Note: While watching a Youtube video portraying Sherlock BBC fanart, there was one painting that appeared showing John walking past a wall and written there in spray paint was a very touching statement and a very familiar-looking man standing in front of it. It was significant and moving, even though John didn't seem to notice any of it.

This piece was inspired by that very work of art. I own nothing of Sherlock.

I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

Weatherman said it's going to snow

By now I should be used to the cold…

Living alone, here in this place…

It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone

'Cause you went away,

How dare you?

I miss you

They say I'll be okay

But I'm not going to ever get over you

-"Over You", Miranda Lambert

"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."

Those were the last words John Watson inscribed onto his blog, not long after it happened. For an epitaph, it was a pale withered thing compared to the transcendent man it was meant to commemorate and immortalize. Much too short, much too vague for what he yearned to convey to the world—at least the tiny bit of it that actually visited his blog more than once and for more reason than out of curiosity over its unlikely but short-lived fame. In simple terms that most would not fully comprehend, it pronounced his trust, his devotion, his love for a brilliant mind and a warm albeit prickly heart that had crossed paths with him in his darkest hour, shivering and lost and a splintered soul as he was, still he was graced with the sunlight of humanity just before it was snuffed out for good.

His entire soul died on that bloody awful fateful day.

After enduring through endless hours of gazing unblinkingly at the walls trying to forget, trying to remember what it was like not being numb, it took five days for John to manage in crawling out of bed again, somehow finding it within himself a shred of a purpose to do so after waking up to silence, expecting Sherlock's comforting noise from downstairs in his experiments and bored grumblings only to be disappointed by the void instead. During those five days—at least he thought it was five days though he hardly cared about his accuracy of time anymore—he would realize Sherlock's presence would no longer be there so he could not bring himself to get up after that. In order to alleviate Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's concerns, with pain and regret he abandoned his bedroom when morning was upon him on the sixth day, even though he would have rather lingered in his old blanket that gave him ease of mind in Afghanistan, but its mending powers unfortunately could not reach his sufferer's imprisonment this time…

Even when he did finally wrench himself out of bed it was only to drift aimlessly through the flat until he ended up standing unsteadily before the window in the sitting room, laying his head hard onto the glass of the casement, his nails digging at its surface just as he had done directly after his friend's funeral, but then in that case he had dropped his head and scratched his fingers onto the lid of his glistening black casket after all the others had already retreated and he was left alone again.

For those endless days before he mustered up the heart, the courage to forsake their flat, he did nothing but stare at the abandoned belongings of the great Sherlock Holmes. Staring uncomprehendingly, he felt the air weigh down upon him like lead in water and his heart shrivel up into dust in the aftermath of its life-source having been ripped open and its contents spilled onto a not-so-uncommon pavement before a familiar hospital and mingle with blood from black curls. John memorized every blessed detail, every nook and cranny that could be learned from a human skull, an upright dagger in the mantelpiece, an aged but much-beloved violin. An empty mug, an empty chair, an empty bed, all of it just to try and forget, or rather master how to smother down the burning cold left behind in his chest and pit of loss in his stomach.

Another fortnight passed before he was able to leave 221B. Only then it was to visit all that remained of his dear friend, though voiceless and sightless and mindless he was now. John—with Mrs. Hudson in tow on the first few occasions—would take flowers to Sherlock's grave every day, reverently setting their stems into place in the silver holders atop the bottom section of the black glossy headstone, then he would talk to the earth that covered Sherlock's body, begging him to come back for the consulting detective was capable enough to do just that, resurrect himself, he knew he was. He certainly wouldn't have put it past him. Or at the very least, John figured it was only a matter of time before God would tire of Sherlock's constant griping about how dull heaven was and his sneering remarks about how stupid everyone proved to be and would soon send him back, return him back to John's care. If only…

"Sherlock, come back, please. I miss you. I still need you, I always have."

But no answer would ever come. Nothing would change.

"Why did you do this to me, Sherlock?"

Soon Mrs. Hudson did not travel with John to Sherlock's resting place as much, so on those occasions, John would linger at Sherlock's grave for most of the day, speaking to him until his voice grew hoarse or until he fell asleep, right there. More than once, John would wake up at dawn to find himself curled up on the recently-disturbed dirt, clutching the cold stone with Sherlock's name engraved upon it with stoic gold letters. Stoic just like Sherlock. Sometimes John wouldn't rise or leave until it was too dark to see or a freezing rain had begun to splatter the ground, soaking through his jumper and shooting jacket until he couldn't feel anymore.

