A shiver went down Sherlock's spine when John first spotted the camera, or, more accurately, whatever was inside him spotted it. John's eyes flashed, and he moved with inhuman speed, lunging at the camera like a pouncing dog and sending Sherlock's video feed into static.
"Hey, no fair!" Sherlock exclaimed immediately, jumping to his feet in anger. He looked around the empty kitchen, growling in annoyance. Now he was blind in the bedroom, but the hallway camera was still rolling. He watched it intensely, but for a little while nothing happened. Maybe Mary was trying to ease her husband back to bed, or maybe he was walking in circles around the room or something. Either way Sherlock didn't like the idea of Mary being alone with him, he didn't know the extent of the ghost's powers, or the control he had over John's helpless form, but he just hoped Mary was smart enough to handle this situation correctly. Sherlock watched the static of the bedroom camera for a while, at least until there was movement in the green view of the hallway camera. John lumbered out into the hallway, looking very dazed and very uncoordinated. He stumbled into the wall a couple of times, the picture frames wobbling on the walls dangerously. Sherlock watched intensely, watching as the man who was supposed to be John Watson stopped walking, right outside Rosie's bedroom door. He stared at the wood for a while, and Sherlock was terrified that he would go inside and hurt her someway. But no, he just stood there like a statue for a good ten minutes. And through those ten minutes Sherlock's concentration never wavered, he stared at John as John stared at the door, and all was silent. And then suddenly there was a thump next to him, and Sherlock let out a horrible screech, falling out of his chair with a clatter. He had half expected John to be standing next to him, but no, it was Hellen, it was the bloody cat, having jumped down from the counter.
"Sherlock, SHERLOCK!" Molly exclaimed, running down the stairs desperately, pulling her fluffy pink robe tight around herself. Sherlock groaned, shaking his head and pulling himself to his feet, seeing that now both of the cameras had gone to static. While he was distracted by the cat John had managed to knock out the hallway camera, as if he knew the perfect timing, as if he knew just when Sherlock would be distracted.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, but we need to go." Sherlock decided, draining his coffee in one gulp and fighting the temptation to kick that stupid cat.
"What do you mean, go?" Molly wondered nervously, easing closer to the stairs case reluctantly.
"I mean he knocked out the cameras, he knows I'm watching, he's angry. I don't want them hurt; I need to go check on them." Sherlock insisted.
"Sherlock it's nearly midnight!" Molly exclaimed in protest.
"Which is precisely why I need to go, the later hours are when the dead are strongest!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, I but I need to stay here." Molly muttered, sounding genuinely sorry.
"Well of course, I'd never bring you; I can't jeopardize your safety. Stay here, alright, and punish that stupid cat, she distracted me in the first place." Sherlock growled, grabbing his keys and sprinting out the door into the darkness. Sherlock drove erratically to the Watson's house; his headlights were the only source of illumination as he made his way through the darkness. When he finally pulled up next to the house it was silent, suspiciously silent, as if the house were holding its breath, waiting for tragedy to strike. Sherlock jumped out of the car, locking it and dashing up to the front porch. Thankfully Mary had told them where the spare key was hidden, in case he had to get in during situations like this one, and he dug around in the potted plant next to the door until finally he unearthed a key covered in mulch. He dug it furiously into the lock and swung the door open, jumping up the stairs two at a time and running into the hallway. It was dark, but he could see enough to know that John wasn't there. It was empty, the doors closed, it was silent. The camera was on its side, the little red light wasn't flashing so he knew it had turned off, but other than that there was no evidence that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. Sherlock moved quietly to the bedroom, not wanting the ghost to be alarmed, to retaliate at his presence. He also had a feeling, however, that the ghost already knew he had come. Maybe that was part of its plan; maybe this was just what it wanted. Sherlock took a deep breath, squinting his eyes in the darkness, his body tingling in anticipation, in terror. He was half expecting an inhuman John Watson to be clinging to the ceiling, waiting to jump on an unsuspecting victim. He could he hiding in any corner, any shadow. Sherlock turned the knob to the bedroom very slowly, easing the door open and peering into the darkness. There he saw two figures, John and Mary, curled up innocently under the blankets. It was calm, peaceful, they were both presumably asleep. John was even snoring.

