A/N: I own nothing.
1. Belief is a cage
Sherlock meets Sebastian Wilkes on his second day at Cambridge. Sebastian is the handsome, disgustingly rich upperclassman with awesome digs and abominable chemistry grades. Sherlock is the friendless freak who perks up like a plant long starved of water when Sebastian approaches him, and wilts just a very, very little when Seb's first words to him are about "help" for a chemistry paper.
What starts as a mutually beneficial agreement (Seb's words, not Sherlock's) based on Seb's low grades and Sherlock's loneliness soon blossoms into something far deeper(for one of them), and Sherlock loses his innocence in an abandoned classroom after hours, two months into his university career. He's sixteen, Seb is twenty-three. Their amorous entanglement is short lived, but their mutually beneficial agreement lasts for nearly three years.
When Sherlock is seventeen, Seb introduces him to cocaine for the first time.
When it ends, Seb has graduated with a second-class honours degree, a posh city job already earmarked for him through his father's money. Sherlock has become lost in a world of drug dependence and hopelessness.
Sebastian was the first person to believe Sherlock is intelligent, a genius even (had believed it from the moment he first saw him awe a room full of upper level chemistry whizzes over half a decade his senior). That belief fed Sherlock's soul for three years, before shattering it into tiny pieces.
It's twelve years before Sherlock starts to wonder if that belief was worth anything at all, and another three before he realizes the answer was always no, it wasn't worth it…except when is was worth everything.
2. Belief is a second chance
Sherlock's been on drugs for five years, and on the streets for two when a second chance at being believed in walks into his life, in the form of a rumpled, graying Detective Inspector with a failing marriage and a soft spot for hopeless cases(frequently removed wedding ring, a faded St. Jude medal peaking out between uneven shirt buttons, and multiple scars from cat scratches on his hands, both fresh and years old).
Sherlock actually remembers very little of the night he first met Lestrade(he'll always argue he deleted it, but the simple truth is not even Sherlock's amazing brain is immune to the effects of overdose worthy amounts of Coke in his blood). He thinks there was a gun, and someone was screaming incessantly, and more guns clicked (stupid, stupid, the gun was for him, not them).
One thing he does remember clearly is a tired, hurting, grieving (child's paint stains on cuffs, purposefully not washed off-failing marriage due to recent loss of a child?), painfully ordinary police Inspector approaching him, unarmed, coming unerringly closer, oblivious of the gun that swings his way, plodding resolutely forward until Sherlock literally collapses at his feet.
Eternities later, a reporter will ask him what is felt like to be believed in so much, by so many, and all he'll see is a pair of tired brown eyes, too grief stricken and old to say anything but; "enough already, you stupid, stupid lad". All he'll hear is an exhaustion-roughened voice, telling him to; "either let them help him or just bloody well blow his brains out already!"(Sherlock never quite finds out whose brains the voice meant, but he thinks he prefers not knowing that particular fact).
Sebastian may have been the first person to believe that Sherlock was a genius, but Lestrade was the first to believe that he was worth something besides being used up and discarded.
Lestrade got him clean, and although whether he pieced Sherlock's soul back together in the process is debatable, the fact he saved Sherlock's life isn't, and failure of that would have made everything else academic anyway.
The thing Sherlock has never even told Lestrade-and which he therefore certainly doesn't tell the aforementioned reporter-is that by believing in Sherlock that night (Sherlock, not the genius, just a stupid, strung out kid, another soul with nothing to lose that a beaten-but never broken-man decided he needed to save just because), he gave Sherlock something(someone) to believe in as well.
Even if that belief in Sherlock wavered, Sherlock's belief in Lestrade never did.
Afterall, while Sherlock, even in his drug addled state, might have known that gun wasn't intended for anyone else but himself that night, Lestrade had no way of knowing that.
It takes Sherlock over a decade to realize it would have made no difference to Lestrade either way. And while that breaks his heart, it (like the man himself) also heals it, just a little.
3. Belief is a leap of faith
Somewhere between meeting Lestrade and getting clean for the final time, Sherlock stumbles across Mrs. Martha Hudson.
