I don't own the characters of Sherlock Holmes or John Watson, nor do I profit from the writing of this fanfiction.

Just a little something I penned after scouring the #believeinsherlock tag on Tumblr.

Woops and howls drifted up into the night air from a London back street. Another pack was on the move, no doubt out for another night of 'tagging' as it was now known. John was laying on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He listened to the animalistic calls from outside. It sounded like they were getting closer. They were probably going to hold another candle-lit vigil on the doorstep and then disperse to tag as many blank surfaces as they could. John wasn't scared of the noises anymore. They were strangely comforting in the darkest hours when sleep continually eluded him.

The packs were nothing new, they'd formed quickly after Sherlocks death. Pockets of resistance cropped up all over London. Teams of dedicated fans who refused to believe that Sherlock was a liar. Then reports started coming from further afield. The movement crept its way up and down the country until no town or city was without a few hundred tags. John turned onto his side to gaze out of the window. The night was dark and bitterly cold but he saw a small warm glow coming from behind the thin curtains. He sighed heavily and heaved himself from the sofa to take a look.

Sure enough, about twenty young bodies were gathered on the pavement outside 221B. They were sat in a circle around a stack of candles and one was giving some sort of speech. John peeled back the curtain a little further and strained to hear what it was she was saying.

"There will never be a time when we won't visit this spot. This very spot where our beloved Sherlock once resided. He was everything that was good, wholesome and brilliant. His mind was far superior than the minds of those who are currently condemning it. We owe it to Sherlock Holmes, to ourselves, each other and of course, the wonderful Doctor Watson to continue our work. We will not sleep, rest or stop until Sherlock Holmes' name is cleared and the world realises that James Moriarty WAS real and he DID make Sherlock Holmes' take his own life!"
The girl had gradually got louder and more emotional as she spoke and upon her last word, fell to her knees and sobbed into the arms of the girl sitting to her right. John had never really paid much attention to the packs who came to sit on the doorstep night after night. He'd always shut his bedroom door and pretend none of it was happening. Every pack that came to pay tribute to Sherlock just made it worse, like picking the scab off a wound. The girl who had just been speaking however, caught Johns eye. The way she'd spoken so highly of Sherlock and with so much feeling brought a knot to Johns stomach. How could someone who had never even met his friend understand him so well? Without thinking, John pulled on a pair of slippers and his coat and went gently down the stairs so as not to wake Mrs Hudson.
The click of the door of 221B unlocking seemed so loud in the quiet street that the assembled pack held a collective breath as all their eyes shot towards it. The girl who had been crying looked up in wonderment as the heavy black door swung open to reveal a tired looking John Watson. There were audible gasps and hushed murmurs among the group as John looked out at them all without really knowing what to say. The girl who'd been rallying the group got to her feet and slowly made her way to the first step before the door.
"Hello Doctor Watson." she smiled coyly. She sniffed back her tears and wiped the freezing moisture off her face with a leather gloved hand.
"Hello." John replied.
"We were actually just about to leave, I'm sorry we woke you. We don't mean any harm, we jus-" She was cut off by John raising his hand.
"What you said...just then it was...It was. Beautiful." he said in a whisper. Before John could make sense of what was happening, the girl was inside the door with her arms wrapped around his waist and her face buried in his pyjama top. Her body was wracked with sobs again and John felt the natural urge to circle his own arms around her. After a few moments, when she managed to stabilise herself, the girl spoke again.
"We know he was a good man, an honest man. We know he would never lie and we'll always believe in him. Although we didn't know him like you knew him, we miss him so much."
"You were the first weren't you?" asked John, knowingly.
"How did you-?" the girl frowned up at him.
"I know your face, you come here a lot. Often when I leave the flat, you're sat outside Speedys or on the corner of the street." Johns memories of the girl were flooding back now. She seemed to be everywhere. If it hadn't been for her outfit which was a replica of one of Sherlocks more famous ones (but done on the cheap) and the ring in her nose, John would've said this was Mycroft's doing. Someone sent to babysit him from afar. But no, she was a fan. Or an activist or whatever it was these kids wanted to call themselves.
The girl pulled away from John, who for some unknown reason still had his arms around her. She looked at the floor and stuffed her gloved hands into the pockets of the long woolen coat.
"I'm sorry to have bothered you Doctor Watson." she uttered and turned to leave. Her peers were all still watching from the street. John caught her arm.
"Don't go. We need to talk." The girl swung back around to face him and the look in Johns eyes told her she had to stay.
"Give me a moment." she replied and went outside to speak to her troops. They spoke in quick, hushed conversation and soon the crowd was dispersing, ducking down alleyways and hopping into cars. The girls friend remained, the one she'd cried to. John watched intently as the girl whispered into her friends ear and then pulled back to smile and wrap an arm around her waist. She pulled her in close and the pair kissed each other's cheeks before the friend darted across the street and onto the fire escape ladder of a nearby flat. She picked her way up onto the roof of the buildings across from 221B and after watching John close the door behind him, disappeared into the night.

