Present Day: It didn't take long for Harry to return home from the hospital, it wasn't that bad of an injury and she wasn't going to be all dramatic. The sooner she could get that ugly wrap off of her head, the better. The only problem was that now the Watson parents were so set on making sure Harry was treated well, that they almost forgot that Harry was injured while trying to run away. Suddenly it was all Harry this, Harry that. They made her favorite meal, they let her have seconds of desert, they let her stay up later and go to school later and have first shower privileges. John didn't want to protest, he didn't want it to seem like he had pushed Harry into the wall on purpose, but as he had to get carry Harry's basket of dirty laundry downstairs for the fourth time (she kept forgetting to add stuff in), he decided that he should've told Sherlock to push harder.
"What a good little housewife you are." said a voice, and Sherlock materialized, sitting on top of the drier, leaning up against the bare cement wall. Thankfully the makeshift laundry room was in the basement, so their conversation was not soon to be overheard.
"I didn't know you could leave the room." John muttered as he threw the smelliest shirt he had ever seen into the washing machine, holding his own shirt over his nose to block the insane stench.
"I can go anywhere I like in the house, I just don't want to." Sherlock shrugged.
"And why not?" John asked.
"Because it's not all together pleasing to remember my life before my death." Sherlock sighed.
"That's depressing." John decided, dumping in a cup of detergent on top of the clothing and staring the load.
"I like what your father is doing to the kitchen." He decided.
"You mean tearing it up?" John asked.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed. John rolled his eyes, but didn't really want to argue. He started back up the stairs, not seeing anyone behind him, but definitely feeling the cold feeling that came along with Sherlock as he moved about the house.
"John dear, did you put the laundry in?" Mrs. Watson asked, blocking his path to the stairs.
"Oh, yes, I did." John agreed. He felt a cold hand poke his cheek, and he violently swatted it, looking around to see if he could see where Sherlock was.
"Are you alright dear?" Mrs. Watson asked, looking a bit worried.
"I'm fine, ya, just a bug." He insisted. He once again felt a hand like ice stick a finger in his ear. John yelped like a scared puppy, jumping back into the wall and trying to kick out the unseen attacker. Of course though, Sherlock was both invisible and as tangible as air, so John's efforts were as hopeless as trying to kick a bad smell.
"John, what are you doing?" Mrs. Watson asked.
"I'm nothing, it's just..." his words were cut off when Sherlock jabbed him in the stomach, making John double over and start to cough.
"Oh my god, John, are you alright!" Mrs. Watson exclaimed, running over to where John was giving her an unconvincing thumbs up.
"I'm fine, I's just a little..." Sherlock pushed his head down as hard as he could, and John went tumbling down to the carpet, coughing and looking like a complete idiot. As Mrs. Watson was fussing over him ("John, oh my god, not you too!") he could swear he heard faint laughter, as if his embarrassment was some sort of hilarious reality show.
"I'm fine, just got a little bit lightheaded." John insisted.
"You should go lie down." Mrs. Watson decided.
"Good idea, very good idea, I'll just go up to my room...and lie down." John agreed.
"Please call if you need anything!" Mrs. Watson called up to him, and John just nodded, even though he was far out of her line of vision.
"You idiot!" John growled as soon as his door was shut. Sherlock appeared next to the closet, wearing the biggest smile John had ever seen on his face.
"You looked like such a loser!" he insisted.
"Sherlock, you are literally the worst ghost anyone could ever ask for." John pointed out.
"At least I'm not haunting you." Sherlock defended.
"Honestly, I'd rather you try. The only thing scary about you is how bloody childish you are!" John yelled.
"If it makes you feel better, I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, but obviously he didn't actually mean it.
"If you weren't already dead, I'd kill you." John warned.
"Overkill, obviously." Sherlock sighed.
"Oh shut up!" John groaned, plopping onto his bed like a child throwing a hissy fit. The sound of Sherlock's laughter really didn't help anything.