 Sherlock fell asleep on the couch downstairs, curled up into a miserable, sleep deprived ball. But even as his body slept his mind was still churning, wondering how all that could've happened and how the spirit inside of John knew exactly when Sherlock was coming. It had obviously planned that out somehow, it didn't want to be caught by the only person who could see it for who it really was. Sherlock was a little bit apprehensive to even rest his eyes in the same house as a powerful spirit, but the moment he sat down he simply collapsed, letting his head fall onto a decorative pillow and letting his eyes shut for good. He was awoken a good five hours later by the sound of childish laughter and the smell of bacon, both coming from the kitchen. Sherlock groaned quietly, sitting up against the back of the couch and rubbing his eyes curiously. The night's occurrences weren't very clear to him, for a moment he wondered just what he was doing passed out on the Watson's couch. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet; buttoning his jacket and lumbering over to the kitchen were the sounds of human life were coming from. Rosie was in the kitchen with John and Mary, it seemed like they were trying to make some sort of batter breakfast together, but Rosie was making a mess with the flower and John was merely observing. They were all laughing; they looked happily, like one of those obnoxiously happy families you see on advertisements for irrelevant products. It was almost sickening, but it was also heartwarming. Sherlock almost wished he could have this life. Almost. 

"My god!" John exclaimed, falling over the kitchen counter when he noticed the uninvited figure lingering at his doorway. Mary swiveled around in horror, holding the mixer, still dripping batter, at Sherlock in defense.
"Sherlock?" John wondered, looking at Sherlock as if he were sure he was mistaken.
"Hello." Sherlock muttered, giving a little wave before walking into the kitchen to see what was cooking.
"What are you doing here, how'd you get in?" Mary wondered, looking horrified at the idea of a stranger wandering around her house uninvited.
"The uh..." Sherlock cleared his throat, suddenly realizing how bad this must look. "The key in the flower pot."
"Why in the world did you use the key in the flower pot?" Mary wondered, her mouth hanging open in horror. Sherlock blinked, looking around at the horror stricken family.
"You really didn't notice him last night?" Sherlock wondered. Mary shook her head slowly, and John looked just as confused as before.
"What did I do?" John wondered nervously. Sherlock shrugged, suddenly feeling as if he had over reacted.
"You got up at about one, and then attacked both my cameras. I was blind, so I panicked, I drove to the house and when I got to your room you were asleep, both of you." Sherlock explained.
"So I really wasn't upp?" John clarified.
"No, it means that it's smart enough to realize that I'm after it, it's scared of me. I have to talk to it, communicate." Sherlock decided, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking in nervous circles around the kitchen table. Rosie looked very confused, she hadn't formally met Sherlock yet, so her young eyes followed his long stride as he went round and round.
"Where have you been all this time?" Mary wondered, peering into the living room as if expecting to see another house guest.
"Couch." Sherlock muttered simply, tapping his fingers against his chin irritably.
"Well it only comes out at night, so you missed your opportunity." John pointed out, looking as if he were trying to help all while poking bacon around the frying pan.
"Well...yes and no. It prefers the darkness I think, or it wants to make us think it's too weak to show itself in the light. It's not exclusive to the night time, that's for sure. How could you be you up until ten at night if it comes out in the darkness?" Sherlock wondered.
"Why does it go away when the sun comes up?" John shot back.
"I don't know, I don't understand it yet! I need to do research, I need to concentrate." Sherlock grumbled, running his hand through his curls so they all stuck up in very odd directions. He noticed John's eyes flick up to his hair, but it didn't mean anything of course. John was probably thinking just how odd he was.
"Well why don't you start with joining us for breakfast." Mary suggested. Sherlock just blinked a moment, taking a step back in surprise.
"Oh no, I would hate to intrude on...um...whatever this is." He muttered, sweeping his hands around the kitchen to gesture to the family bonding time they were having.
"Hate to break it to you Sherlock, but you kind of already have. Might as well stay." John insisted with a shrug. Sherlock nodded rather awkwardly, feeling very out of place in the Watson's kitchen. He felt like he had no purpose to be here, he was a glorified intruder to be honest. John went back to the bacon and Mary started to make waffles in the waffle maker, which left Sherlock standing rather awkwardly on the other side of the counter, watching them work and trying to think of anything he could do to start a conversation. But suddenly he felt a pull on the bottom of his jacket, and he was just about to scream when he saw Rosie looking up at him curiously.