"Please, have a seat." offered John as the girl walked into the flat. She stood still, taking in everything. Taking in the lab equipment still strewn across the kitchen table, the stack of mail impaled to the mantlepiece by a pocket knife, the stacks of case files gathering dust on the old bureau by the window, the bullet holes in the wall and the navy blue scarf hanging on the back of the door. 221B Baker Street was a snapshot in time. John had preserved it exactly the way Sherlock had left it. The one remaining thread he had of the way things used to be. Finally the girl sat on the sofa and peeled her pale hands from the leather gloves she had on.
"What's your name?" enquired John from the kitchen.
"To give me my official title I'm Francesca-Amelia Cordell but everyone knows me as Frankie." she called back.
"Tea, Frankie?"
"Oh no, coffee please. Black, two sugars."
John smiled at the fact that it was exactely the same way Sherlock had taken his coffee, then mentally cursed himself as he felt his heart grow heavy. He shook away the feeling and took the two steaming mugs through to the living room and sat beside Frankie. She wriggled out of her coat and John noticed her slight figure and dark attire. She wore a long sleeved formal shirt which was black in colour and tight fitting black jeans which were smoothly tucked into knee high Doc Martin boots. She reached up and pulled the deer stalker hat off her head and a mass of dark brown curls fell around her shoulders. John was speechless. She was a female Sherlock. Her face was thin and structured. Her cheekbones ruled her face and her lips were full and angular. She could have been his twin. John studied her carefully as she picked up her mug and pursed her lips to blow over the hot liquid. John estimated she was in her twenties so that ruled out the far fetched theory that she was, in fact, Sherlocks long lost twin and Mycroft's very well kept secret. She did look strikingly similar though. John was startled from his thoughts as Frankie spoke.
"I'm guessing you want me to tell you how I started this thing...?" she enquired, setting her mug down and getting comfortable.
"Please, go ahead." John said, settling himself.
"I was there." she uttered, looking at the floor.
"Where?" frowned John.
"St Barts. On the day Sherlock...jumped." Frankie breathed deeply, stifling back tears. John turned to look at her, wide-eyed.
"I was in the cafe across the street picking up coffee after my shift. I used to work in the hospital canteen, see. And I saw you, on your phone. I looked up to see what you were looking at and saw...Sherlock. There. On the edge." A silent tear escaped her eye as she continued.
"I'd known of Sherlock for a long time, he was always knocking around the hospital and one day I happened to stumble across your blog. I followed every word you wrote after that, always seeing what the pair of you were working on. I used to go down to the morgue and hang out with Molly, she'd spoken to me about Sherlock lots of times. I knew someone who worked for the courts who owed me a favour so I managed to get into the public gallery for the Moriarty trial. I watched Sherlock giving evidence and just thought he was the most brilliant, intellectual being I'd ever laid eyes on. I was completely enthralled with how his mind worked. Then the stuff about Moriarty came out in the papers and not for one second did I believe that everything I'd seen had been faked..."
"You didn't?" John interrupted, sipping at his tea.
"Not at all. There was no way it could have been. There was never any doubt in my mind that everything he'd ever said was true. Then that day at St Barts... I watched helplessly as a brilliant, brilliant man fell. And I watched you. His loyal friend and colleague. Left behind.." her voice faltered and John reached over and put his palm on her knee.
"And I see you now and you're so broken. You spend every day consumed in work and every night consumed in grief, waiting for the day he might walk back through that door even when you know he won't." Frankie looked up into Johns eyes and he knew she could see it all. He hadn't felt this way since the first time he'd met Sherlock and he had been able to read every little detail of Johns life in seconds. Frankie sniffed and continued. "The next day when all the papers reported it was suicide, I couldn't find it in myself to believe it. I just knew that Moriarty would have something to do with it. I headed for the internet and noticed that Sherlock was the top trend on Twitter and his death was being discussed at length on Facebook and Tumblr was full of mourning for their great detective. I had to do something about it. I set up anonymous profiles on every social networking facility I could find and spread the hashtag #believeinsherlockholmes and gave a meeting time and place for individuals who wanted to fight to clear Sherlocks name. That first meeting gained The Movement fifty four members. We decided to remain largely online at first, spreading the hashtag and creating more meetings. By the end of the first week, we'd established groups of fifty plus members for North, South, East and West London. By the end of the second week, group numbers were becoming so big we decided to split packs into their seperate boroughs. Soon borough packs were too big. Packs divided themselves into postcodes and shortly after that was when we had word of packs forming in Essex and Kent. A week later the first packs in Birmingham, Nottingham, Manchester and Bristol were confirmed. The week after we had packs in Newcastle, Liverpool, Edinburgh, Lincoln and Cardiff. After that I lost track of my own creation, new packs were springing up in new towns and cities by the hour. I relied upon my pack leaders and the national news to tell me of newly formed packs."
John was once again dumb-founded. He cleared his throat quietly.
"So who or where was the first pack to start the street tagging?" he asked, his tea now completely cold.
"My original pack. We got nicknamed The Elders and it was my fifty four strong team who took to the streets and tagged where we could. I remember tailing you the morning after we did the first ones and seeing your reaction as you exited the tube on Piccadilly Circus and saw the tall yellow letters across the steps of Eros."
"You were there?"
"I've always been there John. I've never let you be truly alone since Sherlocks death. I knew he'd want someone to look after you so I took the responsibility upon myself." Frankie smiled, placing her hand over Johns which was still clutching her knee. John smiled weakly, completely in awe of the power of human kindness.
"Thank you." was all John could muster.
The pair talked all night about their one common factor, Sherlock Holmes. John learnt of how Frankie had been his silent guardian every step of the way, always there but always just out of sight. As the dawn broke and the winter sun began to spread its wings over central London, Frankie bid her farewells.
"I have to go John, I need to gather the nights reports and give a breakdown to all my pack leaders." she smiled as she pulled on her gloves and shrugged into her coat. Her elegant fingers fastened the buttons quickly and as she headed for the door, she flicked up the collar.
"Will I see you-"
"Soon John. Look out of your window. I'll be around." she winked and glided down the stairs. John heard the door slam and her heavy boots stride across the street. He listened as a taxi door opened and closed and his silent angel raced away.