"So, any plans for the day? Saturdays should be embraced with love and compassion." Sherlock insisted.
"None of which you're going to receive." John groaned.
"Why do you think I expect that?" Sherlock asked quickly.
"I'm not thinking..." John started.
"I don't want that, I'd never, not from you." Sherlock insisted, sounding like a cornered animal.
"I know, I'm never going to..." John groaned.
"I love Victor, only Victor!" Sherlock protested.
"I know you idiot, I wasn't flirting with you! Or, reverse flirting with you, or whatever your little gay brain interprets, now leave me be!" John demanded. He rolled over in his bed and leaned up against the headboard, flipping on the TV to a football match that was being played.
"Can I watch the television with you?" Sherlock asked, as nicely as he was probably able to manage.
"It's a TV you idiot, it's not the 1800's anymore." John insisted.
"Is that a no?" Sherlock asked, sounding kind of disappointed.
"No, you're fine." John sighed, scooting over to make room for the ghost. It was kind of odd, the thought of watching a match with a spirit next to you, but unfortunately John had to admit that he was used to it.
"I never watched many sports when I was alive." Sherlock admitted.
"Good for you." John sighed, finding it very difficult to concentrate when Sherlock was talking.
"So, the purpose it to get the ball in the net, right?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes." John sighed.
"So the people in red are trying to go that way, and the others are trying to go the other way?" Sherlock asked. John nodded, not really caring about how little of a description Sherlock was providing, just enough to shut him up.
"Why are they kicking the ball the other way?" he asked.
"Back pass." John sighed.
"Ooh, look at them go!" Sherlock said excitedly, bouncing up and down a little bit as one of the teams intercepted the ball and made a run down the field. But they shot, and of course, they missed, the ball went flying over the net.
"I thought they were paid not to miss?" Sherlock asked.
"Doesn't mean they can't make mistakes." John sighed.
"Oh." Sherlock muttered. He was quiet, thankfully, for a little while, since he might be able to detect that John was getting a little bit annoyed. They were able to watch for a good five minutes before there was a commercial break. Sherlock found the commercials of the days fascinating, and he spent a good minute asking all the questions that could be asked about the Magic Mop or whatever it was. He didn't seem to grasp the idea that a mop could be wrung with a machine instead.
"Why do all of the cologne commercials only feature shirtless men?" he asked.
"I can tell you're not complaining." John decided, after Sherlock finally blinked when the commercial ended.
"They don't even look like they smell remotely good." Sherlock insisted.
"Welcome to the twenty first century." John sighed. "Now shush, it's back on." Sherlock was actually quite quiet throughout the entirety of the game, he cheered a couple of times when the teams scored (both of them, he wasn't really picking sides) and booed a lot when someone got a penalty or missed, what he called, a perfect, wide open shot. It didn't seem to matter how many defenders stood in the way of the net, in Sherlock's mind any played beyond the half line had the ability to shoot and score from that distance. John actually found it vaguely amusing to see Sherlock get into something that he enjoyed. It was a lot more entertaining than hearing him whine about Victor all day. It reminded John that Sherlock actually was a person, maybe a dead person, but a person all the same. When John went to school, however, Sherlock did seem quite as cute and carefree as he had before. When in the presence of his friends, Sherlock's secrecy was causing John to lie every other minute just to ensure the safety of the ghost in his closet.
"What if that Victor kid was actually a Nazi in disguise, and attacked his own unit?" Sara suggested during lunch.
"I'm not going to say that's not possible, but I'm going to decide that it's highly unlikely." Greg decided.
"Guys, it's over. We figured out everything, we found his love or whatever, I just really want to drop it." John insisted once more.
"Come on John, you were the ringleader, you were so determined to find out the truth, what changed?" James asked curiously.
"We found everything out! No one knows what happened to Victor, and if a museum can't find out the truth then obviously a couple of teenagers couldn't." John pointed out.
"In our defense, I'm not even sure that was a real museum. It's never got any visitors." Jeanette pointed out.