Well, stumbles is a relative term-only Sherlock Holmes would label "blundered unprepared and unarmed-and possibly slightly high-into a hostage/murder situation while investigating a string of serial killings in a foreign country, with no passport, while supposedly checked into a rehab facility on the other side of the planet" as "stumbling."
Regardless of how he got there, Sherlock, by virtue of being there, became the only thing preventing Frank Hudson from putting a bullet in his wife's brain for blabbing to the police-something which, ironically, she hadn't done yet.
Even more ironically, Sherlock hadn't even suspected Hudson, the shabby handyman for the building where the third victim-nine victims back-had lived. The nondescript man had slipped the almost-but-not-quite-yet-consulting detective's notice (something which will happen only two other times in Sherlock's life).
In fact, up until the moment Sherlock stumbled across Hudson holding this wife at rifle point, the man having just so happened to pick the very corner Sherlock was looking for a fix on to abduct his wife, Sherlock was blissfully creating an intricate case around the building manager (who turns out to be both Hudson's lover and accomplice, so not so very far off the mark there after all). This is one of the only times in his long and torpid affair with cocaine that Sherlock will actually be grateful for his addiction.
Afterall, without it, he never would have been around to save Mrs. Hudson. And Sherlock can't quite picture life without her.
Of course, strictly speaking, she saved herself, but she needed Sherlock to accomplish this, so close enough. Granted, shouting "Of course he's a serial killer, just look at his cufflinks!" in relation to someone's husband doesn't seem the most effective way to find a staunch mother figure, but it worked for Sherlock(considering the way he met Lestrade, Sherlock wasn't anyone to judge by this point).
Course, that shout also managed to nearly get them both killed all over again, which would have made who saved who a moot point anyway. Strangely enough, it turned out to not be the smartest idea ever to shout the words "serial killer" in front of said suspected serial killer. Pretty much the only thing that prevented Sherlock getting his head blown off by the shotgun-rifle? the details are a bit drug-fuzzy in his memory- Hudson had acquired from somewhere was the arrival of the crocodile.
At this point, Sherlock began to wonder just how high he really was, a concern which only increased when Mrs. Hudson started crooning-that's the only word for it-to the aforementioned six foot long reptile, who's name was apparently Prissy, of all things.
Sherlock starts believing this all might not be a hallucination when Hudson swings the shotgun to point at the crocodile rather than his wife, as Prissy seems to have decided somewhere along the way that Martha Hudson is a much better person than her husband, an opinion which Sherlock approves of whole heartedly, especially as it's currently saving their lives.
Never having been one to be short on the uptake, even when potentially hallucinating about overly friendly crocodiles called Prissy-had he mentioned she was wearing a pink fluffy ruff with pom-poms- Sherlock took advantage of Hudson's momentary distraction, and proceeded to grab Mrs. Hudson and propel them both off the roof. Straight into a fast moving river over six stories below.
In retrospect, they might have had better odds with the crocodile. Sherlock forms this opinion while falling, largely due to the fact that he catches an unmistakable glimpse of a man who could only be his prat of a brother leaning on an umbrella by the river's edge. Only Mycroft could pull off leaning on an umbrella like it was a perfectly reasonable fashion accessory-to complement his three piece suit with overlaid trench coat-, in the middle of a thirty-five degree Florida heat wave.
Somehow, both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson-and surprisingly enough Prissy-survive the experience. The former two were found on the edge of the river two miles downstream by an unruffled Mycroft and an equally harried Lestrade. Prissy was found on the roof, reportedly sitting on top of a remarkably unscathed Hudson, the shotgun firmly crushed in her teeth.
Sherlock doesn't even get a chance to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson before Lestrade unceremoniously drags him back to London, depositing him on his sofa with strict instructions about detoxing. Sherlock never quite knows why this time sticks-him and Lestrade have been through this dance almost a dozen times before-but he suspects it might have something to do with the rush of fear he felt at the realization that he could have actually gotten someone else killed by being high, someone besides himself that is- someone who he was trying to save, someone who was worth saving.
Three years of being completely clean later, Sherlock is mysteriously rung up by an older lady in central London, who wants to meet with him to discuss a crocodile.