Mrs Hudson crept up the creaky staircase to Johns flat to find him fast asleep on the sofa, a full mug of cold tea on the table. She smiled and began to busy herself with tidying up and doing the dishes. John stirred as he heard the kettle flick on. The creak of the leather sofa told Mrs Hudson he was awake.
"Good morning dear. I hear we had company again last night." she called from the kitchen sink. John stretched and groaned. His leg hurt.
"Yes, we did."
"How many?"
"About twenty." John pulled himself up slowly, venturing to the window to see a much smaller pack loitering across the road. They held hands and their heads were bowed forward. They didn't normally do this in the day, they were getting braver. Mrs Hudson had left a newspaper on the coffee table and John picked it up to read the headline.

SHERLOCK MOVEMENT CLAIMS SOUTHWARK BRIDGE

The photo underneath was of hurrying commuters crossing Southwark Bridge which was adorned with a banner across the entire length of it. Piercing yellow letters had been painted onto the black fabric. "#believeinsherlockholmes" John smiled to himself at the thought of Frankie looking at the same paper, content with her army's work. The article continued inside and there was a montage of similar photos from familiar locations across the country. The Movement had claimed all the major sights in London as well as The Angel of the North, The Royal Oak in Sherwood Forest, Greyfriars Bobby, The Millenium Centre and The Liver Building to name but a few. The article stated that there were reports of small packs forming as far afield as Eastern Europe and even several states in America. John thought that it was time he made a statement.

To: Lestrade
Set up a press conference. I'm ready to talk about The Movement - JW.

After John sent the text he went to shower and dig out a suit. It was time he joined the revolution.

Shortly after midday, John arrived at Scotland Yard and made his way up to Lestrade's office. Lestrade greeted him with a firm handshake and his ever-sympathetic smile.
"Why now then?" he asked.
"It's almost six months and there's no sign of this thing going away. I should speak out about it. How I support it..."
"You support it?" Lestrade looked at John with utter contempt.
"Oh come on Greg, it's not like you don't." John raised an eyebrow.
"I have to be seen to remain impartial. I can't let you go out there and say how you think these kids vandalising the entire country is like some Second Coming."
"We've seen the photos, we've read the reports. It's going global Greg. New packs have sprung up in America. America, Greg! Soon the government and all the higher powers are going to have to sit up and take notice of this. They're going to have to admit they need to investigate Sherlocks death more thoroughly." John spoke quickly as he paced Lestrade's office, getting utterly carried away with himself.
"I think you're riding too much on this." warned Lestrade firmly.
"This is twenty first century revolution Greg. Urban warfare on a completely different scale. The world's never seen anything like this... Sherlock would have loved it."
Lestrade sighed and ran his hands through his hair.
"You're right, he would. Come on then, let's do this. Holmes' can't drag me much lower than he already has." he said, leaving his office followed by a fully satisfied John. Little did they know that the dark figure hiding above the ceiling tiles in Lestrades office was thrilled by the news of John's press conference too.

