Electric Potential

by pygmymeese

It's not clear why everyone in the world suddenly gets a ghost only
they can interact with. All John Watson knows is that he's stuck with
a brilliant, if smug, ex-consulting detective, and that life is definitely
looking up.
Rated: Fiction T - English - Supernatural - John W., Sherlock H. -
Words: 5,011 - Reviews: 31 - Favs: 167 - Follows: 25 - Published:
10/28/2012 - Status: Complete - id: 8651444
URL: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8651444
 Electric Potential
Disclaimer: Based in BBC Sherlock's world. Recognizable
characters/lines/plots are theirs.

A/N: For fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's October contest on tumblr. EDIT:

Won second place! And got a PHENOMENAL cover for it, created
by devinleighbee. Thank you so much!

For a link to Walking Horizon's Chinese translation, go to my profile.

Quoted lines were referenced from arianedevere's transcripts on lj.

Written in British English, not brit pick'd

Don't forget to leave me your ideas, comments, questions,

concerns, criticisms, witticisms, and/or limericks in a review!

Edits 9/16/14: Minor grammar fixes.

While the rest of the world goes into a panic over the appearance of
ghosts, Dr. John Watson simply sighs, motioning his ghost to—sit
on? float over?—the bed while he limps to the kitchen to make
himself some tea. When he returns, he falls back into a chair,
watching the ghost experiment with his intangibility. The steam rising
from the surface of his tea is less translucent than the dead man
standing knee-deep in his bed. He takes a sip.

"Who are you, then?" John asks, not entirely sure how to introduce
himself to a ghost that could possibly be haunting him for the rest of
his life.

The ghost pulls his eyes from his hand in the wall and latches them
onto John. After a moment of feeling peeled from the outside in, the
ghost tilts his head. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John frowns because as impressive as the question is, what the
hell? "Sorry?" he asks, taken aback.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he says, more demanding than

curious this time, fingers tapping impatiently against his arm.

The man is tall in his posture as well as in his demeanour. His

translucent hair looks dark, hinting at brown or black curls when he
was alive. A long jacket hangs over a well-fitted suit—the shirt's
colour is washed out—and a short scarf is tucked beneath his chin.
His skin glows bright in the dim lighting.

John blinks and takes another sip of tea. "Afghanistan. How did you
know?"

The ghost rolls his eyes. "I didn't know, I saw," he huffs impatiently.
"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is
tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not
sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you seem to
forget about it when you stand, so it's at least partially
psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury
were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan
—Afghanistan or Iraq," he says matter-of-factly before going back to
examine his intangibility.

It takes John a second to recover from the shock of having his army
career thrown nonchalantly back in his face. He looks down at his
empty hands, surprised to find that he had set his cup down
sometime during the explanation. He's not sure if he's offended or
not, but it honestly doesn't matter. "That…was amazing," John says.

The ghost straightens up at that, coat splaying wide in his sharp turn
back to John. His mouth gapes—elegantly, but gaping is still gaping.
"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary," John laughs. It is beyond

him how anyone could not find that, whatever it was, brilliant.
"Where did you learn to do that?"

John barely notices that the ghost has somehow managed to stand
on the bed, and is trying to jump without sinking back in. "I was a
consulting detective," he says between experimental jumps. "Only
one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"When the police were out of their depth, which was always, they
consulted me." Seemingly satisfied, the ghost sits on the edge of the
bed. He twines his fingers together and leans against his knees,
fingers just brushing his chin.

"The police don't consult amateurs," John remarks. The ghost raises
an eyebrow. John smothers a chuckle. "Okay, you're not an
amateur, if that thing you do—

"—deductions, I deduce facts—"

"—right, if your deductions aren't just for show. But still, it's…
brilliant," John exclaims.

The man tilts his head as if to reassess John. "Thank you," he finally
says, almost confused.

For a moment, there is nothing more to say. They stare at each

other, lips turning upward, because the sheer potential between
them is growing. John wants to reach out and curl his fingers around
its electricity.

"I'm John Watson," he introduces himself.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," the ghost smiles.

