Victor pulled up alongside of the Holmes household, taking a deep breath and staring into the windows, glowing with light. Sherlock sighed with disappointment, because he knew that when Victor got back into his car, that it would be the last he ever saw of that beautiful boy. But Sherlock retained his tears, not wanting his parents to think that he actually had a heart, had feelings. He must remain neutral, because if he broke down crying when his supposedly platonic friend left, some questions might be asked. Victor got out first, walking around and opening the door for Sherlock, who didn't want to leave, but forced himself to get up and out of the car. The two stood there for just a moment, Victor with his hand on the door and Sherlock standing beside it, staring into each other's eyes, tempted to kiss once more, tempted to just let it all loose, but Sherlock snapped to reality, clearing his throat nervously and walking around the door, so that Victor could close it and lock the doors. They walked up to the door and Sherlock knocked, waiting for someone to answer the door and let them in. Mrs. Holmes answered it, of course, but she looked almost as somber as Sherlock felt.
"Why don't you come in Victor?" she suggested, and the two stepped into the threshold, embracing the warm air pumping out of the vents as Mrs. Holmes closed the door.
"We all just wanted to wish you goodbye, and good luck in the war. I'm sure you'll be brilliant, rise through the ranks like you're made of helium." She insisted, but her laugh was false, even she knew that there was no possible way to be happy right now. Unless, of course, you're Mr. Holmes.
"Well, you're leaving then." He insisted, coming around the corner, leading Grandma Holmes through the house to say goodbye as well.
"I am." Victor agreed. Sherlock felt the tension rise as soon as Mr. Holmes entered the room, but he knew that this would be their last conflict, the last time Mr. Holmes would ever have to deal with Victor again.
"Well, we'll miss you, of course. Goodbye then." He insisted.
"Not so fast Mr." Mrs. Holmes insisted, trapping Victor in a motherly hug. "You be careful okay? I want you back here in one piece, we owe you a dinner." She insisted.
"The debts are forgotten." Victor assured.
"Not in our books." She insisted, releasing him finally.
"You're not terrible kid, you're not terrible." Grandma Holmes decided with a nod. She too gave Victor a hug, although he had to bend over considerably to reach her height.
"Sir, it was a pleasure meeting you." Victor decided, extending a hand to Mr. Holmes, who forced a smile through his deadly glare.
"I can't say the same, Mr. Trevor." He growled, but nevertheless he grasped Victor's hand hard, as if he wanted to see the boy wince. But Victor stepped forward, their hands still grasping each other as if the goal was to cut off the other's circulation first, and talked quietly, but not quietly enough so that only Mr. Holmes could hear.
"Don't even try to lay a finger on any one of them, because I will know, and when I come back, I will be a trained military soldier, with a gun. Try to get away with any drunken abuse again, and you will pay." He warned, pulling away and releasing Mr. Holmes' hand. Sherlock half expected his father to lash out, to start screaming and punching, but he was surprisingly calm, locking his jaw and keeping his death glare on. He didn't say anything. Victor then moved to Sherlock, holding out his hand for a shake as well. Sherlock took it, knowing full well that this would be the last time that they ever touched each other in a very long time, maybe even forever.
"Take care of yourself Sherlock." Victor insisted.
"You too, be careful." Sherlock pleaded.
"As ever." Victor agreed. And with that he let his hand slide out of Sherlock's, their fingertips brushing ever so gently before falling back.
"Goodbye Holmes family, it has been a pleasure, and I hope one day we will see each other again." Victor decided, and with that he tipped his hat and went out the door. Sherlock stood at the open door while his family dispersed, his mother close to tears, and saw Victor, right before he got into his car, stop and look back. For a moment, one last moment, their eyes locked, and Sherlock stared at him and he stared at Sherlock. Then Victor smiled softly, saluting Sherlock as a final goodbye, and got into his car, driving off in a retreating cloud of dust.                                        

Present Day: John sighed, sitting at the dining room table and poking his oatmeal around in his bowl, not at all appetized. It had only been a night since he had kissed Sherlock, and he already felt like something was wrong. Or, at least, not everything was right. So had called upon the only person he knew that could help, Greg. It was Saturday, which gave the two of them plenty of time to talk, to figure things out, and to make it seem like they had been doing nothing but eating ice cream and playing football.
