It is true to say that we all have ghosts that follow us. The spirits of the regrets for things we didn't do or should have done. The specters of mistakes that dog us in the middle of the night, when it is impossible to sleep, and all we have for company are our thoughts. And some of us even feel that we have the phantoms of people that we have lost, that follow us. People that we have let down; people that we didn't get to apologise to, or tell we love them, before they were taken from us. And Sherlock, as he sat in his chair in the dark lounge room of his flat; the only light in the room, that from the surprisingly large moon that hung high over London; he couldn't help but think that he had more than his fair share of these things that followed behind him, wherever he went.

He had, not that he would necessarily admit it out loud, made many mistakes in his life. Done and said things that he knew he should regret more than he did; manipulated people to get his own way, more often than he should. His inability to see that his attitude and cutting remarks often drove people away, having made it difficult for him to make friends; and the few that he had, he had used them when he needed to. Poor John and his little experiments on him, springing to mind, more than anything. And then there were the regrets that he had, for not solving cases as quickly as he believed that he should have done. For not insisting more that the police had to do something, when he had believed that the death of Carl Powers, had been suspicious. Along with those he felt, for allowing himself to be controlled by his addictions.

Yet there was one thing that he regretted more than anything. One ghost that had shadowed him for years. The one wraith that he was sure that he could see yet again, sat in John's chair, looking straight at him. And that was (Y/n). Sherlock simply staring at her, as the moonlight illuminated her image. The consulting detective unable to move, to say anything, as he was sure, that despite knowing that all this could only be his mind playing tricks on him, she was smiling.

(Y/n). Even thinking about her now, still made his heart race. Sherlock had met her when he went to university to read chemistry. The beautiful, smart and funny young woman, not seeming to mind his......strangeness. The strangeness that had made him so unpopular with his peers. And did, along with the fact that he would always deduce things about people's private lives and had no problem with announcing it to the world; as Sebastian Wilkes had put it 'put the windup everybody'. She the only friend that he had had during his studies. She the only one that seemed to care anything for him; that wished to spend any time with him. And with that care, with that time, something more than simple friendship had grown between the pair. Sherlock allowing his emotions to want more; to desire and need more from her. And much to his surprise and pleasure, she had wanted it too. Sherlock quickly coming to realise that he was in love with the beautiful young woman. That she was everything that he had been looking for. And despite what people may think, he had lost himself in her arms, in her body, more times than he could recall. The scent of her, the feel of her, his comfort on many a night. The younger Holmes able to remember how he would smile when he woke to find her sleeping at his side. The world never as dark, when she would wake and smile up at him. The words 'I love you' the first thing to leave her lips.

But when he should have been there for her; when she had needed him most, he had had better things to do..........drugs that had taken precedence, over spending time with her, for the night. What should have been a quiet, intimate night at a restaurant, for her birthday; becoming what would be the worst day of his life. (Y/n), the woman that he had loved; the woman that had made him believe that he was worthy of love himself, killed by some unknown assailant as she had made her way back to her car, after he had let her down Her body left on the street, as if she had been nothing. Sherlock never able to talk to her again, never able to tell her what he should have told her; that he loved her; before she had been taken from him. Before his whole world had fallen apart.

"Hello, (Y/n)........" He finally managed to say. Sure, that if anyone could hear him, they would think that he had lost his mind. Sherlock doing his best to fight back the tears that were welling up in his eyes, as he looked at the beautiful ghost, that sat there in silence.

There was so much that he wanted to say to her; everything that he should have told her when she as alive. The younger Holmes wishing that he could reach out and touch her; that he could pull her into his arms and hold her to him; could smell her scent, once again. Yet he knew that no matter how much he wanted it, it would never be.

"I'm sorry, (Y/n). Sorry for everything. Sorry for not being with you that night; for not being able to bring the person that killed you, to justice. I'm sorry for not showing you how much I really loved you; but most of all...........I'm sorry for never having the nerve to tell you that I did, before I lost you. I loved you, (Y/n), I still love you. You will always be in my heart, and nothing will ever change that..........I love you..........." Sherlock continued. The tears finally making their way down his cheeks, as he closed his eyes. The breath catching in his throat, as he suddenly felt, what he was sure was a pair of lips, gently touch his forehead. His eyes slowly opening to see that the chair across from him, was empty; the ghost gone. And although Sherlock knew that the regret would always be in his heart, something else was now there too; the feeling that (Y/n) finally knew that he loved her.