Not every human has a ghost. Some die before mentioning one,
while others rise one day, only to find someone staring them awake.
Almost all the elderly have one, but none of the children do. The
world turns to the scientists for explanations, but for the most part,
they shrug away the reporters and focus on their experiments, trying
to understand the strange new world in which they live.

John already knows Sherlock will discover more in a month than the
governmental groups will learn in a decade, especially considering
Sherlock's boredom is alleviated by little else. These experiments
are his life—or rather, his death.

Clara visits the next day. John notes the bloodshot eyes and the
grey pallor that was so at odds with the fiery woman who once
matched tempers with Harry.

Before John can say anything, an affronted Sherlock says, "I didn't
know you had a sister."

John's eyes widen. Sherlock shouldn't yet know about her, dead
from alcohol poisoning three years ago. He turns sharply back
towards Clara, swallowing hard. "Harry…?"

Clara starts shaking, stumbling through the door and clutching at

John's arms. "She's back again and I don't know what to do, John, I
can't I can't I can't—" she chants, voice muffled by John's jumper.
John casts a quick look around Clara to see Sherlock conversing
with air.

John manoeuvres Clara to a chair and rubs small circles into her
back while her sobs turn to hiccups and eventually stop.

"Better?" John asks gently, a light hand on her shoulder. Clara nods,
though her focus has shifted to that same patch of space next to
Sherlock.
"Harry?" he asks. John watches Sherlock's eyes trail a path towards
John. Harry, probably. She seems to stop in front of him.

Something brushes his face and he leaps back, tumbling to the floor
as his leg fails under pressure. He finds himself clutching his left
shoulder and breathing heavily, uncomfortably reminded of the
shockwave that tore through his body because of a cold, little bullet.

He imagines he can see Harry's face, guilty lines creased into her
skin as she pulls her hand back from a touch. Alive, she would be
pulling on her right ear, a sure sign of self-recrimination and her
impending break from sobriety. The self-recrimination will not have
changed in death, and John can only hope that ghosts can't drink.

Harry must be running from the room because Clara is running, too.

Suddenly, Sherlock's crouched over him, but his hands are hovering
everywhere, unsure of what he can do. John can tell Sherlock
doesn't want to hurt him like Harry's touch did. He settles for, "Are
you alright?"

John nods and pulls himself up, carefully avoiding Sherlock as he

limps to the bathroom.

It soon becomes clear that each human can only see their one
ghost, though passing through another's feels like sharp lines of ice
cutting down your spine.

They also learn that while it is possible to stay a significant distance

apart from each other, it's too uncomfortable to be worth it. The best
description John can offer is that the space between them stretches
like a rubber band, and the longer and further they stay apart, the
more the band wears until it tips towards breaking. Neither John nor
Sherlock want to test its snap.
John and Sherlock pass a crime scene on their way back from
Tesco's. Before John can object, Sherlock rushes through the yellow
tape and crouches by what looks like a pool of blood. He can see
some officers turn towards Sherlock, not that they'll be able to
actually see him.

"Sherlock!" John yells in frustration. His face scrunches into a frown

because it's cold outside and he's carrying a bag filled with cold
things, and together, it makes for one very cold doctor. John is also
vehemently not a fan of bothering the police, especially considering
the illegal gun hidden back in his flat.

When Sherlock ignores him, he sighs and jogs over, shivering by the
crime scene tape until he grabs the attention of some officer.

"Um, excuse me, but my ghost is currently inspecting your victim."

He points towards the body, where he can see some silver-haired
officer trying to figure out why a random ghost was there. "Could I
maybe pop in, grab him, and go?"

The woman doesn't bother to hide her astonishment, "Does he know

the victim?" she asks, trying to understand.

"I don't think so. Sherlock just—"

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" she says incredulously. John nods.

He had forgotten Sherlock knew the police. "The freak came back as
your ghost? You poor bastard." She turns to yell at the man trying to
talk to Sherlock. "Lestrade, the freak's back from the dead!" John
winces at the insults.

The man looks at John, and back down to where he guesses

Sherlock is. Officer Lestrade's ghost must be helping him with
locations. He shakes his head and waves John over. John ducks
under the tape, groceries swinging in hand. Up close, the body looks
tidier than the ones in Afghanistan, even with the thick blood splayed
around it.
"DI Lestrade," the man says, offering his hand.