"Don't you have to be somewhere John?" Mrs. Watson asked.
"Ya, in a minute." He agreed, sliding off the stool and pouring the rest of his oatmeal down the sink, leaving his bowl for someone else to wash and going to the door to get his coat.
"I'll probably eat lunch out, so don't expect me. I'll be home before dinner though." He called as his mother was pouring coffee into two mugs.
"What's so urgent?" she asked.
"Nothing's urgent, I'm just going to go hang out with Greg, it's been a while since I've had any free time." John admitted.
"Well, have fun, be careful. Do you have money?" she asked.
"Yep, see you soon." John agreed, pulling his jacket on and fleeing out the door. It was a long back to town, kicking up dust and rocks as he scurried along the road. But it was nice and secluded, he knew as he walked in the middle of the road that he had almost no chance of getting hit by a car. A runaway deer, maybe, but that was very unlikely, especially at this time of day. It gave him a lot of time to think, which was both a good and bad thing. So many things had happened last night, so many things. Of course it had just been a kiss, just an experiment to see if it was meant to be. Of course John wanted to think that if he had put all of that time into trying to convince himself he actually had feelings for the ghost that he'd actually have results, and he did. The minute or so before the kiss, the kiss, and a couple of minutes after it, he had felt something, something real that he'd never felt before. But now that he has the experience, now that the two had become one, now that he knew exactly what kissing a ghost felt like, it felt so wrong. It wasn't just the fact that Sherlock was a guy, that hadn't bothered him a bit; in fact, John was shocked that he wasn't as disgusted with that. But he had gotten used to the idea, he had accepted that yes, Sherlock was a bit different, or more so the same, gender wise, but it wasn't the problem. The problem was, that if Sherlock hadn't died in that bombing, he'd be almost ninety years old, probably in a wheel chair, no hair, no teeth, cataracts in his milky eyes, liver spots on his wrinkled skin, and the fact that John kissed someone that would like that appalled him. Heck, this boy was dead. And John didn't even know what from! Of course the bombing was the only possible explanation, teenage boys didn't just drop dead for no reason, but it could've been anything. He could've been sick, murdered; Victor might've even poisoned his tea! There were no limits to what this boy had gone through, he's been across the veil and back, and John had kissed him.
"John, there you are!" Greg said happily, sitting on one of the park benches in front of the ice cream shop. Not many stores were open, and barely any people were out lingering at this time.
"Ya, here I am." John sighed, sitting down next to him and watching birds search the ground for any breakfast.
"You seem a little bit spaced out." Greg decided. John nodded, leaning on his elbows and continuing staring at the birds, as if they were fascinating.
"Oh my god, you did it, didn't you?" Greg asked, his jaw dropping in excitement.
"I don't know what got into me Greg, I honestly don't." John insisted.
"No, this is great, what happened, how was it, did he start it, or did you?" Greg asked.
"Nothing happened, nothing, that's the problem. Everything happened, but nothing happened." John insisted.
"What do you mean nothing? You like him, he loves you, I've seen enough romance movies to see how this plays out." Greg insisted.
"I mean looking back; I probably should've exorcised that thing when I had the chance." John sighed.
"You're kidding?" Greg muttered.
"Prior to your belief, I don't like him. I kissed him, but I don't like him, it's just wrong, it feels wrong, looking back..." John shuttered, not even wanting to think about what he had done.
"Well, he likes you right, I mean, he's not second guessing himself, he's probably drawing hearts in his little ghostly diary, already calling him Mr. Sherlock Watson." Greg guessed.