Martha Hudson comes back into Sherlock's life just when he needs it, when the prospect of spending another month in Lestrade's flat is beginning to stifle. Mrs. Hudson rescues him with her tea and hugs, much as he once tried to rescue her.
She somehow begins to heal one of the cracks within Sherlock, the one stamped there by a mother who was always cold and distant, and probably holds the Guinness world record for showing any form of affection to her children the least number of times ever in the history of motherhood.
Fortunately, Prissy is living out her days on a wildlife reserve in Florida, so Sherlock's only flat mate in the beginning is a skull, gifted to him anonymously, although he has his-probably completely creepy and morbid-suspicions about this anonymous benefactor.
The skull aside, Mrs. Hudson now occupies the rare position of being someone who Sherlock trusts implicitly. Afterall, she trusted him with her life, even though she probably-definitely- knew he was high as a kite at the time. His parental figures seem to have that in common.
Really though, Sherlock began to realize how much Mrs. Hudson believes in him the day he received a package in the mail, only a month after meeting her the first time-upon opening it, he discovered a familiar fluffy pink ruff with purple sequined pom-poms attached.
Sherlock keeps the ruff in the bottom of his sock drawer. It's one of his most treasured possessions. One day, years in the future, while technically dead, an anonymous man in a long black coat will pay a visit to a animal sanctuary in southern Florida, where a stately old female crocodile by the name of Priscilla spends her days snoozing in the sun. The next morning, she will be found proudly sporting a fluffy pink ruff with purple sequined pom-poms, looking for all the world like a queen who has been returned to her rightful throne.
Sherlock never forgets Prissy-after all, she helped him save Martha Hudson. And as everyone knows, without Martha Hudson, Baker Street, London, and indeed Sherlock Holmes himself, would fall.
In fact, without Martha Hudson, they never would have existed for Sherlock in the first place.
4. Belief is a silent partner
Sherlock, for all his claims to having a near encyclopedic knowledge of everything besides the solar system, can never quite remember the first time he met Molly Hooper.
He can't even use drugs as an excuse, as he had been clean for well over a year before he ever went to Bart's for the first time. He figures he probably saw her several times, and merely overlooked her-ironically, this testifies to just how special she truly is.
Whatever the reason, when Lestrade finally formally introduces the two over the body of a dead John Smith, Sherlock barely even spares Molly a glance. Molly blushes and mumbles a greeting. This pretty much foreshadows the next five years of their acquaintanceship.
By the time Sherlock actually notices Molly, far too late in a Bart's lab, while Moriarty is in the process of destroying his whole world-a world he's somehow only just realized she's an integral part of-she's believed in him for half a decade. And he hadn't even noticed.
Sherlock doesn't allow himself to ever admit to having many regrets, but his total neglect of Molly is one thing that will always haunt him. It reminds him a little too much of the stinging rejection felt by a seventeen year old boy, too smart for his own good, who'd just been ignored by someone he thought he loved, someone he was so sure loved him back.
So, he knows that Molly would do anything for him. And while this saves his life on countless occasions (one big one mostly), in terrifies him more than a little.
Because, deep down, from the first moment their eyes met in a glancing blow over a graying corpse in Bart's Morgue, before he seemingly dismissed her from his sphere of acknowledgement, Sherlock realized-a deduction he inexplicably didn't verbalize- that Molly was an amazing person.
Kind, compassionate to a fault, caring, smart but shy, loving, nurturing. Brilliant. And oh so good.
Too good.
Because Sherlock's always known, from that first deduction filled instant, that she was brilliant.
She's made him a better person, made him more human. Loved him like few precious others have ever even bothered to try.
She's too good to be used, to be hurt and broken and cracked.
Sherlock's always known he destroys everything-everyone- he touches, and he couldn't bear that to happen to Molly Hooper.
She's too good for that, too good for him.
He'll never tell, but he knows from that first glance that he could have loved her, possibly quite a lot (he'll love her anyway, but not the same).
He cares enough to let her go before he ever has her.
John calls it cruel. Mycroft calls it elementary. Lestrade calls it ridiculously misguided chivalry.