After one of those particular scenes, John had trudged home and found he didn't have it in him to climb all the way to his own bedroom so he was able to muster enough courage and desperation then to open up the door to Sherlock's room, a place he had not crossed since before his friend had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. It was against his better judgment to step in there, he had avoided doing it for a long time, but John was much too weary to care about the consequences. Peeling off his shoes and jacket, John fumbled with Sherlock's duvet and sheets before flopping into them, passing out immediately under their comforting warmth and in a cloud of Sherlock's scent.

That was when the nightmares returned.

In his nighttime visions, John watched Sherlock leap onto the pavement over and over again but that was not the worst of it, oh no. It was when John dreamt that when he turned round the corner of the garage, right before the cyclist sent him crashing to the road, instead of glimpsing Sherlock's lifeless body with his head smashed in and smeared with his blood, he would see Sherlock standing there instead, still alive and completely unharmed. And John would run to Sherlock then, hesitating in shock and relief whilst his friend laughed at the expression on his face, mocking John's foolishness for thinking that he had actually died, saying how it was just a trick, a magic trick just to experiment on John's human reaction.

"Silly, John," Dream-Sherlock would chuckle. "I could never actually die. I just wanted to know if you would miss me. And I was right, as I always am. You couldn't live without me. But I'm here now and will never leave you again. You're my blogger, my best friend, after all."

In his mind, John would rush up to him, hugging close to Sherlock's dark Belstaff coat, clinging to his thin body as they laughed together in unison, their voices harmonizing in mirth as they had done so many times before.

"Let's go home," Sherlock's familiar baritone would whisper above John's head before everything went black.

Then that was when John would wake up, every time, with tears flooding his hazel eyes and sobs choking his throat when he realized once more that it was all just the fancies of his own naive mind, that Sherlock had not survived the fall at all. In actuality, he was still dead. And Sherlock was not in his bed or in the kitchen or off gallivanting on another case. No, it was just John in Sherlock's bed instead, wishing he was dead as well, needing to follow the great detective once more, just as he always did. That was his lot in life, to be his friend's companion, to catch him when he fell. But he wasn't there to save him this time. And it nearly killed John just to remember that.

Now that, that was the worst.

John Watson had lost something, half of himself and for a while he tried to find it again but failed dismally. Suddenly, John wished he had stayed numb. And there was nothing to be done about it now.

To be empty and hollow and scraped out from within, to feel like one dead but still breathing—that was the worst kind of fate of all.

ↄ∞ↄ

To escape the imagined spirit of Sherlock Holmes that haunted him in his own home, John decided he needed a distraction, a great one at that. So, by virtue of the echo of the pain in his leg and his shaking hand that was once cured but now returned, he acknowledged that he needed something that carried with it some sort of danger and excitement attached, otherwise he would end up squirming into the nearest hole when madness took hold of him at last.

Thus he made up his mind to phone Molly Hooper and ask her if she would be so kind as to utilize her hospital connections to acquire him a job in emergency surgery for his sake. And, whether on account of her depthless sympathy or own grief or both combined, she obliged his request with all good speed, also heeding his plea that she not even turn her gaze for a position at St. Bart's itself but somewhere nearby all the same. For it would not help John to forget or even soothe those terrible, tormented memories concerning his former flatmate and colleague if he were forced on a daily basis to not only pass by the very pavement that had caused his death but also the labs in which Sherlock had often used to solve those murders which had been brought to his attention and which were done cleverly enough to sufficiently occupy his brilliant mind. Working in such an environment where he had been granted so much happiness and yet so much misery would surely do him in before long.

The first morning on John's new job, however, almost succeeded in doing just that anyway.

Two months later, upon leaving 221B a little earlier than necessary for his first shift at emergency surgery, John limped down the nearest street to hail a taxi but, after turning his head on instinct, found himself stopping instead. On a brick wall to his left beside the pavement, an immense "I O U" was written there in dramatically decorative graffiti of red and black, cradled in a pair of majestic wings unfurled as its busily jagged backdrop. John's brow furrowed in confusion and concentration as he tried to recall why that seemed so familiar to him. And then, with widened eyes and gasping heart, he understood why.

The memories assaulted him in unbidden, unpleasant flashes: Police cars with the red and blue of their sirens flaring, all of Scotland Yard bending John's arms back to clap them in handcuffs, Sherlock's ever-present deductive face preceding his attempt to flee their arrest by using John as his "hostage" just before they ran down this very road where, in the corner of his eye John had noticed the graffiti but ignored it in favor of not getting caught by Lestrade again. Vaguely, he had thought that this particular delinquent's form of tapestry art had not been there until that moment. Yes, he was right; it must have made its appearance just before that horrible night.

