quick examination proved he was indeed perfectly fine.

"Sherlock?" He called, voice was mostly droned out by the sounds of shouting police as they entered the wrecked building and began shifting the rubble looking for his partner and of course himself.

He spotted Sherlock half buried by a pile of bricks and dust a few feet away, eyes closed.

"Hey over here!" He yelled running over to his friend, who on inspection was still breathing. He turned hoping to see some people following his call but they ignored him, couldn't they see this was important?

"Hey I found the criminal!" One called, "Brick to the temple, he's been dead for minutes already"

"Find John and Sherlock" Lestrade ordered, scanning the area and spotting Sherlock just as he coughed.

John stood up to ask the inspector to help him move the bricks of the detective slowly but the Inspector walked right through him. Not metaphorically. Physically. As in walked through John like he was nothing but air, like he wasn't there!

"Lestrade what the hell!" The doctor yelled, only to be ignored once more.

"Sherlock! Hey Sherlock!" Lestrade gave the mans shoulder a light shake, "Come on don't be dead…"

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his side in a failed attempt to stand, wincing. Broken ribs then, John surmised from his apparently invisible position. His arm is broken too, concussion to the right side of the face, severe bruising…

Lestrade called over the medics and gently helped the dazed detective onto it. Luckily it didn't take very long because Sherlock was unconscious again by the time they started moving the stretcher out of the building.

"Hey Lestrade…" Donovan called in a careful voice, "We've found John…"

What? How could they find him over there? He was standing a good five or six metres away from her for Christ sakes had the whole world gone mad?

Lestrade walked over and since nobody could see or hear him, John followed, feeling oddly light on his feet. What greeted him was sickening. He was looking at himself. Only different. He was wearing the same clothes that he was but they were ripped, burnt and bloodied. The right half of the body was terribly burnt and red and judging by the awful sink in the middle of his chest his sternum was completely shattered. What frightened him the most however was the way his eyes were half open, glassy and empty, staring right back up at him.

"Oh God…" Lestrade murmured into his palm.

So that's why nobody could see or hear him. He was dead. It was so strange, he didn't feel any panic. In a way he felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner, of course he was dead, so what was he now then? A ghost? Did he just float about forever? He had no idea.

"Sherlock is going to…" Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, "Who's gonna tell him?"

Sally shrugged, obviously not caring who told Holmes what had happened, her sympathy was for the dead man on the ground, who unbeknownst to her, was also standing to her left.

Not wanting to see himself packed up and taken to the morgue, John walked over the rubble and followed the ambulance taking Sherlock to St. Barts. After a few shaky jumps he figured he could keep himself airborne if he wanted to and move just as fast as the ambulance, so keeping up was n problem. Well there was two upsides to being dead, he could fly and he never got tired. Still, it wasn't much, considering all he had left behind.

Hey, Please tell me if you want me to continue this story :) If people like it, I'll feel more motivvated to update :)