"John Watson. Sorry to interrupt. I'll just grab Sherlock and go."

"No, wait. We could use Sherlock's help on this," Lestrade says,

raising a hand against the woman officer's protests. Sherlock grins
madly at Lestrade.

"Excellent," Sherlock preens at John. "See? I told you they were

incompetent." John is about to reply when Sherlock speaks again.
"Oh, shut up. Just because Lestrade is getting help from a ghost
that isn't you doesn't mean I want him. Besides, I have John."

Lestrade's head turns to where his ghost has probably stalked off.
"Sherlock, you can't speak to her like that. Being dead doesn't
excuse you any more than your 'sociopathic tendencies' did alive."

John's doubts in the police are steadily increasing with every

muttered "freak" and their clear dislike of Sherlock. John can
understand why others find his ghost abrasive and rude; that didn't
mean they couldn't be civil to him.

Sherlock is obviously used to it. "Where's the other body?"

Lestrade looks confused as John translates. "There isn't one."

"I knew Scotland Yard was incompetent, but I didn't think even they
could lose a body!" Sherlock snaps.

John levels a frown at him, and instead says, "He's insisting there
should be one."

"What makes him say that?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain, but John doesn't need to

listen. "Too much colour in the body. A pool of blood that large
couldn't have come from him if he's that red, even in this weather."
Lestrade nods his head and moves away to instruct officers around
the perimeter.

John looks back at Sherlock, only to find him standing an inch away.
"Jesus, Sherlock, don't do that!"

Sherlock steps back, saying carefully, "Good job." Before John can
feel more than a faint blush warm his cheeks, Sherlock continues.
"Though you missed several other important details. Go bring back
Lestrade. The other body isn't as important as the belt."

One car chase, two bar fights, and hours of waiting at New Scotland
Yard later, John collapses onto his bed, groaning from his sore
muscles, but somehow missing a limp.

Sherlock lies down next to him, a carefully maintained gap between

their bodies. "That was one of the best nights of your life," the smug
bastard says.

John grins into his pillow and starts thinking about how to write up
Sherlock's deductions in his blog tomorrow.

The ghosts have their own world, and according to Sherlock, its
burgeoning bureaucracy is inefficient and hateful. Unfortunately for
the living police, it's nothing that can revolutionize the way they solve
cases.

The police have, however, started asking for Sherlock's help. John
loves it—as long as it doesn't interfere with work. During clinic hours,
Sherlock has taken the habit of perusing stolen, cold case files while
John tends to his patients. Then when they're called to the next
crime scene, John can't help but laugh as Sherlock dances around
Lestrade with hints of answers.
"You need a new apartment," Sherlock whines. He's in the oddest
sprawl John's seen—on his back, legs leaning straight along the wall
and head tipped back just enough over the edge of the bed to watch
John type.

John scoots his chair around enough to frown at Sherlock. His left
hand rests on the keyboard mid-blog entry. "I don't see why I do," he
responds.

"This one is boring." Sherlock's palms are pressed together, tapping

against his lips to some melody in his head.

John rolls his eyes. "Sherlock, that's hardly a reason why I should
get a new apartment. This one works fine."

Sherlock rolls onto his stomach so that he's looking right into John
when he says, "You hate it, too. It's killing you." John doesn't hide
his wince. In the short time they've known each other, Sherlock
already knows John better than his family and friends ever had.
Sherlock swings his feet to the ground, and John can imagine the
muted taps that would sound through the room if he had real shoes.
"Get ready, and I'll take you to one I know you'll like."

An hour later, John meets Mrs. Hudson, one of the elderly minority
who hadn't yet attracted a ghost. She welcomes John with tea and
biscuits, and asks about his relationship with Sherlock.

"It's a shame you never met when you were alive," she clucks,
setting another plate of biscuits on her kitchen table. John chews
mechanically, and doesn't respond.

John and Sherlock move into 221B Baker Street a week later.

Sherlock has finally mastered the art of moving physical objects. He

doesn't sink into floors anymore and has even taken to stealing
John's phone. The touchscreen works for him after some practice,
and Sherlock provides a triumphant explanation about electric
imprints of ghosts and ghost neurology. John simply wonders how
Lestrade feels about being texted frustrating non-answers to cases
by a ghost.