Then abruptly, another recollection that had been discarded from importance in his mind from several months before but which he now mentally picked up and studied more fully. Just after Moriarty had been found not guilty in his Crown Jewels trial, John had come home to an unusually quiet Sherlock. When John had glanced in the bin, he distinguished a partially eaten apple there with the letters "I O U" carven into its sides, thinking it strange at the time but of no significance. Certainly, Sherlock hadn't put that there, despite his inclination for strange activities and experiments. Later, Sherlock had told him that Moriarty had visited him that day but John did not connect these events together until now.

And its resulting answer was none too appetizing to swallow, for there was only one that could have had the means and motive to scribble a message there, the only one who maniacally insisted that he owed Sherlock something, a burning heart to be precise; only one who would think it amusing to leave it there to pour lemon juice and salt in his wounds, twisting the dagger, so to speak—and that was Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal. It was there because of him.

That soulless bastard…

Sherlock's astounding methods of analysis were finally rubbing off on him. Too bad the tall detective couldn't be there to witness it, an acknowledgement that tweaked at his heart strings.

Fists clenching and unclenching and jaw doing the same in his escalating rage, John pivoted on his heel and stormed back through the black door of 221B where he roughly rummaged through their hall closet and cupboards until he unearthed what he was after. With bucket in one hand and large sponge in the other, John marched straight back to the brick wall, stepped through the iron gate that protected it, and proceeded to attack the masonry and the spray paint display upon its surface with the doused implement, his breath heaving and hands trembling uncontrollably whilst he scrubbed away with a vengeance, like his very life depended upon scouring its taint from his existence once and for all…as though it would bring his friend back to him.

More vigorously than he thought possible of himself, John rubbed and rubbed, a mad light igniting in his eyes. He had always known he possessed a hot Irish temper from his mother's side but in that moment, he had never been so angry in all his life; it was so powerful, so explosive and molten that he wasn't sure how to contain it or limit it. In fact, just then he didn't want or care to hold himself back. Feeling that infuriation inside of him like a wild creature that had lost its will to live, possessing him and consuming with the need to rip everyone and everything up in his path in an effort to make the world end for what it had done to him.

After a good fifteen minutes of this insanity, John finally came to realize that all his efforts were gaining little success. The paint had begun to fade with his excessive and obsessive washing, but it was still much too visible, still clearly there for all to see. Stubbornly, John persisted until he reached the portion that portrayed the charcoal feathers of wings which made him weaken, coercing back to him the image of Sherlock plummeting from Bart's roof, how his curly-haired friend had looked like some dark angel being cast down from heaven after his wings had been ripped from his back and left to flutter down to that very street corner. Arms suddenly too sore to lift any longer and body shaking too badly to continue, John tossed aside the sponge before resorting to screaming oaths and kicking and pounding furiously at the bricks until his physical pain distracted him from his inner pain. For certain, an ample measure of disgruntled and disturbed looks from passersby was directed at his back but he no longer minded. He shoved his hands on his knees, allowing the sobs in his chest to conquer him completely, only pausing a few times to take rasping breaths and once to retch up his breakfast right there on the pavement.

Once John wiped the fluid from his mouth and the tears from his cheeks, he returned the cleaning supplies to the foyer of his flat before setting off again to work which he was now very late for and accompanied by a much heavier heart, wounded soul, and crippled body. It was time to admit defeat.

All it took was a simple lie and a faked sweet smile and his job in surgery was once more secure. For the rest of the day, John performed his duties with great finesse, exemplar skill, and frosted with unparalleled diligence; only slightly distracted from his troubles by the screams and blood and bustling panic. But on the inside, he was tearing himself apart. Just like that, he had left that sodding graffiti there, standing idly by as Moriarty trounced him once more. He was letting the monster best him…again. It was one trivial thing, one last effortless task to do for sake of Sherlock Holmes but he couldn't even accomplish that much. He was useless. How could he have ever deemed himself worthy of being such a great man's best friend? How?

Everything was pointless now.

So was the constant, ruthless self-admonition thundering about in his head like a tempest, rolling about like a barbed bowling ball as he made his winding, sullen way back to Baker Street. He had opted to walk for all of sundry reasons, namely to try and gather his thoughts and in the same breath banish them away, and it didn't hurt to delay his return or make an effort at cooling his still-seething temper; although the endeavor was in vain more likely than not. By the time John was almost in view of Moriarty's final message, he was seriously contemplating whether to ignore the painted atrocity, spend the next twenty minutes at least in glaring at it until it cowered into submission of nonexistence, or just surrender to his deepest desires by retrieving his military handgun and shooting bullets into its bricks until the "I O U" became too obscure to read.