He calls it humanity. It may be the first glimmer he ever shows.
Molly Hooper isn't the love of his life. She might have been, once, but no.
He isn't the love of her's either.
Sherlock never quite manages to stop regretting that fact just a very little.
5. Belief is a dangerous game
He doesn't notice Moriarty at first. He notices Jim, analyzing him with a scalpel like scrutiny, before dismissing him as boring. He never realized he was breaking a heart or two in doing so.
(He never gets to find out how much of Jim, that nervous, endearing, flirty man, was real. How much of him actually existed. Somehow, despite everything, inspite of everything that follows, he'll always regret that rather a lot.)
Regardless, he never sees Jim again.
Moriarty believed Sherlock was his equal. He wasn't wrong, not entirely. Because really, he was, in so many ways. In so many, many ways, they were alike.
Even John can't deny that.
They were both loners who stood on the outside of a society that was much too slow and backward for either of their amazing brains.
They could both compute numbers faster than almost any calculator.
They both had older siblings they pretended to detest.
They both lost their parents at a young age.
They were both addicts.
They both saw life as a game, and loved nothing more than winning.
They both feared boredom more than death itself.
They were both open to everything the world had to offer, exposed like a raw nerve to life at its fullest. It broke them both, in subtly similar and yet meaningfully different ways.
In many, many smaller ways, they were so very different.
Sherlock was a loner by necessity, Moriarty was one by choice.
Moriarty never even considered using a calculator for anything. Sherlock sometimes texted Mycroft for an answer, on days when thinking anything more would give him a migraine.
Moriarty detested his older sister genuinely after she left him, by dying. Sherlock grew up secure in the knowledge Mycroft would never leave him.
Moriarty's parents abandoned him. Sherlock's died, but he got better ones.
Sherlock was addicted to something physical, something you could kick. Moriarty was addicted to human suffering, for which the only withdrawal was death, in the end.
Sherlock played the game to save the world, to see there was a world at all. Moriarty only played it to win, never seeing past the game to the world beyond.
Sherlock conquered his fear of boredom, by facing death and winning. Moriarty lost fighting the battle.
Sherlock found a way to insulate himself from the raw exposure. Moriarty didn't.
Sherlock found people. He found love. Moriarty never got that lucky.
(Sherlock had Mycroft. Jim...had no one).
He called Sherlock an angel, standing on that roof, poised between hell and eternity. Sherlock's only met two angels in his life, disguised as a worn to weary Detective Inspector and a mousily quiet morgue tech, and he's very certain he doesn't come close to resembling either one of them.
He knows this in that moment because, deep in his beating heart, he knows an angel would feel compassion for the broken demon before him. Sherlock though, Sherlock just feels fear. And pity. And overwhelming gratitude. Because he knows, he surely knows, that this could have been him. It would have been him. But for one simple fact.
He wasn't alone. He isn't alone. Even in this moment, or perhaps most in this moment, he was never alone.
Nobody ever believed in Jim Moriarty. That, Sherlock Holmes will always regret.
6. Belief is a bigheaded prat
Sherlock's father dies when he is not quite three years old. He remembers just enough (from an age when most children remember nothing, so everyone always assumes he doesn't either, so no one ever asks, except Mycroft, always Mycroft) to know he lost something special that day. Irreplaceable.
Sometimes, he'll admit that Mycroft lost so much more.
Whatever else, their father's death marked the end of Mycroft's childhood, and the obliterated of the only legitimate proof that he and Mycroft weren't anomalous freaks of nature.
This last fact enables their mother to wrap her grief up in a cloak of denial-induced normality. Overnight, their mother reverts. Becomes normal, ordinary- the one thing her sons can never be.
Mycroft never tells Sherlock about what their mother was like before. Sherlock deduces it at age five anyway, but they both appreciate the sentiment. Appreciate the knowledge that Mother was once just Mummy, that she died with their father, in all but body.
Mother remarries by the time Sherlock is ten, but it doesn't matter. That added set piece to her performance of ordinariness, the one her sons never get an invitation to, is never more that a prop to those remarkable, lost little boys.