John has only accidentally touched two other ghosts in the month
since Sherlock appeared. Both incidences were extremely
unpleasant. Luckily or not, Sherlock has managed to keep to
himself.

John has his first nightmare since Sherlock appeared.

All that's left of the dream are remnants of sticky red sliding down
his fingers, the screams in his mind, and the cold certainty he is
going to die alone.

But awake, John is wrapped in a warmth that washes the blood from
his hands and clears out the screaming. He can feel his heart in his
chest. Soon enough, John realizes the blankets are pooled at his
feet. It's entirely too cold outside for him to be this comfortable
without them. He raises a hand in front of him, only for it to be
assaulted by winter chill. When Sherlock raises his hand to cover his
own, John understands the curious case of sourceless heat.

"But I thought—" John shudders, remembering the feel of the other

ghosts.

"So did I," Sherlock replies quietly.

In the days after, they stop leaving space between themselves. John
does it intentionally; the feel of Sherlock is addictive and John has
never been good at resisting addictions. Whether Sherlock does it
on purpose or not is far more difficult to tell.

As for the next time John has a nightmare, Sherlock talks him
through his stupor, his low voice humming around him in the warmth.
And while the nightmares do continue, they become easier to handle
immersed in Sherlock. Eventually, Sherlock begins to lie next to John
as he sleeps, and John revels in waking up with an arm sunk
absently into his chest.

For all that Sherlock can manipulate physical objects in his spirit's
body, he still has trouble with science equipment. So when he needs
to use it, he drags John over to St. Bart's where Molly, another
person without a ghost, will cheerfully help him with whatever John
can't do.

The door to the lab opens. Sherlock stiffens and unconsciously

steps in front of John when a man steps into the room. The man
falters when he sees John. "Oh, sorry. I didn't—"

Molly cuts him off with a bright, "Jim, hi!" Her smile is a touch
nervous as she runs her hand over her ponytail. "Come in, come in."
John's attention is divided between Sherlock's increasingly nervous
tics and the man in the white v-neck.

"Jim, this is John Watson," Molly introduces.

John gives a quick wave. "John Watson. Hi."

Jim scans the room, as if looking for something. Perhaps he's

watching his ghost case the room. "Hi," he finally says, turning his
attention back to John. "So you're John Watson." Jim steps closer
towards John, inadvertently stepping through Sherlock. A visible
shiver runs down his spine, but the corners of his mouth turn
upward, not down. He pauses slightly before stepping entirely
through. "Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your
cases?" he continues, leaning entirely too close for John's comfort.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance!" Molly

giggles uneasily.
When Jim steps back into Sherlock—and John knows it's deliberate
—it takes all of his willpower to not punch him. Sherlock darts
towards John, standing close so that John's hand is encased in
Sherlock's. John wishes he could actually hold it.

Jim's pleasant demeanour flickers for a moment, before he smiles

wide and says, "I'd better be off. It was nice to meet you, John." He
waves goodbye to Molly, who looks thoroughly confused and not at
all happy. The same could be said of John.

Hours later, back at 221B, Sherlock admits, "I don't like Jim or his
ghost." The skin on his forehead furrowed as he paces back and
forth in front of John's armchair.

John is surprised by the plain language, but when he catches

Sherlock's eyes, the wariness behind them makes it clearer. "Well,
there was definitely something off about Jim. What about his ghost?"

Sherlock is speechless for the first time in John's memory. "His…

ghost. It— he was—" John is alarmed by this point and reaches for
Sherlock. His hand is as warm and intangible as ever. Sherlock
stares at where their hands meet, finally finding the words. "He was
rotting. He barely looked human anymore. He flickered out of sight
every four seconds, was twice as translucent as most ghosts, and
was shooting off… sparks of some sort."

John wants to take Sherlock's shoulders and shake out his

preoccupation, but settles for, "That won't happen to you."

"John, we don't know how that happens," he points out.

"It won't happen to you," he says firmly. "It won't." Before Sherlock
can argue anymore, John insists, "I know this because you won't let
it happen, and I won't let it happen. Okay?"