But there turned out to be no reason for his harried indecisiveness or need to resolve it. For the moment John came within sight of the street corner whereon he knew was engraved the mockery of Sherlock's doom and wellspring of John's affliction, he stopped dead in his tracks by what he saw there. He was standing on the right road, the right pavement where he had spotted the graffiti, he knew it, but he glanced back and forward to ensure that he was and he had been correct in his assumption; it had been burned in his brain by malicious hands, after all. And yet that particular message was no longer there. In fact, someone must have wiped it clean somehow and replaced it with something else.

In the place of the letters and abundant details and that horribly distorted pair of obsidian wings, someone had written five very familiar, very large words onto the faded rust-colored brick wall:

"I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES"

That was it.

No other words but those, and with absolutely no aesthetic attempt at embellishment whatsoever, not even an exclamation mark.

That was all, and yet, it was everything.

John's pace increased until he stood before the statement on the wall, ensuring that it was actually there, convincing himself by thrusting his fingertips to it to see that it was not a figment conjured from his longing but indeed a real thing. And by evidence of both eyes and touch, it was. He even asked a passerby if they too could see it, and, with obvious reluctance and confusion, answered that it was indeed there, repeating aloud what John had written himself those scant weeks ago, for it was his very own words that it had come from, there was no other explanation.

Someone was quoting his blog on a street wall, reiterating his devotion to the detective and making it a tangible thing like an advert hoarding for all to behold. At once, his head reeled in disbelief.

Looking more closely at it, John noticed how it was marked in a suspiciously familiar yellowy gold shade of spray paint that the Spider killer from the Chinese circus mafia, that Black Lotus lot, had applied so many months ago to warn his victims of their impending deaths, harking back to one of the first cases he and Sherlock worked on together. But was the similarity just coincidence? What were the odds of that? But who would have remembered such a tiny detail? Had he even mentioned it in his blog back then?

John wasn't precisely sure how to reply to any of these proposed questions that had sprung up in his own mind, not even where to begin or where to look to unravel them. And yet, suddenly, he didn't care, since the fact that it was created was a miracle in of itself; and meant more to him than the entire world and everything in it. There were people in London, few no doubt but people all the same, who had read the words proclaiming his faith, his love for a man who committed and sacrificed his life for a greater purpose, read about John's fealty to him and someone had agreed. More importantly, that individual felt the need to let all of London and John himself know, and at least for him, it was making a vast difference.

For several minutes, John could not move, could scarcely breathe; in essence could do nothing as he considered all of this—this revelation, his eyes remaining riveted unwaveringly to those bright letters on a poor man's canvas, fearing that if he looked away his fervent hope and realized dream would vanish before he could delight in it. And he did, by heaven, he did. Like a starving man that came upon a feast, he did not refuse it but reveled in it with an essential need, greed even. John's heart thrummed painfully against his chest as a spark struck it, making it swell and glow and the sharp ache there lessen slightly. The dark clouds above his head seemed to disperse a bit, allowing a ray of sun through whilst the ponderous burden upon his shoulders eased.

For the first time in what felt like so long, John could recall his memories of the arrogantly intelligent but endearing detective with a lighter spirit, with faint gratitude and contentment rather than pure agonizing despair which, admittedly, still carried sway in his heart but was less overwhelming, less without depth; perhaps made even bearable by this simple act of allegiance. Before he could calm himself, John's breath and shoulders began to hitch and his lip trembled just before more tears resumed their accustomed trails down his face, but these traitors were ones born more of relief and ghosts of joy than their predecessors.

His heart was still shattered into fragments. But at least now upon being witness to others' support, it was finally revived enough to sustain its function. Only just.

Now he felt he could carry on more easily than before. And carry on he did.

ↄ∞ↄ

For the weeks that ensued, John became adapted to a strange sort of routine. When traipsing to and fro to work and subsequently from shopping and back, and so on, during which he would continuously plaster on smiles that never reached his eyes and pretending he was just fine and neither bored nor depressed even though Sherlock's voice was constantly in his head freely dispensing of his snide and smart-aleck commentary at every turn, John would take differing routes back and forth each of his destinations, his eyes always darting from wall to wall, alley to alley in attempts to discover more remnants of his mysterious followers. He had never walked so much in all his life. And fortunately, his search did not go unrewarded.