Sherlock loses his dad before he ever really knew what it was like to have one (he'd find out one day, sort of, maybe too late, perhaps). He got a Mycroft instead.
He will never have sufficient data to determine whether this was a fair trade.
They get the aforementioned stepfather when Sherlock is nine, an ordinary man who completes their mother's crusade to be normal like a well-chosen piece of furniture. Sherlock wants to hate him on principle, but he tries, because Mycroft asks him to.
He succeeds for nearly a year, until he's lying at the foot of the supposedly shut door of his room, and hears them talking about the Freak-Sherlock's never heard an adult call anyone this before, but that isn't what turns his heart to water.
Sherlock's "parents" succeed in breaking his faith in humanity two months before his tenth birthday, as he sits in a darkened hallway, biting his lip so hard it bleeds to keep from screaming, because they're not talking about him, not calling him a Freak. No, they're talking about his brother, his brilliant, amazing, terrifying, fantastic older brother. They're not calling him a freak-they're calling Mycroft one.
Sherlock stops pretending to be anything but himself after that night. He's shipped off to boarding school a week before his birthday. They don't even send him a card.
Sherlock never tells Mycroft what happened-he thinks Mycroft deduced it anyway, but they never speak of it. Mycroft remains civil to them well into adulthood, but he never insists Sherlock see them. He never calls her Mummy-that is only reserved for the before, before father's car imploded, taking their hearts with him.
The part Sherlock hopes Mycroft never deduced, the part he tries harder than he's ever tried at anything before to hide from Myc, is the topic of that late night conversation.
He was planning to adopt Sherlock. They were going to be a family she said-the three of them. Sherlock knows John would never believe him if he told him that he was almost normal once. That he would have been normal-that he was inches away from the act becoming reality.
Sherlock's decision to choose his brother is proven to be a logical one almost instantly, a justification that continues to be strengthened for the rest of his life.
(However he justifies it, privately Sherlock always knows his decision had nothing to do with logic, and everything to do with love.)
Most children have had occasion to doubt their parent's love for them at some point-that's the reality Sherlock grew up with. He's never had to doubt his "parents" love.
(He never forgets how much his big brother loves him. Never.)
Not for a single moment.
Sherlock prays his brother never finds out any of this-he'd never live it down.
(He hopes, hopes against hope, that Mycroft deduced it anyway)
Sherlock never calls Mycroft Dad-he never calls him anything but Mycroft after the age of ten.
(He does call Greg Papa on a few mundanely extraordinary occasions, but that's another story.)
Sherlock never has to stop believing in his hero. Because while Heroes might not exist, Big Brother's do.
7. Belief is a friend
John Watson may be Sherlock's soulmate, according to a certain sappy headed prat, but just reaching the friend category was a monumental accomplishment in the grand scheme of things.
Sherlock had never had a friend before-Greg never fit the category, neither did Molly or Mrs. Hudson, and he doesn't even compute the data for Seb to bother finding out if he could have.
He would say John's the first person who ever believes in him, but it would be a lie. That person is already firmly entrenched in his life before John Watson ever limps into it. (So much later, that simple fact may be the only thing that prevents his broken heart from actually shattering into a million pieces.)
John is Sherlock's confidante, his partner in crime, his co-conspirator. He's what Sherlock imagines a younger, more carefree, closer to his age Mycroft would have been like, if Father hadn't died and nominated Mycroft to head of the universe by default.
Whether they're chasing serial killers through cab routes and email trails or giggling outrageously while sitting stark naked in ancient vaulted houses of power, they are always simply John-and-Sherlock.
They are a couple that isn't, a partnership with no ring or official document, yet realer than both. John enters his life so loudly, declares his devotion so explosively, and yet asserts his role so gently.
Sherlock's barely had time to adjust to how the man prepares the Tea before he realizes he can't live without him.
By the time they've gotten to what toppings to put on the toast, Sherlock realizes life before John couldn't have been called living.
By sandwiches and chips, they've become soulmates(Shut up Mycroft).
By half past six, they've lived a whole life in a few heart pumping, showing stopping seconds. Those eighteen months are the best of Sherlock's life. He'll never forget them. They nourish his soul, giving him sustenance for the long, bleak, desperate years that follow.
