John stood watching helplessly as Moriarty, dressed in a tall top hat and opera cape straight from a Victorian melodrama rose from a pool of blood and brain. Sherlock stared as well, equally transfixed. One did not climb to one's feet and shake off the effects of having half of one's head blown away. It just wasn't done.
Moriarty laughed, delighted by their stunned reaction. He pranced a circle around them, the merry jester, all pranks and japes.
It was obvious to John that Sherlock was losing his temper. A showdown between mortal enemies should be conducted with dignity, but there was none to be had from an opponent who considered everything that had transpired to be one big game.
Suddenly, Moriarty stilled. He drew a long barrelled, deadly looking gun from the folds of his cape. He pointed it at John and then at Sherlock as if trying to make up his mind. The barrel settled on John, but Moriarty's eyes were only for his rival. They locked gazes, Sherlock and Moriarty, a test of wills. Sherlock shook his head, always the hero even in defeat. He moved to the edge of the building and climbed the short wall that separated the rooftop from air. He glanced back at John, his eyes full of apologies, and jumped.
John screamed. He lunged at Moriarty, wrestled his gun away, and fired it. A succession of brightly coloured flags burst forth, each one said 'Bang!'
Moriarty clutched his chest, comically, and then dove off the roof. But where Sherlock had fallen, Moriarty rose, using his cape like wings. He fluttered for a moment in front of the building as John kept pulling the trigger. With a final, triumphant cackle he swooped round John's head and then took off, gliding into the sunset.
John woke with a gasp. Fading sunlight streamed into the room and in self defence he pulled his pillow over his face before rolling over onto his side. "Same damn dream." Wearily, he hauled himself upright. "Same damn dream."
The television was feeble company, but it was better than the internal monologue that wouldn't stop. Somehow, some way, he should have done something to clear Sherlock's name.
A chat show was in progress. The presenter, an insufferably bubbly woman with pretensions of being a serious journalist, was interviewing a psychologist. Thirty seconds of listening to a bunch of bilge about the need to have heroes and the compulsion to assign them super-abilities to rationalise belief in them was enough. Though his death had been weeks ago, they were still talking about Sherlock.
He stabbed the power switch off and threw the remote across the room. It collided with the wall and broke into pieces. A noise, somewhere between rage and defeat seemed the only reply. John made it, releasing a little of his frustration, and then he put on his shoes and jacket and went out.
He walked aimlessly. It had become habit, the pointless meandering, a metaphor for his life post-Sherlock. Eventually he was going to have to do something about it, pull himself up by his bootstraps and carry on, but he couldn't quite see the point. He was as he had been upon returning from Afghanistan, rudderless. Civilian life bored him. The army didn't want him. The Met didn't want him. Even if he hadn't been tainted by Sherlock's disgrace, he was only an enthusiastic amateur, not a trained criminologist.
The longer he walked the more angry John got. Sherlock hadn't been a fraud. Moriarty had pulled some kind of sleight of hand, and for reasons that were utterly beyond him, Mycroft was letting him get away with it. With all of the resources at his disposal, it made no sense. He could fix Sherlock's reputation. He could expose the Richard Brooks hoax, but Mycroft did nothing. When pressed on the issue, he simply refused to discuss it and suggested it would be healthier for John if he let matters lie.
A car horn blared. John jumped back as brakes squealed. He mimed an apology at the driver for his inattention and took stock of his surroundings. He was at Barts, standing nearly in the spot where he'd been when Sherlock had jumped. A lump rose in his throat. Anger and sadness and frustration at life in general and the injustice to Sherlock's memory made his vision go red. He needed to do something.
Across the street, at the spot where Sherlock's body had come to rest, lay a sprawl of floral tributes and deerstalker hats. A fragile smile bowed his lips and some of John's discontent ebbed. Sherlock, despite all his public detractors, still had fans. He had helped a lot of people, and some of them remembered. With a greater awareness of the cars and people around him, John crossed to examine the memorial more closely. He knelt next to one of the temporary bollards that had been erected to restrict the size of the display and examined one of the cards.
'You brought my Susie home when the police couldn't be fussed. Thank you.'
A bear in a deerstalker hat had a note attached with a red ribbon. Its logic was iffy, but John appreciated the sentiment all the same.
'No one with eyes like yours could be a bad'un. XXX'
Another card said simply, 'You helped me when I needed it most. I'm sorry that I couldn't have done the same.'
It was heartening to see that at least some people still believed and that Sherlock's reputation wasn't completely blackened. John cleared his throat, choked up again, but this time with gratitude for the small, yet persistent, show of support. He rose to his feet and began to walk, paying greater attention to his surroundings even though fanciful thoughts of hiring sky-writers or billboards, creating a tribute to end all tributes, filled his head. Then he laughed, a small self-deprecating sound. Those people who left gifts at Barts were making the chat shows. Granted, they were getting slagged by the presenters for their beliefs, but drops of water could erode a boulder given volume and time.
He dug his hands into his pockets and the fingers of his right closed around a felt tipped pen. He pulled it out and uncapped it, feeling as if he were striking a blow as he looked both ways for a suitable spot. Ahead of him was a 'You are Here' map. John smiled. Yes, he was here, damn it. And he was going to make a mark, even if he did end up with an ASBO for his efforts. He walked up to the sign and leaned in as if studying it closely.
He took a deep breath and then scrawled, taking a moment afterwards to admire his handiwork. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' in four inch letters seemed to improve the map vastly in his humble estimation. John sauntered away, his step lighter than it had been in weeks. It was a small blow, but perhaps if he repeated it often enough like water on a stone it would make a difference.