As if by either sorcery or conspiracy, the Sherlock Holmes' defacement tributes kept cropping up again and again in legions all over the city by unseen hands of the militant cause onto abandoned warehouses, Tube station tunnels, even on the facades of high-class mansions—and secretly, John maliciously hoped the Diogenes Club would be an eventual target. They multiplied like glowing rabbits until the news stations and newspapers finally got wind of the phenomena and so had no choice but to report about them with reluctance and as much bewilderment as John had possessed from their first appearance on his small corner of Baker Street.

Suddenly, his smiles weren't so fake anymore, his chest less fitful, his stomach feeling less poisonous. Could it be true that there was purpose for him left in the world? Could he somehow make Sherlock's reputation put to right, at the very least less tainted?

But it was not just the initial blatant "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" statement that insisted on declaring itself to Londoners, though it was the most prevalent. Variations such as "Keep Calm and Believe in Sherlock", "Only Sherlock Can Save Us", and "Moriarty Was Real—Believe in Sherlock Holmes" also became widespread manifestations alongside its fellows. To one John Watson, their presence was odd, frightening, puzzling…invigorating, emboldening. After a while, John gathered his courage and phoned Lestrade, asking about the graffiti, their significance and what leads Scotland Yard had accumulated about it, if any. Sadly, even Lestrade could not satisfy his queries. The Detective Inspector was just as stupefied as he.

Big surprise, Sherlock's wraith scoffed in John's head.

Perhaps it was just a scrap of hope some guardian angel was bestowing upon John in his darkest hour. Likely not, but how else could he have possibly gained so much support in so little time and by a people who assumed without question or doubt that Sherlock was a fraud and a criminal to the very end? How?

Speculation was useless when the data was limited, Sherlock would have noted aloud to him. Might as well just enjoy it while you can, John's practical side retorted, before all of England turned on his lost friend once again or Moriarty came back to finish what he had started once and for all... if he was still alive, that is.

Once late at night, John was wearily dragging his feet back to Baker Street after a particularly grueling shift in emergency surgery and came upon a vaguely familiar pale red-haired woman in the garb of the homeless who was standing aloft the seat of a concrete bench. Glancing up curiously through his bleary eyes, John noticed that she had a spray can in hand and was scrawling something onto the front rim of the bench's overhead shelter. So far, her forbidden artwork read:

"I BELIEVE IN SHERL—"

John's limbs ceased in their automatic transport and, with heart beating in his dry throat and hands quivering in anticipation, John asked with feigned indifference, "Hmm, interesting thing to write in spray paint…" After coughing to clear his croaky voice, he added, "What's it for exactly?"

The girl started slightly and spun around to where John stood behind her. Pausing in her work, she peered briefly down at him with narrowed dark eyes and, deciding he was no threat, John supposed, she promptly if not truthfully gave her enigmatic explanation to his directly laden question as she returned to her painting.

"For many things, I'd say; rather, for more important things."

"Oh?" John replied, his lilt betraying a bit too much of his craving, his need to know. The ginger girl looked askance at him with a frown and cautious eyes and so he looked away, cramming his fists into his jacket pockets in an air of nonchalance to try and divert suspicion. To a degree it seemed to fulfill its purpose.

"Yeah, sure," the bedraggled homeless woman elaborated absently. "This here is the expression of our opinion on the world's travesties."

"Concerning…?"

"Where've you been living these past months, mate? Under the ocean? For Sherlock Holmes, of course! We've been putting up these here statements to show our support for a great man. We all believe in Sherlock Holmes and what he did for us and everyone else in this bloody worthless town!"

"You say 'us'? Who do you mean?" John asserted.

"Those less fortunate, you would say, like yours truly," the girl pointed emphatically to herself, her face flushing and chin lifting in pride for a man who no longer had eyes to see it. "Everyone practically spits on us and squashes us under their thousand quid boots but not him. No, he helped trim down the murdering scabs from the streets, he did. He appreciates us, understands our knowledge of the underground and pays us for it, like we deserve. We need to eat too, you know!"

"Yes, yes, all right, I know," John placated with uplifted palms, for the girl had begun to raise her voice and gesture accusingly at him, her hackles towering to the occasion, as it were. The ex-army doctor was much too tired for a confrontation. "I know all too well," he muttered to himself. All of a sudden, the present tense of her words in reference to the detective ensnared John's attention and made his pulse run more wildly in his veins. "Wait, you speak as if he were still here…he's dead, didn't you know?" His voice cracked toward the end of his speech with the grief that gripped him like it always did at the mention of his former flatmate and colleague, but for now he ignored its looming presence and concentrated on one of the only people capable of clearing up this latest and most significant mystery.