(There is a life after death for them, but Sherlock knows, from the first moment he forces John away, from the first moment John goes, that this, whatever this is, was, that there's no getting it back. So things aren't meant to be fixed. Some things can't be unsaid.)
Before, in life-with-John, when they were a "couple", Sherlock doesn't think about feelings. He just lives, breathing in every achingly happy moment, every breathless laugh, every near miss, every moment of heartstopping oneness.
Sherlock never played pretend, he never had an imaginary friend. He's always regretted that, until he meets John.
No childhood imagining could ever have measured up to what he has with John, however briefly.
Sherlock never tries to define their relationship, not ever. He thinks John may be his soulmate. He knows he was, is his best friend. He knows he'll never meet another like him, as long as he lives.
He knows John made him better.
He knows John completed him, in so many ways he didn't even know where unfinished.
He knows John Watson created Sherlock Holmes.
He knows he never would have found his way without his blogger.
(John made him feel, made him care, made him love. He broke his heart, in the end, but he'll always also be the reason Sherlock knew he had a heart to break in the first place.)
That is their greatest tragedy, and their greatest triumph.
He knows that John Watson was the love of his life. Will always be the love of his life.
He doesn't know if he was the love of John's, but, for the first time, he has hope.
It's all they ever get, but somehow, it's enough.
All. Belief is an echo following an explosion of silence
Nobody ever actually takes credit for starting the I-Believe-In-Sherlock-Holmes movement. In fact, for all that it's considered the single largest mass media support campaign of the decade, no one ever seems quite sure where, or indeed when, exactly it originated.
All people can ever really recall is that one day the words I-Believe-In-Sherlock-Holmes were suddenly plastered everywhere, from the sides of buildings to the bottoms of bridges. Before anyone could blink, it was everywhere-parents found it written on their children's lunch boxes, bus drivers saw it on bumper stickers; tee-shirt sellers in California started printing it in bright yellow on the backs of their designs.
It gave viral a whole new meaning.
But, in the midst of all that passion, creativity, and global media attention, nobody ever quite knew where it began.
(Years later, when Sherlock has been back for several seasons, and the media has finally started reprinting the story on page 3 instead of page 1, a small, mostly ignored editorial will be written by a former disgraced journalist whose name sounded like a cat crossed with a biscuit brand. It will be relegated to page 10 of the Globe, and will be read by all of six people in entire London area.)
One of those people will be a certain John Watson, who will clip it out with care, and pin it up on the cork board in corner, for every time the intrepid duo need a laugh-the shear absurdity he'll think. (John doesn't officially live there anymore, but somehow, he never truly finds another place to call home, so the corkboard it is).
John never notices that the clipping mysteriously vanishes a short while later, to be carefully stowed at the bottom of a certain sock drawer, underneath a single unspent bullet casing and a somewhat muddied pink ruff with pom-poms.
The clipping is less than a paragraph long, and it a poorly researched sensational piece entitled "Secret Romance-Intrepid Policeman Crusades to Clear Lover's Name". The whole thing is sordid and shoddily put together, much like everything else Kitty Riley as ever written. And like all her other articles, it is almost completely fictional. Almost being the operant word there.
Amongst her absurd collection of inaccurate, sensationalist claptrap, Miss Riley somehow managed to stumble upon perhaps the only true scoop of her entire journalistic career. A career which unfortunately predisposed people to disbelieve this one, startling truth.
For of course, as everyone remotely associated with the Yard or Sherlock Holmes knew, the person she named in the article detested Sherlock beyond measure. And they certainly wouldn't be caught dead with spray paint.
And if Sherlock never insults said person in quite the same manner after his return, well, nobody really notices. Afterall, as Sherlock never tired of telling Anderson, the human race isn't the most observant of species.
But occasionally they surprise even Sherlock Holmes. Even those who can lower the IQ of an entire city block simply by opening their mouths.
None and One. Belief is inconsequential
Sally calls him an egomaniacal bastard once. He has to look it up, in the days when Meth is still addling what little of his brain the Coke leaves alone. He finds the definition a tad extreme, but is flattered nonetheless.
