Sherlock Lives! The first time anyone saw those words was in an abandoned train tunnel, painted in a brilliant Cerulean blue against the old, crumbling brick. No one saw it but the homeless people of London, who studied it carefully, and some of them cried.
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The first time the public noticed the graffiti it was painted on the side wall of the Shad Sanderson building. It remained there for several days thanks to a lazy building manager, and when Seb Wilkes got wind of it he left his office and went outside. He stared at the words and felt a little sick to his stomach, though he didn't know why.
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Sarah got into the surgery early one morning. Someone had sprayed graffitti across the front of the surgery, and the name it mentioned erupted in a surge of hate inside her. She tried to keep her anger in check when she called John. "Hello," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "Just wanted to let you know that you don't need to come in today—electricity is out in the entire building. Yeah, bloody annoying. I'll let you know if it comes back on. Right. Bye."
She hung up the phone and left the office to go buy some paint remover. She couldn't let John see it. It would be too awful. Later when she was scrubbing, she felt good about erasing the name of the lying scum that had broken John's heart so completely.
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Andy found the graffiti on the back of one of the art galleries he frequently tagged (both in an effort to protest the corruption of the art world and with a desperate need for someone important to notice his work and care). This time the paint was zinc-oxide yellow and he had a feeling it was important. He studied the paint strokes carefully, and scraped together enough money (things had been tight) to buy a can of the same paint. He started with the side wall of the museum and began to copy the message stroke for stroke. He was a good mimic.
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The words were written across the New Scotland Yard sign. It was very embarrassing, as they had not managed to get the perp on tape. Greg Lestrade went outside to watch the workers clean it off. Sally Donovan joined him. "It's not true you know," she said. "It can't be."
"I wonder..." Lestrade began, but Donovan cut him off.
"Don't," she said. "You nearly lost your job over that mess. What the hell is wrong with you?"
She turned and went inside, but Lestrade lingered, not watching the janitor scrub away the paint. Instead he began to look around him. He felt like he was being watched.
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The words were painted across the window of a the supermarket when Jeanette walked over to do some shopping. She had heard rumors—all of her girlfriends loved to tease her about how Sherlock Holmes stole her boyfriend from her and called her up every time there was a sighting, but she hadn't even dated John long enough to care, and she didn't care now as she opened the painted door and went to pick up some milk.
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Mycroft was more annoyed at the audacity of someone painting across the front of his beloved Diogenes Club than he was curious about the message. Instead he grumbled about a lack of respect, and went inside to muse over the words in his private rooms.
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Going into work, Molly was slightly startled at the yellow lettering across the front of St. Barts. First she began to tear up a little, but then she smiled.
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Mrs. Hudson had a knack for fretting over John, and ever since the graffiti started appearing in the city she worried about her poor lodger. So when she found it scrawled across the front door of 221 B, she nearly went into fits. She was still scrubbing at the paint, trying to get it off the front door, when John came home.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Just someone trying to be funny," she said, trying not to cry, because even though she worried for John, she missed Sherlock too.
John could still make out the words. His heart jumped in his chest. For months there has been reports of the graffitti showing up all over London. The telly and the papers had been talking about it—dozens of reporters had called John to talk to him about it. He has never seen any of it personally—it seemed to disappear almost as fast as it appeared. People didn't want to even think about Sherlock and his horrible lies, and continued to discredit him in the media. John stopped answering the phone to avoid their callous questions and disbelieving reactions when he told them how good Sherlock Holmes really was. It broke his heart every day.
John didn't know about the back wall of Angelo's, where the graffiti had become somewhat of a shrine to the great detective. He didn't know about the words painted in alleys, in skate parks, by the railroad tracks. John didn't know about the dozens of cases Sherlock had solved before he moved into 221 B. He didn't know that Sherlock was so good and kind to the people who could not afford his services, but needed them so desperately that he helped them anyway. John didn't know how deep into the homeless community Sherlock had reached. He didn't know that there were still people out there that loved Sherlock as much as he and Mrs. Hudson did.
John didn't need to know these things.
John took the scrub brush out of Mrs Hudson's hand without a word and went inside. He went down to the basement and found an old stiff paint brush and a can of white interior paint. Taking these things back he pried off the lid and began to carefully trace what was left of the lettering. It didn't match the paint color, and his hand wobbled a little as he painted.
Mrs. Hudson watched, not speaking until he had finished and the words Sherlock Lives! glowed on the front door. "He can't come back, John," Mrs. Hudson said.
"I know that," John told her. "But that doesn't mean the words aren't true." He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze, and they went inside.
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A tall, lanky figure watched from a distance. He had been following the graffiti phenomena himself. He hadn't quite traced it back to its origins, though Andy taking to copying the slogan had been the beginning of the copy-cats. Sherlock Lives! It had a nice ring to it. He didn't know what it meant to the people doing the painting, but to him it meant it was almost time to come home.
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A/N: This is a parody of the 'Frodo Lives' hippie movement of the 60's and 70's. It was a LotR graffiti campaign. Some people chalk it up as just a fan thing, but I kind of think it was a message of hope, a belief in magic and heroes, in a time when a lot of things sucked.