Disclaimer: Don't own.

Warnings: I don't do fluffy endings, character death.

One Last Thing

John Watson didn't believe in ghosts.

So when he started seeing his dead flatmate in mirrors and nightmares, his first reaction, after freaking out that is, was to assume he was suffering from some sort of psychosis.

That didn't mean he believed it to be the truth.

John came home after a busy day at the surgery, opening the door and stepping inside the empty apartment. It was deadly silent and dull, no experiments or sulking detectives anywhere to be seen.

"No new bullet holes on the walls either", he whispered and wasn't at all surprised at the disappointment he felt.

Sighing deeply he shrugged off his coat and sat on his armchair, content on just closing his eyes and letting his mind go blank. Thinking was overrated anyway.

"You disappoint me", a familiar voice drawled and John smiled, despite the pain and sorrow hearing the voice caused.

"Yes, well, we can't all have you brain, now can we?" He answered playfully and opened his eyes. Only for them to widen in shock at the sight before him.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, staring at John with misty, empty eyes, the side of his head smashed in and bleeding, staining his cheek and neck a dark shade of crimson.

"No, I guess you can't", he whispered, colorless lips curling up in a mockery of the smirk John had seen countless times before.

With a growing feeling of horror, John blinked once, daring the, what he hoped was a hallucination, to disappear.

It didn't.

"This is a dream, a nightmare", he could barely hear himself over his pounding heart.

Sherlock shook his head gently, standing up and walking forward, giving John a better view on his cracked skull. He was still smiling as he leaned over the ex army doctor, licking his lips slowly.

"Only if you believe it to be."

John Watson was certain he was losing his mind.

What had started as nightmares, had became his reality.

In every mirror, he could see Sherlock standing behind him, either smiling or staring back at him expressionlessly. Sometimes he would rest his chin on John's shoulder and drip blood on his jumpers, or pat his head pityingly.

One time when he woke up in the middle of the night and walked to the kitchen he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock standing in front of the kitchen table with his back to John.

"Tea?" The detective asked and turned around offering John a steaming cup.

"No sugar this time?"

"No sugar", Sherlok smiled and walked past John to the living room, silently sitting down on John's chair.

John was still standing in the kitchen, quietly sipping his tea, when he got the disturbing feeling of being stared and automatically raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's, who was still sitting with his back on him, his head twisted completely around in an inhumane way.

The teacup shattered as it hit the floor, but John didn't hear it, his eyes locked with those of his dead flatmate.

Soon after that, John started seeing Sherlock everywhere.

When he was at work, Sherlock was sitting in the corner, pointing out what was wrong with each patient and pretty much never shutting up.

"I'm only here because of you, John", Sherlock had once pointed out while John examining an elder lady with chest pain.

"You asked me to come back and I did. You owe me."

John hadn't slept in days.

He was sitting on the floor, hugging his knees, staring at the gun laid down in front of him.

Sherlock was sitting next to him, leaning on John, empty eyes staring at him intently and his pale mouth constantly whispering.

"You owe me this John." and John's breath hitched as his legs started uncurling almost on their own.

"I came back for you." He buried his head on his dead friend's cold neck and sobbed, feeling Sherlock's arms wrap around him.

"Now I'm asking you to do the same", Sherlock whispered softly to his ear.

"Come to me John." John raised his head to look at his best friend who nodded reassuringly and cupped the side of his face, finally a spark of something in his eyes.

"Pick up the gun."

And John did.