Sherlock nods hesitantly. He moves to pick up his violin and John

spends the evening listening to the melancholy music Sherlock
pours through his practice.

Eventually, someone makes the connection. The one that the media
runs with, the one that becomes the unofficial answer.

The idea of a soul mate is a bit tripe for John, but glancing over to
where Sherlock was experimenting his effect on electromagnetic
fields, coat and scarf off and sleeves rolled up, he reconsiders and
gently places the thought aside to be examined later.

It all nearly ends at a swimming pool.

John and Sherlock stride into the building, tired after running around
London on the whims of a madman, solving a case for a life. They
expect anything but what is actually there: a body hanging limp
above the water, rope tight around the neck as it twists from side to
side. It's decomposing; flesh hangs in strips and oozes down into the
discolouring water. Pieces of visible skin are patchy with blacks and
purples. The chlorine only just covers the smell.

Sherlock stiffens; he sees comprehension dawn in John's eyes

beside him. The body is his, after all. It's been a while since he
remembered that ghost also means dead, because living with John
is the closest Sherlock has never felt to being alive. And except in
those moments where he wished their touches had substance, it
hasn't even been a substantial problem. But a dead body, bloated
face rotting in front of him, jolts them into an unwanted revelation.

"Evening," a disembodied voice says. "Brought you a little getting-to-

know-you present." John and Sherlock scan the room for
movement. "This is quite a turn-up, isn't it? Me, John, Sherlock,
Sherlock's dead body. Quite a turn-up. Except, that's far too many
people for my comfort." A dozen or so red dots appear on John's
jacket. "Maybe I'll just fix that."
John lowers his gun slowly. "What do you want me to do?" he forces
through clenched teeth.

"Could you maybe toss your gun into the pool? That would be great,
thanks," he says, his Irish accent changing to a bland American.

As soon as the gun hits the water, a door creaks open at the other
end of the pool. Sherlock is not surprised when Molly's boyfriend
saunters into the open, hands in pockets. "Jim Moriarty. Hi," he
singsongs. He is surprised at the Moriarty. It's not a name he's
heard since just before his death, swallowing a pill from a serial-
killing cabbie. Jim puts on a greasy smile, pleased to be recognized.
"So you do remember me. I feel so loved," he smirks, strolling down
the side of the pool. The echoes of his footsteps coalesce with his
words, its coiled noise ringing through Sherlock.

Sherlock freezes. "He can see me," he murmurs in amazement.

Jim's smirk turns into a manic grin. "Hear you, too."

"How?" John asks calmly. Sherlock glances at him, once again

grateful that of all the humans to be paired with, he got John.

"Johnny boy," Moriarty reprimands, "I've given you just a teensy

glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm
a specialist, you see. Like Sherlock was." He stops so that they're
forced to see Sherlock's body in their line of sight.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock answers. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it? After the ghosts, life got a little more interesting. But things
have gotten boring again," he whines, stretching out vowels. "I've
used up my ghost, so I thought I'd play a little game with yours,
John."

John sputters, "Used up—"

"Why me?" Sherlock interrupts, not really wanting to hear the
answer to John's.

"You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be like

me. You just didn't have the decency to STAY ALIVE!" he suddenly
screams, words echoing across the water.

"I am like you!" Sherlock insists, walking slowly towards Moriarty.

He scoffs. "Nah. The cabbie got you. You're ordinary—you're just a

grounded angel," he says, lips turning in disgust.

Sherlock stops inches away from Moriarty, and says softly, "I may
have died on the side of the angels, but do not think for one second
that I am one of them."

Moriarty narrows his eyes at Sherlock, re-evaluating what he sees.

He chuckles. "You're not ordinary. You're me." His smile turns feral.
"You should have been mine from the start."

Sherlock wonders how hard his heart would be pounding if he had

one. "I should have," he says, so low that John can't hear. "I'll come
with you. But if you kill John, I'll disappear. Let him leave. He can't
do anything anyway, the useless man." Sherlock raises a hand to
Moriarty's hair, and tries not to bristle in disgust.

"Sherlock!" John protests.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock warns with his icy tone.