"Are you here to make daddy better?" Rosie wondered, peering up at him hopefully. Sherlock cleared his throat rather awkwardly, but nodded.
"I'm going to try." He agreed. He knelt down so that he could get to the girl's level, trying to at least have a semi sort of conversation with her.
"Have you seen anything off, has your father done anything that he's never done before?" Sherlock wondered.
"He talks." Rosie decided.
"I should hope so." Sherlock agreed with a little laugh.
"No, he talks in his sleep. I hear him sometimes; he says stuff that I've never heard, in languages that I don't understand." Rosie muttered, twisting her hands together nervously, as if she thought she wasn't allowed to say this to him. Sherlock nodded, suddenly intrigued by this little girls' insightfulness.
"Have you ever heard something you understand?" Sherlock wondered curiously. Rosie nodded nervously, looking up at her father over the counter.
"What did he say Rosie?" Sherlock wondered, getting rather impatient with this little girl's reluctance.
"Sherlock." Rosie muttered. "He kept saying Sherlock, over and over again. That's your name, right?" Sherlock was silent for a moment, shivers going down his spine. Why would the ghost bother saying his name if not calling him out, challenging him?
"Yes." Sherlock whispered. "Yes that's my name."
"What are you two talking about back there?" Mary's voice wondered. Sherlock looked up rather quickly, seeing Mary's face looming over top of them, in her hand a plate with two large waffles resting on it.
"Nothing...um...Rosie heard something. Last night I mean." Sherlock admitted, getting to his feet once more and patting Rosie on the head thankfully. Mary's smile slacked nervously, looking down at her daughter curiously.
"Really? Honey, what did you hear?" Mary wondered in a sweet voice.
"Nothing." Rosie muttered immediately, ducking her head down so that she didn't have to look her mother in the eyes. But instead of looking at Rosie for an answer, Mary shot a rather accusing glare at Sherlock, as if wondering what her daughter would tell him instead.
"I'll tell you later." Sherlock muttered, but nevertheless Mary swept over to the table and put the plate of waffles down agressivley.
"Breakfast is ready." She snapped impatiently, walking back over to the waffle maker to make some more. When the bacon was done sizzling John joined Sherlock and Rosie at the table, helping the little girl spread button on her waffles and drown them in syrup.
"Sleep good then?" John wondered, seating himself across from Sherlock at the table and smiling, starting to cut his waffle into large squares.
"Oh um...yes. I guess. Your couch is very comfortable." Sherlock agreed.
"Well if you feel the need for a nap you're welcome to sleep on it again." John said, looking down at his plate as if wondering why he said something so stupid. Sherlock just laughed in agreement, and John blushed awkwardly.
"Thank you Mr. Watson, I may just take you up on that." Sherlock agreed, taking a bite of bacon and pouring more syrup onto his plate just for something to give his hands to do.
"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John curiously. John cleared his throat pretty awkwardly, as if he didn't really want to talk about this.
"I didn't notice anything." he admitted. "It was actually one of the few nights where I didn't wake up in the hallway, or in the bathroom."
"Well I hate to burst your bubble, but you were up and active, you were...worrying." Sherlock admitted.
"Evidently." John muttered.
"Rosie said that she heard you, you were saying something." Sherlock muttered, to which Rosie just sipped her orange juice innocently.
"What was I saying?" John wondered. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when Mary wandered over with her own plate, looking between the two as it wondering what kind of conversation they were having.
"I'm going to do some research when I get back to Molly's, maybe I'll take a nap or something but I'll come back tonight. I want to stay here, I want to witness for myself, see if there's anything this spirt wants from me." Sherlock planned, finishing up the last of his waffle and setting his fork aside.
"What would the spirit want with you?" John wondered curiously.
"I'm not sure, but it's worth a shot." Sherlock decided, sitting back in his chair and glancing to Rosie, who was just finishing up her own waffles. If this ghost was saying his name then it knew him, or it knew of him. Maybe it was watching from inside of John when they were talking, maybe they knew each other when that ghost was alive, either way it knew his name, and it was willing to admit it. Maybe it had something to say; maybe it wanted to communicate to someone who would understand. Either way, Sherlock knew he was probably the best man for the job. 