Finishing the last word in her yellow-printed, sloppy street-side proclamation—the revered surname of "Holmes," to be precise—the ginger-maned girl of about twenty John reckoned, bounded off of the bench she was using as a step ladder and proceeded to pack up her few things in a tattered duffel bag. "Dead, is he?" she responded with a sly smirk hovering about the corners of her lips. "That man's a god, didn't you know? And gods never die."

Something inside of John seemed to freeze, his vocal chords unable to make a remark, even if his brain could remember how.

"Whatever, man," the girl giggled at his pale demeanor and abrupt silence. "He's the best thing this city ever had and they rejected him. But not us, we've still got his back. We would be doing this for his sake even if he didn't ask us to do it in the first place."

"What? What can you mean?" John hissed. Had he heard her right? "That's impossible!"

But his desperate demands were left unsatisfied since, at that moment, a police car came driving by and spooked the girl enough to skitter down the pavement and out of sight, leaving John behind before he could even consider taking off after her.

The words "Homeless Network" echoed soundlessly in his ears as he watched her flee before pivoting his eyes back to his own blog's words that floated and taunted him from the metal overhang. He could not restrain a shiver from encompassing his body then.

After making only a half-hearted attempt, John could not sleep that night. His mind was too riled up with agitated turmoil and confusion to settle, and his heart too full to the brim with hopeless elation to be reasoned with. As such that was why at about 3 AM, he took his leave of 221B to wander about the fog-ridden roads, struggling to clear his head and convince himself that the girl had just been playing with his head for her own sick amusement, that was all. No need to pretend that the wish he had been harboring for months now could actually come true unless he wanted to be broken up irrevocably this time. No, he had to face that his friend was gone and gone forever.

It wasn't long before John spotted through the mist another soldier of Sherlock's old army come back to fight in their war with his own tactics. Before a cracked concrete wall at a strategic location somewhere along Regent Street, there crouched a young man wearing drab skinny jeans, black high top shoes, and a short black jacket over a faded slate grey sweatshirt, its hood up over his head which fully effected to conceal his hair and face from John's sight, the darkness and fog not helping much more, in fact, it served to obscure the derelict's identity into absolute anonymity.

What were the chances of finding another of Sherlock's Homeless Network so soon after the other? He couldn't believe his luck.

With relief and unspeakable exhilaration, John hastened across the road and quietly approached the homeless boy, endeavoring to be as stealthy and appear as harmless as possible to avoid scaring him away and repeat the devastation he experienced with the ginger-haired girl. But his fear was unfounded; for once John reached the hoodie-mantled drifter in his aim, coming within two meters of him, the young man did not even bother to look away from the wall as he made his final touches to his five-worded mosaic, the unmistakable aluminum aerosol tube clutched in his pale, long-fingered hand and its accompanying yellow lid which had been set aside on the pavement.

Presently, John wondered if the man had even perceived his advance at all. Consequently, John took it upon himself to initiate conversation. Start slow and with tentative allusions, John reminded himself, before moving on to more specific and direct interrogations if in hopes of extracting the counterclaims he needed to unravel the graffiti riddle once and for all. In truth, he just couldn't combat the suspense, the not knowing, anymore.

Taking a stab at winning some much-required attention, John noisily shuffled his shoes and loudly cleared his throat. The boy momentarily ceased in his labor, his hood turned slightly toward John's standing form. Sadly, the act disclosing nothing more of his features than the tip of a long white aquiline nose before it disappeared again as his mind focused back on his spray-writing, but at least he was finally aware of John's so-called existence and thus John could commence his undertaking. It was the only sign he needed to prove he was being acknowledged at last.

"Oi there, what's this now?" John commented with innocent attentiveness and counterfeit cheer. "That's certainly very nice. You know, you're rather good."

The hooded boy nodded once in thanks.

John sighed silently. How was he ever going to procure any answers from someone who refused to speak aloud to him? Could there be a way to persuade him to talk?

"How long have you been doing this, may I ask?"

No response came.

The doctor crept a little closer, perhaps a meter away now, pretending to make a better inspection of the decorated wall. He noticed how the young man seemed to stiffen in his low stance, sucking in an almost imperceptible breath. What had he done wrong? Could John be frightening him? It's possible the boy could have been abused whilst growing up…so John stopped where he was and thought it best not to push the lad too far.

