John had refused to return to Baker Street for that first night. He told Mrs. Hudson that he was going to go to Harry's but instead found a room at an inn. He spent two nights there, trying to piece himself back together. He left the small television off, refusing to hear the news reports, and the paper that was delivered was never so much as glanced at. He knew what he would see. Reports on Actor Richard Brook, information on The Fraudulent Detective Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty had won; he was broken, Sherlock was-, people had believed Moriarty's lie, he had won. On the third day, after fitful nights without sleep, John climbed onto a bus headed, eventually, towards their flat.
He sat in the uncomfortable seat, eyes locked on his clasped hands. He could feel the looks people were giving him, pitying looks, the doctor beguiled by the fraud-that poor man. So he ignored them, he ignored the person who sat down next to him, even as they interrupted his view with the folded page ripped out of a sketchbook. He looked at it now bewildered. His fellow passenger making no move to retract it. Gently with shaking hands he removed if from their grasp.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes
There was no punctuation, no ending, no real beginning, just those five words, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes". He let out a heavy breath, having been un aware he had stopped at the site of them. The bus stopped once more and he looked over to see the young woman seated beside him as she stood up. She gave him a soft, sad, smile; the kind that extended up into her warm brown eyes, she said nothing. John nodded slightly. Before the end of the week he saw the phrase twice more. The first in a messy handwritten scrawl on a paper badge: The twelve year old girl had it tacked to her rucksack. The second was worn buy a young man that was going into the cafe, his looked more professional in its origins.
Harry was the one who instructed him to turn on his telly. John was hesitant at first when he heard the reporter say his best mate's name but he listened. Apparently it had moved past shirts and badges. There were posters and people were tagging buildings all across London. The reporters claimed it was a fad. Something lead by the young people in a new attempt at rebellion. They said it would not last.
They were wrong. Two months later, six months after Sherlock's death, and either John or Mrs. Hudson would find small notes stuck through their letter-slot or shoved under the knocker. Tee-shirts and jumpers now regularly carried messages such as No doubt, Sherlock, and Moriarty was real, but always it came back to that first phrase I believe in Sherlock Holmes. It was not just the students anymore either. Someone somewhere had designed a very simple non-obtrusive lapel pin with the consulting detectives silhouette, what had been spotted on more than one MP's jacket. Jonathan Ross, Craig Ferguson, and Graham Norton had both thrown in their support in their crass and comedic manner as well. John had been invited to join all three but he had declined. He was not ready to talk about him yet.
There were those who claimed his reluctance was because he could not face Sherlock's guilt, but those voices were quickly drowned out, by the ever growing "Sherlockians" . There were face book pages and Tumblr accounts-a site John had not even heard of until the newscaster mentioned it-and it was trending on Twitter. "Richard Brook" had his supporters at first, but his persona became thinner and thinner as investigative reporters looked into the supposed actors works and came up with nothing but a few playbills and some rather blank memories. They were tugging at the strings of the lie, and it was starting to unravel.
It was a year later when it fully struck John. He had seen a fantastic mural of his best friend down an ally and gone to investigate. As he looked upon the painted face, the encouraging words, the light went on. Moriarty had Lost. Sherlock was gone, but he was not forgotten. Nor was he remembered as the fraud Moriarty had intended. His plan had failed. He had underestimated the oh so boring people. They were so much smarter than he had thought. Even though his blog had not been updated in the years span, and he had disabled the comments, people had been reading. They had spoken to those who had been effected by Sherlock, they had come up with their own deductions; and what they deduced was that Sherlock Holmes was real. Sherlock had given his life, but in the end he had won. John opened his laptop, and for the first time since that June day, began a new entry.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES