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"There's blood inside the bathroom as well though," he tilted his head to the side, trying to decipher where the brutal attack began. He motioned with his gloved hand towards the splatter. "Joan come give it a look."

Detective Collins who was working near by turned in confusion.


He turned around the room looking for the new addition to the team. The newest transfer had been Mendoza.

Eliza? Paola? Brenda?

He couldn't recall her name, in truth, he didn't know anyone's name. He always called everyone by their last. All he knew that Mendoza'a first name sure as hell wasn't Joan.

In fact, he was sure that no one in the force went by that name.

Sherlock kept mumbling to himself and to Joan. He jumped from the blood pattern to the scraping on the floor. Every so often he would stop dead on his tracks and look to his right, nodding. As if someone was giving him their professional opinion.

"Right, right, of course. You have keen eyes Watson." Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, turning on his heals and heading to Gregson.

Sherlock wooshed past Collins, but that wasn't the reason he shivered. A coldness he'd only experience when he visited the morgue crept throughout his body and made him shiver. He eyed Sherlock as he briefly spoke to Gregson and left.

Gregson walked towards the bathroom and inspected the blood patterns. Collins edged closer. He cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Gregson answered without turning.

Collins hesitated, "Who was he talking to?"

"Sherlock? He was talking to me." Gregson continued unamused.

"I know that sir," Collins continued. "Who was he talking to before? Who's-"

"You mean Joan Watson," Gregson answered, his concentration breaking. He turned to Collins and gave him a calculating look, as if deciding whether he should tell him the rest of the story. Collins stared back, not buckling under the captains hard gaze.

"Joan was a sober companion that his father appointed him," Gregson relented. "She assisted him. It was not too long ago but before you were assigned to us."

Collins continued, his curiosity getting the best of him. "What happened?"

"There was a certain case involving a man named James Moriarty," Gregson looked down. "You might have heard of it on the news."

Collins nodded, if you didn't know who James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were then you must have been living under a rock. The news of their crimes had traveled the world. Collins had just been granted his transfer to Gregson's team when the great duo had been executed in a huge shootout. Only one person had been killed in his capture.

An ex-surgeon.

"Joan Watson was-"

"Yes." Gregson edged to the bedroom window and peered down with a tired sigh. "The bullet was aimed for Sherlock." He smiled and gave a small laugh. "Not on Watson's watch. She was the most fierce soldier I've ever met and a most loyal friend."

"And he still talks to her…" Collins stopped himself before he uttered the word ghost.

Gregson thought for a moment, "I-I don't know how to respond to that actually."

"I guess, he never really let her go." Gregson left and Collins looked out the window. Sherlock's funny coat and plaid scarf stood out in the crowd.

He was talking to a cop and every so often, he'd turn to his right, nodding slightly in agreement.

"That detective is looking at us."

Sherlock turned to Joan as he walked across the street, leaving the police officer in mid sentence.

"He thinks you're crazy."

"I don't care," he responded with a pout taking longer strides. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"I think I should leave now." Her response came in a whisper, her perfume wrapped around him. That same perfume he had commented on when she bailed him out of jail after he wrecked her car. The perfume that he'd grown accustomed to and had infiltrated every crevice of his apartment.

The same perfume he had clung to after she was buried and he was left on his own once more.

He stopped walking and snapped his eyes shut.

"Please don't leave me Joan," he whispered. "Don't leave alone or I'll follow you."

"Don't be stupid." She hushed.

He felt his scarf wrap around him warmly, her cool fingers gracing his neck.

"I'll stay, but don't say that again."

Sherlock smiled and continued walking. He was selfish and he knew it. Joan was better off leaving him and going on to whatever mystery lied in the afterlife.

But he was selfish and he never did care for what people whispered about him.

I may be mad, but I'm not alone.