Greg never hears the comment (luckily for Sally), but if he had, he would have laughed until he cried(while quietly forwarding her contact details to Mycroft). Only a few people know, although the whole world could probably guess beyond any reasonable doubt if they ever bothered to actually think for a change, that Sherlock has a ridiculously small amount of self-esteem.
(Really though, this one isn't rocket science-the man threwhimself at the mercy of a serial killer for goodness sake.)
Sherlock has never believed in himself. He believes in his brain, his intelligence, his ability to solve puzzles, his ability to be the smartest person in any room Mycroft is not also occupying.
He believes he is defined by his intelligence, and that he is only as good as his next deduction. But he has never believed, not even remotely, in himself.
He believes in other people just fine (sorry Anderson, there goes the psychopath explanation). He believes in those he loves (and sociopath, sorry Sherlock).
He believes in Molly Hooper, believes she taught him what it means to be human, to show compassion, to even know what empathy is.
He believes in Philip Anderson, believes the man isn't actually an idiot (possibly, maybe).
He believes in Sebastian Wilkes, believes the man set him on the path to the rest of his life by setting him free to fall, and be caught.
He believes in Martha Hudson, believes she saved him with her faith, believes she taught him what home meant.
He believes in Jim Moriarty, believes that the man could have been amazing, maybe even good. He knows they might have been the best of friends, even loved each other, in another lifetime.
He believes in his big brother, believes Mycroft can fix any problem in the world, believes he'll do anything for his little brother.
He believes in Greg Lestrade, believes the man saved his soul, and taught him what belief was in the first place. He knows Greg loves his big brother, and that they both love him.
He believes in John Watson, believes he is the best and wisest man Sherlock will ever meet, believes he taught Sherlock everything, from how to live to how to love.
He believes, standing on a narrow ledge, tears careening from his cheeks towards eternity, that he is loved by these people, his only friends in all the world, his only family in all the world, and that he loves them in return, each and every one of them.
He believes they gave him a life worth living, and taught him how to live it.
He believes that they believed in him.
He believes he can save them.
He knows he has to try, even if the cost will be everything he is. They made him, piece by piece, and he will gladly unmake himself to preserve their lives. They are the heart of him, and he cannot, will not let that burn out.
He thinks about crocodile tears, and finds himself laughing through the pain, pink ruffs with Florida tinged falling sequins that smell of home and minced pies flashing before his eyes like old ghosts of fondly remembered old friends.
He sees white hospital canes and badly candlelight checkered table clothes, gaudy wallpaper and invading laughter. He thinks "bit not good, yeah" as his demons circle ever closer.
He shifts his weight forward, images of umbrellas that become swords and blackberries on summer days bleeding into faded medals of lost cause saints and smudges of child's paint that were more precious than solid gold flashing before his eyes.
He inhales and catches whiffs of bad perfume and too strong cologne, smudges of wiped off lipstick and cold coffee playing at his heartstrings. Snatches of music, out of the blue rock and haunting violin, Bach and Wagner and the Heebie-Jeebies falling into each other, crashing like the solar system orbiting mars.
His eyes snap open, words echoing all around the air.
I worry about him, …constantly.
What do you need?
That's coming out of your rent young man!
That was the most insane thing I've ever done.
Help me out, old pal.
Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone?
He's always been so resentful.
There was no case. There was never any case.
Will you come?
Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I believe, if we're very, very lucky, one day he might even be a good one.
I've known him five years and know I don't.
You look sad, when you think he can't see you. And I know what that's like, looking sad when no one can see you.
We're not a couple! Yes you are.
Friends protect people.
He drops his phone, tears buffeted away by the wind. He takes one step forward, and falls.
The world falls with him.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in heroes. He doesn't believe in himself. Ask him and he'll tell you that belief is irrelevant.
He falls anyway that day. Because he believes he can save them, save his heart from burning out.
And because he knows, deep inside the heart they forged within him, that no matter how far he falls, they will be there to catch him, that they will catch him, no matter how long it takes.
After all, that's what friends, what family, does.
They taught him that.