John fought his way through a barrage of probing and uneasy questions for a fifteen minute press conference before Lestrade called it and John was lead back to the office.
"That was awful." John sighed, rubbing his hands through his hair.
"You did great." smiled Greg, laying a reassuring hand on Johns shoulder.
"If he's out there, he'll have been watching that."
"John, you know-"
"Yes I know. I've got to hold onto every scrap of hope I have though Greg. It's the only thing that makes it easier."
Lestrade sighed and watched as the tired, shell of John Watson sloped out of his office.

On his return to Baker Street, John found his front door already unlocked. He pushed it cautiously and stepped inside quietly. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and listened intently. He needn't have worried though as he heard Mrs Hudson's voice lilting down from his flat. It was joined by another female voice. John smiled to himself. Frankie was here. He bounded up the stairs and into the flat to see the two women on his sofa, conversing quite naturally.
"Hello dear! Tea?" smiled Mrs Hudson as she saw John.
"Yes please Mrs H." he smiled. Frankie turned to look at John and his smile soon faded when he saw the state of her face. One of her eyes was blacked and her lip was split.
"Oh god, Frankie. What happened?" John asked frantically, kneeling before her and placing a hand to her chin. He examined the wounds closely and pressed her face to feel for possible fractures. She winced but laughed.
"John, I'm fine really. I've been checked out. I'm good."
"Who did this to you?" John could feel the anger brewing in his stomach.
"I didn't see them. I was on my way over here and I got jumped. Maybe someone doesn't like my little 'campaign'." she threw up air quotes with her fingers. John pulled at his own hair and stood up, emitting a growl of despair. He stood and began to pace the room.
"Even now! He's dead and he's still hurting people. Fuck!... Sherlock!"
"JOHN!" there was a chorus of scolding from both Frankie and Mrs Hudson.
"It's not his fault." Frankie sympathised, joining John in the middle of the room and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "I could have a lot of enemies out there, there's probably plenty of people who don't like the fact that I'm trying to clear Sherlock's name. Don't sweat it John, I'm not." she smiled again and kissed his cheek gently. John took a shakey breath in but smiled at the contact of Frankie's lips on his cheek.
"I'm sorry. I'm just still so angry with him...for... leaving." John sniffed. Mrs Hudson joined the pair, handing John his tea and nodding her exit at Frankie before retreating downstairs.
"You should come out with the pack tonight." Frankie suggested. John looked at her quizzically. He'd always wondered what it would be like to run with a pack. Ducking through the shadows, hiding in alleyways. Spreading the message of The Movement. The thought of the rebellious act sent waves of prickled heat down Johns spine and he couldn't fight a smirk from spreading across his face. One thought resounded in his head. 'Sherlock would want you to'.
"When do we leave?" asked John, taking a sip of his tea.

It was a few seconds before two in the morning and the night was again, bitterly cold. John had joined Frankies pack and they were assembled outside 221B Baker Street discussing the nights plan of action. Frankie stood on the doorstep of the flat with John by her side, assigning orders.
"Jake and Tom, take five others with you and head for Leicester Square. It's a while since we've been seen there. Jade, Grace, take a lot of paint and hit up Tower Bridge. Lee, Ellie, Jack, Daisy and Ryan? Carnaby Street. The rest of you, split up and take the usual big landmarks. We need to be seen and heard in a big way tonight. Show our special guest what we can do." Frankie smiled, knowing John was looking at her sideways. "Where are we going?" whispered John as the pack began to disperse.
"Somewhere special." she winked and pecked him on the cheek before slinging a satchel over her shoulder and pulling her leather gloves on. John zipped his coat all the way up and pulled a backpack full of spray paint cans onto his back.
"Ready?" Frankie grinned. But before John could answer, she laced their fingers together and broke into a run towards the main road, dragging the Doctor behind her. The pair ran through back streets, across trainlines, through parks until they finally rounded a corner onto the street where St Barts stood. They stood, panting and breathless, their chests heaving in unison. John was fearful to look up towards the roof from which his best friend had plunged.
"Why are we here?" John panted, still struggling to regain his breath.
"Because we need to make a statement." wheezed Frankie, obviously from her twenty a day smoking habit. She immediately dropped her satchel and wrenched out a sizeable white sheet. She took one corner and began to unfurl it across the road until it was stretched out flat. John unpacked several cans of paint from his backpack and began to shake one up. He was apprehensive about how openly they were doing this, in full view of CCTV cameras and passers by. He swallowed hard and turned to look up at the ledge where Sherlock had stood. He stared hard and blinked back tears before turning back to the large white canvas before him and began to spray. When Frankie was satisfied with their message, she took one corner of the banner while John took the other and they ventured up the fire escape of St Barts. As they reached the rooftop, Frankies phone began to bleep with message after message. She took her phone from her pocket to read them.