"'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'," John quoted the graffiti in baffled amazement, as though he hadn't been savoring those very words over and over and practically memorizing them and pondering and dreaming about them for the past several weeks. "Huh. Wonder what that's all about, eh? I think I remember reading in The Daily News something about that Sherlock Holmes bloke who—who committed suicide or something…"

His stutter would have been barely perceptible to any who didn't know him well enough. And by some miracle, he was able to finish his sentence without undue cracking or choking in the sudden upsurge of his sorrow that followed and might have given him away. The young man's left hand, the one not wielding the paint can, seemed to shake a little before curling and curling into a fist. John's brow creased as he frowned. He leaned forward a tiny bit to try and make out more of his companion's face but the latter chose that moment to bend his back forward and to the right, away from John and sufficiently cut him off at the pass as the boy rummaged through his bag only to produce a box of Nicotine packages which he left on the pavement without actually opening them up or doing anything with them at all.

John surrendered the effort, choosing instead to return to his disinterested observation of the concrete wall and his evasive tactics. "Weird business, all that, really; and this as well. What does it mean exactly?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the boy finally spoke up, his voice raspy and accent undeniably of the thick Scottish brogue. After diverting John's attention away from his face, the wanderer then took the opportunity by rising gracefully to his feet before pressing the release on the spray can and looping his arm in a wide circle then a line and two small dots. A clumsy smiley face now hovered beside the simple words, beside John's heartfelt epitaph. The man had turned out to be much taller and thinner than John had previously presumed.

For some reason, John's arms broke out in goose pimples and his stomach twisted and writhed like a living thing, making him feel more afraid and sickened now than triumphant at exacting the true beginning of the end he was after, the accomplishment that took him one step closer. He could not quite understand what could affect him so but he could not trifle with that at the moment. It would be wise not to dwell as yet, not until he was alone in his flat again. Always alone.

It was just that there was something very familiar about all of this…

With a shake of his head, John returned to his companion's remark and addressed it. "I suppose so. To a point, anyway. Obviously, it's to show your devotion to…to the late Mr. Holmes, to commemorate his memory. To show he wasn't actually a fake like everyone believes. As a member of his famed 'Homeless Network', you would have more reason than anyone else to see fit to do it." Biting his tongue, he realized he just betrayed himself, poured out a piece of information that he should not have been privy to in the first place by his initial vocalized reaction to the graffiti, but he couldn't find it within himself to care any longer; his patience of beating around the bush had not just wore thin but officially evaporated into the foggy air. Besides, the homeless boy didn't seem to think anything suspicious of it, thereby gifting John with further hope.

"More reason than most, perhaps. But there is one other that holds more reason than any of the homeless ever could…" the boy said quietly. "It's not just to show devotion though. It's more about gathering support for him. For when he returns..."

A strange warm sort of chill chased up John's spine and slithered along his skin which had suddenly gone cold, taking his breath away and widening his hazel eyes. What was this chap on about? Nonsense, or madness. No doubt he was a nutter...

John folded his arms across his chest, stroking them with his hands to encourage friction and try to restore some heat into his body, to no avail. Decidedly evading the last bit of his companion's claims, John fixed his attention on the first thing the boy said, however. The doctor ventured, "What do you mean about the one with more reason? Oh, you mean that idiotic fool that was his colleague or something? Poor sod. I can imagine what it would be like to lose my best friend, oh I can imagine quite keenly. To have half of yourself robbed from you without warning, to watch as your entire life crumbles around you…to be deprived of the one person who meant the most to you. The best friend you ever had." Thereupon, John sniffed as a solitary tear slipped down his cheek, his chest feeling constricted and making it very hard to breathe. He bit his lip, trying to bridle the torrent of emotion and sobs that threatened to break free from the gaping, bleeding hole in his soul.

"Did ya ever stop and consider," the homeless boy began in exaggerated emphasis as though conversing with a dimwit who had struck a tender nerve. "Did ya ever think that perhaps this Holmes character did what he did because he was under duress? That he jumped off of that roof and made his best friend watch in order to save that very friend's life, and the lives of others? There could have been a sniper trained to his head, for all we know...Ya can't believe he could have ever been that selfish or in doubt of himself. Really, when would the great Sherlock Holmes ever actually admit he was wrong, or give up just like that?"

The boy's diabolical assertions stirred something inside of John but he had to neglect it or he would feel himself falling again or tearing himself apart from within. "Yeah, right…You know what? Never mind, doesn't matter anymore," John rescinded, his voice escalating and his arm waving in a disgruntled manner, his fury—against the world for disbelieving his friend, for the friend that voluntarily took himself away from him, for the life that had been taken from him—mounting to compete with his pain like always. "I talked to one of your friends last night. She made it seem as though Sherlock Holmes himself were conducting this little escapade with the graffiti. As though he were," John swallowed hard against the anvil in his throat, "As though he were still alive."

Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, John muttered, "She said he was a god...even from the grave he can be a condescending twat. Why should I be surprised?"

