disclaimer: If i owed Sherlock BBC, Shwatsonlock would be even more cannon. Sadly, i do not.
Spray Paint
Sherlock had never thought it would end like this, but it had. So now here he was, slumped on a bench in a back alley with that stupid hat pulled down over his face. a few feet away, someone was shaking a can of spary paint. The spray started, then stopped. The person swore under their breath and the spray started up again. Then they ran off, rubber soles slapping the concrete.
Even after the roof, Sherlock had never been able to turn his brain, or his insatiable curiosity, off. He got up and shuffled over to the wall. There, in still-wet, yellow spray-paint, were five words:
I Believe in Sherlock Holmes
He stared at the wall. It hadn't worked. The lies he had told John on that roof hadn't carried. He had seen the headlines. He knew John had spread the lies through his blog. But there were people who didn't bellieve the newspapers.
They still beleived.
He laughed. People believed! Maybe, somewhere in that wonderfully normal brain of his, John suspected that he had been lied to.
But no, Sherlock had seen to that. He had systematically crushed every belief John had about him. And it had Hurt more than the fall.
And, God, Sherlock wanted to go back. Back to 221B Baker Street. Back to Ms. Hudson, the smiley face and bullet holes on the wall. He wanted to sit in his armchair with his violin while John typed up the latest entry on that infernal blog.
Casting one last look at the wall, Sherlock walked away. Not toward Baker Street, or the station, or the café he went to with John.
Just away.
But, as usual, he couldn't turn off his brain and one sentance ran throught it again and again.
I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.