Leicester Sq. TAGGED.

Tower Bridge. TAGGED.

Carnaby St. TAGGED.

Tower of London. TAGGED.

Piccadilly Crcs. TAGGED.

Buckingham Palace. TAGGED.

"Wow. They got Her Majesty's." Frankie smiled, placing her phone back in her pocket and heading towards the edge of the roof.
"The theatre?" John enquired.
"Not quite... you could say it's seen it's fair share of drama though." laughed Frankie. "Right, attach it here and throw the banner over." The pair heaved the banner over the edge and watched it snake it's way down the outside of the building before making for the fire escape and scurrying back towards Baker Street. The unmissable #watsonbelievesinsherlockholmes banner flapped in the biting cold breeze, waiting until the morning rush hour to be discovered.

John burst through the door having run all the way, never stopping to look back at their handy work or to dwell any longer on the place that took his friend. He slammed the door behind them and made up the stairs at breakneck speed. His adrenalin was pumping, his heart was hammering and his mind was soaring. It felt good. It felt illegal but it felt good. Frankie was already collapsed on the sofa while John paced and then busied himself making tea. He hadn't said anything since they returned and by the time he found his voice and gathered the words to express how he was feeling, he found Frankie already sound asleep on the sofa. He set the mugs down on Sherlocks bureau and laid a blanket over her after unlacing her boots and taking them off. He sat on the floor beside the sofa and flopped his head into his hands. He found the overwhelming urge to laugh and soon, he was wracked with silent giggles. He laughed at how rebellious he had turned out to be, how unexpected the evenings activities had been and how much his friend would've laughed with him had he seen the things he'd got up to. Unbeknown to John, someone was laughing with him. Silently but endearingly. Happy in the knowledge that John was finally smiling again.

Frankie woke to find John asleep on the floor beside the sofa, she smiled as she ran her fingers through his army cropped blonde hair. The contact stirred him and he opened one eye and smiled up at her. She flipped back the blanket and motioned for him to join her. The old couch was easily big enough for two and John snuggled in beside her, enjoying the comfort and warmth of her body beside his own. Frankie's body slotted into place beside Johns like a well crafted jigsaw. Her head found its way instinctively to his chest and his arm snaked its way around her shoulders.
"You did good tonight John." Frankie said through a yawn.
"Thanks Frank. Reckon we'll make the papers?" John asked, his eyes already closed again.
"Course we will Johnny, without a doubt." she murmured before succumbing to sleep.
The next time John came around, sunlight was streaming through the windows and he stretched hard, totally forgetting the woman curled up on his chest. She stirred too and reached up to flick Johns nose, playfully scolding him for waking her up. He laughed heartily and looked down to see a pair of cat-like, light green eyes staring back up at him.
'So much like Sherlocks' John thought to himself.
"Good morning Doctor Watson." she husked in a sleepy, morning voice.
"Good morning Francesca." he smiled back. She made a disgusted noise at being called her Sunday name and cuddled her body closer to Johns. The pair continued to hold one other's gaze for longer than should have been comfortable. John subconsciously licked his lips while looking at Frankie's before leaning forward to close the gap between them. John pressed his lips to hers, lightly at first before deepening the kiss. Eventually he slid his tongue across her bottom lip and she immediately reciprocated the heavy kiss. Their tongues battled each other and they gradually got lost in the immediate passion of the act. They were so distracted, they barely noticed the front door unlocking and light, spritely footsteps hopping up the staircase. They were still kissing as a strangers eyes were greeted by the scene.

"I can't leave you for five minutes can I, John?" came a deep, rich voice from the doorway. John and Frankie jumped away from each other and turned to face the door. John almost felt the colour disappear from his face as he addressed the tall, thin figure that had haunted his dreams for the past six months. Frankie stared too, wide eyed and open mouthed at the angel she'd fought so hard to prove innocent.

"SHERLOCK?" came the unified, hysterically high voices of Frankie and John.
"I liked your banner, John." Sherlock smiled, walking to the kitchen to flick on the kettle as if he'd never left Baker Street.