John closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. This was to be his last night in 221B Baker Street, as absurd as that sounded. The next day, he would be leaving the flat forever. Once, this place had been home to him. Even if he hadn't been the one to dominate how everything was run and decorated and such, it was his home. It didn't matter to him. 

Perhaps he'd be better off after leaving the place behind. After all, there were ghosts everywhere. Not literal ones, of course - John didn't believe in those. No, he had worked on a case concerning phantoms about a year ago and after that point he had completely convinced himself that ghosts did not exist in the supernatural manner that was typically assumed.

Rather, these ghosts were made in the form of memories, of past utterances and movements and emotions or lack thereof. Within every crevice of 221B were the ghosts of Sherlock Holmes. The man had been dead for only a matter of weeks at this point, but for John it felt like forever. 

He found himself sitting alone within the flat, thinking about the past. It seemed silly and a waste of time the moment he thought over it, but he refused to do anything to stop it...mostly because he wasn't sure he could stop it in any way.

He drummed his fingers against the chair he was sitting in. This was the same chair he had sat in the first time he came into the flat, leaning against a cane with a bum leg. Of course, that had been the day when he had decided to move in with Sherlock. In that way, the chair was a ghost. So was the view across from the chair. So was the dust sitting in the air.

The disembodied parts and curdling milk in the fridge were ghosts as well, all markers of Sherlock's experiments. The open door leading to the detective's former bedroom was a ghost. There was only so much he could handle at one time. But everywhere he turned, he found another ghost, and another, and another, and another.

John shut his eyes as tight as he possibly could. Sometimes he would have flashbacks to when he was in the war. They had stopped once he had begun spending time with Sherlock. Now he had flashbacks to that fateful day where Sherlock stood up at the edge of St. Bart's Hospital with a phone in one hand, perched like a bird. 

But he didn't fly like a bird. No, he plummeted to the ground and landed with a sickening thud. John had seen the injuries of war, but nothing made his stomach churn more than seeing Sherlock fall from the rooftop and pounding against the ground.

John opened up his eyes, ready to get himself off to bed. All he had to do was hoist himself out of the chair and drag himself up to his regular bedroom so that he could actually get a lick of sleep. There wasn't anything he could do sitting around in the chair.

But he couldn't do any of it because there was a ghost standing right in front of him.

John gaped for several moments, trying to comprehend what was going on. Sherlock was standing there in front of him. His lips were pressed together in a straight line, but his eyes betrayed the emotions behind him. It was like seeing him alive all over again - he was wearing his signature black trench coat and blue scarf, bringing out the familiar glimmer in his eyes.

There were several details off here and there, but it wasn't as if John could deduce what they meant. The fact he wasn't wearing any gloves stuck out to John the most vividly, but he couldn't figure out why that might've been the case. 

"Sherlock," John finally murmured after sitting there blankly for several moments. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

The smallest hint of a smile graced Sherlock's mouth as he said, "John, come with me."

"What?"

"Come with me," Sherlock repeated, his words soft but solid. 

"Where?" John asked, feeling like he was being absolutely foolish and unable to say nothing more than one word questions. But Sherlock didn't mention anything about this. Instead, he just shook his head slightly and moved onwards.

"There's a world that I know of where we can be together, John," Sherlock said. 

"I don't...I don't know what you're talking about," John sputtered out. He forced himself to look slightly to Sherlock's side, making sure he didn't fully make eye contact. He couldn't predict his own behaviour, and that alone was frightening. 

Sherlock, for once, didn't seem to mind the fact that John was behind in what was going on. If anything, he looked as if he expected John to be confused and now that it was all happening he felt excessively pleased.

"Guess, John."

John sputtered out his words, unable to form anything properly. "I...I don't know what you're talking about, not at all. I mean - you're dead. You can't be here."

"Ah. Yes, it's true - I can't be here, not for long. Which is precisely why you must listen to me carefully and remember that there is not much time for you to make your decision."

"And my decision is w...what?" John asked. "Going away with you to some 'world?' I...I don't understand."

"Let me explain - it's a place where we can go and the pain will go away. Think of that. It's like paradise."

"Y...you don't believe in any of that," John stuttered, shaking his head. "I know you, and you don't believe in any of that."

"But I believe in my senses. I believe in what I see and hear and feel, John. I've been there. I am there. Now all that's left is for you to come with me."

"Do you want me to just drop everything...drop everything and leave it all behind? I don't even know what I'd do...there. Wherever you're talking about. This paradise you're going on about."

"Tonight was meant to be your last night in 221B anyways," Sherlock noted.

John opened his mouth as if to protest against this, but he knew that Sherlock was just as correct as he always was. Besides, he wasn't sure any sort of proper wording would've come from between his parted lips anyways.

"You know what it's like to be on a particularly interesting case," Sherlock said, starting his explanation. "The way that every moment seems to be on edge, the way we dash around to find every last puzzle piece and attempt to make them fit together. That's what this world is like. Our world. Our own perfect world, without any sort of ill."

"A case that never ends," John said, letting out a dry laugh. "That...that doesn't sound like paradise to me."

"Oh, just think. Just think of it, John. You know how much you love it - adrenaline coursing through your veins as your feet pound against the ground," Sherlock said, knowing by John's several moments of silence that he'd managed to get through to his inner mind.

"That's-that would be...love...I could..." John mumbled, unaware of the words dripping out of his mouth. None of them ended up being very coherent, but he didn't seem to mind this at all. 

"Then you'll come, yes?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost uncharacteristically eager.

"I don't know," John admitted. "It's just...so much...and you're supposed to be dead, and there's so much I would end up leaving behind if I just went..."

"John," Sherlock said. "A flawless world, formed exactly for just the two of us. You can't deny that you want that. You must want it. I've always wanted it, and now I just have one thing missing from it - and only you can change that. But you have to come along with me."

Sherlock reached out his hand, offering it along with the perfect world to John in one single gesture.

John looked up into those clever eyes, always observing. He'd learned to love those eyes and the man that came along with them so quickly. He never would've thought he'd get to witness that gleam ever again in his life.

And now, now he was being offered the opportunity to go to paradise and be with Sherlock until the universe collapsed upon them. He could desert the pain of losing the consulting detective and the struggle of going through each day. All he had to do was say yes.

"John..." Sherlock said, his voice nearly to a whisper at this point. "John, will you come with me?"

"Just tell me what I have to do," John replied, his breathing becoming far deeper. He'd made his decision, and now there was no turning back.

John Watson, nor his body, left Baker Street the next day. His soul, on the other hand, had escaped to seek Sherlock's. His final decision had been set for the rest of eternity. He'd let his hand raise up and and then fall into Sherlock's bare palm and then went along to the paradisiacal world. He knew that the truest paradise for him would be wherever the consulting detective was.

A/N ENTRY FOR THE WATTPAD FANFICTION ONESHOT CONTEST. Yes, my lovelies, a fanfiction contest! And it's also the first full out Johnlock thing I've posted here on Wattpad. I believe. It's kind of strange to me to think that, but I've only ever gotten a little bit of Greaserlock Johnlock up. Anyways, I'd love your feedback on this story! It's short but sweet...in a sad way.