"Indeed." Moriarty nods his acquiescence and the red dots

disappear from John. "Go on, get!" he yells lazily at John.

John breathes heavily, fists clenched at his side, before turning

crisply on his heel and marching out. Sherlock hopes John gets
enough of a start that he evades whomever Moriarty sends after
him, in case his plan doesn't work.
The pool is now silent but for the quiet gurgle of water. "Bless you,"
Moriarty whispers, eyes wide and insane.

Then the police crash through the doors, filling in the pool from all
directions. Their guns are blazing; Sherlock assumes they've
apprehended Moriarty's shooters, but they don't seem to have
realized Moriarty will have a back-up plan. Likely the building is wired
with something like semtex. Sherlock hopes John hasn't barrelled in
here with the rest of the idiots.

Moriarty steps back, and raises the phone in his hand. The police
move back as they recognize the bomb threat he's making. "I don't
believe we agreed to this, Sherlock," Moriarty says shrugging in fake
sympathy. "Looks like it's their day to die," he sings. "And possibly
yours again, Sherlock."

But before Moriarty can press anything, Sherlock lunges at him,

sticking his hand into his face. He focuses the electricity that gives
him form to flow up through his fingers and into Moriarty. Moriarty
chokes, sending the phone clattering to the floor, and collapses to
the cement. He writhes in his death, the electricity still coursing
through his body.

Sherlock falls to his knees after him, sinking into the floor. He feels
faint; his body is—

flickering out—

existence. He can't think—

cohe—

rent—

"SHERLOCK!" he hears before falling away.

When Sherlock wakes up, John is sitting in his legs. Sherlock raises
a questioning eyebrow. "Idiot," John answers fondly. "Of course I told
the police before we came. There's no way I was going to let us
confront a bloody madman by ourselves." Sherlock is fully conscious
by now, and the weight of their near deaths—more importantly,
John's—sits heavy in his mind.

John just licks his lips, shrugging his bulletproof vest into a more
comfortable position. He must have charged in with the police;
Sherlock shouldn't have expected otherwise from a soldier like John.

Suddenly, Sherlock just wants to knock their foreheads together and

feel each other's skin to know that they're alive, but they can't
because isn't that the whole point? That Sherlock is dead and they
can't do any of that reassuring because Sherlock hasn't been alive
for months.

John reads the thoughts on his face. He says softly, "Even without
your heartbeat, your body, your skin and bones, you are alive." He
takes a deep breath and admits, "And you make me alive." Sherlock
sits up and hooks his arms around his knees. John pulls his knees
up, too, and turns so their legs overlap. They're practically sitting on
each other's shoes.

"The EMTs somehow 'revived' you," John says conversationally.

"Modified defibrillator."

Sherlock frowns. "They figured it out?"

"No, I gave them somewhere to start." John laughs at the Sherlock's

disbelief. "I wasn't completely deaf when you were telling me about
your experiments and electric neurology. I also happen to be a
doctor."

"Obviously a doctor would have better sense than to run back into a
room with an insane criminal mastermind," Sherlock says wryly.
"Shows how much you know."

They chatter like this while the police run around them, dealing with
the aftermath. Eventually, John meets a portly man named Mycroft
Holmes, who promises to take care of Moriarty's empire for them.
Sherlock tries to verbally abuse the man away, but Mycroft can't
hear, and neither John nor Mycroft's ghost bothers to translate.

Days later, Sherlock acquires his skull from the mortuary and places
it on the mantelpiece. John hates it, but he lets Sherlock keep the
reminder.

When a year has rolls around, John and Sherlock quietly sit inside
on opposite ends of the sofa, a bottle of beer in John's hand and a
violin in Sherlock's. The muted news lights the dark room with
scenes of merriment, terror, and prayer, as the world decides how to
celebrate the anniversary of the first ghosts. Sherlock fills the silence
with music from the dead notes of dead composers that somehow
manages to feel too alive. But then again, Sherlock has always
managed that. Feeling too alive.

John's already had this argument too many times. Sherlock is

Sherlock, dead or alive, and he'll take what he can get.

With that, John slips further down the couch, legs up and through
Sherlock. He lets Sherlock's warmth seep through his skin, and drifts
off with the music.