The first time John Watson saw the words he couldn't leave his flat for a week.
#BELIEVEINSHERLOCK
He saw the first graffiti on a newspaper stand near the clinic.
The second was a house-sized mural on the side of a warehouse that looked like it had tried to be erased more than a few times
The third was on the sheet on plain black paper that was taped to every door on his street.
The campaigners were persistent. Posters and graffiti cropped up everywhere. Hundreds more wore self-made shirts and buttons. John even saw a van with the words written on it once. Even as the one-year mark passed the campaign forged on. John's blog, all but abandoned, flooded with comments as people constantly typed furiously to share their sorrow or love or pain or anger. There were always at least ten every day he logged onto it, and at least one of those was in another language. It amazed him how wide-spread the phenomenon had gotten; one morning he'd woken up to have seventeen notes, ten of them in Thai.
John never replied to the comments, not really. He made a short post once as a general thanks, but no personal ones.
The thank-you ones made him want to cry, but he didn't because it would ruin his calm.
There were pages of comments filled with things people had personally seen him do.
(the one where he had hurtled two dogs and a nanny chasing a burglar was John's favourite so far)
The hate comments sometimes made John laugh. At lot of them were anonymous, but the jewel that was his favourite was the one so obviously written by Anderson had made John laugh harder than he had in two years.
{had it really been that long?}
Most of the hates, however, were never even seen by John. They were often so hateful that by the time he'd gotten to them they had been so bombarded and cussed out by the loyal 'Believers' that they were deleted by the writer. The few really bad that John did manage to see often made him so angry that he'd write them a reply in a note, but never send it. There were about twenty-seven such drafts in his computer.
Halfway through the second year, a comment jumped out at him.
All lives end, John. Caring isn't an advantage. Let him go.
It was, of course, an anonymous comment, but it threw him, something so blunt among the other, kinder comments.
John slammed the computer lid down hard, not caring about the slight crack in the plastic as it fell to floor in his rush out of his chair.
When he came back in four hours and three drinks later, John silently picked up the laptop, turned it back on, and stared at the still-loaded comment.
Caring isn't an advantage.
Let him go.
It was practically shouting with his voice in John's head. It defied all reason – Mycroft would just have him picked up if he had wanted to talk.
{john hadn't seen Mycroft in two years.
felt like eons}
it sounded so like what Mycroft would say, or the only other possible option -
which was impossible.
There were seventeen blank documents opened periodically for the next six months.
That comment alone was almost more commented on by other people than John's last blog involving him. Hundreds stopped to question, or rant on, or speculate or theorize. Theories spanned anywhere from invisible helicopters to immortality.
(John thought that particular person had been watching too much Doctor Who)
No more comments of the like were sent. John took the time to search through every one afterwards, eventually getting lost in all the survival theories rather than looking for more Holmes-like comment.
{it made his heart ache just a little bit less}
He found that the theories all involved references to some video. It took him days to find the link mentioned.
After watching it, John didn't touch his computer for two months.
His nightmares steadily grew worse and worse.
{they were filled with the grainy image of a dark shape in flight against the pale brick of a building}
Messages – Received
Open the door.
SH
END.