Sherlock returned to Molly's little apartment not much later, spending his time trying to figure out the history behind that old house. It really was odd, a little old farmhouse in the middle of suburbia, no wonder it was haunted. But he scrolled and scrolled through the Google search pages, he even went to page two to try to find reasonable sources, but nothing happened. There were no death records, no freak accidents, no nothing really. He just kept looking, but to no extent. Then again, the internet didn't have everything he needed. Surprisingly there was another way to find what he needed, a resource that anyone under thirty wouldn't even consider as an option. The library.
"This is hopeless!" Molly exclaimed, letting her head fall onto the mound of old newspapers that were piling up in front of her. They were sitting in the back corner of the library, surrounded by boxes upon boxes of newspapers dating back until who knows when.
"It's not hopeless, just keep reading. We've got to find something substantial." Sherlock insisted, ruffling through a copy of some old newspaper advertising an artichoke sale from thirty five years ago. He really hoped the people of that time took advantage of these prices, they were actually pretty good. Not that he was the expert economist when it came to artichokes.
"What are you even expecting to find? What if no one died in that house at all, what if it's just old?" Molly wondered bitterly. She got to her feet once more, digging through the large white boxes miserably.
"There has to be at least one death in those years, not so much a murder, maybe a heart attack, maybe a car crash outside? Something." Sherlock insisted.
"Well I think there's a better way to look, if I have to read about one more stupid flower show I think I might die." Molly decided, pushing out her chair and walking towards the front desk. Sherlock wanted to warn her of the horrors of librarians, but he was too late, she had already walked up with a smile. She talked a little while with the old hag behind the desk, but she seemed to have results, the lady followed her back to the mound of newspapers and started to dig around. Obviously she knew what she was looking for. Sherlock gave her space, eyeing Molly curiously, who looked rather proud of herself.
"I remember that house, or more accurately I remember who lived there. Crazy old family, suspected of witchcraft for the longest time. All the children were pale with dark hair and dark eyes, it was no wonder tragedy struck." She muttered.
"Who lived there?" Sherlock wondered curiously.
"The Adlers." The woman muttered, as if that was supposed to mean something.
"Are you serious? The Adlers lived there?" Molly wondered, looking at Sherlock with a shocked expression.
"Don't look at me Molly, I've never heard the name." Sherlock defended.
"Oh yes you have Sherlock, come on. Old Mrs. Adler, she used to come up and tap on people's windows at night? Remember you wouldn't go outside for a good week because I convinced you she was living in your shed?" Molly laughed. Sherlock slumped down in his chair with a frown, blushing in embarrassment.
"Oh ya. Her." He muttered. "You were a jerk back then."
"No I was not!" Molly defended, slapping him with a newspaper. The librarian smiled, unearthing a yellowed newspaper from the dark depths of the boxes, something they never would've found on their own.
"Well I don't know about Mrs. Adler, but her children, they were something else. Little Irene Adler was one of the worst, I remember when she was growing up all the children used to tease her, she had a very looming presence, a very dismal looking girl. It wasn't her fault of course, it was her upbringing, but I must admit, she was terrifying. Well she got older, and things started to change. She was pretty in a very eerie way, but still she had no husband, she remained unmarried. Now, I don't claim to be an expert, but one night a man accused her of using dark magic to seduce him, and that she was the Devil's lover or some rubbish like that. Well, things escalate and he ends up torching her on the front lawn. 'The proper treatment for a witch' he said." the librarian unfolded a newspaper and handed it to Molly, who read it carefully.
"Oh wow." She muttered, scanning the page with curious eyes. Sherlock got up from his chair, coming around behind her so that he could read over her shoulder. The article basically summed up what the librarian said, the story and the murder and the accusations. There was also a photograph, a very chilling picture of a girl with sunken black eyes and long black hair, standing dismally into the camera in a white dress.
"Not exactly America's Next Top Model." Sherlock decided with a little laugh.
"So why do you young people have an interest in the Adlers? Surely it's not for school?" she wondered, looking between them both curiously.
"Oh no, um, we're..." Molly muttered, looking towards Sherlock hopelessly.
"Paranormal investigators." Sherlock offered, looking at the librarian with a hopeful smile.
"Well if those Adlers are back from the grave, God help you all." The librarian muttered.
"Well Sherlock um, ya. He knows what he's doing, we'll be alright." Molly admitted. Sherlock just nodded, the very idea of him knowing what he was doing was humorous.
"That's reassuring." The librarian muttered.
"Could we get a photocopy of this article?" Sherlock wondered, smiling up at the librarian with as much charm as he could muster.