"Well it's not like this is a tourist town. I barely want to live here, much less come out of my way to go see the Trevor family museum." Mike decided.
"But what are we going to do, go to Libya and ask the locals? This ends one way; Victor is dead no matter how we look at it." John pointed out.
"But you said yourself, he could still be alive. If he didn't get killed overseas, and he didn't officially register, he could be like ninety something, living in a retirement home." Sara suggested.
"Ew, retirement homes." Mike muttered, shivering with disgust.
"Well, maybe you guys can look; I got my laptop confiscated, still from that whole Henry thing." John sighed.
"Hey, we're sorry we got you in trouble. Any luck with that ghost thing? Because obviously you didn't push him, so what did?" Sara asked.
"I don't know, I thought he tripped." John shrugged.
"He tripped with that much force?" Greg asked, looking very suspicious.
"Ya, I mean, what else could've done something like that?" John asked.
"A ghost." James pointed out.
"I haven't had any other ghost activity, if there really was a ghost, wouldn't I have known about it by now?" John asked.
"Maybe it's just shy." Jeanette decided. Oh, no, it was the opposite of shy. John felt really bad for lying to his friends, and leading them astray, but if they knew Sherlock, John kind of suspected that they'd cover for him as well. Sherlock was very persuasive. When lunch was over, John was standing by his locker, getting his last minute stuff together, when Greg walked up to him, not looking happy.
"I think we've known each other long enough for me to know when you're lying." He decided.
"Obviously not." John sighed. "I'm not lying about anything."
"The ghost John! Since when did you think Henry tripped, he was pushed! And what about your sister, you said she was put in the hospital for the same thing, you didn't push her, did you?" Greg asked.
"No, I didn't, I don't know what's going on, but there's no ghost, it's just stupid." John insisted.
"Come on mate, you haven't wavered yet, you're the one that got all of us on this ghost hunt, the only possible reason I can think of it because you want that thing all to yourself. You don't want us to take any credit for the first ever ghost sighting." Greg insisted.
"It's not that, honestly, I don't want credit because there is no ghost." John pointed out.
"Yes there is! You're the one that told me over and over again that your house was haunted, if there's not ghost, then how do you explain the letters, the footsteps, the bloody shape in your blankets?" Greg asked.
"I don't know, air pressure?" John asked.
"You're impossible!" Greg exclaimed.
"Fine, fine, do you want to come over after school? I'll explain everything there." John decided.
"Yes, I would, I would very much like to come after school." Greg agreed, looking proud of himself for making his statement clear.
"Then alright, I'll text my mother." John decided.
"You do that." Greg agreed.
"I will!" John decided.
"Good. See you then." Greg decided.
"I suppose I will." John agreed, and with that he slammed his locker and went off down the hall. When classes ended, Greg was waiting patiently next to John's locker, looking very smug, as if he were very proud of himself.
"How on earth does everyone get ready to leave so quickly?" John asked in an exasperated tone.
"My last class is in the hall, so it's really easy." Greg shrugged.
"Excuses." John muttered, stuffing his books and folders into his backpack, getting ready to leave.
"What am I going to find at your house? What have you been trying to hide from us? A grave, a ghost, a pile of bones buried in the basement?" Greg asked.
"You think I'm a murderer?" John asked with a half a laugh.
"Someone obviously was." Greg insisted.
"We don't know how Sherlock died, it could've been from old age, it could've been..." John started.
"He was blown up, remember? When the town got bombed?" Greg pointed out.
"Oh, ya. I forgot about that. But we don't know that for sure, right?" John asked.
"I suppose not, but it seems the only logical choice." Greg shrugged.
"Do you think that, if there was a ghost, it would have the wounds of how it died? Say he did get blown to bits, if my house was haunted, would there only be a little puddle of steaming organs haunting it?" John asked.
"I don't know. I guess we'll have to ask it." Greg decided happily, just as John closed his locker.