Suddenly, the tall unkempt man beside John began to huff with strange breaths. Whipping his head to the side, John realized that the boy's shoulders were shaking. He was laughing!

A heart-wrenchingly, eerily familiar chuckle softly wafted to John's ears and the doctor gasped, his body freezing in its mobility like one encased in stone. His mind had not quite caught up with his body's enlightened understanding as he tried to listen to the drifter's next words, words that came through a voice that was slowly becoming smoother and smoother and deeper and more mocking with each syllable. "Well, maybe that's it. You shouldn't be surprised. Smart girl, if ever I knew one. I know one thing as I live and breathe: You should seriously consider believing her. He certainly was a god, Dr. Watson. And I know a god when I see one…"

Just then, a finger of light sneaked through the misty clouds that surrounded them right as the homeless man turned a little more toward John than he had before. As a result, the combined conditions exposed more of the boy's features than John had yet seen; only half of it was revealed, and fleetingly for all that, but it was enough. It was more than John needed or could withstand. But no, his companion was not actually a boy but older. High cheekbones jutted out from a pallid face and below a stray curl of ebony hair, pale violet lips with a profound cupid's bow grinned with smug distinction…and icy silvery blue eyes, sharp and intense and vivid with hidden secrets and knowledge, fairly glowed from the cavern of his hood.

Only one person could ever possess such a face.

John's heart lurched frantically against his rib cage. Somehow, he was able to whisper feebly, "Sh-Sherlock…?"

But his friend was gone, long gone, whisked away the moment recognition touched John's tortured eyes. Perhaps he never even heard his name tumble from John's lips, for it was spoken too low for even the doctor himself to hear without difficulty through the tempest of his own thoughts and sentiments rushing through his body, heart, and mind.

The one he thought was Sherlock had dashed away down the nearest alleyway and John tried to follow him but his legs were sluggish and his entire being too full to function at full capacity. Instead of catching up to Sherlock and grabbing him to make sure he was real, instead of embracing him and yelling at him for explanations, John was left trembling in the alley, in the dark, beside a skip trying to come to terms with what had just happened. He couldn't quite figure out whether to be incensed, annoyed, frightened out of his wits, or just plain confused.

Could that have just been Sherlock's specter, a dream even? Could John be losing his mind?

"Sherlock, please, come back," John whimpered. Had Sherlock been real? Or just something that wanted to take advantage of his despair to drive him mad. But why had the detective taken flight, escaped from him? Maybe he had to…

He jabbed a hand through his short blonde hair as he tried to calm his breathing and assemble the jagged pieces of himself back together. He had to think…and yet none of the more practical evaluations for this otherworldly experience seemed to be the correct one. What the boy had said, no what he had said, about jumping, of lying and committing suicide, for John's sake, for his safety…could it have been true? He wouldn't have put it past Moriarty's sadistic mind to have bound Sherlock to that kind of merciless choice, to that kind of disgraceful, ruinous end. But would Sherlock have cared enough to do it, risk death, just for him? What was he saying? It didn't matter. None of it mattered, because, after being drained of his residual rage and distress, John suddenly felt overjoyed, more enraptured and completely free than he had ever been in his life. A rush of light and warmth burst through him like a deluge, leaving him a little strengthened and heartened. It might have been possible that Sherlock was alive, might not have been. But whether logic denied him or not, whether Sherlock's ghost or actual flesh and blood, John only knew for certain that he wouldn't give up until he found out for sure. And put everything to rights.

And yet, there was something else John couldn't know, what he couldn't see: a tall, thin man who, at that very instant, was hiding just beyond the corner from where the doctor stood, under the cover of darkness and veil of chalky mist in that decrepit London back alley. The gray hood of his sweatshirt had slipped back, allowing his dark tangle of curls to fall unobstructed about his pale exaggerated cheekbones whilst he slouched against a grimy brick wall with heavy gasps competing against the devastating ache in his heart, a sensation utterly new to him, and all the more keen for it. Hanging his head with scrunched eyes, he endeavored to withhold rare tears from leaving his blue eyes and the tremendous, overpowering, soul-clawing need, the longing, to turn back straightaway to his best friend, gather the small blonde blogger into his arms, and tell him something that had been plaguing him ever since that terrible day at St. Bart's.

With every particle of his being, he wanted to whisper to his best friend, the only one who ever truly believed in him, totally, unequivocally, unconditionally, in all his years, "I have missed you so much. I've come home, John, I've come home."

But not yet, not quite yet.

Please forgive the ending, it was written in a hurry...

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it! Please review, they always make my day and encourage me to write some more!