"I don't even know his last name." John muttered.
"But you can certainly provide him with one." Greg insisted.
"Greg, I don't think you're seeing the problem here!" John growled.
"You're very right, I don't." Greg agreed.
"I'm saying, I kissed him, and for a moment, I thought I liked him! He thinks right now that I've fallen for him, maybe even as much as he's fallen for me, but I haven't, I don't feel anything except disgust!" John insisted.
"And you're scared to tell him." Greg guessed.
"I'm terrified." John agreed. "I mean, I don't know what he can do, I don't know what he will do, he'll strangle me, throw me out a window, hang me from my ceiling fan, who knows?"
"If he loves you, truly loves you, than I'm guessing he won't hurt you." Greg guessed.
"He's dead Greg; he's lived seventy years whining to himself about his lost boyfriend, I mean, who knows what happened to his head? And what if he's been lying to us this whole time? What if he killed Victor, killed himself, and waited for that poor boy to come get him? What if Victor's not in the army's records because he never made it there? Before we...before it happened, Sherlock told me that Victor used to climb through the window, and he locked it. Maybe that was a metaphor for giving Victor up, or maybe he was just locking it so that I couldn't get out that way, the way Victor might've. Who knows, he could've thrown Victor out the window head first!" John insisted.
"You're paranoid mate, you're not thinking straight." Greg decided.
"HE'S A GHOST! You've seen Poltergeist, you've seen the Exorcist, Paranormal Activity, anything with a ghost, when does it ever end well? People don't fall in love with the ghosts, the ghosts possess them, murder them and their families!" John insisted.
"Well, this might be the first ghost ever, real one I mean. Maybe you've never seen a love story with a dead person because you're the only one?" Greg suggested.
"Or maybe I'm the only one who's currently alive who's kissed one." John insisted. Greg sighed, and John leaned back on the bench, listening to the wind howl through the empty streets.
"You know, we're sitting across a line where the sidewalk was remade. See there, it's all dark, and the other side it's a bit lighter. This sidewalk was destroyed in the bombings, most everything was destroyed. So was Sherlock. We might be sitting overtop of some of his blood, buried deep in the dirt, where no one could ever find it." Greg decided.
"How does that have to with anything?" John snapped.
"It has to do with everything. We don't know a thing about ghosts, but I know a thing or two about humans, and usually love sick teenagers who flop around on beds and sulk in closets aren't usually the type to murder someone! That boy was human, no matter how long ago, and he's got a soul, he's got a conscience, and maybe he's even got a heart. And he loves you, and somewhere deep down you love him too!" Greg insisted.
"Greg, I'm not gay!" John insisted.
"You willingly kissed a boy!" Greg growled, and John sighed. Well, he had a point.
"I don't like him, no matter how much you want to tell me I do." John insisted.
"Then go tell him. He won't hurt you, he's just a teenager, he's our age, would you ever be okay with murder at our age?" Greg asked.
"He's not our age Greg, he's somewhere in his nineties, and he's perfectly fine with hurting people, ask Henry, ask my sister, they'll tell you! That ghost will hurt me; he'll hurt all of us. Maybe he died because he got too ambitious, maybe they both got hung for something!" John suggested.
"If Victor was a murderer, wouldn't that make the museum?" Greg insisted.
"I don't know anymore! Greg, I'm scared, and I'm confused, and you're the only one I can tell about it and you're not listening!" John admitted. Greg sighed, knowing when he was beat, and that was when John pulled the guilt card.
"Alright. Let's go to my house, I'll get my laptop, we can look up ways to protect yourself from a ghost." He decided.
"Thank you." John decided.
"But I still think you're made for each other." Greg decided with a daring smile, getting up off the bench and starting to walk in the direction of his house.
"Maybe I'll become a murderer too." John muttered, following him closely, as if worried Sherlock was following from a distance.